It was more easy, however, to be rid of him--the fine gentleman of the
time standing on scant ceremony with his inferiors--than of the
annoyance, the smart, the vexation, his news left behind him. Sir George
was not in love. He would have laughed at the notion. The girl was
absolutely and immeasurably below him; a girl of the people. He had seen
her once only. In reason, therefore--and polite good breeding enforced
the demand--he should have viewed Mr. Dunborough's conquest with easy
indifference, and complimented him with a jest founded on the prowess of
Mars and the smiles of Venus.
But the girl's rare beauty had caught Sir George's fancy; the scene in
which he had taken part with her had captivated an imagination not
easily inveigled. On the top of these impressions had come a period of
good resolutions prescribed by imminent danger; and on the top of that
twenty-four hours of solitude--a thing rare in the life he led. Result,
that Sir George, picturing the girl's fate, her proud, passionate face,
and her future, felt a sting at once selfish and unselfish, a pang at
once generous and vicious. Perhaps at the bottom of his irritation lay
the feeling that if she was to be any man's prey she might be his. But
on the whole his feelings were surprisingly honest; they had their root
in a better nature, that, deep sunk under the surface of breeding and
habit, had been wholesomely stirred by the events of the last few days.
Still, the good and the evil in the man were so far in conflict that,
had he been asked as he walked to Magdalen what he proposed to do should
he get speech with the girl, it is probable he would not have known what
to answer. Courtesy, nay, decency required that he should, inquire after
his antagonist. If he saw the girl--and he had a sneaking desire to see
her--well. If he did not see her--still well; there was an end of a
foolish imbroglio, which had occupied him too long already. In an hour
he could be in his post-chaise, and a mile out of town.
As it chanced, the surgeons in attendance on Dunborough had enjoined
quiet, and forbidden visitors. The staircase on which the rooms lay--a
bare, dusty, unfurnished place--was deserted; and the girl herself
opened the door to him, her finger on her lips. He looked for a blush
and a glance of meaning, a little play of conscious eyes and hands, a
something of remembrance and coquetry; and had his hat ready in his hand
and a smile on his lips. But she had neither smile nor blush for him; on
the contrary, when the dim light that entered the dingy staircase
disclosed who awaited her, she drew back a pace with a look of dislike
and embarrassment.