Kitabı oku: «Blood Royal: A Novel», sayfa 4
‘But, surely,’ Dick cried, flushing up with honest indignation, ‘they wouldn’t treat it as a foregone conclusion like that. They wouldn’t bring us all up here, and put us to the trouble and expense of an hotel, and make us work three days, if they didn’t mean to abide by the result of the examination!’
Faussett gazed at him and smiled.
‘Well, you are green!’ he answered, laughing.
‘You are just a verdant one! What lovely simplicity! You don’t mean to say you think that’s the way this world is governed? I’ve a father in the House, and I trust I know better. Kissing goes by favour. They’ll give it to Gillingham; you may take your oath on that. And a jolly good thing, too; for I’m sure he deserves it!’
Gillingham himself was a trifle more modest and also more cautious. He made no prediction. Brought up entirely in diplomatic circles, he did credit to his teachers. He contented himself with saying in an oracular voice, ‘The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong,’ and throwing back his head in his most poetical manner.
This was a safe quotation, for it committed him to nothing. If he won, it would pass as very charming modesty; if he lost, it would discount and condone his failure.
As for Dick, he strolled with his two chance acquaintances down the beautiful High Street and into the gardens at Magdalen, very heavy in heart at their dire predictions. The cloisters themselves failed to bring him comfort. He felt himself foredoomed already to a disastrous fiasco. So many places and things he had only read about in books, this brilliant, easy-going, very grown-up Trevor Gillingham had seen and mixed in and made himself a part of. He had pervaded the Continent.
The more Gillingham talked, indeed, the more Dick’s heart sank. Why, the man knew well every historical site and building in Britain or out of it! History to him was not an old almanac, but an affair of real life. Paris, Brussels, Rome – Bath, Lincoln, Holyrood – he had known and seen them! Dick longed to go back and hide his own discomfited head once more in the congenial obscurity of dear sleepy old Chiddingwick.
But how could he ever go back without that boasted Scholarship? How cover his defeat after Mr. Plantagenet’s foolish talk at the White Horse? How face his fellow-townsmen – and Mary Tudor? For very shame’s sake, he felt he must brazen it out now, and do the best he knew – for the honour of the family.
CHAPTER VI. THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING
Dick slept little that night: he lay awake, despondent. Next day he rose unrefreshed, and by a quarter to ten was in the quad at Durham. Not another candidate as yet had showed up so early. But undergraduates were astir, moving aimlessly across the quad in caps and gowns, and staring hard at the intruder, as one might stare at a strange wild beast from some distant country. Dick shrank nervously from their gaze, hardly daring to remember how he had hoped at Chiddingwick to be reckoned in their number. One thing only gave him courage every time he raised his eyes – the Plantagenet leopards on the facade of the buildings. Should he, the descendant of so many great kings —ataris editas regibus– should he slink ashamed from the sons of men whom his ancestors would have treated as rebellious subjects? He refused such degradation. For the honour of the Plantagenets he would still do his best; and more than his best the Black Prince himself could never have accomplished.
He lounged around the quad till the doors of the hall were opened. A minute before that time Gillingham strolled casually up in sombrero and gray suit, and nodded a distant nod to him.
‘Morning, Plantagenet,’ he said languidly, putting his pipe in his pocket; and it was with an effort that Dick managed to answer, as if unconcerned: ‘Good-morning, Gillingham.’
The first paper was a stiff one – a feeler on general European history, to begin with. Dick glanced over it in haste, and saw to his alarm and horror a great many questions that seemed painfully unfamiliar. Who on earth were Jacopo Nardi, and Requesens, and Jean Bey? What was meant by the publication of the Edict of Rostock? And he thought himself a historian! Pah! this was simply horrible! He glanced up mutely at the other candidates. One or two of them appeared every bit as ill at ease as himself; but others smiled satisfied; and as for the Born Poet, leaning back against the wall with pen poised in one hand, he surveyed the printed form with a pleased smirk on his face that said as plainly as words could say it, ‘This paper was just made for me! If I’d chosen the questions myself, I couldn’t have chosen anything that would have suited me better.’ He set to work at it at once with a business-like air, while Dick chewed his quill-pen, evidently flooring every item in the lot consecutively. No picking and choosing for him; he dashed straight at it: Peter the Great or Charles XII., Cæsar Borgia or Robespierre, it was all one, Dick could see, to the Born Poet. He wrote away for dear life with equal promptitude on the Reformation in Germany and the Picts in Scotland; he seemed just as much at home with the Moors at Granada as with the Normans in Sicily; he never hesitated for a second over that fearful stumper, ‘State what you know of the rise and progress of the Bavarian Monarchy’; and he splashed off three whole pages of crowded foolscap without turning a hair in answer to the command: ‘Describe succinctly the alterations effected in the Polish Constitution during the seventeenth century.’ Such encyclopaedic knowledge appalled and alarmed poor Dick, with his narrower British outlook. He began to feel he had been ill-advised indeed to measure his own strength against the diplomatic service and the historical geniuses of the old foundations.
