CHAPTER XXXV.
THE HEIR APPARENT
Yorke walked straight out of the club, leaving the two men staring at each other in amazement.
"Good Lord! poor Auchester is clean off his balance. Do you think it is the shock – that it was because we did not break it gently enough?"
The other man shook his head.
"N-o, I don't think so. He's been very queer in his manner lately, and – But who the devil did he mean when he said, 'She might have been a duchess?'"
Yorke strode along Pall Mall bewildered and stunned. At first he was too confused to feel anything; then regret and grief came uppermost. He was genuinely sorry. You may dislike your uncle and cousins, and yet be far from wishing them dead; and Yorke's eyes were moist, and there was a lump in his throat as he thought of his three kinsmen lying at the bottom of the Mediterranean.
Then he began to realize what their unexpected and tragic death meant to him. There was only Dolph between him and the dukedom, and poor Dolph could not make old bones, and as it bore down upon him with its full significance, the terrible bitterness which had overwhelmed him at the club recurred. The turn of the wheel of fortune had come too late. If it had happened a month – five weeks earlier, he would not have been driven into a corner, the only way out of which was by a marriage with Eleanor Dallas.
"Too late!" he muttered. "Yes! if it had come sooner I might have kept Leslie;" but his heart revolted against his thought, and he swore under his breath, "No, no! It was the title she wanted, not me. It is better that she has gone!"
He went home and saw by Fleming's face that he had heard the sad news. Poor Fleming tried to look cut up, but it was hard work, seeing that he had been saying to himself since the moment he had read the paragraph, "My master will be a duke!"
"Dreadful news, my lord," he said, in the tone proper to the occasion.
"Yes, yes, Fleming," said Yorke, gravely.
"Your lordship will go over, I suppose?"
Yorke started slightly. He had not as yet thought of this, his obvious duty.
"Yes," he said. "Get some things ready and look out the time-table."
"Yes, my lord. Your lordship will go down to White Place first?" suggested Fleming, respectfully.
Yorke hesitated, but he assented.
"I'm to go abroad with you, my lord?" said Fleming tentatively, and Yorke nodded.
"You can if you like – just as you like," he said.
"Thank you, my Lord, I will go," said Fleming. "Your lordship may want things done, and I may be useful."
"You are always that," Yorke said; and it was just such simple expressions of appreciation as this that won the regard and devotion of Fleming and his kind.
Yorke went off to White Place that night. He was tired, but he could not sleep in the train, though he tried. His mind was too overburdened with thought. Late as it was, the ladies were up, and they had heard the news from a servant who had brought an evening paper from town.
Its effect upon Lady Eleanor was strange, and puzzled Lady Denby at first, for Lady Eleanor let the paper drop from her hand, and stood staring before her with an expression in her eyes which was rather that of some vague dread than sorrow.
Lady Denby went to her and drew her to a couch.
"It is terribly sudden, and I am not surprised at your being upset, dear," she said. "But – What is it, Eleanor? You are not going to faint?" for Lady Eleanor had swayed and fallen back with the look of dread still in her eyes.
She recovered after a moment, and the tears came.
"Oh, poor things, poor things! Oh, it is dreadful; but God forgive me, it was not of them I was thinking but of – of Yorke and myself!"
"Of Yorke?" said Lady Denby, puzzled still.
"Yes," said Lady Eleanor, in a low and half-shamed voice. "Don't you see the – the wedding must be put off now!"
Lady Denby stroked her hand soothingly.
"Yes, of course, dear; but there is nothing in that to frighten you; for you look frightened, Eleanor."
"Seems like – like a judgment on me; as if heaven were angry and meant to throw obstacles in the way – ."
"Oh, my dear Eleanor!"
"Yes! You don't know – you don't understand what I feel! And I felt so happy, so safe! and now – How long do you think it will be necessary to put it off?"
Lady Denby was very nearly shocked.
"The suddenness of this terrible news has upset you, Eleanor," she said, gravely; "but for heaven's sake don't talk so – so callously."
"You do not know!" repeated Lady Eleanor, with a deep sigh. "It is not that I do not feel for them. Ah, yes, I do, keenly; as keenly as you can; but – but it is as if it were fated that something should occur to prevent our marriage." She was silent for a moment; and then she said, as if to herself: "He will be the duke. I am sorry."
"Sorry!" Lady Denby stared at her.
