“Yes, certainly I will; and I hope that to-morrow you will be so much better. Good-bye.”
She shook hands with him, and tripped away.
For a time Walter made no attempt to move, but gazed after her with eyes full of sadness and despair. Although he said to himself that henceforth Edith must be nothing to him, he felt pained at the curtness with which she could dismiss him. He had noticed that she had never once attempted to persuade him to alter his decision; indeed, she had not been able to hide from him her delight at hearing it, and he felt very bitter.
He turned from the church, walked away, and, after strolling about for some time he knew not whither, he raised his head and found himself quite close to the schoolmistress’s cottage. Dora stood in the doorway, surrounded by her flowers.
She came forward when she saw him, and, after giving him a bright smile and a warm handshake, stood by the gate and continued to talk. She was a wise little woman, and knew exactly what to say and what to leave unsaid; she had been a witness of the interview between the cousins in the churchyard that morning, and her woman’s instinct had divined something of the true state of things. So she chatted pleasantly to the young man, and took no notice whatever of his pale cheek and peculiarity of manner; and when he said suddenly, “Are you not going to ask me in to-day, Miss Greatheart?” she threw open the gate at once, and said that she was sadly neglectful and inhospitable, and that if Mr. Hetherington would like to come in, he would be more than welcome. So he followed her again into the quaint little parlour, and again took his seat by the open window, to gaze with strange, meditative eyes upon the little garden where the sun was shining. It was a ragged little garden enough, and by no means well cared for, since Dora was not rich enough to pay for labour, like her more fortunate neighbours in the village.
During her leisure hours she worked among the flower-beds until her plump hands ached again; but, after all, her leisure hours were very few, and the grass and weeds grew so quickly. Walter saw that the grass was many inches too long, and that it was scattered thickly with withered rose-leaves; that here and there a rose tree was sadly in want of the pruning knife. But that did not make the scent of the flowers any the less delicious; nor did it take from the quiet beauty of their place. There was plenty of light and colour everywhere, and there was beauty.
While looking at the garden, Walter began to think of the gardens mistress—quiet little Dora, living so contented among her children; and in the winter still living here alone, when the flowers had faded, when withered rose-leaves were scattered profusely on the grass, and the leafless branches of the trees bent before the biting breath of the bitter winter wind. It was a pretty picture of Dora—he loved it as we love the creatures of our imagination; it seemed to make Dora belong to him, artistically, as it were, and bring him consolation. Then his reflections took another turn, and he began, for the first time, to think it strange that the little woman should be so much alone.
He said something of this to Dora; and she laughed and blushed, and answered frankly enough.
“Yes, I am a good deal alone. You see, I am in an equivocal position. I am too good for the servants, and not good enough for their mistresses. I am only the governess!”
“At any rate,” said Walter, “you have contrived to brighten up what would otherwise have been a very cheerless visit. As a token of my gratitude, will you accept a little present from me?”