She clenched her hand in the
intensity of her passionate thoughts and impulses, and sat like a
statue, while Lucy, from time to time, between the tying up of
flowers and watering of annuals, came up with inconsistent
exhortations not to be so unhappy--for it was not expulsion--it was
sure to be unjust--nobody would think the worse of them because young
men were foolish--all men of spirit did get into scrapes--
It was lucky for Lucy that all this passed by Sophy's ear as unheeded
as the babbling of the brook. She did not move, till roused by Ulick
O'More, coming up from the bridge, telling that he had met some Irish
haymakers in the meadows, and saying he wanted to beg a frock for one
of their children.
'I think I can find you one,' said Lucy, 'if you will wait a minute;
but don't go in, Mr. Dusautoy is there.'
'Is anything the matter?' he exclaimed.
'Every one must soon know,' said Lucy; 'it is of no use to keep it
back, Sophy. Only my brother and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy have got
into a scrape about a wine party, and are going to be rusticated.
But wait, I'll fetch the frock.'
Sophy had almost run away while her sister spoke, but the kind look
of consternation and pity on Ulick's face deterred her, he in
soliloquy repeated, as if confounded by the greatness of the
misfortune, 'Poor Gilbert!'
'Poor Gilbert!' burst from Sophy in irritation at misplaced sympathy;
'I thought it would be papa and mamma you cared for!'
'With reason,' returned Ulick, 'but I was thinking how it must break
his heart to have pained such as they.
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