CHAPTER IX

TELLING HOW LUDOVIC QUAYLE AND HONORIA ST. QUENTIN WATCHED THE TROUT

RISE IN THE LONG WATER

Some hour and a half later Miss St. Quentin passed down the flight of

stone steps, leading from the southern end of the terrace to the grass

slopes of the park. Arrived at the lowest step she gathered the skirt

of her dress up over one arm, thereby securing greater freedom of

movement, and displaying a straight length of pink and white petticoat.

Thus prepared she fared forth over the still smoking turf. The storm

had passed, but the atmosphere remained thick and humid. A certain

opulence of colour obtained in the landscape. The herbs in the grass,

wild-thyme, wild-balm, and star-flowered camomile, smelt strongly

aromatic as she trod them under foot, while the beds of bracken, dried

and yellowed by the drought, gave off a sharp, woody scent.

Usually, when thus alone and in contact with nature, such matters

claimed Honoria's whole attention, ministering to her love of

earth-lore and of Mother Earth--producing in her silent worship of

those primitive deities who at once preside over and inhabit the

waste-land and the tilth, the untamed forest and the pastures where

heavy-uddered, sweet-breathed cows lie in the deep, meadow grass, the

garden ground, all pleasant, orchard places, and the broad promise of

the waving crops. But this afternoon, although the colour, odour,

warmth, and all the many voices praising the refreshment of the rain,

were sensibly present to her, Honoria's thought failed to be engrossed

by them. For she was in process of worshipping younger and more

compassionate deities, sadder, because more human, ones, whose office

lies not with Nature in her eternal repose and fecundity but with man

in his eternal failure and unrest. Not august Ceres, giver of the

golden harvest-fields, or fierce Cybele, the goddess of the many paps,

but spare, brown-habited St. Francis, serving his brethren with

bleeding hands and feet, held empire over her meditations.--In

imagination she saw--saw with only too lively realisation of

detail--that eighteen-year-old lad, in the factory at Westchurch, drawn

up--all the unspent hopes and pleasures of his young manhood active in

him--by the loose gearing, into the merciless vortex of revolving

wheels, and there, without preparation, without pause of warning,

without any dignity of shouting multitude, of arena or of stake,

martyred--converted in a few horrible seconds from health and wholeness

into a formless lump of human waste. And up and down the land, as she

reflected, wherever the great systems of trade and labour, which build

up the mechanical and material prosperity of our day, go forward,

kindred things happen--let alone question of all those persons who are

born into the world already injured, or bearing the seeds of foul and

disfiguring diseases in their organs and their blood.--Verily Richard

Calmady's sad family was a rather terribly large one, well calculated

to maintain its numbers, even to increase! For neither the age of human

sacrifice nor of cannibalism is really over, nor is the practice of

these limited to savage peoples in distant lands or far-away isles of

the sea. They form the basis actually, though in differing of outward

aspect, of all existing civilisations, just as they formed the basis of

all past civilisations--a basis, moreover, perpetually recemented and

relaid. And, as she considered--being courageous and fair-minded--it

was inevitable that this should be so, unthinkable that it should be

otherwise, since it made, at least indirectly, for the prosperity of

the majority and development of the race.--Considering which--the

apparently cruel paradox and irony of it--Honoria swung down past the

scattered hawthorns, thick with ruddy fruit, across the fragrant herbs

and short, sweet turf, through the straggling fern-brakes, which

impeded her progress, plucking at her skirts, careless of the rich

colour and ample beauty outspread before her.

