“No, no, indeed, you mustn’t say that. That’s absurd. I am just an ordinary girl, who likes to be happy, and to be admired, and to have fun when I can——”
“Of course, of course. Oh, my beloved, do not reproach yourself.” Then she turned in his arms, put her hands on his shoulders, and looked gravely and imploringly into his face.
“Promise me one thing,” she said, “one thing only. I will ask you nothing more than that.” She could not have been resisted by the Assessing Angel.
“Speak, my adored one.”
“Whatever you hear of me—against me—ask me what I have to say before you condemn me. Promise me that.”
“My love and my life,” he said fervently; and she pouted her lips for a kiss. Thus she justified herself in this regard, and by a sophistry of her sex came in time to feel that she had made him a full confession. She told Jinny as much.
We were now in late August; the wedding was to be quietly at Blackheath at the end of September, and the exciting business of the trousseau must be undertaken. Mrs. James, it seems, had so far reconciled herself to the inevitable as to have consented to come to town and “see to things” which the child must have. Her own people being out of the question, Mary was to stay with her in Hill-street, which was one day to be her own house, and do her shopping. A liberal sum was in Mrs. James’s hands for the purpose. There was to be no white satin; but Jinny was to be allowed to walk as bridesmaid. There was no way out of this. Her dress was to be chosen for her, and then she must come to London to be fitted; but she was not to be asked to Hill-street.
XIV
THE NEWS REACHES THE PYRENEES
Pau, in August, being what no man could be expected to stand, Duplessis and his friend Lord Bramleigh went into Spain, and lounged at San Sebastian. Here on a blazing noon of mid-September, as they were breakfasting at leisure, a budget of letters was delivered.
Lord Bramleigh, cheerful, wholesome, and round-faced, chirped over his, according to his wont. He read most of them aloud, with comments. “Old Gosperton’s shoot—will I go? I’ll see him damned. Why should I go and see old Gosperton shoot beaters? Not if I know it. Who’s this? Mary St. Chad, by the Lord! Now what does she want? . . . ‘I suppose you know that Bob Longford is . . .’ I’ll be shot if I know anything of the sort. I know he wants to all right; but you can’t marry a chap’s wife—at least I don’t think you can. . . . Oh, sorry! Fellow’s dead. . . . I say, Tristram, do you hear that? Old Bland-Mainways is dead, and Bob Longford’s married his relic—married her in a week, my boy. What do you say to that? You marry a man’s remains almost as soon as he’s remains himself. Pretty manners, what? . . .”