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Page 43
Mary laid her hand on the gate between them--and Bryce, who
had done all he wished to do at that time, instantly opened
it, and she passed through.
"I am much obliged to you," she said. "I don't know what it
all means--but it is Dr. Ransford's affair--if there is any
affair, which I doubt. Will you let me go now, please?"
Bryce stood aside and lifted his hat, and Mary, with no more
than a nod, walked on towards the golf club-house across the
Common, while Bryce turned off to the town, highly elated with
his morning's work. He had sown the seeds of uneasiness and
suspicion broadcast--some of them, he knew, would mature.
Mary Bewery played no golf that morning. In fact, she only
went on to the club-house to rid herself of Bryce, and
presently she returned home, thinking. And indeed, she said
to herself, she had abundant food for thought. Naturally
candid and honest, she did not at that moment doubt Bryce's
good faith; much as she disliked him in most ways she knew
that he had certain commendable qualities, and she was
inclined to believe him when he said that he had kept silence
in order to ward off consequences which might indirectly be
unpleasant for her. But of him and his news she thought
little--what occupied her mind was the possible connection
between the stranger who had come so suddenly and disappeared
so suddenly--and for ever!--and Mark Ransford. Was it
possible--really possible--that there had been some meeting
between them in or about the Cathedral precincts that morning?
She knew, after a moment's reflection, that it was very
possible--why not? And from that her thoughts followed a
natural trend--was the mystery surrounding this man connected
in any way with the mystery about herself and her brother?
--that mystery of which (as it seemed to her) Ransford was so
shy of speaking. And again--and for the hundredth time--she
asked herself why he was so reticent, so evidently full of
dislike of the subject, why he could not tell her and Dick
whatever there was to tell, once for all?
She had to pass the Folliots' house in the far corner of the
Close on her way home--a fine old mansion set in well-wooded
grounds, enclosed by a high wall of old red brick. A door in
that wall stood open, and inside it, talking to one of his
gardeners, was Mr. Folliot--the vistas behind him were gay
with flowers and rich with the roses which he passed all his
days in cultivating. He caught sight of Mary as she passed
the open doorway and called her back.
"Come in and have a look at some new roses I've got," he said.
"Beauties! I'll give you a handful to carry home."
Mary rather liked Mr. Folliot. He was a big, half-asleep sort
of man, who had few words and could talk about little else
than his hobby. But he was a passionate lover of flowers and
plants, and had a positive genius for rose-culture, and was at
all times highly delighted to take flower-lovers round his
garden. She turned at once and walked in, and Folliot led her
away down the scented paths.
"It's an experiment I've been trying," he said, leading her up
to a cluster of blooms of a colour and size which she had
never seen before. "What do you think of the results?"
"Magnificent!" exclaimed Mary. "I never saw anything so
fine!"
"No!" agreed Folliot, with a quiet chuckle. "Nor anybody
else--because there's no such rose in England. I shall have
to go to some of these learned parsons in the Close to invent
me a Latin name for this--it's the result of careful
experiments in grafting--took me three years to get at it.
And see how it blooms,--scores on one standard."
He pulled out a knife and began to select a handful of the
finest blooms, which he presently pressed into Mary's hand.
"By the by," he remarked as she thanked him and they turned
away along the path, "I wanted to have a word with you--or
with Ransford. Do you know--does he know--that that
confounded silly woman who lives near to your house--Mrs.
Deramore--has been saying some things--or a thing--which--to
put it plainly--might make some unpleasantness for him?"
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