Chapter 28 - Page 2

for this. You are a man to be envied,
Mr. Drewett, if any man on earth is!"

Andrew looked embarrassed. He glanced at me, coloured, turned his look out
at the window, then, by a vast effort, seemed to regain his self-command.

"I believe I understand you, Wallingford," he said. "You mean, in being
engaged to Lucy Hardinge?"

"I can mean nothing else--all I hear--all I have seen--this last act, in
particular, tells me as much."

"All have then told you wrong. I am not so fortunate as to possess the
affections of Miss Hardinge; and no man will gain her hand who does not
first obtain her heart; ay, and her whole heart, too."

I was astounded! What! Lucy not engaged to Drewett; not loving him, by his
own admission; not likely to love him! I believe Andrew had no difficulty
in comprehending my feelings in part, for he seemed disposed to continue
the subject; and, what was infinitely to his credit, to continue it in a
way that should leave no unpleasant uncertainty hanging about the real
position of the dear girl.

"It is only quite lately," he said, "that I have seen the great injustice
that I and my family have unconsciously committed towards Miss Hardinge.
As you are an old--a _very_ old friend of hers, I will be explicit with
you, and endeavour, in some small degree, to excuse myself; though I feel
that it can never be done fully. You tell me, that you have heard I was
engaged to Miss Hardinge?"

"Unquestionably: I think it was the opinion of her own father; though he
must have believed the promise conditional, as Lucy never would marry
without his approbation."

"Mr. Hardinge has then been strangely misled. It is true, Mr. Wallingford,
that I have long admired Miss Hardinge, and that I offered myself years
ago. I was refused from the first. But, Lucy had the frankness to own that
she was free to dispose of her hand; and I persevered contrary to her
advice, her wishes, and I may say her entreaties. I think she esteems me;
and I know she has a strong regard for my mother, who is almost as fond of
her as I am myself. This esteem and regard I hoped might ripen into love,
and my presumption has brought its own punishment, It is now about six
months--I remember it was shortly after we heard of your probable
loss--that I had a final conversation with her on the subject, when I
became convinced my prospects were hopeless. Since that time, I have
endeavoured to conquer my passion; for love unrequited, I suppose you
know, will not last for ever; and I have so far succeeded, as to tell you
all this without feeling the pain it would once have cost me. Still, I
retain the deepest respect for Miss Hardinge; and a