And she turned and left the two men together.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
It was a wet evening in June, and a steady downrush of rain purred on the tiled roofs of the old town and set the broad eaves and high-peaked gables dripping. A summer sweetness breathed in the gardens where the fallen petals of rhododendrons lay like flame upon the green grass. The roses were weighed down with dew, and each leaf diamonded with a glimmering tear. In Lombard Street the tall cypresses stood like solemn monks cowled and coped against the rain.
The downpour had lessened a little, and Jack Murchison, flattening his nose against the nursery window, saw a country cart driven by a man in a white mackintosh swing into Lombard Street from the silver, rain-drenched sheen of St. Antonia’s trees. The man’s big white body streamed with wet, his face shining out like a drenched peony under the brim of his hat, that dripped like the flooded gutter of a house. Tremulous rain-drops fell rhythmically from the big man’s nose, and the apron that covered his legs was full of puddles.
The country cart drew up outside the doctor’s house, and Master Jack saw the big man in the white mackintosh climb out laboriously, the cart tilting under his weight. He threw the leather apron over the horse’s loins, and swung the water out of his hat, disclosing to the boy above a round bald patch about the size of a saucer.
The bell rang, a good, rattling, honest peal that told of a straightforward and unaffected fist. Jack heard Mary’s rather nasal treble answering the big man’s vigorous bass. The white mackintosh was doffed and hung considerately on the handle of the bell. There was much wiping of boots, while the man Gage appeared at the side gate in the garden wall, and came forward to hold the farmer’s horse.
“Sorry to bother you, doctor, on such a beast of an evening.”
“Come in, Mr. Carrington.”
“You remember me, sir?”
“I don’t forget many faces. Come into my study.”