But soon, as a bird after describing far-ranging circles drops at last

upon the from at-first-determined spot, so her thought settled down,

with relief yet in a way unwillingly--and that not out of any lingering

repulsion, but rather from a certain proud modesty and self-respect--upon

Richard Calmady himself. Not only did he apprehend all this, far more

clearly, more intimately, than she could.--Had he not spoken of the

advantages of a certain blackness?--Honoria's vision became somewhat

indistinct.--But he set out to deal with it in a practical manner. And

in this connection she began to understand how it had come about that

through years of ingratitude and neglect, and of loose-living, on his

part, his mother could still remain patient, could endure, and

supremely love. For behind the obvious, the almost coarse, tragedy and

consequent appeal of the man's deformity, there was the further appeal

of something very admirable in the man himself, for the emergence and

due blossoming of which it would be very possible, very worth while,

for whoso once recognised its existence to wait. John Knott had been

right in his estimate of Richard. Ludovic Quayle had been right. Lady

Calmady had been right.--Honoria had begun to believe that, even before

Richard had come forth from his self-imposed seclusion, in the spring.

The belief had increased during her subsequent intercourse with him,

had been reinforced during her few days' visit at Whitsuntide. Yet,

until now, she had never freely and openly admitted it. She wondered

why? And then hastily she put such wondering from her. Again a certain

proud modesty held her back. She did not want to think of herself in

relation to him, or of him in relation to herself. She wished, for a

reason she refused to define, to exclude the personal element. Doing

that she could permit herself larger latitude of admiration. His

acknowledgment of fellowship with, and obligation of friendship

towards, all victims of physical disaster kindled her enthusiasm. She

perceived that it was contrary to the man's natural arrogance, natural

revolt against the humiliation put upon him--a rather superb

overcoming, in short, of nature by grace. Nor was it the outgrowth of

any morbid or sentimental emotion. It had no tincture of the hysteric

element. It took its rise in conviction and in experiment. For Richard,

though still young, struck her as remarkably mature. He had lived his

life, sinned his sins--she did not doubt that--suffered unusual

sorrows, bought his experience in the open market and at a sufficiently

high price. And this was the result! It pleased her imagination by its

essential unworldliness, its idealism and individuality of outlook. She

went back on her earlier judgment of him, first formulated as a

complaint,--he was strong, whether for good or evil--now unselfishly

for good--and Honoria, being herself among the strong, supremely valued

and welcomed strength. And so it happened that the tone of her

meditations altered, being increasingly attuned to a serious, but very

real congratulation. For she perceived that the tragedy of human life

also constitutes the magnificence of human life, since it affords, and

always must afford, supreme opportunity of heroism.

She had traversed the open space of turf, and come to the tall, iron

hurdles enclosing the paddock. She folded her arms on the topmost bar

of the iron gate and stood there. She wanted to rest a little in these

thoughts that had come to her. She was not quite sure of them as yet.

But, if they meant anything, if they were other than mere rhetoric,

they must mean a very great deal, into harmony with which it would be

necessary to bring her thought upon many other subjects. She was

conscious of an excitement, a reaching out towards some

but-half-disclosed glory, some new and very exquisite fulness of life.

But was it new, after all? Was it not rather the at-last-permitted

activity of faculties and sensibilities hitherto refused development,

voluntarily, perhaps cowardly, held in check and repressed? She

appeared to be making acquaintance with unexpected depths of

apprehension and emotion in herself. And this, for cause unknown,

brought her into more lively commerce with her immediate surroundings

and the sentiment of them. Her eyes rested on them questioningly, as

though they might afford a tally to, perhaps an explanation of, the

strange, yet lovely emotion which had invaded her.

Here in the valley, notwithstanding the recent drought, the grass was

lush. Across the paddock, just within the circuit of the far railings,

a grove of large beech trees broke the expanse of living green. Beyond,

seen beneath their down-sweeping branches, the surface of the Long

Water repeated the hot purple, the dun-colour and silver-pink, of the

sky. On the opposite slope, extending from the elm avenue to the

outlying masses of the woods and upward to the line of oaks which run

parallel with the park palings, were cornlands. The wheat, a red-gold,

was already for the most part bound in shocks. A company of women,

wearing lilac and pink sunbonnets and all-round, blue, linen aprons

faded by frequent washing to a fine clearness of tone, came down over

the blond stubble. They carried, in little baskets and shining tins,

tea for the white-shirted harvesters who were busy setting up the

storm-fallen sheaves. They laughed and talked together, and their

voices came to Honoria with a pleasant quality of sound. Two stumbling

baby-children, hand in hand, followed them, as did a small,

white-and-tan, spotted dog. One woman was bareheaded and wore a black

bodice, which gave a singular value to her figure amid the

all-obtaining yellow of the corn.

