Tony looked mystified.
His eyes were shining straight into hers, and they seemed to be asking her something, pleading, beseeching. She found a strange feeling invading her, a feeling that had sometimes surged up in her heart when she saw a dying animal, or a bird fluttering against cage-bars. But this time there was a new intensity in it, and a stifling sense of pain. She suddenly put out her hand and laid it on his—then drew it shyly away.
The sky had flushed to a fiery purple behindthe turrets of Brambletye. A mysterious glow trembled on the ivy. The birds were twittering restlessly, and every now and then a robin uttered his harsh signal note. Nigel rose to his feet.
"You mustn't be late home, or your parents will get anxious."
"We've had such a ripping picnic—better than if I'd gone to Fairwarp."
"I've been dull company for you, I'm afraid."
"Oh, no—indeed not! I've so enjoyed talking to you about school."
Nigel smiled at her.
"Perhaps we can meet and talk about school another day."
"Yes—I expect we can. I'm generally alone, you see."
"Haven't you any friends?"
"I've heaps at school—but they all seem so far away."
He was wheeling her bicycle up the lane, and the sun, struggling through the clouds at last, flung long shadows before them. In summer the lanes are often ugly, white and bare, but in autumn they share the beauty of the fields. This lane, delicately slimed with Sussex mud, wound a soft gleaming brown between the hedges, except where the rain-filled ruts were crimson with the sky.
"It's only four miles to Shovelstrode," said Nigel. "I'll wheel your bicycle to Wilderwick corner—you won't mind going the rest of the way alone, will you?—it's not more than a hundred yards, and I shall have to go down Wilderwickhill and make a bolt across country if I'm to be home in time."
"I hope I haven't kept you."
"Oh, no—I've enjoyed every moment of it."
"So have I. That man Furlonger did me a good turn after all."
"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.
"Well, if it hadn't been for him, I'd never have met you."
"Furlonger...."
"Yes—he was the man who was bothering me at East Grinstead Station, at least my people say it must have been. He came out of prison that day, you know."
"Oh...."
"Have you heard of him?"
"Yes. I—I know him slightly."
"He's a dreadful man, isn't he?"
Nigel licked his lips.
"Yes—he's a rotter. But he—he has his good points—all men have."
"I don't see how a man like Furlonger can. He seems bad all around. I wonder you care to know him."
"I don't care—I can't help it."
"I suppose you knew him before he went to gaol."
"Yes—and unluckily I can't drop him now."
"I should."
Nigel stared at her, and suddenly felt angry.
"Why, you hard-hearted little girl?"
"He's bad all through—father says so."
"Your father doesn't know him. I do, and I say he has his good points."
"Are you very fond of him?"
"No—I'm not."
"Then why do you stick up for him so? You're quite angry."
"No—no, I'm not angry. But I hate to hear you speaking so harshly and—ignorantly."
"I have my ideals," said Tony, with a primitive attempt at loftiness. "A woman should have clearly defined ideals on morals and things."
Nigel could not suppress a smile.
"Certainly—but it's no good having ideals unless you're able to forgive the people who don't come up to 'em. Perhaps it isn't their fault—perhaps it's yours."
"Mine! What are you talking about? Are you trying to make out that I'm to blame for a man like Furlonger going to gaol?"
"No—of course not. But suppose that man Furlonger stood before you now, and asked you to help him, and be his friend, and give him a hand out of the mud—what would you do?"
She was a little taken aback by his eagerness. She hesitated a moment.
"I'd tell him to go to a clergyman——"
"Oh!" said Nigel blankly.
Tony Strife reached Shovelstrode in a state of reckless and sublime uncertainty. She was quite uncertain as to whether she meant to confess or not. Precedent urged her to do so. Whenever she did something of which she was not sure her parents would approve, it was part of her code to confess it. Quite possibly her people would not blame her, they might even be grateful to Mr. Smith, as they had been on a former occasion. On the other hand, they might shake their heads at the picnic part of the business. Who was Mr. Smith, that he should go picnicing with their daughter?—and she would not be so confident in answering as she had been before.
During their short interview on East Grinstead platform it had not been possible to take more than a superficial view of him, either with eyes or mind; but the close contemplation at Brambletye had impressed her with the conviction that he was "rather queer." He evidently did not belong to their set; not because he was poor—they knew several people who were poor—but because of a certain alien quality she could not define. It was not, either, because he was not a "gentleman," though she had her occasional doubts of that, alternating with savage contempt for them. It was because his manner, his look, his behaviour, had all been utterly different from what she was usedto, or had met at Shovelstrode. She felt that if her parents were to question her searchingly, her answers would be unsatisfactory, and she would not be allowed to meet him again, as he had suggested. And she wanted to meet him again; he had interested her, he had attracted her by that very "queerness" with which he had occasionally repelled her. She wanted to tell him more about her school, to have more of his strange confidences, hear more from him about Furlonger, see again that hunted look in his eyes. Only one of her memories of him was tender—that was when his infinite suffering had called to her out of his eyes, and she had answered it in a sudden new and divine surge of pain. She caught her breath sharply as she went into the house.
Yes—she had decided at last—she would keep her secret—her first of any importance. She would not risk interference with what looked like a glowing adventure kindled to brighten her exile. Besides, there was another consideration. If Awdrey were to hear of it, she would at once begin to weave one of her silly romances—make out Mr. Smith was in love. Ugh! Tony's shoulders shrugged high in disdain.
It would be quite easy to give an account of her afternoon which did not include her adventure. She would tell how her tyre had punctured, how she had tried in vain to mend it, and had at last come home on foot. Her concealment did not afflict her, as she had at first imagined. On the contrary, it gave her a strange, new feeling of importance and independence. For the first timea certain warmth and colour crept into her thoughts, a certain pride invaded the shy dignity of her step.
