The girl looked at her dully, not understanding at first.
“Speaking of Cyril Harkness?” she cried; “good gracious, no, Miss Sophia.” But the response was not given in a sprightly manner, and did not convey any conviction of its truth.
“You must be working too hard.”
“Well, I needn’t. I’ll tell you a bit of good fortune that’s come to me. Mrs. Glass—one of our boarders—you know her?”
“The stout person that comes to church in red satin?”
“Yes; and she’s rich too. Well, she’s asked me to go and visit her in Montreal in the slack time this next winter; and she’s such a good boarder every summer, you know, Mr. Hutchins is quite set on me going. She’s promised to take me to parties and concerts, and the big rink, and what not. Ah, Miss Sophia, you never thought I could come that sort of thing so soon, did you?”
“And are you not going?”
Sophia’s question arose from a certain ring of mockery in Eliza’s relation of her triumph.
“No, I’m not going a step. D’you think I’m going to be beholden to her, vulgar old thing! And besides, she talks about getting me married. I think there’s nothing so miserable in the world as to be married.”
“Most women are much happier married.” Sophia said this with orthodox propriety, although she did not altogether believe it.
“Yes, when they can’t fend for themselves, poor things. But to be for ever tied to a house and a man, never to do just what one liked! I’m going to take pattern by you, Miss Sophia, and not get married.”
Eliza went back to the village, and Sophia turned toward the pasture and the college. The first breath of autumn wind was sweeping down the road to meet her. All about the first sparks of the great autumnal fire of colour were kindling. In the nearer wood she noticed stray boughs of yellow or pink foliage displayed hanging over the dark tops of young spruce trees, or waving against the blue of the unclouded sky. It was an air to make the heavy heart jocund in spite of itself, and the sweet influences of this blithe evening in the pasture field were not lost upon Sophia, although she had not the spirit now to wish mischievously, as before, that Mrs. and Miss Bennett, or some of their friends, would pass to see her carry the milk in daylight. It was a happy pride that had been at the root of her defiance of public opinion, and her pride was depressed now, smarting under the sharp renewal of the conviction that her sisters were naughty and silly, and that their present training was largely to blame.
The Bennetts did not come by, neither did Mrs. Brown’s carriage pass, nor a brake from the hotel. Sophia had carried home the milk of two cows and returned before anyone of the slightest consequence passed by. She was just starting with two more pails when Alec Trenholme came along at a fast trot on his brother’s handsome cob. He was close by her before she had time to see who it was, and when he drew up his horse she felt strangely annoyed. Instinct told her that, while others might have criticised, this simple-hearted fellow would only compassionate her toil. Their mutual adventure of the previous evening had so far established a sense of comradeship with him that she did not take refuge in indifference, but felt her vanity hurt at his pity.