"Good day to you Miss Brodie!"
She felt it impossible for her to look up to disclose, in her face, the revealing turmoil of her feelings as, thinking unhappily that she was now Miss Brodie to him and not Miss Mary, or even Mary, she stammered out an acknowledgment of his greeting.
"It's a wonderful day," he exclaimed cheerily. "Quite perfect; but it's too hot to be on foot. It must be like crossing the Sahara to walk to-day."
Had he, she asked herself, observed her hot face and the dust upon her boots which must give her the appearance of some dishevelled and disreputable tramp!
"I ought to say, in politeness, that it's a coincidence our meeting here," he continued, "but that's hardly so. I was aware that you took this walk on Sundays when I drove out here to-day. I wanted to know about Nessie."
How wonderful his words would have been without that last explanatory sentence, but as she stood foolishly with downcast head, she became aware that she must say something in reply or he would consider that she was stupid or uncouth, or both; with a great effort she slowly lifted her eyes to his, thought instantly, despite her embarrassment, how clean cut was his dark, eager face against the background of the sky and murmured feebly, irrelevantly:
"I haven't been able to tell you about Nessie. I haven't seen you for a long time."
"Far too long," he cried; "and it's been of your own seeking. I haven't seen you about for weeks. I thought you had flown again from Levenford without bidding me good-bye."
"I'm here for good now," she replied slowly. "It's you that will be saying good-bye to Levenford soon."
His face clouded slightly.
"Yes! It's only another fortnight now. How time flies like an arrow in its flight." He sighed. "It's curious, but as the day draws near, I'm losing interest in the prospect. I was glad to think of going at first, but this old town has its grip on me after all."
"You've so many friends now, I suppose."
"That's it! I've got friends."
He played idly with his whip, his eyes fixed unseeingly upon the twitching ears of the horse, then he looked at her seriously and said,
"Arc you free to come for a drive with me, Miss Brodie? I may not see you again and I rather wished to talk to you about one or two matters. Do come if you would care to!"
Of course she would care to come and, thinking of her father resting until five, she realised that no more propitious hour could have been chosen; still, she hesitated and replied:
"I'm I'm not dressed for driving and I should have to be back at five, and "
"And in that case you're coming," he answered, with a smile, stretching out his hand. "We've got a good hour and a half. As for your dress, it's too good for this old trap of mine."
She was up beside him almost before she knew how, seated close to him on the red velvet cushion, and he had tucked the light, dust cover around her, touched up the horse and she was off with him, gliding forward in an easy yet exhilarating movement. The breeze of their progress through the still air fanned her cheek, the sky lost its glare and became halcyon, the dust was nothing merely a soft powder to ease the horse's stepping gait and after the tedium and fatigue of walking, she was content to sit silent, happy, watching the vivid countryside flit gently past her. But though she was too conscious of his nearness to look upon him, out of the corner of her gaze she observed the smooth, soft leather of his hand-sewn driving gloves, the silver-plated harness, the monogrammed dust
cover, the smart appointments of what he had designated his "old trap", and again, as in his house, she was seized by a feeling of the difference between his life and hers. Now, whatever his early struggles might have been, the manner of his life did not comprise the weighing of every farthing before it was spent, the wearing of clothes until they disintegrated, the stifling of every pleasurable impulse outwith the sphere of a most rigid economy. But she suppressed this rising sense of her inferiority, stifled her thoughts of future sadness and, telling herself that she would not mar her solitary hour of this unusual luxury, abandoned herself to the unfamiliar delight of enjoying herself.
Renwick, on his part, observed her clear profile, the faint colour stirring in her soft cheek, her unwonted animation, with a strange satisfaction, a sense of pleasure more acute than that with which she viewed the countryside. A sudden pressing whim took him to make her turn to him so that he might see into her eyes, and he broke the silence, saying:
"You are not sorry you came."
But still she did not look at him, although her lips curved in a faint smile as she answered:
"I'm glad I came. It's all so wonderful to me. I'm not used to this and I'll be able to look back on it."
"We'll have time to drive up to the Loch shore," he replied pleasantly, "and, if Tim steps out, time for tea there as well."
She was enchanted by the prospect which he proposed and, considering Tim's smoothly groomed back, hoped that he would hasten sufficiently for tea without going so fast as to hurry her home before time.
"Tim," she remarked idly; "what a good name for a horse."
"And a good horse he is too," he replied, calling out in a louder tone, "aren't you, Timmy?"
Tim pricked up his ears at the words and, as though he appreciated them, put a little more mettle into his measured jog trot.
"You see?" Ren wick continued, watching with approval her smile. "He knows that I'm talking about him and is trying not to blush the wretched hypocrite. He'll be lazier than ever in Edinburgh. Too many oats and not enough exercise!"
"You're taking him with you then?" she queried.
"Yes. I couldn't sell Timmy. I'm like that somehow." He paused, then continued meditatively, "It's a ridiculous trait in me, but when I've become fond of a thing I can't let it go pictures, books, a horse it's the same in every case. When I like a thing I like it. I'm obstinate. I accept no standard of judgment but my own. A critic may tell me a dozen times that such a picture is good, but if I don't like it I won't have it. I take a picture that I do like; then, when it's grown upon me, I can't bear to part with it."
She looked straight in front of her and remarked:
"That was an exquisite picture in your dining room."
"Yes," he replied authoritatively, "that is a fine thing I'm glad you liked it. It's company to me, that picture. I bought it at the Institute." Then he added slyly, "It's not exclusively my taste though the critics liked it too."
The memory of the picture brought before her mind the purpose of her first visit to him and, anticipating his interrogation regarding Nessie, she said:
"I'm grateful for all that you've done about Nessie. You have been more than kind to us both." She had never told him about the tragedy of the grapes, and his favours, these fortunately undiscovered, had continued.
"I wanted to help you," he replied. "How is she getting along under all the work?"
"She seems better in her health," she answered, with a trace of anxiety in her voice, "but she varies so much. At times she is quite peculiar to me. She's worrying about the nearness of her examination. It's on Saturday. I've done everything I can for her."
"I know you have everything," he said reassuringly. "Now that she's gone so far without breaking down, she ought to be all right! I hope she gets the thing, for her own sake." Then, after a considerable silence, he remarked in a serious tone, "I should keep near to her when the results come to hand; and if you want me, call on me at once."
She was aware that he would be gone when the result was announced, but, feeling that already he had done enough for her, she made no comment and remained silent, engrossed by her thoughts. As he had said, Nessie would be all right! She would see to that. She would be with her watch her, protect her, safeguard her, should she be unsuccessful, from any sudden action of her father.