Volume Two—Chapter Six.
Errant Courses.
Lucy Alleyne was very pretty. Everybody said so—that she was pretty. No one said that she was beautiful. Now, Lucy was well aware of what people said, and, without being conceited, she very well knew that what people said was true. In fact, she often admired her pretty little retroussé nose and creamy skin in the glass, and, with a latent idea that she ought to preserve her good looks as much as possible for some one. She thought of the favoured person as “some one,” and tried in every way possible to lead a healthy life.
To attain the above end, she strove hard to improve her complexion. It did not need improving, being perfect in its shades of pink and creamy white, that somehow put him who gazed upon her in mind of a Gloire de Dijon rose; but she tried to improve it all the same, laughingly telling herself that she would wash it in morning dew, or rather let Nature perform the operation, as she went for a good early walk.
The pine woods and copses looked as if trouble could never come within their shades, and the last thing any one would have dreamed of would have been the possibility of men meeting there with sticks, bludgeons, and guns, ready to resist capture on the one side, to effect it on the other, and, if needs be, use their weapons to the staining of the earth with blood.
No news of the past night’s encounter had reached The Firs. Moray Alleyne, while watching the crossing of a star in the zenith over certain threads of cobweb in the field of his transit instrument had heard the reports of guns; but he was too much intent upon his work to pay heed to what was by no means an unusual circumstance. Lucy, too, had started into wakefulness once, thinking she heard a sound, but only to sink back to her rest once more; and as she walked that morning she saw no sign of struggle, though, had she turned off to the right amongst the pines, she might have found one or two ugly traces, as if a burden had had been laid down by those who bore it while they rested for a few minutes, and while a bit of rough surgery was being performed.
The lovely silvery mists were hanging about in the little valleys, or curling around the tops, as if spreading veils over the sombre pines, patches of which, as seen in the early morning sunshine, resembled the dark green and purple plaid of some Scottish clan; and as Lucy reached the edge of the far-stretching common land, dazzled by the brilliancy of the sunshine, and elated by the purity of the morning air, she paused to enjoy the beauty of the lovely scene around.
“How stupid people are!” she said half aloud. “How can they call this place desolate and ugly. Why, there’s something growing everywhere, and the gorse and broom are simply lovely.”
There was a soft moisture in her pretty eyes, as they rested on the blue-looking distant hills, the purple stretches of heather, and the rich green lawnlike patches of meadow land, saved from the wilds around. Between the hills there were dark shadowy spots, upon them brilliant bits of sunshine, while on all sides the gauzy, silvery vapours floated low down, waiting for the sun, as it increased in power, to drink them up, and after them the millions of iridescent tiny globules that whitened the herbage like frost.
The birds were singing from every patch of woodland in the distance; there was the monotonous “coo coo, coo—coo, coo-hoo-coo!” of a wood-pigeon in the pine tops singing his love-song that he always ends in the middle, and far out over the heathery common lark after lark was circling round and rising, in a wide spiral, up and up into the blue sky as it poured forth the never-wearying strain.
“People are as stupid and as dense as can be,” said Lucy. “Ours is a grim-looking home, I know, but oh! how beautiful the country is—I wouldn’t live anywhere else for the world.”
There seemed to be no reason for a blush to come into Lucy’s cheeks at this declaration, but one certainly did come, like a ruddy cloud over their soft outline, as she glanced back at the blank-looking pile with the hideous brick additions made by Alleyne for his instruments and observations. Not so much as a thread of smoke rose yet, from either of the chimneys, for Eliza was only at the point that necessitated a vexed rub occasionally at her nose with the woody part of a blacklead brush; Mrs Alleyne was dreaming of her son; and her son, who sought his pillow a couple of hours before—after a long watch of his star as it climbed to the zenith and then went down—to lie and think of Glynne Day, and ask himself whether he was not a scoundrel to allow such thoughts to enter his breast.