That night she dreamed that she had gone to meet Mr. Smith at Brambletye. She saw the two capped turrets against a background of shimmering light. Mr. Smith took her hand and looked into her eyes in that strange, troubled way which called up as before an answering pain. He said something she could not remember when she woke. Then suddenly a dark shape seemed to rush between them and whirl them apart. She cried out, and Mr. Smith seemed to be answering her from a great distance: "Don't be frightened—it's only Furlonger—it's only Furlonger." But the fear grew upon her, the darkness wrapt her round, and, struggling in the darkness, she awoke.
All that day she wondered if she would meet him. She prowled round Shovelstrode with her dog, ignoring an invitation from Awdrey to "come for a stroll, and hear the latest about Captain le Bourbourg." She was used to being alone during her holidays. It was her habit to walk with Prince in the little twisting lanes round her home. She never went far, but she used to spend long hours in the fields, gathering wild flowers and leaves for her collection, or making Prince go racing in the grass. A rather forlorn little figure, she had gone through the days unconscious of her forlornness. But to-day she felt it—because she was expecting some one who did not come. She did not meet him in any of those thick-rutted lanes, nor in SwitesWood, nor on the borders of Holtye Common where she went for blackberries.
She began to wonder if he would ever come, or if her glimpse of a world beyond the strait boundaries of her life had been but a flash—a sudden haze of gold in the ruins of Brambletye. She felt her loneliness, the blank of having no one to speak to about school, the strange tickling interest of confidences outside her experience. That night as she knelt by the bed and watched the moon behind the pines, she added to her prayers a stiff petition that she might "meet Mr. Smith again."
Tony's belief in prayer was quite mechanical, and when the next day she saw her shabby friend on a stile at the top of Wilderwick hill, she in no wise connected the sight with those few uncomfortable moments on her knees.
"Good morning," she said simply; "I'm so glad to see you."
Nigel smiled at her. At first she had wondered a little whether she liked his smile—to-day she definitely decided that she did.
"I hoped we'd meet again," he said.
"So did I," answered the virginal candour of sixteen.
"You don't think me queer, then?"
"Ye-es. But I like it."
"Could we be friends?"
"Yes—rather!"
He held out his hand. He was smiling—but suddenly as her hand took his, she saw the old wretched look creep into his eyes, together with something else that puzzled her. Were thosetears? Did men ever cry? She found herself feeling frightened and vexed.
Nigel crimsoned with shame, and the fire of his anger licked up the tears of his weakness. The next moment he was looking at her with dry eyes—and, strange to say, from that day his childish fits of weeping troubled him less.
He and Tony turned almost mechanically down the narrow grass lane leading past Old Surrey Hall to the woods of Cowsanish. They did not speak much at first—indeed, a kind of restraint seemed established between them. Nigel wondered more than ever what had made him seek her out—this naïve, shy, rather limited little girl. All yesterday he had been struggling with a desperate need of her. He could not understand why he wanted her so; she was not nearly as sympathetic as Len and Janey, she was not so interesting, even, and yet he wanted her.
At first he had thought it was her ignorance of his past life which made her presence such refreshment—the blessed fact that with her he had a clean slate to write over. After all, though Len and Janey had forgiven, they could not forget—for them his muddled sum was only crossed out, not wiped clean. With Tony he could start afresh from the beginning, not merely where his miserable blunder ended. And yet this was not all that drew him to her. He felt deep down in his heart a subtler, more compelling attraction. What brought him to Tony was a development of the same feeling that had made him catch up the unlovely Ivy in his arms and find her sweet. It wasa fragment of that strange, new part of him, which had been born in prison, and frightened Len and Janey—the child.
He could not remember that before his dark years he had felt particularly young for his age, or cared for young society; but now his heart seemed full of irrepressible torrents of youth. He wanted to be with boys and girls, to hear their shouts, to share their laughter, to join in their games—not as a "grown-up," but as one of themselves. Why did every one expect him to have grown old in prison? Sorrow does not always make old, it often makes young. It sends a man back pleading to the forgotten days of his youth, struggling to recapture them once more, and bring their carelessness into his awful care.
To-day he lost his troubles in finding grasses and leaves for Tony's collection. After a time her constraint wore off. She chattered to him about school friends, lessons and games, daring adventures and desperate scrapes. That day he found such a mood more sweet to him than any glimpse of pity or understanding she could have shown. He might want her compassion—the woman in her—sometimes, but only transiently; what he wanted most was the child in her, for it answered the sorrow-born child crying in the darkness of his heart.
They scrambled in the hedges for bloody-twig and bryony, they gathered the yellowing hazel, and bunches of strange pods. Nigel was able to tell her the names of many plants and bushes she had not known before—he was wonderfullyenthusiastic, and loved to hear about the botany walks at school, and the other collections she had made, which had sometimes won prizes.
It was past noon when they turned home. The distances were dim, hazed with mist and sunshine. A faint wind was stirring in the trees, and now and then a shower of golden leaves swept into the lane, whirled round, then fluttered slowly to the grass. Some rain had fallen early in the morning, and the hedges were still wet, sending up sweet steams of perfume to the cloud-latticed sky.
Nigel spoke suddenly.
"Do your parents know about me?"
"They know about East Grinstead, but not about Brambletye."
"Shall you tell them?"
"No—I don't think I shall. I—I'm not at all sure what they'd say if they knew all the facts."
"Nor am I," said Nigel grimly.
"Besides, I hate telling people about things I really enjoy—it spoils it all, somehow. You don't think it's wrong, do you?"
"No—why should it be?"
"I don't know—only whenever a thing's absolutely heavenly, one can't help thinking there's something wrong about it."
