She made a little sound of dismay.
"But he is in process of forgetting—he must be!" she cried. "Anyhow, he doesn't expect me to start off to Africa to keep the promise he says I made?"
"Nothing could be farther from his thoughts, I assure you."
"Well, that is what I wanted to be sure of! Now I shall breathe freely again. I will confess to you now, that I had a terrible moment this evening. Mater said Mr. Burmester had come home, and laughed and asked me to guess who was with him! I leaped to the conclusion that it was Bert Mestaer, and I suddenly found myself in the grip of a blind terror. I thought I should faint, all the horror of that dreadful time came back so clearly. I don't think I could have faced him...."
But Lance was no longer to be held back. He broke away from his captors, and came towards Millie, calling for a song. Captain Brooke, who still stood forlorn and rigid by the piano, leaning his chin on his hand, was roughly pushed away. Melicent sat down without shyness, and sang two or three ballads in a voice that—like herself—was small and flexible and very distinctive. The last thing she sang was that wonderful little piece of inspiration,
"The night has a thousand eyes."
Captain Brooke was turning over for her.
"That's very true," he said,
"'The mind has a thousand eyes,The heart but one,'"
he repeated thoughtfully.
"Yes," she answered; "yet many people seem content with the one! I suppose all women used to be! Think what an awful fate, to look on life merely as a matter of sentiment! The thousand eyes are better, don't you think so?"
"I never tried," he answered simply.
The reply struck her as remarkable, but she had no time to reflect upon it, for Lance again struck in:
"Seems to me wonderful, with a profession of your own, that you should find time to learn to sing so beautifully," he said.
"The singing is my recreation," she replied, "the other my serious work."
"Ah!" cried Lance, "and that reminds me of old Brooke's business and the reason why he came here to-night! Do you know, Miss Lutwyche, Brooke wants to build a house, and he's been reading a paragraph in theHauberkabout a lady architect."
Melicent grew pink, and looked down.
"Captain Brooke won't want to give his work to such a complete novice," she said demurely. "Now that he has seen me, he will want to retire gracefully from his intention, and you put him in a cruel dilemma by mentioning it."
"I like trying experiments," said the Captain, with more animation than he had yet displayed.
Everyone was now crowding with interest around the music-stool where Melicent sat.
"What and where would your house be, Captain Brooke?" asked Helston.
"It would be in my—my—the place my people come from," he replied. "It's in Wiltshire."
"Wiltshire! That's a variable county; on Salisbury Plain?"
"No; it's a pretty village. Clunbury, they call it."
"What kind of house do you think of building?"
"I should leave that entirely to Miss Lutwyche."
"I say, Melicent, here's your chance!" cried Helston mischievously. "You'll be able to send another paragraph to theHauberk?"
"How dare you?" she cried, threatening him in mock rage. "Oh ... but this is wonderful! Are you serious, Captain Brooke?"
"Quite. I have bought the land. Only about twenty acres. I should like your advice about the actual site of the house."
"Well, Millie, if you give satisfaction over this, your career is made," cried Brenda.
"But what kind of house do you want?" cried the girl. "You must tell me that!"
"No; that's what I shall pay you to tell me," said Millie's client calmly. He smiled for the first time, as he added: "You have the thousand eyes."
"Well!" said Melicent, "the agitations of this day have been quite too much for me!"
"Do your people live at Clunbury?" asked Helston of the Captain.
"Oh, no; not now. They sold their last acre in my grandfather's time. A churchyard full of their graves is all that is left. It is, however, a part of their land that I have bought back."
"That is the kind of thing I would like to do myself," said Carol Mayne.
"Now, Miss Lutwyche, is the house rising before your mind's eye?" cried Lance, pleased at the intense interest created by the scheme.
"Not yet," said Melicent; but her eyes were dreamy. "What kind of people were your forbears?" she asked the Captain.
"Merely yeomanry," he answered, "and wholly Philistine; people with one eye."
"And do you want the house to resemble them in tone?" she asked, smiling at his allusion.
"No. I want it to be the typical house that is in your mind; the house you would live in, if you could choose."
She laughed.
"Take care! You don't know how lordly my ideas may be! You will have to bring them down to the level of estimates."
"Do you want the thing put in hand at once?" asked Helston.
"Yes, I do. I should like Miss Lutwyche to come down and look at the site before I go to Ilbersdale for Easter."
