She paused for a moment, but Mrs. Denton merely nodded her head in feeble assent.
“You see,” pursued the visitor, “Letty is quite remarkable in the way of good looks—her face is, and must be, her fortune. We hope she may make a suitable match—in fact, to you, Amy, I know I may say in confidence, that one is already on the tapis.”
(Recently the frost had driven Blagdon to London; he had met Mrs. Fenchurch in Piccadilly and spoken to her for a moment—but in that moment he enquired for her niece.)
“As for Lancelot, he is on the threshold of what will, no doubt, be a brilliant career. By all accounts he is so clever, and well thought of in his profession. To hurl himself into matrimony and misery—for marriage without money is misery—to hamper himself with a wife—and family—would——” and her tone became solemnly prophetic—“be his ruin!”
“Yes, I suppose so,” meekly assented his aunt.
“You may be sure of it, Amy,” urged her friend forcibly. “You and I must be wise for these young people, and before matters take any form, let us keep them apart, for Lancelot’s sake. I know I can rely on your assistance. They are so ridiculously young—barely forty years between them.”
“That’s true, they are young,” admitted the invalid. “Too young, but surely they could wait? I know that the boy is the soul of honour, and nothing has been said.”
“I should hope not!” interrupted the ruler of Thornby, and her voice was sharp.
“But I believe he is deeply in love, that he almost worships Letty. Such an attachment keeps a young man so straight, and gives him a wonderful incentive to strive for success. Lancelot has done splendidly so far; he is well thought of in his regiment, he is studying hard, getting up Hindustani and Pushtoo——”
“Hindustani—Pushtoo!” broke in Mrs. Fenchurch impatiently, “he may get up what he likes, but he will never get my niece. She is the last sort of girl to follow the baggage wagon! Now,” laying a firm, detaining hand on the invalid’s shrunken arm, “please, don’t be romantic and impulsive, dearest Amy—you know your Irish heart is always too tender, and you are such an easy prey to beggars and impostors. I ask you to give me your help in working for the good of these two foolish children, and when I say good, I honestly mean it. As for years of indefinite waiting, letter-writing, and constancy, I set my face against that absolutely. I’ve known engagements—particularly where the man is in India—to drag on for years and years, and I certainly would not undertake to give Letty a home for such a time, especially if she was expecting to make a marriage of which I disapproved—yes” (second thought), “and her uncle too. And even if she were engaged to Lancelot for years, supposing he were to die? Such things do happen. Where should I be, then, with a disconsolate old maid on my hands?”