"Well, I don't see why there should be anything wrong about this. I'm lonely, and so are you—why shouldn't we be friends?"
"I've never done anything like it before. It's funny that father and mother are so awfully particular, for they don't bother about me much inother ways. I'm nearly always alone when I'm at Shovelstrode. Father's busy, and mother's not strong, and Awdrey has so many people to go about with."
"And when you come back from a long walk, no one asks you where you've been, or whom you've met?"
"I'm not supposed to go for long walks by myself—only to potter round the estate—and no one ever asks me any questions."
Her voice was rather pathetic—in contrast to her proud assurance when she talked about school.
"We'll meet again," he said impulsively.
"I hope so—I hope so awfully. To-morrow I've got to go over to Haxsmiths in the car with Awdrey, but I've nothing else all the rest of this week. I wanted father to take me to Lingfield races on Saturday, but he can't."
"Do you like race-meetings?"
"I've never been to one in my life. I wanted so much to go this time—I'm generally at school, you know, and it seemed such a good chance; but father has to be in Lewes, and Awdrey's spending the week-end in Brighton—besides, I couldn't go with her alone, one wants a man."
"I'll take you if you like."
"You! Oh!"
"Shouldn't you like it?"
"I should love it—but if any one saw us ... father would be furious."
"No one shall see us—we won't go into any of the enclosures and risk meeting your friends. Do let me take you."
Tony flushed with pleasure and fright. This was adventure indeed.
"I'd love to go. Oh, how ripping!"
When Nigel reached home that morning he went straight to find Janey. There was something vital between him and his sister—each brought the other the first-fruits of emotion. Janet might find Leonard a tenderer comforter, more thoughtful, more demonstrative, but there was not between them that affinity of sorrow there was between her and Nigel. Not that she ever told him, even hinted, why she suffered, but the mere glance of his eyes, so childish yet so troubled, the mere touch of those hands coarsened and spoiled by the toil of his humiliation, was more comfort to her than Len's caresses or tender words. Nigel could repeat the magic formula of sympathy—"I too have known...."
He felt, unconsciously, the same towards her. But it was more happiness than grief that he brought her. He had acquired the habit of eating his heart out alone, but happiness was so new and strange that he hardly knew what to do with it. So he ran with it to Janey, like a child to his mother with something he does not quite understand.
To-day he found her in the kitchen, sitting by the fire, and watching some of her doubtful cookery. Her back was bent, and her arms rested from the elbow on her lap, the long hands dropping over the knees. Her face, thrust forward from thegloom of her hair, wore a strange white look of defiance, while her lips quivered with surrender.
He sat down at her feet, and leaned his head against her lap. He vaguely felt she was unhappy, but he did not try to comfort her, merely took one of the long, hot hands in his. She did not speak, either—but her heart kindled at his presence. She knew that he had been happier for the last two days, though yesterday he had also seemed to have some anxiety, fretting and questioning. His happiness meant much to her. All her happiness now was vicarious—Quentin's, Leonard's or Nigel's. In her own heart were only flashes and sparks of it, that scorched as well as gladdened.
Life was a perplexity—life was pulling her two ways. She seemed to be hanging, a tortured, wind-swung thing, between earth and heaven, and she could hardly tell which hurt her most—her sudden falls down or her sudden snatchings up. Earth and heaven, brute and god, were always meeting now, clashing like two ill-tuned cymbals.
Her shame was that her love and Quentin's had not been strong enough to wait. She had looked upon it as an exalted spiritual passion, and it had suddenly shown itself impatient and bodily. It had fallen to the level of a thousand other loves. Sometimes she almost wished that it had been a more despised lover who had won her surrender—better fall from the trees than from the stars.
Moreover, her sacrifice had not won her what she was seeking, but something inferior and makeshift. What she had dreamed of as the crown oflove had been a life of kingly, fearless association, the sanctification of every day, an undying Together. That was still far away. Borne on an undercurrent she had till then hardly suspected, she and Quentin had been washed into the backwaters of their dream. She had only one comfort, and that was paradoxically at times the chief of her regrets—Quentin was happy. Unlike her, he seemed to have found all he had been seeking. She was still unsatisfied, her heart still yearned after higher, sweeter things, but again and again he told her he had all his desire.
"I am in Paradise—Janey, my own Janey. We climbed over the gates, and we are there—together in the garden"—and his lips would burn against hers, and even the tears brim from his fiery, sunken eyes.
She never let him think she was not happy. She meekly and bravely accepted the vocation of her womanhood—if he was happy, all her wishes, except certain secret personal ones, were gratified. For his sake she put aside her dreams, and fixed her thoughts on what was, forgetting what might have been. She broke her heart like a box of spikenard, that she might anoint him king.
A shudder passed through Janey, and Nigel's head stirred on her knee. He lifted it, and looked into her eyes—then he drew down her face to his and kissed it.
"You're tired, my Janey."
His voice thrilled with a tenderness that carried her back to the days before he went to prison.
"No, dear, not tired—but I've a bit of a headache."
"I'm so sorry. Oughtn't you to lie down?"
"No—it will go."
"Poor old sister!"
He put up his hand and laid it gently on her forehead. Then suddenly he hid his face.
"Oh, Janey, I'm so happy!"
November came in cloth of gold—a hazy sunshine put yellow everywhere, into the bleak rain-washed fields, the white, cold mirrors of ponds, the brown heart of woods. Lingfield races were on the first of the month—from noon onwards the race-trains clanked down from London, and disgorged their sordid contents. The public-houses were full, the little village, generally so pure and drowsy, woke up to its monthly contamination. It was the last meeting of the flat-racing season, and most of the "county" was present, crowding the paddock and the more expensive enclosures, eating its lunch to the accompaniment of a band too much engrossed in the betting for the interests of good music.
