Lucy Alleyne was very pretty. Everybody said so--that she was pretty.
No one said that she was beautiful. Now, Lucy was well aware of what
people said, and, without being conceited, she very well knew that what
people said was true. In fact, she often admired her pretty little
_retrousse_ nose and creamy skin in the glass, and, with a latent idea
that she ought to preserve her good looks as much as possible for some
one. She thought of the favoured person as "some one," and tried in
every way possible to lead a healthy life.
To attain the above end, she strove hard to improve her complexion. It
did not need improving, being perfect in its shades of pink and creamy
white, that somehow put him who gazed upon her in mind of a _Gloire de
Dijon_ rose; but she tried to improve it all the same, laughingly
telling herself that she would wash it in morning dew, or rather let
Nature perform the operation, as she went for a good early walk.
The pine woods and copses looked as if trouble could never come within
their shades, and the last thing any one would have dreamed of would
have been the possibility of men meeting there with sticks, bludgeons,
and guns, ready to resist capture on the one side, to effect it on the
other, and, if needs be, use their weapons to the staining of the earth
with blood.
No news of the past night's encounter had reached The Firs. Moray
Alleyne, while watching the crossing of a star in the zenith over
certain threads of cobweb in the field of his transit instrument had
heard the reports of guns; but he was too much intent upon his work to
pay heed to what was by no means an unusual circumstance. Lucy, too,
had started into wakefulness once, thinking she heard a sound, but only
to sink back to her rest once more; and as she walked that morning she
saw no sign of struggle, though, had she turned off to the right amongst
the pines, she might have found one or two ugly traces, as if a burden
had had been laid down by those who bore it while they rested for a few
minutes, and while a bit of rough surgery was being performed.
The lovely silvery mists were hanging about in the little valleys, or
curling around the tops, as if spreading veils over the sombre pines,
patches of which, as seen in the early morning sunshine, resembled the
dark green and purple plaid of some Scottish clan; and as Lucy reached
the edge of the far-stretching common land, dazzled by the brilliancy of
the sunshine, and elated by the purity of the morning air, she paused to
enjoy the beauty of the lovely scene around.
"How stupid people are!" she said half aloud. "How can they call this
place desolate and ugly. Why, there's something growing everywhere, and
the gorse and broom are simply lovely."
There was a soft moisture in her pretty eyes, as they rested on the
blue-looking distant hills, the purple stretches of heather, and the
rich green lawnlike patches of meadow land, saved from the wilds around.
Between the hills there were dark shadowy spots, upon them brilliant
bits of sunshine, while on all sides the gauzy, silvery vapours floated
low down, waiting for the sun, as it increased in power, to drink them
up, and after them the millions of iridescent tiny globules that
whitened the herbage like frost.
The birds were singing from every patch of woodland in the distance;
there was the monotonous "coo coo, coo--_coo, coo-hoo-coo_!" of a
wood-pigeon in the pine tops singing his love-song that he always ends
in the middle, and far out over the heathery common lark after lark was
circling round and rising, in a wide spiral, up and up into the blue sky
as it poured forth the never-wearying strain.
"People are as stupid and as dense as can be," said Lucy. "Ours is a
grim-looking home, I know, but oh! how beautiful the country is--I
wouldn't live anywhere else for the world."
There seemed to be no reason for a blush to come into Lucy's cheeks at
this declaration, but one certainly did come, like a ruddy cloud over
their soft outline, as she glanced back at the blank-looking pile with
the hideous brick additions made by Alleyne for his instruments and
observations. Not so much as a thread of smoke rose yet, from either of
the chimneys, for Eliza was only at the point that necessitated a vexed
rub occasionally at her nose with the woody part of a blacklead brush;
Mrs Alleyne was dreaming of her son; and her son, who sought his pillow
a couple of hours before--after a long watch of his star as it climbed
to the zenith and then went down--to lie and think of Glynne Day, and
ask himself whether he was not a scoundrel to allow such thoughts to
enter his breast.
