Читать книгу Sydney Lisle, the Heiress of St. Quentin онлайн

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Forgetful of everything but irritation, Lady Braemuir spoke cruelly to the girl, who knew so little of the duties of a governess. Lord Francis bore her remarks in silence for a minute, then the frightened appeal in the childish eyes overcame his prudence.

He went across to the girl and took her hand.

“Excuse me, Gwenyth,” he said sternly; “there is no need to say any more upon this subject. I am going to ask Miss Henderson if she will be my wife.” And he did.

“I wash my hands of the whole business!” Lady Braemuir said. “Frank must explain as best he can to Uncle St. Quentin.”

Until that time his fourth and youngest son had been Lord St. Quentin’s favourite—this bright, handsome boy, who had made half the sunshine of his home. He was proud of him, too, and looked to see him do well in the army, and prove an honour to the name he bore. The pride of the old marquess was far greater than his love.

“Going to marry a clergy-orphan and a governess!” Frank’s father cried. “Then you won’t get a penny of mine to help you make a fool of yourself! Do it, if you choose; but in that case never darken my doors again!”