“Only a hedgehog—a ‘hodgeon,’ as they call them here. Poor thing: it trusted you, you see, and uncurled itself!”
“The darling; I must take it home.”
“I would,” he said dryly, and looked at his watch. “Four o’clock! I must go to my afternoon subject.”
Trembling with apprehension, she watched him as he took the sketching bag, and rammed his sketching things into it. He then summoned Billy to take down the umbrella and follow with it, and shouldering the bag himself, raised his cap civilly, bade her good morning, and was gone.
She sat there stupidly staring at the little yellow patch of trodden grass where his feet had rested, and his camp had been set.
She was alone in the world again, a runaway wife, with all the problem of her life before her!
The obvious course was to get up and go; but where? To London? What did she care for London now? And anyhow, it was far too late to go on there that night!
The smoke was rising from the chimneys of the cottage up there on the brow, whence Billy Gale had brought the milk. Was the artist staying there? She cast her eyes vaguely round her as if to ask the mild heavens for help, and saw the boy in the distance, sitting kicking his heels about on a dry rock, in mid-stream, not far from his master, presumably!
Then she rose, having conceived a reckless plan of action which she felt the necessity of putting into execution at once; for if she were to allow herself to think it over, she would never be able to bring herself to do it at all. She beckoned to Billy Gale, and asked him to be so good as to direct her to Mr. Rivers’ “afternoon subject” as she had heard him call it.
The lad stared, but obediently led her to a place about a quarter of a mile further down the river, opposite a ruined church, and a church garth full of antique, wooden headstones, smothered in burdock leaves; a scene of beautiful desolation.