The maid brought up her tea, and on the tray was a letter which had come by the second post. It proved to be from Lord Devene, and began by giving her a sarcastic and amusing account of the humours of a Naples hotel. Its ending showed, however, that this was not the object of the epistle. It ran:
I hear that you are all at Devene, including the Family Hero, who, I hope, has had his hair cut and bought himself a new hat. The party must be amusing. Write and tell me how many of them come down to morning prayers. Write and tell me your news also, my dear Edith, which I await with anxiety. It is time that matter was settled, for if it is left too long, R. may be sent spinning to the other end of the world, and be no more heard of for years. I will not recapitulate my arguments. I, who have your true interests at heart, wish it for good reasons, and that is enough. Trust yourself to me in this matter, Edith; I take the responsibility, who know more and see further than you do. Do not let any foolish whims, any girlish weakness, stand between you and your future. I have said; I beg of you to listen and obey.—
Your affectionate,
DEVENE.
Edith laid down the letter with a sigh of relief. The decision had been made for her and she was glad. She would marry Rupert. It was certain now that if they both lived she would marry Rupert as her cousin George commanded her to do—for it was a command, no less. Yes; she was glad, as, notwithstanding her hurts, she dressed herself for conquest, determining to do the thing at once, and have that engagement scene a bad memory behind her.
But if there is any vision, any knowledge among those who dwell beyond, certain guardian angels upon this fateful night must have made up their books sad-eyed and sore-hearted.
CHAPTER VII.
ENGAGED
Not wishing to meet Dick until his temper was more composed after that day’s adventure, Rupert did not go into the smoking or billiard-rooms before dinner, but retired to the library, purposing to spend there those dreary three hours which, in a country house, must be got through somehow between the advance of the mid-winter twilight and the welcome sound of the dressing-bell. His intention was to read a commentary on the Koran, if the somewhat agitated state of his mind would allow him to do so, for he loved to acquire miscellaneous learning, especially if it bore upon the East, its antiquities, religions, or affairs, a fact that Edith had good reason to lament. As it happened, this laudable project for the utilisation of spare time was frustrated by Lady Devene, who, finding out his whereabouts from the gloomy butler returning with an empty tea-cup, came to inquire of him the cause of Edith’s accident. He told her the facts in his usual unvarnished style, minimising Dick’s share in it as much as possible. But in spite of her phlegmatic exterior, Lady Devene was a quick judge of truth and character.
“Ach!” she said, “it is Dick’s tricks again, and I do not like Dick; he is a bad lot, vain of his face, throwing himself head down upon any pleasure that comes, not working for himself; but what is the English word? Ah! I have it—a cadger, a bit of bad money that looks all right outside, no God-fearing man, in that way like his lordship” (she always called her husband “his lordship”), “but without his brains; one wicked by weakness, not by will.”
Rupert looked at her, not knowing exactly what to say.