"Well, Millie, you must make up your mind! Do you accept the order?" cried Carol Mayne.
"I should like to come down and look at the site before I finally say Yes," said she. "And ask Captain Brooke all manner of questions."
"That will suit me well," he replied gravely. "To-day is Monday. Shall we say Thursday?"
"He who has seen a city in the skiesKnows he may never cool his tired eyesAt the fair waters of that Paradise.
But the one moment when he thought his feetWould enter that dream-city, was so sweetThat he can bear the noonday and its heat."—ALICE HERBERT.
The sky was clear and starry; the night was swept by the strong, clean current of the March wind, as the three men stepped out into Collis Square.
"How shall we get back?" asked Burmester, lighting his cigar. "Train, tube or bus?"
"I shall walk," said Brooke, with brevity.
They were standing just beneath a street lamp, whose strong light, falling on his face, showed it haggard and strained. Burmester did not observe it.
"You don't catch me!" he cried jovially, flinging away his light. "Come on, Bishop—leave that maniac to his own devices. Here's a hansom, the very thing."
The jingling cab pulled up at his signal, and he sprang in. "Rhodes Hotel!"
"All right, Burmester, I'm walking a bit with Brooke," said Mayne.
"The deuce you are! Nice trick to play on me!" cried Lance, as he was bowled away.
"Why can't you go with him, and leave me to myself?" growled Brooke, lighting a pipe with a hand that shook.
"Because I want your society, though it seems the desire is not mutual."
There was no reply. They tramped eastwards in silence, past the Marble Arch, down Park Lane into Grosvenor Square, and on into Berkeley Square, where suddenly Brooke said:
"I wish you would go."
"You're not playing fair," quietly replied Mayne. "Conspirators ought to share confidences."
"Confide away then."
"All right, I will. I am as pleased as I feel sure you must be, though you don't show it, at the result of your idea."
"Pleased!" echoed Brooke. "Pleased! ... Great Heaven! Pleased, are you? But then, you see, I am not you. Bishop, I know every line of her face, every tone of her voice, though I never heard but one in the old days! I know her as a man knows the land where he was born; and she could sit looking full at me across the table, and not know she had ever seen me! ... Man! How have I come through it?"
"Excellently. I don't understand you. Surely it is what you were hoping for, planning for—complete non-recognition? What would have happened if she had known you? You heard what she said to me about you?"
"Every word;" his voice sank to a despairing whisper.
"She is at least consistent," said Mayne.
An inarticulate murmur of assent.
"I don't think the non-recognition wonderful," went on Mayne. "You see, she never thought about you, or even looked at you attentively in old days. And think what you were like then! Not only the outer man has changed. Remember that I myself, when first I saw you without your beard, and without your slouch, and without your oaths—in your uniform, drilled into a self-respecting Englishman—I did not know you."
"But you did, as soon as I said: 'Don't you remember me?'"
"Exactly; because you did say so. But you have not said so to Miss Lutwyche; and don't you see that your very failure to do so would banish the idea of your possible identity from her mind? You come before her with looks, words, manners, your very nationality—all changed! An English landed proprietor! Doubtless she knows nothing of the great diamond find on the High Farm, nor of the fortune you have realised. The idea that you should adopt such a method of gaining access to her, would never strike her, it would not seem characteristic of her preconceived idea of you."
"I don't know how I got through," said the Captain brokenly. "When she came in, looking like an angel from God ... and passed me by and went up to you! By George, Mayne, she was right! It was you who saved her! But for you—"
"She was wrong; it was you," said Mayne. "She will probably never know the fight you made; women don't understand these things, and it is as well they don't. Things go like that in the world."
"She's beautiful, Mayne; don't you think so?"
Mayne laughed.
"I don't think her at all angelic," he replied, "but I will own that she seems to me less unlovable than I used to think her in Africa. Don't punch my head! ... Burmester admired her, I thought."
"Yes, confound him!"
"But you have made a splendid opening. The idea of the house was a masterly one. It gives you endless opportunities and a common interest. Only remember, you must keep yourself well in hand. As I warned you, the game is a dangerous one. One false move may cost you all."
"The worst is over now," returned the Captain. "The awfulness of feeling that she's everything to me, I a nightmare to her! I can still hardly believe she didn't know me."
"Everything was in your favour. She was full of my return, and of relief that it was I, not you. The silent Captain Brooke was a negligible quantity."
