had taken it upon himself.
âYou may think it arrogant of me,â he said to Runcorn as they kept pace with each other. âSome people might prefer to see the minister himself, but just now not only is he spending time with poor Mrs. Costain, but he does not know how to answer people. What can they say to him? That they are sorry? That she was the most charming, the most vividly alive person they ever knew, and her death is like God taking some of the light from the world?â He kept his face resolutely forward. âAnd what can he say, except agree, and try to keep from embarrassing them with his pain? It is better I go. At least they do not feel as if they have to comfort me. I can address their problems, which is what I am there for.â
âBut you did know her well, and feel her death very hard.â Runcorn knew it was brutal, but stretching it out with euphemisms would be like pulling a bandage off slowly. And it was less honest.
âWe were friends,â Kelsall replied simply. âWe could speak to each other about all manner of things, without having to pretend we felt differently. If something was funny we laughed, even if sometimes people like the vicar thought it was inappropriate. He was her brother, and my superior, but our eyes would meet and we would each know the other thought the same. We both understood what it was to have dreams â¦Â and regrets.â His voice trembled a little. âI cannot imagine I will ever like anyone else quite so much, so fully.â
Runcorn looked sideways at him, plunging forward into the wind and rain, and did not know for certain whether it was tears that wet his cheeks or the weather. They reached the house of one elderly parishioner, and Runcorn waited outside shivering in the lee of the porch until Kelsall returned. They set out walking again.
âIs it true that she refused Mr. Newbridgeâs offer of marriage?â Runcorn asked after forty or fifty paces.
Kelsall hunched his shoulders and walked more intently forward. Thunder rumbled around the horizon. âShe was a woman of deep feelings,â he said, shaking his head a little and fumbling for the right words. âVisionary. You could never have tied her down to petty things. It would have broken her. He couldnât see that. He didnât love her, he liked what he thought she was, and did not look closely enough to see that he was utterly wrong. I donât think he even â¦Â listened.â He looked suddenly at Runcorn. âWhy do people marry someone they donât even listen to? How can they bear to be so lonely?â He was shuddering, waving his hands as he strode. âOf course she refused him. What else could she do?â
Runcorn did not reply. In his mind for a moment he saw the face of the girl in green as she had passed him in church, then he saw Melisande, and the bland, handsome features of Faraday, and he was filled with the same helpless despair that he heard in Kelsall. Had the curate loved Olivia? Would it have been infinitely more than friendship if he could have chosen? Was there a completely different kind of hunger beneath the grief he displayed in his young, vulnerable face?
They walked together without speaking again, and he left Kelsall at his next parishionerâs house.
Making his way back up the incline again to find Warner, he did not change his mind. He still thought Kelsall a friend, but perhaps a closer one, more observant, more of a confidante than he had at first assumed.
The redwings were gone from the field. He hoped they would be back after the rain.
He spent the afternoon with Warner, but the only thing that emerged from their efforts was that Kelsallâs alibi was finally confirmed by the absentminded old gentleman he had been visiting, who had been up late with the croup.
In the late afternoon, just before dusk, there was a sudden lifting of the clouds and the air was filled with the soft, warm
Mary Crockett, Madelyn Rosenberg