"How good it is to get up so early," thought Lucy, aloud; and then she
stepped lightly over the dewy grass, marked down the spot where several
mushrooms were growing, and then stepped on to the sandy road.
"I wish Moray would get up early," she thought, "it would be so nice to
have him for a companion; but, poor fellow, he must be tired of a
morning. I know what I'll do," she cried suddenly. "I'll get Glynne to
promise to meet me two or three times a week, whenever it's fine, and
we'll go together."
Her cheeks flushed a little hot as she began to think about Glynne, and
her thoughts ran somewhat in this fashion,--
"She doesn't know--she doesn't understand a bit, or she would never have
consented. Oh! it's absolutely horrid, and I don't believe he cares for
her a morsel more than she cares for him."
Lucy stooped down to pick a mushroom, and laid it aside ready to
retrieve as she came back from her walk, for Mrs Alleyne approved of a
dish for breakfast.
"Why, at the end of a year it would be horrible," cried Lucy, with
emphasis. "Mrs Rolph! What would be the use of being married, if you
were miserable, as I'm sure she would be."
"It isn't dishonourable; and if it is, I don't mind. I know he is
beginning to worship her, and it's as plain as can be that she likes to
sit and listen to him, and all he says about the stars. Why, she seems
to grow and alter every day, and to become wiser, and to take more
interest in everything he says and does."
"There, I don't care," she panted, half-tearfully, as she picked another
mushroom; and, as if addressing someone who had had spoken chidingly, "I
can't help it; he is my own dear brother, and I will help him as much as
I can. Dishonourable? Not it. It is right, poor fellow! Why, she has
come like so much sunshine in his life, and it is as plain as can be to
see that she is gradually beginning to know what love really is."
As these thoughts left her heart, she looked guiltily round, but there
was no one listening--nothing to take her attention, but a couple of
glistening, wet, and silvery-looking mushrooms in the grass hard by.
"It's very dreadful of me to be thinking like this," she said to
herself, as she finished culling the mushrooms, and began to make her
way back to the road, "but I can't help it. I love Glynne, and I won't
see my own brother made miserable, if I can do anything to make him
happy. It's quite dreadful the way things are going, and dear Sir John
ought to be ashamed of himself. I declare--Oh! how you made me start!"
This was addressed to wet-coated, dissipated rabbit, with a tail like a
tuft of white cotton, which little animal started up from its
hiding-place at her very feet, and went bounding and scuffling off
amongst the heather and furze.
"I wish, oh, how I wish that things would go right," cried Lucy, with
tears in her eyes. "I wish I could do something to make Glynne see that
he thinks ten times more about his nasty races and matches than he does
about her. I don't believe he loves her a bit. It's shameful. He's a
beast!"
There was another pause, during which the larks went on singing, the
wood-pigeon cooed, and there was a pleasant twittering in the nearest
plantation.
"Poor Glynne! when she might be so happy with a man who really loves
her, but who would die sooner than own to it. Oh, dear me! I wish a
dreadful war would break out, and Captain Rolph's regiment be ordered
out to India, and the Indians would kill him and eat him, or take him
prisoner--I don't care what, so long as they didn't let him come back
any more, and--"
_Pat--pat--pat--pat--pat--pat--pat--pat_--a regular beat from a short
distance off, and evidently coming from round by the other side of a
clump of larches, where the road curved and then went away level and
straight for about a mile.
"Whatever is that?" thought Lucy, whose eyes grew rounder, and who
stared wonderingly in the direction of the sound. "It can't be a
rabbit, I'm quite sure."
She was perfectly right; it was not a rabbit, as she saw quite plainly
the next minute, when a curious-looking figure in white, braided and
trimmed with blue, but bare-armed, bare-legged and bare-headed, came
suddenly into view, with head forward, fists clenched, and held up on a
level with its chest, and running at a steady, well-sustained pace right
in the middle of the sandy road.
It was a surprise for both.
