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Page 8
"'Would not,' is the most likely, my dear. Go on."
"It might have been as you say. There was a strange, rough
bashfulness about him. He confused and puzzled me. He never spoke
out. He seemed to treat me as if our future lives had been
provided for while we were children. What could I do, Lucy?"
"Do? You could have asked your father to end the difficulty for
you."
"Impossible! You forget what I have just told you. My father was
suffering at that time under the illness which afterward caused
his death. He was quite unfit to interfere."
"Was there no one else who could help you?"
"No one."
"No lady in whom you could confide?"
"I had acquaintances among the ladies in the neighborhood. I had
no friends."
"What did you do, then?"
"Nothing. I hesitated; I put off coming to an explanation with
him, unfortunately, until it was too late."
"What do you mean by too late?"
"You shall hear. I ought to have told you that Richard Wardour is
in the navy--"
"Indeed! I am more interested in him than ever. Well?"
"One spring day Richard came to our house to take leave of us
before he joined his ship. I thought he was gone, and I went into
the next room. It was my own sitting-room, and it opened on to
the garden."--
"Yes?"
"Richard must have been watching me. He suddenly appeared in the
garden. Without waiting for me to invite him, he walked into the
room. I was a little startled as well as surprised, but I managed
to hide it. I said, 'What is it, Mr. Wardour?' He stepped close
up to me; he said, in his quick, rough way: 'Clara! I am going to
the African coast. If I live, I shall come back promoted; and we
both know what will happen then.' He kissed me. I was half
frightened, half angry. Before I could compose myself to say a
word, he was out in the garden again--he was gone! I ought to
have spoken, I know. It was not honorable, not kind toward him.
You can't reproach me for my want of courage and frankness more
bitterly than I reproach myself!"
"My dear child, I don't reproach you. I only think you might have
written to him."
"I did write."
"Plainly?"
"Yes. I told him in so many words that he was deceiving himself,
and that I could never marry him."
"Plain enough, in all conscience! Having said that, surely you
are not to blame. What are you fretting about now?"
"Suppose my letter has never reached him?"
"Why should you suppose anything of the sort?"
"What I wrote required an answer, Lucy--_asked_ for an answer.
The answer has never come. What is the plain conclusion? My
letter has never reached him. And the _Atalanta_ is expected
back! Richard Wardour is returning to England--Richard Wardour
will claim me as his wife! You wondered just now if I really
meant what I said. Do you doubt it still?"
Mrs. Crayford leaned back absently in her chair. For the first
time since the conversation had begun, she let a question pass
without making a reply. The truth is, Mrs. Crayford was thinking.
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