I walked slowly homeward, reflecting upon the events of the morning, and waiting, oh, how fervently! that Jessie Lee might learn to know young Bosworth as I did, and be able to shed a ray of light into the darkness wherein he had fallen.
I left the path through the fields, and took my way into the woods, as I knew a short cut that would lead me more quickly into our grounds.
I had passed half through the grove, perhaps, scarcely heeding anything around me, but on reaching a little ascent, I saw, through a break in the trees, two persons standing at a considerable distance from the path. Their backs were toward me, but I recognized them instantly. They were Mrs. Dennison and Mr. Lawrence.
I understood at once the meaning of the note which she had sent to him—it was to ask for that interview.
Every day my dislike of that woman increased; each effort that I made to conquer the feeling only seemed to make it grow more intense, and this last plot that I had unintentionally discovered filled me with something very like abhorrence. Of course, I was not so silly as to conjure anything really wrong out of the request she had made; but I was certain that something more than trivial coquetry was hidden under it.
Instinctively, I began to tremble for Jessie: by what series of ideas I managed to connect her with that meeting, I cannot say; but I did so, and after that first glance I went on, burning with indignation against the artful woman, who seemed to have brought numberless shadows into the sunshine, which, before her coming, had pervaded our pleasant home.
Once, as I hastened on through the dark woods, I looked back at the pair,—they were conversing earnestly. In Lawrence's manner there was a degree of impetuosity and impatience; while from Mrs. Dennison's attitude and gestures I felt certain that she was pleading with him to change some purpose he had formed.
Just as I passed from the woods into the grounds, I saw that ubiquitous Lottie steal out from among the trees, and flit like a lapwing toward the house.
It was not difficult to imagine what new mischief she had been at—spying and listening, no doubt. Lottie did not count it a sin, and I knew very well that she had been coolly out into the woods to overhear Mrs. Dennison's conversation with Lawrence.
Some noise that I made attracted her attention; she dropped down on her knees—like a rabbit trying to hide itself in the grass—and began hunting for four-leaved clovers where clover had never grown since the memory of man.