Half forgotten for so many years, but familiar enough in my boyhood,—when my father read a psalm aloud every morning before breakfast, and his wrath fell on any member of the household who was absent from “the reading,”—the old words recurred to me with a new significance in the long hours when I lay brooding over the mystery and peril which encompassed the girl I loved. They brought strength and assurance to my soul; they saved me from madness during that long period of forced inaction that followed my collapse at the police court.
Mary, and Jim, too,—every one about me, in fact,—despaired of my life for many days, and now that I was again convalescent and they brought me down to the Cornish cottage, my strength returned very slowly; but all the more surely since I was determined, as soon as possible, to go in search of Anne, and I knew I could not undertake that quest with any hope of success unless I was physically fit.
I had not divulged my intention to any one, nor did I mean to do so if I could avoid it; certainly I would not allow Mary even to suspect my purpose. At present I could make no plans, except that of course I should have to return to Russia under an assumed name; and as a further precaution I took advantage of my illness to grow a beard and mustache. They had already got beyond the “stubby” and disreputable stage, and changed my appearance marvellously.
Mary objected strenuously to the innovation, and declared it made me “look like a middle-aged foreigner,” which was precisely the effect I hoped for; though, naturally, I didn’t let her know that.
Under any other circumstances I would have thoroughly enjoyed my stay with her and Jim at the cottage, a quaint, old-fashioned place, with a beautiful garden, sloping down to the edge of the cliffs, where I was content to sit for hours, watching the sea—calm and sapphire blue in these August days—and striving to possess my soul in patience. In a way I did enjoy the peace and quietude, the pure, delicious air; for they were means to the ends I had in view,—my speedy recovery, and the beginning of the quest which I must start as soon as possible.
We were sitting in the garden now,—Mary and I alone for once, for Jim was off to the golf links.
I had known, all along, of course, that she was fretting about Anne; but I had managed, hitherto, to avoid any discussion of her silence, which, though more mysterious to Mary than to me, was not less distressing. And I hoped fervently that she wouldn’t resume the subject.
She didn’t, for, to my immense relief, as I sat staring at the fuchsia hedge that screened the approach to the house, I saw a black clerical hat bobbing along, and got a glimpse of a red face.
“There’s a parson coming here,” I remarked inanely, and Mary started up, mopping her eyes with her ridiculous little handkerchief.
“Goodness! It must be the vicar coming to call,—I heard he was back,—and I’m such a fright! Talk to him, Maurice, and say I’ll be down directly.”