“ ... put it to the touchTo gain or lose it all,”
“ ... put it to the touchTo gain or lose it all,”
“ ... put it to the touchTo gain or lose it all,”
As for Lucy, no thought of the further trials awaiting her entered her mind; but she was not happy. It had ceased to be possible to take those evening strolls which had brought her into such intimate relations with the inmates of the White House. They had been given up since the girls came back; and, indeed, the days were so much shorter that they had become impracticable. But when she came upstairs to her lonely drawing-room after tea, when it was not yet completely dark, she could not choose but to go to the window, and look out upon the dim breadth of the common, and the lights which began to twinkle in Mrs. Stone’s windows. The grassy breadths of broken ground, the brown furze-bushes, all stubbly with the husks of the seed-pots, the gleam of moisture here and there, the keener touch of color in the straggling foliage of the hedges, and here and there a half-grown tree were dim under a veil of mist when she looked out. The last redness of the sun was melting from the sky. A certain autumnal sadness was in the bit of homely landscape, which, though she was not imaginative, depressed Lucy as she stood at the window. She was altogether depressed and discouraged. Mrs. Ford had been, if not scolding, yet talking uncomfortably to her husband across the girl, of the rudeness of Lucy’s friends. “Not that I would go to their parties if they begged me on their knees,” Mrs. Ford had said, “but the impoliteness of it! And to ask those Russells before my very face, who are not a drop’s blood to Lucy.” “Well, well, my dear, never mind,” her husband had said, “when she’s married there will be an end of it.” “Married!” Mrs. Ford had said in high disdain. And then Lucy had got up and hastened away, wounded and shocked and unhappy, though she scarcely could tell why. She came and stood at the window, and looked out, with the tears in her eyes. Everybody had been very kind to her, but yet she was very lonely. She had a gay party to look forward to the next day, and she believed she would enjoy it; but yet Lucy was lonely. People seemed to struggle over her incoherently, for she knew not what reason, each trying to push the other away, each trying topersuade her that the other entertained some evil motive; and everything seemed to concur in making it impossible for her to carry out her father’s will. And there was nobody to advise, nobody to help her. Philip, to whom she would so gladly have had recourse, was cross and sullen, and scolded her for no reason at all, instead of being kind. And Sir Tom, who was really kind, whom she could really trust to—what had become of him? Had he forgotten her altogether? He had not written to her, and Lucy had not the courage to write to him. What could she do to get wisdom, to know how to deal with the difficulties around her? She was standing within the curtains of the window, looking out wistfully toward the White House, and wondering how Mr. St. Clair would speak to her to-morrow, and if Mrs. Stone would know and be angry, when she was startled by the sound of wheels, and saw a carriage—nay, not a carriage but something more ominous, the fly of the neighborhood, the well known vehicle which took all the people about the common to the railway, and was as familiar as the common itself. It rattled along to the White House, making twice the noise that any other carriage ever made. Could they be going to a party? Lucy asked herself with alarm. But it was no party. There was just light enough left to show that luggage was brought out. Then came the glimmer of the lantern dangling at the finger end of the gardener—that lantern by which, on winter nights, Lucy herself had been so often lighted home. Then she perceived various figures about the door, and Mrs. Stone coming out with a whiteness about her head which betrayed the shawl thrown over her cap; evidently some one was going away. Who could be going away?
After awhile the fly lumbered off from the door, leaving that gleam of light behind, and some one looking out, looking after the person departing. Lucy’s heart beat ever quicker and quicker. As the fly approached the lamp-post that gave light to the Terrace, she saw that it was a portmanteau and other masculine belongings that were on the top, and to make assurance sure a man’s head glanced out and looked up at her window. Lucy sunk down into a chair and cried. It was her doing. She had driven St. Clair away, out into the hard world, with his heart-disease and his poverty—she who had been brought into being and made rich, for no other end than to help those who were poor!
Lucyspent a most melancholy night. It was dreadful to her to think that she had been not only “no good,” but the doer of harm. She imagined to herself poor St. Clair, with that weakness which prevented him from realizing the hopes of his friends, going away from the shelter and comfort his aunt had provided for him and the rest of this quiet place, and struggling again among others each more able to fight their way than he—and all because of her, who should have smoothed his way for him, who had the means to provide for him, to make everything easy. It is impossible to describe the compunctions that filled Lucy’s inexperienced heart. It seemed all her fault, his departure, and even his incomprehensible proposal—for how could he ever have thought of such a thing himself, he a gentleman, and she only a girl, at school the other day—and all the disappointment and grief which must have been caused by his going away, all her doing! though she had meant everything that was kind, instead of this trouble. When she saw Jock preparing for his lessons, her distress overpowered her altogether. “I am afraid Mr. St. Clair is not coming,” she said, faltering, at breakfast; “I think he has gone away,” feeling herself almost ready to cry. “Gone away!” said the Fords, in a breath; and they exchanged looks which Lucy felt to be triumphant. “And a good riddance too,” cried Mrs. Ford, “a fellow not worth a penny, and giving himself airs as if he had hundreds in his pocket.” “My dear,” her husband said, “perhaps you are too severe. I think sometimes you are too severe; but I can’t say I think him much of a loss, Lucy, if you will take my opinion.” Lucy was not much comforted by this deliverance, and after hearing a full discussion of Mrs. Stone and her belongings, was less consoled than ever. If they were poor so much the more dismal for him to fail. Lucy could not settle to her own work, she could not resume her own tasks so dutifully undertaken, but in which she felt so little interest. It was easy for Jock to dispose of himself on the great white hearth-rug with his book. She could not help saying this as the sound of the leaves he turned caught her ears. “It does not matter for you,” she said, “you are only a small boy, you never think about anything, or wonder and wonder what people are going to do.” Jockraised his head from the book, and looked at her with his big eyes. He had been conscious of her restlessness all along, though he was reading the “Heroes,” which St. Clair had given him. Her little uncomfortable rustle of movement, her frequent gazings from the window, the under-current of anxiety and uncertain resolution in the air, had disturbed Jock in spite of himself. He lay and watched her now with his head raised. “I wish,” said Jock, “we could get Heré or somebody to come.” But Lucy was more insulted than helped by this speech. “What is the use of trying to speak to you about things?” she cried exasperated, “when you know we are real living creatures, and not people in a book!” And Lucy in her distress cried, which she was not in the habit of doing. Jock raised himself then to his elbow, and looked at her with great interest and sympathy. “Heré can’t come to us,” he said seriously, “but she was just a lady, only bigger than you are. Couldn’t you just go yourself?”
