A fit Companion,—for me and my Sisters
On that same Wednesday Reginald Morton had called
at the attorney’s house, had asked for Miss
Masters, and had found her alone. Mrs. Masters
at the time had been out, picking up intelligence about
the great case, and the two younger girls had been
at school. Reginald, as he walked home from Bragton
all alone on that occasion when Larry had returned
with Mary, was quite sure that he would never willingly
go into Mary’s presence again. Why should
he disturb his mind about such a girl,—one
who could rush into the arms of such a man as Larry
Twentyman? Or, indeed, why disturb his mind about
any girl? That was not the manner of life which
he planned for himself. After that he shut himself
up for a few days and was not much seen by any of
the Dillsborough folk. But on this Wednesday he
received a letter, and,—as he told himself,
merely in consequence of that letter,—he
called at the attorney’s house and asked for
Miss Masters.
He was shown up into the beautiful drawing-room, and
in a few minutes Mary came to him. “I have
brought you a letter from my aunt,” he said.
“From Lady Ushant? I am so glad.”
“She was writing to me and she put this under
cover. I know what it contains. She wants
you to go to her at Cheltenham for a month.”
“Oh, Mr. Morton!”
“Would you like to go?”
“How should I not like to go? Lady Ushant
is my dearest, dearest friend. It is so very
good of her to think of me.”
“She talks of the first week in December and
wants you to be there for Christmas.”
“I don’t at all know that I can go, Mr.
Morton”
“Why not go?”
“I’m afraid mamma will not spare me.”
There were many reasons. She could hardly go
on such a visit without some renewal of her scanty
wardrobe, which perhaps the family funds would not
permit. And, as she knew very well, Mrs. Masters
was not at all favourable to Lady Ushant. If
the old lady had altogether kept Mary it might have
been very well; but she had not done so and Mrs. Masters
had more than once said that that kind of thing must
be all over;—meaning that Mary was to drop
her intimacy with high-born people that were of no
real use. And then there was Mr. Twentyman and
his suit. Mary had for some time felt that her
step-mother intended her to understand that her only
escape from home would be by becoming Mrs. Twentyman.
“I don’t think it will be possible, Mr.
Morton.”
“My aunt will be very sorry.”
“Oh,—how sorry shall I be! It
is like having another little bit of heaven before
me.”
Then he said what he certainly should not have said.
“I thought, Miss Masters, that your heaven was
all here.”
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Morton?”
she asked blushing up to her hair. Of course
she knew what he meant, and of course she was angry
with him. Ever since that walk her mind had been
troubled by ideas as to what he would think about
her, and now he was telling her what he thought.
