He was in earnest—horribly in earnest! His voice quivered with emotion, his eyes were shining, and his face, which was usually immovable, was radiant with happiness. Miss Carr looked at him, and her heart fell. If the mere thought of Lettice could alter the man in this manner, she could imagine the transformation which must have passed over him as he spoke to the girl herself, among the trees and flowers on the river-bank; and, alas for Lettice! she could imagine also how easily gratified vanity might have been mistaken for reciprocal love. It had been late when they returned from the water party the night before, and Lettice had hurried off to bed. She had been a trifle more lingering than usual in her good-night embrace, but Lettice was always demonstrative in her ways, so that the fact had attracted no attention, and the morning had been so full of engagements that there had been no time for private conferences.
Miss Carr was speechless with grief, disappointment, and dismay. Her anxious training for the last three years, her motherly oversight, her hopes and prayers for the welfare of her beloved child, had they all ended in this, that Lettice had been too selfish to discourage admiration which she could not return?—too weak to say no to the first man who approached with flattering words? Poor, foolish child! What misery she had prepared for herself and everyone belonging to her!—for of course it was all a mistake, her heart was not really touched; the engagement could not be allowed. With a sigh of relief Miss Carr reflected that the onus of responsibility was lifted off her shoulders by the fact of Mr Bertrand’s arrival in town that very afternoon, and also that Lettice’s engagements for the day would prevent a meeting until she had been able to consult with her father. She drew a long sigh, and her voice sounded both sad and tired as she replied—
“Ah, well! I am only Lettice’s guardian in name, Mr Newcome; I have no authority to refuse or to sanction her engagement. I have had a telegram to say that Mr Bertrand is coming to town on business to-day, so you will be able to see him to-morrow and hear what he has to say. Lettice is very young—too young, in my opinion, to be able to know her own mind. I wish there had been no such questions to disturb her for the next two or three years. I don’t know what Mr Bertrand will think.”
“I am in a good position. I can provide a name that will not be unworthy of her. You know me and my family. We have been friends for years. She would have the warmest welcome—”
“Yes, yes, I am sure of that. I will tell Mr Bertrand all you say, Mr Newcome, and if you call to-morrow morning you will find him at home. In the afternoon he will probably be engaged. I can say nothing, and— Excuse me! I am not so young as I was, and I feel a good deal upset...”
Arthur Newcome rose at once, and held out his hand in farewell.
“Pray pardon me. I can understand your sentiments. It must be a shock to think of losing Lettice in any case, and I am aware that I am not what is called a good match. Such a beautiful girl—her father’s daughter, your ward—might marry into any circle. I sympathise with your disappointment; but, believe me, Lettice should never have any reason to regret her choice. I would devote my life to securing her happiness. I will call to-morrow morning, then, with your permission. Eleven o’clock? Thank you! Pray pardon any distress I may have caused you, and think of me as indulgently as you can.”
He left the room, and Miss Carr raised both hands to her head with a gesture of despair.
“He is all that he should be—humble, devoted, deferential—but oh, Lettice! my poor, dear child, what a mistake you have made! You would eat your heart out in a year’s time, married to a man whom you do not love; and you don’t love Arthur Newcome, I know you don’t—it is all vanity, and weakness, and imagination. Poor Austin, what a welcome for him! A nice pill for me to have such a piece of news to tell—I, who was going to do such wonders for the child! Well, well! this comes of mixing oneself up in other people’s affairs. She could have come to no worse fate than this if I had left her to vegetate in Clearwater.”
There was no more rest for Miss Carr that afternoon. The magazine lay neglected on the table, the cushions fell to the ground and lay unnoticed as she fidgeted about, now rising and pacing angrily to and fro, now throwing herself on a seat in weary despair. She alternately longed for and dreaded Mr Bertrand’s arrival, and it needed all her self-control to keep up a semblance of cheerfulness while he drank his tea and refreshed himself after the long journey. It was not easy, however, to deceive such an intimate friend. Mr Bertrand studied her face with critical eyes, and said kindly—