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And the face was to be that of Rose Varcoe, and the others, faces of those who should be like her and like himself. He saw, or rather felt, that face clouded and anxious when he went away ill and blind for health's sake. He did not write to her. The doctors forbade him that.
"She likes him, she is quite what we would have her, and he is interested in her. My dear, I have seen I have watched for a year." He put his hand on hers. "My wife, you are a goodly prophet." When Archdeacon Varcoe entered his study on returning, he sat down in a chair, and brooded long. "She must be told," he said at last, aloud. "Yes, yes, at once. God help us both!"
"Of course he's Varcoe," insisted the other. "Of course he's not!" said Annesley, with just the right amount of irritation. "Our name is Smith. Nelson, do tell this person to ask the head-waiter who engaged the table, and not stay here making a fuss." "Anybody can engage a table in the name of Smith!" sneered the first speaker. "That is nothing. We go by something more convincing than a name.
There was something Eastern and oddly alien about them in spite of their conventional clothes. "Mr. Michael Varcoe!" said the bigger and older, he who stood on the left of Smith. The other kept in the background, not to crowd with conspicuous rudeness between Annesley and her host.
The man who spoke had a thick voice and a curious accent which the girl, with her small experience, was unable to place. "No," answered "Smith," in a puzzled tone. "You mistake me for someone else." "I think not," insisted the bearded man, in a hostile drawl. "I think not!" "I'm sure not," echoed the other. "You are Michael Varcoe. There's no getting away from that."
Gaston's hunting stories had made them breathless, his views upon duelling did not free their lungs. There were sentimentalists present; others who, because it had become etiquette not to cross swords, thought it indecent. Archdeacon Varcoe would not be drawn into discussion, but sipped his wine, listened, and watched Gaston.
"What does matter is that you should annoy us. I tell you I'm not Michael Varcoe, and never heard the name. If you're not satisfied, and if you don't go back to your dinner and let us finish ours in peace, I'll appeal to the management." "Well!" grumbled the taller of the pair. "If you're not the man I want, you're his image minus moustache and beard. You must be Varcoe!"
Strange." He sighed, and unconsciously touched the scar on his brow. His dealings with the Belwards had not been all joy. Begun with youthful pride and affectionate interest, they had gone on into vexation, sorrow, failure, and shame. While Gaston was riding into his kingdom, Lionel Henry Varcoe was thinking how poor his life had been where he had meant it to be useful.
He had heard of that scar before. When the venerable Archdeacon Varcoe was tutor to Ian and Robert Belward, Ian, in a fit of anger, had thrown a stick at his brother. It had struck the clergyman, leaving a scar. Gaston now raised his hat. As he passed, the rector looked after him, puzzled; the words he had heard addressed to the effigy returning.
When it gets public, why, some one gets blamed. In this case I was the target; but I don't mind in the least not in the least. . . . Do you think me very startling or lawless?" "Never lawless; but one could not be quite sure what you would do in any particular case." She looked up at him admiringly. They had not noticed the approach of Archdeacon Varcoe till he was very near them.
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