A faint color stole into the elder girl’s face, and, seeming suddenly to recollect what she wanted, she turned and began to search in the drawer behind her. She knew quite well that what Daintry said was true—that she had not been out for four days. Jack had delivered the rector’s message to her, and she had listened with downcast eyes and a grave composure—a composure so perfect that even the messenger who held the clue in his hand was almost deceived by it. All the same, it had made her very happy. The young rector appreciated at last the motive which had led her to give him that strange warning. He was grateful to her, and anxious to make her understand his gratitude. And while she dwelt on this with pleasure, she foresaw with a strange mingling of joy and fear, of anticipation and shrinking, that the first time she met him abroad he would strive to make it still more clear to her.
So for four days, lest she should seem even to herself to be precipitating the meeting, she had refrained from going out. Now, when Daintry remarked upon the change in her habits, she blushed at the thought that she might all the time have been exaggerating a trifle; and, though she did not go out at once, in the course of the afternoon she did issue forth, and called upon old Peggy. Coming back she had to pass through the churchyard, and there, on the very spot where she had once forced herself to address him, she met the rector.
She saw him while he was still some way off, and before he saw her, and she looked eagerly for any trace of the trouble of the last few days. It had not changed him, at any rate. It had rather accentuated him, she thought. He looked more boyish, more impetuous, more independent than ever, as he came swinging along, his blond head thrown back, his eyes roving this way and that, his long skirts flapping behind him. Of defeat or humiliation he betrayed not a trace; and the girl wondered, seeing him so calm and strong, if he had really sent her that message—which seemed to have come from a man hard pressed.
A glance told her all this; and then he saw her, and, a flash of recognition sweeping across his face, quickened his steps to meet her. He seemed to be shaking hands with her before he had well considered what he would say, for when he had gone through that ceremony, and said “Good morning.” he stood awkwardly silent. Then he said hurriedly, “I have been waiting for some time to speak to you, Miss Bonamy.”
“Indeed?” she said calmly. She wondered at her own self-control.
“Yes,” he answered, his color rising. “And I could not have met you in a better place.”
“Why?” she asked. As if she did not know! The simplest woman is an actress by nature.
“Because,” he answered, “it is well that I should do penance where I sinned, Miss Bonamy,” he continued impetuously, yet in a low voice, and with his eyes on the ground. “I owe you a deep apology for my rude thanklessness when I met you here last. You were right and I was wrong; but if it had been the other way, still I ought not to have behaved to you as I did. I thought—that is—I——”
He faltered and stopped. He meant that he had thought that she was playing into her father’s hands, but he could hardly tell her that. She understood, however, or guessed, and for the first time she blushed. “Pray, do not say any more about it,” she said hurriedly.
“I did send you a message,” he answered.