"How do you do, Mr. Walden!"
He looked up—and looking, smiled. What a child she was after all!— full of quaint vanities surely, and naive coquetry! For her riding- dress was the exact copy of that worn by her pictured ancestress "Mary Elia,'—even to the three-cornered hat and the tiny rose fastened in the bodice which was turned back with embroidered gold revers,—so that the 'lady in the vi'let velvet' appeared before him as it were, re-incarnated,—and the pouting lips, sweet eyes and radiant hair were all part of the witch-glamour and mystery! Mastering his thoughts with an effort, he raised his hat in his usual quietly courteous way.
"This is a great surprise, Miss Vancourt!" he said, lightly, though his voice trembled a little—"And a happy one! The villagers will be delighted to see you back again! When did you return?"
"Last night,"—she answered, fixing her frank gaze fully upon him and noting with a sharp little pang of compunction that he looked far from well—"I felt I MUST be here for the first meet of the season! I've been staying in an old convent on the Breton coast,— such a dear quaint place! And I think,"—here she nodded her pretty head wisely—"I THINK I've brought you enough stained glass to quite finish your rose-window! I've been busy collecting it ever since I left here. Gently, Cleo!—gently, my beauty!"—this, as her mare pawed the ground restlessly and sprang forward—"Come and see me to- morrow, Mr. Walden! I shall expect you!"
Waving her gloved hand she cantered off and rejoined the rest of the hunters going on ahead. Once she turned in her saddle and looked back,—and again waved her hand. The sun came out fully then, and sweeping aside the grey mists, ehed all its brightness on the graceful figure in the saddle, striking a reflex of rose from the soft violet riding-dress, and sparkling against the rippling twists of gold-brown, hair,—then,—as she disappeared between two rows of leafless trees,—withdrew itself again frowningly and shone no more that day.
Walden re-entered his house, hardly able to sustain the sudden joy that filled him. He felt himself trembling nervously, and was angry at his own weakness.
"I am more foolish than any love-sick boy!" he said to himself with inward remonstrance—"And God knows I am old enough to know better! But I cannot help being glad she has come home!—I cannot help it! For with her presence it seems to me that 'the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, and the time of the singing of birds is come'! She is so full of life and brightness!-we shall know nothing of dull days or gloomy skies in St. Rest if she stays with us,—though perhaps for me it might be wiser and safer to choose the dull days and gloomy skies rather than tempt my soul with the magical light of an embodied spring in winter-time! But I shall be careful,—careful of myself and of her,- -I shall guard her name in every way, on my side—and if—if I love her, she shall never know it!"
He resumed his former seat by the study fire, and again took up his volume of Tennyson. And opening the book at hazard, his glance fell on that exquisite 'Fragment' which perhaps excels in its own way all the 'Idylls of the King'—
"As she fled fast thro' sun and shade,
The happy winds upon her play'd,
Blowing the ringlet from the braid:
She look'd so lovely as she sway'd
The rein with dainty finger-tips.
A man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this,
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips."
"Quite true!" he said, as he read the lines half aloud, a tender smile lighting up the gravity of his deep thoughtful eyes—"True to the life, so far as the Guinevere of to-day is concerned! But let the simile stop there, John, my boy! Don't carry it any further! Don't deceive yourself as to your own demerits! You are nothing but an old-fashioned country parson—a regular humdrum, middle-aged fogey!—that's what you are!—so, even though you HAVE fallen in love (which at your time of life is a folly you ought to be ashamed of), don't for Heaven's sake imagine yourself a Lancelot, John!—it won't do!"