SO it was all over. This was the end of all his hopes and dreams and
wishes! This was the end! None of his bright hopes would ever be—none
of his golden dreams would come to pass. His wishes had no weight with
the woman he loved. He had looked forward—like a fool, he thought,
bitterly—and had pictured her in a dozen different ways: at the head of
his table, in the hunting-field, in the middle age, and in the decline of
life, as Mignon’s mother, as his wife. But it was all over now. When
Madame’s visit was over, she would go from under his roof, never to come
back to it any more, forever.
He was still standing there when the door opened with some difficulty,
and Miss Mignon appeared on the threshold.
“Bootles?” she said, inquiringly.
Bootles turned round to her. “Well?” he answered.
Miss Mignon heard the misery in his voice and ran to him. “Bootles got a
headache?” she asked.
[Picture: He dropped into a chair and took her in his arms]
He dropped into a chair and took her in his arms. “Such a headache,
Mignon.”
Miss Mignon knew what Bootles’s headaches were, and drew his head down
upon her small shoulder with an air of protecting and comforting dignity,
equally pretty and absurd in one so young.
“Mignon _loves_ Bootles,” she whispered.
“Will Mignon always love Bootles?” he asked.
“Always,” was the confident reply. “Mignon will _always_ love Bootles.”
And so in and because of his trouble the little child crept closer and
closer into his heart, and drove out the greatest bitterness of his
disappointment, and the clasp of her soft arms about his neck seemed to
take away the sharpest sting of defeat. The touch of her baby lips upon
his aching forehead—and it _did_ ache—brought him a larger measure of
comfort than any living thing had power to do at that moment.
If only he had known that Mignon was _her_ child!
But Bootles was not the man to sulk with fate; if Miss Grace would not
have him, no more was to be said, and no one but Mrs. Smith saw anything
unusual between them. But trust Mrs. Smith. She walked into Miss
Grace’s room and taxed her with it—taxed her in so friendly a way that
the girl began to cry miserably. Mrs. Smith fumed.
“It is absurd,” she cried, “to refuse such a man—such a
position—such—such— Oh! it’s absurd. I have no patience with you. You
will never have such a chance again—never.”
“Oh, never,” she sobbed.
“Why, then, throw it away? Let me go and tell—”
“No; tell him nothing. I have already told him it is impossible. Oh,
Mrs. Smith!” she cried, passionately, “do you think any woman in her
senses would refuse him if she could help it? Not I, I assure you.”
“It is inexplicable,” said Mrs. Smith, but she protested no further.
So the next day they left Ferrers Court, Bootles driving them to the
station. But it was all very different now—very different, too, from the
last time he had driven them anywhere. There was no laughter, no joking,
no promise to come again. He was not outwardly angry, not harsh nor hard
in any way, but he was very polite; and politeness from him was
heart-breaking.
It was soon over when they reached the station—a few minutes of that kind
of conversation which people make when they are waiting for a carriage or
a train, as they said the passengers of the _London_ made while walking
up and down quietly waiting for the end. There was a handshaking all
round, the lifting of Bootles’s and Lacy’s hats, a fuss over Miss Mignon,
and that was all. Miss Grace, on looking out of the carriage window with
tear-dimmed eyes, saw that they were together, the child’s hand in his.
Miss Mignon’s last words were yet ringing in her ears: “Bootles has
gotted such a headache.”
“Then Mignon must be very kind to him,” Miss Grace whispered.
Ay, Miss Mignon had need to be kind, for Bootles had “gotted” such a
heartache too!