Nigel Furlonger met Tony Strife at the top of Wilderwick hill. He had dressed himself with more care than usual—in the girl's interest he must look respectable. Leonard and Janet had been immensely surprised when he told them he meant to go to the races. The Furlonger disreputableness owed some of its celebrity to the fact that it ran along channels of its own, neglecting those approved by wealth and fashion.
"Feel you've got too much cash?" jeered Leonard.
"I shan't do any betting to speak of."
"Don't you!" said Janey; "we're stony enough as things are."
"But I'm not bound to lose—I may win, and retrieve the family fortunes."
"Look here, my boy," said Len, "you leave the family fortunes alone. You've done too much in that line already."
Nigel coloured furiously—but the next moment his anger cooled; he had been wonderfully gentler during the last few days. He turned, and emptied his pockets on the table.
"There—take it all—except five bob for luck—and a half-crown for——" He was going to have said "the little girl's tea," but stopped just in time.
He occasionally wondered why he did not tell Len and Janet about Tony. But he felt doubtful as to what they might say. They would never understand how he could find such a comradeship congenial. Tony was only sixteen, and lived a very different life from his. They might laugh—no, they would not do that; more likely they would be anxious and compassionate, they would think it one of the unhealthy results of prison, they would be sorry for him, and he could not bear that they should be sorry for what brought him so much happiness. Besides, he had a natural habit of reserve—even before he went to prison he had kept secrets from Len and Janey.
Tony was waiting for him when he reached their meeting-place. She wore a plain dark coat and skirt, but she had put on a wide hat, with a wreath of crimson leaves round it, and instead of plaiting her hair, she let it stream over her shoulders, thick and sleek, without a curl. In her hand she clutched a little purse.
"I'm going to bet on a horse," she said in an awe-struck voice.
"Which horse?"
"I don't know. I'll see when I get there."
"I'll try and find something pretty safe for you, and I'll have my money on it too."
"Isn't it exciting!" whispered Tony. "What should I do if I met Mrs. Arkwright or any of the mistresses!"
Mrs. Arkwright and the mistresses were not the people Furlonger dreaded to meet.
He and Tony swung gaily along the cinder-track leading to the course. It was deserted, except for a little knot at the starting gate. The girl shrank rather close to him as they came into the crowd. The shouting made her nervous and flustered—that people should make such a noise over a shady thing like betting seemed to her extraordinary. She touched Nigel's elbow, and showed him her purse, now open, and containing half-a-crown.
"Which is the best horse?"
"I wish I knew."
"May I look at the card?"
He gave it to her. She seemed puzzled.
"How can I tell which horse to bet on?"
A man beside them laughed, and Nigel flushed indignantly.
"You can't tell much by the card; I'll go over to the ring in a moment, and find out what the odds are. But as you don't want to put on more than half-a-crown, I'd keep it till the big race, if I were you."
"Which is the big race?"
"The Lingfield Cup. It's the last—but we'll enjoy the others, even though we've got nothing on 'em."
They enjoyed them thoroughly. Hanging over the rail, their shouts were just as noisy and as desperate as if they had all their possessions at stake. Tony was thrilled to the depths—the clamour and excitement in the betting ring, the odd, disreputable people all round her, surreptitiously exchanging shillings and horses' names—the clanging bell, the shout of "They're off!" the flash of opera-glasses, the mad rush by, the cheers for the winner ... all plunged her into an orgy of excitement. She felt subtly wicked and daring, and also, when Nigel began to explain the technicalities of racing, infinitely worldly-wise. What would the girls at school say when they found out she knew the meaning of "Ten to one, bar one," or "Money on both ways"? She wrote such phrases down in her "nature note-book," which she carried about with her to record botanical discoveries, birds seen, sunsets, and equally blameless doings.
At last the time came for the Lingfield Cup. Tony's hands began to quiver. Now was the moment when she should actually become a part of that new world swinging round her. She would have her stake in the game—and a big stake too, for half-a-crown meant more than a fortnight's pocket-money. She looked nervously at Mr. Smith.
"We'll see 'em go past before we put our money on," said he, with a calmness she thought unnatural. "You can tell a lot by the way a horse canters up."
They leaned over the rail, and Tony gave a little cry at the first sight of colours coming from the paddock.
"Here they are—oh, what a beautiful horse!"
"A bit short in the leg," said Nigel, "we won't put our money on him."
"What about that bay—the one coming now?"
"He's a good 'un, I should say. That's Milk-O, the favourite."
"Let's back him."
"Wait, here's another. That's Midsummer Moon, the betting's 100 to 1 against him."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that he's a rank outsider."
"Then we mustn't put our money on him."
"I've known outsiders win splendidly, and, of course, if they do, their backers get thundering odds. If we put our money on Milk-O and he wins we're only in for five shillings each, but if Midsummer Moon wins for us, why, we get over twelve pounds."
"Oh!" gasped Tony. Her eyes grew round. "Over twelve pounds"—that would mean all sorts of splendours—a new hockey-stick, a real spliced beauty instead of the silly unspliced thing her father thought "good enough for a girl"; she would be able to get that wonderful illustrated edition of theIdylls of the King, which she had seen in Gladys Gates' home and admired so much;and directly she went back to school she could give a gorgeous midnight feast—a feast of the superior order, with lemonade and veal-and-ham pies, not one of those scratch affairs at which you ate only buns and halfpenny meringues and drank a concoction of acid-drops dissolved in the water-jug.
Nigel saw the enthusiasm growing on her face.
"Well, would you like to put your money on Midsummer Moon? Of course you're more likely to lose, but if you win, you'll make a good thing out of it."
"Do you think he'll win?"
