Millicent stood listening till the steps had died away, and then sat
down at the writing-table.
"Poor boy!" she said softly, as she passed her hand over her eyes, "I am
so sorry."
She laid down the pen, and ran over her conduct--all that she had said
and done since her first meeting with the curate; but ended by shaking
her head, and declaring to herself that she could find nothing in her
behaviour to call for blame.
"No," she said, rising from the table, after writing a few lines which
she tore up, "I must not write to him; the wound must be left to time."
A double knock announced a visitor, and directly after Thisbe King, the
maid, ushered in Sir Gordon, who, in addition to his customary dress,
wore--what was very unusual for him--a flower in his button-hole, which,
with a great show of ceremony, he detached, and presented to Millicent
before taking his seat.
As a rule he was full of chatty conversation, but, to Millicent's
surprise, he remained perfectly silent, gazing straight before him
through the window.
"Is anything the matter, Sir Gordon?" said Millicent at last. "Papa is
out, but he will not be long." These words roused him, and he smiled at
her gravely.
"No, my dear Miss Luttrell," he said, "nothing is wrong; but at my time
of life, when a man has anything particular to say, he weighs it well--
he brings a good deal of thought to bear. I was trying to do this now."
"But mamma is out too," said Millicent.
"Yes, I know," he replied, "and therefore I came on to speak to you."
"Sir Gordon!"
"My dear Miss Luttrell--there, I have known you so long that I may call
you my dear child--I think you believe in me?"
"Believe in you, Sir Gordon?"
"Yes, that I have the instincts, I hope, of a gentleman; that I am your
father's very good friend; and that I reverence his child."
"Oh yes, Sir Gordon," said Millicent, placing her hand in his, as he
extended it towards her.
"That is well, then," he said; and there was another pause, during which
he gazed thoughtfully at the hand he held for a few moments, and then
raised it to his lips and allowed it afterwards to glide away.
Millicent flushed slightly, for, in spite of herself, the thought of her
visitor's object began to dawn upon her, though she refused to believe
it at first.
"Let me see," he said at last, "time slides away so fast. You must be
three-and-twenty now."
"I thought a lady's age was a secret, Sir Gordon," said Millicent
smiling.
"To weak, vain women, yes, my child; but your mind is too clear and
candid for such subterfuges as that. Twenty-three! Compared with that,
I am quite an old man."
Millicent's colour began to deepen, but she made a brave effort to be
calm, mastered her emotion, and sat listening to the strange wooing that
had commenced.
"I am going to speak very plainly," her visitor said, gazing wistfully
in her eyes, "and to tell you, Millicent, that for the past five years I
have been your humble suitor."
"Sir Gordon!"
"Hush! hush! On the strength of our old friendship hear me out, my
child. I will not say a word that shall wilfully give you pain; I only
ask for a hearing."
Millicent sank back in her chair, clasped her hands, and let them rest
in her lap, for she was too agitated to speak. The events of an hour or
two before had unhinged her.
"For five years I have been nursing this idea in my breast," he
continued, "one day determining to speak, and then telling myself that I
was weak and foolish, that the thing was impossible; and then, as you
know, I have gone away for months together in my yacht. I will tell you
what I have said to myself: `You are getting well on in life; she is
young and beautiful. The match would not be right. Some day she will
form an attachment for some man suited to her. Take your pleasure in
seeing the woman you love happier than you could ever make her.'"
This was a revelation to Millicent, whose lips parted, and whose
troubled eyes were fixed upon the speaker.
"The years went on, my child," continued Sir Gordon, "and I kept
fancying that the man had come, and that the test of my love for you was
to be tried. I was willing to suffer--for your sake--to see you happy;
and though I was ready to offer you wealth, title, and the tender
affection of an elderly man, I put it aside, striving to do my duty."
"Sir Gordon, I never knew of all this."
"Knew!" he said, with a smile, "no: I never let you know. Well, my
child, not to distress you too much, I have waited; and, as you knew, I
have seen your admirers flitting about you, one by one, all these years;
and I confess it, with a sense of delight I dare not dwell upon, I have
found that not one of these butterflies has succeeded in winning our
little flower. She has always been heart-whole and--There, I dare not
say all I would. At last, with a pang that I felt that I must suffer, I
saw, as I believed, that the right man had come, in the person of our
friend, Christie Bayle. It has been agony to me, though I have hidden
it beneath a calm face, I hope, and I have fought on as I saw your
intimacy increase. For, I said to myself, it is right. He is
well-to-do; he is young and handsome; he is true and manly; he is all
that her lover should be; and, with a sigh, I have sat down telling
myself that I was content, and, to prove myself, I have made him my
friend. Millicent Luttrell, he is a true-hearted, noble fellow, and he
loves you."
Millicent half rose, but sank back in her chair, and her face grew calm
once more.
"I am no spy upon your actions or upon those of Christie Bayle, my
child; but I know that he has been to you this morning; that he has
asked you to be his wife, and that you have refused him."
"Has Mr Bayle been so wanting in delicacy," said Millicent, with a
flush of anger, "that he has told you this?"
"No, no. Pray do not think thus of him. He is too noble--too manly a
fellow to be guilty of such a weakness. There are things, though, which
a man cannot conceal from a jealous lover's eyes, and this was one."
