[CHAPTER XX
THE PEDLAR’S STONE]
THE Vicarage at Crishowell looked duller than ever, Isoline thought, as she and Mr. Lewis came round the corner of the church and faced its homely front. Howlie was at the door grinning affably, in her eyes a horrible travesty of the soft-mannered footman who had presided over their departure at the other end of their drive. A duck was quacking by the pond, and she would have liked to throw stones at the creature for the odious familiarity of its greeting, had she only known how to do so. She knew herself to be built for refinement, and, after two days of a ladyship’s society, it could hardly be expected of her to slip glibly into lower surroundings. Her face grew haughty as she perceived Howlie.
The visit to Waterchurch had, perhaps, lacked something of the grandeur expected, and the discrepancy between her anticipations of Lady Harriet and the real woman were a little upsetting; but there had been compensations, for she suspected herself of having, in some ways, impressed her hostess. A woman who went out in a homespun skirt and thick boots could not fail to notice the difference between herself and a young lady who wore beflounced dresses and kid shoes even in the country.
She had now no doubt of Harry’s feelings; he was deeply in love with her, and she looked to his coming visit as to a red-letter day. He would arrive next week “on his own business,” as he had said, and his business would be hers too. She was quite shrewd enough to foresee opposition on the part of his family, but the game was worth the candle, and would be hers in the end. It was stimulating to think of a victory over Lady Harriet.
Howlie and the maid-servant carried her box to her room, the former puffing loudly as he went up the staircase supporting the hinder end of the load.
“Unlock it,” said Isoline, as it was set down in its place, tossing him her keys with the air of a duchess.
He looked as impudently at her as he dared, and picking up the bunch, proceeded to make as much noise as he possibly could over the operation.
“How dreadfully clumsy you are, Howell,” she exclaimed, annoyed, very naturally, by the superfluous rattling that was going on.
He only sniffed, a habit he had when he found reply unnecessary.