The scene in its simple and homely charm held the poetry of that

happier side of labour, of that most ancient of all industries--the

husbandman's--and of the generous giving of the soil. Set in a frame of

opulently coloured woodland and sky, the stately red-brick and

freestone house crowning the high land and looking forth upon it all,

the whole formed, to Honoria's thinking, a very noble picture. And

then, of a sudden, in the midst of her quiet enjoyment of it and a

tenderness which the sight of it somehow begot in her, Honoria was

seized by sharp, unreasoning regret that she must so soon leave it.

Unreasoning regret that she had engaged to go abroad this winter, with

poor, pretty, frivolous, young Lady Tobermory--spoilt child of society

and of wealth--now half-crazed, rendered desperate, by the fear that

disease, which had laid a threatening finger on her, might lay its

whole hand cutting short her playtime and breaking her many toys. Of

anything other than toys and playtime she had no conception.--"Those

brutes of doctors tell Tobermory I must give up low gowns," she wrote.

"And I adore my neck and shoulders. Every one always has admired them.

It makes me utterly miserable to cover them up. And now that I am

thinner I could have my gowns cut lower than ever, nearly down to my

waist, which makes it all the more intolerable. I went to Dessaix about

it, went over to Paris on purpose, though Tobermory was wild at my

traveling in the heat. He--Dessaix, I mean, not poor T.--was just as

nice as possible, and promised to invent new styles. Still, of course,

I must look dowdy at night in a high gown. Everybody does. I shall feel

exactly like our clergyman's wife at Ellerhay, when she comes to dine

with us at Christmas and Easter and once in the summer. I refuse to

have her oftener than that. She has a long back and about fourteen

children, which she seems to think a great credit to her. I don't, as

they are ugly, and she is dreadfully poor. She wears her Sunday silk

with lace _wound_ about, don't you know, but wound _tight_. That means

full dress. I am buying some lace, Duchesse at three and a half guineas

a yard. I suppose I shall come to _winding_ that of an evening. Then I

shall look like her. It makes me cry dreadfully, and, as I tell

Tobermory, that is worse for me than any number of lungs. Darling H.,

if you really love me in the least, bring nothing but high gowns.

Perhaps I mayn't mind quite so much if I never see you in a low

one."--There had been much more to the same effect, pathetic in its

inadequacy and egoism. Only, as Honoria reflected, that is a style of

pathos dangerously liable to pall upon one. She sighed, for the

prospect of spending the winter participating in the frivolities, and

striving to restrain the indiscretions of this little, damaged

butterfly, did not smile upon her. She might have stayed on here,

stayed on at Brockhurst, worked over the dear place as she had so often

done before--helping Lady Calmady. Why had she promised?--Well--because

she had been rather restless, unsettled, and at loose ends of late----

Whereupon the young lady bent down and unfastened the padlock with a

certain decision of movement, closed the gate, relocking it carefully

behind her, and started off across the deep grass of the paddock, her

pale face very serious, her small head held high. She would keep faith

with Evelyn Tobermory. Of course she would keep faith with her. It was

not only a matter of honour, but of expediency. It was much, very much

better to go. Yet whence this sudden heat proceeded, and why the

Egyptian journey assumed suddenly such paramount desirability, she

carefully did not stay to inquire--an omission not, perhaps, without

significance.

