There was too much between them: the figure of
Francis Sales was too solid.
She set out as she had intended the next afternoon. It was full
spring-time now and Radstowe was gay and sweet with flowering trees.
The delicate rose of the almond blossom had already faded to a
fainting pink and fallen to the ground, and the laburnum was weeping
golden tears which would soon drop to the pavements and blacken there;
the red and white hawthorns were all out, and Henrietta's daily walks
had been punctuated by ecstatic halts when she stood under a canopy of
flower and leaf and drenched herself in scent and colour, or peeped
over garden fences to see tall tulips springing up out of the grass;
but to-day she did not linger.
It seemed a long time since she had crossed the river, yet the only
change was in the new green of the trees splashing the side of the
gorge. The gulls were still quarrelling for food on the muddy banks,
children and perambulators, horses and carts, were passing over the
bridge as on her first day in Radstowe, but there was now no Francis
Sales on his fine horse. The sun was bright but clouds were being
blown by a wind with a sharp breath, and she went quickly lest it
should rain before her business was accomplished. She had no fear of
not finding Francis Sales: in such things her luck never failed her,
and she came upon him even sooner than she had expected in the
outermost of his fields.
He stood beside the gate, scrutinizing a flock of sheep and lambs and
talking to the shepherd, and he turned at the sound of her footsteps
on the road.
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