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It seems to have been about this point that he first perceived it clearly distinguished it, that is to say, from the whole atmosphere of startling and suggesting mystery that surrounded him. He looked at Frank in silence a moment or two.... There Guiseley sat leaning back in the red leather chair, his cocoa still untouched. He was in a villainous suit that once, probably, had been dark blue.
Guiseley will have his last interview and obtain his exeat from the Dean at half-past six this evening. He proposes to leave Cambridge in the early hours of to-morrow morning." "You don't mean that!" "Certainly I do." "What are you going to wear?" Frank extended two flanneled legs, ending in solid boots. "These a flannel shirt, no tie, a cap, a gray jacket."
They wondered innocently why the two friends had not been asked to join them at dinner. It was exciting, too, and unusual, that this young man should dine in an old homespun suit. They asked a quantity of questions. Where was Mr. Guiseley going first? Frank didn't quite know; Where would he sleep that night? Frank didn't quite know; he would have to see. When was the walking-tour going to end?
Dick Guiseley sat over breakfast in his rooms off Oxford Street, entirely engrossed in a local Yorkshire paper two days old. His rooms were very characteristic of himself. They were five in number a dining-room, two bedrooms, and two sitting-rooms divided by curtains, as well as a little entrance-hall that opened on to the landing, close beside the lift that served all the flats.
Certainly this young man was very well behaved and deferential. "Well, that's satisfactory. And you are going to read at the Bar now? If you will let me say so, Mr. Guiseley, even at this late hour, I must say that I think that a Third Class might have been bettered. But no doubt your tutor has said all that?" "Yes, I think so."
A bundle tied up in a red handkerchief, and a heavy stick, rested propped against an angle of the recess. Jack cleared his throat rather loud and stood still, prepared to be admiring the view, in case of necessity; the figure turned an eye over its shoulder, then faced completely round; and it was Frank Guiseley.
Jack rang the bell as soon as they came into the smoking-room, and Frank sat down in a deep chair. Then the butler came. He cast one long look at the astonishing figure in the chair. "Oh! er Jackson, this is Mr. Frank Guiseley. He's going to stay here. He'll want some clothes and things. I rather think there are some suits of mine that might do. I wish you'd look them out."
Then he said it; and Frank walked in. "Good evening, Mr. Guiseley.... Yes; please sit down. I understood from you this morning that you wished for your exeat." "Please," said Frank. "Just so," said Mr. Mackintosh, drawing the exeat book resembling the butt of a check-book towards him. "And you are going down to-morrow?" "Yes," said Frank.
Parham-Carter was summoned by the neat maid-servant of the clergy-house to see two gentlemen. She presented two cards on a plated salver, inscribed with the names of Richard Guiseley and John B. Kirkby. He got up very quickly, and went downstairs two at a time. A minute later he brought them both upstairs and shut the door. "Sit down," he said. "I'm most awfully glad you've come.
Other Bronte shrines have engaged us, Guiseley, where Patrick Bronte was married and Neilson worked as a mill-girl; the lowly Thornton home, where Charlotte was born; the cottage where she visited Harriet Martineau; the school where she found Caroline Helstone and Rose and Jessy Yorke; the Fieldhead, Lowood, and Thornfield of her tales; the Villette where she knew her hero; but it is the bleak Haworth hilltop where the Brontes wrote the wonderful books and lived the pathetic lives that most attracts and longest holds our steps.
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