"She never looked at me squarely but once. That was in the middle of dinner. My heart nearly stopped. I had to lower my eyes lest they should say things. Ah, well; you're a good sort, and no mistake. I'm glad we've talked it out, though I was a sulky brute at first."
"H'm! Yes; Melicent might think the change in you not so deep if she had heard your way with me this evening," said his friend drily. "The old Bert is still there, in spite of all the polish."
Bert laughed as he strode on, with his long, swinging step. He made a fine tribute to the creative powers of Sergeant What's-his-name. There had been good material to work upon, and the right kind of training; and the result was something like a miracle.
In the old days, Mayne had realised that this man was something out of the common: but even he had not been prepared for his persistence, nor for his wonderfulflairfor knowing the right men, reading the right books, doing the right thing. During all these five years, no week had passed without the exchange of letters between those two. Mayne had sent up books, had cheered and inspired his pupil, had never let him feel that nobody cared. Bert had bent all the powers of his strong mind and still stronger will towards the attainment of his one idea. His life had been a life of monastic purity, of iron self-control, of self-denial and constant effort. It was hard for the priest to believe that such a wonderful thing could fail of its reward. But he had been troubled at what Melicent said that evening. He almost made up his mind that he would tell her something of what her influence had meant to Bert. But his final decision was for complete inaction in this most delicate matter. Bert must fight his own battle, and win his own victory. The time had come for his friend to stand aside.
Far into the night Mayne was considering the case. He, with his unusual insight into souls, had found a certain egotism and hardness in Melicent. The hardness was inherent—it had always been there; and her present life of independence and success was likely to foster it. Did she know, at that moment, that a man was in London who had spent five laborious years in fitting himself for her conquest, as a nation may equip itself for a great campaign—and who was bent solely upon that quest—he felt pretty certain that her only impulse would be to escape from him, to guard her own freedom, to determine resolutely never to be enslaved.
Would the constancy and persistence of the man be a match for the hardness and self-will of the woman?
He thought Bert might stand a better chance of winning, were it not for the bitter memories which were bound up in the girl's mind with him. That she should long remain in ignorance of his identity was inconceivable: and when she recognised him—what then?
Bert was his own spiritual son; his desire for his success was intense. But now that he had seen Melicent, he was full of doubts. Carefully as Bert had educated himself, the gulf between them was still wide.
He could do nothing but pray.
"Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall standHenceforward in thy shadow. NevermoreAlone upon the threshold of my doorOf individual life, I shall commandThe uses of my soul, nor lift my handSerenely in the sunshine as before."—SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
It had been arranged that the fledgling architect should be accompanied by Mr. Helston, and have the benefit of his knowledge and experience when she went down to look at Captain Brooke's estate at Clunbury. But fate decreed otherwise. On Thursday morning Mr. Helston was in bed with a high temperature and sore throat. A railway journey on a raw, gusty day in early spring was out of the question for him; and Melicent was obliged to go alone.
Brenda suggested something about her being unchaperoned, which was met by the young lady with unspeakable scorn.
"Better throw up my profession at once, if Mrs. Grundy is to have a say in my business arrangements," she remarked; and caught her train at Paddington with professional composure.
She alighted at a small station on a branch line, which was the nearest point to the village; and as she stepped from the compartment, Captain Brooke approached, in a suit of country tweeds, gaiters and knickerbockers. In such guise he reminded her of her beloved Dalesmen, and the idea gave kindness to her smile of greeting.
As he approached, she noted that he looked pale under his tan, and seemed not perfectly ready to speak at once.
"So Mr. Helston was unable," he brought out, after manifest hesitation.
The girl looked surprised.
"I am so sorry! He is in bed with a severe chill. I bring you his apologies. But if you think he is indispensable—" she added, as an afterthought, puzzled by the disturbance visible in his face.
"Oh! by no means. It is good of you to come alone," he said hurriedly. "This way, please; I have only a hired trap at present, and am putting up at the inn near here, which is two miles from the village. I've ordered lunch, but it won't be much good, I'm afraid; these English country inns are astonishingly bad."
"Please don't apologise," she said. "I am used to roughing it, and I like it."
He smiled, as he tucked her into the dog-cart, and remarked, as he climbed to his seat beside her.
"Collis Square didn't seem very rough to me."
"Ah! But you haven't seen me at work. I can lay bricks, mix mortar, point walls—it's delicious."
He laughed. "I feel sure you could do anything you tried," he said.
