Tony Strife reached Shovelstrode in a state of reckless and sublime uncertainty. She was quite uncertain as to whether she meant to confess or not. Precedent urged her to do so. Whenever she did something of which she was not sure her parents would approve, it was part of her code to confess it. Quite possibly her people would not blame her, they might even be grateful to Mr. Smith, as they had been on a former occasion. On the other hand, they might shake their heads at the picnic part of the business. Who was Mr. Smith, that he should go picnicing with their daughter?—and she would not be so confident in answering as she had been before.
During their short interview on East Grinstead platform it had not been possible to take more than a superficial view of him, either with eyes or mind; but the close contemplation at Brambletye had impressed her with the conviction that he was "rather queer." He evidently did not belong to their set; not because he was poor—they knew several people who were poor—but because of a certain alien quality she could not define. It was not, either, because he was not a "gentleman," though she had her occasional doubts of that, alternating with savage contempt for them. It was because his manner, his look, his behaviour, had all been utterly different from what she was used[Pg 98] to, or had met at Shovelstrode. She felt that if her parents were to question her searchingly, her answers would be unsatisfactory, and she would not be allowed to meet him again, as he had suggested. And she wanted to meet him again; he had interested her, he had attracted her by that very "queerness" with which he had occasionally repelled her. She wanted to tell him more about her school, to have more of his strange confidences, hear more from him about Furlonger, see again that hunted look in his eyes. Only one of her memories of him was tender—that was when his infinite suffering had called to her out of his eyes, and she had answered it in a sudden new and divine surge of pain. She caught her breath sharply as she went into the house.
Yes—she had decided at last—she would keep her secret—her first of any importance. She would not risk interference with what looked like a glowing adventure kindled to brighten her exile. Besides, there was another consideration. If Awdrey were to hear of it, she would at once begin to weave one of her silly romances—make out Mr. Smith was in love. Ugh! Tony\'s shoulders shrugged high in disdain.
It would be quite easy to give an account of her afternoon which did not include her adventure. She would tell how her tyre had punctured, how she had tried in vain to mend it, and had at last come home on foot. Her concealment did not afflict her, as she had at first imagined. On the contrary, it gave her a strange, new feeling of importance and independence. For the first time[Pg 99] a certain warmth and colour crept into her thoughts, a certain pride invaded the shy dignity of her step.
That night she dreamed that she had gone to meet Mr. Smith at Brambletye. She saw the two capped turrets against a background of shimmering light. Mr. Smith took her hand and looked into her eyes in that strange, troubled way which called up as before an answering pain. He said something she could not remember when she woke. Then suddenly a dark shape seemed to rush between them and whirl them apart. She cried out, and Mr. Smith seemed to be answering her from a great distance: "Don\'t be frightened—it\'s only Furlonger—it\'s only Furlonger." But the fear grew upon her, the darkness wrapt her round, and, struggling in the darkness, she awoke.
All that day she wondered if she would meet him. She prowled round Shovelstrode with her dog, ignoring an invitation from Awdrey to "come for a stroll, and hear the latest about Captain le Bourbourg." She was used to being alone during her holidays. It was her habit to walk with Prince in the little twisting lanes round her home. She never went far, but she used to spend long hours in the fields, gathering wild flowers and leaves for her collection, or making Prince go racing in the grass. A rather forlorn little figure, she had gone through the days unconscious of her forlornness. But to-day she felt it—because she was expecting some one who did not come. She did not meet him in any of those thick-rutted lanes, nor in Swites[Pg 100] Wood, nor on the borders of Holtye Common where she went for blackberries.
She began to wonder if he would ever come, or if her glimpse of a world beyond the strait boundaries of her life had been but a flash—a sudden haze of gold in the ruins of Brambletye. She felt her loneliness, the blank of having no one to speak to about school, the strange tickling interest of confidences outside her experience. That night as she knelt by the bed and watched the moon behind the pines, she added to her prayers a stiff petition that she might "meet Mr. Smith again."
Tony\'s belief in prayer was quite mechanical, and when the next day she saw her shabby friend on a stile at the top of Wilderwick hill, she in no wise connected the sight with those few uncomfortable moments on her knees.
"Good morning," she said simply; "I\'m so glad to see you."
Nigel smiled at her. At first she had wondered a little whether she liked his smile—to-day she definitely decided that she did.
"I hoped we\'d meet again," he said.
"So did I," answered the virginal candour of sixteen.
"You don\'t think me queer, then?"
"Ye-es. But I like it."
"Could we be friends?"
"Yes—rather!"
He held out his hand. He was smiling—but suddenly as her hand took his, she saw the old wretched look creep into his eyes, together with something else that puzzled her. Were those[Pg 101] tears? Did men ever cry? She found herself feeling frightened and vexed.
Nigel crimsoned with shame, and the fire of his anger licked up the tears of his weakness. The next moment he was looking at her with dry eyes—and, strange to say, from that day his childish fits of weeping troubled him less.
He and Tony turned almost mechanically down the narrow grass lane leading past Old Surrey Hall to the woods of Cowsanish. They did not speak much at first—indeed, a kind of restraint seemed established between them. Nigel wondered more than ever what had made him seek her out—this na?ve, shy, rather limited little girl. All yesterday he had been struggling with a desperate need of her. He could not understand why he wanted her so; she was not nearly as sympathetic as Len and Janey, she was not so interesting, even, and yet he wanted her.
At first he had thought it was her ignorance of his past life which made her presence such refreshment—the blessed fact that with her he had a clean slate to write over. After all, though Len and Janey had forgiven, they could not forget—for them his muddled sum was only crossed out, not wiped clean. With Tony he could start afresh from the beginning, not merely where his miserable blunder ended. And yet this was not all that drew him to her. He felt deep down in his heart a subtler, more compelling attraction. What brought him to Tony was a development of the same feeling that had made him catch up the unlovely Ivy in his arms and find her sweet. It was[Pg 102] a fragment of that strange, new part of him, which had been born in prison, and frightened Len and Janey—the child.
He could not remember that before his dark years he had felt particularly young for his age, or cared for young society; but now his heart seemed full of irrepressible torrents of youth. He wanted to be with boys and girls, to hear their shouts, to share their laughter, to join in their games—not as a "grown-up," but as one of themselves. Why did every one expect him to have grown old in prison? Sorrow does not always make old, it often makes young. It sends a man back pleading to the forgotten days of his youth, struggling to recapture them once more, and bring their carelessness into his awful care.
To-day he lost his troubles in finding grasses and leaves for Tony\'s collection. After a time her constraint wore off. She chattered to him about school friends, lessons and games, daring adventures and desperate scrapes. That day he found such a mood more sweet to him than any glimpse of pity or understanding she could have ............