Fan did not laugh nor reply. Her face was bent down, and when the other stooped and looked into it, there were tears in her eyes.
“Crying! Oh, you foolish, sensitive child! Was it true, then, that you did not know—never even suspected that Tom loved you?”
“No; I think I have known it for some time. But it was so hard to hear it spoken of in that way. I have felt so sorry; I thought it would never be noticed—never be known—that he would see that it could never be, and forget it. Why did you say that to him, Mary—that some day I might feel as he wished? Don't you know that it can never be?”
“But why can't it be, Fan? You are so young, and your feelings may change. And he is my brother—would you not like to have me for a sister?”
“You are my sister, Mary—more than a sister. If Arthur had had sisters it would have made no difference. But about Tom, you must believe me, Mary; he is just like a brother to me, and I know I shall never change about that.”
“Ah, yes; we are all so wise about such things,” returned the other with a slight laugh, and then a long silence followed.
There was excuse for it, for just then, the arguments about the conditions of the race had waxed loud, degenerating into mere clamour. It almost looked as if the more excited ones were about to settle their differences with their flourishing fists. But Mary was scarcely conscious of what was passing before her; she was mentally occupied recalling certain things which she had heard two or three days ago; also things she had seen without attention. Fan, Tom, and Arthur had told her about that day spent in Exeter. At their destination their party had been increased to four by Arthur's clerical friend, Frank Arnold. This young gentleman had acted as guide to the cathedral, and had also entertained them at luncheon, which proved a very magnificent repast to be given by a young curate in apartments. It was all a dull wretched affair, according to Tom; the young fellow had never left off making himself agreeable to Fan until she had got into her carriage to return to Sidmouth. And yet Fan had scarcely mentioned Mr. Arnold, only saying that she had passed a happy day. How happy it must have been, thought Mary, a new light dawning on her mind, for the sparkle of it to have lasted so long!
“Shall you meet your brother's friend, Mr. Arnold, again?” she asked a little suddenly.
“I—I think so—yes,” returned Fan, a little confused. “He is coming to London next month, and will be a great deal with Arthur, and—of course I shall see him. Why do you ask, Mary?”
But Mary was revolving many things in her mind, and kept silent.