“Trouble!” he said, “that is not the word. Ah, Miss Trevor, thanks! you are wearing my rose.”
“Indeed!” said Lucy. “I am afraid it is not right to cut it. Mr. Raymond looked—it was the last one; and it was theirs—not ours.”
“The churl!” said St. Clair; “he ought to have been too proud if you had put your foot upon it, instead of wearing it. How sweet it is! it is where it ought to be.” Then he paused, detaining her for a moment. “Yes, the door is open,” he said, with a sigh. “I can not deny it. Good-night then—till to-morrow.”
“Good-night!” said Lucy, calmly. She wondered what was the matter? What did he mean by it? He held her hand closely, but did not shake it as people in their ordinary senses do when they bid you good-night, and he kept Mrs. Ford standing at the door with her candle in her hand, blown about by the draught. Mrs. Ford was sleepy, she did not pay much attention to Lucy’s companion. It was past ten o’clock, an hour at which all the Ford household went to bed; and Mrs. Ford knew herself to be very virtuous and self-denying in sitting up for Lucy, and was a little cross in consequence. She said only, “You are late, Lucy. I wonder what pleasure it can be to anybody to be out of bed at this hour,” and shut the door impatiently. The lights were all out except Mrs. Ford’s candle, and the darkness in-doors was very different from that soft darkness out of doors, it was only half past ten, yet Lucy felt herself dissipated. She was glad to hurry upstairs. Jock opened his big eyes as she went through the room in which he slept. He put up a sleepy hand, and softly stroked her rose as she bent down to kiss him. The rose seemed the chief point altogether in the evening. She put it into water on her table, and went to bed with a little tremulous sense of excitement. But she could not tell why she was excited.
It was something in the air, something independent of her, a breath as from some other atmosphere straying into her own.
As for St. Clair, he stumbled home across the common, almost losing his way, as the night was so dark, with a little excitement in his mind too. When he got into Mrs. Stone’s parlor, where she sat at the little meal which was her special and modest indulgence, he was greeted by both ladies with much interest and many questions. “Did it go off well?” Miss Southwood said, who liked to hear what there had been to eat at the “heavy tea” which followed the croquet party, and whether there had been wine on the table in addition to the tea. But Mrs. Stone looked still more anxiously in Frank’s face. “Are you getting on? Are you making progress?” was what she said. To which he answered, with a great deal of earnestness, in the words of the poet:
“‘He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch
To gain or lose it all.’”
“Has it come so far as that?” said Mrs. Stone.
“I think so; but do not ask me any more questions,” he said, and he was treated with the utmost delicacy and consideration. Without another word, a plate with some of Mrs. Stone’s delicately cooked dish was set before him, and a large glass of East India sherry poured out, far better fare than the cold viands and tea prepared for Mrs. Rushton’s many guests, while the conversation was gently led into another channel. His feelings could not have been more judiciously studied, for he had been too much intent upon Lucy to eat much at the previous meal, and agitation is exhausting. The only further allusion that was made to the crisis was when Mrs. Stone bade him good-night. She kissed him on the cheek, and said softly, “I quite approve your action if you think the occasion is ripe for it, but do not be premature, my dear boy.”
“No, I will not be premature,” he said, smiling upon her. His heart expanded with a delightful self-confidence. It did not seem to him that there was any cause to fear.