Little did Mr. Plowden guess that during the whole course of his love-scene, and the subsequent affair with Jeremy, there had leaned gracefully in an angle of the sod wall, not twenty yards away, a figure uncommonly resembling that of an ancient mariner in an attitude of the most intense and solemn contemplation; but so it was.
“I am grateful to you, Miss Ceswick.”
“Thank you, Mr. Plowden, it is refreshing to meet with true gratitude, it is a scarce flower in this world; but really I don’t deserve any. The observer who oversaw the painful scene between you and Mr. Jones also oversaw a scene preceding it, that, so far as I can gather, seems to have been hardly less painful in its way.”
Mr. Plowden coloured, but said nothing.
“Now you see, Mr. Plowden, I am left in a rather peculiar position as regards my sister; she is younger than I am, and has always been accustomed to look up to me, so, as you will easily understand, I feel my responsibilities to weigh upon me. Consequently, I feel bound to ask you what I am to understand from the report of my informant?”
“Simply this, Miss Ceswick: I proposed to your sister, and she refused me.”
“Indeed! you were unfortunate that afternoon.”
“Miss Ceswick,” went on Mr. Plowden, after a pause, “if I could find means to induce your sister to change her verdict, would my suit have your support?”
Florence raised her piercing eyes from her work, and for a second fixed them on the clergyman’s face.
“That depends, Mr. Plowden.”