“I shall not trouble, you, Fanny, by speaking to you now, I hope?”
“No;” said Fanny, with her heart palpitating. “If it’s anything I ought to hear, it will be no trouble to me.”
“Why, my dear, I do think you ought to know, without loss of time that Lord Ballindine has been with me this morning.”
Fanny blushed up to her hair—not with shame, but with emotion as to what was coming next.
“I have had a long conversation with him,” continued the earl, “in the book-room, and I think I have convinced him that it is for your mutual happiness”—he paused, for he couldn’t condescend to tell a lie; but in his glib, speechifying manner, he was nearly falling into one—“mutual happiness” was such an appropriate prudential phrase that he could not resist the temptation; but he corrected himself—“at least, I think I have convinced him that it is impossible that he should any longer look upon Miss Wyndham as his future wife.”
Lord Cashel paused for some mark of approbation. Fanny saw that she was expected to speak, and, therefore, asked whether Lord Ballindine was still in the house. She listened tremulously for his answer; for she felt that if her lover were to be rejected, he had a right, after what had passed between them, to expect that she should, in person, express her resolution to him. And yet, if she had to see him now, could she reject him? could she tell him that all the vows that had been made between them were to be as nothing? No! she could only fall on his shoulder, and weep in his arms. But Lord Cashel had managed better than that.
“No, Fanny; neither he nor I, at the present moment, could expect you—could reasonably expect you, to subject yourself to anything so painful as an interview must now have been. Lord Ballindine has left the house—I hope, for the last time—at least, for many months.”
These words fell cold upon Fanny’s ears, “Did he leave any—any message for me?”
“Nothing of any moment; nothing which it can avail to communicate to you: he expressed his grief for your brother’s death, and desired I should tell you how grieved he was that you should be so afflicted.”
“Poor Harry!” sobbed Fanny, for it was a relief to cry again, though her tears were more for her lover than her brother. “Poor Harry! they were very fond of each other. I’m sure he must have been sorry—I’m sure he’d feel it”—and she paused, and sobbed again—“He had heard of Harry’s death, then?”