"Yes," said Lady Eleanor, in the same low, reflective voice. "Yes; I would rather he was what he is, and – and poor. I would rather that he owed everything to me. Now – now it will be I who will owe much to him."
"That is as fine a sample of pride as I have ever met with," said Lady Denby.
"Is it?" said Lady Eleanor. "You do not know or understand. Do you think" – she looked up with a look of pain in her beautiful eyes – "do you think that if he were free he would wish me now to be his wife?"
"Eleanor, I have often said, in jest, that your affection for Yorke was undermining your reason; but in solemn truth I begin to think that there is some truth in my assertion. Dry your eyes and compose yourself. He will be here presently; he is sure to come the moment he hears the news. He will have to go over and see about the funeral."
"No, no; why should he?" said Lady Eleanor, then she flushed as if with shame. "Yes, yes, of course! and you think he will come?"
"There he is!" said Lady Denby, as they heard Yorke's step in the hall. "For heaven's sake don't breathe to him the charming sentiments you have favored me with."
Lady Eleanor shook her head and bit her lips to bring the color into them.
"Do not fear," she said. "It is only when I am alone or with you that I show my doubts and fears."
Yorke came in and took her in his arms and kissed her.
"You have heard the news, Eleanor, I see," he said gravely.
"Yes, it is dreadful, dreadful! To think that all three should be gone – those two poor boys! You are going over, Yorke?" for he had got on his traveling ulster.
"Yes; I am going to meet Fleming at Charing Cross to-morrow morning. I shall have to go back at once."
"At once! It was good of you to come so far just to say good-by; but you are always good to me, Yorke," and she laid her head on his shoulder. "This – this will make a difference to you, dearest?"
He did not affect not to understand her.
"Yes," he said, simply. "Two days ago there seemed little chance of my being the Duke of Rothbury. Now – but I hope and trust dear old Dolph will live to be a hundred."
"And I, and I!" she responded fervently. "I would rather have you as you are, Yorke; far, far rather."
"I'm afraid that this sad affair will delay our marriage, Eleanor," he said, and he said it as regretfully as he could.
"Yes," she whispered, her face still hidden on his shoulder – "Yes, it must, I suppose; but" – he could almost feel her blush – "but not for long?" she asked, nearly inaudibly.
"I don't know," he stammered. "I – we shall see. I must find Dolph. He was in Switzerland, but I think it is very likely that he has moved down south with the cooler weather. He will be cut up. He liked poor Eustace better than any of us did. I must go now, dear," he said, presently.
"So soon?"
"Yes, I am afraid so. Is there anything you want me to do – anything I can tell Dolph?"
She shook her head.
"There is only one thing I want," she said, in a low voice, "and that is – you! Come back as soon – the first moment you can, Yorke, and – and don't forget me!"
He would have been a far worse man than he was if he had not been touched by the depth of her love, and he kissed her with greater warmth than he had ever before shown her.
When he had gone Lady Eleanor threw herself down on the sofa and hid her face in her hands, and Lady Denby, when she came in an hour later, found her thus.
Do it as luxuriously as you may, the journey from England to the south of Italy is a tiresome and aggravating one, and Yorke reached Policastro – the place at which the bodies were lying – worn out mentally and physically. It was fortunate that the devoted Fleming had accompanied him, and never did his devotion display itself more plainly or to better advantage. There were a number of persons, busybodies, there, who would have surrounded Lord Auchester at once – the whole coast was in a state of excitement over the catastrophe – but Fleming kept them at bay, and insisted upon his master taking some rest before he commenced the painful duties necessitated by the circumstances.
"His lordship isn't going to see any one to-night," he assured the landlord of the hotel. "Not if it was the King of Italy himself. If anybody wants to know anything, let them come to me."
The landlord only half understood, but he was considerably awed by Fleming's tone, and departed shrugging his shoulders and spreading out his hands after the manner of his nation.
In the morning Yorke went and identified the bodies and arranged for the funeral, and was returning to the hotel when he met Grey, the duke's valet.
"His grace has just arrived, my lord. I came to meet you," he said. "I hope your lordship is well?" he added, respectfully, and with rather a serious glance at Yorke's face.
Yorke nodded.
"All right, thank you, Grey," he said. "And the duke?"
Grey hesitated.
"About as well as usual, I hope, my lord," he said, quietly. "This sad affair has upset him, of course, and – and he hasn't been very strong lately – not since we left England, indeed, my lord. Your lordship will find him looking thinner," he added, as if to warn Yorke.
