"My Dear Frank,"I know you won't like what I have to say, but it has to be said. Believe me, it costs me as much to write as you to read—perhaps more."It is this: Our engagement must be at an end."You have a perfect right to ask me for reasons, so I will give them at once, as I don't want to open the subject again. It would do no kind of good. My mind is absolutely made up."My main reason is this: When I became engaged to you I did not know you properly. I thought you were quite different from what you are. I thought that underneath all your nice wildness, and so on, there was a very solid person. And I hinted that, you will remember, in my first letter, which I suppose you have received just before this. And now I simply can't think that any longer."I don't in the least blame you for being what you are: that's not my business. But I must just say this—that a man who can do what you've done, not only for a week or two, as I thought at first, as a sort of game, but for nearly three months, and during that time could leave me with only three or four postcards and no news; above all, a man who could get into such disgrace and trouble, and actually go to prison, and yet not seem to mind much—well, it isn't what I had thought of you."You see, there are a whole lot of things together. It isn't just this or that, but the whole thing."First you became a Catholic, without telling me anything until just before. I didn't like that, naturally, but I didn't say anything. It isn't nice for a husband and wife to be of different religions. Then you ran away from Cambridge; then you got mixed up with this man you speak of in your letter to Jack; and you must have been rather fond of him, you know, to go to prison for him, as I suppose you did. And yet, after all that, I expect you've gone to meet him again in York. And then there's the undeniable fact of prison."You see, it's all these things together—one after another. I have defended you to your father again and again; I haven't allowed anybody to abuse you without standing up for you; but it really has gone too far. You know I did half warn you in that other letter. I know you couldn't have got it till just now, but that wasn't my fault; and the letter shows what I was thinking, even three months ago."Don't be too angry with me, Frank. I'm very fond of you still, and I shall always stand up for you when I can. And please don't answer this in any way. Jack Kirkby isn't answering just yet. I asked him not, though he doesn't know why."Your father is going to send the news that the engagement is broken off to the newspapers.
"My Dear Frank,
"I know you won't like what I have to say, but it has to be said. Believe me, it costs me as much to write as you to read—perhaps more.
"It is this: Our engagement must be at an end.
"You have a perfect right to ask me for reasons, so I will give them at once, as I don't want to open the subject again. It would do no kind of good. My mind is absolutely made up.
"My main reason is this: When I became engaged to you I did not know you properly. I thought you were quite different from what you are. I thought that underneath all your nice wildness, and so on, there was a very solid person. And I hinted that, you will remember, in my first letter, which I suppose you have received just before this. And now I simply can't think that any longer.
"I don't in the least blame you for being what you are: that's not my business. But I must just say this—that a man who can do what you've done, not only for a week or two, as I thought at first, as a sort of game, but for nearly three months, and during that time could leave me with only three or four postcards and no news; above all, a man who could get into such disgrace and trouble, and actually go to prison, and yet not seem to mind much—well, it isn't what I had thought of you.
"You see, there are a whole lot of things together. It isn't just this or that, but the whole thing.
"First you became a Catholic, without telling me anything until just before. I didn't like that, naturally, but I didn't say anything. It isn't nice for a husband and wife to be of different religions. Then you ran away from Cambridge; then you got mixed up with this man you speak of in your letter to Jack; and you must have been rather fond of him, you know, to go to prison for him, as I suppose you did. And yet, after all that, I expect you've gone to meet him again in York. And then there's the undeniable fact of prison.
"You see, it's all these things together—one after another. I have defended you to your father again and again; I haven't allowed anybody to abuse you without standing up for you; but it really has gone too far. You know I did half warn you in that other letter. I know you couldn't have got it till just now, but that wasn't my fault; and the letter shows what I was thinking, even three months ago.
"Don't be too angry with me, Frank. I'm very fond of you still, and I shall always stand up for you when I can. And please don't answer this in any way. Jack Kirkby isn't answering just yet. I asked him not, though he doesn't know why.
"Your father is going to send the news that the engagement is broken off to the newspapers.
"Yours sincerely,"Jenny Launton."
"Yours sincerely,"Jenny Launton."
Barham, as all Yorkshire knows, lies at the foot of a long valley, where it emerges into the flatter district round Harrogate. It has a railway all to itself, which goes no further, for Barham is shut in on the north by tall hills and moors, and lies on the way to nowhere. It is almost wholly an agricultural town, and has a curious humped bridge, right in the middle of the town, where men stand about on market days and discuss the price of bullocks. It has two churches—one, disused, on a precipitous spur above the town, surrounded by an amazingly irregular sort of churchyard, full, literally, to bursting (the Kirkbys lie there, generation after generation of them, beneath pompous tombs), and the other church a hideous rectangular building, with flat walls and shallow, sham Gothic windows. It was thought extremely beautiful when it was built forty years ago. The town itself is an irregular and rather picturesque place, with a twisting steep High Street, looking as if a number of houses had been shot at random into this nook among the hills and left to find their own levels.
The big house where the Kirkbys have lived since the middle of the seventeenth century is close to the town, as the squire's house ought to be, and its park gates open right upon the northern end of the old bridge. There's nothing of great interest in the house (I believe there is an old doorway in the cellar, mentioned in guide-books), since it was rebuilt about the same time as the new church first rose. It is just a big, comfortable, warm, cool, shady sort of house, with a large hall and a fine oak staircase, surrounded by lawns and shrubberies, that adjoin on the west the lower slopes, first of the park and then of the moors that stretch away over the horizon.
There is a pleasant feudal air about the whole place—feudal, in a small and neighborly kind of way. Jack's father died just a year before his only son came of age; and Jack himself, surrounded by sisters and an excellent and beneficently-minded mother, has succeeded to all the immemorial rights and powers, written and unwritten, of the Squire of Barham. He entertained me delightfully for three or four days a few months ago, when I was traveling about after Frank's footsteps, and I noticed with pleasure as we drove through the town that there was hardly a living creature in the town whom he did not salute; and who did not salute him.
He took me first to the bridge and pulled up in the middle of it, to point out a small recess in it, over the central pier, intended, no doubt, to give shelter to foot-passengers before the bridge was widened, in case a large vehicle came through.
"There," he said. "That's the place I first saw Frank when he came."
We drove on up through the town, and at the foot of the almost precipitous hill leading up to the ruined church we got out, leaving the dog-cart in charge of the groom. We climbed the hill slowly, for it was a hot day, Jack uttering reminiscences at intervals (many of which are recorded in these pages) and turned in at the churchyard gate.
"And this was the place," said Jack, "where I said good-by to him."
It was on the twenty-fifth of September, a Monday, that Jack sat in the smoking-room, in Norfolk jacket and gaiters, drinking tea as fast as he possibly could. He had been out on the moors all day, and was as thirsty as the moors could make him, and he had been sensual enough to smoke a cigarette deliberately before beginning tea, in order to bring his thirst to an acute point.
