And it can not be denied that little Jock, at least, heard the rattle of the plates and dishes as they were cleared away with a sinking of the heart; but he would not give in. Lucy was less moved by it. She had something of that contempt for dinners which is an attribute of the female mind, and she was worn with excitement, cast down, and discouraged in every way. She said to herself that she could not have swallowed anything; the mere suggestion seemed to bring a lump in her throat. She wanted to see nobody, to turn her face to the wall, to “give in” altogether. Lucy could not have told what vague mysterious despair was implied in the idea of “giving in,” but it seemed the end of all things, the lowest depth of downfall. Notwithstanding this wild desperation and desire to turn her back upon all the world, it was a very welcome interruption when Katie Russell knocked softly at the door, and came in with a subdued eagerness and haste which betrayed that she had something to tell. Katie was not like her usual self any more than Lucy was. There was a soft flush upon her face, an unusual excitement and brightness in her eyes. She came in rapidly, with an “Oh, Lucy—” then stopped short when she saw Jock, and the lamentable air of the little group still clinging close together, whose mournful intercourse she had interrupted. Katie burst forth into a little laugh of excitement. “What’s the matter with you?” she said. Jock slid out of Lucy’s arms, and Lucy rose up from her chair at this question. They were glad enough to come to an end of the situation, though they had both made up their mind to accept no comfort. And when Lucy had told the story, Katie’s amusement and applause did her friend good in spite of herself. “Bravo, Jock!” Katie cried, with another laugh, which her own personal excitement and need of utterance had no small share in; and she was so much delighted by Mrs. Rushton’s discomfiture that both sister and brother began to feel more cheerful. “Oh, how I should have liked to see her!” said Katie. And then her own affairs that were so urgent, rushed into her mind with a fresh suffusion of her face and kindling of her eyes. Lucy was not great in the art of reading looks, but she could see that there was something in Katie’s mind that was in the most urgent need of utterance—something fluttering on her very lips that had to be said. “I have got free for the day,” she said, with a little quaver in her voice. “Let us go somewhere or do something, Lucy, I can not stop still in one place. I have something to tell you—”
“I saw it directly in your face—what is it? what is it?” Lucy said. But it was not till she had gone to her room to get her hat, where Katie followed her, that the revelation came. “Will you have me for a relation?” the girl said, crossing her hands demurely, and making a little courtesy of pretended humility; and then natural emotion regained its power, and Katie laughed, and cried, and told her story. “And you never guessed!” she said; “I thought you would know in a moment. Didn’t you notice anything even yesterday? Ah, I know why; you were thinking of your own affairs.”
“I was not thinking of any affairs,” said Lucy, with a sigh; “I was tormented all day; but never mind—tell me. Philip! he has always seemed so stolid, so serious.”
“And isn’t this serious?” said Katie. “Oh, you don’t half see all that it means. Fancy! that he should turn his back upon all the world, and choose me, a girl without a penny!”
“But—all the world? I don’t think Philip had so much in his power. What did he turn his back upon? But I am very glad it is you,” Lucy said. Still her face was serious. She had not forgotten, and she did not quite understand the scene of last night.
Katie grew very serious, too. “I want to speak to you, Lucy,” she said. “We are two girls who have always been fond of each other; we always said we would stand by each other when we grew up. Lucy, look here, if you ever thought of Philip—if you ever once thought of him— I would cut off my little finger rather than stand in his way!”
Hot tears were in her eyes; but Lucy looked at her with serious surprise, wondering, yet not moved. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Oh, but you must know what I mean, Lucy! Perhaps you are not clever; but everybody always said you had a great deal of sense. And you know you are the greatest prize that ever was. How can you help knowing? And Philip is one that you have known all your life. Oh, Lucy, tell me, tell me true! Don’t you think I would make a sacrifice for him? It would break my heart,” cried the girl, “but I would sacrifice myself and Bertie, too, and never think twice—for him! Answer me, answer me true—between you and me, that have always been fond of each other, Lucy!” cried Katie, seizing her hands with sudden vehemence, “answer me as if we were two little girl at school. Did you ever think of Philip? Would you have had him if—if he had not liked me?”
Lucy drew her hands away with an energy which was violence in her, “I think you are all trying to drive me out of my senses. I! think of Philip or any one! I never did, I never will,” she cried, with sudden tears. “I don’t want to have any one, or to think of any one, as you say. Will you only let me alone, all you people? First one and then another; and not even pretending,” the poor girl cried, with sobs, “that it is for me.”
“I am not like that, Lucy,” Katie said, in mournful tones; for why should Lucy cry, she asked herself, if it were not that she had “thought of” Philip. “I am fond of you, and I know you would make any one happy. It is not only for your money. Oh, I know, I know,” Katie cried; “what a difference it would make to him if he married you! and what is pride between you and me? Only say you care for him the very least in the world—only say— Lucy,” cried Katie, solemnly, “if it was so, though it would break my heart, I would make poor Bertie take me off somewhere this very day, to New Zealand or somewhere, and not leave a word or a trace, and never see either of you more.”