When they came out at mid-day he compared notes on their respective performances with Gillingham. All three young men lunched together at the Saracen’s Head, Dick ordering cold beef and a glass of water, for Mr. Plantagenet’s example had made him a teetotaler; while the two Rugby boys fared sumptuously every day off cutlets, asparagus, fresh strawberries, and claret. Gillingham had walked through the paper, he averred – a set of absurdly elementary questions.
‘I floored Jacopo Nardi,’ he remarked with a genial smile, ‘and I simply polished off the Edict of Rostock.’
Dick, more despondent, went through it in detail, confessing with shame to entire ignorance of more than one important matter.
‘Oh, the Poet wins!’ Faussett exclaimed, with deep admiration. ‘He wins in a canter. I tell you, it’s no use any other fellow going in when the Poet’s in the field. It’s Gillingham first, and the rest nowhere. He knows his books, you see. He’s a fearful pro. at them.’
‘Perhaps there’s a dark horse, though,’ Gillingham suggested, smiling. ‘The Prince of the Blood may hold the lists, after all, against all comers.’
‘Perhaps so,’ Faussett answered with a short little laugh. ‘But I’ll back the Rugby lot against the field, all the same, for a fiver. The rest are rank outsiders. Even money on the Poet! Now, gentlemen, now’s your chance! The Poet for a fiver! even money on the Poet – the Poet wins! “Who’ll back the Plantagenet?”’
Dick coloured to the very roots of his hair; he felt himself beaten in the race beforehand. Oh, why had he ever come up to this glorious, impossible place at all? And why did he ever confide the secret of his intentions to the imprudent head of the house of Plantagenet?
That day and the next day it was always the same. He sat and bit his pen, and looked hard at the questions, and waited for inspiration that never seemed to come; while Gillingham, the brilliant, the omniscient, the practical, fully equipped at all points, went on and wrote – wrote, scratching his foolscap noisily with a hurrying pen, straight through the paper. Dick envied him his fluency his readiness, his rapidity; the Born Poet kept his knowledge all packed for immediate use at the ends of his fingers, and seemed able to pour it forth, on no matter what topic, the very instant he required it. Words came to him quick as thought; he never paused for a second. Before the end of the examination Dick had long ago given up all for lost, and only went on writing at the papers at all from a dogged sense that it ill became a Plantagenet to admit he was beaten as long as a drop of blood or a whiff of breath remained in his body.
The three days of the examination passed slowly away, and each day Dick felt even more dissatisfied with his work than he had felt on the previous one. On the very last evening he indited a despondent letter to Maud, so as to break the disappointment for her gently, explaining how unequally he was matched with this clever fellow Gillingham, whom all Rugby regarded with unanimous voice as a heaven-sent genius, a natural historian, and a Born Poet. After which, with many sighs, he betook himself once more for the twentieth time to the study of the questions he had answered worst, wondering how on earth he could ever have made that stupid blunder about Aidan and the Synod of Whitby, and what could have induced him to suppose for one second that Peter of Amboise was really the same person as Peter the Hermit.. With these and other like errors he made his soul miserable that live-long night; and he worried himself with highly-coloured mental pictures of the disgrace he would feel it to return to Chiddingwick, no Oxford man at all, but a bookseller’s assistant.
Not till twelve o’clock next day was the result to be announced. Richard spent the morning listlessly with Gillingham and Faussett. The Born Poet was not boastful; he hated ostentation; but he let it be clearly felt he knew he had acquitted himself with distinguished credit. Poor Dick was miserable. He half reflected upon the desirability of returning at once to Chiddingwick, without waiting to hear the result of the examination; but the blood of the Plantagenets revolted within him against such a confession of abject cowardice. At twelve o’clock or a little after he straggled round to Durham. In the big Chapel Quad a crowd of eager competitors gathered thick in front of the notice-board. Dick hardly dared to press in among them and read in plain black and white the story of his own unqualified discomfiture. He held back and hesitated. Two elderly men in caps and gowns, whom he knew now by sight as Fellows and Tutors, were talking to one another quite loud by the gate. ‘But we haven’t seen Plantagenet yet,’ the gravest of them said to his neighbour; he was a tall fair man, with a cultivated red beard and a most aesthetic pince-nez.