Then, the instant he had finished he snatched for his case again, for this was to be the best cigarette of the whole day, and discovered that his sensuality had overreached itself for once, and that there were none left. He clutched at the silver box with a sinking heart, half-remembering that he had filled his case with the last of them this morning. It was a fact, and he knew that there were no others in the house.
This would never do, and he reflected that if he sent a man for some more, he would not get them for at least twenty minutes. (Jack never could understand why an able-bodied footman always occupied twenty minutes in a journey that ought to take eight.) So he put on his cap again, stepped out of the low window and set off down the drive.
It was getting a little dark as he passed out of the lodge-gates. The sun, of course, had set at least an hour before behind the great hill to the west, but the twilight proper was only just beginning. He was nearly at the place now, and as he breasted the steep ascent of the bridge, peered over it, at least with his mind's eye, at the tobacconist's shop—first on the left—where a store of "Mr. Jack's cigarettes" was always on hand.
He noticed in the little recess I have just spoken of a man leaning with his elbows on the parapet, and staring out up the long reach of the stream to the purple evening moors against the sky and the luminous glory itself; and as he came opposite him, wondered vaguely who it was and whether he knew him. Then, as he got just opposite him, he stopped, uneasy at heart.
Naturally Frank was never very far away from Jack's thoughts just now—ever since, indeed, he had heard the news in a very discreet letter from the Reverend James Launton a week or two ago. (I need not say he had answered this letter, not to the father, but to the daughter, but had received no reply.)
He had written a frantic letter to Frank himself then, but it had been returned, marked: "Unknown at this address." And ever since he had eyed all tramps on the road with an earnestness that elicited occasionally a salute, and occasionally an impolite remark.
The figure whose back he saw now certainly was not much like Frank; but then—again—it was rather like him. It was dressed in a jacket and trousers so stained with dust and wet as to have no color of their own at all, and a cloth cap of the same appearance. 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 for the first instant said nothing at all, but stood transfixed, with his mouth a little open and his eyes staring. Frank's face was sunburned almost beyond recognition, his hair seemed cut shorter than usual, and the light was behind him.
Then Jack recovered.
"My dear man," he said, "why the—"
He seized him by the hands and held him, staring at him.
"Yes; it's me all right," said Frank. "I was just wondering—"
"Come along, instantly.... Damn! I've got to go to a tobacconist's; it's only just here. There isn't a cigarette in the house. Come with me?"
"I'll wait here," said Frank.
"Will you? I shan't be a second."
It was, as a matter of fact, scarcely one minute before Jack was back; he had darted in, snatched a box from the shelf and vanished, crying out to "put it down to him." He found Frank had faced round again and was staring at the water and sky and high moors. He snatched up his friend's bundle and stick.
"Come along," he said, "we shall have an hour or two before dinner."
Frank, in silence, took the bundle and stick from him again, firmly and irresistibly, and they did not speak again till they were out of ear-shot of the lodge. Then Jack began, taking Frank's arm—a custom for which he had often been rebuked.
"My dear old man!" he said. "I ... I can't say what I feel. I know the whole thing, of course, and I've expressed my mind plainly to Miss Jenny."
"Yes?"
"And to your father. Neither have answered, and naturally I haven't been over again.... Dick's been there, by the way."
Frank made no comment.
"You look simply awful, old chap," pursued Jack cheerily. "Where on earth have you been for the last month? I wrote to York and got the letter returned."
"Oh! I've been up and down," said Frank impassively.
"With the people you were with before—the man, I mean?"
"No. I've left them for the present. But I shall probably join them again later."
"Join...!" began the other aghast.
"Certainly! This thing's only just begun," said Frank, with that same odd impassivity. "We've seen the worst of it, I fancy."
"But you don't mean you're going back! Why, it's ridiculous!"
Frank stopped. They were within sight of the house now and the lights shone pleasantly out.
"By the way, Jack, I quite forgot. You will kindly give me your promise to make no sort of effort to detain me when I want to go again, or I shan't come any further."
"But, my dear chap—"
"Kindly promise at once, please."
"Oh, well! I promise, but—"
"That's all right," said Frank, and moved on.
"I say," said Jack, as they came up to the hall door. "Will you talk now or will you change, or what?"
"I should like a hot bath first. By the way, have you anyone staying in the house?"
"Not a soul; and only two sisters at home. And my mother, of course."
"What about clothes?"
"I'll see about that. Come on round to the smoking-room window. Then I'll get in Jackson and explain to him. I suppose you don't mind your name being known? He'll probably recognize you, anyhow."
"Not in the least, so long as no one interferes."
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."
"I beg your pardon, sir?
"This is Mr. Frank Guiseley—of Merefield.... It is, really! But we don't want more people talking than are necessary. You understand? Please don't say anything about it, except that he's come on a walking-tour. And please tell the housekeeper to get the Blue Room ready, and let somebody turn on the hot water in the bath-room until further notice. That's all, Jackson ... and the clothes. You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And get theeau de lubinfrom my dressing-room and put it in the bath-room. Oh, yes; and the wooden bowl of soap."
"These clothes of mine are not to be thrown away, please, Jackson," said Frank gravely from the chair. "I shall want them again."
"Yes, sir."
"That's all, then," said Jack.
Mr. Jackson turned stiffly and left the room.
"It's all right," said Jack. "You remember old Jackson. He won't say a word. Lucky no one saw us as we came up."
"It doesn't matter much, does it?" said Frank.
There was a pause.
"I say, Frank, when will you tell me—"
"I'll answer any questions after dinner to-night. I simply can't talk now."
Dinner was a little difficult that night.
Mrs. Kirkby had been subjected to a long lecture from her son during the half hour in which she ought to have been dressing, in order to have it firmly implanted in her mind that Frank—whom she had known from a boy—was simply and solely in the middle of a walking-tour all by himself. She understood the situation perfectly in a minute and a half—(she was a very shrewd woman who did not say much)—but Jack was not content. He hovered about her room, fingering photographs and silver-handled brushes, explaining over and over again how important it was that Frank should be made to feel at his case, and that Fanny and Jill—(who were just old enough to come to dinner in white high-necked frocks that came down to their very slender ankles, and thick pig-tails down their backs)—must not be allowed to bother him. Mrs. Kirkby said, "Yes, I understand," about a hundred and thirty times, and glanced at the clock. She stood with one finger on the electric button for at least five minutes before venturing to ring for her maid, and it was only that lady's discreet tap at one minute before eight that finally got Jack out of the room. He looked in on Frank in the middle of his dressing, found to his relief that an oldish suit of dress-clothes fitted him quite decently, and then went to put on his own. He came down to the drawing-room seven minutes after the gong with his ears very red and his hair in a plume, to find Frank talking to his mother, and eyed by his sisters who were pretending to look at photographs, with all the ease in the world.
