“Then I should refuse. I will never break my word to you, cousin. I am not in love with you, you are too young for that—but somehow I feel I could not make you unhappy. Can't you trust my word? You might. I come of the same people as you. Why do you look so pale?—we are very unhappy.”
Then the tears began to steal down her cheeks; and Compton's soon followed.
Compton consulted his mother. She told him, with a sigh, she was powerless. Sir Charles might yield to her, but she had no power to influence Mr. Bassett at present. “The time may come,” said she. She could not take a very serious view of this amour, except with regard to its pacific results. So Mr. Bassett's opposition chilled her in the matter.
While things were so, something occurred that drove all these minor things out of her distracted heart.
One summer evening, as she and Sir Charles and Compton sat at dinner, a servant came in to say there was a stranger at the door, and he called himself Bassett.
“What is he like?” said Lady Bassett, turning pale.
“He looks like a foreigner, my lady. He says he is Mr. Bassett,” repeated the man, with a scandalized air.
Sir Charles got up directly, and hurried to the hall door. Compton followed to the door only and looked.
Sure enough it was Reginald, full-grown, and bold, as handsome as ever, and darker than ever.
In that moment his misconduct in running away never occurred either to Sir Charles or Compton; all was eager and tremulous welcome. The hall rang with joy. They almost carried him into the dining-room.