“I believe, madam,” said Miss Gray, with appearance of effort, “that I must speak with this gentleman for a few minutes in private, if you will permit me.”
“That is to say, get you gone? but I do not allow that—I do not like private conversation between young man and pretty young woman; cela n'est pas honnete. It cannot be in my house.”
“It may be out of it, then, madam,” answered Miss Gray, not pettishly nor pertly, but with the utmost simplicity.—“Mr. Hartley, will you step into that garden?—and, you, madam, may observe us from the window, if it be the fashion of the country to watch so closely.”
As she spoke this she stepped through a lattice-door into the garden, and with an air so simple, that she seemed as if she wished to comply with her patroness's ideas of decorum, though they appeared strange to her. The Queen of Sheba, notwithstanding her natural assurance, was disconcerted by the composure of Miss Gray's manner, and left the room, apparently in displeasure. Menie turned back to the door which opened into the garden, and said in the same manner as before, but with less nonchalance,—
“I am sure I would not willingly break through the rules of a foreign country; but I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of speaking to so old a friend,—if indeed,” she added, pausing and looking at Hartley, who was much embarrassed, “it be as much pleasure to Mr. Hartley as it is to me.”
“It would have been,” said Hartley, scarce knowing what he said—“it must be a pleasure to me in every circumstance—But this extraordinary meeting—But your father”—
Menie Gray's handkerchief was at her eyes.—“He is gone, Mr. Hartley. After he was left unassisted, his toilsome business became too much for him—he caught a cold which hung about him, as you know he was the last to attend to his own complaints, till it assumed a dangerous, and, finally, a fatal character. I distress you, Mr. Hartley, but it becomes you well to be affected. My father loved you dearly.”
“Oh, Miss Gray!” said Hartley, “it should not have been thus with my excellent friend at the close of his useful and virtuous life—Alas, wherefore—the question bursts from me involuntarily—wherefore could you not have complied with his wishes?—wherefore”—
“Do not ask me,” said she, stopping the question which was on his lips; “we are not the formers of our own destiny. It is painful to talk on such a subject; but for once, and for ever, let me tell you that I should have done Mr. Hartley wrong, if, even to secure his assistance to my father, I had accepted his hand, while my wayward affections did not accompany the act.”
“But wherefore do I see you here, Menie?—Forgive me, Miss Gray, my tongue as well as my heart turns back to long-forgotten scenes—But why here?—why with this woman?”