“Jock, do you think I should go?” the girl cried. It was like consulting an oracle, and that is what all primitive people like to do.
“Yes,” said the little boy, dropping down again satisfied upon his fleecy rug. How could he know anything about it? but Lucy took no time to think. She hastened to her room and put on her hat, and was hurrying along the road to the White House, before she had thought what to say when she got there. It was just twelve o’clock, a moment at which Mrs. Stone was always to be found in her parlor, resting for half an hour in the middle of her labors. Lucy found herself tapping at the parlor-door in the fervor of her first resolution. She went in with eyes full of tearful light. Mrs. Stone and Miss Southwood were both in the room. They turned round with great surprise at the sight of her.
“How do you do, Lucy?” Mrs. Stone said, very coldly, not even putting out her hand.
“Oh,” cried Lucy, full of her generous impulse. “Why has Mr. St. Clair gone away?”
“I told you,” said Miss Southwood. “I told you! the girl doesn’t know her own mind.”
Mrs. Stone caught her this time by both hands. “Lucy,” she cried, “don’t trifle or be a little fool. If this is what you mean, Frank will come back. You may be sure he did not want to go away.”
Lucy felt the soft hands which took hold of her grip like fingers of iron, and felt herself grappled with an eager force she couldscarcely withstand. They came round her with anxious faces, seizing hold upon her. For a moment she almost gasped for breath, half suffocated by the closing in around her of this trap into which she had betrayed herself. But the emergency brought back her strength and self-command. “It is not that,” she said, with poignant distress and shame, though she had no reason to be ashamed. “Oh, forgive me, it is not that!”
Mrs. Stone dropped her hands as if they had been hot coals, and turned away. “This is a moment when I prefer to be alone, Miss Trevor,” she said, as she was in the habit of saying to the girls who disturbed her retirement; “if there is anything in which I can serve you, pray say so without any loss of time. I reserve this half hour in the day to myself.”
Thus chilled after the red heat of excitement into which she had been raised, Lucy stood trembling, scarcely knowing what to say.
“I beg your pardon,” she faltered at last; “I came because I was so unhappy about— Mr. St. Clair.”
“Lucy, what do you mean?” cried Miss Southwood. “Don’t frighten the child, Maria! whatdoyou mean? You drive him away, and then you come and tell us you are unhappy. What do you intend us to understand?”
“I wanted to come to you before,” said Lucy, with great humility, looking at Mrs. Stone, who had turned away from her. “Please listen to me for one moment. You said he was not strong, not able to do all he wished. Mrs. Stone, I have a great deal of money left me by papa to be given away.”
Mrs. Stone started to her feet with sudden passion. “Do you mean to offer him money?” she cried.
This time Lucy did not falter, she confronted even the tremendous authority of Mrs. Stone with a steady though tremulous front, and said, “Yes,” very quietly and distinctly, though in a voice that showed emotion. Her old instructress turned on her commanding and imposing, but Lucy did not quail, not even when Mrs. Stone repeated the words, “to offer him money!” in a kind of scream of dismay.
“Maria, let us hear what she means; we don’t know what she means; Lucy, tell it all to me. She can not bear Frank to go away. Let me hear what you mean, Lucy, let me hear.”
It was Miss Southwood who said this, putting herself between Lucy and her sister. Miss Southwood was not imposing, her anxious little face conciliated and calmed the girl. How comfortable it is,how useful to have a partner, or a brother, or sister, entirely unlike yourself! It is as good as being two persons at once.
“Miss Southwood, papa left me a great deal of money—”
At this the listener nodded her head a great many times with a look of pleased assent; then shook it gently and said, “But you should not think too much of your money, Lucy, my dear.”
“To give away,” said Lucy, hastily; “he left me this duty above all, to give away to those who needed it. There is a great deal of money, enough for a number of people.”
“Oh!” Miss Southwood cried out, in a voice which ran up a whole gamut of emotion. She put out her two hands, groping as if she had suddenly become blind. Consternation seized her. “Then you are not—” she said. “Maria, she can not be such a great heiress after all!”
Mrs. Stone’s astonished countenance was slowly turned upon Lucy from over her sister’s shoulder. She gazed at the girl with an amazement which struck her dumb. Then she said with an effort, “You meant to offer some of this—charitable fund—tomynephew—”
“It is not a charitable fund—it is not charity at all. It was to be given in sums which would make the people independent. Why should you think worse of me than I deserve?” cried Lucy; “it is not my fault. I did not want him to say—that— I wanted to help him—to offer him—what papa left.”
Here Mrs. Stone burst out furious. “To offer him—my nephew—a man; and you a little chit of a girl, a nobody—help as you call it—alms! charity!”
“Maria— Maria!” said Miss Southwood. “Stop, I tell you. It is all nonsense about alms and charity. Good honest money is not a thing to be turned away from any one’s door. Lucy, my dear, speak to me. Enough to make people independent! Old Mr. Trevor was a wonderfully sensible old man. How much might that be? You have no right to spoil the boy’s chance. Oh, hold your tongue, Maria! Lucy, Lucy, my dear, do tellme.”
“I never knew that was what he meant, Miss Southwood,” said Lucy, eagerly. “How could I think that he—a Gentleman—” She used such a big capital for the word that it overbalanced Lucy’s eloquence. “And I only a little chit of a girl,” she added, with a tremulous laugh, “it is quite true. But there is this money, and Ihaveto give it away. I have no choice. Papa said— And since he is not strong, and wants rest. Gentlemen want a great deal more money than women; but if it was only for a short time, till he gotstrong—perhaps,” said Lucy, faltering and hesitating, “a few thousand pounds—might do?”
The two ladies stood and stared at her confounded—they were struck dumb, both of them. Mrs. Stone’s commanding intellect stood her in as little stead as the good Southwood’s common sense, upon which she so prided herself. A few thousand pounds?
“And it would make me—so much more happy!” Lucy said. She put her hands together in the fervor of the moment entreating them; but they were both too entirely taken by surprise, too much overwhelmed by wonder and confusion to speak. Only when Mrs. Stone moved, as if in act to speak, Miss Southwood burst forth in alarm.
“Hold your tongue—hold your tongue,” she said, “Maria!” Never in all her life had she so ventured to speak to her dominant sister before.
But when Lucy finally withdrew from this interview it was with a heart calmed and comforted. Mrs. Stone was still stupefied; but her sister had recovered her wits. “You see, Maria, this money is not hers. It is trust money; it is quite a different thing; and she is not such a great heiress after all. Dear Frank, after all, might have been throwing himself away,” was what Miss Southwood said. Lucy heard this, as it were, with a corner of her ear, for, at the same time, the bell began to ring at the White House; and it was echoed faintly by another at a distance which she alone understood. This was the bell for Mrs. Ford’s early dinner, and Lucy knew that the door had been opened at No. 6 in the Terrace, in order that she, if within hearing, might be summoned home. And that was not an appeal which she ventured to disobey.