The half-dozen dainty fillies, meanwhile, who had eyed her shyly from

their station beneath the beech trees, trotted gently towards her with

friendly whinnyings, their fine ears pricked, their long tails carried

well away in a sweeping curve. Honoria went on to meet them. She was

glad of something to occupy her hands, some outside, concrete thing to

occupy her thought. She took the foremost, a dark bay, by the nose

strap of its leather head-stall, patted the beast's sleek neck, looked

into its prominent, heavy-lidded eyes,--the blue film over the

velvet-like iris and pupil of them giving a singular softness of

effect,--drew down the fine, aristocratic head, and kissed the little

star where the hair turned in the centre of the smooth, hard forehead.

It was as perfectly bred as she was herself--so clean, so fresh, that

to touch it was wholly pleasant! Then she backed away from it, holding

it at arm's-length, noting how every line of its limbs and body was

graceful and harmonious, full of the purpose of easy strength, easy

freedom of movement. That it was a trifle blown out in barrel, from

being at grass, only gave its contours an added suavity. It was a

lovely beast, a delicious beast! Honoria smiled upon it, talked to,

patted and coaxed it. While another young beauty, waxing brave, pushed

its black muzzle under her arm, and lipped at her jacket pockets in

search of bread and of apples. And, these good things once discovered,

the rest of the drove came about her, civilly, a trifle proudly, as

befitted such fine ladies, with no pushings and bustlings of vulgar

greed. And they charmed her. She was very much at one with them. She

fed them fearlessly, thrusting one aside in favour of another, giving

each reward in due turn. She passed her hands down over their slender

limbs. The warm colours and the gloss of them were pleasant to her

eyes. And they smelt sweet, as did the trampled grass beneath their

unshod hoofs. For a while the human problem--its tragedy, magnificence,

inadequacy alike--ceased to trouble her. The poetry of these beautiful,

innocent, clean-feeding beasts was, for the moment, sufficient in and

by itself.

But, even while she thus played with and rejoiced in them, remembrance

of their owner came back to her, his maiming, as against their

perfection of finish, the lamentable disparity between his physical

equipment and theirs. Honoria's expression lost its nonchalant gaiety.

She pushed her gentle, equine comrades away to left and right, not that

they ceased to please but that the human problem and the tragedy of it

once more became dominant. She walked on across the paddock rapidly,

while the fillies, forming up behind her, followed in single file

treading a sinuous pathway through the grass, the foremost one still

pushing its black muzzle, now and again, under her elbow and nibbling

insinuatingly at her empty jacket pockets.--If only that horrible

misfortune had not befallen Richard Calmady! If--if---- But then, had

it not befallen him, would he ever have been excited to so admirable

effort, would he ever have attained so absorbing and vigorous a

personality as he actually had? Again her thought turned on itself, to

provocation of momentary impatience.--Honoria unfastened the second

padlock with a return of her former decision.--There were conclusions

she wished instinctively to avoid, from which she instinctively desired

escape. She forced aside the all-too-affectionate, bay filly who

crowded upon her, shot back the bar of the gate and relocked it. Then,

once again, she kissed the pretty beast on the forehead as it stretched

its neck over the top of the gate.

"Good-bye, dear lass," she said. "Win your races and, when the time

comes, drop foals as handsome as yourself, and thank your stars you're

under orders, and so have small chance to muddle your affairs--as with

your good looks, my dear, you most assuredly would--like all the rest

of us."