"Captain Rolph!" exclaimed Lucy, as the figure stopped short, panting
heavily, and looking a good deal surprised.
"Miss Alleyne! Beg pardon. Didn't expect to see anybody so early.
Really."
Lucy felt as if she would like to run away, but that she felt would be
cowardly, so she stood her ground, and made, sensibly enough, the best
of matters in what was decidedly a rather awkward encounter.
"I often come for an early walk," said the girl, coolly as to speech,
though she felt rather hot. "Is this--is this for amateur theatricals?"
It would have been wiser not to allude to the captain's costume, but the
words slipped out, and they came like a relief to him, for he, too, had
felt tolerably confused. As it was his features expanded into a broad
grin, and he then laughed aloud.
"Theatricals? Why, bless your innocence, no. I am in training for a
race--foot-race--ten miles--man who does it in shortest time gets the
cup. I give him--"
"Him?" said Lucy, for her companion had paused.
"Yes, him," said the captain. "Champion to run against."
"Run against?" said Lucy, glancing at a great blue bruise upon the
captain's arm and a piece of sticking-plaister upon his forehead. "Do
you hurt yourself like that when you run against men?"
"Haw, haw, haw! Haw, haw, haw!" laughed the captain. "I beg pardon,
but, really, you are such a daisy. So innocent, you know. That was
done last night out in the woods. Bit of a row with some poacher chaps.
One of them hit me with a stick on the head. That's from the butt of a
gun."
He gave the bruise on his bare arm a slap, and laughed, while Lucy
coloured with shame and annoyance, but resolved to ignore the captain's
rather peculiar appearance, and escape as soon as she could.
"I ought not to mind," she said to herself. "It's only rather French.
Like the pictures one sees in the illustrated papers about Trouville."
"Were you fighting?"
"Well, yes," he said indifferently, "bit of a scrimmage. Nothing to
mind. People who preserve often meet with that sort of a thing. I did
run against a fellow, though," he continued, laughing. "But that's not
the sort of running against I meant. I'm going to do a foot-race.
Matched against a low sort of fellow."
"Oh!" said Lucy, looking straight before her.
"Professional, you know; but I'm going to run him--take the conceit out
of the cad. Bad thing conceit."
"Extremely," said Lucy tightening her lips.
"Horrid. I'm going to give him fifty yards."
"Oh!" said Lucy, gravely, as she took a step forward without looking at
the captain. "But don't let me hinder you. I was only taking my
morning walk."
"Don't hinder me a bit," said the captain. "I was just going to put on
the finishing spurt, and end at that cross path. I've as good as done
it, and I'm in prime condition."
"Bad thing conceit," said Lucy to herself.
"Fresh as a daisy."
"Horrid," said Lucy again to herself.
"I feel as if I could regularly run away from him. My legs are as hard
as nails."
"Indeed!"
"Oh, yes. I haven't trained like this for nothing. Don't you think
you've hindered me. I sha'n't trouble about it any more."
All this while Lucy was trying to escape from her companion, but it was
rather a wild idea to trudge away from a man whose legs were as hard as
nails. As she walked on, though, she found herself wondering whether
the finishing spurt that the captain talked of putting on was some kind
of garment, as she kept steadily along, with, to her great disgust, the
captain keeping coolly enough by her side, and evidently feeling quite
at home, beginning to chat about the weather, the advantages of early
rising, and the like.
"I declare," thought Lucy, "if I met anyone, I should be ready to sink
through the ground for shame. I wish he'd go."
"Some people waste half their days in bed, Miss Alleyne. Glad to see
you don't. I've been up these two hours, and feel, as they say, as fit
as a fiddle, and, if you'll forgive me for saying so, you look just the
same you do really, you know."
He cast an admiring glance at her, which she noted, and for the moment
it frightened her, then it fired a train, and a mischievous flash darted
from her eyes.
This was delicious, and though her cheeks glowed a little, perhaps from
the exercise, her heart gave a great leap, and began to rejoice.
