The Ladies Lindores

think of him in any other capacity than that of a brotherly friend. And it was at this moment she made the discovery that, notwithstanding the promises of Rintoul and Millefleurs, nothing had been done for John. The consequence was, that the letter which we have just quoted was at once an expression of sympathy, very warm, and indeed impassioned⁠—more than sympathy, indignation, wrath, sentiments which were nothing less than violent⁠—and a way of easing her own excited mind which nothing else could have furnished. “I am going to write to John Erskine,” she said, with the boldness produced by so great a crisis; and Lady Lindores had not interfered. She said, “Give him my love,” and that was all. No claim of superior prudence, or even wisdom, has been made for Lady Lindores. She had to do the best she could among all these imperfections. Perhaps she thought that, having expressed all her angry glowing heart to John, in the outflowing of impassioned sympathy, the girl would be more likely, in the reaction and fear lest she had gone too far, to be kind to Millefleurs; for who can gauge the ebbings and flowings of these young fantastic souls? And as for Lady Lindores’s private sentiments, she would not have forced her daughter a hairbreadth; and she had a good deal of pain to reconcile herself to Millefleurs’s somewhat absurd figure as the husband of Edith. But yet, when all is said, to give your child the chance of being a duchess, who would not sacrifice a little? If only Edith could make up her mind to it! Lady Lindores went no further. Nevertheless, when the important moment approached, she could not help, like Carry, breathing a word in her child’s ear, “Remember, there is no better heart in existence,” she said. “A woman could not have a better man.” Edith, in her excitement, grasped her mother’s arms with her two hands; but all the answer she gave was a little nervous laugh. She had no voice to reply.

“You will remember, Millefleurs, that my daughter is very young⁠—and⁠—and shy,” said Lord Lindores, on the other side. He was devoured by a desire to say, “If she refuses you, never mind⁠—I will make her give in;” which indeed was what he had said in a kind of paraphrase to Torrance. But Millefleurs was not the sort of person to whom this could be said. He drew himself up a little, and puffed out his fine chest, when his future father-in-law (as they hoped) made this remark. If Edith was not as willing to have him as he was to have her, she was not for Millefleurs. He almost resented the interference. “I have no doubt that Lady Edith and I will quite understand each other⁠—whichever way it may be,” Millefleurs added with a sigh, which suited the situation. As a matter of fact, he thought there could not be very much doubt as to the reply. It was not possible that they could have made him stay only to get a refusal at the end⁠—and Millefleurs was well aware that the girls were very few who could find it in their hearts to refuse a future dukedom: besides, had it not been a friendship at first sight⁠—an immediate liking, if not love? To refuse him now would be strange indeed. It was not until after dinner that the fated moment came. Neither Lord Lindores nor Rintoul came into the drawing-room; and Lady Lindores, having her previous orders, left the field clear almost immediately after the entrance of the little hero. There was nothing accidental about it, as there generally is, or appears to be, about the scene of such events. The great drawing-room, all softly lighted and warm, was never abandoned in this way in the evening. Edith stood before the fire, clasping her hands together nervously, the light falling warm upon her black dress and the gleams of reflection from its jet trimmings. They had begun to talk before Lady Lindores retreated to the background to look for something, as she said; and Millefleurs allowed the subject they were discussing to come to an end before he entered upon anything more important. He concluded his little argument with the greatest propriety, and then he paused and cleared his throat.

“Lady Edith,” he said, “you may not have noticed that we are alone.” He folded his little hands together, and put out his chest, and made all his curves more remarkable, involuntarily, as he said this. It was his way of opening a new subject, and he was not carried out of his way by excitement as Edith was.

She looked round breathlessly, and said, “Has mamma gone?” with a little gasp⁠—a mixture of agitation and shame. The sense even that she was false in her pretence at surprise⁠—for did she not know what was coming?⁠—agitated her still more.

“Yeth,” said Millefleurs, drawing out his lisp into a sort of sigh. “I have asked that I might see you by yourself. You will have thought, perhaps, that for me to stay here when the family was in⁠—affliction, was, to say the least, bad taste, don’t you know?”

“No,” said Edith, faltering, “I did not think so; I thought⁠—”

“That is exactly so,” said Millefleurs, seriously. “It is a great bore, to be sure; but you and I are not like two nobodies. The truth is, I had to speak to your father first: it seemed to be the best thing to do⁠—and now I have been waiting to have this chance. Lady Edith, I hope you are very well aware that I am⁠—very fond of you, don’t you know? I always thought we were fond of one another⁠—”

“You were quite right, Lord Millefleurs,” cried Edith, nervously; “you have been so nice⁠—you have been like another brother⁠—”

“Thanks; but it was not quite in that way.” Here Millefleurs put out his plump hand and took hers in a soft, loose clasp⁠—a clasp which was affectionate but totally