Yorke quickened his pace, and Grey led him to the duke's room.
The room was darkened by the drawn blinds, and Yorke, coming out of the sunlight saw but indistinctly for a moment; then, as the duke raised himself on the couch, he started and found speech difficult. The duke was but a shadow of even his former self, and the hand which he extended was so thin that Yorke was afraid to press it.
"Why, Dolph," he said, with forced cheerfulness, "this is a surprise! How did you come here?"
"We have been traveling night and day, as you have no doubt," said the duke, and his voice sounded much thinner and more feeble than when Yorke had last heard it. "Pull up an inch or two of one of the blinds and let me look at you."
Yorke did so, and came back to the couch, and the duke, after scanning his face, fell back with a faint sigh.
"And so you are going to be the next duke, after all. How you and I have fretted – No, I don't know that you ever cared much, but I did – and it has all come right at last! The Providence that 'shapes our ends, rough-hew them as we will,' has decreed that poor Eustace and his boys should go down there in the bay and that you should reign in his place!"
"I wish they were all alive still," said Yorke, with sincerity.
"I know you do," responded the duke. "But I can't help thinking, as I have always thought, that you will make a good duke, Yorke. You have the presence and the moral strength, and a better temper than poor Eustace. He was too fond of his money. But of the dead let us speak nothing but good. And now about yourself. Why did you not write and tell me of your engagement? Never mind; I understand. And if I did not write and tell you I was glad, you knew it without any epistolatory assurance from me. You have done wisely, Yorke, very wisely. Eleanor has everything that a man wants in a wife – youth, beauty, wealth and station. She will make a splendid duchess, Yorke."
"Yes," said Yorke, staring at the carpet moodily.
"I suppose I must hang on until you are married," said the duke, as cheerfully and coolly as if he were talking of somebody else. "Once or twice lately I have been inclined to throw up the sponge, but somehow I've got a hankering to see you settled; and then I suppose I shall want to live long enough to take the next heir on my knee. Men are never satisfied. But I don't suppose I shall be able to hold out till then."
"For heaven's sake, don't talk such arrant nonsense!" Yorke said, emphatically. "You are no worse than you were."
The duke smiled at him calmly but significantly.
"My dear fellow, I am hanging on to life by my eyelashes," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone.
"You must get back to England as quickly as possible," said Yorke, trying to speak in an assured and perfectly confident voice. "There is nothing like England in the winter, after all. Come back and let Eleanor nurse you."
"That's an inducement, certainly," said the duke. "Eleanor and I were always good friends."
There was silence for a few moments; then the duke, after glancing once or twice at Yorke's grave face, said, in a low voice that faltered:
"There – there is no news of – of – "
He stopped.
"Of whom?" said Yorke, with a frown, though he knew well enough.
"Of Leslie," said the duke, and a faint flush passed over his emaciated face.
Yorke shook his head.
"No," he replied, clearing his throat. "No, I have seen nothing and heard nothing of her since I left Portmaris."
"She must have gone out of England," said the duke, knitting his brows. "Her father being an artist – as he thinks himself, poor fellow – would be ready enough to come abroad here on the Continent. It is strange that I have not run across them."
Yorke said nothing, but the frown on his forehead deepened and darkened.
"When I shuffle off this mortal coil you will find in my will that I have mentioned – Leslie." He paused before the name. "You won't mind, Yorke? She wouldn't take any money from me alive, but she may not mind when I'm gone. After all, it was a cruel trick we – no, I – played her, Yorke," he said, in a remorseful tone.
"It was!" said Yorke, curtly. "But it was a test, and she failed in it."
The duke sighed. Silence again for a moment or two; then, as if he were giving speech to a thought that had occurred to him before, and often before, this he said, hesitatingly:
"Do you think – mind, I only ask you the question for the sake of asking it; I have no reason for doing so – but do you think that there was the slightest chance of our having made a mistake?"
"What do you mean?" demanded Yorke.
"I mean – well, it is difficult to say exactly what I mean. But you know – or perhaps you don't know – how sick men brood and brood over a thing. You see, we have so much time on our hands lying on our backs and counting the flies on the ceiling, that we think over things a great deal more closely than men in sound health. And – and at times a doubt has crossed my mind." He stopped. "There is no ground for it. I am sure I could not have been mistaken; she spoke only too plainly the morning we parted. Besides, there is the fact of her breaking her appointment with you; of leaving you without a word beyond the message she sent by me."
