But either he did not have a vacant day, or, what Patty’s judgment quite approved, he did not mean to make himself cheap. And Patty fell into a worse depth of solitude than ever, notwithstanding the presence of Aunt Patience, to whom she had said in the rashness of her passion that she should henceforth stay always at Greyshott, but whom now she felt to be an additional burden when perpetually by her side. There had been a little quarrel between them after luncheon one day in July, for they were both irritable by reason of that unbroken tête-à-tête, and of the fact that they had said ten or twelve times over everything they had to say; and Miss Hewitt had flounced off upstairs to her room, where, after her passion blew off, she had lain down on the sofa to take a nap, leaving Patty to unmitigated solitude. It was raining, and that made it more dreary than ever: rain in July, quiet, persistent, downpouring; bursting the flowers to pieces; scattering the leaves of the last roses on the ground; and injuring even those sturdy uninteresting geraniums which are the gardener’s stand-by—is the dreariest of all rains. It is out of season, even when it is wanted for the country, as there is always some philosopher to tell us; and it is pitiless, pattering upon the trees, soaking the grass, spreading about us a remorseless curtain of grey. Patty, all alone, walked from window to window and saw nothing but the trees under the rain, and a little yellow river pouring across the path. She sat down and took up the work with which Aunt Patience solaced the weary hours. It was the old-fashioned Berlin woolwork, which only old ladies do nowadays. She contrived to put it all wrong, and then she threw it down and went to the window again. And then she was aware of a figure coming up the avenue, a figure clothed in a glistening white mackintosh and under an umbrella. She could not see who it was, but something in the walk struck her as familiar. It looked like a gentleman, she said to herself; though to be sure, in these days of equality, it might be only the draper’s young man with patterns, or the lawyer’s clerk. Patty felt that she would have been glad to see even the lawyer’s clerk.
But when it was Roger Pearson that came into the room, what a difference that made at once! It was almost as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds for a moment, although he was not a gentleman, but only a professional cricketer. He was not dressed this time in his flannels, which suited him best, but in a grey suit, which, however, was very presentable. Patty felt that if the first lady in the county was to choose this particular wet day to call, which was not likely, she would not need to blush for her visitor. And she was unfeignedly glad to see him in the desolation of her solitude. She could tell from the manner in which he looked at her that he was admiring her, and he could tell that she was admiring him, and what could two young people require more of each other? Roger told her quite frankly a great deal about himself. He acknowledged that he had been “a bit idle” in his earlier days, and liked play better than work; but that had all come in very useful, for such play was now his work, and he had a very pleasant life, going all over the country to cricket matches, and seeing everything that was going. “And all among the swells, too,” he said, “which would please you.”
“Indeed, you’re mistaken altogether,” said Patty. “Swells! I loathe the very name of them. Since I’ve lived among ’em I know what they are; and a poorer, more cold, stuck-up, self-seeking set——”
“I don’t make no such objections,” said Roger, who, it has been said, took no trouble to use the language of gentlemen. “They’re good fellows enough. I don’t want no more of them than they’re willing to give me—so we gets on first rate.”
“They try to crush your spirit,” cried Patty, flaming, “and then, perhaps, when they’ve got you well under their fist, they’ll condescend to take a little notice. But none of that sort of thing for me!”
“Well!” said Roger, looking round him, “this is a fine sort of a place, with all these mirrors and gilt things; but I should have said you would have been more comfortable with a smaller house, and things more in our own way, like what we’ve been used to, both you and me.”
“I have been used to this for a long time now,” said Patty, with spirit, “and it’s my own house.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, “and it ain’t for me to say anything, for I’m not a swell like these as you have such a high opinion of.”
“I have no high opinion of them. I hate them!” cried Patty, with set teeth.
“Well, I’ve often thought,” said Roger, “though I know I’ve no right to—but just in fancy don’t you know—as Patty Hewitt of the Seven Thorns would have been a happier woman in the nice little ’ouse as I could give her now, and never harming nobody, than a grand lady like Mrs. Piercey, with so much trouble as you have had, and no real friends.”