Littell's Living Age/Volume 129/Issue 1661/The Dilemma - Part XXIII
From Blackwood's Magazine.
THE DILEMMA.
CHAPTER L.
Fred's visit to "The Beeches" came to an end next day. Yorke went with him as far as London, to look out for a second horse, it being arranged that he should return the following morning in time to accompany Miss Cathy to the meet. Even if he could not procure a horse in the time, Jumping Joseph at any rate would be available, that useful animal having had but an easy day's work on the last occasion. Yorke wanted to find a groom also, for although there were plenty of spare men in Mr. Peevor's statues, the horses there never got thoroughly groomed; but as regards feeding, that gentleman had so frequently adverted to the fact of there being plenty of forage available, that Yorke felt that there would be no chance of being allowed to pay his own corn-bill. In truth he was now established on the footing of a family friend. Mr. Peevor enlarged on the obligation conferred on them by his stay, and on his kindness in accompanying Miss Cathy out hunting; with such an escort he no longer felt nervous about his daughter going out, Mr. Peevor being apparently under the impression that the proximity of another rider was a guarantee against falls. Yorke, for his part, felt that his visit, if prolonged much longer, must needs have a critical issue; but although his pulse did not rise higher at the prospect, he was nothing loath to let matters take their course as chance might dictate. He felt more interested in Lucy than a few days ago he could have believed it possible to be about any woman again, although not clear as yet whether he was in love with her; and he was still in doubt about the state of her feelings for him, and whether the little demonstrations in his favour which he could not but observe were spontaneous tributes to his effect on her, or parts of a design. This doubt perhaps rendered him less eager than he might otherwise have been; but if he could be sure that she really cared for him, why then ——
The first-class passengers in the down train on the morning of Yorke's return to "The Beeches" were for the most part hunting men, bound to the next station beyond Hamwell, several horse-boxes bringing up the rear; but one occupant of Yorke's compartment was evidently not bent on the chase — a middle-aged man with square face and figure and short stubby hair, who wore black trousers and a white waistcoat, notwithstanding the season of the year. This traveller was attended to his carriage by a gentlemanly-looking person, bearing a basket, which the latter handed to him before himself retiring to a second-class compartment. The stranger, depositing the basket carefully by his side, sat bolt upright all the way down, as if it might injure the sit of his clothes to lean back, with a gloved hand holding the other glove (of lavender colour) and resting on his knee, and Yorke noticed that the fingers of the ungloved hand were short and stumpy and not over clean. This gentleman, with reference to Yorke's costume, ventured on the remark that he concluded Yorke was going 'unting — hunting, he added, correcting himself; observing further that it seemed to be a fine 'unting morning, a fine morning for hunting, — that is, if the night's rain had not made the ground too 'eavy — what one might call too heavy. The conversation dropped at this point, Yorke taking refuge in his paper, while the gentleman occupied himself with looking at the cushions on the opposite side of the carriage, occasionally lifting the cover of the basket beside him to peep at the contents. At Hamwell station he got out after Yorke, the gentlemanly-looking person coming up to relieve him of the basket. Passing through the station to the road outside, Yorke saw that the only carriage waiting there was Mr. Peevor's landau. The stranger stepped towards it, the coachman touching his hat. The gentlemanly-looking person opened the door, for there was no footman, and the stranger was about to step in, when Yorke said, "We are apparently bound for the same destination; I presume," he continued with happy divination, "I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Hanckes?" "'Anckes is my name, sir," replied the other; "my name is Hanckes: after you, sir, if you please." When they were seated, the gentlemanly-looking person handed the basket in, and mounted on the vacant seat by the coachman.
