Throwing a summer scarf upon her shoulders, Eliza passed out at the
French window, crossed the terrace, and set out to confront the
conspirators. But she was not in time. Seeing her coming, or not seeing
her--who knew?--Mr. Grame turned off with a fleet foot towards his home.
So nobody remained for Miss Monk to waste her angry breath upon but
Lucy. The breath was keenly sharp, and Lucy fell to weeping.
* * * * *
"I am here, Grame. Don't go in."
The words fell on the clergyman's ears as he closed the Vicarage gate
behind him, and was passing up the path to his door. Turning his head,
he saw Hubert Monk seated on the bench under the May tree, pink and
lovely yet. "How long have you been here?" he asked, sitting down beside
him.
"Ever so long; waiting for you," replied Hubert.
"I was but strolling about."
"I saw you: with Lucy and the child."
They had become fast and firm friends, these two young men; and the
minister was insensibly exercising a wonderful influence over Hubert for
good. Believing--as he did believe--that Hubert's days were numbered,
that any sharp extra exertion might entail fatal consequences, he gently
strove, as opportunity offered, to lead his thoughts to the Better Land.
"What an evening it is!" rapturously exclaimed Hubert.
Pages:
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93