"And the message she sent by Arnheim. I met him the other day and he gave it to me; I went off too quickly on the other occasion for him to do so. It was like that she sent by you; she wished to see me no more," said Yorke, grimly.
"Yes, yes! There could be no mistake, and yet – well, I have lain and thought of her as she was when we first met her, do you remember?"
Yorke smiled grimly. Did he remember?
"So girlish and innocent; so quick to be pleased, and so grateful," he sighed.
"Yes; sometimes it has seemed impossible to me that she should have been so base and mercenary. But there could be no mistake, as you say. And, mind, I should not have said this if you had still been unsettled and hankering after her; but now – ."
"Don't say it now, either!" broke out Yorke, springing to his feet and pacing up and down. "For God's sake, don't talk of – of that time or of her. I – I can't bear it! I beg your pardon, Dolph; but don't you see – don't you understand that though a man may cover up his wound and cease to complain, the heart may sting and ache still? I want to forget – to forget! and – and if there is any doubt – but there can't be – I've got to shut my eyes and ears to it – to put it away from me. If I did not – if I entertained it for a moment – well – " He stopped and laughed bitterly. "That way madness lies! You and I had better agree to taboo the subject. The sound of her name – How soon can we leave this place?" he broke off.
The duke sighed.
"You must get back as quickly as possible," he said. "Eleanor will miss you. The wedding need not be put off very long. You are already practically the duke. I shall pass over all the business of the estate to you at once, and it is right and fitting that you should be married. The world will see that. Three months, too, will be long enough to wait; the wedding can be a perfectly quiet one."
"Very well," said Yorke, dully. "Settle it as you like."
"Yes! it can't be too soon," said the duke, thoughtfully. "You've got to consider me, you know," and he laughed. "Look here, my lord, you may as well begin to take the burden on your shoulders. Give me that dispatch-box; there are some letters Grey has been bothering me about. It is something about the trees in the Home park at Rothbury. Cut 'em down or let 'em stand, just as you think proper. They will be yours, you know, very shortly, thank God!"
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE NEW LOVE
A fortnight later Lucy was returning from a rather lengthy ramble. She had a companion, one of the school-girls, this being the universal holiday, Saturday afternoon, and they both carried a basket full of roots and leaves; for whenever Lucy went out she managed to bring home something for planting in the little garden of which she and Leslie were so fond and proud.
"I hope you're not getting tired, Jenny," she said to the girl who tripped on proudly beside her.
"Oh, no, Miss Lucy."
"Well, I'm glad you are not," remarked Lucy; "for we are a long way from home yet."
"And it is going to rain," added Jenny, with that placid indifference to the weather which distinguishes country children.
"What; and I have brought no umbrella, and you have only that thin cloak, Jenny. But perhaps you are wrong. I always notice that when people say it is going to rain, it invariably turns out fine, perhaps for weeks."
"It's going to rain now, Miss Lucy," repeated Jenny, still more confidently; and a moment or two afterward she added, "There!"
Lucy felt a spot on her face and seized the girl's basket.
"You must let me carry this, Jenny, because we shall have to hurry all we know. It will never do to go in wet through. What would Miss Leslie say?"
This formula, which she found of great service when admonishing the children, lent speed to Jenny's small feet, and Lucy and she hurried along the road. But quickly as they went the rain caught them up, and presently it came down in a torrent.
Jenny laughed, and Lucy, being rather careful of her clothes, and inclined to take matters seriously, was constrained to laugh too.
"We must get under a tree," she said. "There, squeeze up against the trunk, and I will stand in front of you and shelter you as well as I can. Oh, what would I give for an umbrella!"
Jenny leaned against the tree and amused herself by twisting a spray of brown ivy leaves into a wreath, and looking up at the weather now and again; and Lucy was rapidly sinking into that semi-indifferent, semi-despairing condition which such circumstances produce, when she heard the rattle of a cart coming along the road.
"Jenny, there is a cart, and I believe it is going to Newfold," she said, with a sudden hopefulness. "Perhaps it is someone we know – one of the tradespeople. If so, we will ask them to give us a lift."
"They won't wait to be asked, Miss Lucy," said Jenny, shrewdly, and indeed truthfully, for the two school-teachers were already favorites in Newfold.
"Here it is now," said Lucy; then she sighed disappointedly. "It is a dog cart – a gentleman's dog-cart," she said. "Bother!"