"Jealous--lover!" faltered Millicent.
"Yes," he said; "old as I am, my child, I must declare myself as your
lover. This last rejection has given me hopes that may be wild--hopes
which prompted me to speak as I do now."
"Sir Gordon!" cried Millicent, rising from her seat; but he followed her
example and took her hand.
"You will listen to me, my child, patiently," he said in low earnest
tones; "I must speak now. I know the difference in our ages; no one
better; but if the devotion of my life, the constant effort to make you
happy can bring the reward I ask, you shall not repent it. I know that
some women would be tempted by the title and by my wealth, but I will
not even think it of you. I know, too, that some would, in their
coquetry, rejoice in bringing such a one as I to their feet, and then
laugh at him for his pains. I fear nothing of the kind from you,
Millicent, for I know your sweet, candid nature. But tell me first, do
you love Christie Bayle?"
"As a sister might love a younger brother, who seemed to need her
guiding hand," said Millicent calmly. "Ah!"
It was a long sigh full of relief; and then taking her hand once more,
Sir Gordon said softly:
"Millicent, my child, will you be my wife?"
The look of pain and sorrow in her eyes gave him his answer before her
lips parted to speak, and he dropped the hand and stood there with the
carefully-got-up look of youthfulness or early manhood seeming to fade
from him. In a few minutes he appeared to have aged twenty years; his
brow grew full of lines, his eyes seemed sunken, and there was a
hollowness of cheek that had been absent before.
He stretched out his hand to the table, and slowly sat down, bending
forward till his arms rested upon his knees and his hands hung down
nerveless between.
"You need not speak, child," he said sadly. "It has all been one of my
mistakes. I see! I see!"
"Sir Gordon, indeed, indeed I do feel honoured!"
"No, no! hush, hush!" he said gently. "It is only natural. It was very
weak and foolish of me to ask you; but when this love blinds a man, he
says and does foolish things that he repents when his eyes are open.
Mine are open now--yes," he said, with a sad smile, "wide open; I can
see it all. But," he added quickly as he rose, "you are not angry with
me, my dear?"
"Angry? Sir Gordon!"
"No: you are not," he said, taking her hand and patting it softly. "Is
it not strange that I could see you so clearly and well, and yet be so
blind to myself? Ah, well, it is over now. I suppose no man is
perfect, but in my conceit I did not think I could have been so weak.
If I had not seen Bayle this morning and realised what had taken place,
I should not have let my vanity get the better of me as I did."
"All this is very, very painful to me, Sir Gordon."
"Yes, yes, of course," he said quickly. "Come, then, this is our little
secret, my child. You will keep it--the secret of my mistake? I do
love you very much, but you have taught me what it is. I am getting old
and not so keen of wits as I was once upon a time. I thought it was
man's love for woman; but you are right, my dear, it is the love that a
tender father might bear his child."
He took her unresistingly in his arms, and kissed her forehead
reverently before turning away, to walk to the window and stand gazing
out blindly, till a firm step with loudly creaking boots was heard
approaching, when Sir Gordon slowly drew away back into the room.
Then the gate clanged, the bell rang, and a change came over Sir Gordon
as Millicent ran to the drawing-room door.
"Not at home, Thisbe, to any one," she said hastily. "I am particularly
engaged."
She closed the door quietly, and came back into the room to stand there,
now flushed, now pale.
Sir Gordon took her hand softly, and raised it to his lips.
"Thank you, my child," he said tenderly. "It was very kind and
thoughtful of you. I could not bear for any one else to see me in my
weakness."
He was smiling sadly in her face, when he noticed her agitation, and at
that moment the deep rich tones of Hallam's voice were heard speaking to
Thisbe.
The words were inaudible, but there was no mistaking the tones, and at
that moment it was as if the last scale of Sir Gordon's love blindness
had fallen away, and he let fall Millicent's hand with a half-frightened
look.
"Millicent, my child!" he cried in a sharp whisper. "No, no! Tell me
it isn't that!"
She raised her eyes to his, looking pale, and shrinking from him as if
guilty of some sin, and he flushed with anger as he caught her by the
wrist.
"I give up--I have given up--every hope," he said, hoarsely, "but I
cannot kill my love, even if it be an old man's, and your happiness
would be mine. Tell me, then--I have a right to know--tell me,
Millicent, my child, it is not that?"
Millicent's shrinking aspect passed away, and a warm flush flooded her
cheeks as she drew herself up proudly and looked him bravely in the
eyes.
"It is true, then?" he said huskily.
Millicent did not answer with her lips; but there was a proud assent in
her clear eyes as she met her questioner's unflinchingly, while the
deep-toned murmur ceased, the firm step was heard upon the gravel, and
the door closed.
"Then it is so?" he said in a voice that was almost inaudible. "Hallam!
Hallam! How true that they say love is blind! Oh, my child, my
child!"
His last words were spoken beneath his breath, and he stood there, old
and crushed by the fair woman in the full pride of her youth and beauty,
both listening to the retiring step as Hallam went down the road.
No words could have told so plainly as her eyes the secret of Millicent
Luttrell's heart.