“I do,” he cried, “if I could help you without harming you. But it is chiefly for the other. I want you to act for me, Lizzie. If trouble should come, as come, of course, it will—”
“I am none so sure. You never saw her half so pretty—and he—”
“Silence!” cried Dick, with a voice that was like the report of deep guns. “If trouble comes, let me know. She must not want or be miserable. There is my address. Do not apply to me unless there is absolute need; but if that comes, write, telegraph—no matter which; help shall come.”
“And what am I to do with a gentleman’s card?” said Lizzie. “Granny or someone will be sure to see it. It will drop out of my pocket, or it will be seen in my drawers, or something. And if I were to die it would be found, and folks would think badly of me. I will not take your card.”
“This is folly, Lizzie.”
“If it is, folly’s natural. I don’t believe there will be any need; if there is, I’ll find you out, if you’re wanted, but I won’t take the card. Will you please, sir, to walk on? I’ve got my character to think of.”
The girl stopped short, leaning against the corner of the wall, defying him, though she was not hostile to him. He put back his card in his pocket, and took off his hat, which was a recognition which brought the colour to Lizzie’s cheek.
“Go away, sir; I’ve got my character to think of,” she said. Then she curtsied deeply, with a certain dignity in her rustic manners. “Thank you,” she said, “all the same.”
Dick walked into the rector’s dining-room with little Georgie seated on his shoulder. “Fancy where we found him, mamma,” said Flo. “Buying barley sugar from old Mrs. Bagley at the shop. What does a gentleman want with barley sugar? He is too old. You never eat it, nor papa.”
“He give it all to me,” said Georgie, “and Fluffy had some. Fluffy and me, we are very fond of Mr. Cavendish. Don’t go away, Mr. Cavendish, or come back tomorrow.”
“Yes, tum back tomorrow,” cried the other little ones. Flo was old enough to know that the future had vistas deeper than tomorrow. She said, “Don’t be so silly, all you little things. If he was coming back tomorrow, why should he go today? He will come back another time.”
“When dere’s need ob him,” said his little godson gravely, at which there was much laughing. But for his part Dick did not laugh. He hid his serious countenance behind little Dick’s curly head, and thus nobody knew that there was not upon it even a smile.
At Underwood, which is a very small village, there is no station; so that Dick had to be driven to the railway in the wagonette, the rector making this an occasion to give the children and the governess a drive, so that the two gentlemen could not say much to each other. They had a moment for a last word solely at the door of the railway carriage, in which Warrender had already taken his place. The rector, indeed, had to speak through the carriage window at the last moment. He said, hesitating, “And you won’t forget? Tell Mr. Cornwall if he refuses to do anything, so as to drive these people away, it will be the kindest thing he can do for the parish. Tell him—” But here the guard interposed to examine the tickets, and there was a slamming of doors and a shriek of whistles, and the train glided away.
“I think I understand what the rector means,” said Warrender. “He is speaking of that house. Oh, you need not smile; nothing could be more entirely out of my way.”
“I did not smile,” said Dick, who was as grave as all the judges in a row.
“Perhaps you have not heard about it. It was there Markland spent the last afternoon before his accident, almost the last day of his life. It gives her a bitter sort of association with the place.”
“Markland?” said Dick. “Oh yes, I remember. Lord Markland, who—He died, didn’t he? It may not be a satisfactory household, but still he might have gone there without any harm.”
“Oh, I don’t suppose there was any harm, except the love of bad company; that seems a fascination which some men cannot resist. I don’t care two straws myself whether there was harm or not; but it is a bitter sort of recollection for her.”
“They were both quite young, were they not?”
“Markland was over thirty,” said the young man, who was but twenty-two; “and she is—oh, she is, I suppose, about my age.”
He knew, indeed, exactly what was her age; but what did that matter to a stranger? She was superior to him, it was true, in that as in all other things.
“I have heard they were not very happy,” Dick said. He cared no more for the Marklands than he did for the domestic concerns of the guard who had looked at his ticket two minutes ago; but anything answered for conversation, which in the present state of his mind he could not exert himself to make brilliant.
“Oh, happy!” cried Warrender. “How could they be happy? She a woman with the finest perceptions, and a mind—such as you seldom find in a woman; and he the sort of person who could find pleasure in the conversation that goes on in a house like that.”
Dick did not say anything for some time; he felt as though all the people he met in these parts must go on like this, in absolute unconsciousness, giving him blow after blow. “I don’t mean to take up the cudgels for that sort of people,” he said at last; “but they are—not always stupid,
