She strolled out of the drawing room and Mark could see her passing up the long stairs. She moved splendidly against the white panels. One wrist caressed the rail. The black gown dragged gently up the rosy treads. She vanished slowly into the dark and Mark said, “Golly,” as he went to get his hat. He wandered over to the bar of the Black Swan and drank cold ale while he meditated.
He mustn’t fall in love. Eddie Bernamer and Joe disapproved of affairs with married women. They were right, of course. And nothing must interfere with his tutelage. And Ilden was at sea. But this was vexatious! He wished she did not stroll so lazily up stairs, across gardens. He wished that her hair wasn’t black.—He found himself blushing at breakfast when she came in with a yellow garden hat on the black of her hair. Now that he’d begun to think of it she looked rather like Cora Boyle.
He thought of Cora Boyle again in the garden after luncheon. The children had left a green rubber ball on the turf. Mark rolled it about with one sole and watched Olive trim a patch of dull blue flowers. His place and the ball underfoot recalled something cloudy. He worked to evolve a real memory and laughed. Olive quickly glanced up.
“You keep asking about my wife. She was boardin’ with us at the farm. First time she ever spoke to me I was kicking a ball around, in the garden. This way. I was barefoot. Cora said, ‘Ain’t you too old to go barefooted?’ I forget what I said.”
“But with the ball that day you played no more?”
“That sounds like a piece of a play,” said Mark.
“It’s from a comedy,” Olive snapped, “Do get your hat and take a walk. I’ll be busy for an hour. Look at the Deanery garden. The Dean’s gone to Scotland.”
“Got to write a letter first. Boat from Liverpool tomorrow.”
He mailed a letter to Joe’s wife, born Margaret Healy, tramped down to the Close and examined the Dean’s garden. It would make a neat setting, the mass of the Cathedral to the left, the foliate house to the right. A maid in black and white passed over the grass and reminded him of Joe’s wife again by a certain dragging gait. He went into the cathedral and studied the Wykeham tomb from all angles. Some tourists hummed in the nave; a guide in a frock coat ambled after them descanting thinly of dead kings. Mark fell into a genial peace, leaned on a column, smiling at the far roof. The feet of the tourists made a small melody among the tombs and this seemed to increase. He heard a rapid breath and saw Olive with his coat over her arm. She panted, “I’ve packed your things. They’re in the cab. At the gates. Hurry. You’ve hardly time to get to the station. Do hurry! I’ll telegraph to Liverpool and ask them to hold a cabin—stateroom—whatever they call them.—Oh, do hurry!”
“What’s happened?”