"God bless you, my dear boy, and bring good out of evil."
"Thank you," said Lucian. "I shall write, mother, and you know my
address."
"Take care of yourself, my dearest boy. If you would but have let me
come with you."
"I'd rather be alone. Good-bye," said Lucian.
It was not pride, struggling to control emotion, it was simple
incapacity to express, almost to feel, the blow that had come upon him.
Sylvester went to the station with him to meet the evening train, for
Mrs Leigh's satisfaction, and as they walked up and down the platform,
waiting for it, Lucian said suddenly--
"Amethyst is very fond of the Rector and Miss Riddell, I hope they'll go
on being kind."
"I am sure they will," said Sylvester, starting at the name which had
not yet had time to grow strange to Lucian's lips. "And, Lucy, any time
you send me a word, I'll come to you."
"Thanks," said Lucian, "but I think I'd rather not have any one from
here."
"Well--I will write if--"
"No," said Lucian, suddenly and abruptly, "I don't want to hear."
Ungracious as the speeches sounded, they did not so strike Sylvester,
even though Lucian parted from him with only an ordinary hand-shake, and
with no softening of eye or lip.
He went away as he had said, by himself, and spun along through the long
night hours, till the morning found him in fresh air, in new scenes, all
his past ruined. He walked far and fast, climbed heights, and changed
from one place to another, fished by way of occupation, fell in with a
reading party of old college acquaintances and joined their expeditions,
got invitations for future shooting, planned further travel, wrote short
letters home, never about himself. He was exceptionally strong and
vigorous, so that his health did not suffer from his trouble; he turned
away as much as he could, both by instinct and of set purpose, from
thoughts of his past happiness, indeed he thought very little of
anything; but now and then he became suddenly conscious of intense
misery, and once, poor fellow, as he sat alone on the heather, found
himself, before he knew it, shedding bitter tears, not called up by any
special image, but by a wave of desolate feeling. His mother wrote that
she trusted that he would get over it, but he could not look forward to
any change in a feeling that had once possessed him. It was there; why
should it alter? But he began to wonder if he ever could "do his duty,"
and live at Toppings by himself. What else could he do? He could not
invent a new sort of life. He did not feel the least impulse to drown
his trouble in any sort of dissipation. He hated London, and gaieties,
and rowdyism of all sorts. He liked a country gentleman's duties,
varied with a good deal of sport. But he liked nothing now; he could
not even imagine anything that he should like.