Side by side along with this pursuit was that of which Mrs. Ford more clearly perceived the danger, the wooing of Mrs. Rushton and her son Ray. Mrs. Ford’s instinct was just, it was the mother who was the more dangerous of the two. Ray, with his hands in his pockets, did not present much of the natural appearance of a hero, and he had still less of the energy and spontaneousness of a successful lover than he had of the appearance which wins or breaks hearts, but, nevertheless, by dint of unwearied exertions, he was kept more or less up to the mark. Lucy had another constant visitor, about whose “intentions” it was less easy to pronounce. Philip Rainy began to come very often to the Terrace; he scorned Ray Rushton, and he paid the compliment of a hearty dislike to St. Clair, he was suspicious of both, and of all others who appeared in the neighborhood; but this was in the true spirit of the dog in the manger, for his own purposes were more confused than ever, and he had no desire to make any effort to appropriate to himself the great prize. He stood by and looked on in a state of jealous watchfulness, sometimes launching a word of bitter criticism against his cousin; but unable to force himself to enter the lists, or take a single step to obtain what he could not make up his mind to resign. Sometimes Katie Russell would be with her friend, and then the young school-master went through such tumults of feeling as nobody had thought him capable of. He was the only one that had any struggle in his mind; but his was a hard one. Love or advantage, which was it to be? By this time it was very clear to him that they had no chance to be united in his case.
It was now October, but the weather was still warm, and it was still possible to play croquet on the lawn, amid an increased partyof young people, the only kind of dissipation which Lucy’s mourning made practicable. Mrs. Rushton’s regrets were great that a dance was not possible, but she knew better than to attempt such a thing, and set all the gossips going. “Next year everything will be very different,” she said, “unless in the meantime some fairy prince comes and carries our Lucy away.”
“I am her guardian, and I will have nothing to say to any fairy prince,” Mr. Rushton said. They both gave a glance at their son as they spoke, who was a good-looking young fellow enough, but not much like a Prince Charmant. And Lucy smiled and accepted the joke quite calmly, knowing nothing of any such hero. She heard all his mother’s praise of Raymond quite unmoved, saying “Indeed,” and “That was very nice;” but without the faintest gleam of emotion. It was very provoking. Mrs. Rushton had made up her mind that Lucy was not a girl of much feeling, but yet would be insensibly moved by habits of association, and by finding one person always at her elbow wherever she moved. Raymond, in the meantime, had profited in a way beyond his hopes. He had got a horse, the better to accompany the heiress on her rides, and his money in his pocket was more abundant; but when his mother spurred him up to a greater display of devotion, the young man complained that he had not encouragement. “Encouragement!” Mrs. Rushton cried; “a girl with no one can tell how many thousands a year, and you want encouragement!” It seemed to her preposterous. Oh, that mothers could but do for sons what they are so lukewarm in doing for themselves! Mrs. Rushton did all that was possible. She told tales of her boy’s courage and unselfishness, which were enough to have dazzled any girl, and hinted and insinuated his bashful love in a hundred delicate ways. But Lucy remained obtuse to everything. She was not clever nor had she much imagination, and love had not yet acquired any place in her thoughts.
This was to be the last croquet-party of the season, and all that was fair and fashionable and eligible in Farafield was gathered on the lawn, round which the scarlet geraniums were blazing like a gorgeous border to a great shawl. Rarely had Lucy seen so gay a scene. When she had herself got through a game, which she did not particularly care for, she was allowed to place herself in one of the low basket-chairs near the tea-table, at which Mrs. Rushton was always seated. “Was there ever such a child?” Mrs. Rushton said; “she prefers to sit with us dowagers rather than to take her share in the game.”
“And what is still more wonderful,” said an old lady, who perhaps did not care to hear herself called a dowager, “your son Raymond seems of the same opinion, though he is a hot croquet-player, as we all know.”
“Oh, Ray; I hope he is too civil to think what he likes himself,” his mother said, with well-assumed carelessness. But this did not take anybody in. And all the elder people watched the heiress, as indeed the younger ones did also in the midst of their game; for though Lucy did not greatly care for his attendance, there were some who prized Ray, and to whom his post at her elbow was very distasteful. He was very faithful to that post on this occasion, for St. Clair had posted himself on Lucy’s other hand, and Raymond’s energies were quickened by opposition.
“Why does not Miss Trevor play croquet?” St. Clair said.
“I have been playing; but it is prettier to look on,” said Lucy; “and I am not at all good. I have never been good at any game.”
“You are quite good enough for me, Miss Trevor,” said Ray. “I never can get on with your fine players, who expect you to study it; now Walford does study it. He gets up in the morning and practices.”
“Mr. Walford is a clergyman, it is part of his duty,” said St. Clair. “A layman has a great many exemptions. He may wear colored ties, and he need not play croquet—unless he likes.” Now Raymond had a blue tie, which was generally considered very becoming to him.
“Do you remember the day we had at the old abbey?” said Ray. “I wonder if we could do that again this season. It was very jolly. Don’t you think we might try it again, Miss Trevor? The ruins are all covered with that red stuff that looks so nice in the autumn; and I hear Mayflower is all right again this morning. I went to the stable to ask. I thought as sure as fate she had got a strain; I had a long talk with Simpson about her.”
“It was very kind of you, Mr. Rushton.”
