The Milborough marriage was the event of the winter. It was generally
conceded that Miss Dalrymple was rewarded for those contrarieties in
former love affairs which the world now forgave, but kept stored up for
future use--or chastisement. Meanwhile it was at her feet as the most
beautiful of brides, and the splendour of her lot made Lady Fanny's
choice the more amazing. Lord Milborough's consent flew out readily
enough when he was in the rush of his own triumph, and might have found
wife and sister difficult to harmonise. Since his marriage, and since
he finds Lady Fanny quite content to pass her days with her aunt, Mrs
Harcourt, or the Ravenhills, he is disposed to grumble at her engagement
to a curate. Anne takes her part.
"If she knows her own mind, for pity's sake let her go after it," she
said once.
As to that wedding, one may prophesy.
But as to other possibilities, on which the last chapter is expected to
pronounce, I can only express ignorance. All that this story professes
to do is to take a few months out of the lives of certain men and women,
and, very imperfectly, show what the months did for them. Now comes the
future, as to which I know no more than you do. What do you think?
Will Wareham, as the past recedes, read in it confirmation of Anne's
verdict on herself--a heartless woman? If he does, will it affect his
own heart? This is certain, that the first effect on him of hearing of
her engagement was stupefaction. And Anne contrived, perhaps in good
faith, to let him feel that she considered him to have behaved very ill.
Possibly--but guesses are like the rootless flowers with which children
deck their gardens, by to-morrow they may be worthless; and I am sorry,
for I should like to group them as I want my flowers to grow, and Millie
Ravenhill would make any garden fair.
What Wareham thinks he will do is to fling himself heart and mind into
his profession. Certain, rash man, that he now knows a great deal about
women, his new book deals chiefly with their characteristics. Cynicism
is unwholesome in the body, and one may pardon its victim for spitting
it out; since, thus got rid of, it often leaves the patient open to
sweeter influences. One thing is certain, that whether his love for
Anne is dead or not, his respect is gone, and that when he read the
account of the great wedding in the _Morning Post_, he broke into
laughter to think how clever a fooling hers had been.
A week ago, Colonel Martyn overtook him in Piccadilly.
"I've just left Blanche in Grosvenor Square--Lady Milborough's, you
know. By Jove, that young woman has done well for herself!"
"She was made for her position," Wareham remarked.
"She climbed for it, you should rather say. She was a rare flirt."
"Stop," said Wareham suddenly. He was not the man to belittle the woman
he had once loved.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.