Lotty disappeared instantly. Sybil lingered one little short moment to kiss her uncle softly once more, and then followed her sister. What had the child-heart read of the sorrow, the sudden, sharp pang of bitter disappointment that thrilled through the strong man, in whom her innocence, she instinctively wished to comfort?
For once in his life Ralph felt thankful for Lotty’s tongue. Its chatter gave him an instant in which to recover himself, to rally his scattered forces and decide on his present course. Perfect silence! He was not in the habit of betraying his feelings, and certainly his powers of self-control must not fail him now, for the gratification of the heartless beauty at his mother’s board.
His first impulse had been to rise in the strength of his wrath and indignation, to have done, for once in a way, with conventional restrictions, and to hurl bitter, biting words at her, who in his inmost heart he believed to be the author of all this. It was well he did not do so. Florence was prepared for it, would have enjoyed it immensely, and would certainly have remained mistress of the field. His heroics would have been altogether out of place, as a very few minutes sufficed to show him, and would but have exposed himself and another to ridicule and derision. For what would Florence have answered? She had the words all ready.
“My dear Ralph, what do you mean? My dearest aunt, has your son gone out of his mind? How can I, of all people, be responsible for Mrs. Archer’s having been called to India to nurse her husband, or to the movements of the young lady visiting her? Truly, Sir Ralph, you must excuse me, but just ask yourself—why should I be supposed to take so extraordinary an interest in every young lady my aunt sees it to engage to teach your nieces? And still more, what possible reason could I have for supposing this particular young lady to be an object of interest to you? It is not usual, to say the least, for the gentleman of the house, to have an understanding with the governess?”
Which memorable speech however was never destined to be uttered.
Ralph thought better of it, and decided to nurse his wrath and keep his own counsel.
There is a great deal of nonsense spoken and written about truth, and truth tellers. The most exalted characters in a certain of class fiction can never bring themselves without a tremendous fuss, either to utter or act a falsehood, and if they ever attempt either, they are sure to bungle it: spite of themselves “their ingenuous nature betrays itself,” “their lips scorn to descend to the meanness,” &c. &c. It is not so in real life. I know of no persons who, when they are put to it, can tell a falsehood better, or act it more cleverly, than essentially truthful, because truth-loving natures. The reason, I fancy, lies somewhere in this direction. It takes some strength, some resolution, to do something they thoroughly dislike, and so they, having “gone for it,” feeling the necessity of the disagreeable action, do it to the best of their ability, set their shoulder to the wheel and go through with it with a will. This is how, to my experience, really thorough people tell stories!
Ralph did his bit of falsity very neatly. All the same, alas, Florence saw through it! He did not over-act it. He looked up with a sufficiently concerned expression, saying to his mother:
“Dear me! I am sorry to hear Mrs. Archer has left. And Miss Freer too! It must have been a sudden movement.”
“Very sudden indeed,” replied his moving, most completely taken in, and evidently not a little relieved and delighted, “Mrs. Archer was in dreadful distress. She is to sail almost immediately. She would have gone straight to Marseilles from this, but she had some business she was obliged to attend to personally in England.”