Part 3 (1/2)
The girl closes the cupboard noiselessly, creeping away like a criminal out into the glaring day. Her eyes dance, her cheeks are flushed, and her hair escaping (as if by accident) from its neat braids, waves in dainty tendrils round her ears.
”I _am_ beautiful,” she murmurs to herself, ”why not? Stranger things have happened--Eleanor Roche, the wife of a rich man--oh!”
The last is a gasp of hitherto unexpressed surprise at the audacity of her day dreams.
Philip is waiting by the barley field, watching for her. As she sees him she slackens her steps, not wis.h.i.+ng to appear over anxious for the rendezvous. He advances eagerly, grasps her hands, and devours her with his eyes.
”So we meet again, Eleanor,” he whispers. ”I _must_ call you Eleanor; you don't mind?”
A bold answer that inwardly makes her tremble enters the girl's head.
Why not place herself on an equality with him at once? She nerves herself to reply:
”Not if I may call you Philip?”
A look of amused surprise flits over Mr. Roche's features. What a nave, childlike manner Eleanor possesses!
”Of course,” he replies, pulling the small hand through his arm, and turning out of the public thoroughfare.
”I wonder what you think of me?” asks Eleanor unhesitatingly.
The great sparkling eyes are raised to his with genuine curiosity in their depths. She is not seeking a compliment; far from it, she really wants to know, and is waiting for the truth.
He looks from the blue eyes of the girl to the little blue bird's-eye growing on a bank of clover. She pauses while he stoops to gather the tiny flower.
”You see this,” he says.
”Yes.”
”It is only a field blossom blooming unnoticed in this sweet country atmosphere, yet to me a thousand times fairer than the exotics and hot-house plants which naturally demand admiration. I love this little flower,” pressing the tender blue to his lips, ”because it is wild and untrained. It appeals to me. It is like you, Eleanor!”
A flush of offence arises to her cheeks.
”Wild!” ”Untrained!” the words sting Miss Grebby's pride.
”I did not think you would compare me to a _weed_!” she retorts, tossing her head proudly.
But Philip will not see he has offended, and continues in the same strain.
”Don't despise the weeds, Eleanor; they were placed in their uncultivated beds by Nature's hand, and have as much right to be called beautiful as any other creation.”
He speaks to her authoritatively, and she looks at his strong, masterful expression with a gradual sense of awe.
”I should not have thought you would care for flowers.”
”Why not? Does it seem childish in your eyes to soliloquise over a wayside 'weed,' as you call it?”
His questions perplex her. She is silent.
”You do not appreciate your beautiful country,” he continues, ”from living in it always. Wait till you have tasted the deadly dust of the town before you curl your lip at a blue bird's-eye, or pa.s.s judgment on the unbroken quiet of sinless Copthorne. Since I came here for rest and holiday leisure I seem to have grasped the whole history and charm of the place. It contains endless interest in its G.o.dlike simplicity to the recluse or the reader. Look what fields for the naturalist or botanist! Think, too, of an artist here for the first time--what sketches to be made at sunrise and sunset! You may call your little world dull, monotonous, uneventful, since, reared in the green landscape with farmlands and woods around, you are bound through custom to neglect the pleasures of imagination, and see it only without observing.”