This morning’s adventure made Lucy’s heart much more light for her pleasure in the afternoon. When Raymond and Emmie rode up at two o’clock, he on the new horse which his father had permitted to be bought for this very cause, she sitting very clumsily on a clumsy pony, Lucy and Jock met them with nothing but smiles and brightness. It was not so bright as the day on which the expedition had been planned. The autumn afternoon had more mist than mellow fruitfulness in it, and there was a cold wind about which shook the leaves in clouds from the trees. And Raymond, for his part, was nervous and uncomfortable. He had a deep and growing sense of what was before him. At a distance, such a piece of work is not so terrible as when seen close at hand. But when time has gone on with inexorable stride to the very verge of a moment which nothing can delay, when the period has come beyondall possibility of escape, then it is not wonderful if the stoutest heart sinks. Raymond had got some advantages already by the mere prospect of this act to come. He had got a great many pleasant hours of leisure, escaping from the office, which he was not fond of; and he had got his horse, which was a very tangible benefit. And in the future what might he not hope for? Emancipation from the office altogether; a life of wealth and luxury; horses, as many as he could think of; hunting, shooting, everything that heart could desire; a “place” in the country; a box somewhere in Scotland; a fine house in town (which moved him less), and the delightful certainty of being his own master. All these hung upon his power of pleasing Lucy—nothing more than pleasing a girl. Raymond could not but think with a little scorn of the strange incongruity of mortal affairs which made all these happinesses hang upon the nod of a bit of a girl; but granting this, which he could not help granting, it was, he had frankly acknowledged, a much easier way of getting all the good things of life than that of laboriously striving for them all his life long—to succeed, perhaps, only at the end, when he was no longer able to enjoy them. “And youarefond of Lucy,” his mother said. Yes—this too the young man did not deny. He liked Lucy, he “did not mind” the idea of spending his life with her. She was very good-natured, and not bad-looking. He had seen girls he thought prettier; but she was not bad-looking, and always jolly, and not at all “stuck up” about her money; there was not a word to be said against her. And Raymond did not doubt that he would like it well enough were it done. But the doing of it! this was what alarmed him; for, after all, it must be allowed that, more or less, he was doing it in cold blood. And many things were against him on this special day. The wind was cold, and it was charged with dust, which blew into his eyes, making them red, and into his mouth, making him inarticulate. And Emmie clung to his side on one hand, and Jock on the other. He could not shake himself free of these two; when Lucy and he cantered forward, instead of jogging on discreetly, these two pests would push on after, Jock catching them up in no time, but Emmie, after lumbering along with tolerable rapidity for thirty yards or so, taking fright and shrieking “Ray! Ray!” Raymond concluded, at last, with a sense of relief, that to say anything on the way there would be impossible. It was a short reprieve for him, and for the moment his spirits rose. He shook his head slightly when they met the party who had gone in the break, and when his mother’s anxious eye questioned him, “No opportunity,” he whispered as he passed her. The party in the break were covered with dust, and they had laid hold upon all the wraps possible to protect them from the cold. There was shelter in the wood, but still it was cold, and the party was much less gay than the previous one had been, though Mrs. Rushton herself did all that was possible to “keep it up.” Perhaps the party itself was not so well selected as on that previous occasion. It was larger, which, of itself, was a mistake, and Bertie, who did not know the people, yet was too great a personage to be neglected, proved rather in Mrs. Rushton’s way. He would stray after Lucy, interfering with Ray’s “opportunity,” and then would apologize meekly for his “indiscretion,” with a keen eye for all that was going on.
“Oh, there is no indiscretion,” Mrs. Rushton said; “but young people, you know, young people seeing a great deal of each other, they like to get together.”
“I see,” Bertie said, making a pretense of withdrawal; but from that moment never took his eyes off Lucy and her attendant. The sky was gray, the wind was cold, the yellow leaves came tumbling down upon their plates, as they eat their out-door meal. Now and then a shivering guest looked up, asking anxiously, “Is that the rain?” They all spoke familiarly of “the rain” as of another guest expected; would it come before they had started on their return? might it arrive even before the refection was over? They were all certain that they would not get home without being overtaken by it. And notwithstanding this alarmed expectation of “the rain,” the ham and the chickens were gritty with the dust which had blown into the hampers. It was very hard upon poor Mrs. Rushton, everybody said.
“Come up and look at the water-fall,” said Ray to Lucy. “No, don’t say where we are going, or we shall have a troop after us. That fellow, that Russell, follows everywhere. Thank heaven he is looking the other way. He might know people don’t want him forever at their heels. Ah! this is pleasant,” Ray said, with as good a semblance of enthusiasm as he could muster, when he had safely piloted Lucy into a narrow leafy path among the trees. But Lucy did not share his enthusiasm; she shivered a little as they plunged into the shadow, which shut out every gleam of the fitful sun.
“It is a great pity it is so cold,” Lucy said.
“A horrid pity,” said Ray, with energy; but then he remembered hisrôle, “for you,” he said; “as for me, I am very happy— Idon’t mind the weather. I could go like this for miles, and never feel the want of the sun.”
“I did not know you were so fond of the woods,” Lucy said.
“Nor is it the woods I am fond of,” said Ray, and his heart began to thump. Now the moment had certainly come. “It is the company I—love.”
“Hallo!” cried a voice behind. “I see some one in front of us—who is it? Rushton. Then this must be the way.”
“Oh, confound you!” Ray said, between his teeth; and yet it was again a kind of reprieve. The leafy path was soon filled with a train of people, headed by Bertie, who made his way to Lucy’s side, when they reached the open space in which was the water-fall.
“Is not this a truly English pleasure?” Bertie said; “why should we all be making ourselves miserable eating cold victuals out of doors when we should so much prefer a snug cutlet at home? and coming to gaze at a little bit of driblet of water when we all expect floods any moment from the sky?”
“It is a pity,” said Lucy, divided between her natural inclination to assent and consideration for Raymond’s feelings, “it is a pity that we have so unfavorable a day.”
“But it is always an unfavorable day—in England,” Bertie said. He had been “abroad” before he came to Farafield, and he liked to make this fact known.
“I have never been anywhere but in England,” said Lucy, regretfully.
“Nor I,” said Ray, defiant.
“Nor I,” said some one else, with a touch of scorn.
