So I washed my hands of the whole affair, except consenting to Treherne's earnest request that I would go with him, this morning, to the little village church of which the young lady's father was the clergyman, and be introduced.
“A tough old gentleman, too; as sharp as a needle, as hard as a rock,—walking into his study, yesterday morning, was no joke, I assure you.”
“But you said he had consented?”
“Ah, yes, all's right. That is, it will be when I hear from the governor.”
All this while, by a curious amatory eccentricity, he had never mentioned the lady's name. Nor had I asked, because I knew it. Also, because that surname, common as it is, is still extremely painful to me, either to utter or to hear.
We came late into church, and sat by the door. It was a pleasant September forenoon; there was sunshine within and sunshine outside, far away across the moors. I had never been to this village before; it seemed a pretty one, and the church old and picturesque. The congregation consisted almost entirely of poor people, except one family, which I concluded to be the clergyman's. He was in the reading-desk.
“That's her father,” whispered Treherne.
“Oh, indeed.” But I did not look at him for a minute or so; I could not. Such moments will come, despite of reasoning, belief, conviction, when I see a person bearing any name resembling that name.
At last I lifted my head to observe him.
A calm, hard, regular face; well-shaped features; high, narrow forehead, aquiline nose,—a totally different type from one which I so well remember that any accidental likeness thereto impresses me as startlingly and vividly as, I have heard, men of tenacious, fervent memory will have impressed on them, through life, as their favourite type of beauty, the countenance of their first love.