How she and he used to walk together in the walled garden, and on the sunk croquet ground; she telling him stories, her arm round his neck, because she was two years older, and taller than he in those days.Their first talk each holidays, when he came back to her;the first tea--with unlimited jam--in the old mullion-windowed, flower-chintzed schoolroom, just himself and her and old Tingle (Miss Tring, the ancient governess, whose chaperonage would now be gone), and sometimes that kid Sylvia, when she chanced to be staying there with her mother.Cicely had always understood him when he explained to her how inferior school was, because nobody took any interest in beasts or birds except to kill them; or in drawing, or ****** things, or anything decent.They would go off together, rambling along the river, or up the park, where everything looked so jolly and wild--the ragged oak-trees, and huge boulders, of whose presence old Godden, the coachman, had said: "Ican't think but what these ha' been washed here by the Flood, Mast'
Mark!" These and a thousand other memories beset his conscience now.And as the train drew closer to their station, he eagerly made ready to jump out and greet her.There was the honeysuckle full out along the paling of the platform over the waiting-room;wonderful, this year--and there was she, standing alone on the platform.No, it was not Cicely! He got out with a blank sensation, as if those memories had played him false.It was a girl, indeed, but she only looked about sixteen, and wore a sunbonnet that hid her hair and half her face.She had on a blue frock, and some honeysuckle in her waist-belt.She seemed to be smiling at him, and expecting him to smile at her; and so he did smile.She came up to him then, and said:
"I'm Sylvia."
He answered: "Oh! thanks awfully--it was awfully good of you to come and meet me.""Cicely's so busy.It's only the T-cart.Have you got much luggage?"She took up his hold-all, and he took it from her; she took his bag, and he took it from her; then they went out to the T-cart.Asmall groom stood there, holding a silver-roan cob with a black mane and black swish tail.
She said: "D'you mind if I drive, because I'm learning."And he answered: "Oh, no! rather not."
She got up; he noticed that her eyes looked quite excited.Then his portmanteau came out and was deposited with the other things behind; and he got up beside her.
She said: "Let go, Billy."
The roan rushed past the little groom, whose top boots seemed to twinkle as he jumped up behind.They whizzed round the corner from the station yard, and observing that her mouth was just a little open as though this had disconcerted her, he said:
"He pulls a bit."
"Yes--but isn't he perfectly sweet?"
"He IS rather decent."
Ah! when SHE came, he would drive her; they would go off alone in the T-cart, and he would show her all the country round.
He was re-awakened by the words:
"Oh! I know he's going to shy!" At once there was a swerve.The roan was cantering.
They had passed a pig.
"Doesn't he look lovely now? Ought I to have whipped him when he shied?""Rather not."
"Why?"
"Because horses are horses, and pigs are pigs; it's natural for horses to shy at them.""Oh!"
He looked up at her then, sidelong.The curve of her cheek and chin looked very soft, and rather jolly.
"I didn't know you, you know!" he said."You've grown up so awfully.""I knew you at once.Your voice is still furry."There was another silence, till she said:
"He does pull, rather--doesn't he, going home?""Shall I drive?"
"Yes, please."
He stood up and took the reins, and she slipped past under them in front of him; her hair smelt exactly like hay, as she was softly bumped against him.
She kept regarding him steadily with very blue eyes, now that she was relieved of driving.
"Cicely was afraid you weren't coming," she said suddenly."What sort of people are those old Stormers?"He felt himself grow very red, choked something down, and answered:
"It's only he that's old.She's not more than about thirty-five.""That IS old."
He restrained the words: "Of course it's old to a kid like you!"And, instead, he looked at her.Was she exactly a kid? She seemed quite tall (for a girl) and not very thin, and there was something frank and soft about her face, and as if she wanted you to be nice to her.
"Is she very pretty?"
This time he did not go red, such was the disturbance that question made in him.If he said: "Yes," it was like letting the world know his adoration; but to say anything less would be horrible, disloyal.So he did say: "Yes," listening hard to the tone of his own voice.
"I thought she was.Do you like her very much?" Again he struggled with that thing in his throat, and again said: "Yes."He wanted to hate this girl, yet somehow could not--she looked so soft and confiding.She was staring before her now, her lips still just parted, so evidently THAT had not been because of Bolero's pulling; they were pretty all the same, and so was her short, straight little nose, and her chin, and she was awfully fair.His thoughts flew back to that other face--so splendid, so full of life.Suddenly he found himself unable to picture it--for the first time since he had started on his journey it would not come before him.
"Oh! Look!"
Her hand was pulling at his arm.There in the field over the hedge a buzzard hawk was dropping like a stone.
"Oh, Mark! Oh! Oh! It's got it!"
She was covering her face with both her hands, and the hawk, with a young rabbit in its claws, was sailing up again.It looked so beautiful that he did not somehow feel sorry for the rabbit; but he wanted to stroke and comfort her, and said:
"It's all right, Sylvia; it really is.The rabbit's dead already, you know.And it's quite natural."She took her hands away from a face that looked just as if she were going to cry.
"Poor little rabbit! It was such a little one!"