It came abreast of them and was spinning past, when suddenly the gentleman who was driving seemed to see them, and after a moment's hesitation he pulled up the horse.
"You mustn't stand under that tree," he called out.
Lucy colored and started for two reasons; one, because she had been brought up in habits of obedience, and generally did what she was told, no matter who told her, and especially if the order was issued in a commanding voice, and this was a commanding voice. The other reason was that she recognized the voice itself. It was the gentleman she had met in the lane, and to whom she had given the fern root.
"Come away," he said, gravely; then he appeared to recognise her, for he jumped down and, still holding the reins, came forward and raised his hat, Jenny laughing to see the rain pour off the brim.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I did not see who it was for a moment, the rain is pelting so. But all the same you really must not stand there. There is thunder in the air, and it is dangerous standing under a tree – lightning you know!"
Lucy uttered a little cry, then laughed and blushed.
"Of course. How foolish of me not to think of it! But when you called out I was afraid I was doing some injury to the tree by trespassing."
He laughed – a grave, short kind of laugh, which, however, seemed to Lucy to suit him somehow.
"How wet you are!" he said. "Have you been standing here long?"
"Ever since it began," replied Lucy with a little shrug of her shoulders – a trick she had unconsciously caught from Leslie. "And we are waiting till it stops."
"I am afraid you will have to wait a long time," he remarked. "It has set for a wet evening. May I ask where you are going?"
"To Newfold," said Lucy.
"Newfold? Ah, yes! Will you let me offer you a lift? I am going there, or, at any rate, very near there – as far as the London road goes."
"Oh, no, thank you," said Lucy, flushing. He looked disappointed; then he glanced at Jenny.
"The little girl is getting very wet. She will take a chill," he said, gravely.
"Oh, do you think so?" exclaimed Lucy, with instant alarm. "Oh, dear! And I am afraid she is not very strong. It doesn't in the least matter so far as I am concerned, for I never take cold. I am used to the country and rough weather; but Jenny – ."
Jenny grinned at the idea of her being in any danger from an autumn storm, but she was too wise to make any remark, for she was dying for a ride in the handsome dog-cart.
"I think you had better let me take her – and you," he said; and seeing that she still hesitated, he cut the Gordian knot by lifting Jenny into the cart and holding out his hand for Lucy.
Then when she was seated he got out a big carriage umbrella and put it up for them, and quickly slipping off his waterproof, arranged it on the seat behind so that it completely covered them.
"Oh, but you will get wet!" remonstrated Lucy, much distressed; but he laughed and made light of the business.
"We Londoners like getting wet sometimes," he said. "It is a change, you see. In London we take as much care of ourselves as if a spot of rain would kill us."
"Oh, I know," said Lucy, with shy pride. "I have lived in London for some time."
"I thought you said you were used to the country?" he remarked.
"So I am – I was born in the country," Lucy explained, in her frank, simple manner – a manner, by the way, which possesses a greater charm for some, indeed most, men, than all the cultivated artificialities.
"I have lived all my life," she said – "all my life" – as if she were at least ninety – "in the country until I went up to London to cram for my exam."
"Your exam.?" he said, invitingly, and yet not obtrusively, and there was nothing in the interest displayed in his face which indicated presumptuous or idle curiosity.
"Yes," said Lucy, blushing faintly; "I am a teacher."
"A governess?" he said.
"No, a teacher," corrected Lucy, with fine emphasis. "I am one of the teachers at the village school. There are only two – I mean teachers. I am the second."
"And do you like being a teacher?" he asked. His voice was as grave as ever, but the expression of interest seemed increasing; the pleasant face looked so pretty and innocent and girlish under the shadow of the big umbrella; the clear, low voice rang so true and sweet. It seemed to the weary city man as if he had stopped to pick up one of the wild flowers from the hedge-row.
"Oh, yes," said Lucy, promptly.
"I thought so by the way you spoke," he said, with a smile; and Lucy laughed and blushed again.
"I like it very much," she said. "But, then, ours is such a nice school, and the girls are all such good girls, aren't they, Jenny?"
"Yes, Miss Lucy," assented Jenny, from under the wrap into which she had nestled.
"Self-praise, eh?" he said.
"Oh, but she is really a very good girl," said Lucy, in a confidential whisper, which seemed to make them more intimate. "They are all good, and so we are both as happy as we can be."
"We both?" he said.
