‘St. James and the little Dacre have again met. You have my secret. I do not ask your good services with Arundel, which I might at another time; but you cannot expect me to work against myself. Depend, then, no longer on my influence with May Dacre; for to be explicit, as we have always been, most heartily should I rejoice to see her a duchess.’
‘The point, Bertha,’ said Sir Lucius, very quietly, ‘is not that I can no longer count upon you as an ally; but I must, I perceive, reckon you an opponent.’
‘Cannot we prevent this?’ asked Mrs. Dallington with energy.
‘I see no alternative,’ said Sir Lucius, shaking his head with great unconcern. ‘Time will prove who will have to congratulate the other.’
‘My friend,’ said Mrs. Dallington, with briskness and decision, ‘no affectation between us. Drop this assumed unconcern. You know, you know well, that no incident could occur to you at this moment more mortifying than the one I have communicated, which deranges your plans, and probably may destroy your views. You cannot misconceive my motives in making this not very agreeable communication. I might have pursued my object without your knowledge and permission. In a word, I might have betrayed you. But with me every consideration has yielded to friendship. I cannot forget how often, and how successfully, we have combined. I should grieve to see our ancient and glorious alliance annulled. I am yet in hopes that we may both obtain our objects through its medium.’
‘I am not aware,’ said Sir Lucius, with more feeling, ‘that I have given you any cause to complain of my want of candour. We are in a difficult position. I have nothing to suggest, but I am ready to listen. You know how ready I am to adopt all your suggestions; and I know how seldom you have wanted an expedient.’
‘The little Dacre, then, must not marry her cousin; but we cannot flatter ourselves that such a girl will not want to marry some one; I have a conviction that this is her decisive season. She must be occupied. In a word, Lucy, some one must be found.’
The Baronet started from his chair, and nearly knocked down a table.
‘Confound your tables, Bertha,’ said he, in a pettish tone; ‘I can never consult in a room full of tables.’ He walked into the conservatory, and she followed him. He seemed plunged in thought. They were again silent. Suddenly he seized her hand and led her back to the sofa, on which they both sat down.
‘My dear friend,’ he said, in a tone of agitated solemnity. ‘I will conceal no longer from you what I have sometimes endeavoured to conceal from myself: I love that girl to distraction.’ ‘You!’