He shrugs his shoulders.
“That is so likely, is it not?”
“Likely or not,” cry I, excitedly, “it
was true in my case. If you had put me
on the rack, I could have confessed nothing!”
“I do not see the analogy,” he answers,
coldly; “you are—what did you
tell me? nineteen?—It is to be supposed”—(with
a rather unlovely smile)—“that your
history is yet to come; and he is—forty-seven!
We shall be late for church!”—with
a glance at Algy’s and Barbara’s quickly
diminishing figures.
“I do not care whether we are late or not!”
cry I, vehemently, and stamping on the daisy-heads
as I speak. “I will not stir until
you tell me.”
“There is really no need for such excitement!”
returns he with a cold smile; “since you will
have it, it is only that rumor—and you know
what a liar rumor is—says that once,
some years ago, they were engaged to marry each other.”
“And why did not they?” speaking with
breathless panting, and forgetting my stout asseveration
that the whole tale is a lie.
“Because—mind, I vouch for
nothing, I am only quoting rumor again—
because—she threw him over.”
“Threw him over!” with an accent
of most unfeigned astonishment.
“You are surprised!” he says, quickly,
and with what sounds to me like a slightly annoyed
inflection of voice; “it does seem incredible,
does not it? But at that time, you see, he had
not all the desirables—not quite the pull
over other men that he has now; his brother was not
dead or likely to die, and he was only General Tempest,
with nothing much besides his pay.”
“Threw—him—over!”
repeat I, slowly, as if unable yet to grasp the sense
of the phrase.
“We shall certainly be late; the last
bell is beginning,” says Frank, impatiently.
I move slowly on. We have reached the turnstile
that gives issue from the park to the road. The
smart farmers’ wives, the rosy farmers’
daughters, are pacing along through the powdery dust
toward the church-gate.
“Is she a widow?” ask I, in a low
voice.
He laughs sarcastically.
“A widow indeed, and desolate, eh? No!
I believe she has a husband somewhere about, but she
keeps him well out of sight—away in the
colonies. He is there now, I fancy.”
“And why is not she with him?” cry I,
indignantly; but the moment that the words are out
of my mouth, I hang my head. Might not she
ask the same question with regard to me?
“She did not like the sea, perhaps,”
answers Frank, demurely.
A day—two days pass.
“More callers,” say I, hearing the sound
of wheels, and running to the window; “I thought
we must have exhausted the neighborhood yesterday
and the day before!” I add, sighing.