“Authors always travel about so much, don’t they?” cried aningénuein a whisper which was full of awe; and this turned the laugh against Bertie. He grew red in spite of himself, and cast a vengeful glance at the young woman in question.
“Ah, you should have seen the day we had at Versailles; such lawns and terraces, such great trees against the bluest, brightest sky. Miss Trevor, do you know I think you should not venture to ride home.”
“Why?” said Ray, with restrained fury, thrusting himself between them.
“I did not suppose it mattered for you, Rushton; but Miss Trevor will get drenched. There, I felt a drop already.”
They all looked anxiously at the gray sky. “I should not like Jock to get wet,” said Lucy. “I do not mind for myself.”
“Come round to this side, you will see the fall better,” Raymondsaid; and then he added, “come along, come along this short way. Let us give that fellow the slip. It is not the rain he is thinking of, but to spoil my pleasure.”
“Versailles is something like Windsor, is it not? have you been there lately, Mr. Russell? Oh, we shall soon know. I can always tell when you gifted people have been traveling by your next book,” said one of the ladies.
“Suppose we follow Rushton,” said Bertie. “He knows all the best points of view.”
And once more the train was at Ray’s heels. “I think I do feel the rain now,” Raymond cried, “and listen, wasn’t that thunder? It would not be wise to be caught in a thunder-storm here. Russell, look after Mrs. Chumley, and make for the open; I will get Miss Trevor round this way.”
“Thunder!” the ladies cried, alarmed, and there was a rush toward an open space.
“Nonsense,” cried Bertie, “there is no thunder,” but it was he himself who had prophesied the rain, and they put no faith in him. As for Lucy, she served Raymond’s purpose involuntarily by speeding along the nearest opening.
“Jock is always frightened. I must see after him,” she cried. Raymond thought she did it for his special advantage, and his heart rose; yet sunk, too, for now it was certain that the moment had come.
“Stop,” he said, panting after her, “it is all right, there is no hurry, I did not mean it. Did you ever see thunder out of such a sky?”
“But it was you who said it,” Lucy cried.
“Don’t you know why I said it? To get rid of those tiresome people; I have never had time to say a word to you all the day.”
“Then don’t you really think it will rain?” Lucy said, doubtfully, looking at the sky. She was much more occupied with this subject than with his wish to say something to her. “Perhaps it would be best to leave the horses, and drive home if there is room?” she said.
“I wish I were as sure of something else as that it will not rain. Stay a little, don’t be in such a hurry,” said Ray. “Ah, if you only knew how I want to speak to you; but either some one comes, or— I funk it. I am more afraid of you than of the queen.”
“Afraid of—me?” Lucy laughed a little; but looked at him, and grew nervous in spite of herself. “Don’t you think we had better wait for the others?” she said.
“I have funked it fifty times; but it does not get any easier by being put off; for if you were to say you would have nothing to do with me I don’t know what would happen,” said Ray. He spoke with real alarm and horror, for indeed he did know something that would inevitably happen. The cutting short of all his pleasures, the downfall of a hundred hopes. “We have seen a great deal of each other since you came home, and we have got on very well.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, “very well! I think I hear them coming this way.”
“No, they are not likely to come this way. I have always got on well with you, I don’t know how it is; often I can’t get on with ladies; but you are always so jolly, you are so good-tempered; I don’t know any one half so nice,” said the youth, growing red. “I am not a hand at compliments, and I never was what you call a ladies’ man,” he continued, floundering and feeling that he had made a mistake in thus involving himself in so many words. “Look here, I think you are the very nicest girl I ever met in my life.”
“Oh, no,” Lucy said, growing graver and more grave, “I am sure you are making a mistake.”
“Not the least a mistake— I like everything about you,” said Raymond, astonished at his own fervor and sincerity. “You are always so jolly; and we have known each other all our lives, when we were quite babies, don’t you remember? I always called you Lucy then. Lucy—our people seem to think that you and I—don’t you think? I do believe we should get on just as well together all our lives, if you were willing to try.”
“Oh, Mr. Raymond,” cried Lucy, distressed, “why, why should you talk to me like this? We are good friends, and let us stay good friends. I am sure you don’t in your heart want anything more.”
“But I do,” cried Raymond, piqued. “You think I am too young, but I am not so very young; many a fellow is married before he is my age. Why shouldn’t I want a wife as well as the others? I do; but Lucy, there is no wife I care for but you.”
“Mr. Raymond, we must make haste, or we shall be caught in the rain.”
“What do I care if we are caught in the rain? But there is not going to be any rain, it was only to get rid of the others,” Raymond said, breathless; and then he added with almost tragical pleading, “It would be better for me that we should be swept away by the rain than that you should not give me an answer.” He puthis hand upon her sleeve. “Lucy, is it possible that you do not like me?” he said.
“I like you very well,” cried Lucy, with tears in her eyes; “but, oh, why should you talk to me like this? Why should you spoil everything? You will think after this that we never can be friends any more.”
“Then you will not?” said Ray. He was a great deal more disappointed than he had thought he could be, and even the satisfaction of having got it over did not console him. His face lengthened more and more as he stood opposite to her, barring her passage, leaning against the stem of a tree. “I never thought you would be so hard upon a fellow. I never thought,” said Raymond, his lip quivering, “that after all you would throw me off at the last.”
“I am not throwing you off at the last—it has always been the same,” said Lucy; “oh, could not you have left me alone?” she cried, half piteous, half indignant. She walked straight forward, passing him, and he did not any longer attempt to bar the way. He followed with his head drooping, his arms hanging limp by his side, the very image of defeat and discomfiture. Poor Ray! he could have cried when he thought of all he had lost, of all he was losing; and yet there began to gleam over his mind a faint reflection of content in that it was over. This at least was a thing which nobody could expect him to repeat any more.
