They had relapsed into silence, and were going on pretty swiftly towards The Firs, but their proceedings did not seem to either to be at all strange. Lucy’s destination was, of course, home, and Oldroyd appeared resolved to accompany her; why, he knew not, and it did not trouble him after the first few minutes, seeming quite natural that he should take her to task, and he determined, as a punishment, to see her safely back. She did not deserve it, of that she was sure, but there was something comfortable and satisfactory in being thus silently scolded by one much wiser and stronger than herself.
Oldroyd wished to speak. He had a good deal to say—so he felt, but not a word escaped him till they reached the steep path that ran up to the gates at The Firs, when he drew rein, and made way for Lucy to pass.
“Good-bye,” he said.
“Good-bye,” faltered Lucy, looking at him wistfully.
He looked down into her eyes from where he sat, with his very heart ready to leap from his breast towards her; but, as he gazed, he saw again the sunny sandy road with the velvety grass, and golden-bloomed furze on either side; the long, sloping bank with its columnar pines, and the dark background of sombre green, while in front was Lucy, the girl in whom he had so believed, walking with Rolph; and then all was bitterness and cloud once more.
“He was marked,” thought Oldroyd; “there was a patch of plaister on his forehead. Hang it all! could he have shot that man?”
The doctor’s heart beat fast, for, in a confused fashion, light, the glimmering light upon a reflector when an image plays about the focus of a telescope, he saw difficulties dragging Captain Rolph away from that neighbourhood: a man dying of his wounds, and Lucy Alleyne turning from her idol in utter disgust.
But he shook his head.
“Nothing to me,” he cried, with a bitter laugh, as he rode away. “The old story—Nature asserting herself once more. A fine figure, grand muscles, a chest that is deep and round, and the noble bovine front of a bull, and you have the demi-god gentle woman makes her worship. Ah, well, it was time I awakened from a silly dream. Good-bye, little Lucy, good-bye! Next time I come to see your brother, I’ll wear the armoured jerkin of common sense. What a weak idiot I have been.”
There were no mushrooms that morning for Mrs Alleyne’s breakfast; those which Lucy should have brought home lying by the wayside, whereat the slugs rejoiced and had a glorious banquet all to themselves.