“Unfortunately, no.”
She gave me a quick, clear glance as if to test my truth, and then, as though she were satisfied, went on in the same quiet and candid voice:
“I tried to find my cousin Teddy Lumme, but, as he was out, I have taken the liberty of calling on you, because I know you are one of Dick's friends—and because—” She hesitated, though without any embarrassment, and gave me the same kind of glance again—just such a look as Dick would have given, translated into a woman's eye.
“Is anything the matter?” I asked, quickly. “Yes,” she said. “He has left home and we don't know where he is.”
“What has happened?” I exclaimed.
“He has told you of Agnes Grey, I think?” she answered.
“He has given me his confidence.”
“Dick came home a few days ago, and became engaged to her. My father was angry about it and now they have gone away.”
She told me this in the same quiet, straightforward way, looking straight at me in a manner more disconcerting than any suggestion of reproach. It was I—I, the misanthrope, the contemner of woman, who had urged him, exhorted him to this reckless deed! And evidently she knew what my counsel had been. I could have shot myself before her eyes if I had thought that step would have mended matters.
“Then they have run away together!” I cried. “They have gone away,” she repeated, quietly, “and, I suppose, together. I am afraid my father was very hard on them both.”