“How good it is to get up so early,” thought Lucy, aloud; and then she stepped lightly over the dewy grass, marked down the spot where several mushrooms were growing, and then stepped on to the sandy road.
“I wish Moray would get up early,” she thought, “it would be so nice to have him for a companion; but, poor fellow, he must be tired of a morning. I know what I’ll do,” she cried suddenly. “I’ll get Glynne to promise to meet me two or three times a week, whenever it’s fine, and we’ll go together.”
Her cheeks flushed a little hot as she began to think about Glynne, and her thoughts ran somewhat in this fashion,—
“She doesn’t know—she doesn’t understand a bit, or she would never have consented. Oh! it’s absolutely horrid, and I don’t believe he cares for her a morsel more than she cares for him.”
Lucy stooped down to pick a mushroom, and laid it aside ready to retrieve as she came back from her walk, for Mrs Alleyne approved of a dish for breakfast.
“Why, at the end of a year it would be horrible,” cried Lucy, with emphasis. “Mrs Rolph! What would be the use of being married, if you were miserable, as I’m sure she would be.”
“It isn’t dishonourable; and if it is, I don’t mind. I know he is beginning to worship her, and it’s as plain as can be that she likes to sit and listen to him, and all he says about the stars. Why, she seems to grow and alter every day, and to become wiser, and to take more interest in everything he says and does.”
“There, I don’t care,” she panted, half-tearfully, as she picked another mushroom; and, as if addressing someone who had had spoken chidingly, “I can’t help it; he is my own dear brother, and I will help him as much as I can. Dishonourable? Not it. It is right, poor fellow! Why, she has come like so much sunshine in his life, and it is as plain as can be to see that she is gradually beginning to know what love really is.”
As these thoughts left her heart, she looked guiltily round, but there was no one listening—nothing to take her attention, but a couple of glistening, wet, and silvery-looking mushrooms in the grass hard by.
“It’s very dreadful of me to be thinking like this,” she said to herself, as she finished culling the mushrooms, and began to make her way back to the road, “but I can’t help it. I love Glynne, and I won’t see my own brother made miserable, if I can do anything to make him happy. It’s quite dreadful the way things are going, and dear Sir John ought to be ashamed of himself. I declare—Oh! how you made me start!”
This was addressed to wet-coated, dissipated rabbit, with a tail like a tuft of white cotton, which little animal started up from its hiding-place at her very feet, and went bounding and scuffling off amongst the heather and furze.
“I wish, oh, how I wish that things would go right,” cried Lucy, with tears in her eyes. “I wish I could do something to make Glynne see that he thinks ten times more about his nasty races and matches than he does about her. I don’t believe he loves her a bit. It’s shameful. He’s a beast!”
There was another pause, during which the larks went on singing, the wood-pigeon cooed, and there was a pleasant twittering in the nearest plantation.
“Poor Glynne! when she might be so happy with a man who really loves her, but who would die sooner than own to it. Oh, dear me! I wish a dreadful war would break out, and Captain Rolph’s regiment be ordered out to India, and the Indians would kill him and eat him, or take him prisoner—I don’t care what, so long as they didn’t let him come back any more, and—”
Pat—pat—pat—pat—pat—pat—pat—pat—a regular beat from a short distance off, and evidently coming from round by the other side of a clump of larches, where the road curved and then went away level and straight for about a mile.
“Whatever is that?” thought Lucy, whose eyes grew rounder, and who stared wonderingly in the direction of the sound. “It can’t be a rabbit, I’m quite sure.”
She was perfectly right; it was not a rabbit, as she saw quite plainly the next minute, when a curious-looking figure in white, braided and trimmed with blue, but bare-armed, bare-legged and bare-headed, came suddenly into view, with head forward, fists clenched, and held up on a level with its chest, and running at a steady, well-sustained pace right in the middle of the sandy road.
It was a surprise for both.
“Captain Rolph!” exclaimed Lucy, as the figure stopped short, panting heavily, and looking a good deal surprised.
