Miss Laxton’s lip trembled, and her eyes filled again. She turned her face away. “You cannot help me. No one can! I am very sorry to be so tiresome! I did not think anyone would find me here.”
“Don’t cry!” said Miss Grantham. “Were you hiding from Sir James Filey?”
Miss Laxton looked startled, and stammered: “Oh, how did you know?”
“Our box is opposite yours, my dear. I saw him leaning over your chair, and I did not think you enjoyed having him so close.”
Miss Laxton shuddered and pressed her handkerchief to her lips. “I meant to be good!” she managed to say. “Indeed I did! But I hate him so! And when he took me to walk about the gardens, I—I made up my mind I would do my duty. But when he offered for me, and—and kissed me, I c-couldn’t bear it, and I ran away! Oh, what shall I do?”
“You shall not marry Filey, that’s certain!” declared Lord Mablethorpe, revolted by the thought.
“You don’t understand,” said Miss Laxton mournfully. “There are three more of us at home, and Mama—and Mama—you see, she will make me!”
“No one can make you marry against your will,” Miss Grantham assured her. “You have only to be firm, my dear!”
Even as she said it, she realized that although there was great sweetness in Miss Laxton’s flower-like countenance, there was not an ounce of decision. It was plain that Phoebe Laxton was a gentle thing, easily led, and still more easily bullied.
“You do not know my Mama,” Phoebe said simply. “She will be so dreadfully angry, and I cannot bear people to be angry with me! Even Papa says it is my duty. You see, Sir James is very rich, and he will make a most g-generous settlement, and—and—only, I am afraid of him, and when he kissed me I knew I could not do it!”