66 From Cassell's Magazine. A LITTLE LOVE-AFFAIR. A STORY IN ONE CHAPTER. BY THE AUTHOR OF A BROKEN ENGAGEMENT,” ETC., ETC. A WINDOW in my study stood open to the fresh spring weather. I sat listless by it, holding in my hand a letter which had smitten into my heart a new pain, but one that I had long foreseen. My wife had read it with me, and then she had kissed me on the forehead, and left the room without a word. Lucy was just across the lawn, tending some very special chickens that she had there in a run. I watched her till she turned and came towards the window, her sweet young form set against a background of sweet spring foliage. She came and knelt down beside me, and I drew her towards me, and said, "I have a letter from India, my love. Colonel Penrose is coming home for a short furlough. He says he shall be in England early in June, and he hopes to come down at once to see us." The slightest possible flush came over her face, and after a pause she replied, "In June? We shall be at Hastings then, father." 66 Yes," ," I said. "I shall send a note to his agents to tell him so, and I dare say he will come down to see us there." "That will be nicer for him than coming here," said Lucy demurely, and laid her head on my knee, looking out of the window. "Oh, father!" she said presently, "could I ask Sophie Rayner to come to us at St. Leonards? Will mother be well enough to do with her? I am sure she is in some terrible trouble, though she hasn't told me anything about it, and she has been so ill that she has had to give up all her work." I was a little puzzled by this outburst of sympathy for a young lady to whom Lucy had never shown herself especially devoted. She was her old schoolfellow, and now a governess in the same school at Warwick. She had spent part of a summer holiday with us three years before, and my wife and I were not particularly fond of her. I demurred rather to the proposed invitation. "Oh, but it is so wretched for her, father! She says Miss Moulton was just as kind as she could be, but she couldn't possibly stay there when she wasn't able to do any work at all, and now she's in some horrid lodgings in Birmingham, all alone. You know she has no home, and hardly any friends; and I'm sure I don't know what she's living on now." It was a pitiful appeal, and a letter that was brought out and submitted to me bore it out, and was, moreover, marked with a note of quiet dignity that surprised me, in the writer. This put a new color on the proposal, and I told Lucy she might, at all events, speak to her mother about it. I had not much doubt how it would then be decided. These two women were in perfect accord for any act of kindness, and their kindness was certainly not checked, in the present instance, by a suspicion that they entertained as to the nature of Miss Rayner's trouble. I am afraid I was rather bored by their conjectures their arguments deduced from dark allusions in her letters - but then a man does not take the same interest as a woman in the falseness of man. It was settled, in the end, that she should join us. Something or other, however, prevented her coming at once, and we were not to see her until we had been there some ten days. June came, and its earliest days found us settled in our temporary home on the breezy hills above St. Leonards. We were daily expecting to see our friend from India. Edward Penrose was an old schoolfellow of mine- that is to say, he was a chubby, curly-haired urchin of the second form when I was a lordly prefect, cultivating whiskers, and preparing for my flight to Oxford. I had rescued him out of the hands of an irate farmer, and given him a severe wigging for the depredations that brought him into danger, and this little incident lingered in his memory. Eight years afterwards a rather grave young man, who had been seated in the baronet's pew at Sutton Byland, waited in the porch for me after service, and claimed me affectionately as a friend. It was the little schoolfellow, whom I had quite forgotten. He soon became a great favorite with my wife, and the chief idol of our little Lucy. He was almost without kinsfolk, and from time to time our home was his. We had seen him grow up into a stern, strong soldier, a little hard, perhaps, to most men, but revealing to us by many a touch the tenderness of his heart. He went to India, fought through frontier troubles, chastised marauders, quieted savage tribes, faced the Ghazis at Maiwand, survived a desperate wound, bivouacked on Himalayan snows, rode on delicate messages over central wastes, lived all that wonderful life of the rulers of India which custom renders commonplace to us, and bore himself through all with the same grave sternness and hardness and ability which made him trusted by his superiors, and feared as well as respected by all others. quaintance, and in a very few hours some. thing like an intimacy was set up between the two families. Short letters came to us frequently, dry I found, however, that I did not enjoy and business-like, without a trace of the much of the society of young Hopwood. affection that we knew he felt for us. He He was in high favor with the children; had paid one visit to England-not on he organized boating parties and expedi private business and spent a few days tions to Fairlight and other places; he with us, and then it was that he had spoken taught Lucy and Hal to row, and Hal to me a few words