Dick’s heart came up in his mouth. He stood forward diffidently.
‘My name’s Plantagenet,’ he said, with a very white face. ‘Did you want to speak to me?’
‘Oh yes,’ the Tutor answered, shaking him warmly by the hand; ‘you must come up, you know, to enter your name on the books, and be introduced to the Warden.’
Dick trembled like a girl. His heart jumped within him.
‘Why, what have I got?’ he asked, hardly daring even to ask it, lest he should find himself mistaken.
The man with the red beard held out a duplicate copy of the paper on the notice-board.
‘You can see for yourself,’ he answered; and Dick looked at it much agitated.
‘Modern History: Mr. Richard Plantagenet, late of Chiddingwick Grammar School, is elected to a Scholarship of the annual value of One Hundred Pounds. Proximo accessit, Mr. Trevor Gillingham, of Rugby School. Mr. Gillingham is offered a set of rooms, rent free, in the College.’
The world reeled round and round on Dick as a pivot. It was too good to be true. He couldn’t even now believe it. Of what happened next he never had any clear or connected recollection. In some vague phantasmagoric fashion he was dimly aware of being taken by the Tutor into the College Hall and introduced by name to a bland-looking effigy in a crimson gown, supposed to represent the Head of the College; after which it seemed to him that somebody made him sign a large book of statutes or something of the sort in medieval Latin, wherein he described himself as ‘Plantagenet, Ricardus, gen. fil., hujus ædis alumnus,’ and that somebody else informed him in the same tongue he was duly elected. And then he bowed himself out in what Mr. Plantagenet the elder would have considered a painfully inadequate manner, and disappeared with brimming eyes into the front quadrangle.
As yet he had scarcely begun to be faintly conscious of a vague sense of elation and triumph; but as he reached the open air, which freshened and revived him, it occurred to him all at once that now he was really to all practical intents and purposes an Oxford undergraduate, one of those very people whose gorgeous striped blazers and lordly manners had of late so overawed him. Would he ever himself wear such noble neckties? Would he sport a straw hat with a particoloured ribbon? He looked up at the big window of that beautiful chapel, with its flamboyant tracery, and felt forthwith a proprietary interest in it. By the door Faussett was standing. As Dick passed he looked up and recognised ‘the dark horse,’ the rank outsider. He came forward and took his hand, which he wrung with unfeigned admiration.
‘By Jove, Plantagenet,’ he cried, ‘you’ve licked us; you’ve fairly licked us! It’s wonderful, old man. I didn’t think you’d have done it. The Poet’s such an extraordinary dab, you know, at history. But you must be a dabber. Look here, I say, what a pity you didn’t take me the other day when I offered even money on Trev against the field! You simply chucked away a good chance of a fiver.’
A little further on, Gillingham himself strolled up to them. His manner was pure gold. There was no trace of jealousy in the way he seized his unexpected rival’s hand. To do him justice, indeed, that smallest and meanest of the human passions had no place at all in the Born Poet’s nature.
‘Well, I congratulate you,’ he said with a passing pang of regret – for he, too, had wished not a little to get that Scholarship; ‘as Sir Philip Sidney said, your need was the greater. And even for myself I’m not wholly dissatisfied. It’s been a disappointment to me – and I don’t very often secure the luxury of a disappointment. The true poet, you see, ought to have felt and known every human passion, good, bad or indifferent. As pure; experience, therefore, I’m not sorry you’ve licked me. It will enable me to throw myself henceforth more dramatically and realistically into the position of the vanquished, which is always the more pathetic, and therefore the more poetical.’
They parted a little further down on the way towards the High Street. After they’d done so, the Philistine turned admiringly towards his schoolfellow, whom no loyal Rugby boy could for a moment believe to have been really beaten in fair fight by a creature from a place called Chiddingwick Grammar School.
‘By George! Trev,’ he exclaimed with a glow of genuine admiration, ‘I never saw anything like that. It was noble, it was splendid of you!’