But dinner itself was difficult. It was the obvious thing to talk about Frank's "walking-tour"; and yet this was exactly what Jack dared not do. The state of the moors, and the deplorable ravages made among the young grouse by the early rains, occupied them all to the end of fish; to the grouse succeeded the bullocks: to the bullocks, the sheep, and, by an obvious connection—obvious to all who knew that gentleman—from the sheep to the new curate.
But just before the chocolatesouffléethere came a pause, and Jill, the younger of the two sisters, hastened to fill the gap.
"Did you have a nice walking-tour, Mr. Guiseley?"
Frank turned to her politely.
"Yes, very nice, considering," he said.
"Have you been alone all the time?" pursued Jill, conscious of a social success.
"Well, no," said Frank. "I was traveling with a ... well, with a man who was an officer in the army. He was a major."
"And did you—"
"That's enough, Jill," said her mother decidedly. "Don't bother Mr. Guiseley. He's tired with his walk."
The two young men sat quiet for a minute or two after the ladies had left the room. Then Jack spoke.
"Well?" he said.
Frank looked up. There was an odd, patient kind of look in his eyes that touched Jack a good deal. Frank had not been distinguished for submissiveness hitherto.
"Oh! a bit later, if you don't mind," he said. "We can talk in the smoking-room."
"Well, I'll tell you the whole thing as far as I understand it," began Frank, as the door closed behind Jackson, who had brought whisky and candles. "And then I'll answer any questions you want."
He settled himself back in his chair, stretching out his legs and clasping his hands behind his head. Jack had a good view of him and could take notice of his own impressions, though he found them hard to put into words afterwards. The words he finally chose were "subdued" and "patient" again, and there are hardly two words that would have been less applicable to Frank three months before. At the same time his virility was more noticeable than ever; he had about him, Jack said, something of the air of a very good groom—a hard-featured and sharp, yet not at all unkindly look, very capable and, at the same time, very much restrained. There was no sentimental nonsense about him at all—his sorrow had not taken that form.
"Well, I needn't talk much about Jenny's last letter and what happened after that. I was entirely unprepared, of course. I hadn't the faintest idea—Well, she was the one person about whom I had no doubts at all! I actually left the letter unread for a few minutes (the envelope was in your handwriting, you know)—because I had to think over what I had to do next. The police had got me turned away from a builder's yard—"
Jack emitted a small sound. He was staring at Frank with all his eyes.
"Yes; that's their way," said Frank. "Well, when I read it, I simply couldn't think any more at all for a time. The girl we were traveling with—she had picked up with the man I had got into trouble over, you know—the girl was calling me to dinner, she told me afterwards. I didn't hear a sound. She came and touched me at last, and I woke up. But I couldn't say anything. They don't even now know what's the matter. I came away that afternoon. I couldn't even wait for the Major—"
"Eh?"
"The Major.... Oh! that's what the chap calls himself. I don't think he's lying, either. I simply couldn't stand him another minute just then. But I sent them a postcard that night—I forget where from; and—There aren't any letters for me, are there?
"One or two bills."
"Oh! well, I shall hear soon, I expect. I must join them again in a day or two. They're somewhere in this direction, I know."
"And what did you do?"
Frank considered.
"I'm not quite sure. I know I walked a great deal. People were awfully good to me. One woman stopped her motor—and I hadn't begged, either—"
"You! Begged!"
"Lord, yes; lots of times.... Well, she gave me a quid, and I didn't even thank her. And that lasted me very well, and I did a little work too, here and there."
"But, good Lord! what did you do?"
"I walked. I couldn't bear towns or people or anything. I got somewhere outside of Ripon at last, and went out on to the moors. I found an old shepherd's hut for about a week or ten days—"
"And you—"
"Lived there? Yes. I mended the hut thoroughly before I came away. And then I thought I'd come on here."
"What were you doing on the bridge?"
"Waiting till dark. I was going to ask at the lodge then whether you were at home."
"And if I hadn't been?"
"Gone on somewhere else, I suppose."
Jack tried to help himself to a whisky and soda, but the soda flew out all over his shirt-front like a fountain, and he was forced to make a small remark. Then he made another.
"What about prison?"
Frank smiled.
"Oh! I've almost forgotten that. It was beastly at the time, though."
"And ... and the Major and the work! Lord! Frank, you do tell a story badly."
He smiled again much more completely.
"I'm too busy inside," he said. "Those things don't seem to matter much, somehow."
"Inside? What the deuce do you mean?"
Frank made a tiny deprecating gesture.
"Well, what it's all about, you know ... Jack."
"Yes."
"It's a frightfully priggish thing to say, but I'm extraordinarily interested as to what's going to happen next—inside, I mean. At least, sometimes; and then at other times I don't care a hang."
Jack looked bewildered, and said so tersely. Frank leaned forward a little.
"It's like this, you see. Something or other has taken me in hand: I'm blessed if I know what. All these things don't happen one on the top of the other just by a fluke. There's something going on, and I want to know what it is. And I suppose something's going to happen soon."
"For God's sake do say what you mean!"
"I can't more than that. I tell you I don't know. I only wish somebody could tell me."
"But what does it all amount to? What are you going to do next?"
"Oh! I know that all right. I'm going to join the Major and Gertie again."
"Frank!"
"Yes?... No, not a word, please. You promised you wouldn't. I'm going to join those two again and see what happens."
"But why?"
"That's my job. I know that much. I've got to get that girl back to her people again. She's not his wife, you know."
"But what the devil—"
"It seems to me to matter a good deal. Oh! she's a thoroughly stupid girl, and he's a proper cad; but that doesn't matter. It's got to be done; or, rather, I've got to try to do it. I daresay I shan't succeed, but that, again, doesn't matter. I've got to do my job, and then we'll see."
Jack threw up his hands.
"You're cracked!" he said.
"I daresay," said Frank solemnly.
There was a pause. It seemed to Jack that the whole thing must be a dream. This simply wasn't Frank at all. The wild idea came to him that the man who sat before him with Frank's features was some kind of changeling. Mentally he shook himself.
"And what about Jenny?" he said.
Frank sat perfectly silent and still for an instant. Then he spoke without heat.
"I'm not quite sure," he said. "Sometimes I'd like to ... well, to make her a little speech about what she's done, and sometimes I'd like to crawl to her and kiss her feet—but both those things are when I'm feeling bad. On the whole, I think—though I'm not sure—that is not my business any more; in fact, I'm pretty sure it's not. It's part of the whole campaign and out of my hands. It's no good talking about that any more. So please don't, Jack."
"One question?"
"Well?"
