But time went on unheeding, and Gwen and Dacre were lying under an old cherry-tree in the orchard one day late in August.
The sun shone aslant through the crimson-tinted leaves above them, and threw flickering rosy shadows across the faces of the two as they lay there in the cool grass, with wisps of fern under their heads for pillows.
Dacre, however, seemed to benefit but little from this arrangement; his head was oftener off its support than on; he twisted and turned and wriggled and plunged, even his toes moved visibly through his thick boots.
He was supposed to be reading, and kept up the pretence from time to time, but the words conveyed no sense to his restless eyes, that moved as if they were on wires. Now and again he got irritated and threw the book down with a snort.
The sister and brother spent much of their time together nowadays; fate had perhaps quite as much to do with this close companionship as inclination, the groom’s boy and his like, except at stolen moments, being for Dacre things of the past.
This and various other reforms had been brought about by Mr. Fellowes and one tutor of an exceptionally strong mind.
While Dacre wriggled, his sister lay quite still on her back with her legs stretched out, and with a considerable reach of stocking visible between the edge of her frock and her shoes. She had one arm curled round her neck with the sharp elbow stuck out uncompromisingly in Dacre’s direction. It was useful as a buffer and saved her many a lunge. The other hand held a book, a queer old edition of Elia, which she was deeply sunk in until she fell to watching Dacre with a look of curious mockery on her red curled lips.
“I’d give my eyes to go to school!” burst out the boy after an interval of comparative silence. Mutterings never counted in Dacre.
“So you have said six times this afternoon, not to mention the mutters,” said the girl, “what do you want to go to school for?”
“You know without any telling.”