Thetroubles of this interesting picnic were not yet over; there was tea to be made over an impromptu fire from a gypsy kettle, which the young people generally thought one of the most amusing performances of all. And indeed they were all glad of the warmth of the tea, and anxious to get as near as they could to the comforting blaze of the fire, notwithstanding the smoke which made their eyes smart. Mrs. Rushton was busily engaged over this, when Lucy and Ray, one following the other, made their appearance in the center of the proceedings; the others were dropping in from different sides, and in the important operation of making the tea Mrs. Rushton did not perceive the very evident symptoms of what had happened. It was only when a gleam of firelight lighted up the group and showed her son, standing listlessand cast-down, full in the way of the smoke, and receiving it as he might have received the fire of an enemy, that the catastrophe became evident to her. She gave him a hasty glance, half furious, half pitiful. Was it all over? Poor Mrs. Rushton! She was obliged to stand there over the fire boiling her kettle, now and then getting a gust of smoke in her face, and obliged to laugh at it, appealed to on all sides, and obliged to smile and reply, obliged to make believe that her whole soul was absorbed in her tea-making, and in the monotonous question, who took sugar, and who did not? while all the while her mind was distracted with anxiety and full of a hundred questions. Talk of pyschometric facts! If Mr. Galton would measure the thoughts of a poor lady, who, while she puts the tea in her teapot, and inquires audibly with a sweet smile whether Mrs. Price takes sugar, has all at once six ideas presented to her consciousness: 1st. The discomfiture of Ray; 2d. The alienation of Lucy; 3d. Her husband’s fury at all those unnecessary expenses, which he had never countenanced; 4th. The horse which would have to be sold again, probably at a loss, having failed like Ray; 5th. How to get all her party home, it being evident that Ray and Lucy would not ride together as they came; and 6th, with a poignant sting that embittered all the rest, of the exultation of her friends and rivals in witnessing her failure—if Mr. Galton could do that, weighing the weight of each, and explaining how they could come together, yet every one keep distinct, it would indeed be worth a scientific philosopher’s while. But Mrs. Rushton, it is to be feared, would have scoffed at Mr. Galton. She stood at the stake, with the smoke in her face, and smiled like a martyr. “Sugar? I thought so, but so many people don’t take it. I lose my head altogether,” cried the poor lady. “Ray, come here, make haste and hand Mrs. Price her tea.” Even when Ray did come close to her, however, she could not, encircled as she was, ask him any questions. She looked at him, that was enough; and he in reply slightly, imperceptibly, shook his head. Good heavens! and there was the girl standing quite unmoved, talking to somebody, after she had driven a whole family to despair! What could girls be made of? Mrs. Rushton thought.
And just at the moment when this fire of suspense, yet certainty, was burning in her heart, lo, the heavens were opened, and a shower of rain came pouring down, dispersing the company, pattering among the trees. Mrs. Rushton was like the captain of a shipwrecked ship, she was the last to leave the post of danger. Though the hissing of the shower forced up a black and heavy cloud ofsmoke which nearly choked her, she kept her place and shrieked out directions to the others. “The Abbey ruins, the west wing,” she cried; there was shelter to be found there. And now it was that Raymond showed how much filial affection was left in him. He snatched a water-proof cloak from the heap and put it round his mother. “You want shelter as much as any one,” he cried. “Oh, Ray!” exclaimed the poor lady as they hurried along together, the last of all the scudding figures under umbrellas and every kind of improvised shelter. She held his arm tight, and he clung closely to her side. There was no more said between them, as they struggled along under the blinding rain. They had both been extinguished, their fires put out, their hopes brought to an end.
As for Lucy, she shrunk away among the crowd, and tried to hide herself from Mrs. Rushton’s eyes. She was not unconcerned, poor girl. Even the little glimmer of indignation which had woke in her was quenched in her sorrow for the trouble and disappointment which she seemed to bring to everybody. Only this morning she had trembled before Mrs. Stone, and now it was these other people who had been so kind to her, who had taken so much pains to please her, whom she had made unhappy. What could Lucy do? She did not want any of these men to come into her life. She liked them well enough in their own place; but why should she marry them? This she murmured feebly in self-justification; but her heart was very heavy, and she could not offer any compensation to Ray. He was not poor, he did not come into the range of the will. She gathered her riding-skirt up about her and ran to the shelter of the Abbey walls when the shower came on, little Jock running by her side. They had nearly reached that refuge when Jock stumbled over a stone and fell, crying out to her for help. Almost before Lucy could stop, however, help came from another quarter. It was Bertie Russell who picked the little fellow up, and carried him safely into the west wing of the Abbey, where the walls were still covered by a roof. “He is not hurt,” Bertie said, “and here is a dry corner. Why did you run away, Miss Trevor? I followed you everywhere, for I saw that there was annoyance in store for you.”
“Oh, no,” said Lucy, faintly; but it was consolatory to find a companion who would not blame her. He lifted Jock up into a window-seat, and he found her something to sit down upon and take breath, and then he arranged a place for himself between them, leaning against the wall.
“Did you get wet?” Bertie said; “after this you will not think of riding home. I have got a coat which will cover Jock and you;what made them think of a picnic to-day? Picnics are always dangerous in this climate, but in October! Jock, little fellow, take off your jacket, it is wet, and put on this coat of mine.”
“But you will want it yourself,” said Lucy, very grateful. Bertie bore the aspect of an old friend, and the people at Farafield, though she had lived in Farafield all her life, were comparative strangers to her. She was moved to laugh when Jock appeared in the coat, which was so much too large for him, a funny little figure, his big eyes looking out from the collar that came over his ears, but comfortable, easy, and dry. “He has been wrapped in my coat before now,” Bertie said. “Don’t you remember, Jock, on the heath when I had to carry you home? Mary expects to have him back, Miss Trevor, when you return to town. I have not told you,” continued Bertie, raising his voice, “how Mrs. Berry-Montagu has taken me up, she who nearly made an end of me by that review; and even old Lady Betsinda has smiled upon me; oh, I must tell you about your old friends.”
Their dry corner was by this time shared by a number of the other guests, who were watching the sky through the great hole of a ruined window, and had nothing to talk about except the chances of the weather, whether “it would leave off,” whether there was any chance of getting home without a wetting, and sundry doubts and questions of the same kind. In the midst of these depressed and shivering people who had nothing to amuse them, it was fine to talk of Lady Betsinda and other names known in the higher society of Mayfair; and Bertie was not indifferent to this, whatever Lucy’s sentiments might be.
“I ran over to Homburg for a few weeks,” Bertie said. “Everybody was there. I saw Lady Randolph, who was very kind to me of course. She is always kind. We talked of you constantly, I need not tell you. But you should have seen Lady Betsinda in the morning taking the waters, without her lace, without her satin, a wonderful little old mummy swathed in folds of flannel. Can you imagine Lady Betsinda without her lace?” said Bertie, delighted with the effect he was producing. Mrs. Price and the rest had been caught in the full vacancy of their discussion about the rain. To hear of a Lady Betsinda was always interesting. They edged half consciously a little nearer, and stopped their conjectures in respect to the storm.
“I hear it is worth more than all the rest of her ladyship’s little property,” Bertie said. “I don’t pretend to be a connoisseur, but I am told she has some very fine point d’Alençon which has neverbeen equaled. Poor old Lady Betsinda! her lace is what she stands upon. The duchess, they say, declares everywhere that the point d’Alençon is an heirloom, and that Lady Betsinda has no right to it; but if she were separated from her lace I think she would die.”
