Nigel did not fail to keep up his former pace, even to accelerate it. If he wished to arrive before his luggage, he really had no time to lose, for Pollard would not be guilty of delay. And instead of following the bend to the right which Pollard would follow, Nigel soon shot away to the left, through a dark lane, with high walls on both sides, and a fringe of tall trees from enclosed gardens peeping over the wall-tops.
This lane led direct into a large square, chiefly composed of old-fashioned red-brick houses, each varying in shape and size from its neighbours. At the entrance to the square, where three short posts barred the way to vehicles, Nigel paused to look.
That was what he had come for: to indulge himself in a look.
The square was rightly named "Church Square," for its centre was occupied by a venerable edifice, parts of which, including the square solid tower, were at least seven hundred years old. Generation after generation of English churchmen, through century after century, had met for worship within those aged walls. They had outlived countless historical tides and storms, and still stood there, rock-like and calm, always the same, in themselves a silent yet speaking history of ages past. Where Nigel stood, he could distinguish two flying buttresses, and two nearer side-windows, pointed yet somewhat broad. What he could not see he could imagine; for every inch of the structure was familiar and dear to him.
At one corner of the square, that to Nigel's left, a red-brick house stood alone, not placed in line like the rest, but occupying a small garden, wherein flourished an abundance of shrubs, but few flowers; for the Rev. Launcelot Elvey, Vicar of Newton Bury, with a cure of six thousand souls, and a stipend of two hundred and eighty pounds a year, had little money to spare for luxuries. What he could spare from absolute home necessaries went to the Parish.
Nigel had not meant to advance one step farther than this entrance to the square, where the three posts stood side by side. He cast one glance towards the central building; then his eyes went to the Vicarage.
It was very near; within a stone's throw. He could distinctly see the two small windows of the little drawing-room, a queer-shaped room, as he knew, all corners and crevices with furniture old enough to be picturesque, and old enough also to be shabby. Lights were lighted within, and blinds were drawn. As Nigel gazed, the shadow of a girlish figure was thrown with clear outline upon one of the blinds. Ethel—of course!
He had not intended to go a step nearer, but the pull was strong. That soft shade upon the blind had set all his pulses throbbing. The year's absence had made no difference at all—unless the difference that Ethel was dearer to him than ever—and the longing for one glimpse of her face became overwhelming. His luggage might arrive first; his home-folks might be perplexed, worried, perhaps hurt that he could put them second to anybody,—yes, he knew all this, but for three seconds nothing seemed of the smallest importance, except the glimpse for which he craved.
Nigel left the posts and went quickly towards the Vicarage; a few steps bringing him within the garden gate. At the same moment somebody drew up one of the blinds, and opened wide the window.
Ethel herself! He could see in strong relief against the light within, her slim prettily-rounded figure, could hear the soft happy tones which had always seemed to him to have a ripple of music running through them.