They drove on briskly, through a lane whose hedges were beginning to show bronze buds upon their blackness. The sky, after some boisterous sleet storms, was washed a clear, pure blue. A faint golden haze of willow catkins brooded over the adjacent brown copses, and the wet sparkles on the bare boughs threw back the sunbeams. Here and there the lazy reek from a cottage chimney hung pearly against the indigo fir woods—a typical English April, and a typical English landscape.
"Do you like this country?" he asked abruptly, and his tone seemed to imply that he thought anybody must.
She made a conventional answer that it was very pretty.
"Perhaps you don't care for scenery?" he inquired anxiously.
She turned to him laughing.
"Oh," she said, "scenery is my particular fad. But this is too tame for me. You should see my Cleveshire moors and dales!"
His silence, in some inscrutable way, conveyed to her the idea of extreme mortification.
"Do you mean," he presently asked, "that you wouldn't care to live in this part of England?"
"I shouldn't choose it," she replied carelessly. "But then, I have no links with it. I quite appreciate your reason for choosing it."
"You do?"
"Undoubtedly. Your ancestry drew their living from this soil; they ate the corn it grew, the cattle it fed. In a real sense, you are part of this little bit of little England. There must be something in you that is in mysterious sympathy with it."
"That's how I feel," he replied, as though gratified to be so interpreted by her. "But I admire the country for itself too; it seems a great pleasure-ground—a sort of park laid out by God Almighty."
"I like more mystery, more wildness."
"I've had enough wildness," he answered very determinedly. "I like this because of its cultivation and fertility and order."
"I'd like to show you Fransdale," she said, smiling.
"I hope you will," he replied. "I'm going to Ilbersdale, you know." He reflected for some minutes, then said: "Should you advise me not to decide on this till I've seen the other?"
"What!" cried Millie, "when you've bought your land, and found your ancestors and all! I never heard of such a thing."
"I might put up a shooting-box on the moors," he said reflectively.
"You must be very rich," commented the girl, in wonder.
"I suppose I am. I did a big deal in land out there," he replied.
Privately she thought he had more money than wits; but perhaps he would make none the worse client for that.
They reached the inn, and he ushered her into the quaint, low parlour, with the usual stuffed birds, coloured almanacks and corner cupboard.
During the interval before the appearance of the roast fowl and boiled ham, she unrolled the drawings she had brought, spread them on a table in the window, and described them to him. The sun streamed in at the lattice, gilding her hair where it curled over and about the edges of her wide, flat, dark-blue cap as she sat absorbed in her plans and ideas. Her companion drank in the details of her dainty presence—from her fine skin to her firm, little hands, from her natty, embroidered collar to the strong, laced boots appearing below her short blue serge skirt. He was considering whether he found her more adorable in the lamplight in her white gown, or in the sunshine, in her workmanlike, country suit Suddenly he was conscious that he had failed to answer a question, and that a severe, surprised little face was being lifted to his.
Their glances met; he had a moment's awful apprehension. It seemed to him that she had caught him unawares without his mask. He had no notion what was the question she had asked, and he floundered desperately.
"You were saying—I am such a thundering ass—my mind had gone off. I was thinking that you can see the Lone Ash, where I want to build—from this window—there. That hill to the left—"
The inn maid-servant, bringing in the lunch, saved him.
But his moment of confusion, so much greater than the occasion seemed to warrant, had jarred the smooth, impersonal nature of Miss Lutwyche's opinion of him. There had been so remarkable a look—almost of consternation—in the man's eyes as he faced her. She had been at some pains to expound the main principle of the Lee-Simmons system of drainage for isolated houses, which was her special fancy, and which she was most anxious to have him adopt; and it was certainly annoying to find that she had been speaking to deaf ears. But his curious expression when she had looked at him! He had seemed like one suddenly caught in the act—taken red-handed. What could the thought be which had absorbed his attention, and reddened his brown cheek?
She was so kind as to repeat her information while they sat at lunch together, and had no cause this time to complain of lack of attention. But his momentary lapse had occasioned in her a subtle change of mental attitude. She was, without knowing why, suddenly on her guard—all at once concerned with this man, about whom before she had not thought at all.
Of course she did not say this to herself. Like all deep-seated motions of the mind, it was spontaneous, unrealised. But it was there; and the man encountered it, felt it with his alarming sensitiveness where she was concerned; and by degrees there arose up within him a profound uneasiness, which made the simplest sentence an effort.
