“By Jove, it is unreasonable! An old man that was really worth coming back to—and now he’s clean swept away, and some baggage of a woman, probably no good, in his place, to turn Lucy’s head, and perhaps bring us all to sixes and sevens, for anything I know.”
“Why should you suppose so? There seems nothing but good in the lady, except that she is a stranger. So am I a stranger. You might as well believe that I should bring you to sixes and sevens. You’re not well to-night, old fellow. You have got too much nonsense in your head.”
“I suppose that’s it—a touch of fever,” said the other. “I’ll take some quinine when I go home to-night.” And with that wise resolution he drew up, having come back to the point from which they started, to wait for his sister at Mrs. Nugent’s door.
CHAPTER III.
The door of the little house was standing open when they drew up at the gate. It was a door at the side round the corner from the veranda, but with a porch which seemed to continue it. It was full of light from within, against which Lucy’s figure stood dark. She was so much afraid to keep the gentlemen waiting that she had come out there to be ready, and was speaking her last words with her friend in the porch. Their voices sounded soft, almost musical, through the dusk and the fresh air; though, indeed, it was chiefly Lucy who was speaking. The men did not hear what she said, they even smiled a little, at least Bertram did, at the habit of the women who had always so much to say to each other about nothing; and who, though they had perhaps met before more than once that day, had still matter to murmur about down to the very last moment by the opening of the door. It went on indeed for two or three minutes while they stood there, notwithstanding that Lucy had cried, “Oh, there they are! I must go,” at the first appearance of the tall shadows on the road. She was pleading with her friend to come up to the hall next day, which was the reason of the delay.
“Oh, Nelly, do come—to-morrow is an off day—they are not going to shoot. And I so want you to see Raaf; oh, I know he is not much to see—that’s him, the tallest one. He has a huge beard. You’ll perhaps think he’s not very intellectual or that sort of thing; but he’s our Raaf—he’s mother’s Raaf—and you’re so fond of mother. And if I brought him to see you he would be shy and gauche. Do come, do come, to-morrow, Nelly; mother is so anxious you should come in good time.”
Then the gentlemen, though they did not hear this, were aware of a new voice breaking in—a small, sweet treble, a child’s voice—crying, “Me too, me too!”
“Yes, you too, Tiny; we always want you. Won’t you come when Tiny wishes it, Nelly? You always give in to Tiny.”
“Me come now,” shouted Tiny, “see gemplemans; me come now.”
Then there was a little scuffle and laughing commotion at the open door; the little voice loud, then others hushing it, and suddenly there came flying down the bank something white, a little fluttering line of whiteness upon the dark. The child flew with childish delight making its escape, while there was first a startled cry from the doorway, and then Lucy followed in pursuit. But the little thing, shouting and laughing, with the rush of infantile velocity, short-lived but swift, got to the bottom of the bank in a rush, and would have tripped herself up in her speed upon the fastening of the gate had not Bertram, coming a step forward, quickly caught her in his arms. There was not much light to see the child by—the little face like a flower; the waving hair and shining eyes. The little thing was full of laughter and delight in her small escapade. “Me see gemplemans, me see gemplemans,” she said. Bertram lifted her up, holding her small waist firm in his two hands.