Saturday’s wonders, Sunday thrills—with her declared lover monumentally in the Rectory pew and his relatives all unconscious that they were soon to be hers (hers, Mary Middleham’s: O altitudo!)—did not release her, in her own mind, from the promise of Sunday afternoon. Not only had she promised, not only had she something to tell him, a solid base for her feet from which to regard him, and a sanctuary in which to hide, from which to emerge at will, ready for any encounter; not only so, but she must put herself right with him. He had seen her, must have seen her, in a delicate situation—nothing to him, of course, but somehow everything to her. She could not, she said, afford that he should deem her a girl of the sort—to be kissed in a doorway by anybody, gentleman or no gentleman. There were reasons—special reasons for it; and since, as the fact was, these reasons did not now seem as cogent as they had yesterday, there was nothing for it but to cry them over and over to herself. “Engaged to be married—engaged to be married—to Mr. Germain—to Mr. Germain of Southover House. And he loves me dearly—and I love him.” So she pedalled and sang. Racing with her thoughts, the bicycle took her to the common of Mere that blazing Sunday afternoon. His eyes looked up from their work, twinkled and laughed at her. “So it’s you, then! I thought you wouldn’t come.” He was mending the sole of a shoe, and resumed his cheerful tap-tapping directly he had greeted her.
She stood leaning on her bicycle, watching his work. Her new estate sat in full possession of her eyes.
“Yes, I’ve come. I couldn’t come earlier.”
He paused, hammer in air. “It was as well you didn’t. I’ve been out lunching.”
She knew that very well, and with any other man would have pretended that she did not. Some pretty fishing would have followed—with him out of the question.
“At the Park?” she said—turning up the statement into a question by habit.
“Precisely there,” said he, and returned to his shoe. No fishing in such waters as his—but he looked up again presently with a laugh in his eyes. “I met your Mr. Germain,” he told her—and she flamed.
“I wanted to tell you—I felt that I must. I am—I was with him when you——”
He nodded over his shoe leather. “So I supposed.”
“That was Mr. Germain—you know——”
“I know. I recognized him. I had been to reconnoitre the Park——”
She could not, perhaps, have accounted to herself for her next question. “Do you like Miss de Speyne?”
He frankly considered it for a while, looking at the questioner without discomfort—to himself at least. “Yes. Yes, I think I do. She’s a fine young woman and she’s simple. She’s herself. Yes, I like her very much. She can paint flowers—nothing else. But she paints flowers well.” So much for the Honourable Hertha de Speyne.
“May I sit down?” Mary was quite at her ease again. He jumped up with apologies, and brought her cushions. Bingo came up, wagging his back, and, being caressed, sat up stiffly beneath her hand. She watched her friend fill his pipe and collected herself for her affair. Then she lowered her eyes, and began, hardening her voice.
“I came because I wanted your opinion, as I hoped—I mean as I thought I possibly might. You remember that I said I should like to talk to you? Well, I didn’t know then—for certain—what I should have to say. But—” She stopped there.
“But now you do? Is that it?”
“Yes. Shall you think it strange of me?”
“I don’t know—but it’s very unlikely. If I do I’ll tell you. Go on.”
“It’s about Mr. Germain. Do you remember that I told you—he’d been kind to me?”
His eyes were narrow, but upon her, critically upon her. He smoked slowly, as if he enjoyed every fibre of the weed on fire.
“Yes, I remember.”
“He was so kind—he went so out of his way to be kind that I was puzzled. I could not help fancying——”
“Naturally. Well?”
She plunged. “He has asked me to marry him.”
Her friend took his pipe out of his mouth, looked long at it, and put it back again.
“I saw that he had—yesterday.” He might have seen pride shine in her eyes at that compliment. But, instead of looking for that, he asked, “And is he going to?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, pondering.
“But does he think he is?”
She fondled Bingo, who threw up his head, eyed her gratefully and accepted the compliment. Then she answered him.
“Yes—I believe he does.” During the ensuing pause their eyes met for a moment.
“He’s very much in love with the idea,” said the gentleman-tinker. “He was highly uplifted to-day—anybody could have guessed.” He added, as if to himself, “It may do. It sometimes does.”
She considered this, then threw up her head and was eloquent. “It won’t do—it can’t. That makes me unhappy, instead of happy. I know that it is not right—whatever you may say of—of there being no classes. I feel that there are classes, more than enough, perhaps; but there they are and we can’t help them. Whatever you may say about specimens in boxes, Mr. Germain is a gentleman, and my father is not; and his first wife was a lady—a Lady Diana Something—and his second, if it’s me, won’t be—but just a little ignorant person who has worked for her living since she was sixteen, and seen all sorts of people—and—and—done all sorts of things. No, no, it can’t be right—for him, at any rate. How am I to satisfy him, try as I will? Why, there’s Mrs. James at the Rectory—she terrifies me. I feel like a lump of earth beside her—and she likes me to—she looks and looks down at me until I do. And I fight against it—I try to meet her—I try to be myself, and to feel that I am as good as she is—and all the time I know I’m not. And yet—he’s extremely kind—nobody could have spoken more gently than he did. He made me cry—he did, you know. I couldn’t help it—and I had no answer for him and so—and so he thinks that I shall marry him. But I don’t know whether I dare—I promise you I don’t.”
He watched her gravely, nodding his head from time to time; and at the end he smiled doubtfully.
“Well,” he said, “and I don’t know whether you dare. I don’t know, you know, but I should say that you could dare most things you had set your heart on.”
Her eyes quickened. “My heart is not set on it. I was very excited yesterday—any girl in my position would be—oh, most wonderful! But—if I could—if I dared, I should run away. I promise you.”
He regarded her kindly. “Well, then,” he said, “Run.” She stared—their eyes met—hers fell first. “No, no. I mustn&rsq............