As he spoke, Mr. Rayner himself came out of the station, letting his mastiff loose at the door. I saw in a moment that he was a few years older than my companion, and that, while they both wore round hats and Norfolk jackets, he bore the impress of town breeding as clearly as Mr. Reade did that of the country. He was slight, well made, with delicate features and a dark golden beard and mustache. He came up, raising his hat, and shook hands with me.
“You have been marvelling at the barbarism of Norfolk-manners, Miss Christie, and asking ‘When is the next train back to London?’ But I have been warned by my wife not to make my reappearance at home without a certain parcel from the ‘Stores’ which has been due at this station about ten days, but has, for some unaccountable reason, failed to turn up hitherto. By the way, I hope my sprightly young friend has been entertaining you well?”
“Miss Christie took me for you, Mr. Rayner,” said Mr. Reade, shyly reddening again.
“And has now to suffer the awful disappointment of finding that Mr. Rayner is an old fogy after all. Miss Christie, forgive my gray hairs. You will find me a great deal more trustworthy than any of these gay deceiving Norfolk lads. Now, Laurence, my boy, if you want us to get home before the mist rises, we had better start.”
Mr. Rayner sprang up behind; Mr. Reade got up in front by my side, and took the reins; and off we started, with the five dogs bounding, barking, and growling along the road as we went. We had to drive right through Beaconsburgh; up a long hill to the market-place, which was lively and busy, as it was market-day; down another long hill, lined with the dreary old houses of the élite of a provincial town; past a tan-yard, over a small bridge crowded with cattle returning from market, and then along two miles of straight willow-bordered road over a marsh. The scenery was not particularly pretty; but I had never lived in the country, and everything was new and interesting to me. Mr. Rayner was occupied at the back with letters and papers, and Mr. Reade at my side listened to my comments with flattering interest and appreciation.
“How beautifully green everything is!” I remarked presently.
“Yes, rather too green,” Mr. Reade rejoined ruefully. “We have had a wet summer, and now we are going to have a wet autumn, I believe, and this place will be nothing but a swamp.”
“Don’t set Miss Christie against the place, Laurence,” said Mr. Rayner rather sharply.
We passed through a low-lying village—some of the houses of which were flooded in winter, Mr. Reade told me—up a hill, down a hill, and up another sloping road, at the side of which stretched the marsh again.
“There is the Alders, Miss Christie,” said he, pointing with his whip to a pretty red house, half covered with ivy and surrounded by trees, which stood below the road, on the borders of the marsh.