When I got back that evening, Ada, who had been rather silent on our way home, came into my room, as she usually did, for a talk, and said, "Agnes, I was going down the stairs to get an ice, and I saw you and Lord Holmeskirk go into the conservatory together, and you were there when I came up again, and I am quite sure by both your looks that he has made you an offer. Well?"
"What do you mean by well?" I asked, for I felt a little hurt that, after what I had said to her about Percy, she should ever dream of the possibility of my accepting any one else.
"Of course I mean what did you answer? Don't keep me waiting, Agnes: you don't know how anxious and impatient I have been to get home to ask you."
"After what I said to you about Percy, Ada," I said, rather coldly, "I should have thought it hardly necessary to ask. Of course I refused him."
"There, you dear Agnes," Ada said, almost crying on my neck, "don't be angry with me; but I have been so nervous, though I knew you would say 'no.' Still, it must require so much courage to refuse a nobleman; I know I never could;" and so she went on till she coaxed me into a good humour again, and we talked a long time before we went to bed. And so my gaieties ended, and next morning, bidding adieu to Ada and Lady Desborough, who was very gracious, and even kissed me, I started for Canterbury, under charge of a lady who was going down, and whom I met by arrangement on the platform of the station.
CHAPTER X.
SUNSHINE AND SHADOW.
Although I had enjoyed my trip to London immensely, yet I was very, very glad to get back to my dear old home again; happier even than before, for now, in addition to all my former home-pleasures, I had a secret source of happiness to muse over when alone. How bright life appeared to me, how thankful I felt for all my deep happiness, and how my heart seemed to open to all created things!
I had only one cause for sorrow, and that one which had for years been seen as a dim shadow in the far distance, but which had been for the last two or three years past increasing in magnitude, growing from vague ill-defined dread, to the sad certainty of coming grief. I mean the rapidly failing health of mamma.