t strength of decision allured her
uncertainty.
"I am discouraged," she confessed. "And tired. I--there is no reason
why I should not speak of it. You know Dick, how he can do nothing in
the factory or business, or in the places where a Ffrench should
stand. All this must fall into the hands of strangers, to be broken
and forgotten, when my uncle dies, for lack of some one who would
care. And Uncle Ethan seems severe and hard, but it grieves him all
the time. His only son was not a good man; he lives abroad with his
wife, who was an actress before he married her. You knew that?" as he
moved.
"I heard something of it in the village," Lestrange admitted gravely.
"Please do not think me fond of gossip; I could not avoid it. But I
should not have imagined this a family likely to make low marriages."
"It never happened before. I never saw that cousin, nor did Dick; but
he was always a disappointment, always, Uncle Ethan has told me. And
since he failed, and Dick fails, there is only me."
"You!"
She nodded, her lip quivering.
"Only me. Not as a substitute--I am not fit for that--but to find a
substitute. I have promised my uncle to marry the first one who is
able to be that."
The silence was absolute. Lestrange neither moved nor spoke, gazing
down at her bent head with an expression blending many shades.
"It is a duty; there is no one except me," she added. "Only sometimes
I grow--to dislike it too much. I am so selfish that sometimes I hope
a substitute will never come."
Her voice died away. It was done; she, Emily Ffrench, had deliberately
confided to this stranger that which an hour before she would have
believed no one could force from her lips in articulate speech. And
she neither regretted nor was ashamed, although there was time for
full realization before Lestrange answered.
"I did not believe," he said, "that such things could be done. It is
nonsense, of course, but such magnificent nonsense! It is the kind of
situation, Miss Ffrench, where any man is justified in interfering. I
beg you will leave the affair in my hands and think no more of such
morbid self-sacrifice."
Stupefied, Emily flung back her head, staring at him.
"In _your_ hands?"
"Since there are none better, it appears. Why," his vivid face
questioned her full and straightly, "you didn't imagine that any man
living could hear what you are doing, and pass on?"
"My uncle knows--"
"Your uncle--is not for me to criticize. B
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