“Miss Alleyne! Beg pardon. Didn’t expect to see anybody so early. Really.”
Lucy felt as if she would like to run away, but that she felt would be cowardly, so she stood her ground, and made, sensibly enough, the best of matters in what was decidedly a rather awkward encounter.
“I often come for an early walk,” said the girl, coolly as to speech, though she felt rather hot. “Is this—is this for amateur theatricals?”
It would have been wiser not to allude to the captain’s costume, but the words slipped out, and they came like a relief to him, for he, too, had felt tolerably confused. As it was his features expanded into a broad grin, and he then laughed aloud.
“Theatricals? Why, bless your innocence, no. I am in training for a race—foot-race—ten miles—man who does it in shortest time gets the cup. I give him—”
“Him?” said Lucy, for her companion had paused.
“Yes, him,” said the captain. “Champion to run against.”
“Run against?” said Lucy, glancing at a great blue bruise upon the captain’s arm and a piece of sticking-plaister upon his forehead. “Do you hurt yourself like that when you run against men?”
“Haw, haw, haw! Haw, haw, haw!” laughed the captain. “I beg pardon, but, really, you are such a daisy. So innocent, you know. That was done last night out in the woods. Bit of a row with some poacher chaps. One of them hit me with a stick on the head. That’s from the butt of a gun.”
He gave the bruise on his bare arm a slap, and laughed, while Lucy coloured with shame and annoyance, but resolved to ignore the captain’s rather peculiar appearance, and escape as soon as she could.
“I ought not to mind,” she said to herself. “It’s only rather French. Like the pictures one sees in the illustrated papers about Trouville.”
“Were you fighting?”
“Well, yes,” he said indifferently, “bit of a scrimmage. Nothing to mind. People who preserve often meet with that sort of a thing. I did run against a fellow, though,” he continued, laughing. “But that’s not the sort of running against I meant. I’m going to do a foot-race. Matched against a low sort of fellow.”
“Oh!” said Lucy, looking straight before her.
“Professional, you know; but I’m going to run him—take the conceit out of the cad. Bad thing conceit.”
“Extremely,” said Lucy tightening her lips.
“Horrid. I’m going to give him fifty yards.”
“Oh!” said Lucy, gravely, as she took a step forward without looking at the captain. “But don’t let me hinder you. I was only taking my morning walk.”
“Don’t hinder me a bit,” said the captain. “I was just going to put on the finishing spurt, and end at that cross path. I’ve as good as done it, and I’m in prime condition.”
“Bad thing conceit,” said Lucy to herself.
“Fresh as a daisy.”
“Horrid,” said Lucy again to herself.
“I feel as if I could regularly run away from him. My legs are as hard as nails.”
“Indeed!”
“Oh, yes. I haven’t trained like this for nothing. Don’t you think you’ve hindered me. I sha’n’t trouble about it any more.”
All this while Lucy was trying to escape from her companion, but it was rather a wild idea to trudge away from a man whose legs were as hard as nails. As she walked on, though, she found herself wondering whether the finishing spurt that the captain talked of putting on was some kind of garment, as she kept steadily along, with, to her great disgust, the captain keeping coolly enough by her side, and evidently feeling quite at home, beginning to chat about the weather, the advantages of early rising, and the like.
“I declare,” thought Lucy, “if I met anyone, I should be ready to sink through the ground for shame. I wish he’d go.”
“Some people waste half their days in bed, Miss Alleyne. Glad to see you don’t. I’ve been up these two hours, and feel, as they say, as fit as a fiddle, and, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, you look just the same you do really, you know.”
He cast an admiring glance at her, which she noted, and for the moment it frightened her, then it fired a train, and a mischievous flash darted from her eyes.
This was delicious, and though her cheeks glowed a little, perhaps from the exercise, her heart gave a great leap, and began to rejoice.
“I knew he was not worthy of her,” she thought. “The wretch! I won’t run away, though I want to very badly.” And she walked calmly on by his side.
