Before me every moment that I now lived arose that pale, beautiful face—that exquisite countenance with the wonderful eyes—that face which had held me in fascination, that woman who, indeed, held me now for life or death.
In those ten days which had passed, the first days of my home-coming after my long absence, I knew, by the blankness of our separation—though I would not admit it to myself—that she was my affinity. I was hers. She, the elegant little wanderer, possessed me, body and soul. I felt for her a strong affection, and affection is the half-and-half of love.
Why had her friend, that thin-faced country clergyman, called? Evidently he was endeavouring to satisfy himself as to my bona fides. And yet, for what reason? What had I to do with him? She had told me that she owed very much to that man. Why, however, should he interest himself in me?
I took down a big black volume from the shelf—Crockford’s Clerical Directory—and from it learned that Edmund Charles Talbot Shuttleworth, M.A., was rector of the parish of Middleton-cum-Bowbridge, near Andover, in the Bishopric of Winchester. He had held his living for the past eight years, and its value was £550 per annum. He had had a distinguished career at Cambridge, and had been curate in half-a-dozen places in various parts of the country.
I felt half inclined to run down to Middleton and call upon him. I could make some excuse or other, for I felt that he might, perhaps, give me some further information regarding the mysterious Pennington and his daughter.
Yet, on further reflection, I hesitated, for I saw that by acting thus I might incur Sylvia’s displeasure.
During the three following days I remained much puzzled. I deeply regretted that Browning had treated the country parson abruptly, and wondered whether I could not make excuse to call by pretending to express regret for the rudeness of my servant.
I was all eagerness to know something concerning this man Pennington, and was prepared even to sink my own pride in order to learn it.