“Oh, not at all kind—but you can’t think I should not be interested in Mayflower. If she did not carry you so nicely even, she’s a beauty in herself. And she does carry you beautifully—or rather it’s you, Miss Trevor, that—”
“Yes,” said St. Clair, “that is how I would put it. It is you, Miss Trevor, who witch the world with such noble horsemanship that any animal becomes a beauty. That is the right way to put it.”
“But there is no noble horsemanship in my case,” Lucy said with a smile.
“Oh, come, I don’t know that,” cried Ray; “if it comes to circus tricks that wouldn’t answer for a lady; but there aren’t many better riders than you, Miss Trevor. You don’t make any show, but you sit your mare as if you were cut out of one piece, you and she.”
“That is quite a poetical description,” St. Clair said. “Why am I only a pedestrian, while you two canter by? You cover me with dust, and my heart with ashes and bitterness when you pass me on the road. Why is one man carried along on the top of the wave, in the most desirable company, while another trudges along in the dust all by himself? Your ride opens all the problems of life, Miss Trevor, to the poor wretch you pass on the way.”
Lucy looked at him wistfully. It was the look which Jock had described, and it moved St. Clair greatly, but yet he did not know what meaning was in her eyes. Mrs. Rushton saw it too, and it seemed to her that St. Clair was getting the best of it. She called to him suddenly, and he left his post with great reluctance. He had more to say than they had, he had more experience altogether; and it was not to subject the heiress to the seductions of Mrs. Stone’s nephew that Mrs. Rushton had asked him here.
“Don’t you play?” she said; “they are just looking for some one to make up the game. It would be so kind of you to join them. I know they are rather young for you, Mr. St. Clair, but it would be all the more kind if you were to play.”
“It would be too kind,” he said; he had all his wits about him; “they do not care for grandfathers like myself. Let me look on as becomes my years, or, better still, let me help you. There must be some lady of my own standing who wants to be helped to some tea.”
“You are too quick for me,” she said; “you know that is not what I mean; you must not stay among the dowagers. The girls would never forgive me if I kept all the best men here.”
“Ah, is that so?” he said. “But we are making ourselves very useful. Your son is taking charge of Miss Trevor, who is a very important person, and requires a great deal of attention, and I am handing the cake. Mrs. Walford, you will surely take some; I am charged to point out to you how excellent it is.”
“It is too good for me,” said the old lady whom he addressed, shaking all the flowers on her bonnet. She was the curate’s mother, and she thought it her duty to back her hostess up. “You should not mind us, Mr. St. Clair; the girls will be quite jealous if they see all the young men handing cake.”
“Then I must take it to Miss Trevor,” St. Clair said.
Meanwhile Ray was taking advantage of his opportunity. “Won’t you come for a turn, Miss Trevor? Some fellows are so pushing they never know when they are wanted. Do come if it was just to give him the slip. Why should he be always hanging on here? Why ain’t he doing something? If a fellow is out in the world, he ought to stay out in the world, not come poking about here.”
“He is not strong, he is not well enough for his profession,” Lucy said.
“Oh, that is bosh. I beg your pardon, Miss Trevor, but only look at him, he isfat. If he is not strong it is the more shame for him, it is because he has let himself get out of training,” Ray said.
Lucy glanced at St. Clair with the cake in his hand, and a very small laugh came from her. She could not restrain it altogether, but she was ashamed of it. Hewasfat. He was more handsome than Ray, and a great deal more amusing; and he had an interest to her besides which no one understood. She could not dismiss from her mind the idea that he was a man to be helped, and yet she could not but laugh, though with a compunction. A man who can be called fat appeals to no one’s sympathies. She had got up rather reluctantly on Raymond’s invitation, but he had not succeeded in drawing her attention to himself. She was still standing in the same place when St. Clair hastened back.
“You are going round the grounds,” he said, “à la bonne heuretake me with you, please, and save me from croquet. I don’t know the mysteries of the labyrinths, the full extent of Mr. Rushton’s grounds.”
“Oh, there is no labyrinth,” Lucy said.
“And there are no mysteries,” cried Ray, indignantly; three people walking solemnly along a garden-path abreast is poor fun.
“Didn’t my mother put croquet on the card?” he added; “it is always for croquet the people are asked. It is a pity you don’t like it.” Ray wanted very much to be rude, but he was better than his temper, and did not know how to carry out his intention.
“Isn’t it?” said St. Clair coolly; “a thousand pities. I am always getting into trouble in consequence, but what can I do, Miss Trevor? I hate croquet. It isplus fort que moi; and you do not like it either?”
“Not very much,” Lucy answered, and she moved along somewhat timidly between the two men who kept one on each side of her. Raymond did not say much. It was he who had brought heraway, who had suggested “a turn,” but it was this fellow who was getting the good of it. Ray’s heart was very hot with indignation, but his inventive powers were not great, and in his anger he could not find a word to say.
“It is a peculiarity of society in England that we can not meet save on some practical pretence or other. Abroad,” said St. Clair, with all the confidence of a man who has traveled, “conversation is always reason enough. After all, it is a talk we want, not games. We want to know each other better, to become better friends; that is the object of all social gatherings. The French understand all these things so much better than we.”
This the two young people beside him listened to with awe, neither of them having ever set foot on foreign soil.
“For my part,” cried Ray, suddenly, “I don’t see the good of that constant chattering. Far better do something than to be forever talk—talking. It may suit the French, who ain’t good for much else; but we want something more over here. Besides, what can you talk about?” the young man went on; “things can’t happen just to give you a subject, and when you have said it’s a fine day, and what a nice party that was at the Smiths, what more have you got to say?”
