"Yes, yes," said Lucy, looking archly at him; "and what do you think it could be about?"

"I have, indeed, no means of guessing," he replied, with an interest which Lucy attributed rather to herself than her subject.

"About yourself, it was then?" said she, looking slightly aside.

"Impossible!" he exclaimed, delightedly; "have you then been speaking of me?--and what did she say of me?"

"Nothing you would, perhaps, like to hear," she said, with the same archness as before.

"And what part did you take?" said he, eagerly.

"Oh," she replied, laughing carelessly, "I never do things by halves--so I defended you through thick and thin."

"Excellent girl," cried he, enthusiastically, taking her hand, and pressing it warmly, "how can I ever thank you enough for this kindness?"

"_Prenez garde_," said she, "gossippers are abroad, and there, I declare, is Miss Lovelace's youngest sister going for her music lesson--all Bath will say we are flirting."

"You know how to contradict such scandal by a word," said he; "but that word, for my sake, you will not speak."

Lucy did not quite understand this last speech; but she did not like to say so, and, therefore, murmured a rapid "Yes."

A slight pause followed; and then he resumed the conversation with such a sudden flow of spirits, that Lucy very soon forgot everything in the pleasure of listening to him, and even suffered him to lengthen the walk by taking a longer route. At the entrance to Sydney Place, he took leave of her, and she returned home, thinking over everything he had said.

They had only talked on general topics after all; but then he spoke with a deference to her opinion which was very pleasing. She was in very good humour with herself, and resolved that, after leaving Miss Foster to cool for a week or so, she would call and make up the quarrel in the most generous manner she could. Satisfying her conscience with this, she entered the house, and hastily taking off her bonnet, seated herself, with the rest, at the breakfast-table, in good spirits and with a fresh color, contenting herself with a very laconic description of her morning walk.

CHAPTER VII.

The foe, the foe is on thy track, Patient, certain, and avenging; Day by day, solemnly, and silently, followeth the fearful past, His step is lame, but sure.

It was nearly eleven o'clock before the family a.s.sembled to breakfast, and Mr. Villars had already retired to his study, leaving the morning-room to its listless occupants. Maria, being the most active of the family, generally presided at breakfast and tea, and kept alive the yawning faculties of the party. On this occasion, she was busily, and relentlessly rallying Caroline on the last night's _tete-a-tete_, when Hargrave himself entered. He seemed entirely to have lost the gaiety of the evening before, and to have a.s.sumed the gravity of a judge. To Mrs.

Villars' enquiries of whether he had slept well, he answered courteously, but gravely; and Caroline afterwards observed to Selina, that the dear creature was quite different when alone with her, and Selina, in return, lispingly suggested, that he might be shy before strangers. He did not, however, justify this remark by any of the little awkwardnesses which so often accompany that feeling. On the contrary, he seemed rather to seek the indulgence of one who is secure of favor, however small the pains he may take to acquire it. Nor was he mistaken.

They were prepared to admire him, and his variable humours only gave him an additional charm in their eyes.

"What time do you receive your letters?" he enquired of Caroline.

"About this time," she replied; "are you expecting any? for, if so, you will not have very long to wait?"

"Indeed," he replied, not noticing her question.

At this moment the peculiar double knock of the post-man began to be heard uncertainly, then louder and louder, as, coming round the street, he stopped at their door.

"Here he is," exclaimed Lucy; "I wonder if there is a letter from Mabel."

Two were brought; one for Mrs. Villars, and the other for her guest.

They were both written by Mr. Ware; the one addressed to Mrs. Villars, contained a brief, but touching account of the fire, the illness of her sister, and her removal to Aston Manor; concluding with poor Amy's death.

Mrs. Villars slowly read the letter aloud, but when she reached the last few lines, which spoke of her niece's death, a loud shriek burst from Lucy, as she rose and flew to her own room. Hargrave followed her to the door with a deeper interest than he had before displayed, but she had quickly vanished, and he returned to his seat.

"She has been staying with them," said Mrs. Villars, in explanation; "and the dear girl has so much feeling--but, colonel, only think of my sister being at Aston Manor; but, perhaps, I ought not to have told you, as I suppose the servants make free with the place in your absence."

"Your sister is quite welcome to any hospitality my house can afford her; and, perhaps, you will be kind enough to a.s.sure her on that point, if she has any doubt. I will, myself, write to my housekeeper, and request her to see to Mrs. Lesly's comfort."

"You seem to take the news of your lost houses with admirable coolness,"

said Caroline.

"You mistake me, Miss Villars," he replied; a momentary fire lighting up his eye, which made her shrink; "I am not indifferent to the death of our poor cousin--the rest can be repaired--but I take it with apparent coolness, because this is not the first time that these distressing events have been communicated to me."

