Luffington stopped to chat with a loutish fellow who was rolling the ground down to the minute pier, and chopping off the heads of the innocent daisies, along his path.
‘The notion of improvement is inseparably wedded to that of destruction,’ Fred mused, as he placidly surveyed the process, and dived his stick among the layers of massacred innocents. The thought opened his lips, but the lout lent an uncomprehending ear to his speech, shook his head as at obvious eccentricity of reflection, and rolled on with his look of gross stupidity. This proceeding disconcerted the traveller, who wanted to talk, and imbibe at the founts of rustic wit. He glanced around, and spied a little boat swaying among the rushes. Could he use it? The lout looked up sideways, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and offered his daughter as ferryman. At that moment Fred heard a thin unmusical sound, like that of a string drawn flat:
‘Friends, I’ve lost my own true lover,
Tra la la la la la la.’
Through a clump of noble trees a little maid approached, not more beautiful to the eye than was her flat, tuneless voice to the ear. She assented without any eagerness to row him across the lake, and had nothing more interesting to communicate than that Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy was very fond of Fort Mary.
‘Decidedly I must see this fellow if I have to wait a month,’ thought Fred, with a pardonable feeling of irritation.
On his way back, he hailed his friend among the flowers and bees, and stood leaning over the gate to acquaint him with his intention to start at once upon exploration of the neighbourhood. The Flemish priest stood in the blaze of sunshine, and mopped his forehead repeatedly before urging him to wait another day, when he would be able to offer the advantage of his own trap and himself as guide.
‘I can’t go to-day,’ he said, with an air of importance. ‘Her ladyship has appointed this afternoon to come and consult with me about the schools.’
It was evident to Mr. Luffington, as he went off in search of lunch, that after Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy, the Countess of Harborough was the figure of importance. The defection of his friend and the absence of romance among the villagers turned him to misanthropy, and as, late in the afternoon, fatigued after a long walk through the woods, he entered the inn porch, he told himself emphatically that he would leave Fendon on his way to the cathedral, and thence return to London.
He found the inn in a state of unwonted flurry, which was explained to him by a telegram announcing the arrival of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy upon the last train.
‘And I’ve the great man’s room,’ said Fred to himself, laughing, as he set out for the priest’s cottage.