Melicent soon settled, in her positive way, what was wrong. She thought the Captain, being rich and eligible, was nervous of beingtête-à-têtewith his youthful lady architect. She spoke with elaborate ease and unconcern, determined to show him there was nothing to fear; but he seemed each moment more self-conscious.
There was, nevertheless, no doubt that he was interested—not only in the speaker, but in what she was saying. By the time lunch was over, he had practically decided upon the Lee-Simmons idea, and was eager to transport his architect to the scene of her enterprise at once. He went outside to the little rough plot of green before the inn to find the ostler; and urged by an impulse of such curiosity as she seldom felt, Melicent went to the window to watch him.
A few village children were at play upon the green; and one little girl, probably inspired by parents who hoped for some advantage from the rich man who was going to make his home among them, shyly approached him as he stood.
He had put his hands behind him, and forgotten himself in staring at the hill crowned by the Lone Ash, where he meant his fairy palace to arise. The little fair girl advanced diffidently, shyly holding out a big round bouquet of primroses, tightly tied together. He turned, looking down at her, half-amused; and Melicent thought that the big, fine man and the blushing child with her flowers, illumined by the crude spring sunshine, looked like the coloured supplement to a Christmas Number.
The Captain accepted the flowers, felt in his pocket for a penny, and turned back towards the inn door, with the intention of presenting the floral tribute to Miss Lutwyche.
Now, what was there in that action—what sudden thrill of memory—of recognition—of pain, like a sharp blow on a raw spot—darted to the brain of the girl who watched in the window?
She had seen a man come into a room once, with a bunch of flowers in his awkward, unaccustomed hand; she had heard the slapping thud with which they had been hurled into the grate.
"So you'll break your word!"
It seemed to her that the words were spoken aloud, now, at this moment, in the room. And a blinding light illuminated her. She knew, as completely as a moment before she had ignored, that Captain Brooke was none other than Bert Mestaer.
Waves of cold and heat, sudden dizziness clutched her. He was coming in—in a moment he would be there—she could not face him.
Terror prevented unconsciousness. Catching at the furniture, she staggered across the room to the inner room leading to the kitchen.
"Take me upstairs—a bedroom—I must lie down!" she gasped; and as the maid-servant, scared by her white face, rushed forward and encircled her with a strong arm, she gasped: "Don't say anything to Captain Brooke ... please. I shall be ... better directly."
The girl half supported, half dragged her up the narrow stair.
"Dear miss, what shall I do? Burnt feathers? Key down your back?" cried she distractedly.
"Is there—cold water? Yes, that's all. Go away please. Go! Come back in ten minutes. Leave me alone now."
Melicent turned the key in the door, and sank upon the scanty feathers of the rocky bed. For several minutes her one overpowering, paralysing sensation was fear. She could not think at all.
She lay prone, while the surging currents of her nerves slowly settled themselves and adjusted their balance. Her sense of outward things came back to her by degrees. The fine cold air flowed through the little casement with the sunshine. Wheels crunched upon the gravel below; a dog barked; someone spoke; in the distance a cow lowed. The world went on as usual, lapt in afternoon, rural peace. But from her skies the sun had dropped. The nightmare that had pursued her for years was now beside her in bodily shape, dogging her steps. Mestaer had come back.
How came it that she had not known? She answered herself bitterly that it was because she had trusted Carol Mayne, and he had allowed her to be deceived. Not for one moment did she now doubt Captain Brooke's identity. The marvel was that she had not detected him at once.
This had been the first time of her looking at him, he being unconscious of the fact of her observation; and in that moment he had betrayed himself, she could not have told how.
And now in what a net was she caught! The thought of the man's persistency turned her cold. She was committed to his acquaintance, involved in a business transaction with him—he was going to Ilbersdale. Even in Fransdale she should not be safe from him! And Carol Mayne had connived at this betrayal!
It did not take her long to form a decision on one point; namely, that her only hope lay in going on as if nothing had happened.
Surely she was capable of that! She, the self-contained, self-reliant professional woman!
Reaction had set in. Passionate anger, active defiance succeeded fear. It was quite simple, after all. She had stolen a march upon the conspirators and surprised their plans. It was the best thing that could have happened. She knew now what to guard against—could avoid intimacy and repel advances.
