AN INTERRUPTED PROPOSAL.

“None without hope e’er loved the brightest fair,
But love can hope when reason would despair.”

ERHAPS never was youthful maiden less prepared to listen to the addresses of a would-be wooer than was Gerty Keane when she entered the tartan boudoir that evening at Grantley Hall. She was little more than a child even now, only lately turned seventeen; and before Jack went away to sea—now two years and a month ago—I believe that most of the love-making between them had been conducted through the media of bon-bons and an occasional wild flower, though it ended with farewell tears, a lock of bonnie hair, and a miniature, both of which Jack had taken away with him, and, like a true lover, worn next his heart ever since the parting. Gerty’s cheeks were flushed to-night, her eyes shone, her very lips were rosier than usual.

Sir Digby Auld sprang up as nimbly as his figure would permit, and advanced to meet the girl with outstretched hands. The baronet was verging on forty, but dressed in the height of youthful fashion; he was a trifle pompous, and he was likewise a trifle podgy.

As a shopkeeper or clerk there would have been nothing very attractive about Digby, but as a baronet he was somewhat of a success. There was nothing, however, in his fair, soft, round face or washed-out blue eyes calculated to influence the tender passion in one of the opposite sex; only he was excessively good-natured, and it is very nice of a baronet to be excessively good-natured and condescending, especially when everybody knows he may become a lord as soon as another noble lord chooses to die. Everybody knew also of Sir Digby’s passion for Gerty Keane, and for this very reason used to say sneering and ill-natured things behind the baronet’s back; for people were not a whit better in those “good old times” than they are now.

Whenever Sir Digby sailed into a drawing-room that happened to possess a sprinkling of marriageable girls of various ages, from sixteen to—say sixty, he sailed into an ocean of smiles; but if Gerty were there, he appeared to notice no one else in the room. Whenever Sir Digby sailed out again, their tongues began to wag, both male and female tongues, but particularly the latter.

But on the particular evening when Sir Digby Auld solicited an interview with Gerty, he had dressed with more than his usual care, and wore his softest, oiliest smile.

“O Gerty,” he cried, “I’m delighted beyond measure! How beautiful you look to-night! No star in all the firmament half so radiant as your eyes; no rose that ever bloomed could rival the blush on your cheek!”

Sir Digby had practised this little speech for half-an-hour in front of the glass while waiting for Gerty.

The girl didn’t seem to hear him; or if she did, she did not heed. He led her passive to a seat, and drew his own chair nearer to hers than ever he had sat before.

There was a sad kind of expression in Gerty’s face, and a far-away look in her bonnie blue eyes.

If Mary, her maid, had only held her silly tongue, Gerty might have been almost happy now. But Mary hadn’t held her tongue, but conjured up Jack, and he was before her mental eyes at this very moment just as she had seen him last, the young and handsome lieutenant, going away to fight for king and country with a heart burning with courage and valour, yet filled with love for her—and with hope. Ah yes! that was the worst of it. They were not betrothed, and yet—and yet when he returned and found her engaged to another, it would break his heart. Yes, that was simply what it would do. What was Sir Digby saying? Oh, he had been talking for ten minutes and more, yet not one word had she heard. Nor had she even turned towards him. She did so at last, blushing and embarrassed at what she deemed the rudeness of her inattention.

Digby misinterpreted her.

“Yes, yes,” he cried rapturously; “I read my happy fate in those dear downcast eyes and in that tell-tale blush. You love me, Gerty; you love me, all unworthy as I am. Then behold I throw myself at your feet.”

Sir Digby was preparing to suit the action to his words; but this was not so easy to do as might be imagined, for this gay Lothario had lately suffered from a slight rheumatic stiffness of the joints. He had already bent one knee painfully, and it had emitted a disagreeable crack which certainly tended to dispel a portion of the romance from the situation, when sturdy footsteps were heard outside, and next moment the round, rosy face of Richards, of the firm of Griffin, Keane, and Co., appeared smiling in the doorway.

Gerty sprang up, leaving her lover to recover the perpendicular as best he might. She rushed towards the old man and fairly hugged him.

“Confound it all!” muttered Sir Digby.

“I’m afraid,” said Richards, “I’ve interrupted—”

“Oh, don’t mention it, dear, dear Mr. Richards. What Sir Digby was about to tell me wasn’t of the slightest consequence. That is, you know, I mean—it will keep.”

Sir Digby Auld bit his lip.

Richards nodded to him.

“I’ve such news for you, Gerty dear. A long, long letter from Bermuda. Jack’s ship—”

“Oh, do sit down and tell me all.—Sir Digby, you will forgive us, won’t you? You’re so good! Sit near us and hear it all.—Yes, Mr. Richards; I’m listening.”

That she was. What a glad look in her face! what a happy smile! With lips half parted and eyes which shone with an interest intense, she never took her gaze from Mr. Richards’ beaming countenance till he had finished speaking.

The letter was from a friend of his, and told of the arrival at Bermuda of Jack’s ship, and all Jack’s doings on shore; and how the Ocean Pride was ordered home; and how, if things turned out well, and she wasn’t captured by a Frenchman five times her size, she might be expected back in a fortnight.

“O dear, dear Mr. Richards, I’m so happy; I mean, you know, that Flora will—”

“Yes, yes; Flora, of course, you sly little puss. There! never blush; I guess I know your secret—Jack, eh?—Ah, Sir Digby, you and I are too old to understand the tender passion, aren’t we?”

“Yes—that is, no. You better speak for yourself, sir. I—I—I believe I have an appointment—I—Good evening, Miss Keane.”

Sir Digby Auld’s exit was not an impressive one.

With an amused look on his face, Richards watched him till the closed door shut out the view; then he stretched out his sturdy legs, threw himself back in his chair, and laughed until the rafters rang.