“Oh!”
She turned away her head, then, as he offered his hand, remarked, “You will not stay to tea?”
He would not. Something was murmured of an appointment, and before she quite realised that he had said good-bye, she heard the front door slam. She flew to the window only to see a black back disappearing, rushed up to her room, bolted the door, and sobbed on her bed, scolding herself the while. “He has behaved splendidly as usual, and I not a good word to throw him when I love him better than ever. I would not have had him do differently, no, not for all the livings in England, but I haven’t the grace to say so, and have sent the poor fellow away with a sore heart. What does Milborough’s opinion matter? In a year I can do as I like, marry a chimney-sweep, I suppose, if it pleases me, with only a chorus of protesting uncles and aunts to fear. Be honest, you stupid little thing, and own that it is your own pride, your own odious contemptible pride which stood in your way! For Lady Fanny Enderby to marry a curate without prospects, for no better reason than that he is a good man, and she loves him, when all the while, only a finger lifted, and there you have a budding Duke at her feet, certainly not the best of men, and certainly not beloved!”
To be fair, she trotted out this youth before her judgment, and tried to credit him with what virtues might charitably be hoped to be his. Opposite, she set up John Elliot, at his pinkest, when she thought she hated him, and looked at the pair with coldly discriminative eyes. To the eye, goodness would have kicked the beam, but that her heart flung its weight into the balance, and was big enough to carry the day. She sat up, sighed, bathed her eyes, and dismissed the young lord, frankly owning that she wished he and the other could have changed places. Heigh-ho! and the worst of it was, that after that day he might have no more to say to her.
When Mrs Ravenhill and Millie came home, Lady Fanny sat with her back to the light, and asked questions with an immense show of interest. She laughed immoderately over the slenderest materials for mirth, avoiding allusion to her own visitor until suddenly dragging in the subject.
“By the way there has been a visitor—Mr Elliot.”
“His card is down-stairs,” said Mrs Ravenhill. “You saw him?”
“Saw, and quarrelled with him.”
“Why?”
“He came to London to accept a living, and some man’s wife has written to say she wants it for her husband.”