the remembrance of achieved the stupendous feat of driving a which made the thought of his next visit pair of horses for two miles along a level a complexity of joy and pain. Lucy, his stretch of the Battle road. The days faithful devotee of bygone years, had slipped rapidly by. My wife did not like grown up into a promise of sweet woman- the Hopwoods. "I wish Sophie Rayner hood. could have come with us," she said one day; "I think Lucy would not have been so much taken up with this girl then." I was rather surprised at it myself after the very cool greeting with which she had first received her. "Malpas," he said to me, watching her through the open window, "I have all the while been thinking of Lucy as the little girl she was when I saw her last." "She is only eighteen," I faltered. "I shall have quite a different picture in my mind when I go back,” he continued; "and I say, old man, if I take my furlough in two years' time, I should like to come and see you again." The conclusion was not very forcible, but I fully understood it. For the next two years there was a curious change in his letters. In the first place he never wrote to Lucy; and in the second place, he always spoke of her as "Miss Malpas." In the afternoon of our second day at St. Leonards, Lucy and I met on the Parade a young lady who flung herself effusively upon us. "I knew you were here," she exclaimed; "my brother saw you at the station. I am so glad he was able to be of some use to you." Lucy introduced her friend as Clara Hopwood, a schoolfellow at Warwick. "It was your brother!" she said. "I knew his face quite well, but I could not remember where I had seen him. It was the gentleman, father, who rescued our luggage from those horrid porters while you were looking for a cab." "What time is George coming?" asked Hal one morning at breakfast. "At half past ten, I think," replied Lucy; "he said the tide would be just right then." "And who is the familiar George?" 1 queried. 66 Why, Hopwood, of course,” cried the boy; "he told us all to call him so." I could see that a shade of anxiety passed over my wife's face, and Lucy, I thought, looked a trifle conscious. "And are you included in this all?" I asked her lightly. "Oh dear, no!" she cried, with a very scarlet face. "How could you think of such a thing, father dear?" And she came round and kissed me laughingly, but her mother still looked anxious. 1, for my part, began to wish eagerly for the colonel's arrival. Oddly enough, we never spoke of him. My wife and I knew perfectly well what he meant to do. What Lucy knew, or thought, or dreamt, I could not guess. We had agreed to leave the decision absolutely to the girl herself, and whichever way she decided we knew there was pain in store for us. I told the boy angrily not to talk nonsense, and strode home with a heavy heart. I could not but tell my wife. We sat hand in hand for a while, grieving in I thanked Miss Hopwood for her brother's service, and hoped we should see them again. She seemed to prefer the "I say, father," said Hal one day conpresent opportunity for improving an ac-fidentially, "I believe George Hopwood quaintance, and walked on with us to is awfully sweet on Lulu." Warrior Square. This was really fortunate, for we met her brother shortly, so that I was able to renew my thanks to him personally. Mr. Hopwood was a frank, open-faced young man of about eight-and-silent concert. twenty, who looked well in the flannels 'I cannot understand it,” she said at for which his tennis racket was a sufficient length. "Henry, I have always had the justification. He was old enough to be child's confidence; there cannot be any. companionable, and could talk sensibly, thing in it; she would have told me, I am so that I found him a pleasant enough ac- sure." "I don't know," I gloomily suggested; | them, they were shaken off for once. My "it is a new experience to her; she hardly heart fairly jumped at their last words. knows what it means, perhaps; she has nothing to say." Neither of us really doubted that the position was serious. "What shall we do?" cried my wife. "Will you write and tell Edward not to come put him off with some excuse?" I could not do that; it would be like sinking a crazy ship outright. 66 Well, Miss Rayner will be coming tomorrow," I sighed. My wife's face quivered for a moment, and she broke into a laugh. "Do you know, dear, that is just what I said two days ago?" Her humor was infectious, and carried me away. It was clear that we agreed to believe that Sophie Rayner's coming would bring relief to our anxieties. Why we thought so I cannot say. When one is in a state of severe tension, any change whatever seems bound to do some good. One point at least was settled for us an hour or two later. A telegram from Paris brought word that Colonel Penrose would be with us early on the following day. I noted the anxious shadow that passed over Lucy's face when she heard this, but I could not feel sure that I read its meaning. She preferred to speak of the other expected arrival; she was absurdly excited about Sophie's coming. One thing that she said filled us with secret delight. "I haven't said anything about her to the Hopwoods. Clara and she never liked each other, I know, and I don't know how it will be when they meet." My wife looked at me with a triumphant nod. "But then," continued Lucy pensively, "I didn't like Clara myself at all at school." The triumph