“So the prince dismissed nearly all his servants; and in his house by the forest Sylvina’s father was more lonesome now than ever. Sylvina had been a dutiful daughter, and she tried hard to be a dutiful wife; but nothing that she did was properly construed by her old husband. If she laughed and was gay, he called her giddy; if she seemed sad, he told her she was pining for her ‘pauper lover;’ if she showed him marked affection, he thought she was but cajoling to deceive him. Ah dear, ah dear, how miserable she was! for her ways were not his ways, because his age was not hers.”
Richards paused again.
“And the poor lover whom Sylvina deserted?” said Gerty. “Tell me about him. Did he pine and die?”
“Oh no. But here comes Flora. I’ll finish the story another day, Gerty.”
“Why, this is a pleasure!” cried Flora. “Who could have thought of finding you here? I say, Gerty, let us keep Mr. Richards to ourselves alone for the rest of the evening. My work is all complete, and father is busy in his room. Supper in the boudoir here!—Not a word, Mr. Richards; you have no say in the matter at all.” Then Flora rang the bell.
And a long delightful three hours the girls and their friend spent too. It is almost needless to say that the chief subject of conversation was Jack, or that Sir Digby Auld was not spoken of or thought of even once.
“Heigh-ho!” said Richards, as he stood in his room that night, “heigh-ho! and I have come down to break bad tidings to Flora and her father. How ever can I do it! A lawyer ought to have no heart, but I have one. Worse luck! worse luck!”
The party next day at the Hall was a very gay affair, and never did General Grant Mackenzie seem in better spirits, nor Gerty and Flora look more bewitching or feel more happy. Mr. Keane, too, unbent himself, and was far less crisp and frigid than any one had ever seen him. Keane did not perhaps look a bit more happy than he felt, though he would not have told his thoughts to any one, as he wandered to and fro in the grand old beautifully-lighted rooms or out into the spacious gardens and flower-laden conservatories. Everything had of late years conspired to play into his hands. He had amassed money; he had spent but little. Gerty was good, so good, for she had promised to marry Sir Digby—promised her father, that is; the other promise would come. Then this splendid hall was his—Keane’s—unless in a short time the easy-minded, happy-go-lucky general managed to clear his feet. “Clear his feet, indeed!” thought Keane; “how could he? No; the place would be his. Then he could hold up his head in the county. And as for Sir Digby, why, he could be easily managed after marriage. He was a trifle wild, he had been told, but he believed he was wealthy, and he would—some day—be a lord.”
Every one loved the general and his beautiful but unassuming daughter. There was no word of her being engaged to any one as yet, though such an engagement might take place at any time. She was indeed a queenly girl. Now suitors are usually a little afraid of queenly girls—not that there are very many about, but though they may dispense their favours in kind words and smiles, they do not flirt, and though warm-hearted deep down in their soul-depths, there is no surface love to squander or to be ruffled with every breath that blows. Such girls as Flora Grant Mackenzie love but once, and that love is real and true. Flora’s prince would doubtless come. She was in no hurry.
But the girl was very happy on this her brother’s birthday, and after all the guests had gone she spent the usual quiet half-hour with her father in his room in loving chat and converse, just as she had done every night since, long, long ago, her mother had died.