They walked back to their lodging in a fine drizzle. On the way Edwin’s father took his arm. The action gave Edwin a curious sensation. It suggested to him that his father was lonely; that the natural instinct of love in the man was making him eager for some sort of sympathy. It was pitiable; for, in reality, they were strangers . . . there was no getting away from the fact that they were strangers.
“I must make it easy for him,” Edwin thought. “However impossible it may seem, I must make it easy. I must know him. I must love him. Whatever it costs I must love him. It is ridiculous that I should have to choose my words and even at times be a little dishonest when it ought to be the most natural and easy thing in the world to be myself with him. Of course it’s difficult at present; but later on, when we know each other better, it will be all right.”
When they returned to their lodging their clothes were wet, and they went together into the kitchen of the defunct publican’s daughter. She gave them two of her husband’s coats to wear while their own were drying, and for a long time they sat over the fire talking to her. It was evident that though Mr. Ingleby was himself unknown to her, she knew all about his family; for she asked him many questions about various people in Highberrow and Wringford, whom they knew in common. Mr. Ingleby could tell her very little, but the landlady was able to supply him with a lot of gossip from the Mendip villages.
“We heard that you were married,” she said.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Ingleby. “But I’ve just had a great blow. I’ve lost my wife.”
“Dear, dear . . . that’s very sad for ’ee.”
“Yes. . . . I shall never get over it.”
“And this is your eldest? My word, how time flies!”
“Yes. . . . He’s the only one.”
“To look at him at first you wouldn’t say there was much of an Ingleby in him.”