"No," came the answer. "I thought it was right to approach you first."
"Exactly, exactly," stammered the poor father. "Very right and proper,
of course. But you had better put it to Isobel, and see what she says.
Of course, you understand there is no opposition on my part."
Farquhar looked at him keenly. Yes, Moreno's suspicions were justified.
There was a secret engagement. The General had thrown the onus on his
daughter. She could tell as much or as little as she pleased.
"Thanks," he said quietly. "I will speak to Isobel to-morrow morning."
The next day, in a little sheltered arbour in the not too extensive
garden, he asked his cousin to marry him. He explained to her, as he
had explained to her father, the reasons which had held him back.
She listened to him with composure. She was dimly aware that, a few
years ago, this declaration of love would have set her cheeks aflame,
her heart beating. To-day, it left her regretful, but cold.
"I am dreadfully sorry, Maurice. I am very, very fond of you, but not
in that way. I look upon you as a brother, a very dear brother."
There was decision and finality in the low, gentle tones. It was a
bitter disappointment. He had always fancied in his masculine optimism
that Isobel was waiting ready to fall into his arms, when he had made up
his mind to ask her.
It was a bitter disappointment, but he bore it with his usual stoicism.
Ambition was the greater factor in his life; love would always play a
subordinate part. Still, Isobel's refusal had taken something away that
could never be replaced.
There was a long pause. He was the first to break the silence.
"Your affections are engaged. You are in love with somebody else?"
A vivid flush overspread the fair face. "It is quite true, I love
somebody else."
"The man you were dining with, Guy Rossett?" replied Farquhar quietly.
"Ah, you have guessed! But it is quite a secret. My father knows. His
sister knows. His father is obstinate and prejudiced; he wants him to
marry a woman in his own world. We are waiting for his consent."
"I quite understand," said Farquhar gloomily. "I am too late, I can
see. Honestly, Isobel, had I asked you, say, a year ago, would your
answer have been different?"
Her frank and candid gaze met his steadfast glance. "I fancy I should
have said yes, Maurice. But I am not certain it would have been real
love; you see, I have known so few men. Guy has revealed a new world to
me."
Farquhar sighed. He was eloquent enough in the courts, but he was dumb
in the presence of women. This handsome young diplomatist had spoken to
her in a language that she readily understood.
He silently said good-bye to his dream, the fair dream of the future
which was to be glorified by Isobel Clandon's gracious presence.
"So that is all over. Well, Isobel, I hope you will always allow me to
be your very good friend." She reached out her hand impulsively and
laid it on his.
"Oh, yes, please, Maurice. You will always be a dear, kind brother,
won't you?"
"Perhaps some day I may be able to help you. I have just learned there
is some danger threatening Guy Rossett."
Her face blanched. She turned to him an imploring glance.
"Danger threatening Guy. Oh, please tell me, quickly."
With a bitter pang, he realised in that anguished utterance a full sense
of the love which he had lost, of the youthful heart which he had
allowed another man to capture.
In a few brief sentences, he told her what Moreno had related to him.