"Have you written to her or sent her a message?"
"No."
"And I want to say one other thing. I don't think it's against the bargain."
"Well?"
"Will you take five hundred pounds and go out to the colonies?"
Frank looked up with an amused smile.
"No, I won't—thanks very much.... Am I in such disgrace as all that, then?"
"You know I don't mean that," said Jack quietly.
"No, old chap. I oughtn't to have said that. I'm sorry."
Jack waved a hand.
"I thought perhaps you'd loathe England, and would like—And you don't seem absolutely bursting with pride, you know."
"Honestly, I don't think I am," said Frank. "But England suits me very well—and there are the other two, you know. But I'll tell you one thing you could do for me."
"Yes?"
"Pay those extra bills. I don't think they're much."
"That's all right," said Jack. "And you really mean to go on with it all?"
"Why, yes."
The moors had been pretty well shot over already since the twelfth of August, but the two had a very pleasant day, for all that, a couple of days later. They went but with a keeper and half a dozen beaters—Frank in an old homespun suit of Jack's, and his own powerful boots, and made a very tolerable bag. There was one dramatic moment, Jack told me, when they found that luncheon had been laid at a high point on the hills from which the great gray mass of Merefield and the shimmer of the lake in front of the house were plainly visible only eight miles away. The flag was flying, too, from the flagstaff on the old keep, showing, according to ancient custom, that Lord Talgarth was at home. Frank looked at it a minute or two with genial interest, and Jack wondered whether he had noticed, as he himself had, that even the Rectory roof could be made out, just by the church tower at the foot of the hill.
Neither said anything, but as the keeper came up to ask for orders as they finished lunch, he tactfully observed that there was a wonderful fine view of Merefield.
"Yes," said Frank, "you could almost make out people with a telescope."
The two were walking together alone as they dropped down, an hour before sunset, on to the upper end of Barham. They were both glowing with the splendid air and exercise, and were just in that state of weariness that is almost unmixed physical pleasure to an imaginative thinker who contemplates a hot bath, a quantity of tea, and a long evening in a deep chair. Frank still preserved his impassive kind of attitude towards things in general, but Jack noticed with gentle delight that he seemed more off his guard, and that he even walked with something more of an alert swing than he had on that first evening when they trudged up the drive together.
Their road led them past the gate of the old churchyard, and as they approached it, dropping their feet faster and faster down the steep slope, Jack noticed two figures sitting on the road-side, with their feet in the ditch—a man and a girl. He was going past them, just observing that the man had rather an unpleasant face, with a ragged mustache, and that the girl was sunburned, fair-haired and rather pretty, when he became aware that Frank had slipped behind him. The next instant he saw that Frank was speaking to them, and his heart dropped to zero.
"All right," he heard Frank say, "I was expecting you. This evening, then.... I say, Jack!"
Jack turned.
"Jack, this is Major and Mrs. Trustcott, I told you of. This is my friend, Mr.—er—Mr. Jack."
Jack bowed vaguely, overwhelmed with disgust.
"Very happy to make your acquaintance, sir," said the Major, straightening himself in a military manner. "My good lady and I were resting here. Very pleasant neighborhood."
"I'm glad you like it," said Jack.
"Then, this evening," said Frank again. "Can you wait an hour or two?"
"Certainly, my boy," said the Major. "Time's no consideration with us, as you know."
(Jack perceived that this was being said at him, to show the familiarity this man enjoyed with his friend.)
"Would nine o'clock be too late?"
"Nine o'clock it shall be," said the Major.
"And here?"
"Here."
"So long, then," said Frank. "Oh, by the way—" He moved a little closer to this appalling pair, and Jack stood off, to hear the sound of a sentence or two, and then the chink of money.
"So long, then," said Frank again. "Come along, Jack; we must make haste."
"Good-evening, sir," cried the Major, but Jack made no answer.
"Frank, you don't mean to tell me that those are the people?"
"That's the Major and Gertie—yes."
"And what was all that about this evening?"
"I must go, Jack. I'm sorry; but I told you it couldn't be more than a few days at the outside."
Jack was silent, but it was a hard struggle.
"By the way, how shall we arrange?" went on the other. "I can't take these clothes, you know; and I can't very well be seen leaving the house in my own."
"Do as you like," snapped Jack.
"Look here, old man, don't be stuffy. How would it do if I took a bag and changed up in that churchyard? It's locked up after dark, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"You've got a key, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, that's it. And I'll leave the bag and the key in the hedge somewhere."
Jack was silent.
Jack held himself loyally in hand that evening, but he could not talk much. He consented to explain to his mother that Frank had to be off after dinner that night, and he also visited the housekeeper's room, and caused a small bundle, not much larger than a leg of mutton, including two small bottles which jingled together, to be wrapped up in brown paper—in which he inserted also a five-pound note (he knew Frank would not take more)—and the whole placed in the bag in which Frank's old clothes were already concealed. For the rest of the evening he sat, mostly silent, in one chair, trying not to watch Frank in another; pretending to read, but endeavoring to picture to his imagination what he himself would feel like if he were about to join the Major and Gertie in the churchyard at nine o'clock.... Frank sat quite quiet all the evening, reading old volumes ofPunch.
They dined at half-past seven, by request—Frank still in his homespun suit. Fanny and Jill were rather difficult. It seemed to them both a most romantic thing that this black-eyed, sunburned young man, with whom they had played garden-golf the day before, should really be continuing his amazing walking-tour, in company with two friends, at nine o'clock that very night. 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? Frank didn't quite know. Did he really like it? Oh, well, Frank thought it was a good thing to go on a walking tour, even if you were rather uncomfortable sometimes.
The leave-taking was unemotional. Jack had announced suddenly and loudly in the smoking-room before dinner that he was going to see the last of Frank, as far as the churchyard; Frank had protested, but had yielded. The rest had all said good-by to him in the hall, and at a quarter to nine the two young men went out into the darkness.
It was a clear autumn night—a "wonderful night of stars"—and the skies blazed softly overhead down to the great blotted masses of the high moors that stood round Barham. It was perfectly still, too—the wind had dropped, and the only sound as the two walked down the park was the low talking of the stream over the stones beyond the belt of trees fifty yards away from the road.
Jack was sick at heart; but even so, he tells me, he was conscious that Frank's silence was of a peculiar sort. He felt somehow as if his friend were setting out to some great sacrifice in which he was to suffer, and was only partly conscious of it—or, at least, so buoyed by some kind of exaltation or fanaticism as not to realize what he was doing. (He reminded me of a certain kind of dream that most people have now and then, of accompanying some friend to death: the friend goes forward, silent and exultant, and we cannot explain nor hold him back.
"That was the sort of feeling," said Jack lamely.)
