She stood for a moment looking out: "He may marry Miss Lisle if he likes, and—and I hope they'll be very happy indeed. But if ever I get a chance I'll do something—for Percival."
With which magnanimous determination Sissy went to bed; and if she did not have a nightmare tumult of Jael and Judith, nails and hammers, and murdered men about her pillow as she slept, I can but think her fortunate. But her last thought was a happy one: "Perhaps he doesn't care about her, after all!"
CHAPTER VIII.
"PERHAPS I'M LETTING SECRETS OUT."
Fordborough had a glorious day for the agricultural show. Not a cloud dimmed the brightness of the sky: a breath of warm wind stirred the flags from time to time, and all was going as merrily as possible. The dogs were all barking in their special division, the poultry were all cackling in theirs. People had looked at the animals, as in duty bound, and were now putting their catalogues in their pockets and crowding into the flower-show.
The Brackenhill party were there. Mr. Thorne, his sister, Godfrey Hammond and Miss Langton had come over in state behind the sleek chestnut horses, and the young men had arranged to follow in the dog-cart. At present the two divisions had not met—nay, showed no symptom of uniting, but rather of breaking up into three or four. Mrs. Middleton and Sissy had been walking about, encountering a bewildering number of acquaintances, and earnestly endeavoring to disseminate a knowledge of the fact that they considered it a beautiful day. Godfrey Hammond, their squire for some time, after arranging when he would meet them by the tent where the potatoes were, had taken himself off to look up some of the country gentlemen whom he met year after year when he came down to Brackenhill. There happened to be several squires of the old sort in the neighborhood, and with these Godfrey Hammond enjoyed a friendship based on mutual contempt. He laughed at them, and they knew it; they laughed at him, and he knew it; and each being convinced that his cause for scorn was the one well founded, they all got on delightfully together. Mr. Thorne, meanwhile, was strolling round the field, halting to talk from time to time, but fettered by no companionship.
He was presently pounced on by Mrs. Rawlinson, a fair, flushed beauty of two-and-forty with a daughter of fifteen. People with a turn for compliment always supposed that this daughter was Mrs. Rawlinson's sister, and when that assumption was negatived there had once been a prompt reply, "Oh, your step-daughter you mean!" (The man who invented that last refinement of politeness was welcome to dine at the Rawlinsons' whenever he liked, and, the dinners being good, he was to be met there about twice a week.)
She came down upon Mr. Thorne like a bright blue avalanche. "Ah!" she said, having shaken hands with him, "I saw what you were doing. Now, do you agree with Mr. Horace Thorne in his taste? Oh, it's no use denying it: I saw you were looking at the beautiful Miss Blake."
"It is very possible," Mr. Thorne replied, "only I didn't know of her existence."