“I quite agree with you,” said St. Clair; “when you have no more than that to say it is a great deal better to play at something. But yet conversation has its advantages. Miss Trevor, here is one last rose. It is the last that will come out this season. Oh, yes, there are plenty of buds, but they are belated, they will never get to be roses. There will come a frost to-night and slay them all in their nests, in their cradles. This one is all the sweeter for being on the edge of ruin. I will gather it for you. A flower,” he said, in a low tone, which Ray could only half hear, “is all a poor man can offer at any shrine.” Raymond looked on, crimson with indignation. It was on his lips to bid this interloper offer what belonged to himself, not a flower out of another man’s garden; but when St. Clair tore his finger on a thorn, the real proprietor of the rose was enchanted; but even this the fellow managed to turn to his own advantage. “It has cost me more than I thought,” he said, so low that this time Ray could not hear anything but a murmur. “It is symbolical, I would give all that is in my veins; but it should buy you something better.” Ray did not hear this; but Lucy did, and it filled her soul with wonder. Her eyes opened wide with surprise. She had not even read so many novels as she ought, and she was more puzzled than flattered. Besides, Lucy’s mind was confusedwith the thought, so strong in Raymond’s consciousness, that to cut other people’s roses was a doubtful generosity. She stammered a little as she thanked him, and looked as if asking permission of Ray.
“Oh, Mrs. Rushton ought perhaps to have it, as there are so few roses now,” Lucy said.
“Lucy, I never thought you were a flirt before,” said Mrs. Rushton, half severe, half jocular. They did not walk home with her now, as they had done in the warm August evenings. It was now dark, and almost all the company had dispersed, and the brougham had been ordered to take Miss Trevor home.
“A flirt!” Lucy looked up with great surprise at the word.
“Oh, yes, you may look astonished; perhaps you don’t call that flirting; but I am old-fashioned. No one has been able to get a word with you all the evening. Now recollect,” said Mrs. Rushton, shaking a forefinger at the culprit. “I am very prim and proper, and I have Emmie to think of. You must not set her a bad example; and there’s poor Ray. You have not a bit of feeling for poor Ray.”
Lucy looked at her with very serious inquiring eyes, and went home with a consciousness that there was a rivalry between Mr. St. Clair and Raymond, in which she was more or less involved. Lucy was not very quick of understanding, and neither of them had said anything to her which was quite unmistakable. Had they mentioned the words love or marriage, she would have known what she had to encounter at once; but she was not on the outlook for implied admiration, and their assiduities scarcely affected her. St. Clair was Jock’s tutor, and in constant communication with her, and, no doubt, she thought, it was Mrs. Rushton who made Raymond take so much care of her. This was a shrewd guess, as the reader knows, and, therefore she did not trouble herself about Ray’s attentions, or wonder at the devotion of St. Clair. But she had a faint uneasy feeling in her mind. The rose which she had fastened in her dress was very sweet, and kept reminding her of that scene in the garden. This pricked Lucy’s conscience a little as she drove home in the dark alone with it. It ought to have been given to Mrs. Rushton, not to her; the last Devoniensis, sweet like an echoof summer, the only one that was left. St. Clair had no right to gather it, nor she to wear it. It was a robbery in its way, and this made her uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than the accusation of flirting, of which Lucy felt innocent. The night was dark, but very soft and warm for the season, not even a star visible, everything wrapped in clouds and dimness. When the brougham stopped at the door in the Terrace, some one appeared at once to open it for her, to help her out. “Mr. St. Clair!” she cried, almost with alarm. “Yes,” he said; he was not much more than a voice and a big shadow, but still she could not have any doubt about him. “I hurried on to do my duty as Miss Trevor’s servant; they would not have let me walk home with you, but I was determined to pay my duty here.”
Lucy was embarrassed by this new attention, “I am so sorry you have taken so much trouble,” she said. “I always wait till they have opened the door. Ah! here they are coming; there was no need, indeed, of any one. I am sorry you took the trouble.”
“Trouble!” he said, “that is not the word. Ah, Miss Trevor, thanks! you are wearing my rose.”
“Indeed!” said Lucy. “I am afraid it is not right to cut it. Mr. Raymond looked—it was the last one; and it was theirs—not ours.”
“The churl!” said St. Clair; “he ought to have been too proud if you had put your foot upon it, instead of wearing it. How sweet it is! it is where it ought to be.” Then he paused, detaining her for a moment. “Yes, the door is open,” he said, with a sigh. “I can not deny it. Good-night then—till to-morrow.”
“Good-night!” said Lucy, calmly. She wondered what was the matter? What did he mean by it? He held her hand closely, but did not shake it as people in their ordinary senses do when they bid you good-night, and he kept Mrs. Ford standing at the door with her candle in her hand, blown about by the draught. Mrs. Ford was sleepy, she did not pay much attention to Lucy’s companion. It was past ten o’clock, an hour at which all the Ford household went to bed; and Mrs. Ford knew herself to be very virtuous and self-denying in sitting up for Lucy, and was a little cross in consequence. She said only, “You are late, Lucy. I wonder what pleasure it can be to anybody to be out of bed at this hour,” and shut the door impatiently. The lights were all out except Mrs. Ford’s candle, and the darkness in-doors was very different from that soft darkness out of doors, it was only half past ten, yet Lucy felt herself dissipated. She was glad to hurry upstairs.Jock opened his big eyes as she went through the room in which he slept. He put up a sleepy hand, and softly stroked her rose as she bent down to kiss him. The rose seemed the chief point altogether in the evening. She put it into water on her table, and went to bed with a little tremulous sense of excitement. But she could not tell why she was excited.