With which excellent advice she swung away down the last twenty yards

of the avenue and out on to the roadway of the red-brick and freestone

bridge. Here, in the open above the water, the air was sensibly

fresher. From the paddock the deserted fillies whinnied to her. The

voices of the harvesters came cheerily from the cornland. The men sat

in the blond stubble, backed by a range of upstanding sheaves. The

women, bright in those frail blues, clear pinks, and lilacs, knelt

serving their meal. She of the black bodice stood apart, her hands upon

her hips, looking towards the bridge and its solitary occupant. The

tan-and-white, spotted dog ran to and fro chasing field-mice and

yapped. The baby children staggered after it, uttering excited

squeakings and cries. The lower cloud had parted in the west,

disclosing an upper stratum of pale gold, which widened upward and

outward as the minutes passed. Save immediately below, in the shadow of

the bridge, this found reflection in the water, overlaying it as with

the blond of the stubble and warmer tones of the sheaves. Honoria sat

down sideways on the coping of the parapet. She watched the moor-hens,

dark of plumage, a splash of fiery orange on their jaunty, little

heads, swim out with restless, jerky motion from the edge of the

reed-beds and break up the shining surface with diverging lines of

rippling, brown shadow. In the shade cast by the bridge, trout rose at

the dancing gnats and flies. She could see them rush upward through the

brown water. Sometimes they leapt clear of it, exposing their silver

bellies, pink-spotted sides, and the olive-green of their backs. They

dropped again with a flop, and rings circled outward from the place of

their disappearing.

All this Honoria saw, but dreamily, pensively. She realised, as never

before, that, much as she might love this place and the life of it, she

was a guest only, a pilgrim and sojourner. The completeness of her own

independence ceased to please.--"Me this unchartered freedom tires." As

she quoted the line, Honoria smiled. These were, indeed, new aspects of

herself! Where would they carry her, both in thought and in action? It

was a little alarming to contemplate that. And then her pensiveness

increased, a strange nostalgia taking her--amounting almost to physical

pain--for that same but-half-disclosed glory, that same new and very

exquisite fulness of life, apprehension of which had lately been

vouchsafed to her. If she could remain very still and undisturbed, if

she could empty her consciousness of all else, bend her whole will to

an act at once of determination and of reception, perhaps, it would be

given her clearly to see and understand. The idealist, the mystic, were

very present in Honoria just then. She fixed her eyes upon the shining

surface of the water. A conviction grew upon her that, could she

maintain a certain mental and emotional equilibrium, something of

permanent and very vital importance must take place.

Suddenly she heard footsteps upon the gravel of the roadway. She

started, turned deliberately, holding in check the agitation which

possessed her, to find herself confronted by the tall, preeminently

modern and mundane, figure of Ludovic Quayle. Honoria gave herself a

little shake of uncontrollable impatience. For less than

twopence-halfpenny she could have given the very gentlemanlike intruder

a shake too! He let her down with a bump, so to speak, from regions

mysterious and supernal, to regions altogether social and of this world

worldly. And yet she knew that such feelings were not a little hard and

unjust as entertained towards poor Mr. Quayle.

The young man, in any case, was happily ignorant of having offended. He

sauntered out on to the bridge, hat in hand, his head a trifle on one

side, his long neck directed slightly forward, his expression that of

polite and intimate amusement--but whether amusement at his own, or his

fellow-creatures' expense, it would have been difficult to declare.

"At last, I find you, my dear Miss St. Quentin," he said. "And I have

sought for you as for lost treasure. Forgive a biblical form of

address--a reminiscence merely of my father's morning ministrations to

my unmarried sisters, the footmen, and the maids. He reads them the

most surprising little histories at times, which make me positively

blush--but that's a detail. To account for my invasion of your idyllic

solitude--I learned incidentally you proposed coming here from Ormiston

this week. I thought I would venture on an early attempt to find you.

But I drew the house blank, though assisted by Winter--the terrace also

blank. Then from the troco-ground I beheld that which looked promising,

coquetting with Dickie's yearlings. So I followed on to know--my father

and the maids again--followed on to--to my reward."

Mr. Quayle stood directly in front of her. He spoke with admirable

urbanity, yet with even greater rapidity than usual. His beautifully

formed mouth pursed itself up between the sentences, with that effect

of indulgent superiority which was at once so attractive and so

excessively provoking. But, for all that, Honoria perceived that, for

once in his life, the young man was distinctly, not to say acutely,

nervous.

"The reward will be limited I'm afraid," she replied, "for my temper is

unaccountably out of sorts this afternoon."

"And, if one may make bold to inquire, why out of sorts, dear Miss St.

Quentin?"

He sat down on the parapet near her, crossed his legs, and fell to

nursing his left knee. The woman of the black bodice went up across the

pale stubble to her companions. She talked to them, nodding her head in

the direction of the bridge.

