“But when those ladies are aunts, Mr. Russell?”

“That alters the question. Though there is something to be said for other people’s aunts,” said Bertie, “I am not one of those who think all that is pleasant is summed up in youth.”

“Oh, you must not tell me that. You all like youth best,” said Mrs. Rushton; but she was pleased. She felt her own previsions justified. A young man like this, highly cultivated and accustomed to good society, what could he see in a little bread-and-butter sort of a girl like Lucy? She gave Bertie credit for a really elevated tone. She was not so worldly-minded as she supposed herself to be, for she did not take it for granted that everybody else was as worldly-minded as herself.

This succession of visitors and events drove the adventure of the morning out of Lucy’s head. And when she went out with Jock in the afternoon, Bertie met them in the most natural way in the world, and prevented any relapse of her thoughts. He told her he was “studying” Farafield, which filled Lucy with awe; and begged her to show him what was most remarkable in the place. This was a great puzzle to the girl, who took him into the market-place, and through the High Street, quite unconscious of the scrutiny of the beholders. “I don’t think there is anything that is remarkable in Farafield,” she said, while Bertie, smiling—thinking involuntarily that he himself, walking up and down the homely streets, with an artist’s eye alive to all the picturesque corners, was enough to give dignity to the quiet little country place—walked by her side, very slim and straight, the most gentleman-like figure. There were many people who looked with curiosity, and some with envy, upon this pair, the women thinking that only her money could have brought so aristocratic a companion to the side of old John Trevor’s daughter, while the men concluded that he was some needy “swell,” who was after the girl, and thus exhibited himself in attendance upon her. It came to Mrs. Rushton’s ears that they had been seen together, and the information startled her much; but what could she do? She fell upon Raymond, reproaching him for his shilly-shally. “Now you see there is no time to be lost; now you see that other people have their wits about them,” she said; “if you let to-morrow slip, there will be nothing too bad for you,” cried the exasperated mother. But Raymond, though he was more frightened than could be told in words, had no thought of letting to-morrow slip. He too felt that things were coming to a crisis. He stood at the window with his hands in his pockets and whistled, as it were, under his breath. He was terribly frightened; but still he felt that what was to be done must be done, if anything was to be done. So long as it was only St. Clair, whom he thought middle-aged, and who was certainly fat, who was against him, he had not been much troubled; but this new fellow was a different matter. He did not put his resolution into such graceful words, but he too felt that it was time to

“ ... put it to the touch
To gain or lose it all,”

As for Lucy, no thought of the further trials awaiting her entered her mind; but she was not happy. It had ceased to be possible to take those evening strolls which had brought her into such intimate relations with the inmates of the White House. They had been given up since the girls came back; and, indeed, the days were so much shorter that they had become impracticable. But when she came upstairs to her lonely drawing-room after tea, when it was not yet completely dark, she could not choose but to go to the window, and look out upon the dim breadth of the common, and the lights which began to twinkle in Mrs. Stone’s windows. The grassy breadths of broken ground, the brown furze-bushes, all stubbly with the husks of the seed-pots, the gleam of moisture here and there, the keener touch of color in the straggling foliage of the hedges, and here and there a half-grown tree were dim under a veil of mist when she looked out. The last redness of the sun was melting from the sky. A certain autumnal sadness was in the bit of homely landscape, which, though she was not imaginative, depressed Lucy as she stood at the window. She was altogether depressed and discouraged. Mrs. Ford had been, if not scolding, yet talking uncomfortably to her husband across the girl, of the rudeness of Lucy’s friends. “Not that I would go to their parties if they begged me on their knees,” Mrs. Ford had said, “but the impoliteness of it! And to ask those Russells before my very face, who are not a drop’s blood to Lucy.” “Well, well, my dear, never mind,” her husband had said, “when she’s married there will be an end of it.” “Married!” Mrs. Ford had said in high disdain. And then Lucy had got up and hastened away, wounded and shocked and unhappy, though she scarcely could tell why. She came and stood at the window, and looked out, with the tears in her eyes. Everybody had been very kind to her, but yet she was very lonely. She had a gay party to look forward to the next day, and she believed she would enjoy it; but yet Lucy was lonely. People seemed to struggle over her incoherently, for she knew not what reason, each trying to push the other away, each trying to persuade her that the other entertained some evil motive; and everything seemed to concur in making it impossible for her to carry out her father’s will. And there was nobody to advise, nobody to help her. Philip, to whom she would so gladly have had recourse, was cross and sullen, and scolded her for no reason at all, instead of being kind. And Sir Tom, who was really kind, whom she could really trust to—what had become of him? Had he forgotten her altogether? He had not written to her, and Lucy had not the courage to write to him. What could she do to get wisdom, to know how to deal with the difficulties around her? She was standing within the curtains of the window, looking out wistfully toward the White House, and wondering how Mr. St. Clair would speak to her to-morrow, and if Mrs. Stone would know and be angry, when she was startled by the sound of wheels, and saw a carriage—nay, not a carriage but something more ominous, the fly of the neighborhood, the well known vehicle which took all the people about the common to the railway, and was as familiar as the common itself. It rattled along to the White House, making twice the noise that any other carriage ever made. Could they be going to a party? Lucy asked herself with alarm. But it was no party. There was just light enough left to show that luggage was brought out. Then came the glimmer of the lantern dangling at the finger end of the gardener—that lantern by which, on winter nights, Lucy herself had been so often lighted home. Then she perceived various figures about the door, and Mrs. Stone coming out with a whiteness about her head which betrayed the shawl thrown over her cap; evidently some one was going away. Who could be going away?