"I can't say—but it's a sporting chance."
"I think it's worth the risk," said Tony in a low, thrilled voice.
He looked at her intently.
"I always like to see any one ready to back an outsider."
"Don't people generally?"
"No—and nor will you, perhaps, when you're older."
She gave him her half-crown, and he disappeared with it into the crowd, having first carefully put her next a group of respectable farmers' wives. In some ways, thought Tony, he was just as particular as father. She wished he would let her go with him into the ring.
He came back in a few moments. Then suddenly the bell clanged.
"They're off!"
Silence dropped on the babel almostdisconcertingly. Opera-glasses flashed towards the start, rows of heads and bodies hung over the rail, Tony's breath came in short gasps, so did Nigel's—he was desperately anxious for that outsider to win. As they had no glasses they could not see which colours led at the bend, but as the horses swung into the straight, there were shouts of "Milk-O!—Milk-O!"
"Damn the brute!" said Nigel, which gave Tony another thrill of new experience. She had actually spent the afternoon with a man who swore!
"Milk-O!—Milk-O!"
"Spreadeagle!" shouted some one. Then there were more shouts of "Spreadeagle!"
"Milk-O!"—"Spreadeagle!"—the yells were deafening—then suddenly changed into a mixture of cheers and groans, as the favourite dashed by the post.
"And—where's Midsummer Moon?" gasped poor Tony, as the field clattered in.
"Never started, lady," said a stout policeman, who, being drafted in from elsewhere, did not recognise Nigel as the young fellow on ticket-of-leave who came to report himself every month at East Grinstead.
"Oh, dear!" cried Tony, "we've lost our money."
"Never put your money on an outsider, lady," said the stout constable.
Nigel turned to her with an odd, beseeching look in his eyes.
"I'm sorry ... I'm dreadfully sorry. It's myfault—if it hadn't been for me you'd have backed the favourite."
"Oh, it doesn't matter the very tiniest bit."
"But I'm so sorry—I feel a beast."
"Please don't. I've enjoyed myself awfully, and it's made the race ever so much more exciting, having some money on it."
"All right!" had been sung out from the weighing-ground, and the crowd was either pressing round the bookies, or dispersing along the course.
"We'd better go, I think," said Nigel, "you mustn't be late home."
"It's been perfectly ripping," and Tony suddenly slipped her warm gloved hand into his. "It was so kind of you to take me."
"But I made you back an outsider."
"Oh, never mind about it—please don't."
She gave his hand a little squeeze as she spoke, and suddenly, over him once again passed that thrill of great simplicity which he had experienced first at Brambletye. He became dumb—quite dumb and simple, with infinite rest in his heart.
They turned to leave, jostling their way through the crowd towards the cinder-track. Soon the clamour and scramble were far behind, and they found the little footpath that ran through the fields near Goatsluck Farm.
"Which way are we going home?" asked Tony.
"We'll have tea before we go home. Will you come with me and have tea in a cottage?"
"Oh, how ripping!..."
Nigel looked round him. A cottage belonging to Goatsluck Farm was close at hand—one of thosedwarfed, red cottages, where the windows gleam like eyes under the steep roof.
"Let's ask there," he said, "perhaps we can have it in the garden."
The labourer's wife was only too glad of a little incident and pence-earning. She laid a table for them by a clump of lilac bushes, now bare. One or two chrysanthemums were still in bloom, and sent their damp sweetness to the meal that Nigel and Tony had together. It was a very plain meal—only bread and butter and tea, but simplicity and bread and butter had now become vital things to Furlonger. Neither he nor Tony spoke much, but their silences were no less happy than the words that broke them.
The sun had set, a hazy crimson smeared the west, and above it hung one or two dim stars. A little cold wind rustled suddenly in the bushes, and fluttered the table-cloth. Tony's face was pale in the twilight, and her eyes looked unnaturally large and dark. Then she and Nigel realised that they were both leaning forward over the table, as if they had something especially important to say to each other....
The wind dropped suddenly, and the fogs swept up and veiled the stars. The crimson deepened to purple in the west.
"Are you cold?" asked Furlonger awkwardly, and drew back.
"No, thank you," said Tony, and leaned back too.
A few minutes later they rose to go. It was half-past five, and strange shadows were in the lanes,where the ruts and puddles gleamed. An owl called from Ashplats Wood. The November dusk had suddenly become chill. Nigel slipped off his overcoat and wrapped it round Tony.
"I don't want it," he insisted. "Oh, what a funny little thing you look!"
"It comes down right over my heels—it's ripping and warm."
They walked on in silence for about a quarter of a mile. Then the distant throbbing of a car troubled the evening. It drew nearer, and they stood aside to let it pass them in the narrow lane.
But instead of passing, it pulled up suddenly, and out jumped Sir Gambier Strife.
Their surprise and dismay were so great that for a time they could not use their tongues. Sir Gambier stood before them, his face flushed, his mouth a little open, while the dusk and the arc-lights of the huge motor had games with his figure, making it seem monstrous and misshapen.
"Father——" began Tony, and then stopped. She was really the least disconcerted of the three, for she had only Mr. Smith to deal with—surely the presence of such a knight could easily be explained and forgiven. But the other two had to face the complication of Furlonger.
"What the——" broke from Strife, after the time-honoured formula of the man who wants to swear, but objects on principle to swearing before women.
The colour mounted on Nigel's face, from his neck to his cheeks, from his cheeks to his forehead—and gradually his head drooped.
Tony turned to him with sublime assurance.
"Father, let me introduce Mr. Smith."
"Smith!"
Nigel opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck to his tongue.
"You know about Mr. Smith," continued Tony, "how helpful he was at East Grinstead——"
"He told you his name was Smith, did he?"
