The Tale of Oat Cake Crag - By Susan Wittig Albert Page 0,92

fun. Things would go on as they had in the past, and all would be well.

“And I had no idea—not the remotest sort of a glimmer—that Caroline might care for me.”

“She does?” Rascal asked, skipping to keep up. “Caroline Longford loves you?” Not that this was surprising. Jeremy (in Rascal’s experience) was an exceedingly lovable person. But Caroline had gone to London. In Rascal’s experience, Big People who went into the Great Wide World rarely came back to live in the village, where there was so little excitement.

Jeremy kicked at another stone. He had begun to understand what was behind Caroline’s anguished wail, “Then you don’t love me?” Like her grandmother, Caroline had completely misunderstood his intentions. She must have assumed—perhaps from the moment he had asked to call on her—that he was coming to tell her that he loved her.

“I don’t think she really loves me,” he went on, talking mostly to himself. “But she thinks she does, which amounts to the same thing.” He looked down at Rascal. “Doesn’t it?”

“How should I know?” Rascal replied ruefully. “I don’t have any idea what goes on in the minds of ladies. I don’t have time for romance.”

This was true. Rascal was fully employed (and then some) as Near Sawrey’s Chief Dog. His job was a twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week assignment that required him to monitor strangers in the village, settle disagreements among other dogs, and sleep with one eye open on the porch at Belle Green, on guard against trespassers and evildoers. He had his duty, and romance would only get in the way.

“I’m sure she’ll get over it,” Jeremy said, although he wasn’t. He knew that he had never tried to mislead Caroline about his feelings for her. But he also knew Caroline, too, and pretty well. He had perceived, several years before, that she was developing a certain romantic streak, a tendency to dream about the future. It hadn’t crossed his mind, though, that her romantic dreams might center on him. What a thick-headed clod he had been!

Now, you and I might say that if Jeremy hadn’t intentionally led Caroline on, he couldn’t be held responsible for her misunderstanding. But that didn’t keep him from feeling absolutely rotten about it, and cursing himself for causing her pain. Or (which was even worse, he thought) causing a rift between Caroline and Deirdre. He knew that the two girls didn’t see each other very often these days—Caroline had become quite the lady and Deirdre was . . . well, Deirdre, and still as hardworking and down-to-earth as ever. Nobody would ever call her a lady, and she would laugh in their faces if they did. But lady or no, she was a splendid girl. As far as Jeremy was concerned, she was pretty nearly perfect.

“What I really hate,” he said out loud, “is the idea that Caroline will be angry at Deirdre, and think that she is the cause of it all, when getting married was totally my idea, not Deirdre’s. She kept saying no, over and over again, until I finally wore her down.”

Now, Rascal was really confused. “You are getting married after all?” he growled. So that was what was behind all those visits to Courier Cottage! Jeremy had been visiting Deirdre. Fierce black dog or no, he told himself, he should have gone along, to keep an eye on the two of them.

The boy bent over, picked up a stone, and shied it at the hedge. “Happiest day in my life when she said yes,” he said and grinned. “Just wish we had a little more money coming in. With the cottage and all—well, it’s going to be a near thing.” He looked down at the dog and brightened even more. “But if I can sell a painting every fortnight or two, it’ll help matters considerably. And if I can just get this awful business with Caroline smoothed out, I’ll be happy.”

“Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy,” said the dog. Still, he was doubtful. To him, it seemed like a risky proposition. But he was just a dog—what did he know?

By this time, they had reached the top of the village. Mrs. Crook was out in the yard at Belle Green, calling for Rascal, so the dog excused himself and trotted home to see what was wanted.

Jeremy himself didn’t have far to go, only to the Llewellyns’ house next door, where he was boarding. He let himself in at the back, for, like the other homes in the village,