One of them was now looking about, as if in search of somebody; and I walked timidly towards him. He seemed puzzled as his eyes fell upon me; then suddenly he raised his hat.
“Miss Christie?” he said interrogatively, growing very red.
“Yes,” said I, bowing and blushing too.
“Will you come and show me which is your luggage?”
I was surprised and rather confused to find Mr. Rayner so much younger and less self-possessed than I had expected. I followed him and pointed out my boxes.
“The dog-cart is waiting outside,” said he; “let me carry your bag.”
I followed him through the station. Three or four big dogs began jumping up upon him and upon me as we came out.
“Down, Rover! Down, Luke! Get down, Tray!” said he, raising his voice.
I had noticed what a very pleasant rich voice he had when he first spoke to me, and now I remembered how particular he had been in his letters about my music; so I concluded that Mr. Rayner sang. He helped me into the dog-cart, carefully wrapped me up with a rug, and then, instead of getting in himself, patted the neck of the brown mare, who turned her head and put her nose into her master’s hand. I was trying to get over my bewilderment. Of course I might have expected that the father of my six-year-old pupil would not be the middle-aged gray-haired man I had pictured to myself; but for him to be a man who did not look more than three or four and twenty was a surprise; and to find him so shy and deferential did not seem quite right, considering our respective positions. He was big and broad, and rather massive, had dark hair and mustache, gray eyes, and a kind simplicity of expression, which perhaps, I thought, with his habit of blushing, made him look younger than he was. He left the mare and stood by me again.
“I am afraid you will find the country dull. You will miss the gayety of London.”