“It is very dirty,” said Lucy, with simplicity. She was not sure that she liked him to call the attention of the others by this talk which everybody could hear, but she was glad to escape from the troublesome circumstances of the moment.
“Dirty!” he said, repeating her word in his higher tones. “What is lace if it is not dirty? you might say the same of the poor old woman herself, perhaps; but a duke’s daughter is always a duke’s daughter, Miss Trevor, and point is always point. And the more blood you have, and the more lace you have, the more candid you feel yourself entitled to be about your flannel. A fine lady can always make a fright of herself with composure. She used to hold out a grimy finger to me, and ask after you.”
“After me?” said Lucy, shrinking. If he would but speak lower, or if she could but steal away! Everybody was listening now, even Mrs. Rushton, who had just come in, shaking the rain off her bonnet. She had found Lucy out the moment she entered with that keen gaze of displeasure which is keener than anything but love.
“Yes,” said Bertie, still raising his voice. Then he bent toward her, and continued the conversation in a not inaudible whisper. “This is not for everybody’s ears,” he said. “She asked me always, ‘How is little Miss Angel—the Angel of Hope’?”
A vivid color covered Lucy’s face. She was looking toward Mrs. Rushton, and who could doubt that Raymond’s mother saw the flush and put her own interpretation upon it? Of this Lucy did not think, but she was annoyed and disconcerted beyond measure. She drew away as far as possible among the little group around them. Had she not forgotten all this, put it out of her mind? Was there nobody whom she could trust? She shrunk from the old friend with whom she had been so glad to take refuge; after all he was not an old friend; and was there not, far or near, any one person whom she could trust?
When, however, the carriages came, and the big break, into which Lucy and Emmie and little Jock had to be crowded, since the weather was too broken to make it possible that they could ride home, Bertie managed to get the place next her there, and engrossed her the whole way. He held an umbrella over her head when the rain came down again, he busied himself officiously in putting hercloak round her, he addressed all his conversation to her, talking of Lady Randolph, and of the people whom they two alone knew. Sometimes she was interested, sometimes amused by his talk, but always disturbed and troubled by its exclusiveness and absorbing character; and she did not know how to free herself from it. The rest of the party grew tired, and cross, and silent, but Bertie never failed. It was he who jumped down at the gate of the Terrace, and handed her down from amid all the limp and draggled figures of the disappointed merry-makers. They were all too wet to make anything possible but the speediest return to their homes, notwithstanding the pretty supper-table all shining with flowers and lights which awaited them in the big house in the market-place, and at which the Rushtons, tired and disappointed, and drenched, had to sit down alone. Bertie’s was the only cheerful voice which said good-night. He attended her to her door with unwearying devotion. Raymond, who had insisted upon riding after the carriages, passed by all wet and dismal, as the door opened. He put his hand to his hat with a morose and stiff salutation. With the water streaming from the brim of that soaked hat he passed by stiffly like a figure of despair. And Bertie laughed. “It has been a dismal expedition, but a most delightful day. There is nothing I love like the rain,” he said.
Someone else got down from the break after Lucy had been carefully handed out by Bertie, and followed her silently in the rain and dark to the door. He went in after her, with a passing nod of good-night to Bertie, who was somewhat discomfited when he turned round and almost stumbled upon the dark figure of Lucy’s cousin, who went in after her with the ease of relationship without any preliminaries. Bertie was discomfited by this apparition, and felt that a cousin was of all things in the world the most inconvenient at this special moment. But he could do nothing but retire, when the door was closed, and return to his sister, who was waiting for him. He could not bid Philip begone, or forbid him to interfere. Philip had a right, whereas Bertie had none. But he went away reluctantly, much disposed to grumble at Katie, who awaited him very quietly at the corner of the road. Katie’s heart was not so light as usual, any more than her brother’s. Why did Mr. Rainy leave her without a word when, following Bertie and Lucy, he had helped her out of the crowded carriage? They had been together almost all the day, and Katie had not minded the rain; why had he left her now so hastily, without anything but a good-night, instead of taking the opportunity of going with her to the White House, as he had done before? Two heads under one umbrella can sometimes make even the mud and wet of a dark road supportable, and Katie had expected this termination to the day with a little quickening of her heart. But he had put up his umbrella over her, and had left her, following up her brother with troubled haste, leaving Katie wounded and disappointed, and a little angry. It was not even civil, she said to herself, and one or two hot tears came to her eyes in the darkness. When Bertie joined her, she said nothing, nor did he. They crossed the road and stumbled through the mud and darkness to the White House, where Katie did not expect a very cheerful reception; for she knew, having her faculties sharpened by regard for her brother’s interest, that something had happened to St. Clair, who had gone so abruptly away.
“What does Rainy want going in there at this time of night?” Bertie said, as they slid along the muddy way.
“How should I know?” Katie said, sharply. “I am not Mr Rainy’s keeper.”
Poor girl, she did not mean to be disagreeable: but it was hard to be deserted, and then have her attention thus called to the desertion.
“Is he after Lucy, too?” said her brother. Oh, how blind men are! not to see that if he were after Lucy he was guilty of the most shameful deceit to another.
“Oh, I suppose you are all after Lucy! she turns all your heads,” Katie cried, with a harsh laugh. Money! that was the only thing they thought of; and what a fool she had been to think that it was possible that anybody could care for her with Lucy in the way!
As for Philip, he went in, following Lucy, with scarcely a word to any one. Mrs. Ford came out as usual, disposed to scold, but she stopped when she saw Philip behind. “I have something to say to Lucy,” he said, passing her with a nod, and following Lucy upstairs. This made Mrs. Ford forget that bedtime was approaching, and that it was full time to bolt and bar all the windows. She went into her parlor and sat down, and listened with all the breathless awe that surrounds a great event. What could he be going to say? what but the one thing that would finish all doubt? Mrs. Ford had always been a partisan of Philip. And though she fullyvalued Lucy’s fortune, it did not occur to her that a girl could refuse “a good offer,” for no reason at all. That girls do still refuse “good offers,” in the very face of the statistics which point out to them the excess of womankind and unlikelihood of marriage, is one of those contradictions of human nature which puzzle the philosopher. Mrs. Ford thought that it was Lucy’s first experience of the kind, and though she was anxious, she can not be said to have much fear. She put out her gas, all but one light, and waited, alive to every sound.
