'It is to Trevor—to Captain Chute—concerning poor Ida—not on any affair of mine, be assured; but,' she added, colouring a little, 'you will not mention this circumstance to—to papa?'
'You have my word, Miss Collingwood; and now good-morning.'
He left her with coldness of manner, but only a little; for whatever he thought, he deemed it bad style to discover the least emotion. But he felt that even in a small way, in virtue of his promised secrecy, he and Clare had a secret understanding. Why had she been so afraid that he should know of her correspondence with this fellow Chute, who he understood had been a discarded admirer of hers in her first season; and why keep her father in ignorance of it, when Chute was the old man's guest but yesterday?
It was, he thought, altogether one of those things 'no fellow can understand,' and drove off in his mail phaeton to visit Crusader in his loose box.
Clare remained full of thought after he had gone, and the note had been despatched to Trevor Chute; she felt none of the excitement a proposal might cause in another. She was, in fact, more annoyed than fluttered or flattered by it. Yet Clare felt a need for loving some one and being beloved in turn. It is a necessity in every female, perhaps every true human heart.
Clare had certainly many admirers, but she was always disposed to criticise them, and the woman who criticises a man rarely ends by loving him; so since that old time, to which we have already referred, she had gone through the world of gaiety heart-free; and though mingling much in society, she had somehow made a little world of her own—a species of independent existence, and even preferred the retirement of their country home, with a few pleasant visitors, of course, and weaving out schemes of benevolence to the tenantry, to the whirl of life in London, with its balls, drums, crushes, and at-homes, attending sometimes three in the same evening, as it was called, though the early morning was glittering on the silver harness as the carriage drove her home.
Though the proposal of Desmond had excited not the least emotion in the heart of Clare Collingwood, it caused some unpleasant and unwelcome thoughts to arise, and at such a time as this more than ever did she miss her mother, whose affection and counsel were never wanting. She had a dread of her father, and of his cold and cutting, yet withal courtly, way of addressing her, when in any way, however lightly, she displeased him, and now she feared intuitively that she would do so, or had done so, in a serious manner.
She knew how much he was under the influence of the Desmonds, and felt assured that something unpleasant would come out of that morning's episode; and apart from having such a husband as the Major, even with his great wealth and prospective title, too, Clare felt that she could not tolerate the close relationship of his sister, a passé belle, horsey in nature and style, who had been engaged in intrigues and flirtations that were unnumbered, and more than once had made a narrow escape from being a source of downright scandal, for the Honourable Evelyn Desmond was fast—undeniably very fast indeed for an unmarried lady, and the queen of a fast set, too—yet it never reached the ears of Clare, though the rumour went current that she had dined at Richmond and elsewhere with Sir Carnaby Collingwood and some of the fastest men in the Brigade, and without any other chaperon than her brother. But then the baronet was more than old enough to be her father, with whom a late conversation now recurred to Clare's memory. While talking of Desmond, she had remarked:
'I am surprised, papa, that, with all her opportunities, his sister does not get married.'
'Why?' he asked, curtly.