"Staying in the house, are you, sir," said Mr. Hanckes, as they drove along, "and going out 'unting with Miss Catherine? She is wonderful fond of hunting is Miss Catherine, and a beautiful 'orsewoman — a beautiful horsewoman, as one may say, and a wonderful 'ard rider for a young lady — wonderful hard." In such conversation the drive was passed, Mr. Hanckes dropping his h's freely by the way, but always making a more or less successful cast to recover them. Arrived at "The Beeches," they meet the two younger ladies in the hall; and Mr. Hanckes, taking the basket from the gentlemanly-looking person, presents each of them with a splendid bouquet of hothouse flowers, keeping two more in reserve for Mrs. and Miss Peevor, when they should be found. Mr. Hanckes made his offerings with considerable nervousness of manner, especially, so it seemed to Yorke, when approaching Lucy; and he noticed also that while Cathy, who was dressed for riding, received her gift without any embarrassment — merely saying, "Oh, thank you, Mr. Hanckes; what lovely flowers! I must take them up-stairs and put them in water; I can't wear them out hunting, you know" — Lucy blushed a little, and stood holding the flowers in her hand as if not knowing exactly what to do with them. But Yorke could not wait to see the issue; for it was time to start for the meet, and the pony-carriage in which he was to drive Miss Cathy there was standing ready at the door. Indeed the little incident did not make much impression at the time; but it flashed upon him as he was driving along that this delicate attention to the four ladies was in fact intended solely for Lucy. Something in Mr. Hanckes's manner when presenting his offering, coupled with the young lady's embarrassment at receiving it, created the suspicion; and thinking over what had passed during that brief space, the conviction suddenly possessed him — derived, perhaps, from his own unfortunate experiences — that Mr. Hanckes was Lucy's avowed suitor. And somehow after arriving at this conclusion he no longer looked forward with the same eagerness to the business of the day, but found himself several times wondering how the inmates of "The Beeches" were occupying themselves during his absence. And such is the pettiness of human nature, that while ashamed of himself for harbouring the notion, the rivalry of even Mr. Hanckes seemed to heighten the interest with which he regarded the young lady.
And yet the occasion was one when a sportsman might well be absorbed in his pursuit. For although the afternoon turned out wet, the scent was good, and two foxes were found, each giving a capital run over a good line of country, which, however, did not cross Upper Shoalbrook Moor as on the last occasion, or anything too formidable for his companion, who acquitted herself admirably throughout the day. Yorke could not help observing, when he appeared at the cover-side with Miss Cathy, that some of the people cast significant glances in his direction; William the groom, however, was also in close attendance up to that point, although he was lost to view immediately on the first fox being found. But Miss Cathy herself was at any rate under no delusion in the matter; for on Yorke remarking as they rode home together what a pity it was her sister could not join in their sport, she replied, "Do you really think so? Don't you think gentlemen like girls best not to hunt? To be sure, I don't know many gentlemen; but it always seemed to me as if they didn't half approve of my riding to hounds. I am sure if I were a man, I should not like my wife to do so." "Can she be in the plot too," thought Yorke, "and playing up for her sister?" But the young lady's manner was perfectly unaffected, and free from all appearance of guile.
That afternoon there was no early tea in the children's room, as Yorke had been looking forward to, thinking that Mr. Hanckes could not follow them to that retreat, and that he should have the young ladies to himself. It was late when they got back; and, heavy rain having come on, both riders were wet through and had to seek their rooms, and the members of the household did not meet till just before dinner, which was earlier than usual this evening, as Mr. Hanckes had to return by the ten o'clock train. But it was a satisfaction to learn incidentally, as they sat down to dinner, that this gentleman had passed the morning in business and in walking about the grounds with Mr. Peevor, Lucy being with them during only a part of the time.
The conversation at that meal took more than ever the price-current form, Mr. Peevor making constant references to the new house at Norwood which Mr. Hanckes had just finished building; while the latter, nothing loath, detailed to the company the various arrangements in progress for completing his little place, as he called it. As for example, Mr. Peevor would say, — "So you have quite settled to give the furnishing to Spruce and Garnish, Hanckes?" to which Mr. Hanckes replies that Spruce and Garnish were rather expensive, but that, on the whole, he had thought it would be better to have the thing done properly while he was about it. "And the decorations for the hall, Hanckes, tell us what you have arranged about them. Are you going to give the job to Stipple?" And Mr. Hanckes explained that Stipple had already got the job on hand. And then how about the pictures? Our excellent Hanckes must lay in some pictures, of course; and Mr. Peevor looked round to the company while putting the question, as if wishing them to listen to the announcement which our excellent Hanckes made in reply, that he had given a commission to Mount and Gilp, the dealers in Pall Mall, for pictures to the tune of five thousand pounds to start with — two thousand water-colour and three thousand hoil, that is, oil paintings. "I don't know a great deal about art myself," added Mr. Hanckes, modestly, "never having had over-much time to learn about such things; but I like to see pictures on the walls; they make a man's 'ome look snug — they give an air of comfort to one's home, if I may say so; and old Mount has promised to look after the order himself, and I can trust him." Upon which Mr. Peevor made the remark to Yorke that they must not take our good Hanckes's account of himself for granted on this head, for that he had a really very good taste in pictures. Indeed it was amusing to notice the mild swagger which the worthy gentleman adopted towards his partner; whatever might be his business relations with Mr. Peevor, in presence of his daughters and in that gentleman's house, Mr. Hanckes was meek, not to say sheepish in manner, perhaps from an inward sense of his imperfect command over the letter "h," affording to the other the evident gratification of patronizing the one person with whom he could venture to take this liberty; for Mr. Peevor held his butler in manifest awe, and indeed every servant in the establishment stood punctiliously upon his rights, and knew better than to do anything beyond the strict line of his own particular duty.
