Faster and faster he walked,
leaving the village behind, and among the country sights and sounds and
scents--his nerves began to recover. He was able to think again of other
things: of Cecil's school report--far from satisfactory; of old Hermon
in the village, whom he suspected of overdoing his bronchitis with an
eye to port; of the return match with Coldingham, and his belief that
their left-hand bowler only wanted "hitting"; of the new edition
of hymn-books, and the slackness of the upper village in attending
church--five households less honest and ductile than the rest, a foreign
look about them, dark people, un-English. In thinking of these things
he forgot what he wanted to forget; but hearing the sound of wheels,
he entered a field as though to examine the crops until the vehicle had
passed.
It was not Wilson, but it might have been, and at the next turning he
unconsciously branched off the Cornmarket road.
It was noon when he came within sight of Coldingham, six miles from
Worsted Skeynes. He would have enjoyed a glass of beer, but, unable to
enter the public-house, he went into the churchyard instead. He sat down
on a bench beneath a sycamore opposite the Winlow graves, for Coldingham
was Lord Montrossor's seat, and it was here that all the Winlows lay.
Bees were busy above them in the branches, and Mr.
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