"Of course. I know him quite well now—he lives at Fan's Court, near Blindley Heath, and...." Tony's voice trailed off. She wondered why Mr. Smith did not speak for himself.
"You damn liar!" roared Strife, swinging round on Nigel.
"Father!"
"Sir Gambier, let me explain...."
"I won't hear a word. Explanation, indeed! What explanation can there be?—you victimiser of innocent little girls!—Antoinette, get into the car at once, and come home. Then we'll hear all the lies this Furlonger's been cramming you with."
"Furlonger...."
The word came in a long gasp.
"Yes—Furlonger. That's his name. 'Smith,' indeed!"
"Father, he isn't Furlonger. Furlonger was quite different, short and dark and dirty-looking."
"I tell you this is Furlonger—and he's quite dirty-looking enough for me. Come along, Antoinette, I won't have you standing here."
"But you aren't Furlonger—are you, Mr. Smith?"
Her voice rang with entreaty and the first horror of doubt. Nigel turned his eyes to hers and tried to plead with them; but they were not understanding—he saw he had only the clumsy weapon of his tongue to fight with.
"I am Furlonger," he said in a low voice.
There was a brief, electric pause. Tony had grown very white.
"Then who was that other man?—Why did you tell me your name was Smith?"
"I've no idea who the other fellow was, and I gave my name as Smith because I felt sure you'd have heard of Furlonger."
"But why—why——"
"Come along, miss," interrupted Sir Gambier. "I won't have you talking to this scoundrel."
"But I want to know why he told me all those lies."
Her face had grown hard as well as white.
"He had very good reasons, I'm sure," sneered Strife.
Nigel suddenly found his tongue.
"Tony!" he cried, "Tony!"
"What damned impudence is this?—'Tony' indeed! You'll not dare address my daughter by that name, sir."
"Tony," repeated Nigel, too desperate to realise what he was calling her. "I swear I never meant you any harm. I know it looks like it—but you mustn't think so. I wanted to be your friend because—because you didn't know of my disgrace, you treated me like a human being. You talked to me about simple things—you made me feel goodand clean when I was with you. That's why I 'told you all these lies.'"
The girl began to tremble. Sir Gambier laughed.
"Tony—don't forsake me."
"Hold your tongue, sir," thundered Strife. "I won't have any more of this. Get into the car, Antoinette."
He touched her arm, and for the first time she responded. She turned and climbed into the car, still trembling, her head bowed, tears on her cheek.
Nigel sprang on to the step.
"Tony—can't you forgive me? I didn't deceive you from any wrong motive. Why do you look like that? Is it because I've been in prison?—I—I suffered there...."
"Oh don't!" gasped the girl, "don't speak to me—I can't bear it. I—I'm so dreadfully—disappointed."
His eyes searched her face for some pity or understanding. Instead he saw only horror, pain, and something akin to fright.
"Don't!" she repeated.
Then he suddenly realised that she was too young to understand.
He fell back from the step, and covered his eyes.
Sir Gambier sprang into the driver's seat. Tony did not speak again. Her father took the steering-wheel, and the car throbbed away into the dusk. She made no protest, and only once looked back—at the man who still stood in the middle of the lane, with his hands over his eyes.
Rather to Tony's surprise, she and her father drove in silence. As a matter of fact, Sir Gambier was baffled by his younger daughter. Awdrey he could have dealt with easily enough—he was used to Awdrey's scrapes. But Tony had always been more or less impersonal—a vague some one for whom one paid school-bills, who came home for the holidays, made herself pretty scarce, and then went back to school again, to write prim letters home every Sunday. It was a new idea that this half-realised being should suddenly show herself possessed of a personality in the form of a scrape—and such a scrape too! Furlonger! He grunted with fury, but—as would never have been the case if he had had Awdrey to deal with—he said nothing.
Once, however, he looked sideways, and noticed how Tony was sitting. Her back was bent, and her arms rested on her knees, the hands clenched between them; her chin was a little thrust forward into the darkness through which they rushed.
At last they reached Shovelstrode. The moon was high above the pines, and they seemed to be waving in waters of silver. The house-front shimmered in the white light, as the motor pulsed up to it. Tony climbed down, and stood stiffly on the step.
"You'd better go to your room," said Sir Gambier in muddled rage. "I—I expect your mother will want to speak to you."
"Very well," said Tony.
She walked quickly upstairs, went into her room, and sat down on the bed. A square of moonlight lay on the floor, and the moving shadows curtsied across it. They and the pines outside seemed to be nodding to her grotesquely under the moon—they seemed to be mocking her for her great illusion lost.
"Furlonger...." she repeated to herself. "Furlonger...."
A sick quake of rage was in her heart. Her feelings were still confused, but definite grievances stood out of the jumble. This man whom she had thought so much of—in school-girl language "had a rave on"—had deceived her, told her lies, acted them, and won by them ... well, the horrible thing was that she did not really know how much or how little he had won.
But worse still was the realisation that he had made her do unconsciously something she thought wrong. Like most girls of her age she had a cast-iron code of morals. When a school-girl sets out to be moral, there is no professor of ethics or minister of religion that can touch her—her morality has behind it all the enormous force of inexperience, it can neither stretch nor bend, and it breaks only at the risk of her whole spiritual life.
She was horrified to think she had given her friendship to a scoundrel, even though she haddone it ignorantly. It was like befriending a girl who cheated or told tales. For her his crime had no attraction or interest—it was just a hideous blot and defilement. She had often heard the Wickham Rubber scandal discussed, and now store-housed memories came to appal her. Hundreds of people, most of them already poor, had been ruined and plunged into misery—widows with growing families, elderly spinsters with hard-gathered savings, poor old men with the terror of the workhouse closing on them with age, had trusted this Furlonger once and execrated him now. He was like that dreadful man in the Psalms, who laid wait to murder the innocent—"he doth ravish the poor when he getteth him into his den." And she had allowed this man to be her friend, she had confided her secrets to him, she had dreamed of him and prayed to meet him.... Tony's teeth and hands clenched, and her eyes grew miserable and hard.
