At meal-times, when he ate but little, it seemed to be that face that was opposite to him, instead of the thin, handsome features of his sister Rebecca; and if he turned his gaze to the right there was the face again instead of the pale, refined, high-bred Beatrice. He went to bed, and lay turning from side to side, with that countenance photographed upon his brain, and when at last toward morning he fell asleep, it was to dream always of that pensive countenance.
The Reverend Henry Lambent grew alarmed. He could not understand it. He had never given much thought to such a matter as marriage on his own account. He knew that people were married, because he had joined them together scores of times, and he knew that generally people were well-dressed, looked very weak and foolish, and that the bride shed tears and wrote her name worse than ever she had written it before. But that had nothing to do with him. He stood on a cold, stony pedestal, which raised him high above such human weaknesses weaknesses that belonged to his people, not to him.
At last he told himself that it was his duty to resist temptation, and that by resistance it would be overcome. He realised that his ailment was really mental, and after severe examination determined to quell it by bold endeavour, for the more he fled from the cause the worse he seemed to be. It was absurd! It was ridiculous! It was a kind of madness, he told himself; and again he walked over to the schools, determined to be firm and severe. Then he told himself this feeling of enchantment would pass away, for he should see Hazel Thorne as she really was, and not through the couleur de rose glasses of his imagination.
He started then, and walked stiffly and severely down to the schools, his chin in the air and a condescending bow ready for any one who would touch his hat; but instead of going, as he had intended, straight to the girls, he turned in and surprised Mr Chute reading a novel at his desk while the boys were going on not quite in accordance with a clerical idea of discipline.
The result was a severe snubbing to Mr Chute, and the vicar stalked across the floor to go into the girls school; but just then he heard a sweetly modulated voice singing the first bars of a simple school ballad, and he stopped to listen.
He had heard the song hundreds of times, but it had never sounded like that before, and he stood as if riveted to the spot as the sweet, dear voice gained strength, and he knew now that just at the back of Mr Chutes desk one of the shutters had been left slightly open, so that if he pleased that gentleman could peer into the girls school.
The vicar did not know how it was, but an angry pang shot through him, and a longing came over him to send Mr Chute far away and take his place, teaching the boys, and keeping that shutter slightly down listening always to the singing of that sweet, simple lay.
And then he stood and listened, and the boys involuntarily listened too, while their master failed to urge them on, as he too stood and forgot all but the fact that was being lyrically told of how
Then their eyes met.
Directly after the sweet tones ceased, and the tune was commenced again in chorus by the singing class, the modest violet now becoming identified with the strident voice of Miss Feelier Potts who absolutely yelled.
The vicar went straight out, turning to the left as he reached the path instead of to the right, for he could not visit the girls school then; and he walked home, telling himself that the disenchantment was complete there was that open shutter his strange feelings for Hazel Thorne were at an end and he paced his study all the evening, his bedroom half the night,
with the sweet air and words of that simple school song repeating themselves for ever in his ears.
Why, Henry, what is the matter? cried Beatrice Lambent the next morning, as she came upon her brother in the dining-room, waiting for her to make his coffee.
Matter? he said, flushing scarlet like a girl. Matter?
Yes! you singing? I never heard you sing before in your life.
Was I was I singing? he said huskily.
Yes, that stupid, hackneyed violet song, that the children shriek at the schools.
Was I? Dear me, how strange! To be sure yes. The children were singing it while I was talking to Mr Chute yesterday. We could hear it through the partition.
Chapter Fourteen. Henry!
He has been to call at the school, he thought; and he determined on his own part not to go; but his legs appeared to take him on against his will, and he found himself making excuses for Hazel Thorne.
She could not help it, perhaps, he thought. At any rate it is my duty to go, and I ought to check her if she is receiving such a visitor as this.
Then, with heavily beating heart, he reached the entrance to the girls school, passing through the gate slowly, and listening to the bleating noise from the boys side, with the occasional short, sharp barks that Mr Chute was uttering like a sheepdog driving his flock along the dry and dusty roads of education towards the green and pleasant pastures of Academia.