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Valentine stared in astonishment, and her companion smiled. "There can be no doubt about the resemblance," said the countess. "The artist has made you Queen Guinevere, Miss Charteris." "Yes," said Valentine, wonderingly; "it is my own face. How came it there? Who is the artist?" "His name is Ronald Thorne," replied the countess. "There is quite a romance about him."
But in his heart he feared the archdeacon, and he felt that when the ladies were gone the archdeacon would not leave him alone in his silence. As soon as the door was closed, the first subject mooted was that of the Plumstead fox, which had been so basely murdered on Mr Thorne's ground. Mr Thorne had confessed the iniquity, had dismissed the murderous gamekeeper, and all was serene.
He grew slim and tall and handsome a Thorne, and not a Benham, as his grandfather did not fail to note. He was delicate. "But he will outgrow that," said Mrs. Middleton, and loved him the better for the care she had to take of him. It was principally for his sake that she was there.
The 'Frolics' pantomime visited the village, in which the Battalion pioneers, under the direction of Cameron, the Brigade signalling officer, had transformed an empty building into a capital theatre. General Thorne, who had so successfully commanded the 184th Infantry Brigade in its last battle, was unstinting in his efforts to give the men's life in the army a happy and useful conclusion.
"Who is the sylvan maid? What princess of the glade has now the homage of your impressionable heart, Mr. Thorne?" And Gregory Thorne, his native insolence standing him in no stead, said very humbly: "You are that sylvan maid, that princess ah, is this fair to me, is it fair, I ask you?" "You really mean that about the trophies"? she replied.
They all went together; and when the ladies passed into the church the three gentlemen tarried a moment in the lane, that Mr Thorne might name to the vicar with some kind of one-sided introduction, the most leading among his parishioners. 'Here are our churchwardens, Mr Arabin; Farmer Greenacre and Mr Stiles. Mr Stiles has the mill as you go into Barchester; and very good churchwardens they are.
"George may say what he likes," continued the countess, urging her excuses to Miss Thorne; "I am sure we were past the castle gate before twelve weren't we, Margaretta?" "Upon my word I don't know," said the Lady Margaretta, "for I was half-asleep. But I do know that I was called some time in the middle of the night and was dressing myself before daylight."
"You see how impossible it would be to trust myself in his power again," he concluded. For a moment or two Mary Thorne sat silent, regarding him with a curious expression. "So that was the reason," she murmured at length. His eyes questioned her mutely, and a slow flush crept into her face.
I could see how simple and easy it would be to straighten everythin' all out in good shape; but I couldn't do nothing." "Hard enough to hold your job," suggested Thorne. "That's it. And everybody in the country thought I was a damn fool. Only damn fools and lazy men took rangers' jobs those days. But I hung on because I believed in it. And now I got the best job in the bunch.
Ralph had raised the little one in his arms, and was looking with wondering admiration at the proud, beautiful face of the little Beatrice, and the fair loveliness of Lillian. The children looked with frank, fearless eyes into his plain, honest face. "This one with dark hair has the real Earle face," said Stephen Thorne, proudly; "that is just my lord's look proud and quiet.