‘Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,
For a dream’s sake.’”
“Don’t get into the habit of quoting poetry when you are excited, Phil,” said her uncle’s voice at the open window. He had been passing, and had overheard the last words. “It is very hard to break oneself off it, and it has got me into trouble more than once. People think it sounds stagey, you know.”
“I suppose,” pursued Philippa, in a lower tone, but still with boundless indignation, “that she thought he was not grand enough for her to marry! And so she used him as long as she wanted his help, and then cast him aside. As if she ought not to have been glad of the chance of giving up everything for him because she loved him—if she did!”
“There may be excuses for her of which we know nothing,” said Lady Caerleon, observing that Mansfield was hanging on Philippa’s words in rapt admiration, as much for the speaker as for the sentiments she expressed. “She may even think she is acting rightly. It is quite possible,” with a sigh, “to do wrong from the best motives.”
“No, mother, I am sure it was just wicked, horrible pride. She thought only of herself, and not a bit of him, and calmly broke his heart because he did not happen to be born a King.”
And there was no one to tell her that it was Cyril, and not Ernestine, who had found place and power too much to give up for love.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.
Sydney C. Grier was the pseudonym of Hilda Caroline Gregg.