"I have promised to do a certain thing, and having promised, of course

I must do it."

Honoria looked away towards the harvesters up there among the gold of

the corn.

"And yet, now I have committed myself, thinking it over I find I

dislike doing it warmly."

"The statement of the case is just a trifle vague," Mr. Quayle

remarked. "But--if one may brave a suggestion--supersede a first duty

by a second and, of course, a greater. With a little exercise of

imagination, a little good-will, a little assistance from a true friend

thrown in perhaps, it is generally quite possible to manage that, I

think."

"And you are prepared to play the part of the true friend?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Then go to Cairo for the winter with Evelyn Tobermory. You must take

no low gowns--ah! poor little soul, it is pathetic, though--she's

forbidden to wear them. And--let me stay here!" Honoria said.

Ludovic gazed at his hands as they clasped his knee, then he looked

sideways at his companion.

"Here, meaning--meaning Brockhurst, dear Miss St. Quentin?" he asked

very sweetly.

"Meaning England," she declared.

"England?--ah! really. That pleases me better. Patriotism is an

excellent virtue. The remark is not a wholly original one, but it comes

in handy just now, all the same."

The young lady's head went up. Her face straightened. She was

displeased. Turning sideways, she leaned both hands on the stonework

and stared down into the water. But speedily she repented.

"See how the fish rise," she said. "It really is a pity one hasn't a

fly-rod."

"I was under the impression you once told me that you objected to

taking life, except in self-defense or for purposes of commissariat.

The trout would almost certainly be muddy. And I am quite unconscious

of being exposed to any danger--at least from the trout."

Miss St. Quentin kept her eyes fixed upon the water.

"I told you my temper was out of sorts," she said.

"Is that a warning?" Ludovic inquired, with the utmost mildness.

Honoria was busy feeling in her jacket pockets. At the bottom of them a

few crumbs remained. She emptied these on to the surface of the water,

by the simple expedient of turning the pockets inside out.

"I know nothing about warnings," she said. "I state a plain fact. You

can make of it what you please."

The young man rose leisurely from his place, sauntered across the

roadway, and stood with his back to her, looking down the valley. The

harvesters, their meal finished, moved away towards the further side of

the great corn-field. The women followed them slowly, gleaning as they

went. It was very quiet. And again there came to Honoria that ache of

longing for the but-half-disclosed glory and fulness of life. It was

there, an actuality--could she but find it, had she but the courage and

the wit. Then, from the open moorland beyond the park palings, came the

sound of horses trotting sharply. Ludovic Quayle turned and recrossed

the road. He smiled, but his superfine manner, his effect of slight

impertinence were, for the moment, in abeyance.

"Miss St. Quentin," he said, "what is the use of fencing any longer? I

have done that which I engaged to do, namely, displayed the patience of

innumerable asses. And--if I may be pardoned mentioning such a

thing--the years pass. Really they do. And I seem to get no forwarder!

My position becomes slightly ludicrous."

"I know it, I know it!" Honoria cried penitently.

"That I am ludicrous?"

"No, no," she protested, "that I have been unreasonable and traded on

your forbearance, that I have done wrong in allowing you to wait."

"That you could not very well help," he said, "since I chose to wait.

And, indeed, I greatly preferred waiting as long as there seemed to be

a hope there was something--anything, in short--to wait for."

"Ah! but that is precisely what I have never been sure about

myself--whether there really was anything to wait for or not."

She sat straight on the coping of the parapet again. Her face bore the

most engaging expression. There was a certain softness in her aspect

to-day. She was less of a youth, a comrade, so it seemed to Mr. Quayle,

more distinctly, more consciously a woman. But now, to the sound of

trotting horse-hoofs was added that of wheels. With a clang the park

gates were thrown open.

"And are you still uncertain? In the back of your mind is there still a

trifle of doubt?--If so, give me the benefit of it," the young man

pleaded, half laughingly, half brokenly.