Then she began to wonder what had made Furlonger want her friendship. What had he and she in common? Somehow she could not for a moment believe that he had sought her out from unworthy motives. The fact would always remain that he had wanted her friendship, that he had not given her a word which was not kind or courteous, that he had come to her rescue in her hour of need ... the tears rushed to her eyes; that was the bitterest part of all—her memories of his kindliness and knight-errantry—pictures of East Grinstead, Swites Wood, Brambletye, Lingfield Park, and that little old cottage by Goatsluck Farm.Suddenly she found herself making up her mind not to join her father and mother in condemning him. She would take his part in the scene which she knew was at hand.
She soon heard her father calling her, and went down. He pointed into her mother's boudoir, a small room with French windows opening on the lawn. It was full of vague furniture and vague mixed colours, and it seemed to Tony as if she were swimming through it up to the couch where her mother lay. It never struck her as strange that her father should seem unable to deal with her himself, but should hand her over to this weak invalid, who lay with closed eyes in the lamplight.
"Now, I don't want a scene," she said, without opening them.
"Tony won't make a scene," said Sir Gambier; "she's a deep one."
"Oh, Antoinette," sighed Lady Strife—"I never was so surprised in my life as when I heard of your deceit."
"My deceit!" said Tony quickly.
"Yes—going about with a man like Furlonger, and hiding it from your father and mother—don't you call that deceit?"
"I didn't know he was Furlonger."
"But you knew it was wrong to have a secret friendship with any man whatsoever. I never heard of such a thing in a young girl of your age and position—it's what housemaids do, and not nice housemaids at that."
"Mother," cried Tony, her voice shaking unexpectedly, "it was an adventure."
"A what!" shouted Sir Gambier.
His wife winced.
"Don't startle me, dear. And let the child say what she likes—I'm glad she has a theory to explain her actions."
Strife muttered something unintelligible, but made no more interruptions.
"Now tell me, Antoinette," said her mother, "exactly how long you have known this man—and what have you and he been doing together?"
"Mother, I can't explain. I know it sounds deceitful and caddish and all that, but it—it wasn't. It was an adventure, just as I've said. I'vedonesomething."
The invalid smiled distantly.
"When you are older you will realise the superiority of thought to action. The soul is built of thoughts—actions harden and coarsen it. But we won't discuss that now. Tell me how you and he got to know each other."
"He was the man who was so splendid at East Grinstead station. He told me his name was Smith, because, of course, he didn't want me to know who he really was. Then I met him one morning when I was giving Prince a run in Swites Wood, and then another time when I'd punctured my bicycle, and...."
"Go on, Antoinette."
"Oh, you'll never understand. But he was so different from any one else I'd met. He spoke so differently—about such different things——"
"I can imagine that."
"But he wasn't horrid, mother—I swear hewasn't. He was very quiet, and interesting, and rather unhappy—and I liked him—I liked him awfully."
Lady Strife did not speak, but her eyes were wide open. As for Sir Gambier, an unheard-of thing happened—he became sarcastic.
"Oh, you liked him, did you? Found him a nice-mannered young fellow?—well-informed? I didn't know you were interested in the inner life of his Majesty's prisons."
"Father!" cried Tony sharply.
"Now, listen to me, dear," said her mother; "you are very young, and consequently very inexperienced. A grown-up person would at once have realised that this man's friendship for you could not be disinterested."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that he's not the type of man who would naturally want to be the friend of a young and innocent girl like you. He must have had some ulterior motive in seeking your friendship. You have possibly seen no signs of that so far, but it would have been plain enough later."
"I don't believe it."
"Hush, dear. Your impertinence disconcerts me. I am trying to view the matter from the standpoint of pure thought, and how am I to do that if you keep on rudely interrupting me and dragging me down into the surge of human annoyance? You must take it from those older and more experienced than yourself that this man's motives in seeking your friendship could not have been disinterested. Besides, even suppose for thesake of argument that they were, don't you think you've been acting most disloyally to your father and me in associating with a man you know we disapprove of?"
"Mother, I've told you I'd no idea who he really was. Why, I thought the other man was Furlonger. Besides, I didn't know you disapproved of him. When all the others were letting fly at him, you said something about his having a beautiful soul and sinning more divinely than many people pray."
There is nothing more irritating to the Magus than to have his early philosophies cast in his teeth by some one with a better memory than his own. Lady Strife descended deep into the surge of human annoyance.
"Really, Antoinette, you are a perfectly exasperating child. All this comes from trying to treat you like a reasonable being. Your father said that what you really need is a good thrashing, and I'm inclined to agree with him now, though I insisted on having you in, and discussing things with you from the standpoint of pure thought. I shan't waste any more time on you—you can go back to your room, and stay there till your father gets an answer to his telegram to your Aunt Margaret."
"Aunt Maggie!"
"Yes," cried Sir Gambier, "you're going to Southsea, to stay with your Aunt Maggie till your confounded school re-opens or the crack of doom falls—whichever happens first. You're too much trouble at home—going about with a face like aplaster saint, while in reality you're traipsing over the country with men."
"Father, I wasn't traipsing. Oh, please don't send me to Aunt Maggie's—I shall die." This was that terrible coercion from outside which so effectually routs the forces of sixteen.
"My dear little girl," said her mother, who had climbed back to her standpoint of pure thought, "I know you will be reasonable now, and—I think I may be quite sure of that too—grateful afterwards. Your father and I are really doing you a great kindness in sending you to your aunt's—here you would never be free from the persecutions of that Furlonger."