Jack had the grim satisfaction of carrying the bag in which, so to speak, the knife and fillet were hidden. He changed his mood half a dozen times even in that quarter of an hour's walk through the town. Now the thing seemed horrible, like a nightmare; now absurdly preposterous; now rather beautiful; now perfectly ordinary and commonplace. After all, Jack argued with himself, there are such people as tramps, and they survive. Why should not Frank? He had gipsy blood in him, too. What in the world was he—Jack—frightened of?
"Do you remember our talking about your grandmother?" he said suddenly, as they neared the lodge.
"Yes. Why?"
"Only I've just thought of something else. Wasn't one of your people executed under Elizabeth?"
"By gad, yes; so he was. I'd quite forgotten. It was being on the wrong side for once."
"How—the wrong side?"
There was amusement in Frank's voice as he answered.
"It was for religion," he said. "He was a Papist. All the rest of them conformed promptly. They were a most accommodating lot. They changed each time without making any difficulty. I remember my governor telling us about it once. He thought them very sensible. And so they were, by George! from one point of view."
"Has your religion anything to do with all this?"
"Oh, I suppose so," said Frank, with an indifferent air.
There were a good many doors open in the High Street as they went up it, and Jack saluted half a dozen people mechanically as they touched their hats to him as he passed in the light from the houses.
"What does it feel like being squire?" asked Frank.
"Oh, I don't know," said Jack.
"Rather good fun, I should think," said Frank.
They were nearing the steep part of the ascent presently, and the church clock struck nine.
"Bit late," said Frank.
"When will you come again?" asked the other suddenly. "I'm here another fortnight, you know, and then at Christmas again. Come for Christmas if you can."
"Ah! I don't know where I shall be. Give my love to Cambridge, though."
"Frank!"
"Yes?"
"Mayn't I say what I think?"
"No!"
Ah! there was the roof of the old church standing out against the stars, and there could be no more talking. They might come upon the other two at any moment now. They went five steps further, and there, in the shadow of the gate, burned a dull red spot of fire, that kindled up as they looked, and showed for an instant the heavy eyes of the Major with a pipe in his mouth.
"Good-evening, sir," came the military voice, and the girl rose to her feet beside him. "You're just in time."
"Good-evening," said Jack dully.
"We've had a pleasant evening of it up here, Mr. Kirkby, after we'd stepped down and had a bit of supper at the 'Crown.'"
"I suppose you heard my name there," said Jack.
"Quite right, sir."
"Give us the key," said Frank abruptly.
He unlocked the door and pushed it back over the grass-grown gravel.
"Wait for me here, will you?" he said to Jack.
"I'm coming in. I'll show you where to change."
Twenty yards of an irregular twisted path, over which they stumbled two or three times, led them down to the little ruined doorway at the west end of the old church. Jack's father had restored the place admirably, so far as restoration was possible, and there stood now, strong as ever, the old tower, roofed and floored throughout, abutting on the four roofless walls, within which ran the double row of column bases.
Jack struck a light, kindled a bicycle lamp he had brought with him, and led the way.
"Come in here," he said.
Frank followed him into the room at the base of the tower and looked round.
"This looks all right," he said. "It was a Catholic church once, I suppose?
"Yes; the parson says this was the old sacristy. They've found things here, I think—cupboards in the wall, and so on."
"This'll do excellently," said Frank. "I shan't be five minutes."
Jack went out again without a word. He felt it was a little too much to expect him to see the change actually being made, and the garments of sacrifice put on. (It struck him with an unpleasant shock, considering the form of his previous metaphor, that he should have taken Frank into the old sacristy.)
He sat down on the low wall, built to hold the churchyard from slipping altogether down the hill-side, and looked out over the little town below.
The sky was more noticeable here; one was more conscious of the enormous silent vault, crowded with the steady stars, cool and aloof; and, beneath, of the feverish little town with sparks of red light dotted here and there, where men wrangled and planned and bargained, and carried on the little affairs of their little life with such astonishing zest. Jack was far from philosophical as a rule, but it is a fact that meditations of this nature did engross him for a minute or two while he sat and waited for Frank, and heard the low voices talking in the lane outside. It even occurred to him for an instant that it was just possible that what Frank had said in the smoking-room before dinner was true, and that Something really did have him in hand, and really, did intend a definite plan and result to emerge from this deplorable and quixotic nonsense. (I suppose the contrast of stars and human lights may have helped to suggest this sort of thing to him.)
Then he gave himself up again to dismal considerations of a more particular kind.
He heard Frank come out, and turned to see him in the dim light, bag in hand, dressed again as he had been three days ago. On his head once more was the indescribable cap; on his body the indescribable clothes. He wore on his feet the boots in which he had tramped the moors that day. (How far away seemed that afternoon now, and the cheerful lunch in the sunshine on the hill-top!)
"Here I am, Jack."
Then every promise went to the winds. Jack stood up and took a step towards him.
"Frank, I do implore you to give up this folly. I asked you not to do it at Cambridge, and I ask you again now. I don't care a damn what I promised. It's simple madness, and—"
Frank had wheeled without a word, and was half-way to the gate. Jack stumbled after him, calling under his breath; but the other had already passed through the gate and joined the Major and Gertie before Jack could reach him.
"And so you think up here is the right direction?" Frank was saying.
"I got some tips at the 'Crown,'" said the Major. "There are some farms up there, where—"
"Frank, may I speak to you a minute?"
"No.... All right, Major; I'm ready at once if you are."
He turned towards Jack.
"By the way," he said, "what's in this parcel?"
"Something to eat and drink," murmured Jack.
"Oh ... I shan't want that, thanks very much. Here's the bag with the clothes in it. I'm awfully grateful, old man, for all your kindness. Awfully sorry to have bothered you."
"By the way, Frankie," put in the hateful voice at his side, "I'll take charge of that parcel, if you don't want it."
"Catch hold, then," said Frank. "You're welcome to it, if you'll carry it. You all right, Gertie?"
The girl murmured something inaudible. As at their first meeting, she had said nothing at all. The Major lifted a bundle out of the depths of the hedge, slung it on his stick, and stood waiting, his face again illuminated with the glow of his pipe. He had handed the new parcel to Gertie without a word.
"Well, good-by again, old man," said Frank, holding out his hand. He, too, Jack saw, had his small bundle wrapped up in the red handkerchief, as on the bridge when they had first met. Jack took his hand and shook it. He could say nothing.
Then the three turned and set their faces up the slope. He could see them, all silent together, pass up, more and more dim in the darkness of the hedge, the two men walking together, the girl a yard behind them. Then they turned the corner and were gone. But Jack still stood where Frank had left him, listening, until long after the sound of their footfalls had died away.
Jack had a horrid dream that night.
