'Not for the present,' she said. 'I don't know my own heart. Give me time.'
His gratitude caught at those words, as the drowning man is said to catch at the proverbial straw. He lifted her hand, and suddenly and fondly pressed his lips on it. She showed no confusion. Was she sorry for him, poor wretch!—and was that all?
They walked on, arm-in-arm, in silence.
Crossing the last field, they entered again on the high road leading to the row of villas in which Miss Pink lived. The minds of both were preoccupied. Neither of them noticed a gentleman approaching on horseback, followed by a mounted groom. He was advancing slowly, at the walking-pace of his horse, and he only observed the two foot- passengers when he was close to them.
'Miss Isabel!'
She started, looked up, and discovered—Alfred Hardyman.
He was dressed in a perfectly-made travelling suit of light brown, with a peaked felt hat of a darker shade of the same color, which, in a picturesque sense, greatly improved his personal appearance. His pleasure at discovering Isabel gave the animation to his features which they wanted on ordinary occasions. He sat his horse, a superb hunter, easily and gracefully. His light amber-colored gloves fitted him perfectly. His obedient servant, on another magnificent horse, waited behind him. He looked the impersonation of rank and breeding—of wealth and prosperity. What a contrast, in a woman's eyes, to the shy, pale, melancholy man, in the ill-fitting black clothes, with the wandering, uneasy glances, who stood beneath him, and felt, and showed that he felt, his inferior position keenly! In spite of herself, the treacherous blush flew over Isabel's face, in Moody's presence, and with Moody's eyes distrustfully watching her.
'This is a piece of good fortune that I hardly hoped for,' said Hardyman, his cool, quiet, dreary way of speaking quickened as usual, in Isabel's presence. 'I only got back from France this morning, and I called on Lady Lydiard in the hope of seeing you. She was not at home—and you were in the country—and the servants didn't know the address. I could get nothing out of them, except that you were on a visit to a relation.' He looked at Moody while he was speaking. 'Haven't I seen you before?' he said, carelessly. 'Yes; at Lady Lydiard's. You're her steward, are you not? How d'ye do?' Moody, with h is eyes on the ground, answered silently by a bow. Hardyman, perfectly indifferent whether Lady Lydiard's steward spoke or not, turned on his saddle and looked admiringly at Isabel. 'I begin to think I am a lucky man at last,' he went on with a smile. 'I was jogging along to my farm, and despairing of ever seeing Miss Isabel again—and Miss Isabel herself meets me at the roadside! I wonder whether you are as glad to see me as I am to see you? You won't tell me—eh? May I ask you something else? Are you staying in our neighborhood?'
There was no alternative before Isabel but to answer this last question. Hardyman had met her out walking, and had no doubt drawn the inevitable inference—although he was too polite to say so in plain words.
'Yes, sir,' she answered, shyly, 'I am staying in this neighborhood.'
'And who is your relation?' Hardyman proceeded, in his easy, matter-of-course way. 'Lady Lydiard told me, when I had the pleasure of meeting you at her house, that you had an aunt living in the country. I have a good memory, Miss Isabel, for anything that I hear about You! It's your aunt, isn't it? Yes? I know everybody about hew. What is your aunt's name?'
Isabel, still resting her hand on Robert's arm, felt it tremble a little as Hardyman made this last inquiry. If she had been speaking to one of her equals she would have known how to dispose of the question without directly answering it. But what could she say to the magnificent gentleman on the stately horse? He had only to send his servant into the village to ask who the young lady from London was staying with, and the answer, in a dozen mouths at least, would direct him to her aunt. She cast one appealing look at Moody and pronounced the distinguished name of Miss Pink.
'Miss Pink?' Hardyman repeated. 'Surely I know Miss Pink?' (He had not the faintest remembrances of her.) 'Where did I meet her last?' (He ran over in his memory the different local festivals at which strangers had been introduced to him.) 'Was it at the archery meeting? or at the grammar-school when the prizes were given? No? It must have been at the flower show, then, surely?'
It
'I am quite ashamed of never having called,' Hardyman proceeded. 'The fact is, I have so much to do. I am a bad one at paying visits. Are you on your way home? Let me follow you and make my apologies personally to Miss Pink.'
Moody looked at Isabel. It was only a momentary glance, but she perfectly understood it.
'I am afraid, sir, my aunt cannot have the honor of seeing you to-day,' she said.
Hardyman was all compliance. He smiled and patted his horse's neck. 'To-morrow, then,' he said. 'My compliments, and I will call in the afternoon. Let me see: Miss Pink lives at—?' He waited, as if he expected Isabel to assist his treacherous memory once more. She hesitated again. Hardyman looked round at his groom. The groom could find out the address, even if he did not happen to know it already. Besides, there was the little row of houses visible at the further end of the road. Isabel pointed to the villas, as a necessary concession to good manners, before the groom could anticipate her. 'My aunt lives there, sir; at the house called The Lawn.'
'Ah! to be sure!' said Hardyman. 'I oughtn't to have wanted reminding; but I have so many things to think of at the farm. And I am afraid I must be getting old—my memory isn't as good as it was. I am so glad to have seen you, Miss Isabel. You and your aunt must come and look at my horses. Do you like horses? Are you fond of riding? I have a quiet roan mare that is used to carrying ladies; she would be just the thing for you. Did I beg you to give my best compliments to your aunt? Yes? How well you are looking! our air here agrees with you. I hope I haven't kept you standing too long? I didn't think of it in the pleasure of meeting you. Good-by, Miss Isabel; good-by, till to- morrow!'
He took off his hat to Isabel, nodded to Moody, and pursued his way to the farm.
Isabel looked at her companion. His eyes were still on the ground. Pale, silent, motionless, he waited by her like a dog, until she gave the signal of walking on again towards the house.
'You are not angry with me for speaking to Mr. Hardyman?' she asked, anxiously.
He lifted his head it the sound of her voice. 'Angry with you, my dear! why should I be angry?'
'You seem so changed, Robert, since we met Mr. Hardyman. I couldn't help speaking to him—could I?'
'Certainly not.'
