ADROIT CROSS-QUESTIONING.
"Now that we are talking of rich people," said Mrs. Dennison, with an
air of the most natural confidence, "do tell me about this Mr. Lawrence.
Is he very much in love with our Jessie, or not?"
"I never heard or thought that he was in love with her, Mrs. Dennison."
"Nor she with him?"
The question stung me. It gave form to a painful thought that had been
growing in my heart, and I felt myself blushing hotly under her glance.
"Mrs. Dennison, are such questions honorable?"
"Not if you cannot answer them without blushes. I beg pardon."
"Are they delicate?" I urged, angrily.
"Not if they touch her friends so keenly. Again I beg pardon."
"Mrs. Dennison," I said, conquering the anger that burned in me like a
fire, "excuse me if I seem rude, but if there is anything of excitement
in my manner, it is because I am not used to canvassing the feelings of
my friends, even with those nearest and dearest to me."
"And me you consider a stranger," she said, deprecatingly.
"Almost," I replied, with blunt truth.
"And one whom you cannot like?"
I bit my lips to keep back the words that pressed against them.
"At my age, Mrs. Dennison, new feelings spring up slowly in the heart."
She made another desperate attempt at my weak side.
"At your age? My dear Miss Hyde, am I to judge what it is by that smooth
cheek, or by your words?"
"I am afraid it is best to be judged of by the slow growth of feelings
such as we speak of," I replied, gravely.
She looked down sadly, and tears came trembling into her eyes. I really
think she felt it. Her habits of fascination were such that she was
doubtless wounded that they could fail even with so unimportant a person
as I was.
"You are unkind, I would say unjust; only that feeling is seldom a
matter of choice. But I, who was prepared to love you as the friend of
dear Jessie, who did like you so much at the first sight, it does seem a
little cruel that you should meet all this with repulsion."
Her tears made me uncomfortable; one had fallen to her cheek, and hung
on its roses like a dew-drop. A man, I think, would have yielded to her
then and there; a quiet person of her own sex was not likely to be so
impressible. But her grief touched me, and feeling that there had been
something of rudeness in my speech, I strove to soften it.
"Not repulsion, Mrs. Dennison, but we country people are a little on the
reserve always. Do not think me unkind because I do not care to talk
much of those who trust and shelter me."
She laid her hands on mine and smiled sweetly through her tears.
"You are right. It was all rash childishness, not curiosity; how could
it be when dear Jessie tells me everything with her own sweet lips?"
I longed to draw my hand from under hers, but conquered the impulse, and
seemed to listen with patience at least.
"But we will drop our sweet Jessie," she said, "and talk of some one
else--Mr. Lawrence, for instance. Are you sure that he is not really
poor?"
"Indeed, I cannot tell. He lives in another State, and may be rich or
poor, for aught we know of a certainty; all that I can say is, that his
friend Bosworth never represented him as wealthy to us."
"That is a pity," she said, thoughtfully, "a great pity; an heiress
stands no chance with such men."
I started, feeling as if it were Jessie she was speaking of.
"And why, pray?" was my sharp response.
"Ah! these splendid men, proud and poor, how can you expect them to face
the world as fortune-hunters? After all, wealth has its drawback. I
often pity a girl with money, for the most sensitive and the most noble
keep aloof. I can imagine a man like this Lawrence now wearing his heart
out, or turning it to iron if it brought him to the feet of an heiress.
Such men like to grant, not take."
"Isn't that a sort of proud selfishness?" I asked, struck by the force
and truth of her worldly knowledge.
"Selfishness? Of course it is. What else do we find in the noblest
nature? But you are looking serious, and I have watched that cloud of
smoke till it wearies me."
She arose while speaking, and walked away, passing through the trees
like some gorgeous bird whose home was beneath the branches.
I watched her with a strange feeling of excitement. What would her
object be in cross-questioning me as she did? Was it mere vulgar
curiosity, or some deep-seated purpose? Why this anxiety about Jessie's
expectations? In short, had the woman come to us bent on mischief of
some kind, or was I a suspicious wretch, determined to find evil in
everything?