He was wandering, he thought, gun in hand after grouse, alone on the high moors. It was one of those heavy days, so common in dreams, when the light is so dim that very little can be seen. He was aware of countless hill-tops round him, and valleys that ran down into profound darkness, where only the lights of far-off houses could be discerned. His sport was of that kind peculiar to sleep-imaginings. Enormous birds, larger than ostriches, rose occasionally by ones or twos with incredible swiftness, and soared like balloons against the heavy, glimmering sky. He fired at these and feathers sprang from them, but not a bird fell. Once he inflicted an indescribable wound ... and the bird sped across the sky, blotting out half of it, screaming. Then as the screaming died he became aware that there was a human note in it, and that Frank was crying to him, somewhere across the confines of the wold, and the horror that had been deepening with each shot he fired rose to an intolerable climax. Then began one of the regular nightmare chases: he set off to run; the screaming grew fainter each instant; he could not see his way in the gloom; he clambered over bowlders; he sank in bogs, and dragged his feet from them with infinite pains; his gun became an unbearable burden, yet he dared not throw it from him; he knew that he should need it presently.... The screaming had ceased now, yet he dared not stop running; Frank was in some urgent peril, and he knew it was not yet too late, if he could but find him soon. He ran and ran; the ground was knee-deep now in the feathers that had fallen from the wounded birds; it was darker than ever, yet he toiled on hopelessly, following, as he thought, the direction from which the cries had come. Then as at last he topped the rise of a hill, the screaming broke out again, shrill and frightful, close at hand, and the next instant he saw beneath him in the valley a hundred yards away that for which he had run so far. Running up the slope below, at right angles to his own path came Frank, in the dress-clothes he had borrowed, with pumps upon his feet; his hands were outstretched, his face white as ashes, and he screamed as he ran. Behind him ran a pack of persons whose faces he could not see; they ran like hounds, murmuring as they came in a terrible whining voice. Then Jack understood that he could save Frank; he brought his gun to the shoulder, aimed it at the brown of the pack and drew the trigger. A snap followed, and he discovered that he was unloaded; he groped in his cartridge-belt and found it empty.... He tore at his pockets, and found at last one cartridge; and as he dashed it into the open breach, his gun broke in half. Simultaneously the quarry vanished over an edge of hill, and the pack followed, the leaders now not ten yards behind the flying figure in front.
Jack stood there, helpless and maddened. Then he flung the broken pieces of his gun at the disappearing runners; sank down in the gloom, and broke out into that heart-shattering nightmare sobbing which shows that the limit has been reached.
He awoke, still sobbing—certain that Frank was in deadly peril, if not already dead, and it was a few minutes before he dared to go to sleep once more.
The Rectory garden at Merefield was, obviously, this summer, the proper place to spend most of the day. Certainly the house was cool—it was one of those long, low, creeper-covered places that somehow suggest William IV. and crinolines (if it is a fact that those two institutions flourished together, as I think), with large, darkish rooms and wide, low staircases and tranquil-looking windows through which roses peep; but the shadow of the limes and the yews was cooler still. A table stood almost permanently through those long, hot summer days in the place where Dick had sat with Jenny, and here the Rector and his daughter breakfasted, lunched and dined, day after day, for a really extraordinarily long period.
Jenny herself lived in the garden even more than her father; she got through the household business as quickly as possible after breakfast, and came out to do any small businesses that she could during the rest of the morning. She wrote a few letters, read a few books, sewed a little, and, on the whole, presented a very domestic and amiable picture. She visited poor people for an hour or so two or three days a week, and occasionally, when Lord Talgarth was well enough, rode out with him and her father after tea, through the woods, and sometimes with Lord Talgarth alone.
She suffered practically no pangs of conscience at all on the subject of Frank. Her letter had been perfectly sincere, and she believed herself to have been exceedingly sensible. (It is, perhaps, one may observe, one of the most dangerous things in the world to think oneself sensible; it is even more dangerous than to be told so.) For the worst of it all was that she was quite right. It was quite plain that she and Frank were not suited to one another; that she had looked upon that particular quality in him which burst out in the bread-and-butter incident, the leaving of Cambridge, the going to prison, and so forth, as accidental to his character, whereas it was essential. It was also quite certain that it was the apotheosis of common-sense for her to recognize that, to say so, and to break off the engagement.
Of course, she had moments of what I should call "grace," and she would call insanity, when she wondered for a little while whether to be sensible was the highest thing in life; but her general attitude to these was as it would be towards temptation of any other kind. To be sensible, she would say, was to be successful and effective; to be otherwise was to fail and to be ineffective.
Very well, then.
At the beginning of September Dick Guiseley came to Merefield to shoot grouse. The grouse, as I think I have already remarked, were backward this year, and, after a kind of ceremonial opening, to give warning as it were, on the twelfth of August, they were left in peace. Business was to begin on the third, and on the evening of the second Dick arrived.
He opened upon the subject that chiefly occupied his thoughts just now with Archie that night when Lord Talgarth had gone to bed. They were sitting in the smoking-room, with the outer door well open to admit the warm evening air. They had discussed the prospects of grouse next day with all proper solemnity, and Archie had enumerated the people who were to form their party. The Rector was coming to shoot, and Jenny was to ride out and join them at lunch.
Then Archie yawned largely, finished his drink, and took up his candle.
"Oh! she's coming, is she?" said Dick meditatively.
Archie struck a match.
"How's Frank?" went on Dick.
"Haven't heard from him."
"Where is the poor devil?"
"Haven't an idea."
Dick emitted a monosyllabic laugh.
"And how's she behaving?"
"Jenny? Oh! just as usual. She's a sensible girl and knows her mind."
Dick pondered this an instant.
"I'm going to bed," said Archie. "Got to have a straight eye to-morrow."
"Oh! sit down a second.... I want to talk."
Archie, as a compromise, propped himself against the back of a chair.
"She doesn't regret it, then?" pursued Dick.
"Not she," said Archie. "It would never have done."
"I know," agreed Dick warmly. (It was a real pleasure to him that head and heart went together in this matter.) "But sometimes, you know, women regret that sort of thing. Wish they hadn't been quite so sensible, you know."
"Jenny doesn't," said Archie.
Dick took up his glass which he had filled with his third whisky-and-soda, hardly five minutes before, and drank half of it. He sucked his mustache, and in that instant confidentialism rose in his heart.
"Well, I'm going to have a shot myself," he said.
"What?"
"I'm going to have a shot. She can but say 'No.'"
Archie's extreme repose of manner vanished for a second. His jaw dropped a little.
"But, good Lord! I hadn't the faintest—"
"I know you hadn't. But I've had it for a long time.... What d'you think, Archie?"
"My good chap—"
"Yes, I know; leave all that out. We'll take that as read. What comes next?"
Archie looked at him a moment.
"How d'you mean? Do you mean, do I approve?"
