Mary half laughed, half coaxed her into coming with them. But she went very unwillingly; fell completely silent, and seemed to be in a dream all the way to the cottage. Meynell took no notice of her; though once or twice she stole a furtive look toward him.
The tiny house in which Catharine Elsmere and her daughter had settled themselves for the summer stood on a narrow isthmus of land belonging to the Maudeley estate, between the Sandford trout-stream and a large rushy pond of two or three acres. It was a very lonely and a very beautiful place, though the neighbourhood generally p.r.o.nounced it damp and rheumatic. The cottage, sheltered under a grove of firs, looked straight out on the water, and over a bed of water-lilies. All round was a summer murmur of woods, the call of waterfowl, and the hum of bees; for, at the edges of the water, flowers and gra.s.ses pushed thickly out into the sunlight from the shadow of the woods.
By the waterside, with a book on her knee, sat a lady who rose as they came in sight.
Meynell approached her, hat in hand, his strong irregular face, which had always in it a touch of _naivete_, of the child, expressing both timidity and pleasure. The memory of her husband was enshrined deep in the minds of all religious liberals; and it was known to many that while the husband and wife had differed widely in opinion, and the wife had suffered profoundly from the husband"s action, yet the love between them had been, from first to last, a perfect and a sacred thing.
He saw a tall woman, very thin, in a black dress. Her brown hair, very lightly touched with gray and arranged with the utmost simplicity, framed a face in which the pa.s.sage of years had emphasized and sharpened all the main features, replacing also the delicate smoothness of youth by a subtle network of small lines and shadows, which had turned the original whiteness of the skin into a brownish ivory, full of charm. The eyes looked steadily out from their deep hollows; the mouth, austere and finely cut, the characteristic hands, and the unconscious dignity of movement--these personal traits made of Elsmere"s wife, even in late middle age, a striking and impressive figure.
Yet Meynell realized at once, as she just touched his offered hand, that the sympathy and the homage he would so gladly have brought her would be unwelcome; and that it was a trial to her to see him.
He sat down beside her, while Mary and Hester--who, on her introduction to Mrs. Elsmere, had dropped a little curtsey learnt at a German school, and full of grace--wandered off a little way along the water-side.
Meynell, struggling with depression, tried to make conversation--on anything and everything that was not Upcote Minor, its parish, or its church. Mrs. Elsmere"s gentle courtesy never failed; yet behind it he was conscious of a steely withdrawal of her real self from any contact with his. He talked of Oxford, of the great college where he had learnt from, the same men who had been Elsmere"s teachers; of current books, of the wild flowers and birds of the Chase; he did his best; but never once was there any living response in her quiet replies, even when she smiled.
He said to himself that she had judged him, and that the judgments of such a personality once formed were probably irrevocable. Would she discourage any acquaintance with her daughter? It startled him to feel how much the unspoken question hurt.
Meanwhile the eyes of his hostess pursued the two girls, and she presently called to them, greeting their reappearance with an evident change and relaxation of manner. She made Hester sit near her, and it was not long before the child, throwing off her momentary awe, was chattering fast and freely, yet, as Mary perceived, with a tact, conscious or unconscious, that kept the chatter within bounds.
Mrs. Elsmere watched the girl"s beauty with evident delight, and when Meynell rose to go, and Hester with him, she timidly drew the radiant creature to her and kissed her. Hester opened her big eyes with surprise.
Catharine Elsmere sat silent a moment watching the two departing figures; then as Mary found a place in the gra.s.s beside her, she said, with some constraint:
"You walked with him from Maudeley?"
"Mr. Meynell? Yes, I found him there at tea. He was very anxious to pay his respects to you; so I brought him."
"I can"t imagine why he should have thought it necessary."
Mary colored brightly and suddenly, under the vivacity of the tone. Then she slipped her hand into her mother"s.
