CHAPTER XXXIV. DESERTION.

THE grand mystery was, the next day she
thought, laid open to Lucy.

A bright face appeared at her door. It was
the face of Madame Jaques, radiant and
joyous. She almost rushed in; for they felt to
each other like two girls.

"Joy! joy!" she cried. " Such news,
mademoiselle! He is indeed a hero! I have found it
all out. Ah, the beau garçon! There is another,
mademoiselle, do you not see? He is bound—
bound by his word, bound in honour. There is the
struggle! He goes pacing, pacing, pacing up and
down his room, like the caged lion at the fair."

"Ah!" cried Lucy. The light had poured in
on her gradually.

"Yes, Jaques says so. I say so. Any one
that knows anything of these things must say
so. A marriage of convenience—his father
and mother force him."

"He has no father nor mother," said Lucy,
gently taking the lights out of the picture.

"The young lady idolises him; that is only
natural, and no fault of hers. He is a man of
honour." Madame Jaques drew herself up, as
she had seen the ladies on the stage do. "He
respects his word. He has long since ceased
to care for her. He now idolises another."

This sketch brought conviction home to Lucy.
It was too clear; it explained everything. All
that he had done became not only excusable,
but natural, and what he should have done.

These were happy days for Lucy. An
unbounded prospect seemed opening out before her
of happiness and joy; something elysian seemed
to be drawing on. There was a gentleness, an
interest, about her lover, an anticipation she
could not describe; and all day long she felt she
could sing. For the next, a little plan had been
fixed. There was a small town about ten miles
away, where there were some curious things to
be seen—a church—it did not matter what; it
was an expedition. She and dear Harco, and
perhaps the dearer Vivian, were to walk there,
and drive back again. These sort of plans gave
her surprising pleasure. Shall it be confessed,
also, she was anxious to show the tattling
public of the place that she did not care—no,
not one bit—for their vile uncharitable stories!

Harco was in great spirits that night; for
he had his joyful news also. A letter was in
his hand; who shall we suppose was it from?
Sir John Trotter, the strange baronet. It
expressed great surprise at not having heard from
him, as he was "still keeping the borough
open." ("What did I tell you, Lulu? I
knew the fellow would knuckle down to me!")
"It was surely worth while making a small
exertion for so important a matter," Sir John
then went on, dwelling on this point; adding,
"I often wish to have the pleasure of hearing
'Charlie is my darling' once more. I never
heard it given with such incomparable spirit."

"He was a good judge of music," said
Harco, reflectively; "I must allow him that.
Indeed, I must say he has behaved handsomely.
For between ourselves, Lulu, I let my tongue
fly a little——"

"He is noble, dearest," said Lucy, with
enthusiasm. "Oh, and we shall see you sitting
in the house, a real M.P.!"

"Hearing me, too, my pet. Seeing would be
poor stuff. I'll astonish them, the right honourable
gentlemen on my right. And I'll be giving
orders for the gallery to my Lulu and her
colonel—eh, rogue?"

Lulu coloured, not with confusion, but with
pleasure. She saw the vision of a happy party
driving down to the house—Harco going in at
the members' entrance, she and her dear Vivian
at their own proper door. Suddenly Harco
called out, with one of those odd changes of
tone so common to him, now grown surly:

"What the deuce is all this? 'I expected, at
least, to have heard from your friend, who
explained to me how things were, and how you
were situated. He said I was to hear from him
in a week. This delay is very strange, and I
hope will be explained. Business, however,
will take me to France, shortly, and I shall look in
at Dieppe on my way.' What the deuce—what
does he mean? I've no friend."

Lucy gravely took it from him, and read it
over to herself, then returned it to him, her eyes
flashing, her lips trembling. "I know it," she
said, "and can explain it. It was Mr. West."

"Phe—e—e—w—" went on Mr. Dacres in an
interminable whistle. "That's the way! so it is."

"And do you not see, Harco? Oh! how mean,
how pitiful! Don't you see, this was his revenge,
when he found that I would not accept him?
How unworthy! He tries to poison our friends,
and set them against us. I could not have
believed it of him! No!"

"He's a mean, plotting, low fellow!" said
Harco, with sudden savageness. "I'll go to
him, and tell him so, too. What does he mean,
meddling with me?"

"No, you mustn't," said Lucy, firmly; "we
will treat him with contempt. Or, I tell you
what, let us send out for Vivian, and tell him.
I have a little secret, Harco. He knows Sir
John; but I did not like telling you, as it was
all at an end."

"Well, well," said Harco, "that West—
the viper—he beats anything. Yes, let's have
over the dear colonel."

Lulu ran off to her room. Mr. Dacres, winking
to himself, which he often did, got his hat
and tripped off.

"I'll give him a hearing this very
moment," he said. "The old ascetic! my old
Mount Tabor, indeed! nice monk of the desert.
Confound his impudence!"

He set off, and repaired to the Place, where
West's rooms were, and in his jovial and "light-
of-her-eyes" style accosted "the little maid'*
that opened the door. "I want to see the
master, my dear. Tell him I'm below'.'

The girl shook her head, and said, "He is
not well at all, sir, I fear, and can see no one."

"Oh, I know, I know. He'll see me, never
fear. Shall I go up to his room?"

"Impossible, sir," she said. "He is not up
even. Indeed, sir, you can't."

"Well, tell his sister, Miss Margaret."