"Well, I didn't mean that," admitted Dick. "I meant, how'd I better set about it?"
Archie's face froze ever so slightly. (It will be remembered that Jack Kirkby considered him pompous.)
"You must do it your own way," he said.
"Sorry, old man," said Dick. "Didn't mean to be rude."
Archie straightened himself from the chair-back.
"It's all rather surprising," he said. "It never entered my head. I must think about it. Good-night. Put the lights out when you come."
"Archie, old man, are you annoyed?"
"No, no; that's all right," said Archie.
And really and truly that was all that passed between these two that night on the subject of Jenny—so reposeful were they.
There was a glorious breeze blowing over the hills as Jenny rode slowly up about noon next day. The country is a curious mixture—miles of moor, as desolate and simple and beautiful as moors can be, and by glimpses, now and then in the valleys between, of entirely civilized villages, with even a town or two here and there, prick-up spires and roofs; and, even more ominous, in this direction and that, lie patches of smoke about the great chimneys.
Jenny was meditative as she rode up alone. It is very difficult to be otherwise when one has passed through one considerable crisis, and foresees a number of others that must be met, especially if one has not made up one's mind as to the proper line of action. It is all very well to be sensible, but a difficulty occasionally arises as to which of two or three courses is the more in accordance with that character. To be impulsive certainly leads to trouble sometimes, but also, sometimes it saves it.
Jenny looked charming in repose. She was in a delightful green habit; she wore a plumy kind of hat; she rode an almost perfect little mare belonging to Lord Talgarth, and her big blue, steady eyes roved slowly round her as she went, seeing nothing. It was, in fact, the almost perfect little mare who first gave warning of the approach to the sportsmen, by starting violently all over at the sound of a shot, fired about half a mile away. Jenny steadied her, pulled her up, and watched between the cocked and twitching ears.
Below her, converging slowly upwards, away from herself, moved a line of dots, each precisely like its neighbor in color (Lord Talgarth was very particular, indeed, about the uniform of his beaters), and by each moved a red spot, which Jenny understood to be a flag. The point towards which they were directed culminated in a low, rounded hill, and beneath the crown of this, in a half circle, were visible a series of low defenses, like fortifications, to command the face of the slope and the dips on either side. This was always the last beat—in this moor—before lunch; and lunch itself, she knew, would be waiting on the other side of the hill. Occasionally as she watched, she saw a slight movement behind this or that butt—no more—and the only evidence of human beings, beside the beaters, lay in the faint wreath of all but invisible smoke that followed the reports, coming now quicker and quicker, as the grouse took alarm. Once with a noise like a badly ignited rocket, there burst over the curve before her a flying brown thing, that, screaming with terrified exultation, whirred within twenty yards of her head and vanished into silence. (One cocked ear of the mare bent back to see if the rocket were returning or not.)
Jenny's meditations became more philosophical than ever as she looked. She found herself wondering how much free choice the grouse—if they were capable themselves of philosophizing—would imagine themselves to possess in the face of this noisy but insidious death. She reminded herself that every shred of instinct and experience that each furious little head contained bade the owner of it to fly as fast and straight as possible, in squawking company with as many friends as possible, away from those horrible personages in green and silver with the agitating red flags, and up that quiet slope which, at the worst, only emitted sudden noises. A reflective grouse would perhaps (and two out of three did) consider that he could fly faster and be sooner hidden from the green men with red flags, if he slid crosswise down the valleys on either side. But—Jenny observed—that was already calculated by these human enemies, and butts (like angels' swords) commanded even these approaches too.
It was obvious, then, that however great might be the illusion of free choice, in reality there was none: they were betrayed hopelessly by the very instincts intended to safeguard them; practical common-sense, in this case, at least, led them straight into the jaws of death. A little originality and impulsiveness would render them immortal so far as guns were concerned....
Yes; but there was one who had been original, who had actually preferred to fly straight past a monster in green on a gray mare rather than to face the peaceful but deathly slopes; and he had escaped. But obviously he was an exception. Originality in grouse—
At this point the mare breathed slowly and contemptuously and advanced a delicate, impatient foot, having quite satisfied herself that danger was no longer imminent; and Jenny became aware she was thinking nonsense.
There were a number of unimportant but well-dressed persons at lunch, with most of whom Jenny was acquainted. These extended themselves on the ground and said the right things one after another; and all began with long drinks, and all ended with heavy meals. There were two other women whom she knew slightly, who had driven up half an hour before. Everything was quite perfect—down even to hot grilled grouse that emerged from emblazoned silver boxes, and hot black coffee poured from "Thermos" flasks. Jenny asked intelligent questions and made herself agreeable.
At the close of lunch she found herself somehow sitting on a small rock beside Dick. Lord Talgarth was twenty yards away, his gaitered legs very wide apart, surveying the country and talking to the keeper. Her father was looking down the barrels of his rather ineffective gun, and Archie, with three or four other men and two women, a wife and a sister, was smoking with his back against a rock.
"Shall you be in to-morrow?" asked Dick casually.
Jenny paused an instant.
"I should think so!" she said. "I've got one or two things to do."
"Perhaps I may look in? I want to talk to you about something if I may."
"Shan't you be shooting again?"
"No; I'm not very fit and shall take a rest."
Jenny was silent.
"About what time?" pursued Dick.
Jenny roused herself with a little start. She had been staring out over the hills and wondering if that was the church above Barham that she could almost see against the horizon.
"Oh! any time up to lunch," she said vaguely.
Dick stood up slowly with a satisfied air and stretched himself. He looked very complete and trim, thought Jenny, from his flat cap to his beautifully-spatted shooting-boots. (It was twelve hundred a year, at least, wasn't it?)
"Well, I suppose we shall be moving directly," he said.
A beater came up bringing the mare just before the start was made.
"All right, you can leave her," said Jenny. "I won't mount yet. Just hitch the bridle on to something."
It was a pleasant and picturesque sight to see the beaters, like a file of medieval huntsmen, dwindle down the hill in their green and silver in one direction, and, five minutes later, the sportsmen in another. It looked like some mysterious military maneuver on a small scale; and again Jenny considered the illusion of free choice enjoyed by the grouse, who, perhaps, two miles away, crouched in hollows among the heather. And yet, practically speaking, there was hardly any choice at all....
Lady Richard, the wife of one of the men, interrupted her in a drawl.
"Looks jolly, doesn't it?" she said.
Jenny assented cordially.
(She hated this woman, somehow, without knowing why. She said to herself it was the drawl and the insolent cold eyes and the astonishing complacency; and she only half acknowledged that it was the beautiful lines of the dress and the figure and the assured social position.)
"We're driving," went on the tall girl. "You rode, didn't you?
"Yes."
"Lord Talgarth's mare, isn't it? I thought I recognized her."
