It was a plain hint, and the wedding day was fixed. Soon after this, when I called to do my wooing, he told me that Barbara was not well enough to see me.
"She has a frightful headache," he said, "and is not in a condition to see anybody."
I was much distressed, and I asked if she had a doctor.
"Not necessary," he said. "She will get over it. When she is in that state best leave her alone, old fellow. There's a hint for you in your matrimonial campaign. Barbara hates the sight of doctors; she is a delicate creature, very highly strung, something of the full-blooded racer about her, the kind of woman that requires managing."
"I shall be able to manage her," I said confidently.
"I should think you would," he said, with a mocking smile. "Barbara and you are going to have a high old time of it. By the way, can you lend me a tenner for a few days?"
It was not the first time he had asked me for a loan, which was always to be paid in a few days; but he never returned a shilling of the money he borrowed from me. I gave him the ten pounds, and inwardly resolved to have as little as possible to do with him after my marriage.
I debated with myself whether I should communicate the news of my engagement to my stepmother and Louis, and acting upon the advice of Barbara—to whom I gave a truthful relation of my child-life—I wrote to them in affectionate terms. To me no answer was returned, but Barbara received a letter which she told me she tore up the moment she read it.
"Your stepmother must be an awful woman," she said, "but we can do without her and her beautiful son."
It was very considerate of Barbara, I thought, not to show me the letter, the tenor of which it was not difficult to guess, but I could not help looking grave.