It was something in the air, something independent of her, a breath as from some other atmosphere straying into her own.
As for St. Clair, he stumbled home across the common, almost losing his way, as the night was so dark, with a little excitement in his mind too. When he got into Mrs. Stone’s parlor, where she sat at the little meal which was her special and modest indulgence, he was greeted by both ladies with much interest and many questions. “Did it go off well?” Miss Southwood said, who liked to hear what there had been to eat at the “heavy tea” which followed the croquet party, and whether there had been wine on the table in addition to the tea. But Mrs. Stone looked still more anxiously in Frank’s face. “Are you getting on? Are you making progress?” was what she said. To which he answered, with a great deal of earnestness, in the words of the poet:
“‘He either fears his fate too much,Or his deserts are small,Who dares not put it to the touchTo gain or lose it all.’”
“‘He either fears his fate too much,Or his deserts are small,Who dares not put it to the touchTo gain or lose it all.’”
“‘He either fears his fate too much,Or his deserts are small,Who dares not put it to the touchTo gain or lose it all.’”
“Has it come so far as that?” said Mrs. Stone.
“I think so; but do not ask me any more questions,” he said, and he was treated with the utmost delicacy and consideration. Without another word, a plate with some of Mrs. Stone’s delicately cooked dish was set before him, and a large glass of East India sherry poured out, far better fare than the cold viands and tea prepared for Mrs. Rushton’s many guests, while the conversation was gently led into another channel. His feelings could not have been more judiciously studied, for he had been too much intent upon Lucy to eat much at the previous meal, and agitation is exhausting. The only further allusion that was made to the crisis was when Mrs. Stone bade him good-night. She kissed him on the cheek, and said softly, “I quite approve your action if you think the occasion is ripe for it, but do not be premature, my dear boy.”
“No, I will not be premature,” he said, smiling upon her. His heart expanded with a delightful self-confidence. It did not seem to him that there was any cause to fear.
And as he sat in the little room at the end of the long passage, where he was permitted to smoke, and watched the floating clouds that rose from his cigar, the imaginations which rose along with these circling wreaths were beautiful. He saw within his grasp a something sweeter than love, more delicious than any kind of dalliance. Wealth! the power of doing whatever he pleased, stepping at once into a position, he, the unsuccessful, which would leave all the successful men behind, and dazzle those who had once passed him by in the race. He was not disinclined toward Lucy. He felt it was in him indeed to be fond of her, who could do so much for him. She could open to him the gates of paradise, she could make him the happiest man in the world. These hyperboles would be strictly true, far more true than they were in the majority of the cases in which they were uttered with fullest sincerity. But nobody could be more sincere than Frank St. Clair in his use of the well-worn formulas. It was nothing less than blessedness, salvation, an exemption from ills of life which Lucy had it in her power to confer.
Next morning he went as usual to the Terrace and gave Jock his lesson with a mind somewhat disturbed. The little fellow with his grammar, the tranquil figure of the girl over her books, the ordinary aspect of the room with which he was growing so familiar, had the strangest effect upon him in the state of excitement in which he found himself. The monotony of the lesson which had to be made out all the same, word by word, and the strange suspense and expectation in which he sat amid all the calmness of the domestic scene, made St. Clair’s head go round. He did not know how to support it, and it was before his hour was out that he suddenly interrupted Jock’s repetition with a sudden harsh whisper.
“Run and play,” he said; “that is enough for to-day.”
He had not even heard what Jock had been saying for the last ten minutes. The child looked up in the utmost surprise. He was stopped in the middle of a sentence, the words taken out of his mouth. He looked with his eyes opening wide.
“Run and play,” St. Clair repeated, his lips were quite dry with excitement; “I want to speak to Lucy.”
He had never spoken of her as Lucy before, he had never thought of suggesting that Jock should run and play. The child, though startled and indignant, yielded to the emergency which was unmistakable in his instructor’s face. He looked at St. Clair for a moment, angry, then yielding to the necessity. And Lucy, whose interest in her history-book was never of an absorbing description, hearing the pause, the whisper, the little rustle of movement,looked up too. She saw with some astonishment that Jock was leaving the room.
“Have you got through your lessons already?” she cried.
St. Clair made the child an imperative sign, and got up and approached Lucy.
“I have sent him away,” he said, and then stood for a moment looking down upon her. She, on her side, looked up with a surprised countenance. There could not have been a greater contrast than that which was apparent between them; he full of excitement, she perfectly calm, though surprised, wondering what it was he was about to say to her, and what his restrained agitation could mean. “I sent him away,” said St. Clair, “because I wanted to say something to you, Miss Trevor; I could not delay it any longer. It has been almost more than I could do to keep silence so long.”
“What is it?” she said. She was gently anxious, concerned about him, wondering if he was going to relieve her of her difficulty by confessing his wants, and putting it into her power to help him. It did not occur to Lucy that a man would be very unlikely to confide troubles about money to a girl. The distribution of her money occupied her own mind so much that it seemed, on the contrary, a likely matter to her that others should be so preoccupied too.