"Yes. I haven't got a horse of my own, you know," said Jenny deliberately.
"Oh!"
Jenny suddenly felt her hatred rise almost to passion.
"I must be going," she said. "I've got to visit an old woman who's dying. A rector's daughter, you know—"
"Ah! yes."
Then Jenny mounted from a rock (Lady Richard held the mare's head and settled the habit), and rode slowly away downhill.
Dick approached the Rectory next day a little before twelve o'clock with as much excitement in his heart as he ever permitted to himself.
Dick is a good fellow—I haven't a word to say against him, except perhaps that he used to think that to be a Guiseley, and to have altogether sixteen hundred a year and to live in a flat in St. James's, and to possess a pointed brown beard and melancholy brown eyes and a reposeful manner, relieved him from all further effort. I have wronged him, however; he had made immense efforts to be proficient at billiards, and had really succeeded; and, since his ultimate change of fortune, has embraced even further responsibilities in a conscientious manner.
Of course, he had been in love before in a sort of way; but this was truly different. He wished to marry Jenny very much indeed.... That she was remarkably sensible, really beautiful and eminently presentable, of course, paved the way; but, if I understand the matter rightly, these were not the only elements in the case. It was the genuine thing. He did not quite know how he would face the future if she refused him; and he was sufficiently humble to be in doubt.
The neat maid told him at the door that Miss Launton had given directions that he was to be shown into the garden if he came.... No; Miss Launton was in the morning-room, but she should be told at once. So Dick strolled across the lawn and sat down by the garden table.
He looked at the solemn, dreaming house in the late summer sunshine; he observed a robin issue out from a lime tree and inspect him sideways; and then another robin issue from another lime tree and drive the first one away. Then he noticed a smear of dust on his own left boot, and flicked it off with a handkerchief. Then, as he put his handkerchief away again, he saw Jenny coming out from the drawing-room window.
She looked really extraordinarily beautiful as she came slowly across towards him and he stood to meet her. She was bare-headed, but her face was shadowed by the great coils of hair. She was in a perfectly plain pink dress, perfectly cut, and she carried herself superbly. She looked just a trifle paler than yesterday, he thought, and there was a very reserved, steady kind of question in her eyes. (I am sorry to be obliged to go on saying this sort of thing about Jenny every time she comes upon the scene; but it is the sort of thing that everyone is obliged to go on thinking whenever she makes her appearance.)
"I've got a good deal to say," said Dick, after they had sat a moment or two. "May I say it right out to the end?"
"Why, certainly," said Jenny.
Dick leaned back and crossed one knee over the other. His manner was exactly right—at any rate, it was exactly what he wished it to be, and all through his little speech he preserved it. It was quite restrained, extremely civilized, and not at all artificial. It was his method of presenting a fact—the fact that he really was in love with this girl—and was in his best manner. There was a lightness of touch about this method of his, but it was only on the surface.
"I daresay it's rather bad form my coming and saying all this so soon, but I can't help that. I know you must have gone through an awful lot in the last month or two—perhaps even longer—but I don't know about that. And I want to begin by apologizing if I am doing what I shouldn't. The fact is that—well, that I daren't risk waiting."
He did not look at Jenny (he was observing the robin that had gone and come again since Jenny had appeared), but he was aware that at his first sentence she had suddenly settled down into complete motionlessness. He wondered whether that was a good omen or not.
"Well, now," he said, "let me give a little account of myself first. I'm just thirty-one; I've got four hundred a year of my own, and Lord Talgarth allows me twelve hundred a year more. Then I've got other expectations, as they say. My uncle gives me to understand that my allowance is secured to me in his will; and I'm the heir of my aunt, Lady Simon, whom you've probably met. I just mention that to show I'm not a pauper—"
"Mr. Guiseley—" began Jenny.
"Please wait. I've not done yet. Do you mind? ... I'm a decent living man. I'm not spotless, but I'll answer any questions you like to put—to your father. I've not got any profession, though I'm supposed to be a solicitor; but I'm perfectly willing to work if ... if it's wished, or to stand for Parliament, or anything like that—there hasn't, so far, seemed any real, particular reason why I should work. That's all. And I think you know the sort of person I am, all round.
"And now we come to the point." (Dick hesitated a fraction of a second. He was genuinely moved.) "The point is that I'm in love with you, and I have been for some time past. I ... I can't put it more plainly ... (One moment, please, I've nearly done.) ... I can't think of anything else; and I haven't been able to for the last two or three months. I ... I ... I'm fearfully sorry for poor old Frank; I'm very fond of him, you know, but I couldn't help finding it an extraordinary relief when I heard the news. And now I've come to ask you, perfectly straight, whether you'll consent to be my wife."
Dick looked at her for the first time since he had begun his little speech.
She still sat absolutely quiet (she had not even moved at the two words she had uttered), but she had gone paler still. Her mouth was in repose, without quiver or movement, and her beautiful eyes looked steadily on to the lawn before her. She said nothing.
"If you can't give me an answer quite at once," began Dick again presently, "I'm perfectly willing to—"
She turned and looked him courageously in the face.
"I can't say 'Yes,'" she said. "That would be absurd.... You have been quite straightforward with me, and I must be straightforward with you. That is what you wish, isn't it?"
Dick inclined his head. His heart was thumping furiously with exultation—in spite of her words.
"Then what I say is this: You must wait a long time. If you had insisted on an answer now, I should have said 'No.' I hate to keep you waiting, particularly when I do really think it will be 'No' in the long run; but as I'm not quite sure, and as you've been perfectly honest and courteous, if you really wish it I won't say 'No' at once. Will that do?"
"Whatever you say," said Dick.
"You mustn't forget I was engaged to Frank till quite lately. Don't you see how that obscures one's judgment? I simply can't judge now, and I know I can't.... You're willing to wait, then?—even though I tell you now that I think it will be 'No'?"
"Whatever you say," said Dick again; "and may I say thank you for not saying 'No' at once?"
A very slight look of pain came into the girl's eyes.
"I would sooner you didn't," she said. "I'm sorry you said that...."
"I'm sorry," said poor Dick.
There was a pause.
"One other thing," said Jenny. "Would you mind not saying anything to my father? I don't want him to be upset any more. Have you told anybody else you were—?"
"Yes," said Dick bravely, "I told Archie."
"I'm sorry you did that. Will you then just tell him exactly what I said—exactly, you know. That I thought it would be 'No'; but that I only didn't say so at once because you wished it."
"Very well," said Dick.
It was a minute or so before either spoke again. Jenny had that delightful and soothing gift which prevents silence from being empty. It is the same gift, in another form, as that which enables its possessor to put people at their ease. (It is, I suppose, one of the elements of tact.) Dick had a sense that they were still talking gently and reasonably, though he could not quite understand all that Jenny was meaning.