After awhile the fly lumbered off from the door, leaving that gleam of light behind, and some one looking out, looking after the person departing. Lucy’s heart beat ever quicker and quicker. As the fly approached the lamp-post that gave light to the Terrace, she saw that it was a portmanteau and other masculine belongings that were on the top, and to make assurance sure a man’s head glanced out and looked up at her window. Lucy sunk down into a chair and cried. It was her doing. She had driven St. Clair away, out into the hard world, with his heart-disease and his poverty—she who had been brought into being and made rich, for no other end than to help those who were poor!

CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE PICNIC.

Lucy spent a most melancholy night. It was dreadful to her to think that she had been not only “no good,” but the doer of harm. She imagined to herself poor St. Clair, with that weakness which prevented him from realizing the hopes of his friends, going away from the shelter and comfort his aunt had provided for him and the rest of this quiet place, and struggling again among others each more able to fight their way than he—and all because of her, who should have smoothed his way for him, who had the means to provide for him, to make everything easy. It is impossible to describe the compunctions that filled Lucy’s inexperienced heart. It seemed all her fault, his departure, and even his incomprehensible proposal—for how could he ever have thought of such a thing himself, he a gentleman, and she only a girl, at school the other day—and all the disappointment and grief which must have been caused by his going away, all her doing! though she had meant everything that was kind, instead of this trouble. When she saw Jock preparing for his lessons, her distress overpowered her altogether. “I am afraid Mr. St. Clair is not coming,” she said, faltering, at breakfast; “I think he has gone away,” feeling herself almost ready to cry. “Gone away!” said the Fords, in a breath; and they exchanged looks which Lucy felt to be triumphant. “And a good riddance too,” cried Mrs. Ford, “a fellow not worth a penny, and giving himself airs as if he had hundreds in his pocket.” “My dear,” her husband said, “perhaps you are too severe. I think sometimes you are too severe; but I can’t say I think him much of a loss, Lucy, if you will take my opinion.” Lucy was not much comforted by this deliverance, and after hearing a full discussion of Mrs. Stone and her belongings, was less consoled than ever. If they were poor so much the more dismal for him to fail. Lucy could not settle to her own work, she could not resume her own tasks so dutifully undertaken, but in which she felt so little interest. It was easy for Jock to dispose of himself on the great white hearth-rug with his book. She could not help saying this as the sound of the leaves he turned caught her ears. “It does not matter for you,” she said, “you are only a small boy, you never think about anything, or wonder and wonder what people are going to do.” Jock raised his head from the book, and looked at her with his big eyes. He had been conscious of her restlessness all along, though he was reading the “Heroes,” which St. Clair had given him. Her little uncomfortable rustle of movement, her frequent gazings from the window, the under-current of anxiety and uncertain resolution in the air, had disturbed Jock in spite of himself. He lay and watched her now with his head raised. “I wish,” said Jock, “we could get Heré or somebody to come.” But Lucy was more insulted than helped by this speech. “What is the use of trying to speak to you about things?” she cried exasperated, “when you know we are real living creatures, and not people in a book!” And Lucy in her distress cried, which she was not in the habit of doing. Jock raised himself then to his elbow, and looked at her with great interest and sympathy. “Heré can’t come to us,” he said seriously, “but she was just a lady, only bigger than you are. Couldn’t you just go yourself?”

“Jock, do you think I should go?” the girl cried. It was like consulting an oracle, and that is what all primitive people like to do.