A carriage passed under the gray archway of the red-brick and freestone

lodges. Rapidly it came on down the wide, smooth, string-coloured

road--a space of neatly kept turf on either side--under the shade of

the heavy-foliaged elm trees. Mr. Quayle glanced at it, and paused with

raised eyebrows.

"I call you to witness that I do not swear, dear Miss St. Quentin,

though men have been known to become blasphemous on slighter provocation

than this," he said. "However, the rather violently-approaching

interruption will be soon over, I hope and believe; since the driving

is that of Richard Calmady of Brockhurst when his temper--like your

own--being somewhat out of sorts, he, as Jehu the son of Nimshi of

old--my father's morning ministrations to the maids again--driveth

furiously."

Then, with an air of humorous resignation, his mouth working a little,

his long neck directed forward as in mildly-surprised inquiry, he stood

watching the approaching mail-phaeton. The wheels of it made a hollow

rumbling, the tramp of the horses was impetuous, the pole-chains

rattled, as it swung out on to the bridge and drew up. The grooms

whipped down and ran round to the horses' heads. And these stood, a

little extended, still and rigid as of bronze, the red of their open

nostrils and the silver mounting of their harness very noticeable. Lady

Calmady called to Mr. Quayle. The young man passed round at the back of

the carriage, and, standing on the far side of the roadway, talked with

her.

Honoria St. Quentin remained sitting on the parapet of the bridge.

A singular disinclination to risk any movement had come upon her. Not

the present situation in relation to Ludovic Quayle, but that other

situation of the but-half-disclosed glory, the new and exquisite

fulness of life oppressed her, penetrating her whole being to the point

of physical weakness. Questioningly, yet with entire unself-consciousness,

she looked up at Richard Calmady. And he, from the exalted height of

the driving-seat, looked down at her. A dark, cloth rug was wrapped

tight round him from the waist downward. It concealed the high

driving-iron against which his feet rested. It concealed the strap

which steadied him in his place. His person appeared finely proportioned.

His head and face were surprisingly handsome seen thus from below--though

it must be conceded the expression of the latter was very far from angelic.

"You were well advised to stay at home, Honoria," he said. There was a

grating tone in his voice.

"The function was even more distinguished for dulness than you

expected?"

"On the contrary, it was not in the least dull. It was actively

objectionable, ingeniously unpleasant. Whereas this----"

His face softened a little. He glanced at the golden water and

cornland, the lush green of the paddock, the rich, massive colouring of

woodland and sky. Honoria glanced at it likewise, and, so doing, rose

to her feet. That nostalgia of things new and glorious ached in her.

Yet the pain of it had a strange and intimate charm, making it unlike

any pain she had ever yet felt. It hurt her very really, it made her

weak, yet she would not have had it cease.

"Yes, it is all very lovely, isn't it?" she said.

She laid her hand on the folded leather of the carriage hood. Again she

looked up.

"It is a good deal to have this--always--your own, to come back to,

Richard."

She spoke sadly, almost unwillingly. Dickie did not answer, but he

looked down, a certain violence and energy very evident in him, his

blue eyes hard, and, in the depth of them, desolate as the sky of a

winter night. Calmly, yet in a way desperately, as those who dare

inquiry beyond the range of permitted human speech, the young man and

woman looked at one another. Lady Calmady's sweet voice, meanwhile,

went on in kindly question. Ludovic Quayle's in well-placed, slightly

elaborate answer. The near horse threw back its head and the

pole-chains rattled smartly.--Honoria's lips parted, but the words, if

words indeed there were, died in her throat. She raised her hands, as

though putting a tangible and actual presence away from her. She did

not change colour, but for the moment her delicate features appeared

thickened, as by a rush of blood. She was almost plain. Yet the effect

was inexpressibly touching. It was as though she had received some

mysterious injury which she was dumb, incapable to express. She let her

hands drop at her sides, turned away and walked to the far end of the

bridge.

