The truth was, though he scarcely acknowledged it to himself, that he was really a little in love with Miss Lane. She was not only sweetly pretty, but “good style,” the best-dressed woman there, in his opinion, not even excepting his sister. And he had no intention of losing sight of her. And why should he? She was already predisposed in his favor; she had few friends—none who could warn her that he was a dangerous acquaintance; she was going to live alone a dull life which would make her hail with gratitude any companionship as pleasant as he felt his to be to her; he would have many a dull and idle hour in town which might be pleasantly filled up by the charitable act of taking the pretty, prim little lady to a theater, or he would not even mind a picture-gallery, if she proved entertaining enough to reward him for such waste of his time. It would be pleasant for her, pleasant for him; and, as she had no friends, it could do her no harm in the eyes of the world which ignored her. He left the ground, satisfied that he had put this matter well in train.
She, meanwhile, in spite of one more degree of frost in the manner of her companions, went back to the Vicarage with them, feeling happier than she had felt for a long time. The kindly sympathy of this man, whose handsome face grew so soft when he spoke to her, and who had been her favorite among the Braithwaite brothers from the first, had taken her out of the shell of reserve she wore among the torpid natures around her. As she thought over the event of the day to her, that low-spoken conversation in the corner of the tent; recalled again each tone, each look of his; felt again in fancy the warm pressure of his hand, the question would rise in her mind, “Does he love me?” And she fell asleep, scarcely daring to hope, yet half believing that he did. At the moment when he said good-bye he had contrived to ask her on what day she was going back to London, and, almost without thinking what she was doing, she had told him. Would he be there to see her off, she wondered.
But the little fantastic dream she was indulging was not to last long. Joan was the person to destroy it. Within a few days of Miss Lane’s departure she asked her mother at tea-time if she had heard that George Braithwaite was going to be married.
“Dear me, no!” said Mrs. Mainwaring. “Who told you about it, Joan?”
“I heard it at the Lawsons’. It is to some cotton-lady, it appears, with large feet and a large fortune. I wonder how they will get on together; they say he never admires any woman of his own rank. But, then, I suppose he doesn’t consider a cotton-lady to be of his own rank; or perhaps he thinks more of her fortune than her face. I suppose that is necessary, with such a character for being dissipated as he has.”
Mrs. Mainwaring gave a warning glance from her eldest daughter to her husband. But the vicar did not mind a little bit of mild scandal—it amused him; and the reputation of the Braithwaite boys could hardly be injured by anything Joan might say. So she went on with all she had heard, and her own comments thereon, every word inflicting a wound, as, perhaps, she meant it to do upon one of her hearers.
Annie Lane walked back to her cottage that night with heart too sore for study. So he had been only amusing himself with her, after all, as she might have known he was doing! She should have known better than to trust another Braithwaite after Harry’s conduct toward her. She felt utterly humiliated and fierce with indignation against them. She had been the plaything of both, and the girlish pleasure she had felt in their admiration and attention had been dearly paid for.
She had one small revenge upon George. On Sunday, the day before her departure, he went to church and found an opportunity to whisper to her as they came out:
“I am going to see you off to-morrow. I shall be at the station.”
All the girl’s proud spirit flashed from her dark eyes as she raised her little head, and looking full into his face, said distinctly: