The major shook hands warmly, and went his way, saying to himself,—
“What did she mean? She did not like to be away when Mr Oldroyd visited her brother? What she said, of course. Ah, how prone men are to put a second meaning to other people’s words. How ready I was to think ill of the little lassie and her brother; and I am as ready now to own that she is innocence itself. I used to think, though, that she cared for Oldroyd.”
Meanwhile, Lucy was walking straight along by the side of the road, back towards The Firs, with Oldroyd, on his disreputable-looking steed, a yard or two upon her left.
By quitting the road and cutting across the open boggy land, amidst the furze and whortleberry scrub Lucy could have saved a quarter-of-a-mile, and left her companion behind; or even if he had elected to follow her, the softness of the soil and the constant recurrence of swampy patches about, which one on foot could easily avoid, would have necessitated so much care that he would have been left far behind.
But Lucy trudged steadily on with her pretty little face trying to look stern and hard, but failing dis—no, not dismally, for hers was a type of countenance from which the prettiness could not be eliminated try how one would.
Oldroyd was angry—bitterly angry. But he was in love. Once more jealous fear had attacked him. For had not he plainly seen Lucy’s face held up in the most matter-of-fact manner for the major to bend down and kiss? Certainly he was an old man, old enough to be her grandfather, and the kiss had been given when he who witnessed it was two or three hundred yards away; but there was the fact and Oldroyd felt furious.
All this time had passed since he had felt that he was growing very fond of Lucy, and his affection had been nipped and blackened like the top of a spring potato, by an unkindly frost, consequent upon the Rolph affair, while still like the spring potato, though the first shoots had been nipped, it was only for more and stronger ones to form and grow faster and faster than before. But Lucy had made no sign.
And so they went on towards The Firs on that delicious spring day, when the larks were singing overhead, the young growth of the pines shed a sweet odour of lemon to be wafted across the road, and at every step, Lucy’s little feet crushed down a daisy, but the bright-eyed flower lifted its head again as soon as she had passed and did not seem to be trampled in the least. Oldroyd did as Lucy did—stared straight before him, letting the reins—a much mended pair—rest on the pony’s neck; while Peter hung his head in a sleepy, contemplative way, and sometimes walked, sometimes slowly ambled on, as if moved by his spirit to keep abreast of Lucy.
Oldroyd’s brow knit closely as he mentally wrote out a prescription to meet his new case, and then mentally tore it up again, ending by at last turning quite fiercely towards Lucy, giving the pony’s ribs a couple of kicks as he snatched up the reins to force it forward, and then, as she started half frightened by his near approach, he said to her in a reproachful voice,—
“How can you behave so cruelly to me, Lucy?” According to all canons the rule in such a case was for Lucy to start, open her eyes a little more widely, stare, and say,—