faded out of my wife's face. The colonel arrived. He was sterner, perhaps, than ever. He greeted the children without that little touch of playfulness that had always marked his treatment of them alone. Lucy met him with a sweet shyness, from which I augured good, and I may as well confess, now that I had some doubts about the issue, the pain of that expecting parting was swallowed up by the desire that I felt to put my child into the keeping of this true and tender heart. Lucy, and Penrose, and I were walking after luncheon in the public gardens, when the Hopwoods burst upon us with their usual impetuosity. The colonel listened in grim silence to their chatter, and as we made no movement as if to walk on with "We are going over to Eastbourne tomorrow for two or three days, to stay with our aunt there; we shall be dull without you and the children," protested Miss Hopwood. "It will seem an endless separation," added her brother with a sentimental flourish. Lucy flushed a little, and her color heightened still more when we passed on, and she said, with something of an effort: I am rather glad they will not be here just at first, when Sophie comes." To the colonel, of course, this remark did not mean much. He was pre-occupied with a pebble that he was driving before him with his stick. We walked on to Warrior Square to meet Miss Rayner. She was a tall, dark girl, with large, grey eyes, in which there lay a world of sadness. Penrose took charge of her with an indescribable cour. tesy. My wife had just mentioned to him the nature of her trouble, and he seemed to take upon himself the duty of making amends for the wrong which an unknown man had done her. All that evening he paid much more attention to her than to any of us. He hardly noticed Lucy, who herself was very shy and silent. I walked down to his hotel with him. He smoked his cigar thoughtfully all the way, and as we parted he said lightly, "Those Hopwoods are old friends, I suppose ?" I laboriously explained the situation, received a rather stiff " Good-night, old boy," and a grip of hand which alone saved me from despair, and walked home feeling very miserable. I guiltily kept this back from my wife, whom I found already fretting over the events of the day. "I wish that Sophie Rayner hadn't come," she grumbled; but the inconsistency was too much, alike for her gravity and her grief, and a very uneasy laugh brought a little relief to our gloomy thoughts. I have a very hazy recollection of the two days that followed. Lucy was inscrutable. Her mother watched her keenly, but sadly confessed to me that she could make nothing of her. Penrose was courteously repelling. I felt a longing now and then to break out into some contemptuous remark about young Hopwood, but could not speak. A new fear of my old friend and junior possessed me. often walked with Lucy, who was timid and shrinking in his presence, but there He was no trace of tenderness in his manner | bent her head over the side, so that her with her; he treated her with a lofty cour- broad hat nearly covered her face. As tesy. At times I thought he looked worn the keel grated on the shingle, a young and wearied when he had been with her; man in flannels, who was lying on the he might have been bored. To Sophie beach, started up, and moved forward as Rayner he always showed the same air of if to give his hand to Lucy. As he adprotection as at the first. vanced, Sophie Rayner chanced to raise her head, and looked him full in the face. He stopped suddenly and turned. I saw it was George Hopwood. Without a word or gesture, he strode rapidly away, passing close by us without recognition. His round fair face was moulded into a mask of sullen fury. Sophie Rayner looked after him with clear eyes and set face, but Lucy stood irresolute in the bows, flushed and downcast, looking at no one. I think we all took in the situation in a single moment. The sun-dried boatman was, of course, unmoved, and he was over the side and gave his hand to the trembling Lucy before we were a step nearer. This young lady speedily found her way into all our hearts. My wife soon repented of her peevish remark about her that I have recorded. The colonel's manner was not to be mistaken long. The first movement of jealousy, however, was succeeded by a puzzled doubt. "What can Edward be thinking?" she asked me; "what does he mean?" And I could not find it in my heart to tell her yet about his allusion to the Hopwoods. After all, I argued with myself, they would soon be back, and he would see in a day or two that his fears were unfounded. But then a question thrust itself in were they really unfounded? In any case, I found myself longing for their return quite as much as I had wished for their departure. Sophie Rayner never spoke a word when the Hopwoods were mentioned. Her dislike was clearly a living one. I caught her once, as Lucy was speaking of them, looking at her with a strange expression; it might have been pity. I was startled with a vague suspicion, and when she saw me looking at her inquiringly, she colored deeply, and hastened to change the subject. I wondered if Lucy had given her a confidence that was denied to us, and I was half determined at that moment to have it out with our visitor at the earliest opportunity. She treated me with a pleasant friendliness that made me think it would not be impossible. This was the third morning after her arrival. She and