“Not on ordinary grounds,” Frances replied. “But—papa is peculiar. If he thought that Mrs Littlewood opposed your marriage on any grounds, he, on his side, would not give in in the least. On the contrary, he would seek for all sorts of objections. He would be too indignant at the idea of a child of his being unwelcome to any family to be even reasonable.”
Horace sighed.
“Well,” he said, “we must hope for the best, and thank you very much, Frances, for putting things so clearly. I know my ground better now. If,” he went on—“forgive me if you don’t like the suggestion—if Ryder Morion had been a nearer relation of yours, or on more intimate terms, he might have seemed the natural person to influence my mother, should need arise.”
“Yes,” said Frances, thoughtfully, “but, you see, he is not in that position towards us, and it would have had to be done very, very carefully, so that my father should never have suspected any intervention on his part. There is still the old sore, though I am very glad that we now know him better.”
The next few days were passed in keener anxiety on Frances’ part than on Betty’s. Nor, if she had been gifted with clairvoyant powers, would her misgivings have been decreased, but very much the reverse, by a conversation which took place between the Littlewoods, mother and son, the day following that of the latter’s arrival in London.
Mrs Littlewood’s tone and manner at the opening of this tête-à-tête were strangely disconcerting, and the cause of this ever remained a mystery to Horace, completely unsuspicious, as he was, of his mother’s fears lying in the direction of Frances instead of Betty. And as the conversation proceeded, and light broke in upon her, he naturally attributed the unmistakable softening of her tone to his own good management, and his hopes rose accordingly; only, however, to be dashed to the ground again, for while Mrs Littlewood’s relief was great at the substitution of the one sister for the other—towards whom she had allowed herself to indulge in really unjustifiable prejudice—this happy effect was greatly marred by her personal feeling of annoyance that she herself should have been so mistaken. Her pride rose in arms, for she would not allow, even to herself, that she was actuated by anything but purely disinterested regard for Horace’s welfare.
And her ultimatum, when she delivered it, was in accordance with this position.
“My dear Horace,” she said, “the whole thing could scarcely be more unfortunate. She is a dear, sweet child, I own, but about as little fitted to be your wife as Conrad’s Lilian. So delicate, too, you could never dream of taking her out to India.”
A pang of cruel disappointment shot through the young man’s heart at these words.
“I have certainly not the slightest wish to do so,” he replied, “though she is not as delicate as she looks. I agree with you, however, as to the inadvisability of such a step. That, indeed, is my reason for putting it all before you in this way.”