“Don’t you find this place dull?” said Rolph.
“Dull? oh dear no,” cried Lucy, looking brightly up in his face, and recalling at the same time that this must be at least the tenth time she had answered this question.
“I wish you’d let my mother call upon you, and you’d come up to the Hall a little oftener, Miss Alleyne, ’pon my honour I do.”
“Why, I do come as often as I am asked, Captain Rolph,” said Lucy with a mischievous look in her eyes.
“Do you, though? Well, never mind, come oftener.”
“Why?” said Lucy, with an innocent look of wonder in her round eyes.
“Why? because I want to see you, you know. It’s precious dull there sometimes.”
“What, with Glynne there?” cried Lucy.
“Oh yes, sometimes. She reads so much.”
“Fie, Captain Rolph!”
“No, no; nonsense. Oh, I say, though, I wish you would.”
“Really, Captain Rolph, I don’t understand you,” said Lucy, who was in a flutter of fright, mischief and triumph combined.
“Oh yes, you do,” he said, “but hold hard a minute. Back directly.”
He ran from her out to where something was hanging on a broken branch of a pine, and returned directly, putting on a flannel cricketing cap, and a long, hooded ulster, which, when buttoned up, gave him somewhat the aspect of a friar of orders grey, who had left his beads at home.
“You do understand me,” he said, not noticing the mirthful twinkle in Lucy’s eye at his absurd appearance. “Oh yes, you do. It’s all right. I say, Lucy Alleyne, what a one you are.”
Lucy’s eyebrows went up a little at this remark, but she did not assume displeasure, she only looked at him inquiringly.
“Oh, it’s all right,” he said again. “I am glad I met you, it’s so precious dull down here.”
“What, when you have all your training to see to, Captain Rolph.”
“Oh, yes; awfully dull. You see Glynne doesn’t take any interest in a fellow’s pursuits. She used to at first, but now it’s always books.”
“But you should teach her to be interested, Captain Rolph.”
“Oh, I say, hang it all, Lucy Alleyne, can’t you drop that captaining of a fellow when we’re out here tête-à-tête. It’s all very well up at the Hall but not here, and so early in the morning, we needn’t be quite so formal, eh?”
“Just as you like,” said Lucy, with the malicious twinkle in her eyes on the increase.
“That’s right,” cried Rolph; “and, I say, you know, come, own up—you did, didn’t you?”
“Did what?” cried Lucy.
“Know I was training this morning.”
“Indeed, no,” cried Lucy, indignantly, with a look that in no wise abashed the captain.
“Oh, come now, that won’t do,” cried Rolph. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not a bit ashamed,” cried Lucy stoutly; and then to herself, “Oh yes, I am—horribly. What a fright, to be sure!”
“That’s right,” cried Rolph, “but I know you did come, and I say I’m awfully flattered, I am, indeed. I wish, you know, you’d take a little more interest in our matches and engagements: it would make it so much pleasanter for a fellow.”
“Would it?” said Lucy.
“Would it? Why, of course it would. You see I should feel more like those chaps used, in the good old times, you know, when they used to bring the wreaths and prizes they had won, and lay ’em at ladies’ feet, only that was confoundedly silly, of course. I don’t believe in that romantic sort of work.”
“Oh, but that was at the feet of their lady-loves,” said Lucy, quickly.
“Never mind about that,” replied Rolph; “must have someone to talk to about my engagements. It’s half the fun.”
“Go and talk to Glynne, then,” said Lucy.
“That’s no use, I tell you. She doesn’t care a sou for the best bit of time made in anything. Here, I believe,” he said, warmly, “if that what’s-his-name chap, who said he’d put a girdle round the globe in less than no time, had done it, and come back to Glynne and told her so, she’d just lift up her eyes—”
“Her beautiful eyes,” said Lucy, interrupting.
“Oh, yes, she’s got nice eyes enough,” said Rolph, sulkily; “but she’d only have raised ’em for a moment and looked at him, and said—‘Have you really.’ Here, I say, Puck’s the chap I mean.”