"Mother, it wasn't persecutions. I liked it."
"Antoinette, I shall really begin to think you are utterly silly. To put the matter on its lowest, most materialistic footing, don't you realise that in associating with a man like that you are seriously damaging your prospects?"
"My prospects?"
"Yes—your prospects of making a good marriage and doing credit to your family. Come, don't stare at me so blankly. You must realise that you are now approaching—if not actually arrived at—a marriageable age, and that you must do nothing to damage——"
"But, mother, I don't want ever to marry. Really, I don't want to talk about such things. It makes me feel—oh, mother, don't you see it's bad form?"
"What!" shrieked her mother, with extraordinary lung-power for an invalid.
"We think it bad form at school to talk about marriage."
Her parents both stared at her blankly.
"Well, you can just think it good form to talk about it now," said Sir Gambier, feeling for some vague reason that he had said something rather witty.
"Your school must be an extraordinary place," said Lady Strife. "I shall have to write to the principal—now, don't interrupt—I shall certainly write; I won't have such ideas put into your head. You're quite old enough to think seriously of marriage. Why, I'd already had two offers at your age."
Tony looked surprised. She was very fond of her mother, but always wondered how she had ever managed to get married at all, and that she should have had more than one chance seemed positively miraculous.
Lady Strife saw the surprised look, and spoke more sharply.
"Really, Antoinette, you're no more than a great baby. You need education in the most ordinary matters. I'll write to your Aunt Margaret, and ask her to get some eligible men to meet you. Now don'tcry."
Tony was actually crying. She was generally as chary and ashamed of tears as a boy.
"I—I can't help it. Oh, mother, don't send me to Aunt Maggie's. Oh, don't make her ask el-el-eligible m-men."
"Don't be a blithering idiot!" shouted SirGambier. "If you can't control yourself, go upstairs and begin packing at once."
Tony went out, crying into a handkerchief stained with blackberry juice. Her demoralisation was complete.
Awdrey, who had been lurking uneasily in the dining-room, came out as the boudoir door opened and slammed, and for a moment stood horrified at the sight of her sister.
"Hullo, Tony! Whenever did I last see you cry? What's the matter, old girl?"
"M-Mother thinks I'm old enough to-to b-be married."
"To whom?" shrieked Awdrey, all agog at once.
"Nobody—only some el-eligible men at—at Aunt Maggie's."
"What rot you're talking. Hasn't any one asked you?"
"Of course not."
"Then what on earth's all the row about? It's only natural mother should want you to be married some day."
"But—but I've sworn never to marry."
"Ah," said Awdrey knowingly, as she tramped upstairs beside her sister; then in a gentler voice, "Why can't you marryhim?"
"Who's 'him'?"
"Why, the man who made you swear not to marry."
"It wasn't a man—it was a g-girl," and Tony's tears burst out afresh, as she remembered how she and Gladys Gates had sworn to each other never to marry, but always to live together, andhad solemnly divided and eaten a lump of sugar in ratification of the covenant.
Awdrey was speechless with disgust, but she went with Tony into her room, because she had not yet found out what she primarily wanted to know.
"You're an extraordinary kid, Tony—I really should call you only half there. You kick up all this ridiculous fuss at the mere mention of marriage, and yet you go about with a man like Furlonger. Oh yes, I know all about it. Father was bawling loud enough for every one this side of the Channel to hear."
"But I tell you I didn't know he was Furlonger. Besides, he didn't want me to marry him. He wouldn't dream of suggesting such a thing."
"Oh, no, I'm quite sure of that. But you don't tell me your relations with him were entirely platonic."
"Yes, I do."
"You mean to say he never even kissed you?"
"Kissed me!—of course not!—how dare you, Awdrey!"
"My dear child, you play the injured innocence game very well, but when you make out you don't know what sort of man Furlonger is, you're carrying it a bit too far."
"Of course, I know he's been in prison," and Tony sobbed drily, "but as for kissing me, I'm sure he's not as bad as that."
"Are you trying to be funny?" asked Awdrey sharply.
Tony only sniffed in reply, and her sister's gaze wandered round the windy, austere room, resting on the few photographs of school-girl friends on the mantelpiece.
"I suppose you're in earnest," she said, after a pause, "but really, you're the weirdest thing, even in flappers, I've ever met. Perhaps in time you'll realise that even such a heinous crime as a kiss is a degree better than robbing a few score poor widows of their savings."
Tony stopped crying suddenly, and a quiver passed through her. The expression of her eyes changed.
"Awdrey—I—I think I'd like to be—alone—to do my packing."
Half-an-hour later Tony's boxes were still empty, except for a foundation layer of the school-girl photographs. The bed and chairs were littered with underclothing, shoes, hats, books and frocks. Tony sat on the floor, staring miserably in front of her with tear-blind eyes that did not notice the surrounding confusion, so intent were they on the litter of a broken dream. Her dream, once so joyful, fresh and iridescent, was now a mere jumble of shards. She had defended Furlonger against her parents and her sister, but it had been the last effort of which her bleeding heart was capable. Her hero and his epic had now broken up into a terrible shatter of disillusion, to which her mother and Awdrey had added the most humiliating dust. She could not think which was worse—the motives of self-interest attributed by the one, or thelove-motives attributed by the other. And though she denied both, at the bottom of her heart was a far worse accusation. Her stainless champion was a criminal, a false swearer, a defrauder of the helpless, a devourer of widows' houses. He had not sinned against her in the way her family imagined, but in a far more horrible, subtle way ... she shuddered, sickened and shrank.
All the same she was glad that when others accused him she had taken his part.