"I knew he was not worthy of her," she thought. "The wretch! I won't
run away, though I want to very badly." And she walked calmly on by his
side.
"Don't you find this place dull?" said Rolph.
"Dull? oh dear no," cried Lucy, looking brightly up in his face, and
recalling at the same time that this must be at least the tenth time she
had answered this question.
"I wish you'd let my mother call upon you, and you'd come up to the Hall
a little oftener, Miss Alleyne, 'pon my honour I do."
"Why, I do come as often as I am asked, Captain Rolph," said Lucy with a
mischievous look in her eyes.
"Do you, though? Well, never mind, come oftener."
"Why?" said Lucy, with an innocent look of wonder in her round eyes.
"Why? because I want to see you, you know. It's precious dull there
sometimes."
"What, with Glynne there?" cried Lucy.
"Oh yes, sometimes. She reads so much."
"Fie, Captain Rolph!"
"No, no; nonsense. Oh, I say, though, I wish you would."
"Really, Captain Rolph, I don't understand you," said Lucy, who was in a
flutter of fright, mischief and triumph combined.
"Oh yes, you do," he said, "but hold hard a minute. Back directly."
He ran from her out to where something was hanging on a broken branch of
a pine, and returned directly, putting on a flannel cricketing cap, and
a long, hooded ulster, which, when buttoned up, gave him somewhat the
aspect of a friar of orders grey, who had left his beads at home.
"You do understand me," he said, not noticing the mirthful twinkle in
Lucy's eye at his absurd appearance. "Oh yes, you do. It's all right.
I say, Lucy Alleyne, what a one you are."
Lucy's eyebrows went up a little at this remark, but she did not assume
displeasure, she only looked at him inquiringly.
"Oh, it's all right," he said again. "I am glad I met you, it's so
precious dull down here."
"What, when you have all your training to see to, Captain Rolph."
"Oh, yes; awfully dull. You see Glynne doesn't take any interest in a
fellow's pursuits. She used to at first, but now it's always books."
"But you should teach her to be interested, Captain Rolph."
"Oh, I say, hang it all, Lucy Alleyne, can't you drop that captaining of
a fellow when we're out here _tete-a-tete_. It's all very well up at
the Hall but not here, and so early in the morning, we needn't be quite
so formal, eh?"
"Just as you like," said Lucy, with the malicious twinkle in her eyes on
the increase.
"That's right," cried Rolph; "and, I say, you know, come, own up--you
did, didn't you?"
"Did what?" cried Lucy.
"Know I was training this morning."
"Indeed, no," cried Lucy, indignantly, with a look that in no wise
abashed the captain.
"Oh, come now, that won't do," cried Rolph. "There's nothing to be
ashamed of."
"I'm not a bit ashamed," cried Lucy stoutly; and then to herself, "Oh
yes, I am--horribly. What a fright, to be sure!"
"That's right," cried Rolph, "but I know you did come, and I say I'm
awfully flattered, I am, indeed. I wish, you know, you'd take a little
more interest in our matches and engagements: it would make it so much
pleasanter for a fellow."
"Would it?" said Lucy.
"Would it? Why, of course it would. You see I should feel more like
those chaps used, in the good old times, you know, when they used to
bring the wreaths and prizes they had won, and lay 'em at ladies' feet,
only that was confoundedly silly, of course. I don't believe in that
romantic sort of work."
"Oh, but that was at the feet of their lady-loves," said Lucy, quickly.
"Never mind about that," replied Rolph; "must have someone to talk to
about my engagements. It's half the fun."
"Go and talk to Glynne, then," said Lucy.
"That's no use, I tell you. She doesn't care a _sou_ for the best bit
of time made in anything. Here, I believe," he said, warmly, "if that
what's-his-name chap, who said he'd put a girdle round the globe in less
than no time, had done it, and come back to Glynne and told her so,
she'd just lift up her eyes--"
"Her beautiful eyes," said Lucy, interrupting.
