necessary. “Indeed,” said she, “just prior to my leaving town, Mr. Westby called at our house. I saw him, and told him that you had gone into the country on account of your cousin’s illness, and to a certain extent I intimated to him the condition of affairs between you and Frank.”
“And he?” inquired Lilian, timidly.
“Oh, my love, I can assure you that he seemed perfectly calm—quite unmoved,—indeed, quite unlike anything approaching to a lover, as far as my idea of a lover goes; and he turned off the conversation to some other topic. Oh, I remember, that law business of your papa’s. Of course, my dear, he will hear the fact of your engagement from some of our mutual friends; at all events, I beg that you will not write to him. I’m sure Frank wouldn’t like it, and I should consider it a most ill-advised act. However, if you really think it necessary, I will write myself before we return to London.”
Lilian was far from feeling assured that Westby was really calm and unmoved by what he had heard. “I know,” she thought to herself, “that he would rather die than show he felt regret or pain.”
This thought of Westby troubled her.
When they met! What must her conduct be then? Obviously the best mode of receiving him would be to say nothing of the past—to show, as far as might be, the manner of old friendship; of course the fact of her engagement would have shown him that all feeling between them was at an end.
It was arranged, as soon as Mr. Scott was sufficiently recovered, that he should go to Brighton. “Change of air,” Mr. Simpson affirmed, “was the grand thing for him—and really,” he added, “I think our head-nurse requires change almost as much as the invalid. I declare you look quite worn out, Miss Temple. I had hoped when you got your regular night’s rest—good unbroken sleep—that that, together with the air of our county, of which we are very proud, would have quite restored you after your great fatigue and anxiety; but as you haven’t done justice to us in that way, we must hand you over to Dr. Neptune.”
It was quite a little ovation, the departure of the Temple party from the station. Kind Mr. Simpson would insist upon seeing the last of them, and the master of the hotel, and some pleasant friendly ladies who had kindly tendered and performed various little services to Mrs. Temple and Lilian; and then everybody was in love with Lilian,—her golden hair, and lovely blue eyes, her devotion to her lover, everybody rejoicing for her sake that his life was saved.
Their coupé was literally a garden of flowers, the offerings of these kind friends, and the baskets of strawberries—which kept arriving up to the last with kind messages—were quite embarrassing by reason of their number.
“I wish you every happiness, my dear,” said Mr. Simpson, leaning in at the window of the carriage, and shaking Lilian’s hand, “I’m sure you thoroughly deserve it,” and he saw her eyes filled with tears.
“It is very pretty, that anxiety for her lover’s comfort which is so visible in her countenance,” the ladies declared unanimously; “it adds such an interesting look to her beauty.”
“No, no, ladies,—pretty!” exclaimed Mr. Simpson. “I fear her health is far from being what it ought to be. I can’t quite understand it,” he thought, with some perplexity, and he wisely kept the thought to himself, “but I’m half inclined to believe there’s something wrong somewhere.’
The travellers arrived at Brighton in safety.
*****
“Oh! it was cruel—horribly cruel! to see him thus, never expecting it. Wicked of those friends if they did it designedly—to lay such a trap for her, asking her to call upon them for a walk, and then to let her meet him quite unprepared. But it would never have happened if her mother had written, as she had promised, to tell him of the engagement; he would have been satisfied with that assurance, and never sought her again. It was the uncertainty he could not bear—the rumour of her engagement.”
“Let him once hear the truth from her own lips, and he would be resigned.”
But what did he ask?—ask her to wring out from her lips the wretched truth, and to look on him and see how he strove to hide his agitation beneath a calm presence.
“Poor fool that she was!—if she had only been prepared for the interview—nerved for it by reflection—she could have spoken out the words, and bade him farewell for ever. Her strength would have lasted out that effort!
“Why! he did only want to know the truth, and how did he learn it? Oh, shame! from her stupid explanations, excuses, which—fool that she had been!—had only betrayed her love for him.
“She was engaged! when he had learnt that he learnt all that was necessary; but he had learnt further—oh, burning shame!—that she did not love the man she was about to marry. He was true and honourable, and he had left her, though he loved her,—perhaps could die for her, as he had left her once before, when he felt that he could not love her as a man of honour.
“With what contempt must he think of her! and those old bitter words of his—though he parted from her now without a single word beyond ‛farewell’—how they must rise up again in his heart, ‛inconstant,’ ‛without strength of purpose.’ Why she could even seem to hear his voice, yes, quite plainly—‘Not worthy of being Frederick Temple’s sister!’ She had before revolted at the hard assertion, and ceased to love him for uttering it, but there was no gainsaying it now; it was true—quite true; her character was below contempt—depths below contempt.”
“Oh, Lilian!” exclaimed Mrs. Temple entering the room, “won’t you come down and see Frank? He would like to say good-night; he fears you must be very ill.”
“Ill! nonsense; there’s nothing the matter with me.”
“Then pray come down.”
“I dare not to-night!”
