Mr. Sotheby was driving out of the inn-yard as they reached the market place, and Anne was about to say good-bye, when the grocer offered her a seat in his dog-cart, saying that he would not hear of her walking back alone. She was grateful for his offer, for she had no great fancy for the six-mile walk herself, and soon they were all ready, tucked up in a large rug, with nothing to be seen of Rachel, crouching against their legs, but the tassel of her woollen cap. Mr. Sotheby flicked the pony with his whip, and in a few moments they had crossed the old bridge over the river, and had left Linton behind.
During the drive home, Anne’s thoughts ran on the young man, dressed in scarlet tights like Mephistopheles; she could not forget his proud and serious face, intent only on his trapeze and indifferent to the audience; she would never forget that unsmiling face, looking up at the trapeze above him, as he deliberately rubbed first the soles of his shoes, and then his hands, in a box of sand.
But she could not speak of the young man, or of the circus, to Mr. Sotheby, whom she disliked; she could not continue her happy talk with Rachel in front of him, and they drove in silence—a silence broken at last by the grocer remarking on the number of foreigners that there were at the fair.
“Nothing interests us country folk more than to see a foreigner,” said he. “A black man will draw a crowd anywhere, and no wonder either, for however contented we may be with our own lives, we always wish to learn about those of other people.”
“He is a foreigner, of course,” Anne was saying to herself. “Perhaps if I went to the circus again to-morrow I might learn his name, and whether he is an Italian or a Spaniard,” but she roused herself, for Mr. Sotheby was still speaking, and then, wondering whether his words required an answer, she looked about her.
The risen moon was nearly full: there were no stars, and the road before them sparkled with frost. “How fast we are driving,” she reflected. “There is nothing like a frost to make a pony go, and no doubt he is thinking of his stable.” The sound of the hoofs rang out; the air was much colder than in the morning, so cold that it hurt her to breathe.
“My son Richard is abroad, living in Paris,” said the grocer, and hearing his voice, Anne told herself that politeness required her to listen. If she married the trapezist she might live in Paris, too—or else they would travel from town to town wherever there were circuses.
“Before that boy was eight years old,” Mr. Sotheby went on, “I knew that he would have to be a gentleman, and I am proud to say that I always encouraged him to do what he wanted with his life.”
She would call him Lorenzo. What did it matter whether Lorenzo was a gentleman or not? And Anne said this to herself, certain that the boy who had swung so gracefully on the trapeze was a gentleman. “For what is gentility but pride and perfect dignity? And he is as proud as Lucifer.”
“Everyone says that I spoil Richard,” and the old man beside her cracked his whip gaily. “But as long as I can make money I shall send it to him.”