The Born Poet hardly knew what his companion meant; but if it meant that he thought something which he, Trevor Gillingham, had done was noble and splendid, why, ‘twas certainly not the Born Poet’s cue to dispute the point with him. So he smiled a quiet non-committing sort of smile, and murmured in a gentle but distant voice: ‘Aha! you think so?’
‘Think so!’ Faussett echoed. ‘Why, of course I do; it’s magnificent. Only – for the honour of the school, you know, Trev – I really think you oughtn’t to have done it. You ought to have tried your very best to lick him.’
‘How did you find it out?’ Trevor Gillingham asked languidly. He affected languor at times as an eminently poetic attitude.
‘How did I find it out? Why, you as good as acknowledged it yourself when you said to him just now, “Your need was the greater.” There aren’t many, fellows who’d have done it, Trev, I swear; but it wasn’t right, all the same; you’ve the school to consider; and you ought to have fought him through thick and thin for it!’
The Born Poet stroked his beardless chin with recovered self-satisfaction. This was a capital idea – a first-rate way out of it! For his own part, he had written all he knew, and tried his very best to get that Scholarship; but if Faussett chose to think he had deliberately given it away, out of pure quixotic goodness of heart, to his obscure competitor from Giggleswick School – or was the place called Chiddingwick? – whose need was the greater, why, it wasn’t any business of his to correct or disclaim that slight misapprehension. And in three days more, indeed, it was the firm belief of every right-minded Rugby boy that ‘Gillingham of our school’ could easily have potted the Durham Scholarship if he’d chosen; but he voluntarily retired from the contest beforehand – morally scratched for it, so to speak – because he knew there was another fellow going in for the stakes ‘whose need,’ as he generously phrased it, ‘was the greater.’
And meanwhile Dick Plantagenet himself, the real hero of the day, was straggling down, more dead than alive for joy, towards the Oxford postoffice, to send off the very first telegram he had ever despatched in his life:
‘“Miss Maud Plantagenet, Chiddingwick, Surrey. – Hooray! I’ve got it, the hundred pound history.” Thirteen words: sixpence ha’penny. Strike out the Maud, and it’s the even sixpence.’
CHAPTER VII. AFFAIRS OF THE HEART
The return to Chiddingwick was a triumphal entry. Before seven o’clock that evening, when the South-Eastern train crawled at its accustomed leisurely pace, with a few weary gasps, into Chiddingwick Station, Mr. Plantagenet had spread the news of his son’s success broadcast through the town, viâ the White Horse parlour. Already, on the strength of Dick’s great achievement, he had become the partaker, at other people’s expense, of no fewer than three separate brandies-and-sodas; which simple Bacchic rites, more frequently repeated, would have left him almost incapable of meeting the hero of the hour with suitable effect, had not Maud impounded him, so to speak, by main force after five o’clock tea, and compelled him to remain under strict supervision in the domestic gaol till the eve of Dick’s arrival.
Dick jumped out, all eagerness. On the platform his mother stood waiting to receive him, proud, but tearful; for to her, good woman, the glories of the Plantagenet name were far less a matter of interest than the thought of losing for the best part of three years the mainstay of the family. Maud was there, too, beaming over with pure delight, and even prouder than she had ever been in her life before of her handsome brother. Mr. Plantagenet himself really rose for once to the dignity, of the occasion, and instead of greeting Richard with the theatrical grace and professional flourish he had originally contemplated, forgot in the hurry of the moment the high-flown speech he had mentally composed for delivery on the platform, and only remembered to grasp his son’s hand hard with genuine warmth as he murmured in some broken and inarticulate way: ‘My boy – my dear boy, we’re all so pleased and delighted to hear it.’ He reflected afterwards, with regret, to be sure, that he had thrown away a magnificent opportunity for a most effective display by his stupid emotion; but Dick was the gainer by it. Never before in his life did he remember to have seen his father act or speak with so much simple and natural dignity.
All Chiddingwick, indeed, rejoiced with their joy. For Chiddingwick, we know, was proud in its way of the Plantagenets. Did not the most respectable families send their children to take dancing lessons at the White Horse Assembly Rooms from the disreputable old scamp, on the strength of his name, his faded literary character, and his shadowy claim to regal ancestry? The station-master himself – that mighty man in office – shook hands with ‘Mr. Richard’ immediately on his arrival; the porters presented him with a bouquet of white pinks fresh plucked from the Company’s garden; and even Mr. Wells raised his hat to his late assistant with full consciousness of what respect was due from a country tradesman to a gentleman who had been admitted with flying colours to ‘Oxford College.’
