Meanwhile Dalrymple, following the dusty highroad by which he had already come through the village and passed the Rectory, rounded another curve and found himself close to the Church of whitish stone, matching the whitish Rectory. A square tower was dressed in a garment of aged ivy, and the windows of tinted glass had ivy fringes around them.
Dalrymple knew from personal recollection how those green leaf fringes could be seen from within, showing through the dull-tinted diamond panes. He had been used to worship in this Church, week by week, through early boyhood, standing, sitting, kneeling, by his mother's side. He had been there also in later years, but the childish remembrances were the strongest.
Almost a quarter of a century had gone by since that mother's death, yet he could recall her still, vividly as if he had seen her but one month before. The graceful girlish figure came back to him now, as he lingered, and the sweet fair face, and the heavenly calm of the soft eyes. He seemed to see himself again as a small boy in the big "squire's pew," gazing up into those rapt eyes with a child's half-adoring love, as her clear voice rang out in words of praise, mingling with the less tuneful notes of the village choir.
"If ever an angel lived in human form, she was one," he murmured.
Then he roused himself to go on, but paused anew, for a girl was coming along the road straight towards him. He knew in a moment who it was.
She wore a dress of summer serge, dark-grey in colour, fitting closely, and made in a style of absolute plainness. There were no plaitings, puffings, or braidings about any part of it, while the collar and cuffs were of thick white linen. Rather below middle height, she had a face uniformly pale, and habitual shadows under the eyes. The features generally were irregular, boasting no beauty, but the outline of the cheek seen from behind was pretty; abundant brown hair sheltered the broad forehead, falling partly over it in loose waves; and the grey eyes, with their depths of feeling, gave character to a face which otherwise was not remarkable. A straw hat hung over one arm, and she carried a mass of small white roses in an open basket.
Dalrymple went forward a few steps, and held out his hand.
"Marjory herself!" he said.
There was one swift glance of scrutiny.
"Mr. Dalrymple—is it?—" in a surprised tone; and she gave him her hand somewhat constrainedly.