in that line? Have you been refusing to marry him, Lady Mary?”
Lady Mary threw her laughing blue eyes full in the face of the questioner. “He never asked me, Mr. Massingbird.”
“No!” said John.
“No,” said she, the lips laughing now, as well as the eyes. “In the old days—I declare I don’t mind letting out the secret—in the old days, before he was married at all, mamma and Lady Verner contrived to let me know by indirect hints, that Lionel Verner might be expected to—to—solicit the honour of my becoming his wife. How I laughed behind their backs! It would have been time enough to turn rebellious when the offer came—which I was quite sure never would come—to make them and him a low curtsey, and say, ‘You are very kind, but I must decline the honour.’ Did you get any teasings on your side, Lionel?” asked she, frankly.
A half-smile flitted over Lionel’s lips. He did not speak.
“No,” added Lady Mary, her joking tone turning to seriousness, her blue eyes to earnestness, “I and Lionel have ever been good friends, fond of each other, I believe, in a sober kind of way: but—any closer relationship we should both have run away from as wide as the two poles. I can answer for myself: and I think I can for him.”
“I see,” said John Massingbird. “To be husband and wife would go against the grain: you’d rather be brother and sister.”
What there could be in the remark to disturb the perfect equanimity of Mary Elmsley, she best knew. Certain it was, that her face turned of a fiery red, and it seemed that she did not know where to look. She spoke rapid words, as if to cover her confusion.
“So you perceive, Mr. Massingbird, that I have nothing to do with Mr. Verner’s plans and projects; with his stopping at Deerham or going away from it. I should not think any lady has. You are not going, are you?” she asked, turning to Lionel.
“Yes, I shall go, Mary,” he answered. “As soon as Mr. Massingbird can find somebody to replace me—”
“Mr. Massingbird’s not going to find anybody to replace you,” burst forth John. “I declare, Lionel, if you do go, I’ll take on Roy, just to spite you and your old tenants. By-the-way, though, talking of Roy, who do you think has come back to Deerham?” he broke off, rather less vehemently.
“How can I guess?” asked Lionel. “Some of the Mormons, perhaps.”
“No. Luke Roy. He arrived this afternoon.”
“Has he, indeed!” replied Lionel, a shade of sadness in his tone more than surprise, for somehow the name of Luke, coupled with his return, brought back all too vividly the recollection of his departure, and the tragic end of Rachel Frost which had followed so close upon it.
“I have not seen him,” rejoined Mr. Massingbird. “I met Mrs. Roy as I came on here, and she told me. She was scuttering along with some muffins in her hand—to regale him on, I suppose.”
“How glad she must be!” exclaimed Lucy.
“Rather sorry, I thought,” returned John. “She looked very quaky and shivery. I tell you what, Lionel,” he continued, turning to him, “your dinner will not be ready this three-quarters of an hour yet. I’ll just go as far as old Roy’s, and have a word with Luke. I have got a top-coat in the hall.”
He went out without ceremony. Lionel walked with him to the door. It was a fine starlight evening. When he, Lionel, returned, Lucy was alone. Mary Elmsley had left the room.
Lucy had quitted the chair of state she had been sitting in, and was in her favourite place on a low stool on the hearthrug. She was more kneeling than sitting. The fire-light played on her sweet face, so young and girlish still in its outlines, on her pretty hands clasped on her knees, on her bracelets which glittered with pearls, on the pearls that rested on her neck. Lionel stood on the other side the hearthrug, leaning as usual on the mantelpiece.
At least five minutes passed in silence. And then Lucy raised her eyes to his.
“Was it a joke, what you said to John Massingbird—about leaving Deerham?”
“It was sober earnest, Lucy. I shall go as soon as I possibly can, now.”
“But why?” she presently asked.
“I should have left, as you heard me say, after Mrs. Verner’s death, but for one or two considerations. Decima very much wished me to remain until her marriage; and—I did not see my way particularly clear to embark in a new course of life. I do not yet.”
“Why should you go?” asked Lucy.
“Because I—because it is expedient that I should, for many reasons,” he answered.
“You do not like to remain subservient to John Massingbird?”
“It is not that. I have got over that. My prospects have been so utterly blighted, Lucy, that I think some of the old pride of the Verner race has gone out of me. I do not see a chance of getting anything to do, half as good as this stewardship—as he but now called it—under John Massingbird. But I shall try at it.”
“What shall you try, do you think?”
“I cannot tell. I should like to get something abroad; I should like to go to India. I do not suppose I have any real chance of getting an appointment there; but stopping in Deerham will certainly not bring it to me. That, or anything else.”
Lucy’s lips had parted. “You will not think of going to India now!” she breathlessly exclaimed.
“Indeed I do think of it, Lucy.”
“So far off as that!”
The words were uttered with a strange sound of pain. Lionel passed his hand over his brow, the action betokening pain quite as great as Lucy’s tone. Lucy rose from her seat and stood near him, her thoughtful face upturned.
“What is left for me in England?” he resumed. “What am I here? A man without home, fortune, hope. I have worse than no prospects. The ceremony at which we have been