“What do I care if we are caught in the rain? But there is not going to be any rain, it was only to get rid of the others,” Raymond said, breathless; and then he added with almost tragical pleading, “It would be better for me that we should be swept away by the rain than that you should not give me an answer.” He put his hand upon her sleeve. “Lucy, is it possible that you do not like me?” he said.
“I like you very well,” cried Lucy, with tears in her eyes; “but, oh, why should you talk to me like this? Why should you spoil everything? You will think after this that we never can be friends any more.”
“Then you will not?” said Ray. He was a great deal more disappointed than he had thought he could be, and even the satisfaction of having got it over did not console him. His face lengthened more and more as he stood opposite to her, barring her passage, leaning against the stem of a tree. “I never thought you would be so hard upon a fellow. I never thought,” said Raymond, his lip quivering, “that after all you would throw me off at the last.”
“I am not throwing you off at the last—it has always been the same,” said Lucy; “oh, could not you have left me alone?” she cried, half piteous, half indignant. She walked straight forward, passing him, and he did not any longer attempt to bar the way. He followed with his head drooping, his arms hanging limp by his side, the very image of defeat and discomfiture. Poor Ray! he could have cried when he thought of all he had lost, of all he was losing; and yet there began to gleam over his mind a faint reflection of content in that it was over. This at least was a thing which nobody could expect him to repeat any more.
CHAPTER XL.
DISCOMFITURE.
The troubles of this interesting picnic were not yet over; there was tea to be made over an impromptu fire from a gypsy kettle, which the young people generally thought one of the most amusing performances of all. And indeed they were all glad of the warmth of the tea, and anxious to get as near as they could to the comforting blaze of the fire, notwithstanding the smoke which made their eyes smart. Mrs. Rushton was busily engaged over this, when Lucy and Ray, one following the other, made their appearance in the center of the proceedings; the others were dropping in from different sides, and in the important operation of making the tea Mrs. Rushton did not perceive the very evident symptoms of what had happened. It was only when a gleam of firelight lighted up the group and showed her son, standing listless and cast-down, full in the way of the smoke, and receiving it as he might have received the fire of an enemy, that the catastrophe became evident to her. She gave him a hasty glance, half furious, half pitiful. Was it all over? Poor Mrs. Rushton! She was obliged to stand there over the fire boiling her kettle, now and then getting a gust of smoke in her face, and obliged to laugh at it, appealed to on all sides, and obliged to smile and reply, obliged to make believe that her whole soul was absorbed in her tea-making, and in the monotonous question, who took sugar, and who did not? while all the while her mind was distracted with anxiety and full of a hundred questions. Talk of pyschometric facts! If Mr. Galton would measure the thoughts of a poor lady, who, while she puts the tea in her teapot, and inquires audibly with a sweet smile whether Mrs. Price takes sugar, has all at once six ideas presented to her consciousness: 1st. The discomfiture of Ray; 2d. The alienation of Lucy; 3d. Her husband’s fury at all those unnecessary expenses, which he had never countenanced; 4th. The horse which would have to be sold again, probably at a loss, having failed like Ray; 5th. How to get all her party home, it being evident that Ray and Lucy would not ride together as they came; and 6th, with a poignant sting that embittered all the rest, of the exultation of her friends and rivals in witnessing her failure—if Mr. Galton could do that, weighing the weight of each, and explaining how they could come together, yet every one keep distinct, it would indeed be worth a scientific philosopher’s while. But Mrs. Rushton, it is to be feared, would have scoffed at Mr. Galton. She stood at the stake, with the smoke in her face, and smiled like a martyr. “Sugar? I thought so, but so many people don’t take it. I lose my head altogether,” cried the poor lady. “Ray, come here, make haste and hand Mrs. Price her tea.” Even when Ray did come close to her, however, she could not, encircled as she was, ask him any questions. She looked at him, that was enough; and he in reply slightly, imperceptibly, shook his head. Good heavens! and there was the girl standing quite unmoved, talking to somebody, after she had driven a whole family to despair! What could girls be made of? Mrs. Rushton thought.
And just at the moment when this fire of suspense, yet certainty, was burning in her heart, lo, the heavens were opened, and a shower of rain came pouring down, dispersing the company, pattering among the trees. Mrs. Rushton was like the captain of a shipwrecked ship, she was the last to leave the post of danger. Though the hissing of the shower forced up a black and heavy cloud of smoke which nearly choked her, she kept her place and shrieked out directions to the others. “The Abbey ruins, the west wing,” she cried; there was shelter to be found there. And now it was that Raymond showed how much filial affection was left in him. He snatched a water-proof cloak from the heap and put it round his mother. “You want shelter as much as any one,” he cried. “Oh, Ray!” exclaimed the poor lady as they hurried along together, the last of all the scudding figures under umbrellas and every kind of improvised shelter. She held his arm tight, and he clung closely to her side. There was no more said between them, as they struggled along under the blinding rain. They had both been extinguished, their fires put out, their hopes brought to an end.
As for Lucy, she shrunk away among the crowd, and tried to hide herself from Mrs. Rushton’s eyes. She was not unconcerned, poor girl. Even the little glimmer of indignation which had woke in her was quenched in her sorrow for the trouble and disappointment which she seemed to bring to everybody. Only this morning she had trembled before Mrs. Stone, and now it was these other people who had been so kind to her, who had taken so much pains to please her, whom she had made unhappy. What could Lucy do? She did not want any of these men to come into her life. She liked them well enough in their own place; but why should she marry them? This she murmured feebly in self-justification; but her heart was very heavy, and she could not offer any compensation to Ray. He was not poor, he did not come into the range of the will. She gathered her riding-skirt up about her and ran to the shelter of the Abbey walls when the shower came on, little Jock running by her side. They had nearly reached that refuge when Jock stumbled over a stone and fell, crying out to her for help. Almost before Lucy could stop, however, help came from another quarter. It was Bertie Russell who picked the little fellow up, and carried him safely into the west wing of the Abbey, where the walls were still covered by a roof. “He is not hurt,” Bertie said, “and here is a dry corner. Why did you run away, Miss Trevor? I followed you everywhere, for I saw that there was annoyance in store for you.”
“Oh, no,” said Lucy, faintly; but it was consolatory to find a companion who would not blame her. He lifted Jock up into a window-seat, and he found her something to sit down upon and take breath, and then he arranged a place for himself between them, leaning against the wall.
“Did you get wet?” Bertie said; “after this you will not think of riding home. I have got a coat which will cover Jock and you; what made them think of a picnic to-day? Picnics are always dangerous in this climate, but in October! Jock, little fellow, take off your jacket, it is wet, and put on this coat of mine.”