CHAPTER IX.
“And now I live—O wherefore do I live?
And with that pang I prayed to be no more.”
WORDSWORTH.
IT was about nine o’clock that evening, and Maltravers was alone in his room. His carriage was at the door—his servants were arranging the luggage—he was going that night to Burleigh. London—society-the world—were grown hateful to him. His galled and indignant spirit demanded solitude. At this time, Lumley Ferrers entered.
“You will pardon my intrusion,” said the latter, with his usual frankness—“but—”
“But what, sir? I am engaged.”
“I shall be very brief. Maltravers, you are my old friend. I retain regard and affection for you, though our different habits have of late estranged us. I come to you from my cousin—from Florence—there has been some misunderstanding between you. I called on her to-day after you left the house. Her grief affected me. I have only just quitted her. She has been told by some gossip or other some story or other—women are credulous, foolish creatures;—undeceive her, and, I dare say, all may be settled.”
“Ferrers, if a man had spoken to me as Lady Florence did, his blood or mine must have flowed. And do you think that words that might have plunged me into the guilt of homicide if uttered by a man, I could ever pardon in one whom I had dreamed of for a wife? Never!”
“Pooh, pooh—women’s words are wind. Don’t throw away so splendid a match for such a trifle.”
“Do you too, sir, mean to impute mercenary motives to me?”