‘I believe her mother told her we were too old to go on as before. They were all quite right; and I can now see it was very good for me. When Mr. Fotheringham died, and they were about to leave the parish, I spoke to my father. He had the highest esteem for them all, was fond of her, knew they had behaved admirably. I verily believe he would have consented at once—nay, he had half done so, but—’
‘Mrs. Nesbit, I am sure,’ exclaimed Violet.
‘He was persuaded to think I had not had time to know my own mind, and ought not to engage myself till I had seen more of the world.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Nineteen! If you did not know your own mind then, when could you?’
John smiled, and replied, ‘It was better to have such a motive. My position was one of temptation, and this was a safeguard as well as a check on idle prosperity. An incentive to exertion, too; for my father held out a hope that if I continued in the same mind, and deserved his confidence, he would consent in a few years, but on condition I should neither say nor do anything to show my feelings.’
‘Then you never told her?’
‘No.’
‘I should not have liked that at all. But she must have guessed.’