As for myself, I found my own little table prepared with its coffee and light meal, as I had ordered before retiring. It had two cups, however, and a second plate had been laid in addition to my own. I pointed to this arrangement, and demanded of the old white-headed house-servant, who was in-waiting, what it meant.
"Miss Lucy, sah--she say she mean to breakfast wid Masser Mile, dis mornin', sah."
Even the accents of this negro were solemn and sad as he made this familiar explanation, like those of a man who was conscious of having reached an hour and an occasion that called for peculiar awe. I bade him let Miss Lucy know that I was in the study.
"Ah, Masser Mile," added the old man, with tears in his eyes as he left the room, "Miss Lucy 'e only young missus now, sah!"
In a few minutes Lucy joined me. She was in deep black of course, and that may have added to the appearance of paleness; but no one could be deceived in the manner in which the dear girl had mourned and wept since we parted. The subdued expression of her face gave it a peculiar sweetness; and, in spite of the absence of colour, I thought, as Lucy advanced towards me, both hands extended, and a smile of anxious inquiry on her lips, that she had never appeared more lovely. I did not hesitate about pressing those hands with fervour, and of kissing the warm though colourless cheek. All this passed as it might have done between an affectionate brother and sister, neither of us thinking, I am persuaded, of aught but the confidence and friendship of childhood.
"This is kind of you, dear Lucy," I said, as we took our seats at the little table; "my cousin John Wallingford, though a good man in the main, is scarcely near enough, or dear enough, to be admitted at a time like this."
"I have seen him," Lucy replied--the tremour in her voice showing how hard she found it to avoid melting in tears, "and rather like him. I believe he was a favourite with mamma Wallingford," so Lucy was accustomed to call my mother, "and that ought to be a high recommendation with us, Miles."
"I am disposed to like him, and shall endeavour to keep up more intercourse with him than I have hitherto done. It is as we begin to find ourselves alone in the world, Lucy, that we first feel the necessity of counting blood and kin, and of looking around us for support."
"Alone you are not, Miles, and never can be while I and my dear father live. We are certainly nearer to you than any that now remain among your blood relatives! You can neither suffer nor be happy without our partaking in the feelings."
This was not said without an effort; that much I could detect; yet it was said firmly, and in a way that left no doubt of its entire sincerity. I even wished there had been less of nature and more of hesitation in the dear girl's manner while she was endeavouring to assure me of the sympathy she felt in my happiness or unhappiness. But the waywardness of a passion as tormenting, and yet as delightful as love, seldom leaves us just or reasonable.