Here a sudden irritation against the nature of his own thoughts disturbed him. He was not arguing fairly with himself, and he knew it. He was perfectly aware that ever since the day of their meeting in the village post-office, he had wished to see Miss Vancourt again. He had hoped she might pass the gate of the rectory, or perhaps even look into his garden for a moment,--but his expectation had not been realised. He had heard of Cicely Bourne's arrival,--and he had received two charmingly-worded notes from Maryllia, inviting him to the Manor,--which invitations, as has already been stated, he had, with briefest courtesy, declined. Now, why,--if he indeed wished to see her again,--had he deliberately refused the opportunities given him of doing so? He could not answer this at all satisfactorily to his own mind, and he was considerably annoyed with himself to be forced to admit the existence of certain portions of his mental composition which were apparently not to be probed by logic, or measured by mathematics.
"Well, at any rate, as I have promised the little singer, I can go up to tea just this once, and have done with it," he decided--"I shall then be exonerated from 'rudeness'--and I can explain to Miss Vancourt--quite kindly and courteously of course--that I am not a visiting man,--that my habits are rather those of a recluse, and then--for the future--she will understand."
Cicely Bourne, meanwhile, on her way back to the Manor through the fields, paused many times to gather cowslips, which were blooming by thousands in the grass at her feet, and as she recklessly pulled up dozens of the pale-green stems, weighted with their nodding golden honey-bells, she thought a good deal about John Walden.
"Maryllia never told me he was handsome,"--she mused; "But he is! I wonder why she didn't mention it? So odd of her,--because really there are very few good-looking men anywhere, and one in the shape of a parson is a positive rarity and ought to go on exhibition! He's clever too--and--obstinate? Yes, I should say he was obstinate! But he has kind eyes. And he isn't married. What a comfort THAT is! Parsons are uninteresting enough in themselves as a rule, but their wives are the last possibility in the way of dullness. Oh, that honeysuckle!" And she sprang over the grass to the corner of a hedge where a long trail of the exquisitely-scented flower hung temptingly, as it seemed within reach, but when she approached it, she found it just too high above her to be plucked from the bough where its tendrils twined. Looking up at it, she carolled softly: "O Fortune capricieuse! Comme tu es cruelle! Pourquoi moques-tu ton esclave Qui sert un destin immortel!"