“Perhaps so,” returned Mr. Huntingdon, coldly; “but I should have thought better of you, Trafford, if you had sacrificed feeling in the matter. Well, it may rest now. I have struck off George Anderson’s name as defaulter out of my book and memory, and I will tell Dobson to add his salary to yours. No thanks,” he continued in rather a chilling manner, as Maurice’s eyes sparkled, and he attempted to speak; “it is a fair recompense for your sagacity. Go on as well as you have begun, and your future will be assured. To-morrow I shall expect you to dine with me at Belgrave House. Dobson is coming, too,” and with a slight nod Mr. Huntingdon dismissed him.
That night Maurice laid his head upon his pillow and dreamed happy dreams of a golden future. To-morrow he should see the dark-eyed girl who had spoken so sweetly to him; and as he remembered her words and glances of gratitude, and the touch of her soft, white hands, Maurice’s heart gave quick throbs that were almost pain.
He should see that lovely face again, was his first waking thought; but when the evening was over Maurice Trafford went back to his lodgings a sadder and a wiser man.
He was dazzled and bewildered when he saw her again—the young girl in the white gown was changed into a radiant princess. Nea was dressed for a ball; she came across the great lighted room to greet Maurice in a cloud of gauzy draperies. Diamonds gleamed on her neck and arms; her eyes were shining; she looked so bewilderingly beautiful that Maurice grew embarrassed, all the more that Mr. Huntingdon’s cold eyes were upon them.
Maurice never recalled that evening without pain. A great gulf seemed to open between him and his master’s daughter; what was there in common between them? Nea talked gayly to him as well as to her other guests, but he could hardly bring himself to answer her.
His reserve disappointed Nea. She had been longing to see him again, but the handsome young clerk seemed to have so little to say to her. He was perfectly gentlemanly and well bred, but he appeared somewhat depressed.
Nea’s vanity was piqued at last, and when Lord Bertie joined them in the evening she gave him all her attention. Things had not progressed according to Mr. Huntingdon’s wishes. Nea could not be induced to look favorably on Lord Bertie’s suit; she pouted and behaved like a spoiled child when her father spoke seriously to her on the subject. The death of one of Lord Bertie’s sisters had put a stop to the wooing for the present; but it was understood that he would speak to Nea very shortly, and after a long and angry argument with her father she was induced to promise that she would listen to him.
Nea was beginning to feel the weight of her father’s inflexible will. In spite of her gayety and merry speeches, she was hardly happy that evening. Lord Bertie’s heavy speeches and meaningless jokes oppressed her—how terribly weary she would get of him if he were her husband, she thought. She was tired of him already—of his commonplace, handsome face—of his confidential whispers and delicately implied compliments—and then she looked up and met Maurice’s thoughtful gray eyes fixed on her. Nea never knew why she blushed, or a strange, restless feeling came over her that moment; but she answered Lord Bertie pettishly. It was almost a relief when the carriage was announced, and she was to leave her guests. Maurice, who was going, stood at the door while Lord Bertie put her in the carriage—a little gloved hand waved to him out of the darkness—and then the evening was over.
Mr. Huntingdon had not seemed like himself that night; he had complained of headache and feverishness, and had confided to Dobson that perhaps after all Dr. Ainslie was right, and he ought to have taken more rest.
Somehow he was not the man he had been before his accident; nevertheless he ridiculed the idea that much was amiss, and talked vaguely of running down to the sea for a few days.