“I’ve got a note from Jackson,” said Lucian; “he wants me to run down and see him first. He misses me—I got to know his ways.”
He did not get very steadily to the end of the sentence, he was touched at finding himself satisfactory to some one.
“Could he go with you?” said Sylvester. “Oh no. He ought to be perfectly quiet. But I shall ask him to come to Toppings in the autumn. I must make a beginning there some time. I’ll do it then.”
“Well, Lucy, I dare say that’s quite right.”
“I shall go off this morning,” said Lucian. “Jackson’s father lives near Chester. Then on to Liverpool. I’ll leave word there about letters. Tell me if—when—when anything happens. I’m very much obliged to you for having given me the chance of contradicting my former conduct. I think, perhaps, in time to come, she may like to remember that I did it. And tell your father, please, that I renewed my offer, and that she refused me. I can’t think of anything else that I can do or say.”
“It has been hard lines on you, my dear old boy.”
“Yes. But that’s no matter, if I have in any way repaired the injustice. I’ve seen her; I suppose I never shall again. She did say a hard thing. But—well, Syl, good-bye, I’ll go and look after a train to suit me. Thank you. I’m glad it’s all happened. Good-bye. When your time comes, I hope you’ll have better luck.”
He smiled ruefully enough, and held out his hand. Sylvester took it.
“Say one thing more, Lucy,” he said; “wish me as single a purpose as your own.”
Lucian looked puzzled. Sylvester’s lips were set and pale, and his eyes very bright.