The Major handed Mrs. Drewett in, and her son was compelled to say good night, to see his mother home. This gave me one blessed minute with Lucy, by herself. She spoke of Grace; said they had now been separated months, longer than they ever had been before in their lives, and that all her own persuasions could not induce my sister to rejoin her in town, while her own wish to visit Clawbonny had been constantly disappointed, Rupert insisting that her presence was necessary, for so many arrangements about business.
“Grace is not as humble as I was, in old times, Miles,” said the dear girl, looking me in the face, half sadly, half reproachfully, the light of the lamp falling full on her tearful, tender eyes, “and I hope you are not about to imitate her bad example. She wishes us to know she has Clawbonny for a home, but I never hesitated to admit how poor we were, while you alone were rich.”
“God bless you, Lucy!” I whispered, squeezing her hand with fervour—“It cannot be that—have you heard anything of Grace's health?”
“Oh! she is well, I know—Rupert tells me that, and her letters are cheerful and kind as ever, without a word of complaint. But I must see her soon. Grace Wallingford and Lucy Hardinge were not born to live asunder. Here is the carriage; I shall see you in the morning, Miles—at breakfast, say—eight o'clock, precisely.”
“It will be impossible—I sail for Clawbonny with the first of the flood, and that will make at four. I shall sleep in the sloop.”
Major Merton put Lucy into the carriage; the good-nights were passed, and I was left standing on the lowest step of the building gazing after the carriage, Rupert walking swiftly away.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
“Hear me a little;
For I have only been silent so long,
And given way unto this course of fortune,
By noting of the lady: I have mark'd
A thousand blushing apparitions start
Into her face; a thousand innocent shames
In angel whiteness bear away those blushes—”
SHAKESPEARE