“The sea-breeze makes this cool,” said Erminie; “that is the reason. I am so glad you came over this afternoon, for Ray, you know, is not coming home to-night. It is really too bad, I think, that he should leave us and go back again to that tiresome New York so soon.”
“Ah! when is he going?” said Pet, still violently fanning herself, though her bright bloom of color was far less vivid then it had been a moment before.
“The day after to-morrow, he says; and not to return for perhaps a year. I will feel dreadfully lonesome, I know, and grandmother will miss him so much. But young men are so headstrong and self-willed that there is no doing anything with them—don’t you think so, Pet?” said Erminie, smiling.
“Never thought on the subject as I know of; but I dare say they are. They’re not to be blamed for it, though; it runs in man’s wretched nature. Ah! I never was properly thankful for not being a man till one day I went and dressed myself in a suit of their clothes. Such wretchedly feeling things as they were, to be sure! I’ve never been in the stock, or the pillory, or stretched on a rack, or walking through a treadmill, or any of those other disagreeable things; but even since then I’ve a pretty good notion of what they must be like. It was a regular martyrdom while I had them on, and how the mischief anybody ever can survive in them is more than I know. Think of descending to posterity in a pair of pants!”
Erminie laughed, and Pet rattled on till tea was ready. Then they drank Lucy’s fragrant black tea, and ate her delicate nice waffles, and praised her jam; and then, when the sun had long set, and the dark, cool, evening shadows began to fall, Pet got up, put on her hat, kissed Erminie, and set out on her return to Heath Hill.
“You ought to have told some of the servants to come for you,” said Erminie. “It is rather far for you to go alone.”
“Oh, there is no danger,” said Pet; “on the forest road and the shore there may be; but here on the heath all is safe enough. Good night.” And Pet started off at a brisk walk.
Two men, crouching behind a clump of stunted spruce bushes, were watching her with lynx eyes, as her slight, graceful form approached. It was not quite dark, but what the Scotch call “the gloaming,” and the bright draped figure was plainly conspicuous on the brown, bare heath.
“There she comes at last,” whispered the younger of the two, in a quick fierce tone, breathing hotly and quickly while he spoke; “I will spring out as she passes and throw this shawl over her head, while you tie her hands and feet.”
“All right,” said the other, in the same low tone. “Jupiter! how she goes it! Can’t she walk Spanish, though! I tell you, Garnet, she’s a regular stunner, and no mistake.”