The Buccaneers by Edith Wharton Page A

me.”
    â€œThen you’ll certainly have an answer. No doubt it’s on the way now.”
    â€œIt ought to be. But Mr. Closson’s always in such a devil of a hurry. Everybody’s in a hurry in America. He asked me if there was any reason why my people shouldn’t write.”
    â€œWell—is there?”
    Lord Richard turned in his chair, and glanced at her with an uncomfortable laugh. “You must see now what I’m driving at.”
    â€œNo, I don’t. Unless you count on me to reassure the Clossons?”
    â€œNo. Only, if they should take it into their heads to question you...”
    She felt a faint shiver of apprehension. To question her—about what? Did he imagine that anyone, at this hour, and at this far end of the world, would disinter that old unhappy episode? If this was what he feared, it meant her career to begin all over again, those poor old ancestors of Denmark Hill without support or comfort, and no one on earth to help her to her feet.... She lifted her head sternly. “Nonsense, Lord Richard—speak out.”
    â€œWell, the fact is, I know my mother blurted out all that stupid business to you before I left Allfriars—I mean about the cheque,” he muttered half-audibly.
    Miss Testvalley suddenly became aware that her heart had stopped beating by the violent plunge of relief it now gave. Her whole future, for a moment, had hung there in the balance. And after all, it was only the cheque he was thinking of. Now she didn’t care what happened! She even saw, in a flash, that she had him at a disadvantage, and her past fear nerved her to use her opportunity.
    â€œYes, your mother did, as you say, blurt out something....”
    The young man, his elbows on the table, had crossed his hands and rested his chin on them. She knew what he was waiting for—but she let him wait.
    â€œI was a poor young fool—I didn’t half know what I was doing.... My father was damned hard on me, you know.”
    â€œI think he was,” said Miss Testvalley.
    Lord Richard lifted his head and looked at her. He hardly ever smiled, but when he did his face cleared, and became almost boyish again, as though a mask had been removed from it. “You’re a brick, Laura—you always were.”
    â€œWe’re not here to discuss my merits, Lord Richard. Indeed, you seem to have doubted them a moment ago.” He stared, and she remembered that subtlety was always lost on him. “You imagined, knowing that I was in your mother’s confidence, that I might betray it. Was that it?”
    His look of embarrassment returned. “I—You’re so hard on a fellow....”
    â€œI don’t want to be hard on you. But since you suspected I might tell your secrets, you must excuse my suspecting you—”
    â€œMe? Of what?”
    Miss Testvalley was silent. A hundred thoughts rushed through her brain—preoccupations both grave and trivial. It had always been thus with her, and she could never see that it was otherwise with life itself, where unimportant trifles and grave anxieties so often darkened the way with their joint shadows. At Nan St. George’s age, Miss Testvalley, though already burdened with the care and responsibilities of middle life, had longed with all Nan’s longing to wear white tulle and be invited to a ball. She had never been invited to a ball, had never worn white tulle; and now, at nearly forty, and scarred by hardships and disappointments, she still felt that early pang, still wondered what, in life, ought to be classed as trifling, and what as grave. She looked again at Lord Richard. “No,” she said, “I’ve only one stipulation to make.”
    He cleared his throat. “Er—yes?”
    â€œLord Richard—are you truly and sincerely in love with Conchita?”
    The young man’s sallow face crimsoned to the roots of his hair, and even his freckled hands, with their