“I don’t think Glynne’s very fond of athletic sports,” said Lucy.
“No, but you are; I know you are. Come, it’s of no use to deny it. I say I am glad.”
“Why, the monster’s going to make love to me,” said Lucy to herself.
“You are now, aren’t you?”
“Well, I don’t dislike them,” said Lucy; “not very much.”
“Not you; and, I say, I may talk to you a bit about my engagements, mayn’t I?”
“Really, Captain Rolph,” replied Lucy, demurely, “I hardly know what to say to such a proposal as this. To how many ladies are you engaged?”
“Ladies? Engaged? Oh, come now! I say, you know, you don’t mean that. I say, you’re chaffing me, you know.”
“But you said engaged, and I knew you were engaged to Glynne Day,” cried Lucy, innocently.
“Oh, but you know I meant engagements to run at athletic meetings. Of course I’m only engaged to Glynne, but that’s no reason why a man shouldn’t have a bit of a chat to any one else—any one pretty and sympathetic, and who took an interest in a fellow’s pursuits. I say, I’ve got a wonderful match on, Lucy.”
“How dare he call me Lucy!” she thought; and an indignant flash from her eyes fell upon a white-topped button mushroom beside the road. “A pretty wretch to be engaged to poor Glynne. Oh, how stupid she must be!”
The mushroom was not snatched up, and Rolph went on talking, with his hands far down in the pockets of his ulster.
“It’s no end of a good thing, and I’m sure to win. It’s to pick up five hundred stones put five yards apart, and bring ’em back and put ’em in a basket one at a time; so that, you see, I have to do—twice five yards is ten yards the first time, and then twice ten yards the second time; and then twice twenty yards is forty yards the third time, and then twice forty yards is eighty yards the fourth time, and—Here, I say, I’m getting into a knot, I could do it if I had a pencil.”
“But I thought you would have to run.”
“Yes; so I have. I mean to tot up on a piece of paper. It’s five yards more twice over each time, you know, and mounts up tremendously before you’re done; but I’ve made up my mind to do it, and I will.”
“All that’s very brave of you,” cried Lucy, looking him most shamelessly full in the eyes, and keeping her own very still to conceal the twitching mischief that was seeking to make puckers and dimples in all parts of her pretty face.
“Well,” he said, heavily, “you can’t quite call it brave. It’s plucky, though,” he added, with a self-satisfied smile. “There are not many fellows in my position who would do it.”
“Oh, no, I suppose not,” said Lucy, with truthful earnestness this time; and then to herself: “He’s worse than I thought.”
“Now that’s what I like, you know,” exclaimed Rolph. “That’s what I want—a sort of sympathy, you know. To feel that when I’m doing my best to win some cup or belt there’s one somewhere who takes an interest in it, and is glad for me to win. Do you see?”
“Oh, of course I am glad for you to win, if it pleases you,” said Lucy, demurely.
“But it doesn’t please me if it doesn’t please you,” cried Rolph. “I’ve won such a heap of times, that I don’t care for it much, unless there should be some one I could come and tell about it all.”
“Then why not tell Glynne?” said Lucy, opening her limpid eyes, and gazing full in the captain’s face.
“Because it’s of no use,” cried Rolph. “I’ve tried till I’m sick of trying. I want to tell you.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t tell me,” said Lucy.
“Oh, yes I must, and I’m going to begin now. I shall tell you all my ventures, and what I win, and when I am going to train; and—I say, Lucy, you did come out this morning to see me train?”
“Indeed, I did not,” she cried; “and even if I had, I should not tell you so.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Rolph, laughing. “I’m satisfied.”
“What a monster for poor Glynne to be engaged to. I believe, if I were to encourage him, he’d break off his engagement.”
“I am glad I met you,” said Rolph, suddenly, and he went a little closer to Lucy, who started aside into the wet grass, and glanced hastily round. “Why, what are you doing?” he said.
