It seemed most sad that he should be ruined because no one would say a word to warn him. Brooding over the fire, she felt a girl’s pity for the young man’s ill-fortune. She forgot the last month, during which she had spoken to him but once—and then he had seemed embarrassed and anxious to be gone—and remembered only how frank and gay he had been in the first blush of his hopes at Oxford, how pleasantly he had smiled, how well and yet how quaintly his new dignity had sat upon him, and how naïvely he had shaken it off at times and shown himself a boy, with a boy’s love of fun and mischief. Or, again, she remembered how thoughtful he had been for them, how considerate, how much at home in scenes new to them, with how lordly an air he had provided for their comfort. Oh, it was a pity—a grievous pity, that his hopes should end in such a disaster as Mr. Bonamy foretold! And all because no one would say a friendly word to him!
The next day (Tuesday) was a wet day—a sleety, blusterous winter day, and she did not go out. But on the Wednesday, as the rector crossed the churchyard after reading the Litany, he saw Miss Bonamy passing his door. He fancied, with a little astonishment—for she had constantly evinced the same avoidance of intimacy with him which had at first piqued him—that she slightly checked her pace so as to meet him. And, to tell the truth, the rector was half pleased and half annoyed. He had hardened his heart and set his face to crush Mr. Bonamy.
He had in his pocket a letter from the lawyer, warning him that, unless he altered his course, a writ would be served upon him. And a dozen times to-day he had in his mind called the church warden hard names. But yet he was not absolutely ill-pleased to see Miss Bonamy. He felt a certain excitement in the rencontre under the circumstances. He would meet her magnanimously, and of course she would ignore the quarrel. He hated Mr. Bonamy for a puritanical old pettifogger; but that was no reason why he should be rude to his daughter.
Lindo saw, when he was a few paces from her and had raised his hat, that her face expressed much more emotion, if not embarrassment, than seemed to be called for by the occasion. And naturally this communicated itself to him. “I have not seen you for a long time,” he said, as he shook hands. Perhaps the worst thing he could have said under the circumstances.
She assented, however. “No,” she said, sloping her umbrella behind her so as to keep off the wind and a half-frozen drizzle with which it was laden. And, as she did this, her eyes met his gallantly. “But I am glad, Mr. Lindo,” she continued, “that I have met you to-day, because I have something I want to say to you.”
On the instant he vowed within himself that it would be in bad taste, in the worst taste, if she referred to the quarrel or to parish matters. And he answered very frigidly. “What is that, Miss Bonamy?” he said. “Pray speak on.”
She detected the change of tone, and for a second her gray eyes flashed. But she had come to say something. She had counted the cost, and nothing he could do should prevent her saying it. She had been awake all night, torturing herself with imagining the things he would think of her. But she was not to be deterred by the reality. “Do you know, Mr. Lindo,” she said steadily, “what is being said of you in the town?”
“A good many hard things.” he answered half lightly and half bitterly. “So I have reason to believe. But I do not think that they will affect me one way or the other, Miss Bonamy.”
“And so,” she answered, with spirit, “you will not thank any one for telling you of them? That is what you mean, is it not?”
He was very sore, and her interference annoyed him excessively—possibly because he valued her good opinion. He would not deny the feeling she imputed to him. “Possibly I do mean something of that kind,” he said. “Where ignorance is bliss—you know.”