“Oh, that I have made a beginning. Yes, I have made a beginning; and you may be sure it will not be my fault if it does not go on: a year perhaps, or so, and I shall feel that I am justified—ah, Gussy, I wish that time was come.”
“You must not insist on too much,” said Gussy, softly; “to begin is the great matter.”
“So it is; but I must have the means to get a nice house and everything suitable before—— When it comes to having guests, you know, there must be something to give them, and—better things even than that. Ah, me! waiting is slow work.” Gussy echoed the sigh from the bottom of her heart. “But I hope there’s a good time coming,” continued Meredith, with a smile, putting his hand upon Gussy’s, and giving it a warm pressure.
He looked many things which he did not say, and poor Gussy sat in a sort of trance of mortified happiness, feeling herself put back, checked, as if it were she who was over-eager and impatient, yet so assured of his tenderness, so moved by the high-mindedness of his determination to have everything worthy of her before he should ask her to share his fate, that her heart melted within her in answering tenderness and consent. No, she would never, could never doubt him more. His hand laid upon her hand was not enough for the response she was so ready to give: but he knew and trusted her, as she felt she ought always to have known and trusted him. And there was a moment’s silence, to Gussy more eloquent than any words; a sort of noiseless betrothal, binding them to each other till the time for full disclosure and explanation should come. He stooped down at last and kissed her hand as if his feelings were getting too much for him, and then broke into remarks upon the dancers, who were once more streaming out into the cooler space at the end of the waltz. He called her attention to two or three, and made her laugh. She felt no longer any difficulty in being amused.
“But I am afraid I must go soon,” she said; “I am engaged for the next dance.”
“Sit close,” said Meredith, “and the man will never find you. Dolff’s men are all as blind as bats. They know nobody, and they go prowling round trying to recognize some girl they have only seen for a moment. There is one who has begun his round already, peering at everybody. I hope he is not your man?”
“Perhaps he is,” said Gussy, drawing further back; “I don’t know him any more than he knows me.”
“Then you had far better stop with one who does know you, and—something more,” said Meredith. “There! he has passed and you are safe. Ah, so here is old Vicars again! Where does he always appear from, whenever you want him, that old man?”
“He appears—from where he lives, Charley. You know mamma lets him have the coachman’s room in the wing.”
“That wing has always seemed a most mysterious place to me. How do you get into it? Do you strike upon a trap-door, and does he start up through it like a jack-in-the-box?”