"Well, if you must go, Hanckes," said Mr. Peevor, when the carriage was announced at a little before ten o'clock, "the brougham is waiting;" and indeed, as Mr. Hanckes had not brought anything for the night, except the gentlemanly-looking person who was being regaled in the servants' hall, it was not apparent how he could stay. Mr. Hanckes, however, did not give this excuse, but pleaded that he must positively be at the counting-house next morning at nine.
"And when may I hope to have the honour of showing you young ladies over my little place? " said Mr. Hanckes to Lucy, advancing towards her to take leave — "for an honour I should feel it. We are still in a bit of a mess down there, but you can see what the place is going to be like now, and I think you would be pleased with the garden and 'othouses; hothouse plants have been my 'obby, you know, ever since I could afford 'em; and I think you would like to look round my orchids."
Lucy blushed a little, and said she supposed papa would soon name a day for going down. "Ah, if you would only name a day," replied Mr. Hanckes; and the fellow spoke so earnestly, with a sort of sigh, and, although in a low voice, so plainly as to be heard by every one in the room, which made Lucy blush still more.
"A perfect palace my worthy friend Hanckes is building down at Norwood," said the host afterwards to Yorke, when they were alone together; "all the newest improvements, and everything in the greatest taste; and, between ourselves, my Lucy might be mistress of it to-morrow — she has only to say the word; but the girl does not fancy the idea somehow; and certainly there is a good deal of difference in age." Mr. Peevor, it may be mentioned, was about twice as old as his present wife. And although not sure whether this piece of information was divulged as part of a general scheme, or simply out of pure leakiness, and while secretly ashamed of allowing himself to be affected by it, Yorke could not help being possessed in consequence with a growing sense of the obligation incumbent on him to save Lucy from so dreadful a fate. Acting under the influence of this feeling, before going to bed he made a definitive engagement to stay another week. There would be four meets of the hounds during this time within practicable distance, to two of which Miss Cathy would go, leaving him to take the other two alone. Accordingly, his previous expedition having been unsuccessful, he went up to town again next morning to find a partner to share the duty with Jumping Joseph, still billeted in the roomy stables of "The Beeches," where, although there were twice as many servants as were needed, and it seemed to be everybody's business to be looking after somebody else, there was at any rate no lack of oats, and the horses got themselves groomed somehow or other.
In this week, reflected Yorke, as he travelled up to town, there would surely be opportunity for gaining some clue to Lucy's feelings; and if he could discover that she really cared for him, and that he was not the victim of self-deception, played on by Lucy herself as well as the rest of the family, why then — truly a romantic ending of the absorbing passion of his life. For although Yorke was every hour beginning to think more of Lucy, and only wanted the encouragement of certainty to fall really in love, suspicion for the time held his feelings under restraint, and he was still able to compare her dispassionately with his ideal of what a wife should be, noting with critical eye her little imperfections. Brought up in a hotbed of luxury; to possess just such a smattering of accomplishments as serves to mark the want of better training; to get up each day to live a purposeless, dull routine, made up of changing dresses and idling about the grounds, perhaps receiving a stray visitor or two — certainly sitting down to twice as many wasteful meals as can be eaten; to have no duties, no interests, no cares; never to be of the smallest use to any living creature, — what a training for a wife and mother! And yet how many hundred girls in England were spending just the same dawdling, useless, unprofitable lives, who would never be missed outside the home circle, and hardly within it! But after all they could not well lead a more useless life than that of the ordinary English lady in India. And it is not Lucy's fault that her home surroundings are commonplace and dull. It is not she who is stupid, but the people about her. There cannot but be talent, and humour too, in the shapely little head that bears those sparkling eyes. They only want the opportunity to be brought out. Besides, it is not those most used to comfort and luxury who care most about them. The thing stales with use. Rather would those women be greedy of such things who have known the want of them, and look to marriage as a deliverance from the cares of poverty. No, there need be no fear that Lucy would shrink from the roughing of a soldier's life, if that became her lot, any more than that she has not a real woman's heart to give, if only one could be sure that it is really given.
