So it was Dinah, after all. And she had fought her long, hard fights all for nothing.
It was Dine, and now her father would understand; he would not think her blind and stupid; he would not be disappointed that she had not chosen his choice!
And that it was herself that Gus Hammerton had loved, the wife of John Woodstock always believed. And that it was herself, Tessa never knew; for not knowing that he had stood at the window that night that Dr. Towne had brought her home, and witnessed their parting at the gate, how could she divine that “definitely learned that she does not think of me,” had referred to her?
Mr. Wadsworth had listened in utter bewilderment, recalling Tessa’s repeated declaration that it was Dinah. “I am in my dotage,” he thought; “for I certainly understood that he said Tessa.”
“My wish was with your wish,” he said.
“She will be better satisfied,” Mr. Hammerton answered in his most abrupt tone. “He is a fine man; I can understand his attraction for her.”
Mrs. Wadsworth entered at that instant and the conversation was too fraught with pain to both ever to be resumed; therefore it fell out that Mr. Hammerton was the only one in the world who ever knew, beyond a perhaps, which of the sisters he had asked of the father.
That Tessa had not been influenced by his importunate and mistaken urging, was one of the things that her father was thankful for to the end of his days.
“Poor Gus! The dear, brave boy,” sighed Tessa over her letter. “And my worry has only been to reveal to me that I can not reason myself into loving or not loving.”
A paragraph in Nan Gerard’s letter was dwelt long upon; then the daintily written pink sheet dropped from her fingers and she sat bending forward looking into the glowing brands until the lights were out down-stairs and Hilda’s heavy step had passed her door.