And after some further cogitation he went to Miss Letty and explained himself thoroughly, with, as he thought, a most artful and painstaking elaboration of his young niece’s position,—how hard it was for her to be without some one of her own sex to look after her, deprived as she was of a mother’s influence and example, and so on and so on, till Miss Letty suddenly stopped him in his eloquent harangue by a little shake of her hand, and an uplifted finger of protest.
“Dick!” she said, with a sparkle in her eyes suggestive of a dewdrop and sunbeam in one—“You are a dear old humbug!”
The Major started and blushed,—yes, actually blushed. He had considered himself a wonderful diplomatist, able to prepare a scheme of so deep and wily a nature that the most astute person would never be able to fathom it, and after all his crafty preparations, his plan turned out to be so transparent that a simple woman could see through it at once! He wriggled on his chair uneasily, coughed, and looked distinctly taken aback, while Miss Letty went on,—
“Yes, you are a dear old humbug, Dick!” she said, “And a good kind friend as well! It is not for Violet’s sake that you want me to stay over this side of ocean for a while, for there are hundreds of nice women here who would be only too pleased to have the child pass her holidays with them and their daughters,—no, Dick!—it isn’t for Violet’s sake half so much as it is for mine! I see that,—and I understand your good heart. You think I am a lonely old body—getting older quickly every day—and that the more friends I have, and the greater the interest I can take in other lives than my own, the better it will be for me. And you’re right, Dick! I’m not a fool, and I hope I am neither obstinate nor selfish. I see what you mean! You are very clear, my dear friend,—clear as crystal! I have not known you all these years for nothing. I honour and admire you, Dick, and if I didn’t go by your advice pretty often, I should be the most ungrateful creature under the sun. The only interest I have—or had—in England, apart from my natural love of home, is Boy,—but it is quite evident his mother doesn’t wish me to interfere with him, so I’m better out of the way. And the long and the short of it is, Dick, I’ll do just what you wish me to do!”
“Hooray, hooray!” cried the Major ecstatically. “Oh, Letty, Letty, what a wife you would have made! And it’s not too late even now. Won’t you have me? We’re too old to play Romeo and Juliet, but we can play Darby and Joan!”
In his excitement, Desmond had risen, and leaning behind Miss Letty’s chair, had slipped an arm round her, and now with one hand he turned up the dear face, so delicate, so little wrinkled, so tenderly shaped by approving Time into the sweetest of sweet expressions. The faintest pink coloured the pale cheeks at this impulsive caress of her old and faithful adorer.
“Dick, if I did not believe, as I do, that God always brings true lovers together again after death, I should say ‘yes’ to you, and do my best, old woman as I am, to be a companion to you for the rest of your life, and make your home cosy and comfortable; but you see I gave my promise to Harry before he went to India, that I would never marry any one but himself. He died true—and so must I!”
Never was the poor Major more bitterly and sorely tempted than at that moment. With all his heart he longed to tell the gentle trusting creature how utterly unworthy this same “Harry” had always been of such pure devotion,—he wanted to say that the person likely to “die true” was himself, and that the dead man she idolized did not merit a day’s regret,—but the strong sense of honour in the gallant old man held him silent, though he bit his lips hard to check the outburst of truth which threatened to rise and overcome his self-control. If he told her all, he would be doing two things that were in his estimation villainous,—first, he would be taking away a dead man’s character, and secondly, he would be destroying a good woman’s lifelong faith. No,—it was impossible—he could not, would not do it. He gave a deep sigh,—then patted Miss Letty’s white forehead gently and smoothed the silver hair.
“Have your own way, my dear!” he said resignedly, “Have your own way! I ought to be contented to have you as my friend, without hankering after you as a wife. I am a selfish old rascal,—that’s what’s the matter with me. Forget and forgive!”
“There’s nothing to either forget and forgive, Dick,” she said quickly, and with a sense of compunction, giving him her hand, which he kissed tenderly, though “Harry’s” engagement-ring still sparkled on it,—“I don’t deserve all your affection,—but I don’t mind telling you I should be very much unhappier than I am, without it!”