“I wanted to pick that mushroom,” she said.
“Oh, never mind the mushrooms, you’ll make your little feet wet, and I want to talk to you. I say, I’m going to train again to-morrow morning. You’ll come, won’t you. Pray do!—Who’s this?”
Both started, for, having approached unheard, his pony’s paces muffled by the turf, Philip Oldroyd cantered by them, gazing hard at Lucy, and raising his hat stiffly to Rolph, as he went past.
“Confound him! Where did he spring from?” cried Rolph. “Why, he quite startled you,” he continued, for Lucy’s face, which had flushed crimson, now turned of a pale waxen hue.
“Oh, no; it is nothing,” she said, as a tremor ran through her frame, and she hesitated as to what she should do, ending by exclaiming suddenly that she must go back home at once.
“But you’ll come and see me train to-morrow morning,” said Rolph.
“No, no. Oh, no. I could not,” cried Lucy; and she turned and hurried away.
“But you will come,” said Rolph, gazing after her. “I’ll lay two to one—five to one—fifty to one—she comes. She’s caught—wired—netted. Pretty little rustic-looking thing. I rather like the little lassie; she’s so fresh and innocent. I wonder what dignified Madame Glynne would say. Bet a hundred to one little Lucy’s thinking about me now, and making up her mind to come.”
He was right; Lucy was thinking about him, and wishing he had been at the bottom of the sea that morning before he had met her.
“Oh, what will Mr Oldroyd think?” she sobbed, as the tears ran down her face. “It’s nothing to him, and he’s nothing to me; but it’s horrible for him to have seen me walking out at this time in the morning, and alone, with that stupid, common, racing, betting creature, whom I absolutely abominate.”
She walked on, weeping silently for a few minutes before resuming her self-reproaches.
“I’m afraid it was very wicked and wrong and forward of me, but I did so want to know whether he really cared for Glynne. And he doesn’t—he doesn’t—he does not,” she sobbed passionately. “He’s a wicked, bad, empty-headed, deceitful monster; and he’d make Glynne wretched all her life. Why, he was making love to me, and talking slightingly of her all the time.”
Here there was another burst of sobs, in the midst of which, and the accompanying blinding tears, she stooped down to pick another mushroom, but only to viciously throw it away, for it to fall bottom upwards impaled upon the sharp thorns of a green furze bush close at hand.
“I don’t care,” she cried; “they may think what they like, both of them, and they may say what they like. I was trying to fight my poor, dear, injured, darling brother’s battle, and to make things happier for him, and if I’m a martyr through it, I will be, and I don’t care a pin.”
She was walking on, blinded by the veil of tears that fell from her eyes, seeing nothing, hearing nothing of the song of birds and the whirr and hum of the insect world. The morning was now glorious, and the wild, desolate common land was full of beauty; but Lucy’s heart was sore with trouble, and outburst followed outburst as she went homeward.
“I’ve found him out, though, after all, and it’s worth every pain I may feel, and Glynne shall know what a wretch he is, and then she’ll turn to poor, dear Moray, and he’ll be happy once again. Poor fellow, how he has suffered, and without a word, believing that there was no hope for him when there is; and I don’t care, I’m growing reckless now; I’d even let Glynne see how unworthy Captain Rolph is, by going to meet him. It doesn’t matter a bit, people will believe I’m weak and silly; and if the captain were to boast that he had won me, everybody would believe him. Oh, it’s dreadful, dreadful, I want to do mischief to some one else and—and—and—but I don’t care, not a bit. Yes, I do,” she sobbed bitterly. “Everybody will think me a weak, foolish, untrustworthy girl, and it will break my heart, and—oh!”
Lucy stopped short, tear-blinded, having nearly run against an obstacle in the way.
The obstacle was Lucy’s mental definition of “everybody,” who would think slightingly of her now.
For “everybody” was seated upon a pony, waiting evidently for her to come.