Bertie, on his part, was too much occupied with his own idea to perceive that Lucy was preoccupied also. He thought indeed that she was listening to him with a sort of interested absorption, unresistingly—which, indeed, was true enough. Katie and Jock sped on before, leaving him full space and leisure for his suit. She was altogether at his mercy, walking downcast by his side, listening timidly, too shy to make any reply. It flashed across his mind that it was just thus that he would describe a girl who was going to yield and make her lover happy—making him happy. Yes, there could be no doubt of that; she would make him happy, as very few had it in their power to do. The bliss Lucy could bestow would be substantial bliss. What unappreciated efforts Bertie made! the hero of a novel was never more eloquent. He compared Lucy to all manner of fine things. And she heard him, and heard him not. It was very hard upon Bertie. But when, beginning to feel discouraged by her silence, he went back upon the recollections of her life in Grosvenor Street, Lucy woke up from her abstraction. Even Mrs. Berry-Montagu restored her interest. “May I send a message from you when I write to her?” he said. “She is always inquiring after you. There are none of your acquaintances that do not take an interest in you—unless, perhaps it might be an old man about town, like Sir Tom.”
“Sir Thomas is always kind—there is no one so kind,” cried Lucy, with a little excitement; “if you say he does not take any interest, it is because you don’t know.”
“Oh, I did not mean any harm; but pardon me if I can not bear to see a man like Sir Tom come near you, Miss Trevor. People show their feelings in different ways. Mine—you don’t much care to hear about mine—take an old-fashioned form. There are people who are not worthy to touch the hem of your dress.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Russell. Sir Tom is better, far better, than most of the people I know; and as for me, I am not sacred, I don’t know why any one should think of the hem of my dress.”
“But you are sacred to me,” said Bertie, feeling that the moment was come. “Pardon me if I go too far. But what else can a man say when he has put himself under you as his saint, as his guiding star, since ever he began to be worth anything; that is only since I knew you, Lucy. Of course I know I am not half nor a quarter good enough for you. But ever since you began to come to Hampstead you know what you have been to me; you have inspired me, you have made me what I am. You thought, or the Randolphs thought, that it was presumption to put your name upon my book—”
“Oh, Mr. Bertie, why do you bring that up again? it is all over and past. You made people talk of me and laugh at me, and put me in the papers. It was dreadful! but it is all over, and I don’t want to hear of it any more.”
“It was the best I had,” said Bertie, with not unnatural indignation. “It was all I had, and queens have not scorned such offerings; but, if you do not care for that, you might care for a man’s devotion, Lucy—you might care for a—”
“Oh, Mr. Bertie, don’t, please don’t say any more.”
“I know how to take an answer,” he said; “I won’t persecute you as that cub did yesterday; but I must know whether you mean it really—whether you know what I mean. Lucy—you must let me call you so just once more—is it only shyness? are you frightened? don’t you understand? or do you know that, when I offered my book to you, I offered, like all the poets, my heart, my life, my—”
“Lucy,” said Jock, suddenly rushing upon her, rushing between them and pushing, with the mere force of his coming, the impassioned suitor away, “Katie has met Philip, and they don’t want me. What are you doing, talking so long? Philip looks so queer, I don’t know what is the matter with him. And I want to go home. I hate a walk like this—there is no fun in it. And I want to go home; come!” cried the child, hanging on to her skirts. Bertie looked at him with a vindictive stare of rage and disappointment. There was not another word to say.