“No, indeed,” replied she, eagerly catching at the idea, “Mr. Vernor, my guardian—he always means to be very kind I am sure; but,” she added, sinking her voice, “he is so very particular, and he speaks so sternly sometimes, that—I know it is very silly—but I cannot help feeling afraid of him. I mention this, sir, to prevent your judging me too harshly, and I trust to your generosity not to take any unfair advantage of my openness; and now,” she added, fixing her large eyes upon me with an imploring look which would have melted the toughest old anchorite that ever chewed grey peas, “you will not think me so very ungrateful, will you?”
“My dear Miss Saville,” replied I, “let me beg you to believe I never dreamt of blaming you for a moment; on the contrary, I pay you no compliment, but only mention the simple truth, when I tell you that I admired your behaviour throughout the whole affair exceedingly; your presence of mind and self-control were greater than, under the circumstances, I could have supposed possible.” As she made no reply to this, but remained looking steadfastly on the ground, with her head turned so as to conceal her face, I continued—“I hope it is unnecessary for me to add, that you need not entertain the slightest fear of my making any indiscreet use of the frankness with which you have done me the honour of speaking to me—but I am forgetting half my business,” added I, wishing to set her at ease again, “I am charged with all sorts of kind messages to you from good Mrs. Coleman and Miss Markham; I presume you would wish me to tell them I have had the pleasure of ascertaining that you have sustained no ill effects from your alarm.”
“Oh yes, by all means,” replied Miss Saville, looking up with a pleased expression, “give my kind love to them both, and tell dear Lucy I shall come over to see her as soon as ever I can.”
“I will not intrude upon you longer, then, having delivered my message,” said I; “I have kept my companion, the gentleman who was so unfortunate as to overturn the candelabrum, waiting an unconscionable time already; he is very penitent for his offence; may I venture to relieve his mind by telling him that you forgive him?”
“Pray do so,” was the reply; “I never bear malice; besides, it was entirely an accident, you know. How thoroughly wretched he seemed when he found what he had done; frightened as I was, I could scarcely help laughing when I caught a glimpse of his face, he looked so delightfully miserable,” added she, with a merry laugh. After a moment's pause she continued—“I'm afraid Mr. Vernor will think I am lost, if he should happen to inquire after me, and I'm not forthcoming”.
“Surely,” said I, “he can never be so unreasonable as to blame you for such a trifle as remaining five minutes too long. Does he expect you to be a nun because he lives in a priory?”
“Almost, I really think,” was the reply; “and now, good-bye, Mr. Fairlegh,” she continued—“I shall feel happier since I have been able to explain to you that I am not quite a monster of ingratitude.”
“If that is the case, I am bound to rejoice in it also,” answered I, “though I would fain convince you that the explanation was not required.”
Her only reply to this was an incredulous shake of the head; and, once more wishing me good-morning, she tripped along the path; and, when I turned to look again, her graceful figure had disappeared among the trees.
With a flushed brow and beating heart (gentle reader, I was barely twenty) I hastened to rejoin my companion, who, as might be expected, was not in the most amiable humour imaginable, having had to restrain the impatience of two fiery horses for a space of time nearly approaching a quarter of an hour.