Lucy went off shortly afterwards for a row. There was a certain taciturn, wind and sun dried boatman whom they patronized, and with whom we gladly trusted them. Penrose and I spent the morning on the Parade, talking at first exclusively about Indian matters of no earthly interest to us, and lapsing by degrees into the silence that was becoming habitual to us. It is very hard indeed to talk when the one subject that is nearest to your heart may not be spoken of. We kept an eye upon the boat in which we had made out the two girls, and when at last they turned to the shore, we began to move slowly down to meet them. As they drew near the beach, the boatman himself took the sculls, and Lucy stood up in the bows waving her hand to us, while Sophie was seated in the stern, and We walked home in a silence broken only by a few nervous remarks from my. self, and a few calm replies by Miss Rayner. She seemed, indeed, by far the least discomposed of us all. Before luncheon I found time to tell my wife what had passed, but not another word was said by any one about the scene that we had witnessed. Miss Rayner's quiet dignity put an effectual constraint upon us. The constraint was felt by all; the children, who knew nothing, were fully conscious of it, and were visibly glad to escape into the open air. An oppressive stillness was settling down upon us, when the colonel, with the air of a man who has made a sudden determination, took his leave somewhat abruptly, and the rest of us separated. The colonel did not come to dine with us, and, to the great relief of some of us, Miss Rayner pleaded a headache, and stayed in the room that she shared with Lucy. Hal and Margery kept up a boisterous chattering all through the meal, and no one repressed it, for indeed we were glad to find shelter behind it. Lucy was wistful and still, and once I thought her eyes were brimming with tears. There had been some confidences, I thought, in the girls' bedroom, but I was mistaken. The evening wore away, and the children were packed off to bed. Would Penrose come? I wondered; what was he doing? He came when the June twilight was just passing into darkness. He looked carefully round the room as he entered, and then said in a low voice, "I do not think Miss Rayner will be any more annoyed. Does Mrs. Malpas know?" My I stopped short; I had nearly blundered into saying something that I would not for worlds have uttered just then; so I stammered on, wife, with feverish interest, explained that of asking her to come and live with us 66 My dear fellow "May I tell Sophie," she said eagerly, "I have just come to say good-night," said Lucy simply; "I am going to bed." After kissing us she went up to Penrose, and taking both his hands, which somehow found hers at once, she said timidly, "I want to thank you so much, Colonel Penrose, for being so kind to Sophie, and for sending that-that man away.' He bowed his head, and was silent for some minutes after she was gone. Then when the candles were brought in he and I went out together, and my wife went up into the girls' chamber, where the three, no doubt, behaved very foolishly together. My friend and I sauntered down to the sea, where the moon, rising in the pale summer sky, made a broad pathway of glory towards us. We stood leaning on one of the groynes, watching it. At last Penrose broke a long silence by saying, "I knew what sort of man that was; I met him in the smoking-room at the Victoria the first night I was here, and I had some difficulty in keeping my hands from him then." "I think you might have told me," I said. "You see, we feel so very grateful to her; she has done us such a service." I saw him look at me keenly in the moonlight. " he began, and then paused as if to choose his words that Lucy was drawn towards that fellow?' 66 "You don't think What could I say? "You are an old fool, Malpas," he said, laying his hand on my arm;" and so am I, for that matter. I thought so myself until she said good-night to me just now.' A load was lifted off my heart as he spoke. "And what do you mean to do?" I asked. "I mean," he said simply, "if you have no objection to ask Lucy to be my wife." "I could only press his hand." "But not just yet." an 'Why not?" I asked. 'Well, I should feel as if I were taking advantage of her." "But why?" I persisted. "I hardly know," he answered; "but I should feel so. Can't you trust me, Malpas ?" "I can trust you with Lucy's happiness," I replied. It was only a week after all, before he spoke his mind. In the twilight of another evening I came into the drawingroom, where Lucy and her mother were sitting hand in hand; and when the child came to me and folded her arms about me, laying her fair head on my breast, I knew perfectly well what she meant. But she had something to say in sweet, low tones. "Father, I have been telling mother all about it. I know I was very strange. I seemed to know quite well what he was coming for, and I was so afraid. I knew what you would think about - that man, and I thought he would think so too, and that made me more afraid still. And then, too, I did not think I really loved him until he did that for Sophie. And then I knew." I kissed the fair bowed head, and as I did so the old mingled feeling of pain and joy came back to me with full force. So after some months our sweet one sailed away to her new home, and Sophie reigned in her stead, for a while, as elder sister. J |