There was one other person in this little circle, who was of much interest to the others, even if it was for the most part unspoken. Maverick had tried to rouse Irene Lawrence from her lethargy by appeals of different kinds. She certainly was not an intellectual woman, though she had a strong and well-cultivated mind, and was accomplished in many ways,—society accomplishments, with a view to the admiration they might win. He could seem to strike no electric spark, though he succeeded in restoring her to health. Every week of her stay at Depford Beach, she had improved; but there was the old, dreary, listless life. She used to think herself, if some shock like that of an earthquake could lift her completely out of it! but none came.
For it could not be said that Miss Barry's illness was any shock to her. People were sick, and died, and their perplexity was at an end. A generous, kindly life like this of Miss Barry's would have its reward—if any life ever was rewarded. She did not doubt so much: she had never really believed.
As she said to Sylvie, something stronger than herself had sent her that night,—one of those powerful, impelling influences that few can resist. And Sylvie was wise enough not to lose her hold. She drew her in very gently, she preached no sermon, she asked favors frankly.
"I want you to take my pony-carriage," she said one day, after their return to Yerbury. "I ought to go out every day, and if you come with it I shall; but if I am left to my own fancies, there will be so much to occupy me. Then, too, companionship is always very tempting."
"I should be glad to do any thing for you," was the quiet, unemotional reply.
So the carriage was brought every morning to the door. It seemed so odd, the day she first drove around Yerbury! Unconsciously the old stateliness returned. Her heart swelled with contradictory phases of thought and feeling. She was too really proud to suffer from the stings of petty vanity. She knew there were people who stared at Miss Lawrence; and she allowed them to stare with the serenity of a queen, going her way unmoved.
She and Sylvie went through lanes and by-ways this gorgeous October day. Her heart was strangely touched by the glory, by the odorous air, the softened sounds, and brooding tenderness. Sylvie had a few errands to some old parishioners of her aunt's; and, while she went in cottages, Irene sat with the reins idly in her hands. There was much in the world she had never seen, though she had climbed Alps, and wandered in sunny vales. The ripeness and perfection of this midday was exhilarating. They talked in little snatches, and then were silent.
Coming back they drove through the town: it was nearer. Crossing over to Larch Avenue, a tall figure confronted them. Sylvie bowed, and looked straight on, remembering such a rencounter years agone. Irene Lawrence turned her head with its proudest poise, but her face flushed scarlet under her veil. She would have made the amende honorable then, if it had taken all the strength of her soul.
She and Jack Darcy had met occasionally through the summer. Mrs. Lawrence rather liked to talk mill affairs with him, and his name was quite a familiar one in their household. Now that it had come, she was rather glad to offer this wordless apology for a crime against good-breeding, that only a rude young girl could be guilty of, to one she considered her inferior.
She had wondered more than once, why that long-ago evening at Sylvie's should haunt her,—the talk of costumes, the bright chat, the dainty ripples of laughter, and that face with its cool, steady power. If it had been that of any other man, she would have pitted herself against it, and conquered, she fancied. Now conquests were things of the past. She was not one of your soft, maudlin women, who sigh for a little love. She looked straight into the coming years, and saw herself always alone, with no feeling of pity or regret.