“I reached the city early this morning,” said Alexander, speaking the literal truth, but giving a false impression, as he meant to do.
“Ah! by the first train, eh?” exclaimed the old man, jumping to the obvious conclusion. “But where do you hang out, eh, my boy?”
“I have not taken rooms yet,” replied Alexander, who found that he needed all his presence of mind to answer these unexpected questions without betraying himself on the one hand and perjuring himself on the other.
“Ah! left all your luggage at the station, eh? Well, I would advise you to take rooms at our hotel. We are pretty comfortable there?”
“How long do you propose to stay here, sir?” inquired the young man.
“Oh, the rest of the season, I suppose.”
Here was a dilemma. Of course, Alexander might have ended all his embarrassments by candidly confessing his marriage with Drusilla. And why did he not do so? Simply because loving and admiring his young bride, as he certainly did, he was nevertheless ashamed of having wedded his housekeeper’s daughter; and he lacked moral courage to face the astonishment of his cousin and the indignation of his uncle, and to defend his own act and stand by his own wife.
Ah! but there is a sort of pride that is below contempt.
While Alexander was wondering what he should do to get out of his perplexities, his uncle changed the subject back to the other dangerous theme by saying:
“Ah, by the way, that was a sad thing—the fate of poor little Drusilla.”