“Oh, I know that. The status of things between you and me is too firmly fixed now—”
“I did not mean that,” she answered, “though that is a matter of course. I was thinking of the other case.”
“What?”
“Why, Dorothy. It is too late to prevent her from loving you. She has fully learned that lesson already though she does not know the fact. And it is too late for you also, though you, too, do not know it—or did not till I told you.”
It was now Arthur’s turn to pause and think before replying. Presently, in a voice that was unsteady in spite of himself, he asked:
“Why do you think these dreadful things, Edmonia?”
“I do not think them. I know. A woman’s instinct is never at fault in such a case—at least when she feels a deep affection for both the parties concerned. And there is nothing dreadful about it. On the contrary it offers the happiest possible solution of Dorothy’s misfortune, and it assures you of something far better worth your while to live for than the objects you have heretofore contemplated. I must go now. Of course you will say nothing of this to Dorothy for the present. That must wait for a year or two. In the meantime in all you do toward directing Dorothy’s education, you must remember that you are educating your future wife. Help me into my carriage, please. I will not wait for my maid. Dick can bring her over later, can’t he?”
“But tell me, please,” Arthur eagerly asked as the young woman seated herself alone in the carriage, “what is this ‘misfortune’ of Dorothy’s, this mystery that is so closely kept from me, while it darkly intervenes in everything done or suggested with regard to her.”
“I cannot—not now at least.” Then after a moment’s meditation she added:
“And yet you are entitled to know it—now. You are her guardian in a double sense. Whenever you can find time to come over to Branton, I’ll tell you. Good-bye!”