“I have something to say to you,” he repeated; but the look of her mild blue eyes steadfastly directed toward him made what he had to say a great deal more difficult to St. Clair. A chill doubt penetrated into his mind; he hesitated. The least little uncertainty on her part, a blush, a shade of trouble, would have made everything easier to him; but Lucy was not excited. She “did seriously incline” to hear whatever he might have to say, but her eyes did not even veil their mild light, nor her cheek own the shadow of a flush. To discharge a declaration of love point-blank at a young woman who is gazing at you in perfect composure and ease, without a shade of expectation in her countenance, is no easy matter. Besides, the fact of her composure was, of all things in the world, the most discouraging to her suitor; and it was what he had not anticipated. It came upon him as a revelation of the most chilling and discouraging kind. “Now that the moment has come,” said. St. Clair, “all the unkind judgments I may be exposing myself to seem to rise up before me. I never thought of them till now. The sincerity of my feelings was my defense. Now I feel overwhelmed by them. Miss Trevor— Lucy! I feel now that I have been a fool. What I wanted to say is what I ought not to say.”
He covered his face with his hands, and turned away from her. Lucy was much concerned. This little pantomime, which, however, was the sincerest part of all St. Clair’s proceedings, took away her indifference at once. Her composed countenance was disturbed, a little color came to her face.
“Oh, tell me what it is,” she cried.
When he looked at her, there was an air almost of entreaty on Lucy’s face. She repeated her petition, “Tell me what it is,” looking anxiously up to him. His heart beat very loudly. To
“ ... 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.”
is not so easily done in reality as in verse. He drew a long, almost sobbing, breath. He dropped down suddenly on one knee, close to her. This was not any expedient of humility or devotion, but merely to bring himself on a level with her, and as such Lucy understood it, though she was surprised.
“Lucy!” he said (and this startled her still more), “Lucy! don’t you know what it is? can not you guess? haven’t you seen it already in every look of my face, in every tone of my voice? Ah, yes, I am sure you know it. I am not a good dissembler, and what else could have kept me here? Lucy! I am not good enough for you, but such as I am, will you have me?” he cried.
“Haveyou, Mr. St. Clair!” Lucy stammered out in consternation. She understood him vaguely, and yet she did not understand him.Havehim! not give to him, but take from him. He had put it skillfully, without, however, being aware that he was doing so, excitement taking the place of calculation, as it often does. He held out his hands for hers, he looked at her with eyes full of entreaty, beseeching, imploring. There was nothing fictitious in their eloquence. He meant as sincerely as ever lover meant, and the yes or no was to him, as in the case of the most impassioned wooer, like life or death.
“Yes,” he said, “have me! I am not much of a man, but with you I should be another creature. You would give me what I have always wanted, an inspiration, a motive. Since the first time I saw you, my happiness has been in your hands; for what else do you think I have been staying here? I have not done all I might have done, but, Lucy, if love had not held me, do you think I am good for nothing but to be tutor to a child? I have served for love, like Jacob, for you.”
Lucy gave a low cry at this. She put her hands, not into his, but together, wringing them with sudden pain.
“Oh,” she said, “why did not you tell me before? Oh, Mr. St. Clair, why did I not know?”
“Do you think I grudge it?” he said, “not if it had been as long as Jacob’s. Do you think I regret having done this for you? not if it had been a life-time; but Lucy, you are too good to keep me in suspense, you will give me my reward at the end?”
And this time he took her clasped hands into his, drawing her to him. Lucy’s courage had failed for a moment. Confusion and trouble and distress had taken away all the strength from her. There was a mist over her eyes, and her voice seemed to die away in her throat; but at his touch her girlish shyness came to her aid. A flush of shrinking and shame came over her. She drew away from him with an instinctive recoil.
“Mr. St. Clair, I don’t know what you want from me. I am very grateful to you about Jock. I thought it was a great favor; but I did not know—oh, I am very sorry, very sorry that you should have done anything that was not good enough for me.”
“I am not sorry,” he said; his heart began to sink, but he looked more lover-like, more eager than ever. “You do not know how sweet it is to serve those one loves. Do you remember what Browning says about Dante’s angel and Raphael’s sonnet?” He was a man of culture himself, and he did not reflect that Dante, and Raphael, and Browning were all alike out of Lucy’s way, who stared at him with growing horror, as he pleaded, feeling that he must be citing spectators of his sacrifices for her, who would blame her, and say she used him badly. “This is my sonnet and my picture,” he added; “‘Once, and only once, and for one only.’ Lucy! believe me, I should never have said anything about it, save to prove my dear love.”
Blanched with pain and terror, her mild eyes opened widely, her breath coming quick, Lucy looked at him kneeling by her side, and held herself away, leaning to the other hand to avoid the almost unavoidable contact. She kept her eyes fixed upon him to keep watch more than anything else, upon what he would do next.
He saw that his cause was lost. There was neither love nor gratitude for love in the stare of her troubled eyes; but he would not give in without another effort. He said, softly sinking his voice, “You ask what I want from you, Lucy? Alas! I thought you would have divined without asking. Your love, dear, in return for mine, which I have given you. What I want is nothing less than your love—and yourself.”
