“Oh, no, I had no such meaning. I thought perhaps—if you were to exercise your own judgment you would be kind to the old house. We are fond of all traces of antiquity here; and I have a special love for those old gables, and the roofless walls, and narrow windows—”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Charles, archly, “we know why that is. Because you were so fond of the old family. And of course Marjory was devoted to all that old stuff.”
“No, indeed!” said Hepburn, blushing and stumbling in his words; “indeed you misunderstand me. I admire the ruin for itself, and I like it for its associations, without—Of course I have the highest respect for Miss Heriot.”
“Oh yes, indeed—the highest respect! I like that!” said Mrs. Charles. “I wonder what Marjory would say if she heard you? Oh, yes, even if you did not blush and look so conscious, we have heard all about it, Mr. Hepburn. When is it to be? And I wonder if she likes you being here so much? If I were in her place I shouldn’t, I tell you frankly. If I were in her place——”
“Pray don’t speak so,” cried poor Hepburn, really distressed. “I am not so fortunate as to be able to hope that Miss Heriot takes any interest in what I do. Very much the reverse. She has always been like the moon and the stars, quite above my sphere.”
“Oh, you are a great deal too humble,” said Matilda, quite excited with this congenial subject, “but you ought not to come here so much if you want to please Marjory. I am sure she hates me. That sort of superior solemn kind of woman always hates us little things. Perhaps because the gentlemen like us,” Mrs. Charles added, with a momentary giggle. Then remembering her rôle, “Dear, dear,” she said, with a sigh, “to think I should talk such nonsense! as if what gentlemen thought mattered any more to me.”
Hepburn could not but press gently to his side the soft little hand that rested on his arm. How charming her simplicity was, her naturalness, the light-heartedness of her youth cropping up in spite of her grief!
“I hope, however,” he said, “that you do not think us quite unworthy of consideration—for that would be hard, very hard upon us.”
“Oh, no,” said Matilda, “indeed I always say frankly that I like gentlemen’s society much the best. Women are so jealous of you, and so nasty in their ways. I don’t pretend to be very clever, but I do like to be with some one who is clever. And one feels at once the superiority when one hears gentlemen talk. It is so different from our chitter-chatter. Isn’t it now? I like to have some one I can look up to,” said the woman, who was a fool, looking up, with all the skill of her folly, into the face of the foolish young man who was intellectual. Oh, poor Johnnie! He had a dim notion in some corner of his mind that what she said was silly, and yet he was ready to fall down at her feet and worship her. The silliness quite achieved his downfall. He had been wavering, all but conquered; but now the final coup was given to him. He murmured something in sudden delirium, he did not quite know what. Neither did Matilda know what it was; but she knew that she might henceforward guide him at her pleasure through all the ways of imbecility. She had snatched him from Marjory, too, which was a great addition to the pleasure. Marjory was clever, and Verna was clever; but here was something they could not do.
The conversation was interrupted at this beatific moment by the appearance of Verna, important and full of business as usual.