"You didn"t mind, dearest? Aunt Rose likes him very much, and--and I wanted him to know you!" She smiled into her mother"s eyes. "But we needn"t see him anymore if--"
Mrs. Elsmere interrupted her.
"I don"t wish to be rude to any friend of Aunt Rose"s," she said, rather stiffly. "But there is no need we should see him, is there?"
"No," said Mary; her cheek dropped against her mother"s knee, her eyes on the water. "No--not that I know of." After a moment she added with apparent inconsequence, "You mean because of his opinions?"
Catharine gave a rather hard little laugh.
"Well, of course he and I shouldn"t agree; I only meant we needn"t go out of our way--"
"Certainly not. Only I can"t help meeting him sometimes!"
Mary sat up, smiling, with her hands round her knees.
"Of course."
A pause. It was broken by the mother--as though reluctantly.
"Uncle Hugh was here while you were away. He told me about the service last Sunday. Your father would never--never--have done such a thing!"
The repressed pa.s.sion with which the last words were spoken startled Mary. She made no reply, but her face, now once more turned toward the sunlit pond, had visibly saddened. Inwardly she found herself asking--"If father had lived?--if father were here now?"
Her reverie was broken by her mother"s voice--softened--breathing a kind of compunction.
"I daresay he"s a good sort of man."
"I think he is," said Mary, simply.
They talked no more on the subject, and presently Catharine Elsmere rose, and went into the house.
Mary sat on by the water-side thinking. Meynell"s aspect, Meynell"s words, were in her mind--little traits too and incidents of his parochial life that she had come across in the village. A man might preach and preach, and be a villain! But for a man--a hasty, preoccupied, student man--so to live, through twenty years, among these vigorous, quick-tempered, sharp-brained miners, as to hold the place among them Richard Meynell held, was not to be done by any mere pretender, any spiritual charlatan. How well his voice pleased her!--his tenderness to children--his impatience--his laugh.
The thoughts, too, he had expressed to her on their walk ran kindling through her mind. There were in her many half-recognized thirsts and desires of the spirit that seemed to have become suddenly strong and urgent under the spur of his companionship.
She sat dreaming; then her mother called her to the evening meal, and she went in. They pa.s.sed the evening together, in the free and tender intimacy which was their habitual relation. But in the mind of each there were hidden movements of depression or misgiving not known to the other.
Meanwhile the Rector had walked home with his ward. A stormy business!
For much as he disliked scolding any young creature, least of all, Hester, the situation simply could not be met without a scolding--by Hester"s guardian. Disobedience to her mother"s wishes; disloyalty toward those who loved her, including himself; deceit, open and unabashed, if the paradox may be allowed--all these had to be brought home to her. He talked, now tenderly, now severely, dreading to hurt her, yet hoping to make his blows smart enough to be remembered. She was not to make friends with Sir Philip Meryon. She was not to see him or walk with him. He was not a fit person for her to know; and she must trust her elders in the matter.
"You are not going to make us all anxious and miserable, dear Hester!" he said at last, hoping devoutly that he was nearly through with his task.
"Promise me not to meet this man any more!" He looked at her appealingly.
"Oh, dear, no, I couldn"t do that," said Hester cheerfully.
"Hester!"
"I couldn"t. I never know what I shall want to do. Why should I promise?"
"Because you are asked to do so by those who love you, and you ought to trust them."
Hester shook her head.
"It"s no good promising. You"ll have to prevent me."
Meynell was silent a moment. Then he said, not without sternness:
"We shall of course prevent you, Hester, if necessary. But it would be far better if you took yourself in hand."
"Why did you stop my being engaged to Stephen?" she cried, raising her head defiantly.
He saw the bright tears in her eyes, and melted at once.
"Because you are too young to bind yourself, my child. Wait a while, and if in two years you are of the same mind, n.o.body will stand in your way."
"I sha"n"t care a rap about him in two years," said Hester vehemently. "I don"t care about him now. But I should have cared about him if I had been engaged to him. Well, now, you and mamma have meddled--and you"ll see!"