“Cherry has a very long coat on,” said Virginia, smiling and pointing to his “ulster.”
“And not too round a face nowadays, eh? Never mind, if he came here I’d let him wear—”
“A cassock, perhaps,” said Cheriton. “I feel all the force of the compliment. But I think Queenie is the best curate for Elderthwaite at present.”
Virginia’s heart danced at the familiar brotherly name by which Cheriton had learned from Ruth to call her in the days of her engagement, but which had never become her home appellation, and something in her face made him whisper under his breath as she rose to take leave,—
“Though Oakby grudges her to you.” Virginia hurried away, but she was presently overtaken by Cheriton as she paused at a cottage door, and they walked up the lane together, and talked of the Stanforths; and when Virginia praised Gipsy, neither could help a smile of implied comprehension and sympathy.
It was a bright, pleasant day, the puddles and ditches of the Elderthwaite hedgerows sparkled in the spring sunshine, the blackthorn put out its shy blossoms on each side. Virginia smiled and looked up gaily, and Cheriton’s voice took its natural lively tone as he related some of the humours of their Spanish journey.
“I must turn off here,” said Cherry, as they came to a stile. But Virginia did not answer him, for, leaning against the fence, stood Alvar, watching them as they approached. A hayrick and tumble-down cart-shed, and a waggon with its poles turned up in the air, formed a strangely incongruous background for his graceful figure, his deep mourning giving him an additional air of picturesque dignity.
There was no escape for Virginia. She turned exceedingly pale, but with a self-command that, in Cheriton’s opinion, did her infinite credit, she bowed—she had not courage to put out her hand—and said timidly,—
“Good morning.”
Alvar’s olive face coloured all over; he bowed, for once utterly and evidently at a loss, while Cherry plunged into the breach.