Edmund Lessingham was an admirer of ladies generally: but during his long voyage he found by his thinking incessantly of Constance, and not at all of any other female, that he was undoubtedly in love with her; a fact which he had not suspected till the last point of Massachusetts faded from his view. He resolved to improve his intimacy with our heroine, should he find her still at liberty, on his return to New Bedford; and if he perceived a probability of success, to make her at once an offer of his hand. When Lessingham came home, he was much disappointed to hear that Constance Allerton had been living for more than a twelvemonth in Philadelphia. However, he lost no time in coming on to see her.
When he was shown into the parlour, she was sitting with her head bent over her work. She started up on being accosted by his well-remembered voice. Not having heard of the death of her brother, and not seeing her in mourning, Edmund Lessingham was at a loss to account for the tears that filled her eyes, and for the emotion that suffocated her voice when she attempted to reply to his warm expressions of delight at seeing her again. He perceived that she was thinner and paler than when he had last seen her, and he feared that all was not right. She signed to him to sit down, and was endeavouring to compose herself, when Mrs. Craycroft was shown into the room. That lady stared with surprise at seeing a very handsome young gentleman with Constance, who hastily wiped her eyes and introduced Mr. Lessingham.
Mrs. Craycroft took a seat, and producing two or three morning caps from her reticule, she said in her usual loud voice, "Miss Allerton, I have brought these caps for you to alter—I wish you to do them immediately, that they may be washed next week. I find the borders rather too broad, and the headpieces too large (though to be sure I did cut them out myself), so I want you to rip them apart, and make the headpieces smaller, and the borders narrower, and then whip them and sew them on again. I was out the other day when you sent home my husband's shirts with the bill, but when you have done the caps I will pay you for all together. What will you charge for making a dozen aprons of bird's eye diaper for my little Anna? You must not ask much, for I want them quite plain—mere bibs—they are always the best for babies. Unless you will do them very cheap, I may as well make them myself."
The face of Lessingham became scarlet, and, starting from his chair, he traversed the room in manifest perturbation; sympathizing with what he supposed to be the confusion and mortification of Constance, and regretting that the sex of Mrs. Craycroft prevented him from knocking her down.
Constance, however, rallied, replying with apparent composure to Mrs. Craycroft on the points in question, and calmly settling the bargain for the bird's-eye aprons—she knew that it is only in the eyes of the vulgar-minded and the foolish that a woman is degraded by exerting her ingenuity or her talents as a means of support.
"Well," said Mrs. Craycroft, "you may send for the aprons to-morrow, and I wish you to hurry with them as fast as you can—when I give out work, I never like it to be kept long on hand. I will pay you for the other things when the aprons are done."
Mrs. Craycroft then took her leave, and Constance turned to the window to conceal from Lessingham the tears that in spite of her self-command were now stealing down her cheeks.
Lessingham hastily went up to her, and taking her hand, he said, with much feeling: "Dear Constance—Miss Allerton I mean—what has happened during my absence? Why do I see you thus? But I fear that I distress you by inquiring. I perceive that you are not happy—that you have suffered much, and that your circumstances are changed. Can I do nothing to console you or to improve your situation? Let me at once have a right to do so—let me persuade you to unite your fate with mine, and put an end, I hope for ever, to these unmerited, these intolerable humiliations."
"No, Mr. Lessingham," said Constance, deeply affected, "I will not take advantage of the generous impulse that has led you thus suddenly to make an offer, which, perhaps, in a calmer moment, and on cooler consideration, you may think of with regret."
"Regret!" exclaimed Lessingham, pressing her hand between both of his, and surveying her with a look of the fondest admiration, "dearest Constance, how little you know your own value—how little you suppose that during our long separation—"