“So you have heard all about me?” remarked George. “Then I hope to Heaven that you have also already heard the sad news which I came over to break to you this evening. I see you are in black.”
“Yes,” said Lucy, growing very grave at once, “I am in mourning for poor mother; she died nearly a year ago. But what is the sad news of which you have to speak to me?”
“You have not heard, then?” said George. “Well, it is about your cousin Edward. I regret to say that I bring you bad news of him.”
“Are you referring to his death?” asked Lucy with just the faintest suspicion of a tremor in her voice. “Because, if so, I have already heard of it, and of all your noble, self-sacrificing behaviour on his behalf. And as a relative, as indeed his only surviving relative, let me here and now thank you, George, in all earnestness and sincerity, for your devotion to my unfortunate cousin.”
“By Jove, she bears it well; she can’t have cared so very much for him, after all,” thought George.
“No thanks are necessary, I assure you,” was the reply. “I only did for him what I would have done with equal readiness for a stranger. But I had vowed that I would be a protector to him, and that I would—if God willed it—restore him to your arms; and I am grieved that I failed to keep my vow. Believe me, it was through no fault of mine that I failed, Lucy; I did the best I could, but God willed it otherwise.”
“Yes—yes,” answered Lucy in a dazed sort of way; “yes, God willed it otherwise. But—whatever do you mean, George, by talking about restoring him to my arms? Any one would think, to hear you speak, that I was married to him.”
“Well,” said George, “betrothal is a sort of marriage, is it not?”
“Betrothal!” exclaimed Lucy, looking more bewildered than ever. “Pray explain yourself, Captain Leicester; I assure you I have not the slightest idea of what you mean.”
It was now George’s turn to look mystified.