Reine’s heart gave a painful leap. She looked at Everard with a wistful question in her eyes. “Dear Bertie, if you think so,” she said faltering, “of course I will not object to what you like best. But might we not first consult the doctors? You were so well before that night. Oh, Bertie, you know I would never set myself against what was best for you—but I should like to stay at home, just for a little; and the weather will get better. October is generally fine, is it not, Everard? You ought to know—”
“You don’t understand me,” said Herbert again. “You may stay at home as much as you like. You don’t suppose I want you to go. Look here, I suppose I may speak plainly to two people engaged to each other, as you are. Why shouldn’t you marry directly, and be done with it? Then you could live on at Whiteladies, and Everard could manage the property: he wants something to do—which would leave me free to follow my inclinations, and live abroad.”
“Bertie!” cried Reine, crimson with surprise and pain.
“Well! is there anything to make a fuss about? You mean to be married, I suppose. Why wait? It might be got over, surely, in a month or so. And then, Reine being disposed of,” he went on with the most curious unconsciousness, “would not need to be any burden on me; she would want no brother to look after her. I could move about as I please, which a man never can do when he has to drag a lady after him. I think my plan is a very good plan, and why you should find any fault with it, Reine—you for whose benefit it is—”
Reine said nothing. Tears of mortification different from her brother’s came into her eyes. Perhaps the mortification was unreasonable; for, indeed, a sister who allows herself to be betrothed does in a way take the first step in abandoning her brother! But to be cast off in this cool and sudden way went to her heart, notwithstanding the strong moral support she had of Everard behind her. She had served, and (though he was not aware of it) protected, and guided for so long the helpless lad, whose entire comfort had depended on her. And even Everard could not console her for this sudden, almost contemptuous, almost insolent dismissal. With her face crimson and her heart beating, she turned away from her ungrateful brother.
“You ought not to speak to me so,” cried the girl with bitter tears in her eyes. “You should not throw me off like an old glove; it is not your part, Bertie.” And with her heart very heavy and sore, and her quick temper aflame, she hurried away out of the room, leaving them; and, like the others who had gone before, set off by the same oft-trodden road, through the village, to the Grange. Already Miss Susan’s new home had become the general family refuge from all evil.
When Reine was gone, Bertie’s irritation subdued itself; for one man’s excited temper cannot but subdue itself speedily, when it has to beat against the blank wall of another man’s indifference. Everard did not care so very much if he was angry or not. He could afford to let Herbert and all the rest of the world cool down, and take their own way. He was sorry for the poor boy, but his temper did not affect deeply the elder man; his elder in years, and twice his elder in experience. Herbert soon calmed down under this process, and then they had a long and serious conversation. Nor did Everard think the proposal at all unreasonable. From disgust, or temper, or disappointment, or for health’s sake—what did it matter which?—the master of Whiteladies had determined to go abroad. And what so natural as that Reine’s marriage should take place early, there being no reason whatever why they should wait; or that Everard, as her husband, and himself the heir presumptive, should manage the property, and live with his wife in the old house? The proposal had not been delicately made, but it was kind enough. Everard forgave the roughness more readily than Reine could do, and accepted the good-will heartily, taking it for granted that brotherly kindness was its chief motive. He undertook to convince Reine that nothing could be more reasonable, nothing more kind.
“It removes the only obstacle that was in our way,” said Everard, grasping his cousin’s hand warmly. “God bless you, Bertie. I hope you’ll some time be as happy—more happy you can’t be.”
Poor Bertie took this salutation but grimly, wincing from every such touch, but refused at once Everard’s proposal that they should follow Reine to see Miss Susan.
“You may go if you like,” he said; “people feel things in different ways, some deeper, some more lightly. I don’t blame you, but I can’t do it. I couldn’t speak to her if she were here.”