“What shall I do?”
“Yes; what will you do? I have told you
all my story, believing you to be a fine-tempered
gentleman. You have entertained a fancy which
has been encouraged by Sir Magnus. Will you promise
me not to speak to me of it again? Will you relieve
me of so much of my trouble? Will you;—will
you?” Then, when he turned away, she followed
him, and put both her hands upon his arm. “Will
you do that little thing for me?”
“A little thing!”
“Is it not a little thing,—when I
am so bound to that other man that nothing can move
me? Whether it be little or whether it be much,
will you not do it?” She still held him by the
arm, but his face was turned from her so that she
could not see it. The tears, absolute tears, were
running down his cheeks. What did it behoove him
as a man to do? Was he to believe her vows now
and grant her request, and was she then to give herself
to some third person and forget Harry Annesley altogether?
How would it be with him then? A faint heart
never won a fair lady. All is fair in love and
war. You cannot catch cherries by holding your
mouth open. A great amount of wisdom such as
this came to him at the spur of the moment. But
there was her hand upon his arm, and he could not elude
her request. “Will you not do it for me?”
she asked again.
“I will,” he said, still keeping his face
turned away.
“I knew it;—I knew you would.
You are high-minded and honest, and cannot be cruel
to a poor girl. And if in time to come, when I
am Harry Annesley’s wife, we shall chance to
meet each other,—as we will,—he
shall thank you.”
“I shall not want that. What will his thanks
do for me? You do not think that I shall be silent
to oblige him?” Then he walked forth from out
of the garden, and she had never seen his tears.
But she knew well that he was weeping, and she sympathized
with him.
MR. ANDERSON IS ILL.
When they went down to dinner that day it became known
that Mr. Anderson did not intend to dine with them.
“He’s got a headache,” said Sir
Magnus. “He says he’s got a headache.
I never knew such a thing in my life before.”
It was quite clear that Sir Magnus did not think that
his lieutenant ought to have such a headache as would
prevent his coming to dinner, and that he did not
quite believe in the headache. There was a dinner
ready, a very good dinner, which it was his business
to provide. He always did provide it, and took
a great deal of trouble to see that it was good.
“There isn’t a table so well kept in all
Brussels,” he used to boast. But when he
had done his share he expected that Anderson and Arbuthnot
should do theirs, especially Anderson. There had
been sometimes a few words,—not quite a
quarrel but nearly so,—on the subject of
dining out. Sir Magnus only dined out with royalty,
cabinet ministers, and other diplomats. Even
