“Philip,” Rebecca had said gently, “most of the boys have made marked progress. If you consider the fact that amere few months ago they could not even distinguish oneletter from another, you would realize the truth of what Isay. But you must have noticed that Cyril cannot learn asfast as the others. He knows the letters, but he cannot putthem together to create words.”
“If he attended school regularly,” Philip had said coldly, “perhaps he would not have fallen so far behind.”
“It is not that,” Rebecca had protested. “He has not missed so many days, Philip. He is incapable of learningas fast as the other boys. He needs a great deal of extrahelp and encouragement.”
“We are here to teach, Rebecca,” he had said passionately, “not to coddle and baby these village lads.”
The argument had ended abruptly as the pupils began to file back into the schoolroom. Philip had left soon after,and she had not seen him again. This was his afternoon forvisiting the elderly and sometimes, she knew, he did notarrive home until well into the evening. Visiting the sickand elderly for Philip meant more than sitting at bedsidesholding hands and saying prayers. Frequently it meantchopping wood or hauling water or even preparing a meal.
And remembering that fact as she walked along the country lane, still a good half mile from the stile thatwould lead her into the pasture and across to the house,Rebecca’s heart softened. Philip could be a strange mixture of harshness and dedication. He certainly did notspare himself in his devotion to his parishioners. And evenhis harsher moments, she realized, resulted from his zeal.He wanted these village lads to learn, wanted them to havea better future than they could otherwise expect. Unfortunately, he did not always have enough patience to allowfor anyone with less drive than himself. He meant well andthat was the important fact for her to remember.
She had not been in high spirits, though, even before the altercation with Philip. Christopher was coming home today, was probably already with his family, in fact. Tomorrow or the next day he would visit at Limeglade or heruncle’s family would visit the Sinclairs. If she was fortunate, she would miss that first meeting. But she could notavoid it forever. The two families lived only two milesapart and had always been on the most intimate of visitingterms.
Within the next week at the longest she would have to meet him again. And she had no wish to do so. The battleto forget him had been a long and hard one. But she hadwon eventually. Her life for the last several years had notbeen a wildly happy one, but it had been of moderatecontentment. She had a comfortable home with relativeswho treated her with affection even if not with demonstrative love. She was continuing the works of charity that hadbeen dear to her father’s heart. And she was betrothed to aman who embodied those ideals for which she lived. Shedid not want to be reminded of a time when she haddesired more of life, a time when she had wanted passionand romantic love. And she did not want to be reminded ofhow Christopher had changed. She wanted to rememberhim, if at all, as he had been before.
Rebecca looked ahead to the stile, not far distant now. She quickened her step. A cup of tea would be verywelcome at the end of the walk. She slowed down almostimmediately, though, and moved over the side of the roaduntil her dress was brushing against the hedgerow. Shecould hear the approach of a horse behind her and had nodesire to be ridden down. She gazed ahead absently, hermind swinging back to Cyril and his obvious learningproblem.
“G’day, ma’am,” a deep masculine voice said as a horse drew level with her on the road.
Rebecca looked up, startled, into the politely smiling face of a large young man, whose high shirt points pressedinto his cheeks as if trying to burst them. He was touchinga riding crop to his hat. She smiled in quick relief. She hadfeared for one horrid moment that it might be Christopher.
“Good day, sir,” she said, inclining her head to him, and he rode on.
She had not realized there were two horses until the second one drew level with her and the performance wasrepeated.
“Good day, ma’am,” the second rider said.
“Good day, sir,” Rebecca replied, and glanced up at the speaker.
Did time stand still? she wondered later. Probably not. It just seemed to have done so. He was instantly recognizable, though changed in the course of almost seven years.He looked as tall and straight in the saddle as he hadalways looked then. His hair was as dark and straight andas long. His eyes were as intensely blue, his nose asstraight, his mouth as wide. Yet the years had taken awayhis boyish slimness and left a solid, well-muscled man inhis place. And time had taken away the open, pleasantexpression that he had habitually worn and replaced it witha controlled, almost stem look. His jaw looked a lot firmerthan she remembered.
He lowered his riding whip from the brim of his top hat and drew his horse to a halt. “Hello, Becky,” he saidquietly, unsmilingly.
“Hello, Christopher,” she replied. She had stopped walking without realizing it.
There seemed to be nothing else to say. Both looked for a moment as if sorry they had stopped.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Well, thank you,” she replied. “And you, Christopher?”
He nodded. He had removed his hat, and Rebecca could see that his hair was as thick and shining as it had everbeen.
“I am sorry about your bereavement,” she said.
He nodded once more. “Thank you.”
They looked at each other awkwardly again. “You are living with your uncle now?” he said. “I was sorry to hearof your father’s passing.”
She smiled stiffly.
‘‘Are you on your way home?” he asked. ‘‘You have still a long way to go. May I offer you a ride?”
“Oh, no, thank you,” she said hastily. “I enjoy the walk across the pasture. Uncle Humphrey always urges meto take the gig.”
There was another awkward pause. The first rider broke it. He had turned his horse back to find out what haddelayed his companion.
“I say, Sinclair,” he said, sweeping off his hat. “Meeting old acquaintances already?”
