dowith her than with many would-be match-makers."
So he sat in silence, patiently enough, to all appearance, while LadyMarth unbosomed herself of what she considered her mission, prefacingher advice with the usual excuses for interference, on the ground that,sooner or later, both of the principals concerned would thank her forhaving acted as a true friend in the matter.
Archie bent his head in acknowledgment of her kind intentions, butbeyond this, neither by word nor look did he help her out with what shehad to say.
This attitude of his made her task by no means easier. For some littletime she floundered about in unusual embarrassment; but once fairlyunder weigh, her words flowed fluently. She dilated on Archie's lonelyposition--the advisability of his making up his mind to marry, insteadof remaining a target for the aims of designing mammas or richhusband-hunting daughters, and possibly some day finding himself pinnedby their well-directed arrows. She hinted at the satisfaction andsecurity of being cared for, "for himself," and by one who had known himlong and thoroughly, to all of which Archie listened unmoved, with theutmost deference and attention, till her ladyship at last pulled upshort, partly through breathlessness, partly because, without theencouragement of a responsive word or gesture, she had really nothingmore to say.
Then he looked up, but nothing in his face helped her to any conclusionas to the effect of her exordium.
"I must thank you," he said, "for your great interest in my welfare.Believe me, I shall always remember it." Which statement was certainlywell founded, though the glimmer of a smile danced in his eyes as hemade his little speech.
The smile, however, Lady Marth was too engrossed to perceive.
"But"--and at this word, for the first time, her heart misgave her as towhat was to follow--"but it is best for me at once to make youunderstand my position. I am not likely to marry. It seems to me atpresent almost certain that I never shall."
"Archie!" exclaimed Lady Marth, startled and surprised, "why not?"
"Simply for this reason. There is only one woman in the world whom Ican imagine myself caring for in that way, and she"--here, even Archiescalm somewhat deserted him--"she," he went on, with a touch ofbitterness quite new to him, "won't have anything to say to me."
"I can scarcely believe it," exclaimed his hearer.
"There _must_ be some mistake!"
"Thank you for the inferred compliment," he replied. "But no--it isquite true; there is no mistake."
Then a wild idea struck Lady Marth, suggested by her irrepressiblebelief in her own powers of discernment.
"You don't mean to say," she began. "Is it possible that we are boththinking of the same person! It can't be that _Rosy_ has refused you."
Archie laughed, quite unconstrainedly.
"As things are," he said, "I suppose I may be quite frank. Rosy!--ohdear, no; we are the best of friends, as you are aware, but thoroughlyand completely like brother and sister. And it is by no meansimprobable that she suspects the real state of the case, as Hebe is inmy confidence."
"Then who in all the world can it be?" said Lady Marth, completelynonplussed, "for somehow you seem to infer that it's some one I know."
"I don't mind telling you," said Archie. "You do know her--it isBlanche Derwent."
For a moment or two Lady Marth did not speak. Then she said, halftimidly:
"It must have been very sudden. You have seen very little of her? Ohyes, there was that Christmas week at Alderwood."
"It all happened long before then," said Archie.
"It is true, I had not seen much of her, but it doesn't seem to me nowthat time is required in such a case. It was soon after they leftPinnerton, and took up that millinery business."
"Before Sir Adam came home?"
"Of course," said Archie drily.
"And she refused you--_then_?"
"Naturally, as she didn't care for me."
Lady Marth again relapsed into silence. The confusion of ideas in hermind was too great to find expression in words. She had read of suchthings; in novels, perhaps, they seemed credible and rather fine. Butin real life--no, she couldn't take it in.
Archie showed no inclination to say more. He rose, and held out hishand.
"Good-bye," he said. "Thank you for your interest in me."
"Good-bye," she replied, "and--no, perhaps I had better say nothing.Except, yes--honestly, Archie, I should like to see you happy."
"Thank you," he repeated.
When Archie found himself in the street again, he looked about himvaguely, and sauntered on, scarcely knowing why or whither, thinkingover the interview which had just taken place, and recalling, notwithout a certain grim humour, Josephine Marth's blank amazement.
Suddenly the sound of his own name not far from him made him start, andlooking up, on the opposite pavement he caught sight of three familiarfigures, Sir Adam and his two "grand-daughters."
"Where are you off to?" said the old man. "You don't look as if youwere bound on anything very important. Come with us--we're going to seesome of the pictures."
Mr Dunstan hesitated.
"Yes, do come," said Stasy, with whom he was on the friendliest ofterms. "Three is no company, you know, and I'm always getting leftbehind by myself."
He glanced up, still irresolute, but at that moment he caught Blanche'seyes, and something--an impalpable something in their blue depths--brought him to a sudden determination.
"If I won't be in the way," he said, "I should like nothing better."
And the four walked on together.
"Norman," said Lady Hebe that same evening, when they met for a fewmoments before dinner in her guardian's house--it was within a week ortwo of the date fixed for their marriage--"Norman, I've somethingwonderful to tell you. Archie Dunstan rushed in late this afternoon tosee me for a moment--"
"Well?" said Norman, as she paused. "Do you want me to guess?"
"No," said Hebe, "I want to tell you straight off. Archie knew how Ishould enjoy doing so. Its all right, Norman--between him and Blanche,I mean. Just fancy! _Aren't_ you pleased?"
And never had Hebe's face looked happier than as she said the words.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of "Blanche."
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
ONE SUNDAY MORNING.
The Rector of a large West-end church was ill. His illness was not veryserious, nor did it threaten to be protracted, but it fell at a badmoment. It was the middle of the season, the time at which his churchwas more crowded than at any other of the year. He was an earnest andthoughtful man, and one who, despite much discouragement, labouredenergetically to do his best; but on the Friday evening, preceding thesecond Sunday in June, he was obliged to acknowledge that for some dayshe would be unfit to officiate in his usual place.
"What shall I do?" he said in distress. "What shall I do about thesermon on Sunday morning? The curates can manage the rest, but it willbe as much as they _can_ do. I cannot ask either of them to prepareanother sermon so hurriedly. And the one I had ready has cost me muchtime and thought--I had even built some hopes upon it. One neverknows--"
"Your sermon will keep till another Sunday. That is not the question,"said his wife.
"No, truly," he agreed, with some bitterness; "my sermon, as you say,will keep. Nor can I flatter myself that any one will be the loser ifit never be preached at all. Do sermons ever do good, I sometimes askmyself? Yet many of us--I could almost say most of us--do our best. Wespare neither time nor trouble nor prayer; but all falls on stonyground, it seems to me. And we are but human--liable to error andmistake, and but few among us have great gift of eloquence. It is easy,I know, to pick holes and criticise; but is the fault all on the side ofthe sermons, I wonder?"
"You misunderstood me, Reginald," said his wife gently. "No, truly; thefault must lie in great part with the hearers. All other efforts toinstruct or do good are received with some amount of respect andappreciation. No po
pular lecturers, for instance, are listened to withsuch indifference or criticised so captiously as the mass of Englishclergy. It is the tone of the day, the fashion of the age. Though onerose from the dead--nay, if an angel from heaven came down to preach oneSunday morning," she went on with sad impressiveness, "he would be foundfault with, or sneered at, or criticised, and accused of having nothingto say, or not knowing how to say it; yes, I verily believe it would beso."
Her husband smiled, though his smile was a melancholy one, at herearnestness.
"I have it," he exclaimed suddenly; "I will write to