Again he put out his hands to take hers. To think that thisshould be all the mere fancy of a little girl, all that stood between him and bliss, not perhaps the usual kind of lover’s bliss, yet happiness, rapture. Impatience seized him, which he could scarcely restrain. Such a trifling obstacle as this, no obstacle at all, for it was clear she could not know what was for her own advantage, what would make her happy. Then came an impatient inclination upon him to capture her by his bow and spear, to seize upon her simply and carry her off, and compel her to see what was for her own advantage. But alas! the rules of conventional life were too many for St. Clair. Though this he felt would have been the natural and the sensible way of proceeding, he could not adopt it. He had still to kneel by her side and do his best to persuade her. He could not force her to do even what was so evidently for her good.
The extremity of her need brought back Lucy’s courage. She felt herself driven to bay, and it was evident that he must have no doubt as to the answer she gave. She looked at him as steadily as her trembling would permit, a deep flush came over her face, her lips quivered.
“Do you mean that you want to—marry me, Mr. St. Clair?” she said.
St. Clair felt that the moment was supreme. He threw all the passionate entreaty which was possible (and his passion was real enough) into his look, and gathering her hands into both his, kissed them again and again.
“What else?” he said, in a whisper, which must have thrilled through and through a heart in which there was any response. But in Lucy’s there was no response. She stumbled to her feet with an effort, getting her hands free, and leaving her discomfited suitor kneeling by the side of her empty chair in ludicrous confusion. He had, indeed, to grasp hold of the chair, or the sudden energy of her movement would have disturbed his balance too.
“That is impossible, impossible!” Lucy cried, her cheeks burning, her mild eyes glowing; “you must never speak of it again, you must never mention it to me more. I could not,” she added, feeling in his look that all was not settled, even by this vehement negative, “I could not, I could never marryyou; and I do not want to be married at all.”
“Not now, perhaps, but some time you will,” he said. He had risen from his knee, and stood opposite to her, banishing as best he could his confusion from his face. “Not now; I have been rash,I have frightened you with an avowal which I ought not to have made so soon; but Lucy, dearest, the time will come.”
“Not now, or ever!” she cried; “oh, Mr. St. Clair, believe me! don’t let it be all to go over another time; neither now nor ever. I may be frightened, I never thought of anything like this before; but now you have made me think of it, I know—thatis impossible, it could never, never be!”
“You are very sure of yourself,” he said, with a little involuntary bitterness; for it is not pleasant to be rejected, even when you think it is the dictate of fright, and St. Clair did not think so, but only pretended so to think.
“Yes, I am very, very sure. Oh, indeed, I am sure. Anything, anything else! If I could help you to get on, if I could be of any use. Anything else; but that can never be!” said Lucy, with tremendous firmness. He looked at her with cynical scorn in his eyes.
“I will never thrust anything upon a lady against her will,” he said, “even to save her from the blood-hounds; one can not do that, but the time will come— I know very well the time will come.” He was as much agitated as if indeed he had loved Lucy to desperation. He went to the table and collected his books with a tremendous vehemence. “I must now wish you good-morning, Miss Trevor,” he said.
And it was with a troubled heart that Lucy saw him go. What could she have done otherwise? She could not bear that any one should leave her thus. She longed to be able to offer him—anything that would salve his wound. If he would only take some of the money! if he would only accept her help, since she could not give him herself. She looked after him with her heart wrung, and tears in her piteous eyes.
Thiswas Lucy’s first experience of love-making. It is needless to say that it was very far from being her last; but for the moment it was an appalling revelation to her, an incident of the most disturbing and disquieting kind. She was alone for a long time after St. Clair’s withdrawal. It was the morning, the time when Mrs. Ford was occupied with household concerns, and Jock, being freed sooner than usual, had betaken himself to one of his habitual corners with a book, and was thousands of mental miles away fromhis sister. She remained alone in that pink drawing-room, in which already she had spent so many lonely hours. There she stood hidden behind the curtains, and watched St. Clair speeding across the road that skirted the common to the White House. She had seen him coming and going a great many times with placid indifference. But she could not be indifferent to anything about him now. His hasty pace, so unlike the usual stateliness of demeanor in which he resembled his aunt, the books under his arm, his stumble as he rushed over the rough ground, all went to Lucy’s heart. She was not sorry that she had given forth so determined a decision. That she felt at once, with her usual good sense, was unavoidable. It was not a question upon which any doubt could be left. But she was very sorry to have given him pain, very sorry that it had been necessary. She felt pained and angry that such an appeal should have been made to her, yet at the same time self-reproachful and sore, wondering how it was her fault, and what she could have done. It dismayed her to think that she had voluntarily and deliberately inflicted pain, and yet what alternative had been left her? Now, she thought to herself sadly, here was an end of all possibility of helping a man who was poor, and whom she would have been so glad to help. He would not take anything from her now, he would be angry, he would reject her aid, although so willingly given. This gave Lucy a real pang. She could not get it out of her mind. How foolish, she moralized, to put off a real duty like this, to let it become impossible! She was sitting pondering very sadly upon the whole matter, asking herself wistfully if anything could be done, when Mrs. Rushton came in, full of the plan which Raymond had proposed the evening before. Mrs. Rushton was always elated by a new proposal of pleasure-making. It raised her spirits even when nothing else was involved. But in this case there was a great deal more involved.
“It is the very thing to finish the season,” she said; “we have had a very pleasant season, especially since you came back, Lucy. You have made us enjoy it twice as much as we usually do. For one thing, home has been so much more attractive than usual to Ray. Oh, he is always very good, he does not neglect his own people; still young men will be young men, and you know even Shakespeare talks of ‘metal more attractive’ than a mother. So as I was saying— Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Ford?”