People would say, no doubt, that he was a fortune-hunter, but he could afford to disregard such calumny — all he wanted was to find some one who really cared for him a little for his own sake. Others, again, might think he was making a misalliance, and would say spiteful things about Lucy's family; but so pretty and graceful and gentle as she was herself, she would surely outlive that. And, after all, in India nobody ever inquired who any one's father was.
CHAPTER LI.
The opportunity soon came. That day when Yorke went up to town, the wind had set in from the east with a sharp frost; it was still colder when he returned to Hamwell in the evening; and next morning the look of the weather was more suggestive of skating than any other amusement. Miss Cathy, too, came downstairs with a heavy cold — she always got a cold with these horrid east winds, she said — and was house-bound for the day. Mrs. Peevor also was laid up, and did not appear at breakfast; and Miss Maria, as a matter of course, could not think of going out in such weather.
"I am so sorry for your disappointment," said Lucy to Yorke archly, as they stood at the window after breakfast watching the frosty landscape, while Mr. Peevor had gone out of the room on a summons from the bailiff; "what can we do to amuse you? I can't offer to drive you anywhere, because papa would not let the ponies go out this morning without being rough-shod. There is not a bit of danger, of course, but he would be miserable all the time I was away."
"Let us take a walk together," replied Yorke, "and see how the ice looks about bearing; that will be much pleasanter than driving on such a day as this. I am sure you skate like a sylph. Then you have still got to show me the river, although I have been here all these days. A walk to-day will be delightful."
Lucy's eyes brightened at the idea, but there followed a look of hesitation as she turned them away.
Yorke understood the difficulty. "May not the children come with us, and do propriety?" he asked. "I am sure a walk won't do them any harm on such a day as this. The poor little things have hardly been outside the door since I came here. They can bring their hoops to keep themselves warm."
Lucy blushed and laughed and ran off to the nursery; and soon returning in walking-dress with the children, wrapped up in furs so that they could hardly move their limbs, the party started off, first going to the kennels to set Lucy's dog free, which seldom got such a chance of a run. In the avenue they were joined by Mr. Peevor, who said he would accompany them part of the way, although he seemed astonished at their mamma having allowed the children to go out on such a cold morning, and left word at the lodge that the carriage should be sent to meet them as soon as the horses were roughed. Mr. Peevor was in good spirits, for notwithstanding the sudden change of the weather, the temperature of the house had been maintained at 60°; and he remarked more than once that although the heating apparatus had cost a trifle, it was worth any amount of money to keep the house always at the same point of warmth. On reaching the top of the steep hill which led to the river, however, he left them. He did not mind going any distance downhill, he said, but the doctor had advised him to avoid walking up-hill, so he would take his walk before luncheon on the level. So saying, he pursued his way along the highroad, shuffling along staff in hand, the collar of his greatcoat turned up, and an enormous comforter round bis neck.
The others turned off towards the river. The children ran on in front after their hoops, which bounded along the hillside over the frost-bound road, and for the first time Yorke found himself alone with Lucy.
For a short space they walked on in silence. Although Lucy stepped briskly, with a light elastic tread and upright carriage, she took little short steps, which made the pace a mere lounge for her companion; and wearing a sealskin jacket trimmed with fur, she did not feel the cold. Yorke, misled by the warmth of the house, had provided himself with only a light overcoat; and on this his first introduction to an English winter, he shivered under the penetrating wind. Truly this was an untimely occasion for love-making, when his teeth were ready to chatter and his fingers were numb with cold.
Presently they met a peasant-woman coming slowly up the hill, carrying a bundle of sticks on her shoulder, and leading a child with one hand. Both were miserably clad; and the child's face and legs were blue with cold.
By comparison Yorke was warmly dressed; and on seeing what others had to suffer, he was ashamed of his own impatience of the discomfort which he felt.
"Poverty is harder to bear in this country than in India," he observed; "this cold must make an awful addition to the burden."
His companion looked up as if surprised at the remark; she had been expecting him to say something different. He went on — "The poverty in England is dreadful to witness; the tremendous wealth at the other end of the scale makes the contrast all the greater."
"The poor in this parish are all very well cared for, I believe," said Lucy. "I know papa gives away a great deal in coals and blankets every winter; and I believe all our neighbours subscribe too."
