“Sir!” exclaimed Miss Peyton in a tone of indignant surprise.
“Which you have deigned to bestow upon me,” continued De Grandeville, not heeding the interruption, “leads me to unfold my intentions without further delay. I am now arrived at an age when, in the prime of life, and with judgment so matured that I consider I may safely act in obedience to its dictates without the risk of making any great mistake, it appears to me, and to those of my highly born and influential friends whom I have consulted on the subject, that I might greatly improve my general position in society by a judicious matrimonial alliance. Now, without being in the slightest degree actuated by—ar—anything approaching to a spirit of boasting, I may venture to say that in the selection of a partner for life I have a right to look—ar—high. My family may be traced back beyond the Norman conquest, and the immense estates in our possession—ar—my cousin Hildebrand holds them at present—but in the event of anything happening to his seven—ar—however, I need not now trouble you with such family details, suffice it to say that we are of ancient descent, enormous landed proprietors, and that my own position in society is by no means an unimportant one. Now, although I am aware that by birth you are scarcely—ar—that is—that the Peyton family cannot trace back their origin—ar—I have made up my mind to waive that point in consideration of——”
“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Miss Peyton. “Doubtless your mature judgment has led you to discover many, in fact so? some thousands of good and weighty reasons why you should overlook the humble origin of the poor Peytons; but there is one point which appears to have escaped even your sagacity, namely, whether this unworthy descendant of an ignoble family desires the honour of such an alliance as you propose. That you may no longer be in doubt on the subject, allow me to thank you for the sacrifice you propose to make in my favour, and most unequivocally to decline it.”
No one could be in De Grandeville’s company for ten minutes without perceiving that on the one subject of his own importance he was more or less mad; but with this exception he was a clear-headed, quick-sighted man, used to society and accustomed to deal with the world. Laura Peyton, in her indignation at the inflated style of the preamble of his discourse, had committed the indiscretion of refusing his hand before he had distinctly offered it. De Grande-ville perceived the mistake, and hastened to avail himself of it by replying—
“Excuse me, Miss Peyton, but you jump rather hastily to conclusions. Had you heard me to the end you might have learned that there were equally strong reasons why in my present position I dare not yield to the impulse of my feelings—for that I greatly admire and respect you I frankly own. Should these reasons disappear under a change of circumstances, I shall hope to have the honour of again addressing you on this subject with a more favourable result. In the meantime, to assure you that I entertain no unfriendly recollection of this interview, permit me the honour——”
So saying, ere she was aware of his intention, he raised her hand to his lips, bowed respectfully, and rising, quitted the apartment. Miss Peyton, equally surprised and provoked at the turn De Grande-ville had given to the conversation, remained for a minute or so pondering the matter, with her eyes fixed on the ground; as she raised them they encountered those of a gentleman who was passing down the room at the time. Charles Leicester (for he it was) returned her gaze haughtily, and as their eyes met a contemptuous smile curled his lip, and bowing coldly, he passed on without a word. Well might he despise her, for he had witnessed the parting salute, and not unnaturally deemed her the affianced bride of Marmaduke De Grandeville. Ere he retired for the night his servant had received orders to pack up his clothes and to procure post-horses by eight o’clock on the following morning. Annie Grant, who, when the latest guests had departed, sought her friend Laura’s dressing-room to explain to her the old friendship which had existed between her cousin Charles and Lady Mary Goodwood was equally surprised and distressed to find her communication received with a hysterical burst of tears.
CHAPTER XXVI.—SUNSHINE AFTER SHOWERS.
Annie Grant found her friend strangely uncommunicative on the subject of her fit of weeping; she declared that it was nothing—that she felt nervous and overtired, but that a good night’s rest was all she required to set her to rights again; then kissing her affectionately, Laura, with much caressing, turned her out of the room. As sound sleep was the specific to which Miss Peyton trusted for the restoration of her health and spirits, it can scarcely be imagined that, after passing four restless hours in a vain attempt to obtain the desired boon, she should have felt particularly refreshed. Weary both in mind and body, she was aroused from a dreamy, half-sleeping, half-waking, but wholly uncomfortable state into which she had fallen by the sun shining brightly into her room. The beauty of the morning, though a thick hoar frost lay upon the ground, banished all further desire for sleep, and commencing her toilet, she resolved on a scheme which her acquaintance with the usual habits of the family led her to conceive feasible—namely, to possess herself of the third volume of a new novel in which she was considerably interested, and with that for a companion, to take a brisk walk in the clear morning air and return ere any of the party had made their appearance at the breakfast-table. Dressing hastily, she wrapped herself in a thick shawl and tripped lightly down the staircase, only encountering in her progress a drowsy housemaid, who stared at her with lack-lustre eyes, as though she took her for a ghost. Before she could carry her whole plan into execution, however, it was necessary that she should visit the library in order to procure the volume she wished to take with her. Opening the door quickly, she had proceeded half-way across the room ere she perceived it was not untenanted. As she paused, uncertain whether or not to proceed, Charles Leicester—for he it was who, acting on his resolution of the previous night, was writing a few lines to account for his abrupt departure—rose from the table at which he had been sitting and advanced towards her. He was attired for a journey, and his pale features and the dark circles under his eyes gave token of a sleepless night. There was a restless energy in his tone and manner, as he addressed her, totally opposed to his usual listless indifference; and no one could be in his company a moment without perceiving that (to use a common but forcible expression) something had come over him—that he was (at all events, for the present) a changed man.