It would be hard to say why it was that Philip Rainy followed Lucy home. He had perceived his mistake the last time they had been together, and the folly of the constant watch which he had kept upon her; it had done him harm, he felt—it had made him “lose caste,” which was the most dreadful penalty he could think of. And the result of this conviction was that on being asked late, and he felt only on Lucy’s account, to this second party, he had made up his mind that this time he would possess his soul in silence. The thought that Lucy’s money might go to make some blockhead happy, some fool who had nothing to do with the Rainys, was no less intolerable to him than ever; but he began to feel that he could not prevent this by interfering with Lucy’s amusements, and that on the other hand he lost friends, so far as he was himself concerned. Therefore, he had carefully kept away from Lucy during the whole day; and—what else was there to do?—he fell immediately into the still more serious Charybdis which balanced this Scylla—that is to say, he found himself involuntarily, almost unwillingly, by the side of Katie Russell. Not much had been seen of them all the day; they had not minded the threatening of the rain. When the party was starting to go away they had been found at the very last under the same umbrella, leisurely making their way under the thickest of the trees, and keeping the whole party waiting. Between that moment and the arrival of the break at the Terrace Philip could not have given a very clear account of what had happened. It had been a kind of troubled elysium, a happiness darkened only by the thought which would occur now and then that it was an unlawful pleasure, and out of the question. He had no right to be happy—at least in that way. What he ought to have done would have been to make himself useful to everybody, to please the givers of the feast, and to show himself the popular useful young man, worthy of all confidence, which he had been hitherto believed to be. This, or else to secure Lucy the heiress-cousin, whom he had the best right to please—to carry her off triumphantlybefore everybody’s eyes, and to show all the small great people who patronized him how entirely superior he was to their patronage. But this latter was a step that it would only have been safe to take had he been entirely assured of its success; and he was not at all assured of its success either on one side or the other. Lucy did not want him, and he did not want Lucy. This was the fact, he felt; it was a fact that filled him with vexation unspeakable. Why should not he want Lucy? why should he want somebody quite different—a little girl without a sixpence, without interest or connection? Could anything be so perverse, so disappointing! but he could not explain or analyze it. He was forced to confess the fact, and that was all. He did not want Lucy; the question remained, should he compel himself to like her, and after that compel her to like him, notwithstanding this double indifference? The titter with which his late appearance had been received when he returned to the party, and when Katie, all shamefaced and blushing, had been helped into the overcrowded carriage, amid smiles, yet general impatience, for the rain was coming down, and everybody was anxious to get home, had shown him how far astray from the path of wisdom he had gone. Perhaps this conviction would have worn off had he been by Katie’s side crowded up into a corner, and feeling himself enveloped in that atmosphere of her which confused all his faculties with happiness, whenever he was with her, yet was not capable of being explained. But Philip was thrust into an already too large cluster of men on the box, and, crowded there amid the dripping of the umbrellas, had time to turn over in his mind many a troublesome thought. Whither was he going? what had he been doing? was he mad altogether to forget all his interests, to cast prudence behind him, and laugh at all that was necessary in his circumstances? The bitter predominated over the sweet as he chewed the cud of thought, seated on an inch of space among the bags and hampers, and umbrellas of other men, with the confused babble of the break behind him, which was all one mass of damp creatures, under a broken firmament of umbrellas where a few kept up a spasmodic fire of gloomy gayety, while all the rest were wrapped in still more gloomy silence. He heard Katie’s voice now and then among the others, and was partially wounded by the sound of it; then took himself to task and did his best to persuade himself that he was glad she could talk and get some pleasure out of it, and had not, like himself, dropped into a nether-world of gloom from that foolish paradise in which they had lost themselves. Much better if she did not care! he said to himself, with a bitter smile, and thisthought helped to bring out and increase his general sense of discomfiture. The whole business must be put a stop to, he said to himself, with angry energy. And this it was which, when the break stopped to set down Lucy, suggested to him the step he had now taken. Katie was making her way out between the knees of the other passengers, from the place at the upper end of the carriage, where she had been all but suffocated, when Philip jumped down. He caught, by the light of the lamp, a grin on the countenance of the man who was helping her out, as he said, “Oh, here’s Rainy.” But for that he would most likely have gone off with her to the White House and snatched a few moments of fearful joy in the teeth of his own resolution. But that grin drove him wild. He put up his umbrella over her head, and left her abruptly. “I must see Lucy to-night,” he said, leaving her there, waiting for her brother. It was brutal, he felt, after all that had passed, but what, unless he wanted to compromise himself utterly, what could he do? He took no time to think, as he followed his cousin and her companion through the rain.
But when he had followed Lucy silently upstairs he did not know quite what to do or say next. Lucy stopped on her way to her room to change her habit, and looked round upon him with surprise. “Is it you, Philip?” she asked, wondering; then added, “I am glad to see you, I have scarcely seen you all day;” and led the way into the pink drawing-room. Philip sat down as he was told, but he did not know why he had come there, or what he wanted to say.
“The party has been rather spoiled by the rain,” she said.
“I suppose so,” he answered, vaguely. “Did you like it? Sometimes one does not mind the rain.”
“I minded it very much,” said Lucy, with a sigh; then, feeling that she was likely to commit herself if she pursued this subject, she added, “I am rather glad the time is over for these parties; they are—a trouble. The first one is pleasant—the others—”
Then she paused, and Philip’s mind went back to the first one, and to this which was just over. He had not enjoyed the first, except the end of it, when he took Katie home. And this he had enjoyed, but not the end. His imagination escaped from the present scene, and he seemed to see Katie going along the muddy road, under his umbrella, but without him. What could she think? that he had abandoned her? or would she care whether he abandoned her or not?
“That depends,” said Philip, oracularly, and, like Lucy, with asigh; though the sigh was from a different cause. Then he looked at her across the table. She had not seated herself, but stood in her habit, looking taller and more graceful than usual, more high-bred too; for the girls whom Philip was in the habit of meeting did not generally indulge in such an expensive exercise as that of riding. He looked at her with a sort of spectator air, as though balancing her claims against those of the others. “I should not wonder,” he said, “if you would like your season at Farafield to be over altogether, and to be free to go back to your fine friends.”
“Why should you say my fine friends?” said Lucy, with gentle indignation; and then more softly, but also with a sigh, for she had been left for a long time without any news of one at least of them, whom she began to think her only real friend; “but indeed you are right, and I should be very glad to get back—all was so quiet there.”
“So quiet! If you are not quiet in Farafield where should you know tranquillity?” cried Philip, with a little mock laugh. He felt that she must intend this for a joke, and in his present temper it seemed to him a very bad joke.
