As she put her foot on the step, a timid voice addressed her in a low tone of supplication. “May I venture to speak one word to you, Miss Dodd?—one single word?”
She looked up surprised; and it was young Mr. Hardie.
His tall figure was bending towards her submissively, and his face, as well as his utterance, betrayed considerable agitation.
And what led to so unusual a rencontre between a young gentleman and lady who had never been introduced?
“The Tender Passion,” says a reader of many novels.
Why, yes; the tenderest in all our nature:
Wounded Vanity.
Naturally proud and sensitive, and inflated by success and flattery, Alfred Hardie had been torturing himself ever since he fled Edward's female relations. He was mortified to the core. He confounded “the fools” (his favourite synonym for his acquaintance) for going and calling Dodd's mother an elder sister, and so not giving him a chance to divine her. And then that he, who prided himself on his discrimination, should take them for ladies of rank, or, at all events, of the highest fashion and, climax of humiliation, that so great a man as he should go and seem to court them by praising Dodd of Exeter, by enlarging upon Dodd of Exeter, by offering to grind Logic with Dodd of Exeter. Who would believe that this was a coincidence, a mere coincidence? They could not be expected to believe it; female vanity would not let them. He tingled, and was not far from hating the whole family; so bitter a thing is that which I have ventured to dub “The Tenderest Passion.” He itched to soothe his irritation by explaining to Edward. Dodd was a frank, good-hearted fellow; he would listen to facts, and convince the ladies in turn. Hardie learned where Dodd's party lodged, and waited about the door to catch him alone: Dodd must be in college by twelve, and would leave Henley before ten. He waited till he was tired of waiting. But at last the door opened; he stepped forward, and out tripped Miss Dodd. “Confound it!” muttered Hardie, and drew back. However, he stood and admired her graceful figure and action, her ladylike speed without bustling. Had she come back at the same pace, he would never have ventured to stop her: on such a thread do things hang: but she returned very slowly, hanging her head. Her look at him and his headache recurred to him—a look brimful of goodness. She would do as well as Edward, better perhaps. He yielded to impulse, and addressed her, but with all the trepidation of a youth defying the giant Etiquette for the first time in his life.
Julia was a little surprised and fluttered, but did not betray it; she had been taught self-command by example, if not by precept.
“Certainly, Mr. Hardie,” said she, within a modest composure a young coquette might have envied under the circumstances.