CHAPTER III.
AN INTERRUPTED PROPOSAL.
“None without hope e’er loved the brightest fair,
But love can hope when reason would despair.”
ERHAPS never was youthful maiden less prepared to listen to the addresses of a would-be wooer than was Gerty Keane when she entered the tartan boudoir that evening at Grantley Hall. She was little more than a child even now, only lately turned seventeen; and before Jack went away to sea—now two years and a month ago—I believe that most of the love-making between them had been conducted through the media of bon-bons and an occasional wild flower, though it ended with farewell tears, a lock of bonnie hair, and a miniature, both of which Jack had taken away with him, and, like a true lover, worn next his heart ever since the parting.
Gerty’s cheeks were flushed to-night, her eyes shone, her very lips were rosier than usual.
Sir Digby Auld sprang up as nimbly as his figure would permit, and advanced to meet the girl with outstretched hands. The baronet was verging on forty, but dressed in the height of youthful fashion; he was a trifle pompous, and he was likewise a trifle podgy.
As a shopkeeper or clerk there would have been nothing very attractive about Digby, but as a baronet he was somewhat of a success. There was nothing, however, in his fair, soft, round face or washed-out blue eyes calculated to influence the tender passion in one of the opposite sex; only he was excessively good-natured, and it is very nice of a baronet to be excessively good-natured and condescending, especially when everybody knows he may become a lord as soon as another noble lord chooses to die. Everybody knew also of Sir Digby’s passion for Gerty Keane, and for this very reason used to say sneering and ill-natured things behind the baronet’s back; for people were not a whit better in those “good old times” than they are now.