Lucy looked at him with a momentary inquiry in her eyes—a question which had a great deal of wistfulness and anxiety in it. Could she tell her troubles to him? He was her kinsman—who so well qualified to advise her? But then she shook her head, and turned away from him with an impatient sigh.
“What is it you mean?” he said, with some excitement. His mind was in a turmoil, which he could not tell how to still. He felt himself at the mercy of his impulses, not knowing what he might be made to do in the next five minutes. It was the merest “toss-up” what he would do. Never had he felt himself so entirely irresponsible, so without independent meaning, so ready to be hurried in any direction. He did not feel in him the least spark of love for Lucy. He felt impatient with her, wroth with all the world for making so much of her, indignant that she should be preferred too—others. But with all that he did not know what he might find himself saying to her the next moment. The only thing was that it would not be his doing, it would be the force of the current of Fate, on which he felt himself whirling along—to be tossed over the rapids or dashed against the rocks, he did not know how or when. “What do you mean?” he repeated; “you look mysterious, as if you had something to tell—what is it? I have seen nothing of you the whole day. We have been nominally at the same party, and we are cousins, though you don’t seem to remember it much, andwe once were friends; but I have scarcely seen you. You have been absorbed by other attractions, other companions.”
“Philip!” said Lucy, faltering and growing pale. Was he going to desert her, too?
“Yes,” he said, “it is quite true. I am one that it might have been supposed likely you would turn to. Natural feeling should have made you turn to me. I have always tried to stand by you; and you have got what would have enriched the whole family—all to yourself. Nature pointed to me as your nearest; and yet you have never,” he said, pausing to give additional bitterness to his words, and feeling himself caught in an eddy, and whirling round in that violent stream without any power of his own, “never shown the slightest inclination to turn or to cling to me.”
“Indeed, indeed, Philip—” Lucy began.
“Why should you say indeed, indeed? What is indeed, indeed? Just what I tell you. You have never singled me out, whoever might be your favorite. All your family have been put at a disadvantage for you; but you never singled me out, never showed me any preference—which would have been the best way of setting things right.”
There was a look of alarm on Lucy’s face.
“If it is my money, Philip, I wish you had the half of it, or the whole of it,” she said. “I wish I could put it all away, and stand free.”
“It is not your money,” he said, “it is your—” And here he stopped short, and looked at her with staring troubled eyes. The eddy had nearly whirled him away, when he made a grasp at the bank, and felt himself, all at once, to recover some mastery of his movements. He did not know very well what he had been going to say; “your—” what? love? It was not love surely. Not such a profanation as that. He looked at her with a sudden suspicious threatening pause. Then he burst again into a harsh laugh. “What was I going to say? I don’t know what I was going to say.”
“What is the matter with you, Philip? I am your friend and your cousin; there is something wrong—tell me what it is.” Lucy came up to him full of earnest sympathy, and put her hand on his shoulder, and looked with hectic anxiety in his face. “Tell me what it is,” she said, with a soft tone of entreaty. “I am as good as your sister, Philip. If I could not do anything else I could be sorry for you at least.”
He looked up at her with the strangest staring look, feeling hishead go round and round; and then he gave another loud sudden laugh, which alarmed her more. “I’ll tell you,” he said, “yes, I’ll tell you. It is the best thing I can do. I was going—to make love to you, Lucy—love!—for your money.”
She patted him softly on the shoulder, soothing him as if he had been a child confessing a fault. “No, no, Philip, no. I am sure you were not thinking of anything so unkind.”
“Lucy!” he said, seizing her hand, the other hand. She never even removed the one which lay softly, soothing him, on his shoulder. “You are a good girl. You don’t deserve to have a set of mean hounds round you as we all are. And yet—there are times when I feel as if I could not endure to see you give your fortune, the great Rainy fortune, to some—other fellow. There! that is the truth.”
“Poor Philip!” she said, shaking her head, and still moving her hand softly on his shoulder, with a little consolatory movement, calming him down. Then she added, with a smile, “You need not be in any trouble for that, for I am not going to give it to any—fellow. I never can by the will.”
“I don’t put any trust in that,” he said, “no one would put any trust in that. You will marry, of course, and then—it will be as Providence ordains, or your husband. He will take the command of it, and it will be his, whatever you may think now.”
“I do not think so,” said Lucy, with a smile, “and, besides, there is no such person. You need not trouble yourself about that.”
Then Philip wrung her hand again, looking up at her in such deadly earnest that it took from him all sense of honor. “Lucy, if I could have fallen in love with you, and you with me, that would have been the best thing of all,” he said.
“But you see it has not happened, Philip; it is not our fault.”
“No, I suppose not,” he said, gloomily, with a sigh; “it is not my fault. I have tried my best; but things were too many for me.” Here he got up, shaking off unceremoniously Lucy’s hand. “Good-night! you must be damp in your habit, and I’ve got wet feet,” he said.
Mrs. Ford lay in wait for him as he came down-stairs, but he only said a hasty good-night to her as he went away. His feet were wet, and he realized the possibility of taking cold, which would be very awkward now that the duties of the school in Kent’s Lane had recommenced. Nevertheless, instead of going home, he crossed the road, and went stumbling among the mud toward the White House. What did he want there? he had a dim recollectionof his umbrella, but it was not his umbrella he wanted. And Philip was fortunate, though, perhaps, he did not deserve it. A light flashed suddenly out from the White House as he reached the door. Bertie had taken his sister back, and had gone in, where he met but a poor reception. And Katie had come out to the door to see her brother depart. When she saw the other figure appearing in the gleam of light from the door, she gave a little shriek of mingled pleasure and malice. “It is Mr. Rainy come for his umbrella! Here it is!” she said, diving into the hall and reappearing with the article in question, all wet and shining. She held it out to him, with a laugh in which there was a good deal of excitement, for Katie had not been without her share in the agitations of the evening. “Here is your umbrella, Mr. Rainy. I was so glad to have it, and it is so good of you to save me the trouble of sending it back.” Philip stepped close up to the door, close to her as she stood on the threshold. “It was not for the umbrella I came,” he said as he took it from her. “I came only to look at the house you were in.” It was a strange place to make a declaration, with Bertie within hearing, the dark and humid night on one side, the blazing unsympathetic light of the hall on the other. But he was excited, too, and it seemed a necessity upon him to commit himself, to go beyond the region of prudence, the place from which he could draw back. Katie grew suddenly pale, then blushed crimson, and drew away from the door, with a wavering, hesitating consent. “That was not much worth the while,” she said, hurriedly. “Are you coming my way, Rainy?” said Bertie, who did not understand anything about it, and had his head full of other thoughts.