This was Lucy’s first experience of love-making. It is needless to say that it was very far from being her last; but for the moment it was an appalling revelation to her, an incident of the most disturbing and disquieting kind. She was alone for a long time after St. Clair’s withdrawal. It was the morning, the time when Mrs. Ford was occupied with household concerns, and Jock, being freed sooner than usual, had betaken himself to one of his habitual corners with a book, and was thousands of mental miles away from his sister. She remained alone in that pink drawing-room, in which already she had spent so many lonely hours. There she stood hidden behind the curtains, and watched St. Clair speeding across the road that skirted the common to the White House. She had seen him coming and going a great many times with placid indifference. But she could not be indifferent to anything about him now. His hasty pace, so unlike the usual stateliness of demeanor in which he resembled his aunt, the books under his arm, his stumble as he rushed over the rough ground, all went to Lucy’s heart. She was not sorry that she had given forth so determined a decision. That she felt at once, with her usual good sense, was unavoidable. It was not a question upon which any doubt could be left. But she was very sorry to have given him pain, very sorry that it had been necessary. She felt pained and angry that such an appeal should have been made to her, yet at the same time self-reproachful and sore, wondering how it was her fault, and what she could have done. It dismayed her to think that she had voluntarily and deliberately inflicted pain, and yet what alternative had been left her? Now, she thought to herself sadly, here was an end of all possibility of helping a man who was poor, and whom she would have been so glad to help. He would not take anything from her now, he would be angry, he would reject her aid, although so willingly given. This gave Lucy a real pang. She could not get it out of her mind. How foolish, she moralized, to put off a real duty like this, to let it become impossible! She was sitting pondering very sadly upon the whole matter, asking herself wistfully if anything could be done, when Mrs. Rushton came in, full of the plan which Raymond had proposed the evening before. Mrs. Rushton was always elated by a new proposal of pleasure-making. It raised her spirits even when nothing else was involved. But in this case there was a great deal more involved.
“It is the very thing to finish the season,” she said; “we have had a very pleasant season, especially since you came back, Lucy. You have made us enjoy it twice as much as we usually do. For one thing, home has been so much more attractive than usual to Ray. Oh, he is always very good, he does not neglect his own people; still young men will be young men, and you know even Shakespeare talks of ‘metal more attractive’ than a mother. So as I was saying— Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Ford?”
As usual, Mrs. Ford made her appearance, sweeping in her purple silk, which was of a very brilliant and hot hue, and put every other color out. Her punctual attendance, when ladies came to see Lucy, served her purpose very well, for it made it apparent to these ladies that Lucy’s present hostess was a very dragon of jealous carefulness, and was likely to guard the golden apples against all comers as she did from them.
“How do you do?” said Mrs. Ford, stiffly, taking a stiff and high backed chair.
“It is a very fine day,” said Mrs. Rushton; “what pleasant weather we are having for this time of the year! I was remarking to Lucy that it had been the most enjoyable summer. I always say that for young people there is nothing so enjoyable as out-door parties when the weather is good. They get air and they get exercise, far better than being cooped up in stuffy ball-rooms. I feel quite thankful to Lucy, who has been the occasion of so many nice friendly meetings.”
“She has had a deal too much of gayety, I think,” said Mrs. Ford, “considering that her poor dear father has not been much more than six months in his grave.”
“You can not really call it gayety, oh, no, not gayety! a few nice quiet afternoons on the lawn, and just one or two picnics. No, Lucy dear, you need not be frightened; I will never suffer you to do anything inconsistent with your mourning. You may rely on me. If anything, I am too particular on that point. Your nice black frocks,” said Mrs. Rushton, with fervor, “have never been out of character with anything. I have taken the greatest care of that.”
“I don’t say anything about the afternoons,” said Mrs. Ford, “but I know that it was half-past ten when your carriage came to the door last night with Lucy in it. I don’t hold with such late hours. Ford and me like to be in bed at ten o’clock.”
“Ah, that is very early,” Mrs. Rushton said, with an indulgent smile; “say eleven, and I will take care that Lucy has some one with her to see her safe home.”
“Oh, for that matter, there’s always plenty with her,” said the grumbler, “and more than I approve of. I don’t know what girls want with all that running about. We never thought of it in our day. Home was our sphere, and there we stayed, and never asked if it was dull or not.”