“Miss Marchant,” begun Vansittart with ceremonious gravity, “will you forgive me if I ask you a few questions which may seem somewhat impertinent on my part?”
This was so different from what her trembling heart had expected that she paled as at a sudden danger. He was watching her intently, and was quick to perceive that pallor.
“I don’t think you would ask me anything really impertinent,” she faltered.
“Not with an impertinent motive, be assured. Well, I must even risk offending you. I want you to tell me frankly what you think of Mr. Sefton.”
At this the pale cheeks flushed, and she looked angry.
“I don’t like him, though he is my father’s friend, and though he is always very kind—obtrusively kind. He has even offered Sophy and me his horses to ride—to have the exclusive use of two of his best hacks, if father would let us ride them; but of course that was out of the question. We could not have accepted such a favour from anyone.”
“Not from anyone but an affianced lover,” said Vansittart. “Do you know, Miss Marchant, when I first saw you and Mr. Sefton together at the ball I thought you must be engaged.”
“How very foolish of you!”
“He had such an air of taking possession of you, as if he had a superior claim to your attentions.”
“Oh, that is only Mr. Sefton’s masterful way. He cannot forget the extent of his acres or the length of his pedigree.”
“But he seems—always—on such confidential terms with you.”
“I have known him a long time.”
“Yes, but his manner—to a looker-on—implies something more than friendship. Oh, Miss Marchant, forgive me if I presume to question you. My motive is no light one. Last January by the lake I saw you and that man meet, with a look on both sides of a preconcerted meeting. I heard, accidentally, some few words which Mr. Sefton spoke to you, while you were walking with him by the lake; and those words implied a secret understanding between you and him—something of deep interest of which the outer world knew nothing. Be frank with me, for pity’s sake. Speak openly to me today, from heart to heart, if you never speak to me again. Is not there something more between you and Wilfred Sefton than an everyday friendship?”
“Yes,” she answered, “there is something more. There is a secret understanding—not much of a secret, but Mr. Sefton has taken advantage of it to offer me meaningless attentions which I detest, and which, I dare say, ill-natured people may talk about. They would be sure to think that Mr. Sefton could have no serious intentions about me, that he was only carrying on an idle flirtation.”
“And if he were serious—if he asked you to be his wife?”
“To live in that grand house; to rule over all those acres; to have a wafer-space on that long pedigree! Could Colonel Marchant’s daughter refuse such a chance?”
“Would Colonel Marchant’s daughter accept it?”
“Not this daughter,” answered Eve, gaily. “I might hand him on to Sophy, perhaps. Poor Sophy hankers after the pomps and vanities of this wicked world.”
Her gaiety delighted her lover. It told of an unburdened conscience—a heart at peace with itself.
“Tell me what it was you overheard, Mr. Eavesdropper, that afternoon by the lake?” she asked.
“I heard him say to you, very earnestly, ‘It was a false scent, you see;’ and then he expressed his sorrow for your disappointment.”
“You have a good memory. I, too, remember those words, ‘It was a false scent.’ It was. He had need to be sorry for my disappointment, for he had cheated me with false hopes.”
“About what? About whom?”
“About my brother.”
“Your brother? I did not know you had a brother.”
“We don’t talk about him in a general way. He has been a wanderer over the earth for many years. He was never with us at Fernhurst. He and my father had a terrible quarrel before we left Yorkshire—chiefly about his college debts, I believe. There seemed to be dreadful difficulties at Cambridge. My father used all his influence to get poor Harold out of the country, and succeeded in getting him a berth in the Cape Mounted Police. Parting with him perhaps went nearer to break my mother’s heart than our loss of home and fortune.”
“It must have been a hard parting.”
“It was indeed hard. He went away in disgrace. My father would not speak to him or look at him. He lived at the Vicarage during those last weeks before the ship sailed away with him to Africa. The Vicar and his wife were very good to him, but everybody felt that he was under a cloud. I fear—I fear that he had done something very wrong at Cambridge—something for which he might have been arrested—for he seemed to be in hiding at the Vicarage. And he left one night, and was driven over to Hull, where he went on board a boat bound for Hamburg, and he was to sail from Hamburg for the Cape. My mother and I went to say goodbye to him that last evening, after dark; the others were too young to be told anything; they hardly remember him. He kissed us, and cried over us, and promised mother that for her sake he would try to do well—that he would bear the hardest life in order to redeem his character. He promised that he would write to her by every mail. The dogcart was at the door while he was saying this. The Vicar came into the room to hurry him away. I have never seen my brother since that night.”
XII
“One Born to Love You, Sweet”
“And Mr. Sefton,” asked Vansittart, “what
