“Why not, my dear?”
“A thousand reasons; I am always busy, and he would naturally like a young lady who had nothing to do.” She understood the effect of the perambulator and the constant needle and thread. “Besides, though he might be all very well, he could never, I think, be as dear to me as the bairns. I should feel that I lost more than I got by going.” This she knew to be a lie, but it was so important that her father should believe her to be contented with her home duties! And she was contented, though very unhappy. When her father kissed her, she smiled into his face,—oh, so sweetly, so pleasantly! And the old man thought that she could not have loved very deeply. Then she took herself to her own room, and sat awhile alone with a countenance much changed. The lines of sorrow about her brow were terrible. There was not a tear; but her mouth was close pressed, and her hand was working constantly by her side. She gazed at nothing, but sat with her eyes wide open, staring straight before her. Then she jumped up quickly, and striking her hand upon her heart, she spoke aloud to herself. “I will cure it,” she said. “He is not worthy, and it should therefore be easier. Though he were worthy, I would cure it. Yes, Bobby, I am coming.” Then she went about her work.
That might have been about noon. It was after their early dinner with the children that the Major came up to the doctor’s house. He had reached the parsonage in time for a late breakfast, and had then written his letter. After that he had sat idling about on the lawn,—not on the best terms with his mother, to whom he had sworn that, under no circumstances, would he make Georgiana Wanless his wife. “I would sooner marry a girl from a troop of tight-rope dancers,” he had said in his anger. Mrs. Rossiter knew that he intended to go up to the doctor’s house, and therefore the immediate feeling between the mother and son was not pleasant. My readers, if they please, shall see the letter to Lady Wanless.
“My Dear Lady Wanless,—It is a great grief to me to say that there has been, I fear, a misconception between you and me on a certain matter. This is the more a trouble to me because you and Sir Walter have been so very kind to me. From a word or two which fell from you last night I was led to fear that you suspected feelings on my part which I have never entertained, and aspirations to which I have never pretended. No man can be more alive than I am to the honour which has been suggested, but I feel bound to say that I am not in a condition to accept it.
“Pray believe me to be,
“Dear Lady Wanless,
“Yours always very faithfully,
“John Rossiter.”
The letter, when it was written, was, to himself, very unsatisfactory. It was full of ambiguous words and namby-pamby phraseology which disgusted him. But he did not know how to alter it for the better. It is hard to say an uncivil thing civilly without ambiguous namby-pamby language. He could not bring it out in straightforward stout English: “You want me to marry your daughter, but I won’t do anything of the kind.” So the letter was sent. The conduct of which he was really ashamed did not regard Miss Wanless, but Alice Dugdale.
At last, very slowly, he took himself up to the doctor’s house. He hardly knew what it was that he meant to say when he found himself there, but he was sure that he did not mean to make an offer. Even had other things suited, there would have been something distasteful to him in doing this so quickly after the affair of Miss Wanless. He was in no frame now for making love; but yet it would be ungracious in him, he thought, to leave Beetham without seeing his old friend. He found the two ladies together, with the children still around them, sitting near a window which opened down to the ground. Mrs. Dugdale had a novel in hand, and, as usual, was leaning back in a rocking-chair. Alice had also a book open on the table before her, but she was bending over a sewing-machine. They had latterly divided the cares of the family between them. Mrs. Dugdale had brought the children into the world, and Alice had washed, clothed, and fed them when they were there. When the Major entered the room, Alice’s mind was, of course, full of the tidings she had heard from her father,—which tidings, however, had not been communicated to Mrs. Dugdale.
Alice at first was very silent while Mrs. Dugdale asked as to the festivities. “It has been the grandest thing anywhere about here for a long time.”
“And, like other grand things, a great bore,” said the Major.
“I don’t suppose you found it so, Major Rossiter,” said the lady.