Then he was there. In the moment that sufficed for the glance of his eye to meet hers she knew that she was not abandoned. With whatever tidings he had come that was not to be the burden of his news. No man desirous of being released from his vows ever looked like that. So up she jumped and flew to him, not quite knowing what she intended, but filled with delight when she found herself pressed to his bosom. Then she had to remember herself, and to escape from his arms. “Philip,” she said, “this is Miss Gregory. Miss Gregory, I do not think you ever met Mr. Launay.”
Then Miss Gregory had to endeavour to look as though nothing particular had taken place—which was a trial. But Bessy bore her part, if not without a struggle, at least without showing it. “And now, Philip,” she said, “how is my aunt?”
“A great deal stronger than when you left her.”
“Quite well?”
“Yes; for her, I think I may say quite well.”
“She goes out every day?”
“Every day—after the old plan. The carriage toddles round to the door at three, and then toddles about the parish at the rate of four miles an hour, and toddles home exactly at five. The people at Launay, Miss Gregory, don’t want clocks to tell them the hour in the afternoon.”
“I do love punctuality,” said Miss Gregory.
“I wish I were with her,” said Bessy.
“I have come to take you,” said Philip.
“Have you?” Then Bessy blushed—for the first time. She blushed as a hundred various thoughts rushed across her mind. If he had been sent to take her back, sent by her aunt, instead of Mrs. Knowl, what a revulsion of circumstances must there not have been at Launay! How could it all have come to pass? Even to have been sent for at all, to be allowed to go back even in disgrace, would have been an inexpressible joy. Had Knowl come for her, with a grim look and an assurance that she was to be brought back because a prison at Launay was thought to be more secure than a prison at Avranches, the prospect of a return would have been hailed with joy. But now—to be taken back by Philip to Launay! There was a whole heaven of delight in the thought of the very journey.
Miss Gregory endeavoured to look pleased, but in truth the prospect to her was not so pleasant as to Bessy. She was to be left alone again. She was to lose her pensioner. After so short a fruition of the double bliss of society and pay, she was to be deserted without a thought. But to be deserted without many thoughts had been her lot in life, and now she bore her misfortune like a heroine. “You will be glad to go back to your aunt, Bessy; will you not?”
“Glad!” The ecstacy was almost unkind, but poor Miss Gregory bore it, and maintained that pretty smile of gratified serenity as though everything were well with all of them.
But Bessy felt that she had as yet heard nothing of the real news, and that the real news could not be told in the presence of Miss Gregory. It had not even yet occurred to her that Mrs. Miles had actually given her sanction to the marriage. “This is a very pretty place,” said Philip.
“What, Avranches?” said Miss Gregory, mindful of future possible pensioners. “Oh, delightful. It is the prettiest place in Normandy, and I think the most healthy town in all France.”
“It seemed nice as I came up from the hotel. Suppose we go out for a walk, Bessy. We have to start back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” ejaculated Bessy. She would have been ready to go in half an hour had he demanded it.
“If you can manage it. I promised my mother to be as quick as I could; and, when I arranged to come, I had ever so many engagements.”
“If she must go tomorrow, she won’t have much time for walking,” said Miss Gregory, with almost a touch of anger in her voice. But Bessy was determined to have her walk. All her fate in life was to be disclosed to her within the next few minutes. She was already exultant, but she was beginning to think that there was a heaven, indeed, opening for her. So she ran away for her hat and gloves, leaving her lover and Miss Gregory together.
“It is very sudden,” said the poor old lady with a gasp.
“My mother felt that, and bade me tell you that, of course, the full twelvemonth—”
“I was not thinking about that,” said Miss Gregory. “I did not mean to allude to such a thing. Mrs. Miles has always been so kind to my brother, and anything I could have done I should have been so happy, without thinking of money. But—” Philip sat with the air of an attentive listener, so that Miss Gregory could get no answer to her question without absolutely asking it. “But there seems to be a change.”
“Yes, there is a change, Miss Gregory.”
“We were afraid that Mrs. Miles had been offended.”
“It is the old story, Miss Gregory. Young people and old people very often will not think alike: but it is the young people who generally have their way.”
She had not had her way. She remembered that at the moment. But then, perhaps, the major-general had had his. When a period of life has come too late for success, when all has been failure, the expanding triumphs of the glorious young, grate upon the feelings even of those who are generous and self-denying. Miss Gregory was generous by nature and self-denying by practice, but Philip’s paean and Bessy’s wondrous prosperity were for a moment a little hard upon her.
