“It may seem to you a very indelicate question--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Crofton--I ask it with great diffidence--but I do not hesitate to confess to you that my own happiness is deeply concerned,” said Mr. Reredos, blushing painfully--and I knew at once, and recognized with a certain thrill of impatience and disgust, what he was going to ask; “Miss Harley and the late Captain Nugent were almost brought up together, I have heard; will you forgive me asking if there was any attachment--any engagement between them?” “_Colonel_ Nugent, please!” said I, I fear rather haughtily; “and it is surely premature to say the late, as I trust in Heaven we shall yet have better news.” “I beg your pardon,” repeated the Rector, quickly, “I--I was not aware--but might I ask an answer to my question?” “If there was any engagement between Alice and my dear Bertie?--none whatever!” cried I, with all my might--“nothing of the kind! Pardon me, you have _not_ been delicate--you have _not_ considered my feelings--if Alice has been unfavorable to you, it is for your own merits, and not on his account.” I was half sorry when I saw the grave, grieved, ashamed expression with which this other young man turned away. He bowed and was gone almost before I knew what I had said--I fear not without an arrow of mortification and injured pride tingling through the love in his heart. CHAPTER XX. And after all, the Rector was premature--we were all premature, lamenting for him over whom we were so speedily to rejoice. When Derwent put the dispatch into my hand (he did not send, but brought it, to make more sure), I could not read the words for tears. My eyes were clear enough when I saw that terrible _killed_, in which we believed to read Bertie’s fate. But the dear boy’s own message, in rapid reply to one which Derwent, out of my knowledge, had managed to have sent to him, floated upon me in a mist of weeping. The truth came inarticulate to my mind--I could neither see, nor scarcely hear the words in which it was conveyed. But, alas! alas! it _was_ Captain Nicholas Hughes who had fallen, instead of Bertie. I inquired all that I could learn about this unknown soldier, with a remorseful grief in the midst of my joy, which I cannot describe. I could not join in the tumult of exultation which rose round me. I could not forget that this news, which came so welcome to us, brought desolation upon another house. I could not think of him but as Bertie’s substitute, nor help a painful, fantastical idea that it was to our prayers and our dear boy’s safety that he owed his death. I was almost glad to find that the widow whom he had left behind him had need of what kind offices we could do her for the bringing up of her children, and vowed to myself, with a compunction as deep as it was, no doubt, imaginary, that she should never want while Estcourt remained mine. Was it not their dismal loss and bereavement which had saved the heir of my father’s house?