It was just what she wished to escape. She was more nervous, though not less courageous than formerly. But the old, fierce, defiant spirit awoke. Why should she fear Stanley, or what could it be to her whether he was beside her in her homeward walk?
So the vicar made his adieux there, and began, at a brisker pace, to retrace his steps toward Gylingden; and she and Stanley, side by side, walked on toward Redman's Dell.
'What a charming park! and what delightful air, Radie; and the weather so very delicious. They talk of Italian evenings; but there is a pleasant sharpness in English evenings quite peculiar. Is not there just a little suspicion of frost--don't you think so--not actually cold, but crisp and sharp--unspeakably exhilarating; now really, this evening is quite celestial.'
'I've just been listening to a good man's conversation, and I wish to reflect upon it,' said Rachel, very coldly.
'Quite so; that is, of course, when you are alone,' answered Stanley, serenely. 'William was always a very clever fellow to talk--very well read in theology--is not he?--yes, he does talk very sweetly and nobly on religion; it is a pity he is not quite straight, or at least more punctual, in his money affairs.'
'He is distressed for money? William Wylder is distressed for money! Do you mean _that_?' said Rachel, turning a tone of sudden surprise and energy, almost horror, turning full upon him, and stopping short.
'Oh, dear! no--not the least distressed that I ever heard of,' laughed Stanley coldly--'only just a little bit roguish, maybe.'
'That's so like you, Stanley,' said the young lady, with a quiet scorn, resuming her onward walk.
'How very beautiful that clump of birch trees is, near the edge of the slope there; you really can't imagine, who are always here, how very intensely a person who has just escaped from London enjoys all this.'
'I don't think, Stanley,' said the young lady coldly, and looking straight before her as she walked, 'you ever cared for natural scenery--or liked the country--and yet you are here. I don't think you ever loved me, or cared whether I was alone or in company; and yet seeing--for you _did_ see it--that I would now rather be alone, you persist in walking with me, and talking of trees and air and celestial evenings, and thinking of something quite different. Had not you better turn back to Gylingden, or the Lodge, or wherever you mean to pass the evening, and leave me to my quiet walk and my solitude?'