"Coals won't keep you warm if you have to crawl about on a day like this without any clothes on, like that poor child," retorted Yorke, feeling for the moment quite angry with his companion. "Yet, after all," he thought, "what else is to be expected? To be shut up in a hothouse all your life, every want supplied, guarded from every discomfort, never to do anything useful from one year's end to the other, to see the table spread ever so many times a day with ten times as much food as can be eaten, every want ministered to by a pack of lazy servants, themselves as pampered as their masters — what can be expected from a thoroughly immoral life of this sort but indifference to the needs of others?" Yorke, however, forgot that the senses of others might be dulled by familiarity with the social aspect of England, which struck him so forcibly on seeing it for the first time.
"Are there no poor in India?" asked Lucy, with some hesitation, disconcerted at the sudden change in his manner.
"Plenty," he replied, "including the poor British soldier. We have enough to eat and drink," he added, "and can manage to find ourselves in such light clothing as is needed in that climate; but it is a rough sort of life compared with what some of the good people at home are accustomed to, with their comforts and coddling and luxury."
"I should think a rough life must be very pleasant," said Lucy, after a pause.
"How can you tell what you think, when you have never tried it, accustomed as you are to have every want supplied, and everything done for you? You would always rather ring the bell for the servant to poke the fire, than do it yourself, I'll be bound. And I don't suppose you can remember having ever in your lifetime done your own hair."
"Oh yes, I can," said Lucy, laughing and blushing; "I can do my own hair well enough when I like; but what is the good, if your maid is there to do it for you? But you don't understand what I mean. It is so tiresome having everything done for one, and being of no use to others. Even the children never want to be looked after by us elder ones. You gentlemen go about, and hunt and shoot and travel, just when you please, and can afford to make fun of us girls who stay at home and do nothing."
"No, no, I am not making fun at all. There is nothing for us men to assume superiority about, because we amuse ourselves in our way, while you stay at home and amuse yourselves in yours."
"Amuse ourselves! what amusements have we? You little know how dull we always find it. I don't mean always; of course it is different when you — when we have visitors staying in the house. But you don't know how dull it is when we are alone. One gets up in the morning, really not knowing how the day is to be got through. One can't be always working or reading, you know."
"Then you do read sometimes?"
"You are very sarcastic; because we don't take up books when we have company, we may read a little at other times, I suppose? I don't pretend to be very fond of books, and I hate dry ones, and I daresay you have found out how ignorant I am; but one gets so tired of being of no use to anybody. I often think I should like to be a governess or a needlewoman, or something of that sort, and earn my living."
"So luxury has its pains as well as its pleasures," said Yorke, delighted at this confession, yet still keeping Lucy on the defensive. "Charity begins at home; why not teach your little sisters? "
"Papa would not let me, even if I knew enough to do so. He means to have a French governess for them, and a German one too, as soon as Minnie is eight. He talks of adding schoolrooms to the house after Christmas. We never can do anything for the children except play with them. When they were ill last year, papa got down a couple of nurses from town, one for the day and one for the night, and we were not allowed to go near them for fear of infection, although I believe there was no danger really."
"I am afraid your papa would hardly agree to the governess plan for yourself, laudable though it be. How would you like a life of adventure and travel? "
"Ah, travelling would be delightful. We have often wanted papa to take us for a foreign tour, but I don't think he would like it, and then Mrs. Peevor is so delicate."
"But it is not necessary to travel with one's papa always. You might join a party of friends, for example." Then — after a pause — "Is Mr. Hanckes much of a traveller?"
"How can you be so absurd?" replied Lucy, laughing and blushing, as she turned her head away from her companion's searching gaze. "No, Mr. Hanckes would not leave London and his beloved counting-house for the world. But I should think a life of foreign adventure would be much pleasanter than living in England. England is so stupid and dull — don't you think so?"
"I can't say that I have found it so — especially of late; but still, life in India may have its charms too — don't you think so?"
"Yes, indeed," said Lucy, eagerly, and then looking up and meeting his eyes fixed on her, she saw the trap which had been laid, and she added in some confusion, "or any other country too."
"Italy, for example?"
"Oh yes, I should think it would be delightful to travel in Italy; I do long to see Rome." Little Lucy was trembling with excitement and nervousness combined, and hardly knew what she was saying.
Here a shabby idea possessed Yorke. He saw his power over the poor girl, but still played with her feelings. So he went on: "Was your last visitor from Italy, or going there?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I suppose you have had visitors staying in the house before now, and that then perhaps some other country had the preference over the land of my adoption."
"How can you be so cruel!" she replied, turning her face away indignantly, and then, after a moment's struggle between distress and pride, bursting into tears, stopping short as she did so to cover her face.
