“Where have you been hiding? Catching bloom from the roses? You have the prettiest shade of colour,—just enough; not a hue too much. And there is Sir Miles’s valet gone to the rectory, and the fat footman puffing away towards the village, and I, like a faithful warden, from my post at the castle, all looking out for the truant.”
“But who wants me, cousin?” said Lucretia, with the full blaze of her rare and captivating smile.
“The knight of Laughton confessedly wants thee, O damsel! The knight of the Bleeding Heart may want thee more,—dare he own it?”
And with a hand that trembled a little, not with love, at least, it trembled always a little before the Madeira at luncheon,—he lifted hers to his lips.
“Compliments again,—words, idle words!” said Lucretia, looking down bashfully.
“How can I convince thee of my sincerity, unless thou takest my life as its pledge, maid of Laughton?”
And very much tired of standing, Charley Vernon drew her gently to the bench and seated himself by her side. Lucretia’s eyes were still downcast, and she remained silent; Vernon, suppressing a yawn, felt that he was bound to continue. There was nothing very formidable in Lucretia’s manner.
“‘Fore Gad!” thought he, “I suppose I must take the heiress after all; the sooner ‘t is over, the sooner I can get back to Brook Street.”
“It is premature, my fair cousin,” said he, aloud,—“premature, after less than a week’s visit, and only some fourteen or fifteen hours’ permitted friendship and intimacy, to say what is uppermost in my thoughts; but we spendthrifts are provokingly handsome! Sir Miles, your good uncle, is pleased to forgive all my follies and faults upon one condition,—that you will take on yourself the task to reform me. Will you, my fair cousin? Such as I am, you behold me. I am no sinner in the disguise of a saint. My fortune is spent, my health is not strong; but a young widow’s is no mournful position. I am gay when I am well, good-tempered when ailing. I never betrayed a trust,—can you trust me with yourself?”
This was a long speech, and Charley Vernon felt pleased that it was over. There was much in it that would have touched a heart even closed to him, and a little genuine emotion had given light to his eyes, and color to his cheek. Amidst all the ravages of dissipation, there was something interesting in his countenance, and manly in his tone and his gesture. But Lucretia was only sensible to one part of his confession,—her uncle consented to his suit. This was all of which she desired to be assured, and against this she now sought to screen herself.