"Oh, yes, she's got nice eyes enough," said Rolph, sulkily; "but she'd
only have raised 'em for a moment and looked at him, and said--`Have you
really.' Here, I say, Puck's the chap I mean."
"I don't think Glynne's very fond of athletic sports," said Lucy.
"No, but you are; I know you are. Come, it's of no use to deny it. I
say I am glad."
"Why, the monster's going to make love to me," said Lucy to herself.
"You are now, aren't you?"
"Well, I don't dislike them," said Lucy; "not very much."
"Not you; and, I say, I may talk to you a bit about my engagements,
mayn't I?"
"Really, Captain Rolph," replied Lucy, demurely, "I hardly know what to
say to such a proposal as this. To how many ladies are you engaged?"
"Ladies? Engaged? Oh, come now! I say, you know, you don't mean that.
I say, you're chaffing me, you know."
"But you said engaged, and I knew you were engaged to Glynne Day," cried
Lucy, innocently.
"Oh, but you know I meant engagements to run at athletic meetings. Of
course I'm only engaged to Glynne, but that's no reason why a man
shouldn't have a bit of a chat to any one else--any one pretty and
sympathetic, and who took an interest in a fellow's pursuits. I say,
I've got a wonderful match on, Lucy."
"How dare he call me Lucy!" she thought; and an indignant flash from her
eyes fell upon a white-topped button mushroom beside the road. "A
pretty wretch to be engaged to poor Glynne. Oh, how stupid she must
be!"
The mushroom was not snatched up, and Rolph went on talking, with his
hands far down in the pockets of his ulster.
"It's no end of a good thing, and I'm sure to win. It's to pick up five
hundred stones put five yards apart, and bring 'em back and put 'em in a
basket one at a time; so that, you see, I have to do--twice five yards
is ten yards the first time, and then twice ten yards the second time;
and then twice twenty yards is forty yards the third time, and then
twice forty yards is eighty yards the fourth time, and--Here, I say, I'm
getting into a knot, I could do it if I had a pencil."
"But I thought you would have to run."
"Yes; so I have. I mean to tot up on a piece of paper. It's five yards
more twice over each time, you know, and mounts up tremendously before
you're done; but I've made up my mind to do it, and I will."
"All that's very brave of you," cried Lucy, looking him most shamelessly
full in the eyes, and keeping her own very still to conceal the
twitching mischief that was seeking to make puckers and dimples in all
parts of her pretty face.
"Well," he said, heavily, "you can't quite call it brave. It's plucky,
though," he added, with a self-satisfied smile. "There are not many
fellows in my position who would do it."
"Oh, no, I suppose not," said Lucy, with truthful earnestness this time;
and then to herself: "He's worse than I thought."
"Now that's what I like, you know," exclaimed Rolph. "That's what I
want--a sort of sympathy, you know. To feel that when I'm doing my best
to win some cup or belt there's one somewhere who takes an interest in
it, and is glad for me to win. Do you see?"
"Oh, of course I am glad for you to win, if it pleases you," said Lucy,
demurely.
"But it doesn't please me if it doesn't please you," cried Rolph. "I've
won such a heap of times, that I don't care for it much, unless there
should be some one I could come and tell about it all."
"Then why not tell Glynne?" said Lucy, opening her limpid eyes, and
gazing full in the captain's face.
"Because it's of no use," cried Rolph. "I've tried till I'm sick of
trying. I want to tell you."
"Oh, but you mustn't tell me," said Lucy.
"Oh, yes I must, and I'm going to begin now. I shall tell you all my
ventures, and what I win, and when I am going to train; and--I say,
Lucy, you did come out this morning to see me train?"
"Indeed, I did not," she cried; "and even if I had, I should not tell
you so."
"Oh, I don't mind," said Rolph, laughing. "I'm satisfied."
"What a monster for poor Glynne to be engaged to. I believe, if I were
to encourage him, he'd break off his engagement."
"I am glad I met you," said Rolph, suddenly, and he went a little closer
to Lucy, who started aside into the wet grass, and glanced hastily
round. "Why, what are you doing?" he said.