"Miss Peevor — Lucy — my dearest Lucy!" cried Yorke, also stopping, and then, after a moment's hesitation, encircling her waist with one arm, while with the other he sought to detach her hands, and make her look up at him. "Lucy, my love, don't cry. I have behaved like a brute; but you will show your forgiveness by looking up at me with your sweet eyes."
Lucy did as she was bid, thereby no doubt deserving the reprobation of every right-thinking young lady; she looked up, smiling through her tears, and Yorke, strengthening the embrace of his engaged arm, and holding her two little struggling hands in one of his, imprinted a kiss on her pretty little mouth. He no longer thought about the cold.
Just then they were interrupted. The children, unnoticed by them, had run back to where they were standing, and were looking up in consternation.
"Why are you crying, Lucy?" said Minnie, almost ready to cry herself from sympathy.
"'Oocie trying 'cause it so told," said Lottie by way of explanation, catching hold of her elder sister's dress with her disengaged hand, while holding her little hoop with the other.
"Yes, dear," said Lucy, stooping down to kiss her little sister, by way of hiding her confusion, "it's very cold, isn't it? let us take a run together;" and holding Lottie by the hand she pressed forward by way of hiding her confusion; while Yorke, giving a hand to little Minnie, and pushing on to keep his place beside her, could see that her face, as she looked downwards with averted glance, expressed mingled confusion and happiness.
A few steps made in silence brought them to the foot of the hill and with an abrupt turn in the road the river came suddenly open to view, running at their feet. The road here branched right and left to Shoalbrook and Castleroyal. No longer the clear placid stream which, shaded by leafy banks, yielded a constant summer delight to denizen of town and country for miles around; yet still the leafless bushes and trees glowing rich red under the winter sun, sparkling with frosty spiracles, and set off by the deep blue background tints, formed a scene full of beauty of its own kind.
On their right, a short distance down the stream, separated from the bank by the towing-path and a little garden, was a wayside inn. A place, no doubt, of much resort in summer; but now the arbour in front was bare and naked; the little tables and forms on each side of the garden-path were tenantless; and except that a column of smoke rose from the chimney into the still air, the house itself looked to be empty.
On the left the road to Castleroyal receded somewhat from the river, the space between the two being occupied as garden-grounds, the houses standing in which, secluded in summer, could now be distinguished through the leafless branches, some small, some large, till the view was bounded by a bend in the river, just where the spire of a country church appeared amidst a grove of venerable elms.
The children began throwing bits of stick into the water, watching them float down the stream.
"That is our boat-house," said Lucy at last, by way of breaking the awkward silence, "on the other side. Papa had it put there to be out of the way of the towing-path."
"It looks a big place to keep a boat in," replied her companion, glad for the moment to pursue indifferent subjects. Must he tell Lucy at once what a mere remnant of a heart he had to offer her? Somehow the fraction seemed just then a good deal larger than he had been accustomed to deem it.
"There are several boats kept there," she rejoined; "the big boat, and the little boat, and Fred's wherry, and Cathy's and my canoes — it is such fun canoing, but we are never allowed to use them except when Fred is here; and then there is the sailing-boat, and the steam-barge."
"A steam-barge? What is that used for?"
"Papa thought it would be very nice to have a steamer for picnic parties, and it was great fun at first steaming up ever so fast against stream; but one soon got tired of sitting in it doing nothing, and I don't think we had it out once all last summer. Papa keeps a man to look after the engine, and lends it to any one who wants it." Lucy rattled on in this way, trying to recover her composure, which was in danger of giving way whenever, glancing up, she caught Yorke's face looking at her with an expression she had never seen it wear before. There was no guile in little Lucy's heart, nor any cause for suspicion in her lover's. Her father, no doubt, wanted her to find a mate of some sort, but no pressure had been needed in this case. Surrounded by almost boundless wealth, these girls had yet led a thoroughly secluded life; this hero, who had appeared like a star among the humdrum people who made up her father's visiting acquaintance, seemed to be the first gentleman, except Fred, whom she had ever known. The noble creature had won her simple little heart at first sight; and now the hopes she had hardly dared form were realized. He had called her his dearest Lucy, and kissed her, and was now looking down fondly on her face. This hero and petted man of fashion, who might no doubt have had his choice of damsels moving in fashionable circles of which she had never stepped on even the outer edge, had deigned to smile on her and was really hers! and to think that only a few weeks ago she had been nearly prevailed on for very pity to accept Mr. Hanckes, when he asked her for the fourth time!