"I don't want to hear any more," said the Vicar abruptly, throwing himself back in his seat and folding his arms. "I shall call on Mrs. Walter to-morrow and have it out with her—and with Mollie."
There was a toot of a big bass horn behind them, and the other car went sliding past. The three girls were sitting together as before, and waved gaily to them as they passed. Mrs. Mercer returned the greeting. The Vicar took no notice of it at all, and remained obstinately silent for the rest of the drive home.
CHAPTER XI
CAROLINE
Caroline awoke very early one morning in mid-July, disturbed perhaps by the light and the soft stillness. She had been in London during the week, where she had been wont to sleep late, in a darkened room. She had enjoyed her dinners and her plays and her parties, but she had a great sense of happiness and peace as she opened her eyes and realised that she was in London no longer, but in her large airy room at Abington, with the sweet fresh world of the country all about her, and no engagements of any sort before her that would prevent her from enjoying it.
The London season was over now; she had only spent the inside of three weeks away from Abington since they had first come there, and the days had seemed to go more quickly than at any time she had known. They had been contented and peaceful; she had never known a dull moment, with all the little tasks and pleasures she had found to her hand, not even when she and Barbara and Miss Waterhouse had been alone in the house together. The Saturdays and Sundays had been happy, with her father there, who seemed to belong to her now more than he had ever done, for many of her pleasures were his, and he shared her enjoyment of a life far simpler in its essence than any she had known since she had grown up, or than he had known at any time within her experience. It had been quite exciting to look forward to the Friday evenings; and the guests who sometimes came down with him had filled all her desire for society other than that of her family, or the people she saw from the houses around.
And now they were going to live the life of their home together, at least for some weeks. Her father was giving himself one of his numerous holidays, and was going to spend it entirely at Abington. Beatrix was coming home after she had gone to Cowes and before she went to Scotland. Bunting would be home for his summer holidays in a week or so. It was a delightful prospect, and gave her more pleasure than she had gained from the after-season enjoyments of previous years. She had refused an invitation to Cowes, and another to Scotland. She might go up there later, perhaps. At present she wanted nothing but Abington—to feel that she belonged there, and her days would remain the same as long as she cared to look forward.
She rose and went to the window, just to look out on the sweetness of the early morning, and the flowers and the trees. As she stood there, she saw her father come round the corner of the house. He was dressed, untidily for him, in a grey flannel suit and a scarf round his neck instead of a collar, and he carried in one hand a wooden trug full of little pots and in the other a trowel. He was walking fast, as if he had business on hand.
Something impelled her to keep silent, and she drew back a little to watch him. He went down the broad central path of the formal garden on to which her windows looked, on his way to the new rock-garden, which had been another of their spring enterprises. He had brought down the night before some big cases of rock-plants, and had evidently not been able to wait to go out and play with them.