“Let him go by himself, Rosie. He can manage better alone.”
“All right. Shall you be here tomorrow? We’re coming.”
“I’ll try to,” I answered.
They rode off, and in a few minutes I followed. Feeling very much pleased with myself, I rode all the way to the vicarage gates without falling. I think I boasted a good deal at dinner, but I did not say that I had met the Driffields.
Next day at about eleven I got my bicycle out of the coachhouse. It was so called though it held not even a pony trap and was used by the gardener to keep the mower and the roller, and by Mary-Ann for her sack of meal for the chickens. I wheeled it down to the gate and, mounting none too easily, rode along the Tercanbury Road till I came to the old turnpike and turned into Joy Lane.
The sky was blue and the air, warm and yet fresh, crackled, as it were, with the heat. The light was brilliant without harshness. The sun’s beams seemed to hit the white road with a directed energy and bounce back like a rubber ball.
I rode backward and forward, waiting for the Driffields, and presently saw them come. I waved to them and turned round (getting off to do so) and we pedalled along together. Mrs. Driffield and I complimented one another on our progress. We rode anxiously, clinging like grim death to the handlebars, but exultant, and Driffield said that as soon as we felt sure of ourselves we must go for rides all over the country.
“I want to get rubbings of one or two brasses in the neighbourhood,” he said.
I did not know what he meant, but he would not explain.
“Wait and I’ll show you,” he said. “Do you think you could ride fourteen miles tomorrow, seven there and seven back?”
“Rather,” I said.
“I’ll bring a sheet of paper for you and some wax and you can make a rubbing. But you’d better ask your uncle if you can come.”
“I needn’t do that.”
“I think you’d better all the same.”
Mrs. Driffield gave me that peculiar look of hers, mischievous and yet friendly, and I blushed scarlet. I knew that if I asked my uncle he would say no. It would be much better to say nothing about it. But as we rode along I saw coming toward us the doctor in his dogcart. I looked straight in front of me as he passed in the vain hope that if I did not look at him he would not look at me. I was uneasy. If he had seen me the fact would quickly reach the ears of my uncle or my aunt and I considered whether it would not be safer to disclose myself a secret that could no longer be concealed. When we parted at the vicarage gates (I had not been able to avoid riding as far as this in their company) Driffield said that if I found I could come with them next day I had better call for them as early as I could.
“You know where we live, don’t you? Next door to the Congregational Church. It’s called Lime Cottage.”
When I sat down to dinner I looked for an opportunity to slip in casually the information that I had by accident run across the Driffields; but news travelled fast in Blackstable.
“Who were those people you were bicycling with this morning?” asked my aunt. “We met Dr. Anstey in the town and he said he’d seen you.”
My uncle, chewing his roast beef with an air of disapproval, looked sullenly at his plate.
“The Driffields,” I said with nonchalance. “You know, the author. Mr. Galloway knows them.”
“They’re most disreputable people,” said my uncle. “I don’t wish you to associate with them.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“I’m not going to give you my reasons. It’s enough that I don’t wish it.”
“How did you ever get to know them?” asked my aunt.
“I was just riding along and they were riding along, and they asked me if I’d like to ride with them,” I said, distorting the truth a little.
“I call it very pushing,” said my uncle.
I began to sulk. And to show my indignation when the sweet was put on the table, though it was raspberry tart which I was extremely fond of, I refused to have any. My aunt asked me if I was not feeling very well.
“Yes,” I said, as haughtily as I could, “I’m feeling all right.”
“Have a little bit,” said my aunt.
“I’m not hungry,” I answered.
“Just to please me.”
“He must know when he’s had enough,” said my uncle.
I gave him a bitter look.
“I don’t mind having a small piece,” I said.
My aunt gave me a generous helping, which I ate with the air of one who, impelled by a stern sense of duty, performs an act that is deeply distasteful to him. It was a beautiful raspberry tart. Mary-Ann made short pastry that melted in the mouth. But when my aunt asked me whether I could not manage a little more I refused with cold dignity. She did not insist. My uncle said grace and I carried my outraged feelings into the drawing room.
But when I reckoned that the servants had finished their dinner I went into the kitchen. Emily was cleaning the silver in the pantry. Mary-Ann was washing up.
“I say, what’s wrong with the Driffields?” I asked her.
Mary-Ann had come to the vicarage when she was eighteen. She had bathed me when I was a small boy, given me powders in
