This the two young people beside him listened to with awe, neither of them having ever set foot on foreign soil.
“For my part,” cried Ray, suddenly, “I don’t see the good of that constant chattering. Far better do something than to be forever talk—talking. It may suit the French, who ain’t good for much else; but we want something more over here. Besides, what can you talk about?” the young man went on; “things can’t happen just to give you a subject, and when you have said it’s a fine day, and what a nice party that was at the Smiths, what more have you got to say?”
“I quite agree with you,” said St. Clair; “when you have no more than that to say it is a great deal better to play at something. But yet conversation has its advantages. Miss Trevor, here is one last rose. It is the last that will come out this season. Oh, yes, there are plenty of buds, but they are belated, they will never get to be roses. There will come a frost to-night and slay them all in their nests, in their cradles. This one is all the sweeter for being on the edge of ruin. I will gather it for you. A flower,” he said, in a low tone, which Ray could only half hear, “is all a poor man can offer at any shrine.” Raymond looked on, crimson with indignation. It was on his lips to bid this interloper offer what belonged to himself, not a flower out of another man’s garden; but when St. Clair tore his finger on a thorn, the real proprietor of the rose was enchanted; but even this the fellow managed to turn to his own advantage. “It has cost me more than I thought,” he said, so low that this time Ray could not hear anything but a murmur. “It is symbolical, I would give all that is in my veins; but it should buy you something better.” Ray did not hear this; but Lucy did, and it filled her soul with wonder. Her eyes opened wide with surprise. She had not even read so many novels as she ought, and she was more puzzled than flattered. Besides, Lucy’s mind was confused with the thought, so strong in Raymond’s consciousness, that to cut other people’s roses was a doubtful generosity. She stammered a little as she thanked him, and looked as if asking permission of Ray.
“Oh, Mrs. Rushton ought perhaps to have it, as there are so few roses now,” Lucy said.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE FIRST PROPOSAL.
“Lucy, I never thought you were a flirt before,” said Mrs. Rushton, half severe, half jocular. They did not walk home with her now, as they had done in the warm August evenings. It was now dark, and almost all the company had dispersed, and the brougham had been ordered to take Miss Trevor home.
“A flirt!” Lucy looked up with great surprise at the word.
“Oh, yes, you may look astonished; perhaps you don’t call that flirting; but I am old-fashioned. No one has been able to get a word with you all the evening. Now recollect,” said Mrs. Rushton, shaking a forefinger at the culprit. “I am very prim and proper, and I have Emmie to think of. You must not set her a bad example; and there’s poor Ray. You have not a bit of feeling for poor Ray.”
Lucy looked at her with very serious inquiring eyes, and went home with a consciousness that there was a rivalry between Mr. St. Clair and Raymond, in which she was more or less involved. Lucy was not very quick of understanding, and neither of them had said anything to her which was quite unmistakable. Had they mentioned the words love or marriage, she would have known what she had to encounter at once; but she was not on the outlook for implied admiration, and their assiduities scarcely affected her. St. Clair was Jock’s tutor, and in constant communication with her, and, no doubt, she thought, it was Mrs. Rushton who made Raymond take so much care of her. This was a shrewd guess, as the reader knows, and, therefore she did not trouble herself about Ray’s attentions, or wonder at the devotion of St. Clair. But she had a faint uneasy feeling in her mind. The rose which she had fastened in her dress was very sweet, and kept reminding her of that scene in the garden. This pricked Lucy’s conscience a little as she drove home in the dark alone with it. It ought to have been given to Mrs. Rushton, not to her; the last Devoniensis, sweet like an echo of summer, the only one that was left. St. Clair had no right to gather it, nor she to wear it. It was a robbery in its way, and this made her uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than the accusation of flirting, of which Lucy felt innocent. The night was dark, but very soft and warm for the season, not even a star visible, everything wrapped in clouds and dimness. When the brougham stopped at the door in the Terrace, some one appeared at once to open it for her, to help her out. “Mr. St. Clair!” she cried, almost with alarm. “Yes,” he said; he was not much more than a voice and a big shadow, but still she could not have any doubt about him. “I hurried on to do my duty as Miss Trevor’s servant; they would not have let me walk home with you, but I was determined to pay my duty here.”
Lucy was embarrassed by this new attention, “I am so sorry you have taken so much trouble,” she said. “I always wait till they have opened the door. Ah! here they are coming; there was no need, indeed, of any one. I am sorry you took the trouble.”