“You shock me,” said Harry. “I did not think it was half so bad as that.” He paused, mused, and then said, looking up brightly—“However, Derwent, you are a lucky fellow yet. I have seen, for some days, that you have had half a mind to make love seriously to Miss Stanhope; now this blow will rescue you from that folly, for to marry on three hundred a year would be lunacy itself. Miss Arnott will have you, if you speak quick, so cheer up, it is always darkest just before the day.”
Derwent looked at his friend sternly, and was about to characterize the proceeding Harry advised as villainy; but he said nothing, only mournfully shaking his head.
“Pshaw!” said Harry, “what foolish notions have come over you? Be a man, Derwent. I wish to heaven Miss Arnott would only have me; I like to talk to her companion well enough; and it’s pleasant, too, to dance with such a beautiful creature; but, egad, my two thousand a year would not go far toward supporting a wife.”
“I will be a man,” replied Derwent, with sudden energy, “I will not yield to this blow. There, Harry, good-bye for the present—I will join you in an hour.”
When the door had closed on his friend, Derwent said —
“Yes! I will be a man. All thoughts of Miss Stanhope must now be dismissed; the most delightful dream of my life is over. I must hereafter toil for my very bread. Well, let the storm rage—I can breast it!”
In this half defiant, half despairing mood, he concluded his toilette and went down stairs. His first visit was to the office, where he announced his intention of leaving early the next morning—“For since,” he said, “I must pull the oar, the sooner I begin the better.”
He hesitated whether to seek Miss Stanhope and tell her all, or to leave her without explanation. “I will say nothing,” at last he said. “She will hear of the cause of my departure soon enough; and even if she had thought of me, will then bless her good fortune which preserved her from marrying a beggar.”
He had scarcely arrived at this conclusion, however, when he met Miss Stanhope herself face to face. He had been sauntering up the street, his hands folded behind him, his whole air listless and dejected. He was taken by surprise, bowed to her with embarrassment, and then, after she had passed, remembering that she looked amazed at his manner, he turned about and joined her mechanically. He scarcely knew why he went back; and when he had done it, he was more embarrassed than ever. Miss Stanhope was the first to speak.
“Are you ill, Mr. Derwent?” she said, in a voice of sympathy, “you look so.”