“He did not expect me to answer at once,” said Fanny. “He said he only meant to let me know his hopes in coming here. And, oh, that’s the worst of it! He won’t believe me, though I said more to him than I thought I could have said to anybody! I told him,” said Fanny, with her hands clasped over her knee to still her trembling, “that I cared for my dear, dear husband, and always shall—always—and then he talked about waiting, just as if anybody could leave off loving one’s husband! And then when he wanted me to consider about my children, why then I told him”—and her voice grew passionate again—“the more I considered, the worse it would be for him, as if I would have my boys know me without their father’s name; and, besides, he had not been so kind to you that I should wish to let him have anything to do with them! I am afraid I ought not to have said that,” she added, returning to something of her meek softness; “but indeed I was so angry, I did not know what I was about. I hope it will not make him angry with you.”
“Never mind me,” said Colonel Keith, kindly. “Indeed, Lady Temple, it is a wonderful compliment to you that he should have been ready to undertake such a family.”
“I don’t want such compliments! And, oh!” and here her eyes widened with fright, “what shall I do? He only said my feelings did me honour, and he would be patient and convince me. Oh, Colonel Keith, what shall I do?” and she looked almost afraid that fate and perseverance would master her after all, and that she should be married against her will.
“You need do nothing but go on your own way, and persist in your refusal,” he said in the calm voice that always reassured her.
“Oh, but pray, pray never let him speak to me about it again!”
“Not if I can help it, and I will do my best. You are quite right, Lady Temple. I do not think it would be at all advisable for yourself or the children, and hardly for himself,” he added, smiling. “I think the mischief must all have been done by that game at whist.”
“Then I’ll never play again in my life! I only thought he was an old man that wanted amusing—.” Then as one of the children peeped in at the window, and was called back—“O dear! how shall I ever look at Conrade again, now any one has thought I could forget his father?”
“If Conrade knew it, which I trust he never will, he ought to esteem it a testimony to his mother.”
“Oh, no, for it must have been my fault! I always was so childish, and when I’ve got my boys with me, I can’t help being happy,” and the tears swelled again in her eyes. “I know I have not been as sad and serious as my aunt thought I ought to be, and now this comes of it.”
“You have been true, have acted nothing,” said Colonel Keith, “and that is best of all. No one who really knew you could mistake your feelings. No doubt that your conduct agrees better with what would please our dear Sir Stephen than if you drooped and depressed the children.”