Sandal and
Charlotte were occupied an hour or two in its ordering. Then the mother
was thoroughly weary; and before it was quite nine o'clock, Harry and
Charlotte were left alone by the parlor fire. Charlotte was a little
dull also; for Steve had found it impossible to get down the mountain
during the storm, and she missed him, and was constantly inclined to
fall into short silences.
After one of them, she raised her eyes to Harry's face, and was shocked
by its expression. "Harry," she said, leaning forward to take his hand,
"I am sure you are in trouble. What is it?"
"If I durst tell you, Charlotte!"
"Whatever you have dared to do, you may dare to tell me, Harry, I
think."
"I have got married."
"Well, where is the harm? Is it to the lady whose picture you showed
me?"
"Yes. I told you she was poor."
"It is a great pity she is poor. I am afraid we are getting poor too.
Father was saying last week that he had been talking with Squire
Beverley. Emily is to have fifteen thousand pounds. Father is feverishly
anxious about you and Emily. Her fortune would be a great thing at
Sandal, and father likes her."
"What is the use of talking about Emily? I have been married to Beatrice
Lanza since last September."
"Such a strange name! Is it a Scotch name?"
"She is an Italian."
"Harry Sandal! What a shame!"
"Don't you think God made Italians as well as Englishmen?"
"That is not the question.
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