“Of course, of course; she will go with her husband.”
Vernon was still in a dazed state, not yet understanding what a great change in his prospects of happiness the day’s events had made.
“I think it was very silly of you to keep silence all these years just to please her. It was she who made you, I suppose—came to you, and wheedled you. Men are so easily coaxed,” continued Olivia, disdainfully, with her head in the air.
She had never been curt and dictatorial, like this, with him before. Poor Vernon, quite unskilled in the wiles of her sex, was abashed and bewildered.
“Yes,” he admitted, humbly. “She came to me and begged me not to say anything if people suspected me. And, you see, I had been so fond of her, and she was in delicate health, and I had no wife or children to be hurt by what people might think of me. And so I promised.”
“And she made you promise not to marry, didn’t she?”
“Well, yes. Poor thing, she had to do the best she could for her husband and children; and, of course, she thought if I married, I should let out the secret to my wife, and my wife would insist on having things explained.”
“I should think so,” said Olivia.
“And now,” said Vernon, who was getting more and more downcast under the influence of this surprising change in her, “I’m too old and too sour to marry, and I think I shall go away with them, and have my little Kitty to console me.”
“Yes,” said Olivia, quietly, her voice losing suddenly all its buoyancy as well as all its momentary sharpness; “I think that will be a very good plan. You will let us know when you intend to start, won’t you, for my father and mother owe you an apology first? Now, I must be getting back. Good-evening.”