Dick’s progress up the High Street was one long shaking of many friendly hands; and if that benevolent soul, Mr. Trevor Gillingham, of Rugby School, could only have seen the deep interest which his rival’s success excited in an entire community, he would have felt more than ever, what he frequently told all his Sixth Form friends – that he was glad he’d been able ‘practically to retire’ in favour of a young man so popular and so deserving.
And then, after the first flush of delight in his victory had worn off, there grew up in Richard’s mind the more practical question of ways and means. What was he to do with his time in the interval, till term began in October? Neither his father nor Mr. Wells would hear of his returning meanwhile to his old employment.
‘No, no, Dick – Mr. Richard, I mean,’ the good bookseller said seriously. ‘For your sake and the business’s, I couldn’t dream of permitting it. It’s out of place entirely. A scholar of Durham College, Oxford, mustn’t soil his hands with waiting in a shop. It wouldn’t be respectable. No self-respecting tradesman can have a gentleman in your present position standing behind his counter. I call it untradesmanlike. It’s calculated to upset the natural and proper relations of classes. You must look out for some work more suited to your existing position and prospects; and I must look out for an assistant in turn who ain’t a member of an ancient and respected University.’
Dick admitted with a sigh the eternal fitness of Mr. Wells’s view; but, at the same time, he wondered what work on earth he could get which would allow him to earn his livelihood for the moment without interfering with the new and unpractical dignity of a Scholar of Durham College, Oxford. He had saved enough from his wages to eke out his Scholarship and enable him to live very economically at the University; but he must bridge over the time between now and October without trenching upon the little nest-egg laid by for the future.
As often happens, chance stepped in at the very nick of time to fill up the vacancy. At the Rectory that night Mr. Tradescant was talking over with his wife the question of a tutor for their eldest son, that prodigiously stupid boy of seventeen – a pure portent of ignorance – who was to go in for an army examination at the end of September.
‘No, I won’t send him away, from home, Clara,’ the Rector broke out testily. ‘It’s no earthly use sending him away from home. He’s far too lazy. Unless Arthur’s under my own eye, he’ll never work with anyone. Let me see, he comes home from Marlborough on the 28th. We must get somebody somehow before then who’ll be able to give him lessons at home, if possible. If he has two months and more of perfect idleness he’ll forget all he ever knew (which isn’t much), and go up for examination with his mind a perfect blank – a tabula rasa, a sheet of white note-paper. And yet, unless we get a tutor down from town every day – which would run into money – I’m sure I don’t know who the – person is we could possibly get to teach him.’
Mary Tudor was sitting by, and being a very young and inexperienced girl, she hadn’t yet learnt that the perfect governess, when she hears her employers discuss their private affairs, should behave as though her ears wore only for ornament. (And Mary’s, indeed, were extremely ornamental.) So she intervened with a suggestion – a thing no fully-trained young woman from a modern Agency would ever dream of doing.
‘There’s that Plantagenet boy, you know, Mrs. Tradescant,’ she remarked, without bearing him the slightest grudge for his curious behaviour over the bookbinding incident. ‘He’s just got a Scholarship at Oxford to-day, Mr. Wells was telling me. I wonder if he would do? They say he’s a very clever, well-read young fellow.’
The Reverend Hugh received the suggestion with considerable favour.
‘Why, there’s something in that, Miss Tudor,’ he said, leaning back in his easy-chair. ‘I’m glad you thought of it. The young man must be fairly well up in his work to have taken a Scholarship – a very good one, too, a hundred a year, at my own old college. I met Plantagenet this afternoon in the High Street overflowing with it. This is worth looking into, Clara. He’s on the spot, you must bear in mind; and under the circumstances, I expect, he’d be in want of work, and willing, I daresay, to take extremely little. He can’t very well go back to Wells’s, don’t you see, and he can’t afford to live at home without doing something.’
‘The boy’s as mad as a March hare, and not a very desirable companion for Arthur, you must feel yourself,’ Mrs. Tradescant answered a little chillily, not over well pleased with Mary for having ventured to interfere in so domestic a matter. ‘And, besides, there’s the old man. Just consider the associations!’
