‘It is such a pleasure to me to make acquaintance with the former pupils of my husband. He has spoken to me so often of you that I quite feel as if you were one of the family, as indeed I am sure that Mr. Gibson considers you.’
Mr. Coxe felt much flattered, and took the words as a happy omen for his love-affair. ‘Is Miss Gibson in?’ asked he, blushing violently. ‘I knew her formerly, that is to say, I lived in the same house with her, for more than two years, and it would be a great pleasure to—to——’
‘Certainly, I am sure she will be so glad to see you. I sent her and Cynthia—you don’t know my daughter Cynthia, I think, Mr. Coxe? she and Molly are such great friends—out for a brisk walk this frosty day, but I think they will soon come back.’ She went on saying agreeable nothings to the young man, who received her attentions with a certain complacency, but was all the time much more engaged in listening to the well-remembered click at the front door,—the shutting it to again with household care, and the sound of the familiar bounding footstep on the stair. At last they came. Cynthia entered first, bright and blooming, fresh colour in her cheeks and lips, fresh brilliance in her eyes. She looked startled at the sight of a stranger, and for an instant she stopped short at the door, as if taken by surprise. Then in came Molly softly behind her, smiling, happy, dimpled; but not such a glowing beauty as Cynthia.
‘Oh, Mr. Coxe, is it you?’ said she, going up to him with an outstretched hand, and greeting him with simple friendliness.
‘Yes; it seems such a long time since I saw you. You are so much grown—so much—well, I suppose I must not say what,’ he replied, speaking hurriedly, and holding her hand all the time, rather to her discomfiture. Then Mrs. Gibson introduced her daughter, and the two girls spoke of the enjoyment of their walk. Mr. Coxe marred his cause in that very first interview, if indeed he ever could have had any chance, by his precipitancy in showing his feelings, and Mrs. Gibson helped him to mar it by trying to assist him. Molly lost her open friendliness of manner, and began to shrink away from him in a way which he thought was a very ungrateful return for all his faithfulness to her these two years past; and after all she was not the wonderful beauty his fancy or his love had painted her. That Miss Kirkpatrick was far more beautiful and much easier of access. For Cynthia put on all her pretty airs, her look of intent interest in what any one was saying to her, let the subject be what it would, as if it was the thing she cared the most about in the whole world; her unspoken deference; in short, all the unconscious ways she possessed by instinct of tickling the vanity of men. So while Molly quietly repelled him, Cynthia drew him to her by her soft attractive ways; and his constancy fell before her charms. He was thankful that he had not gone too far with Molly, and grateful to Mr. Gibson for having prohibited all declarations two years ago. For Cynthia, and Cynthia alone, could make him happy. After a fortnight’s time, during which he had entirely veered round in his allegiance, he thought it desirable to speak to Mr. Gibson. He did so with a certain sense of exultation in his own correct behaviour in the affair, but at the same time feeling rather ashamed of the confession of his own changeableness which was naturally involved. Now it had so happened that Mr. Gibson had been unusually little at home during the fortnight that Mr. Coxe had ostensibly lodged at the ‘George,’ but in reality had spent the greater part of his time at Mr. Gibson’s—so that he had seen very little of his former pupil, and on the whole he had thought him improved, especially after Molly’s manner had made her father pretty sure that Mr. Coxe stood no chance in that quarter. But Mr. Gibson was quite ignorant of the attraction which Cynthia had had for the young man. If he had perceived it he would have nipped it in the bud pretty quickly, for he had no notion of any girl, even though only partially engaged to one man, receiving offers from others, if a little plain speaking could prevent it. Mr. Coxe had asked for a private interview; they were sitting in the old surgery, now called the consulting-room, but still retaining so much of its former self as to be the last place in which Mr. Coxe could feel himself at ease. He was red up to the very roots of his red hair, and kept turning his glossy new hat round and round in his fingers, unable to find out the proper way of beginning his sentence, so at length he plunged in, grammar or no grammar:
‘Mr. Gibson, I dare say you’ll be surprised, I’m sure I am, at—at what I want to say; but I think it’s the part of an honourable man, as you said yourself, sir, a year or two ago, to—to speak to the father first, and as you, sir, stand in the place of a father to Miss Kirkpatrick, I should like to express my feelings, my hopes, or perhaps I should say wishes, in short———’
‘Miss Kirkpatrick?’ said Mr. Gibson, a good deal surprised.
‘Yes, sir!’ continued Mr. Coxe, rushing on now he had got so far. ‘I know it may appear inconstant and changeable, but I do assure you, I came here with a heart as faithful to your daughter as ever beat in a man’s bosom. I most fully intended to offer myself and all that I had to her acceptance before I left; but really, sir, if you had seen her manner to me every time I endeavoured to press my suit a little—it was more than coy, it was absolutely repellent; there could be no mistaking it—while Miss Kirkpatrick———’ he looked modestly down, and smoothed the nap of his hat, smiling a little while he did so.
‘While Miss Kirkpatrick———?’ repeated Mr. Gibson, in such a stern voice, that Mr. Coxe, landed esquire as he was now, felt as much discomfited as he used to do when he was an apprentice, and Mr. Gibson had spoken to him in a similar manner.
‘I was only going to say, sir, that so far as one can judge from manner, and willingness to listen, and apparent pleasure in my visits—al—together, I think I may venture to hope that Miss Kirkpatrick is not quite indifferent to me—and I would wait—you have no objection, have you, sir, to my speaking to her, I mean?’ said Mr. Coxe a little anxious at the expression on Mr. Gibson’s face. ‘I do assure you I haven’t a chance with Miss Gibson,’ he continued, not knowing what to say, and fancying that his inconstancy was rankling in Mr. Gibson’s mind.
‘No! I don’t suppose you have. Don’t go and fancy it is that which is annoying me. You’re mistaken about Miss Kirkpatrick, however. I don’t believe she could ever have meant to give you encouragement! ’
Mr. Coxe’s face grew perceptibly paler. His feelings, if evanescent, were evidently strong.
‘I think, sir, if you could have seen her—I don’t consider myself vain, and manner is so difficult to describe. At any rate, you can have no objection to my taking my chance, and speaking to her.’
‘Of course, if you won’t be convinced otherwise, I can have no objection. But if you’ll take my advice, you will spare yourself the pain of a refusal. I may, perhaps, be trenching on confidence, but I think I ought to tell you that her affections are otherwise engaged.’
‘It cannot be!’ said Mr. Coxe. ‘Mr. Gibson, there must be some mistake. I have gone as far as I dared in expressing my feelings, and her manner has been most gracious. I don’t think she could have misunderstood my meaning. Perhaps she has changed her mind? It is possible that, after consideration, she has learnt to prefer another, is it not?’
‘By “another” you mean yourself, I suppose. I can believe in such inconstancy’ (he could not help, in his own mind, giving a slight sneer at the instance before him), ‘but I should be very sorry to think that Miss Kirkpatrick could be guilty of it.’
‘But she may—it is a chance. Will you allow me to see her?’
‘Certainly, my poor fellow’—for, intermingled with a little contempt, was a good deal of respect for the simplicity, the unworldliness, the strength of feeling, even though the feeling was evanescent.—‘I will send her to you directly.’