Suddenly Richard's voice came to her, aggressive, curt.

"Look out, Ludovic--stand clear of the wheel."

The horses sprang forward, the grooms scrambled up at the back, and the

carriage swung away from the brightness of the open to the gloom of the

avenue and up the long hill to the house.

Mr. Quayle contemplated it for a minute or so and then, with an air of

amused toleration, he followed Miss St. Quentin across the bridge.

"Poor, dear Dickie Calmady, poor, dear Dickie!" he said. "He attempts

the impossible. Fails to attain it--as a matter of course, and,

meanwhile, misses the possible--equally as a matter of course. It is

all very magnificent, no doubt, but it is also not a little

uncomfortable, at times, for other people.--However that trifle of

criticism is, after all, beside the mark. Now that the whirlwind has

ceased, Miss St. Quentin, may the still, small voice of my own affairs

presume to make itself----"

But there he stopped abruptly.

"My dear friend," he asked in quick anxiety, "what is the matter?

Pardon me, but what on earth has happened to you?"

For Honoria leaned both elbows on the low, carved pillar terminating

the masonry of the parapet. She covered her face with her hands. And,

incontestably, she shuddered queerly from head to foot.

"Wait half a second," she said, in a stifled voice. "It's nothing--I'm

all right."

Slowly she raised herself, and took a long breath. Then she turned to

her faithful lover, showing him a brave, if somewhat drawn and tired

countenance.

"Ludovic," she said gently, "don't, don't please let us talk any more

about all that. And don't, I entreat you, wait any longer. If there was

any uncertainty, if there was a doubt in the back of my mind, it's

gone. Forgive me--this must sound brutal--but there is no more doubt. I

can't marry you. I am sorry, horribly sorry--for you have been as

charming to me as a man could be--but I shall never be able to marry

you."

Mr. Quayle's expression retained its sweetness, even its effect of

amusement, though his lips quivered, and his eyelids were a little red.

"I do not come up to the requirements of the grand passion?" he said.

"Alas! poor me----"

"No, no, it isn't that," Honoria protested.

"Ah, then,"--he paused, with an air of extraordinary

intelligence--"Perhaps some one else does?"

"Yes," she said simply, "I don't like it, but it's there, and so I've

got to go through with it--some one else does."

"In that case it is indeed hopeless! I give it up," he cried.

He moved aside and stood gazing at the rising trout in the golden-brown

water. Then he raised his head sharply, as in obedience to a thought

suddenly occurring to him, and gazed at Brockhurst House. The

brightness of the western sky found reflection in its many windows. A

noble cheerfulness seemed to pervade it, as it crowned the hillside,

amid its gardens and far-ranging woods.

"By all that's"--Mr. Quayle began. But he repressed the exclamation,

and his expression was wholly friendly as he returned to Miss St.

Quentin.

"Good-bye," he said.--"I am glad, honestly glad, you have found the

grand passion, though the object of it can't, in the first blush of the

affair be altogether _persona grata_ to myself. But, to show that

really I have a little root of magnanimity in me, I am quite prepared

to undertake a winter at Cairo, plus Evelyn Tobemory and minus low

dresses, if that will enable you to stay on here--I mean in

England,--of course."

He pursed up his beautiful mouth, he carried his head on one side with

the liveliest effect of provocation, as he held the young lady's hand

while bidding her farewell.

"Out of my heart I hope you will be very happy," he said.

"I shall never be anything but Honoria St. Quentin," she answered

rather hastily. Then she softened, forgiving him.--"Oh! why," she said,

"why will you make me quarrel with you just now, just at the last?"

"Because--because--" Mr. Quayle's voice broke, though his superior

smile remained to him.--"I think I will not prolong the interview," he

said. "To be frank with you, dear Miss St. Quentin, I am about as

miserable as is consonant with complete sanity and excellent health. I

do not propose to blow my brains out, but I think--yes, thanks--you

appreciate the desirability of that course of action too?--I think it

is about time I went."