“It was a little comedy we were acting, Aunt Dinah,” said the girl, calmly.
“I beg, then, that the piece may not be repeated,” said she, stiffly.
“Considering how ill Freddy played his part, aunt, he will scarcely regret its withdrawal.”
Conyers, however, could not get over his confusion, and looked perfectly miserable for very shame.
“My brother has just had a letter which will call us homeward, Mr. Conyers,” said Miss Dinah, turning to him, and now using a tone devoid of all irritation. “Mr. Withering has obtained some information which may turn out of great consequence in our suit, and he wishes to consult with my brother upon it.”
“I hope—I sincerely hope—you do not think—” he began, in a low voice.
“I do not think anything to your disadvantage, and I hope I never may,” replied she, in a whisper low as his own; “but bear in mind, Josephine is no finished coquette like Polly Dill, nor must she be the mark of little gallantries, however harmless. Josephine, grandpapa has some news for you; go to him.”
“Poor Freddy,” whispered the girl in the youth's ear as she passed, “what a lecture you are in for!” “You mustn't be angry with me if I play Duenna a little harshly, Mr. Conyers,” said Miss Dinah; “and I am far more angry with myself than you can be. I never concurred with my brother that romance reading and a young dragoon for a companion were the most suitable educational means for a young lady fresh from a convent, and I have only myself to blame for permitting it.”
Poor Conyers was so overwhelmed that he could say nothing; for though he might, and with a safe conscience, have answered a direct charge, yet against a general allegation he was powerless. He could not say that he was the best possible companion for a young lady, though he felt, honestly felt, that he was not a bad one. He had never trifled with her feelings, nor sought to influence her in his favor. Of all flirtation, such as he would have adventured with Polly Dill, for instance, he was guiltless. He respected her youth and ignorance of life too deeply to take advantage of either. He thought, perhaps, how ungenerous it would have been for a man of the world like himself to entrap the affections of a young, artless creature, almost a child in her innocence. He was rather fond of imagining himself “a man of the world,” old soldier, and what not,—a delusion which somehow very rarely befalls any but very young men, and of which the experience of life from thirty to forty is the sovereign remedy. And so overwhelmed and confused and addled was he with a variety of sensations, he heard very little of what Miss Dinah said to him, though that worthy lady talked very fluently and very well, concluding at last with words which awoke Conyers from his half-trance with a sort of shock. “It is for these reasons, my dear Mr. Conyers,—reasons whose force and nature you will not dispute,—that I am forced to do what, were the occasion less important, would be a most ungenerous task. I mean, I am forced to relinquish all the pleasure that I had promised ourselves from seeing you our guest at the cottage. If you but knew the pain I feel to speak these words—”
“There is no occasion to say more, madam,” said he; for, unfortunately, so unprepared was he for the announcement, its chief effect was to wound his pride. “It is the second time within a few months destiny has stopped my step on your threshold. It only remains for me to submit to my fate, and not adventure upon an enterprise above my means.”