In the morning I mustered up courage to ask Mr. Baitson about mother, and whether she would ever be her proper self again. He said he hoped she would; but it must take time. The dreadful shock of seeing father killed had had a strange effect upon her mind, so she seemed to see everything crooked, and couldn't be argued with. Only time and change could cure her. He told me I must do my best to get well and strong quickly, so as to be able to take care of poor mother.
I was not allowed to see mother again; Mr. Baitson said it was better not to excite her. Mr. Armstrong looked in for a few kind words with me as he had done often; but I never could bear yet to see him, without crying too much for speech. It made me think so of that last talk before poor father was killed.
Early after dinner Mary started with me, as I was hardly fit to travel all the way alone. Mary had things to do in Littleburgh, she said, and wouldn't be back till late; so Mrs. Bowman was left in charge of mother.
We got out at Littleburgh Station together, and there Mary put me into a fly to drive to Deane Rectory. I remember how she kissed me, and told me to be brave.
Then I drove off alone, feeling dreary; and the fly wasn't two minutes away from the station before I passed somebody I knew.
It was Walter Russell!
One wouldn't have believed, after all that had passed, that I should have cared for him still. But I did. Seeing him walk along the pavement, with his sort of jaunty air, sent a shock all through me, and I could have cried out his name. I did lean forward, and he looked up, and his eyes met mine.
But there was no sign of knowing me, not the very least. He didn't smile nor nod.
The next moment, and while I was driving by, he stopped short to speak to a young girl, seeming as pleased as could be. The way he fixed his eyes on her, admiring, was the very same way exactly that he was used to do it to me.
I don't know whether I was most hurt or most angry. I couldn't get over the great wrong he had done, making me deceive my father and mother; yet I liked him still. I couldn't feel real respect, and I knew well I ought not to think about him any more; yet the very name of Walter Russell had a strange power over me.