"Have you absolutely decided?"
"I could do nothing else. You--you disapprove?"
"I? It concerns yourself only."
"Yes--of course!"
He sighed and stood up. Lady Fanny's foot impatiently patted the
carpet. She turned her head away, and remarked that he had probably
consulted his friends before making a wreck of his prospects.
"There is no one to consult," he returned. "If my father had lived, he,
I think, would have bid me do as I am doing. It has helped me, to
remember that."
"I don't think you appear to require consolation," said Fanny airily,
and hated herself for her cruelty. She used it as a spur, wanting him
to say more, but he only answered--
"One should not."
"You prefer to be a curate all your life?"
"Prefer? No. I am dishonest if I give you that impression, but in this
case there was nothing else to be done."
"I wonder how many people would have thought so! Well, as I have said
more than once, you must please yourself. For the sake of a man whom
you have never seen, and on account of a few quixotic scruples, you give
up your own advancement, and disappoint all--all your friends."
The words were indignant, but the voice trembled. He made a step
towards her, checked himself, and drew back. The hand with which he
grasped a chair tightened its hold as he said slowly--
"Try to think of me kindly."
"You go back to Huntsdon?"
"For a time, a short time. Afterwards I shall look out for work in
London."
"Oh!"
She turned away her head, then, as he offered his hand, remarked, "You
will not stay to tea?"
He would not. Something was murmured of an appointment, and before she
quite realised that he had said good-bye, she heard the front door slam.
She flew to the window only to see a black back disappearing, rushed up
to her room, bolted the door, and sobbed on her bed, scolding herself
the while. "He has behaved splendidly as usual, and I not a good word
to throw him when I love him better than ever. I would not have had him
do differently, no, not for all the livings in England, but I haven't
the grace to say so, and have sent the poor fellow away with a sore
heart. What does Milborough's opinion matter? In a year I can do as I
like, marry a chimney-sweep, I suppose, if it pleases me, with only a
chorus of protesting uncles and aunts to fear. Be honest, you stupid
little thing, and own that it is your own pride, your own odious
contemptible pride which stood in your way! For Lady Fanny Enderby to
marry a curate without prospects, for no better reason than that he is a
good man, and she loves him, when all the while, only a finger lifted,
and there you have a budding Duke at her feet, certainly not the best of
men, and certainly not beloved!"
To be fair, she trotted out this youth before her judgment, and tried to
credit him with what virtues might charitably be hoped to be his.
Opposite, she set up John Elliot, at his pinkest, when she thought she
hated him, and looked at the pair with coldly discriminative eyes. To
the eye, goodness would have kicked the beam, but that her heart flung
its weight into the balance, and was big enough to carry the day. She
sat up, sighed, bathed her eyes, and dismissed the young lord, frankly
owning that she wished he and the other could have changed places.
Heigh-ho! and the worst of it was, that after that day he might have no
more to say to her.
When Mrs Ravenhill and Millie came home, Lady Fanny sat with her back
to the light, and asked questions with an immense show of interest. She
laughed immoderately over the slenderest materials for mirth, avoiding
allusion to her own visitor until suddenly dragging in the subject.
"By the way there has been a visitor--Mr Elliot."
"His card is down-stairs," said Mrs Ravenhill. "You saw him?"
"Saw, and quarrelled with him."
"Why?"
"He came to London to accept a living, and some man's wife has written
to say she wants it for her husband."
"Well?"
"You needn't ask," said Lady Fanny, with asperity, "or, you wouldn't
need to ask if you knew Mr Elliot. Of course he means to hand over the
offer to him."