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.
Volume Two—Chapter Seven.
Starlight Doings.
It was astonishing how great the interest in the stars had now become in the neighbourhood of Brackley. Glynne was studying hard so as to learn something of the wondrous orbs of whose astounding nature Moray Alleyne loved to speak; and now Philip Oldroyd had told himself that it would be far better if he were not quite so ignorant on matters astronomical.