Christmas at Thompson Hall by Anthony Trollope

lacked courage to own to him the truth; and then in the midst of her tears there came upon her that delicious recognition of a triumph which, whatever be the victory won, causes such elation to the heart! Nothing, at any rate, could rob her of this — that he had loved her. Then, as a thought suddenly struck her, she ran quickly across the passage, and in a moment was upstairs, telling her tale with her mother’s arm close folded round her waist.
    In the meantime Mr. Lownd had gone down to the parlour, and had found Maurice still looking out upon the snow. He, too, with some gentle sarcasm, had congratulated the young man on his early rising, as he expressed the ordinary wish of the day. “Yes,” said Maurice, “I had something special to do. Many happy Christmases, sir! I don’t know much about its being happy to me.”
    â€œWhy, what ails you?”
    â€œIt’s a nasty sort of day, isn’t it?” said Maurice.
    â€œDoes that trouble you? I rather like a little snow on Christmas Day. It has a pleasant, old-fashioned look. And there isn’t enough to keep even an old woman at home.”
    â€œI dare say not,” said Maurice, who was still beating about the bush, having something to tell, but not knowing how to tell it. “Mr. Lownd, I should have come to you first, if it hadn’t been for an accident.”
    â€œCome to me first! What accident?”
    â€œYes; only I found Miss Lownd down here this morning, and I asked her to be my wife. You needn’t be unhappy about it, sir. She refused me point blank.”
    â€œYou must have startled her, Maurice. You have startled me, at any rate.”
    â€œThere was nothing of that sort, Mr. Lownd. She took it all very easily. I think she does take things easily.” Poor Isabel! “She just told me plainly that it never could be so, and then she walked out of the room.”
    â€œI don’t think she expected it, Maurice.”
    â€œOh, dear no! I’m quite sure she didn’t. She hadn’t thought about me any more than if I were an old dog. I suppose men do make fools of themselves sometimes. I shall get over it, sir.”
    â€œOh, I hope so.”
    â€œI shall give up the idea of living here. I couldn’t do that. I shall probably sell the property, and go to Africa.”
    â€œGo to Africa!”
    â€œWell, yes. It’s as good a place as any other, I suppose. It’s wild, and a long way off, and all that kind of thing. As this is Christmas, I had better stay here to-day, I suppose.”
    â€œOf course you will.”
    â€œIf you don’t mind, I’ll be off early to-morrow, sir. It’s a kind of thing, you know, that does flurry a man. And then my being here may be disagreeable to her; — not that I suppose she thinks about me any more than if I were an old cow.”
    It need hardly be remarked that the rector was a much older man than Maurice Archer, and that he therefore knew the world much better. Nor was he in love. And he had, moreover, the advantage of a much closer knowledge of the young lady’s character than could be possessed by the lover. And, as it happened, during the last week, he had been fretted by fears expressed by his wife, — fears which were altogether opposed to Archer’s present despondency and African resolutions. Mrs. Lownd had been uneasy, — almost more than uneasy, — lest poor dear Isabel should be stricken at her heart; whereas, in regard to that young man, she didn’t believe that he cared a bit for her girl. He ought not to have been brought into the house. But he was there, and what could they do? The rector was of the opinion that things would come straight, — that they would be straightened not by any lover’s propensities on the part of his guest, as to which he protested himself to be altogether indifferent, but by his girl’s good sense. His Isabel would never allow herself to be seriously