‘Well, he can’t help being the son of his father,’ the Rector replied with a man’s greater tolerance. ‘He was born with that encumbrance. And as to companions, my dear, young Plantagenet’s at any rate a vast deal better than Reece and the groom, who seem to me to be Arthur’s chief friends and allies whenever he’s at home here. The boy may be mad, as you suggest – I dare say he is – but he’s not too mad to get a Durham Scholarship; and I only wish Arthur had half his complaint in that matter. A fellow who can take a scholarship at Durham’s no fool, I can tell you. I’ll inquire about his terms when I go into town to-morrow.’ And the Reverend Hugh did inquire accordingly, and found Dick’s attainments so satisfactory for his purpose that he forthwith engaged the new scholar as tutor for Arthur, to come five days in the week and give four hours’ tuition a day till the end of September, at a most modest salary, which to Dick nevertheless seemed as the very wealth of Croesus. Not till long after did Dick know that he owed this appointment in the first instance to a chance word of Mary Tudor’s. Nor did Mary suspect, when, out of pure goodness of heart and sympathy for a deserving and struggling young man, she suggested him for the appointment, that his engagement would be the occasion of throwing them too much together in future.
So luck would have it, however. Five days a week Dick went up with his little strapped parcel of books to the Rectory door to engage in the uncongenial and well-nigh impossible task of endeavouring to drive the faint shadow of an idea into Arthur Tradescant’s impenetrable cranium. It was work – hard work – but it had its compensations. For, quite insensibly to both at first, it brought Dick and Mary a great deal into one another’s society at many odd moments. In the very beginning, it is true, they only met quite by accident in the hall and passages or on the garden path; and Mary rather shrank from conversation with the young man who had been the hero of that curious episode about the binding of the ‘Flora.’ But gradually the same chance threw them more and more into contact; besides, their relative positions had been somewhat altered meanwhile by Dick’s success at Durham. He was now no longer the bookseller’s young man, but a student who was shortly to go up to Oxford. This told with Mary, as it tells with all of us, almost without our knowing it. We can seldom separate the man from the artificial place he holds in our social system. Indeed, the very similarity of their positions in the household – his as tutor and hers as governess – made to some extent now a bond of union between them. Before many weeks were out Mary had begun to look for Dick’s pleasant smile of welcome when he arrived in the morning, and to see that the strange young man, whose grave demeanour and conscious self-respect had struck her so markedly that first day at Mr. Wells’s, had really after all a great deal in him.
The more Dick saw of Mary, too, the better he liked her. Just at first, to be sure, his impulse had been a mere freak of fancy, based on the curious coincidence of their regal names; that alone, and nothing else, had made him think to himself he might possibly fall in love with her. But after awhile the mere fancy counted for comparatively little; it was the woman herself, bright, cheery, sensible, that really attracted him. From the very beginning he had admired her; he soon learned to love her; and Mary, for her part, found it pleasant, indeed, that there was somebody in this social wilderness of Chiddingwick who genuinely cared for her. A governess’s lot is as a rule a most lonely one, and sympathy in particular is passing dear to her. Now Dick was able to let Mary feel he sympathized with her silently in her utter loneliness; and Mary grew soon to be grateful to Dick in turn for his kindness and attention. She forgot the handsome shopman with the long, yellow hair in the prospective glories of the Durham undergraduate.
The summer wore away, and the time drew near when Richard must begin to think about his preparations for going up to Oxford. A day or two before the date fixed for the meeting of the colleges, he was walking on the footpath that runs obliquely across the fields which stretch up the long slope of the hill behind Chiddingwick.
As he walked and reflected, he hardly noticed a light figure in a pretty print dress hurrying down the hillside towards him. As it approached, he looked up; a sudden thrill ran through him. It was Mary who was coming! How odd! He had been thinking about her that very moment! And yet not so odd, either; for how often he thought about her! He had been thinking just now that he couldn’t bear to leave Chiddingwick without telling her how much she had lately become to him, and how very, very deeply he regretted leaving her. His face flushed at the sight and the thought; it seemed to him almost like an omen of success that she should happen to come up at the very moment when he was thinking such things of her. It was so unusual for Mary to go out beyond the Rectory grounds by herself; still more unusual for her to be coming home alone so late in that particular direction. He raised his hat as she approached. ‘Oh, Miss Tudor,’ he cried shyly, with a young man’s mixture of timidity and warmth, ‘I’m so glad to see you here. I – I was just thinking about you. I want to have a talk with you.’
