He slowly placed basket and trowel upon the grass as the carriage stopped, and forgetful of the state of his hands, helped the ladies to alight, leaving the imprint of his earthy fingers upon Helen’s delicate gloves.
Grey saw what took place, and expected an angry show of impatience on her companion’s part; but on the contrary, Helen held up her hands and laughed in quite a merry way.
“Oh, Arthur,” exclaimed Miss Rosebury, “how thoughtless you are!”
The Reverend Arthur looked in dismay at the mischief he had done, and taking out his pocket-handkerchief—one that had evidently been used for wiping earthy fingers before—he deliberately took first one and then the other of Helen Perowne’s hands to try and remove the marks he had made upon her gloves.
“I am very sorry, Miss Perowne,” he said, in his quiet, deliberate way. “It was very thoughtless of me; I have been planting geraniums.”
To the amazement of Grey Stuart, Helen gazed full in the curate’s face, smilingly surrendering her hands to the tender dusting they received.
Miss Rosebury was evidently annoyed, for she turned from surrendering the reins to the gardener, who was waiting to lead away the pony, and exclaimed:
“Oh, Arthur, you foolish man, what are you doing? Miss Perowne’s hands are not the leaves of plants.”
“No, my dear Mary,” said the Reverend Arthur, in the most serious manner; “and I am afraid I have made the mischief worse.”
“It does not matter, Mr Rosebury. It is only a pair of gloves—I have plenty more,” said Helen, hastily stripping them off regardless of buttons, and tearing them in the effort. They were of the thinnest and finest French kid, and as she hastily rolled them up she looked laughingly round for a place to throw them, ending by dropping them into the large garden basket half full of little geranium pots, while the Reverend Arthur’s eyes rested gravely upon the delicate blue-veined hands with their taper fingers and rosy nails.