"How?" exclaimed every one; "and why did you not tell us?"

"Bad news travels quickly," returned Hargrave, evasively; "and it is hardly likely that I should long be kept in ignorance of such a serious accident."

So saying, he opened his own letter, and read it with deep attention, and emotion; a little to the surprise of the ladies, who had already entered upon a discussion on the prettiest mourning dresses which the fashion afforded. His better feelings alarmed, he scarcely knew why, by the frivolity with which the news had been received, he retired to his own room, and taking up his writing materials, he wrote much as follows:--

MY DEAR SIR,

"I regret that I cannot at once obey your summons to Aston; partly, because I think it would be a more delicate kindness to Mrs. Lesly and her daughter, to leave them in possession of my house, under their present affliction, rather than intrude myself upon their attention, just now; at the same time, if I came to you, they might think they were putting me to inconvenience. But we shall soon meet, my dear sir, I trust; when, from your accustomed kindness, I may obtain forgiveness for the past; now, I do not feel worthy even to reply to the praise you so lavishly bestow upon me.

"In the meanwhile, my poor tenants, of whom you speak so warmly, shall not be forgotten. I will write by this post, to a young friend of mine, an architect; who, if able, shall go down to Aston immediately, with powers to construct a sufficient number of commodious tiled cottages--at the same time, I shall instruct him, that any wish, or suggestion you may be kind enough to make, about any part of the village, shall be strictly attended to.

"With my best compliments to Miss Ware, and the hope of meeting ere long, I am,

"My dear sir, "Your attached pupil, "HARRY HARGRAVE."

This letter was written with great rapidity, and having sealed and directed it, he lounged back to the morning room. The recent events, of course, formed the topic of conversation; but to all, but Lucy, Amy had scarcely been known, more than by name; and she had retired to her room in an agony of remorse, for her feelings, though seldom deep, were impetuous, and easily moved by circ.u.mstances. She remembered Clair's entreaty, that she would not go to the ball, with tenfold bitterness, as she now reflected that, at the moment when she had been rejoicing in unbounded spirits, Mabel had been keeping the sad death-watch by the corpse of her sister. Again, and again she reproached herself as her murderess, flung aside the tinselled dress which had rendered her the ornament of the ball-room, and turned almost indignantly upon Maria, when she attempted to comfort her.

Her sisters, little understanding the nature of her feelings, and wearied with her self-reproaches, soon agreed that it would be better to leave her alone till she should recover herself; but Lucy, who appeared to have little pleasure in their comfort, no sooner found herself alone, than she felt unkindly neglected, and compared them bitterly with Mabel, whose untiring patience had so often borne with her weakness.

In the afternoon, when exhausted by grief, and wholly subdued, she sat crouching over the fire in their little dressing-room, Maria entered with bustling pleasure.

"Oh, Lucy," said she, "do dry your tears, and look bewitching--for who do you think is down stairs--no other than your charming partner of last night, Mr. Beauclerc, who is making himself so agreeable, listening to mamma's touching account of your grief--so that you need not mind his seeing that you have been crying."

"Thank you," said Lucy, without raising her head; "but I cannot come down to-day."

"Oh, nonsense, Lucy--think how disappointed he will be--he may never come again."

"I cannot help it," said Lucy; "excuse me in any way you like--I cannot and will not come--and you will only tease me by asking me."

"Well, I am sure I would never stay up-stairs when a beau of mine was down."

"You do not know what you would do, if you had been as wicked as I have been."

"Come, come," said Maria, "we all are wicked, I dare say; but I would never fret myself to death about it; but I suppose I must go," she said, seeing Lucy resume her crouching att.i.tude; and leaving the room, she went to tell her mother, who, though much disappointed, was forced to make Lucy's grief as becoming and touching as possible, in the eyes of the stranger, though she afterwards expressed herself more candidly, saying--"She had no patience with such fits of the heroics, and trusted her sisters would laugh her out of them."

Hargrave listened with great interest to the account of Lucy's share in the accident by which Amy had first suffered, which he gleaned from Caroline; and when, late in the evening, she appeared in the drawing-room, her eyes swollen with weeping, and her cheeks pale and discolored, he met her with a kind look, which her most sparkling moments, perhaps, would not have excited. He gave her the most comfortable seat by the fire, for which she tried to thank him, but her voice failed her, and seating herself, in silence, she rested her tired and aching head upon her hand.

"You have been staying with Mrs. Lesly, I find," he said, knowing that it would be of little purpose to try to turn her thoughts from the subject that pained her.