As usual, Mrs. Ford made her appearance, sweeping in her purple silk, which was of a very brilliant and hot hue, and put every other color out. Her punctual attendance, when ladies came tosee Lucy, served her purpose very well, for it made it apparent to these ladies that Lucy’s present hostess was a very dragon of jealous carefulness, and was likely to guard the golden apples against all comers as she did from them.
“How do you do?” said Mrs. Ford, stiffly, taking a stiff and high backed chair.
“It is a very fine day,” said Mrs. Rushton; “what pleasant weather we are having for this time of the year! I was remarking to Lucy that it had been the most enjoyable summer. I always say that for young people there is nothing so enjoyable as out-door parties when the weather is good. They get air and they get exercise, far better than being cooped up in stuffy ball-rooms. I feel quite thankful to Lucy, who has been the occasion of so many nice friendly meetings.”
“She has had a deal too much of gayety, I think,” said Mrs. Ford, “considering that her poor dear father has not been much more than six months in his grave.”
“You can not really call it gayety, oh, no, not gayety! a few nice quiet afternoons on the lawn, and just one or two picnics. No, Lucy dear, you need not be frightened; I will never suffer you to do anything inconsistent with your mourning. You may rely on me. If anything, I am too particular on that point. Your nice black frocks,” said Mrs. Rushton, with fervor, “have never been out of character with anything. I have taken the greatest care of that.”
“I don’t say anything about the afternoons,” said Mrs. Ford, “but I know that it was half-past ten when your carriage came to the door last night with Lucy in it. I don’t hold with such late hours. Ford and me like to be in bed at ten o’clock.”
“Ah, that is very early,” Mrs. Rushton said, with an indulgent smile; “say eleven, and I will take care that Lucy has some one with her to see her safe home.”
“Oh, for that matter, there’s always plenty with her,” said the grumbler, “and more than I approve of. I don’t know what girls want with all that running about. We never thought of it in our day. Home was our sphere, and there we stayed, and never asked if it was dull or not.”
“That is very true; and it was very dull. We don’t bring up our children like that nowadays,” said Mrs. Rushton, with that ironical superiority which the mother of a family always feels herself justified in displaying to a childless contemporary. Mrs. Ford had no children to get the advantage of the new rule. “And,” she added, “one feels for a dear child like Lucy, who has no mother, that one is doubly bound to do one’s best for her. How poor dear Mrs. Trevor would have watched over her had she been spared! a motherless girl has a thousand claims. And, Lucy,” continued her indulgent friend, “this is Ray’s party. It is he that is to manage it all; he took it into his head that you would like to see the Abbey again.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, surprised that they should show so much thought for her, but quite ready to be pleased and grateful too.
“He and his sister will come and fetch you at two o’clock,” she continued; “it will be quite hurriedly got up, what I call an impromptu—but all the better for that. There will be just our own set. Mrs. Stone of course it would be useless to ask, now that school has begun again; but if there is any friend whom you would like to have—”
It was as if in direct answer to this half-question that at that moment the door opened and Katie Russell, all smiles and pleasure, came in. “Lucy,” she cried, “Bertie has come, as I told you; he wants so much to see you; may I bring him in? Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Ford, I did not see that you were here.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Mrs. Ford, grimly; “most folks do the same.”
“Is it your brother, the author?” said Mrs. Rushton, excited. She was so far out of the world, and so little acquainted with its ways, that she felt, and thought it the right thing to show that she felt, an interest in a real living novelist. “Lucy, we must have him come to the picnic,” she cried.
But she was not so enthusiastic when Bertie appeared. His success had made a great difference in Bertie’s outward man; he was no longer the slipshod youth of Hampstead, by turns humble and arrogant, full of boyish assurance and equally boyish timidity. Even in that condition he had been a handsome young fellow, with an air of breeding which must have come from some remote ancestor, as there was no nearer way by which he could have acquired it. When he walked into the room now, it was as if a young prince had suddenly appeared among these commonplace people. It was not his dress, Mrs. Rushton soon decided, for Raymond was as well dressed as he—nor was it his good looks, though it was not possible to deny them; it was—more galling still—somethingwhich was neither dress nor looks, but which he had, and, alas! Raymondhad not. Mrs. Rushton gazed at him open-eyed, while he came in smiling and gracious, shaking hands with cordial grace.
“It is not my own boldness that brings me,” he said, “but Katie’s. I am shifting the responsibility off my own shoulders on to hers, as you ladies say we all do; but for Katie’s encouragement, I don’t know if I would have ventured.”
“I am very glad to see you,” Lucy said; and then they all seated themselves, the central interest of the group shifting at once to the new-comer, the young man of genius, the popular author. He was quite sensible of the duties of his position, treated the ladies round himen bon princewith a suitable condescension to each and to all.
“I have a hundred things to say to you from my mother,” he said; “she wishes often that you could see her in her new house, where she is very comfortable. She thinks you would be pleased with it.” This was said with a glance of confidential meaning, which showed Lucy that, though Katie was not aware of it, her brother knew and acknowledged the source from which his mother’s comfort came. “And it is very kind of you to admit us at this untimely hour,” he said to Mrs. Ford, looking at her purple silk with respect as if it had been the most natural morning-dress in the world. “Katie is still only a school-girl, and is guided by an inscrutable system. I stand aghast at her audacity; but I am very glad to profit by it.”
