Martin doffed his straw hat readily, and would have passed, but the vicar hailed him.
“Martin, is it correct that you were in the stableyard of the ‘Black Lion’ last night and saw something of this sad affair of Mr. Pickering’s?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir.”
Martin blushed. The girl’s blue eyes were fixed on his with the innocent curiosity of a fawn. She knew him well by sight, but they had never exchanged a word. He found himself wondering what her voice was like. Would she chatter with the excited volubility of Angèle? Being better educated than he, would she pour forth a jargon of foreign words and slang? Angèle was quiet as a mouse under her mother’s eye. Was Elsie aping this demure demeanor because her father was present? Certainly, she looked a very different girl. Every curve of her pretty face, each line in her graceful contour, suggested modesty and nice manners. Why, he couldn’t tell, but he knew instinctively that Elsie Herbert would have drawn back horrified from the mad romp overnight, and he was humbled in spirit before her.
The worthy vicar never dreamed that the farmer’s sturdy son was capable of deep emotion. He interpreted Martin’s quick coloring to knowledge of a discreditable episode. He said to the girl:
“I’ll follow you home in a few minutes, my dear.”
Martin thought that an expression of disappointment swept across the clear eyes, but Elsie quitted them instantly. The boy had endured too much to be thus humiliated before one of his own age.
“I would have said nothing to offend the young lady,” he cried hotly.
Very much taken aback, Mr. Herbert’s eyebrows arched themselves above his spectacles.