I understood Aunt Jane, of course. In spite of the
Honorable Cuthbert's recent lapse, her imagination still played
about certain little cards which should announce to an envious
world my engagement to the Honorable Cuthbert Patrick Ruthmore
Vane, of High Staunton Manor, Kent. So such a _faux pas_ as my
rescue from drowning by a penniless Scotch seaman couldn't but
figure in her mind as a grievance.
I stole a glance at the recipient of these sorry thanks. His face
was set and--once I should have called it grim, but I knew better
now. There was nothing I could say or do. Any words of mine would
have sounded forced and puerile. What he had done was so far
beyond thanks that spoken gratitude belittled it. And yet, suppose
he thought that like the rest I had wished another in his place?
Did he think that--could he, with the memory of my arms about his
neck?
I only knew that because of the foolish hateful words that had been
said, the gulf between us was wider than before.
I sat dumb, consumed with misery and hoping that perhaps I might
meet his glance and so tell him silently all that words would only
mar. But he never looked at me. And then the first bitterness,
which had made even Cuthbert seem disloyal in wishing himself in
his friend's place, passed, and gave way to dreary doubt. Cuthbert
knew, of course, that he himself would have prized--what to Dugald
Shaw was a matter of indifference.
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