“Oh, as for audacity,” said Mrs. Ford, “that is neither here nor there, we are well used to it; but whenever you like to come, Mr. Russell, you’ll find a welcome. I knew your good father well, and a better man never was—”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Rushton, eager to introduce herself, “I must be allowed to say so too. I knew Mr. Russell very well, though I never had the pleasure of making acquaintance with his family. I am afraid, after the society you must have been seeing, you will find Farafield a very benighted sort of place. There is nothing that can be called society here.”
“That is so much the better,” said Bertie graciously; “one has plenty of it in the season, it is a relief to be let alone: and my object in coming here is not society.”
“Oh, I told you, Lucy,” cried his sister, “he has come to study.” A frown crossed Bertie’s face; he gave her a warning look. “I want rest,” he said; “there is nothing like lying fallow. It does one all the good in the world.”
“Ah!” cried Mrs. Rushton, “I know what that means. Youhave come to take us all off, Mr. Russell; we will all be put into your new book.”
Bertie smiled a languid and indulgent smile. “If I could suppose that there were any eccentricities to be found in your circle,” he said, “perhaps—but good breeding is alike over all the world.”
Mrs. Rushton did not quite know what this meant; but it was either a compliment or something that sounded like one. She was delighted with this elegant young man of genius, who was so familiar with and indifferent to society. “If you will come to the little picnic I am planning for to-morrow, you shall judge for yourself,” she said; “and perhaps Mrs. Stone will let your sister come too,” she added, with less cordiality. Katie, whom every one knew to be only a governess-pupil, had not attracted her attention much. She had been accepted with toleration now and then as Lucy’s friend, but as the sister of a young literary lion, who no doubt knew all kinds of fine people, Katie became of more importance. Bertie took the invitation with great composure, though his sister, who was notblasée, looked up with sparkling eyes.
“To-morrow?” he said; “I am Katie’s slave and at her disposal. I will come with pleasure if my sister will let me come.”
Was it wise? Mrs. Rushton asked herself, with a little shiver. She made a mental comparison between this new-comer and Ray. The proverbial blindness of love is not to be trusted in, in such emergencies. His mother saw, with great distinctness, that Raymond had not that air, thatje ne sais quoi; nor could he talk about society, nor had he the easy superiority, the conscious genius of Bertie. But then the want of these more splendid qualities put him more on Lucy’s level. Lucy (thank Heaven!) was not clever. She would not understand the other’s gifts; and Ray was a little, just a little taller, his hair curled, which Bertie’s did not; Mrs. Rushton thought that, probably, the author would be open to adulation, and would like to be worshiped by the more important members of the community. What could he care for a bit of a girl? So, on the whole, she felt herself justified in her invitation. She offered the brother and sister seats in the break, in which she herself and the greater part of her guests were to drive to the Abbey, and she made herself responsible for the consent of Mrs. Stone. “Of course I shall ask Mr. St. Clair, Lucy,” she said. “I always like to ask him, poor fellow! he must be so dull with nothing but ladies from morning till night.”
“Happy man,” Bertie said; “what could he desire more?”
“But when those ladies are aunts, Mr. Russell?”
“That alters the question. Though there is something to be said for other people’s aunts,” said Bertie, “I am not one of those who think all that is pleasant is summed up in youth.”
“Oh, you must not tell me that. You all like youth best,” said Mrs. Rushton; but she was pleased. She felt her own previsions justified. A young man like this, highly cultivated and accustomed to good society, what could he see in a little bread-and-butter sort of a girl like Lucy? She gave Bertie credit for a really elevated tone. She was not so worldly-minded as she supposed herself to be, for she did not take it for granted that everybody else was as worldly-minded as herself.
This succession of visitors and events drove the adventure of the morning out of Lucy’s head. And when she went out with Jock in the afternoon, Bertie met them in the most natural way in the world, and prevented any relapse of her thoughts. He told her he was “studying” Farafield, which filled Lucy with awe; and begged her to show him what was most remarkable in the place. This was a great puzzle to the girl, who took him into the market-place, and through the High Street, quite unconscious of the scrutiny of the beholders. “I don’t think there is anything that is remarkable in Farafield,” she said, while Bertie, smiling—thinking involuntarily that he himself, walking up and down the homely streets, with an artist’s eye alive to all the picturesque corners, was enough to give dignity to the quiet little country place—walked by her side, very slim and straight, the most gentleman-like figure. There were many people who looked with curiosity, and some with envy, upon this pair, the women thinking that only her money could have brought so aristocratic a companion to the side of old John Trevor’s daughter, while the men concluded that he was some needy “swell,” who was after the girl, and thus exhibited himself in attendance upon her. It came to Mrs. Rushton’s ears that they had been seen together, and the information startled her much; but what could she do? She fell upon Raymond, reproaching him for his shilly-shally. “Now you see there is no time to be lost; now you see that other people have their wits about them,” she said; “if you let to-morrow slip, there will be nothing too bad for you,” cried the exasperated mother. But Raymond, though he was more frightened than could be told in words, had no thought of letting to-morrow slip. He too felt that things were coming to a crisis. He stood at the window with his hands in his pockets and whistled, as it were, under his breath. He was terribly frightened; but still he felt that what was to be done must be done, if anything wasto be done. So long as it was only St. Clair, whom he thought middle-aged, and who was certainly fat, who was against him, he had not been much troubled; but this new fellow was a different matter. He did not put his resolution into such graceful words, but he too felt that it was time to