Part 12 (1/2)
Lufa rose and went to get ready. Walter followed, and overtook her on the stair.
”I have something for you,” he said; ”may I bring it you?”
He could not postpone the effect his book might have. Authors young and old think so much of their books that they seldom conceive how little others care about them.
She was hardly in her room, when he followed her with the volume.
She took it, and opened it.
”Yours!” she cried. ”And poetry! Why, Walter!”
She had once or twice called him by his name before.
He took it from her hand, and turning the t.i.tle-page, gave it her again to read the dedication. A slight rose-tinge suffused her face. She said nothing, but shut the book, and gave it a tender little hug.
”She never did that to anything Sefton gave her!” thought Walter.
”Make haste,” she said, and turning, went in, and closed her door.
He walked up and down the hall for half an hour before she appeared.
When she came tripping down the wide, softly descending stair, in her tight-fitting habit and hat and feather, holding up her skirt, so that he saw her feet racing each other like a cataract across the steps, saying as she came near him, ”I have kept you waiting, but I could not help it; my habit was torn!” he thought he had never seen her so lovely.
Indeed she looked lovely, and had she loved, would have been lovely. As it was, her outer loveliness was but a promise whose fulfillment had been too long postponed. His heart swelled into his throat and eyes as he followed her and helped her to mount.
”n.o.body puts me up so well as you!” she said.
He could hardly repress the triumph that filled him from head to foot.
Anyhow, and whoever might object, she liked him! If she loved him and would confess it, he could live on the pride of it all the rest of his days!
They were unattended, but neither spoke until they were well beyond the lodge-gate. Winter though it was, a sweet air was all abroad, and the day was full of spring-prophecies: all winters have such days, even those of the heart! how could we get through without them? Their horses were in excellent spirits--it was their first gallop for more than a week; Walter's roan was like a flame under him. They gave them so much to do, that no such talk as Walter longed for, was possible. It consoled him, however, to think that he had never had such a chance of letting Lufa see he could ride.
At length, after a great gallop, they were quieter, seeming to remember they were horses and not colts, and must not overpa.s.s the limits of equine propriety.
”Is it our last ride, Lufa?” said Walter.
”Why should it be?” she answered, opening her eyes wide on him.
”There is no reason I know,” he returned, ”except--except you are tired of me.”
”n.o.body is tired of you--except perhaps George, and you need not mind him; he is odd. I have known him from childhood, and don't understand him yet.”
”He is clever!” said Walter.
”I dare say he is--if he would take the trouble to show it.”
”You hardly do him justice, I think!”
”How can I? he bores me! and when I am bored, I am horribly bored. I have been very patient with him.”