"I mean my fellow-teacher; my principal," said Lucy, "Miss – " She was about to tell him the name, but stopped, remembering that he was a stranger and that Leslie might not like to be so confidential, about herself, at any rate.
"I am very glad you are so happy," he said. "Do you know, I had been on the point of visiting your school."
"You?" said Lucy, opening her eyes with surprise; and, as he noticed, with something else – a faint but unmistakable pleasure.
"Yes," he said. "It belongs to a lady who is a friend of mine. She is kind enough to let me see to some of her business matters."
"The kindness seems to be on the other side," said Lucy, laughing.
Ralph Duncombe colored and found himself laughing too.
"Well," he said, "let us say we are both kind. I was going to explain that she had asked me to do something in connection with the school. I forget what it was now."
"Perhaps it was the roof," said Lucy, eagerly. "It is rather bad in one or two places, and the other morning two or three spots of water came through. Oh, I hope it was the roof!"
"It must have been," he said, with due gravity; "and I will see that it is put right at once. Is there anything else that wants doing, Miss – Miss Lucy, I think you said your name was?"
"Yes, Lucy Somes," she said, thinking hard, and trying to remember if there was anything else wrong at her beloved school. "N-o, I don't think there is anything else the matter, excepting the roof."
"Perhaps I had better come and see for myself, he said, in a matter-of-fact way.
"Are you – an architect?" Lucy inquired, rather timidly.
Ralph Duncombe smiled.
"No; I am nothing nearly so clever. I am only an ordinary business man, very hard worked and very glad to run away from the city and into the fresh air."
"Ah, yes; how you must enjoy it!" said Lucy, with a sympathetic little sigh, "to get away from the crowd and the heat and the smoke."
So they talked, and as Ralph Duncombe listened to the sweet young voice it seemed to him as if there was a power in it to soothe his weary, restless spirit; and when Lucy suddenly exclaimed, as if she were quite surprised that they should have reached the spot so soon, "Why, here is the corner!" he pulled the horse up with evident reluctance.
"I'll drive you around to the school," he said; but Lucy declined, and so earnestly that he could not persist.
He lifted them down, and cut short Lucy's blushing thanks.
"It is I who ought to be, and am very much, obliged to you, Miss Somes," he said, "for you have made one part of my lonely drive very pleasant. I hope you won't be any the worse for your wetting."
"Oh, but I am as dry as a bone – and so is Jenny," said Lucy, blushing still more. "Good-by – and you will not forget the roof?"
"No, no," he said; "but I must come and see it myself."
He sat bolt upright in the cart, watching them as they ran along the road shining with the rain, and a strange feeling took possession of him. How lonely he had been before he saw them! How lonely all his life was! He was rich, fearfully rich, and yet there was not a streak of sunshine in his life. His love for Leslie Lisle had clouded it over as with a pall. Oh! why had the fates dealt with him so unkindly? Why had he not given his heart to some girl like the one who had just left him – one who would have returned his love, and borne for him the sweet name of – wife?
For the first time in his life Ralph Duncombe found himself thinking tenderly and wistfully of some other woman than Leslie Lisle.
He thought of her several times the next day. Her sweet girlish face came between him and a most important letter he was writing; and once during the morning his chief clerk came in and found him – the great city man – sitting with his head leaning on his hands and his eyes fixed vacantly on the window.
When Saturday came around again he remembered that he must go round to White Place to see Lady Eleanor. He had the horse harnessed, and drove along the road, light now with the autumn sunshine, and every inch of the way he thought of Lucy. When, in the afternoon, he reached the corner where he had set her and Jenny down, he pulled up, stared straight in front of him for a moment, then suddenly turned the corner and drove to the school, and his heart beat as it had not beaten since he said good-by to Leslie as he saw Lucy's girlish figure in the garden. She wore a plain cotton frock; a big sun hat, much battered and sunburned, was on her head, and the prettiest and most useless of rakes in her hand. She almost dropped this apology for a tool when she saw him, and the color ran up her cheeks as she came to the gate.
"You have come to see the roof!" she said. "That is kind of you."
"Yes, I have come to see the roof!" he said.
He had forgotten all about it; but he could scarcely say he had come to see her.
"I am so sorry," said Lucy; "but my friend – the principal, you know – is out. She does not often leave the house and garden, even for an hour, excepting to go to church; but I persuaded her to go down to the village this afternoon. I am so very sorry!"