"I wanted to pick that mushroom," she said.
"Oh, never mind the mushrooms, you'll make your little feet wet, and I
want to talk to you. I say, I'm going to train again to-morrow morning.
You'll come, won't you. Pray do!--Who's this?"
Both started, for, having approached unheard, his pony's paces muffled
by the turf, Philip Oldroyd cantered by them, gazing hard at Lucy, and
raising his hat stiffly to Rolph, as he went past.
"Confound him! Where did he spring from?" cried Rolph. "Why, he quite
startled you," he continued, for Lucy's face, which had flushed crimson,
now turned of a pale waxen hue.
"Oh, no; it is nothing," she said, as a tremor ran through her frame,
and she hesitated as to what she should do, ending by exclaiming
suddenly that she must go back home at once.
"But you'll come and see me train to-morrow morning," said Rolph.
"No, no. Oh, no. I could not," cried Lucy; and she turned and hurried
away.
"But you will come," said Rolph, gazing after her. "I'll lay two to
one--five to one--fifty to one--she comes. She's caught--wired--netted.
Pretty little rustic-looking thing. I rather like the little lassie;
she's so fresh and innocent. I wonder what dignified Madame Glynne
would say. Bet a hundred to one little Lucy's thinking about me now,
and making up her mind to come."
He was right; Lucy was thinking about him, and wishing he had been at
the bottom of the sea that morning before he had met her.
"Oh, what will Mr Oldroyd think?" she sobbed, as the tears ran down her
face. "It's nothing to him, and he's nothing to me; but it's horrible
for him to have seen me walking out at this time in the morning, and
_alone_, with that stupid, common, racing, betting creature, whom I
absolutely abominate."
She walked on, weeping silently for a few minutes before resuming her
self-reproaches.
"I'm afraid it was very wicked and wrong and forward of me, but I did so
want to know whether he really cared for Glynne. And he doesn't--he
doesn't--he does not," she sobbed passionately. "He's a wicked, bad,
empty-headed, deceitful monster; and he'd make Glynne wretched all her
life. Why, he was making love to me, and talking slightingly of her all
the time."
Here there was another burst of sobs, in the midst of which, and the
accompanying blinding tears, she stooped down to pick another mushroom,
but only to viciously throw it away, for it to fall bottom upwards
impaled upon the sharp thorns of a green furze bush close at hand.
"I don't care," she cried; "they may think what they like, both of them,
and they may say what they like. I was trying to fight my poor, dear,
injured, darling brother's battle, and to make things happier for him,
and if I'm a martyr through it, I will be, and I don't care a pin."
She was walking on, blinded by the veil of tears that fell from her
eyes, seeing nothing, hearing nothing of the song of birds and the whirr
and hum of the insect world. The morning was now glorious, and the
wild, desolate common land was full of beauty; but Lucy's heart was sore
with trouble, and outburst followed outburst as she went homeward.
"I've found him out, though, after all, and it's worth every pain I may
feel, and Glynne shall know what a wretch he is, and then she'll turn to
poor, dear Moray, and he'll be happy once again. Poor fellow, how he
has suffered, and without a word, believing that there was no hope for
him when there is; and I don't care, I'm growing reckless now; I'd even
let Glynne see how unworthy Captain Rolph is, by going to meet him. It
doesn't matter a bit, people will believe I'm weak and silly; and if the
captain were to boast that he had won me, everybody would believe him.
Oh, it's dreadful, dreadful, I want to do mischief to some one else
and--and--and--but I don't care, not a bit. Yes, I do," she sobbed
bitterly. "Everybody will think me a weak, foolish, untrustworthy girl,
and it will break my heart, and--oh!"
Lucy stopped short, tear-blinded, having nearly run against an obstacle
in the way.
The obstacle was Lucy's mental definition of "everybody," who would
think slightingly of her now.
For "everybody" was seated upon a pony, waiting evidently for her to
come.
Volume 2, Chapter VII.