“In truth, sir,” said Gabriel, “’tis I that am indebted to you for words that will often cheer me in these harsh times. Our rasping differences are ever confronting us and shutting out all thought of what we share.”
The talk turned on Dr. Harford’s visit more than a year before, and of Waghorn’s attack on the East window. Gabriel had heard nothing about it, for letters from Hereford had more than once failed to reach him. Indeed, as he explained, he had imagined that Dr. Coke was still at Bromyard.
Just then the Vicar was called away to speak to some one, and as Gabriel could not be induced to eat a third pasty, Hilary proposed that they should return to the garden.
“It was from this little arbour that I saw and heard all that passed just now,” she said, as they sat down in the cosy little retreat. “I hope you appreciated Durdle’s words of praise.”
“Durdle was kinder to me at Hereford than you were,” he said, reproachfully.
“She urged me to see you, and so in truth did my mother,” said Hilary, drooping her head.
“And you always refused. I wonder if you knew how cruelly you hurt me,” he said, with that note of pain in his voice which always disturbed her.
“What would have been the use of inviting you to come in?” she replied. “You know that it was worse than useless when we met in the cathedral porch. We parted because of our great differences. Naught had changed.”
“Yet,” pleaded Gabriel, “the Vicar told us but now that there was one thing which must always unite us.”
She drew up her head with all her old pride and hardness.