And
Arthur listened to him respectfully, feeling, when he was gone, that
he merited the rebuke, that he had not been guiltless in the matter,
that if he did not mean to marry Lucy Harcourt he must let her alone.
And he would, he said; he would not go to Prospect Hill again for two
whole weeks, nor visit at the cottages where he was sure to find her.
He would keep himself at home; and he did, shutting himself up among
his books, and not even making a pastoral call on Lucy when he heard
that she was sick. And so Lucy came to him, looking dangerously
charming in her green riding-habit--with the scarlet feather sweeping
from her hat. Very prettily she pouted, too, chiding him for his
neglect, and asking why he had not been to see her, nor anybody. There
was the Widow Hobbs, and Mrs. Briggs and those miserable Donelsons--he
had not been near them for a fortnight. What was the reason? she
asked, beating her foot upon the carpet, and tapping the end of her
riding whip upon the sermon he was writing.
"Are you displeased with me, Arthur?" she continued, her eyes filling
with tears as she saw the grave expression on his face. "Have I done
anything wrong? I am so sorry if I have.
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