“Nobody? you are Liddy—that is enough; and then you forget,” he said, with a slight sense of humour, “you are a Joscelyn.”
“Yes, that is true,” said Lydia, very gravely, “I am a Joscelyn; but we are not at all what we used to be. Being Joscelyns,” she added, mournfully, “we are rough country people.”
“You a rough country people! You are Liddy,” he said.
“Oh, what is the good of saying that over and over again! Liddy! what is Liddy? an ugly old-fashioned name. We should have thought of that sooner. They will not have me,” she said.
“No, I hope not. It is I that must have you,” said Lionel, and he took no notice of the fact that it was morning; but, to be sure, there was nobody except the sailors about. He walked with her to the door of the cabin as the deceived Harry had done. How much had passed since then! Liddy thought with shame and self-reproach, as she stole into the darkened shelter where a peevish little lamp was still burning, that it would never have happened had she not given him that opportunity. She had given him the opportunity. She ought to have stayed in the cabin and prevented all that followed. It was her fault; but perhaps, though she felt guilty, she did not feel so penitent as she might have done. Lady Brotherton by dint of shutting her eyes had gone peacefully to sleep, which was a thing she professed never to do on board ship. Lydia retired to rest; she stole out of her gown as quiet as a mouse, and compunctious and guilty, but very happy, crept into her berth. The steamer was coming to anchor with great jars and creakings, and heavy footsteps overhead; and by and by Lydia’s drowsy eyes, so full of happiness and freshness, yet soft weariness and dreaminess, closed in spite of her. She did not suppose that she could have slept on such a night.
But next day was much more difficult to get through. The honest girl did not feel that she could look Lady Brotherton in the face. As long as they were apart, the position, though painful, was possible; but, when they were together, Lydia was so changed from her usual aspect that Lady Brotherton could not avoid noticing the alteration. “Liddy, my child, something is the matter. Are you ill?” she said.
“No, Lady Brotherton.”
“Nervous then—this new brother does not quite fit in with your ideas? You ought to have calculated upon that, Lydia. People cannot be separated for ten years, and fall into one another’s ways again in a moment; though I think he is very nice and very gentlemanly myself.”
“It is not that, Lady Brotherton.”
“What is it then, my dear? You are not a bit like yourself. You are sorry, a little, to part with us? So am I, my sweet—dreadfully sorry; but it must only be for a little while. And, then, you know you are going home.”