Chapter XXVII

Cumberly Lane Without The Mud

They walked on in silence for a little way, and then he asked her some
question about Florence Burton. Fanny told him that she had heard from
Stratton two days since, and that Florence was well.

"I liked her very much," said Mr. Saul.

"So did we all. She is coming here again in the Autumn; so it will not
be very long before you see her again."

"How that may be I cannot tell, but if you see her that will be of more
consequence."

"We shall all see her, of course."

"It was here, in this lane, that I was with her last, and wished her
good-by. She did not tell you of my having parted with her, then?"

"Not especially, that I remember."

"Ah, you would have remembered if she had told you; but she was quite
right not to tell you." Fanny was now a little confused, so that she
could not exactly calculate what all this meant. Mr. Saul walked on by
her side, and for some moments nothing was said. After a while he
recurred again to his parting from Florence. "I asked her advice on that
occasion, and she gave it me clearly--with a clear purpose and an
assured voice. I like a person who will do that. You are sure then that
you are getting the truth out of your friend, even if it be a simple
negative, or a refusal to give any reply to the question asked."

"Florence Burton is always clear in what she says."

"I had asked her if she thought that I might venture to hope for a more
favorable answer if I urged my suit to you again."

"She cannot have said yes to that, Mr. Saul; she cannot have done so!"

"She did not do so. She simply bade me ask yourself. And she was right.
On such a matter there is no one to whom I can with propriety address
myself, but to yourself. Therefore I now ask you the question. May I
venture to have any hope?"

His voice was so solemn, and there was so much of eager seriousness in
his face that Fanny could not bring herself to answer him with
quickness. The answer that was in her mind was in truth this: "How can
you ask me to try to love a man who has but seventy pounds a year in the
world, while I myself have nothing?" But there was something in his
demeanor--something that was almost grand in its gravity--which made it
quite impossible that she should speak to him in that tone. But he,
having asked his question, waited for an answer; and she was well aware
that the longer she delayed it, the weaker became the ground on which
she