Springing from the bed, she dashed water into the basin, bathed her hot forehead, and was once more her own mistress, all her spirit, all her force, summoned up to defend her liberty.
She peeped from the window. Captain Brooke stood waiting by the trap below. His attitude betrayed a subdued impatience. Undoubtedly he was much changed—completely altered from the man she had known. There was real excuse for her non-recognition. But that he should have imagined that such an incognito could be sustained! No wonder he had betrayed nervousness that morning when he faced the idea of a day alone with her!
Well, they were equals now! He knew, and she knew. If she could prevent his knowing that she knew, all would be well.
She snatched up her gloves, and ran lightly downstairs, not allowing herself time to pause, but passing straight out into the sunshine to meet him.
"——You knew not meMaster of your joys and fears;Held my hands that held the keyOf the treasure of your years,Of the fountain of your tears.
For you knew not it was I,And I knew not it was you.We have learnt, as days went by.But a flower struck root and grewUnderground, and no one knew."—MRS. MEYNELL.
"I'm afraid I've kept you waiting," she said a little breathlessly, as she sprang into the cart.
"Oh, that's nothing, to a fellow who is always waiting," was his calm reply.
"Always waiting! What for?" cried Melicent, wonder overleaping discretion.
"For the future, I suppose," he answered, after a short hesitation. Adding, as though suddenly conscious of being eccentric: "You know—that endless chivying of De Wet got on one's nerves."
"I can quite believe it," said Melicent cheerfully. "But now, to-morrow has come, as I used to say when I was a small child. You've made your pile—you're an English landed proprietor. You're not waiting any longer."
"Oh, yes, I am. There's one thing I haven't got yet," he said, a slow, curious smile curving his fine mouth.
He did not look at her as he spoke, which fact was her salvation. She could rule her voice, but not the rebel blood that waved live banners in her cheeks.
"Obviously," she returned lightly, "there must be a mistress for Lone Ash when it is built. Is this what you're waiting for?"
Her own daring dazzled her. It was a thing that he could not possibly conceive her saying had she had any notion of who he was.
"Yes," he answered quietly, "that's what I'm waiting for."
"And that's just what you'll never get by waiting!" she cried gaily.
He turned sharply upon her. "How do you know? What do you mean?" he asked, amazed.
"If you want a wife, you must go in search of one," she answered mischievously. "They don't drop into people's mouths."
"Well, that's what I will do," was his tranquil answer; "but one thing at a time, you know."
"One thing at a time," she echoed, lightly; and as she spoke, he checked his horse at the gate of a field.
"Here begins my property," he said, "and my idea is to have the drive entrance-gate here, and the house over yonder, just below the brow, screened from the road by those trees. The ground falls away to the south and west, you will notice, but the Lone Ash hill would keep off the wind. I want to know what you would think."
He had alighted, opened the gate, and led the horse and cart through. Now he proceeded, striding over the grass, and Melicent, her arms round her knees, forgot nervousness and bravado alike in her professional enthusiasm. They passed a large cluster of barns.
"The house was here," he said. "The man who bought it found it too far gone to repair, and knocked it down, leaving the outer shell for barn walls. Not much of a place, you see. I don't know why they put it here, except for the well. But there shouldn't be any difficulty about getting water. I sank a shaft up yonder, where I am going to show you, and we struck good water at thirty feet."
She found herself chatting to him about subsoils and surface water in a wholly professional manner.
When he reached the place where he proposed to build, she found herself unable to suggest an improvement. It was an ideal site—near the village, yet secluded, sheltered, but not shut in—overlooking a bit of broken ground which gave quite a prospect; and a regular trap for sunbeams. There was little she could suggest by way of alteration; she grasped the main features of his thought with instant appreciation. They sat down side by side upon the trunk of a felled elm; she brought out her sketch-book, and drew suggestions. By degrees a house shaped itself to her mind's eye—a house full of pleasant detail.
The south front was to face a terrace; the drawing-room to be at the western end, with two sunset avenues, converging upon the large door-window. One was to focus the dying sun in winter, one in summer. Both were to be grass walks, cypress-bordered, and they were to lead to a rectangular fish-pond, set with lilies, and reached by shelving steps. Beyond the fish-pond, a warm brick wall, with deeply alcoved seats.
The cypress-edged grass walks were her special fancy.
"But don't have them unless you like," she earnestly advised. "Some people think them sad."
He would have had hop-poles at her recommendation, but he managed to appear genuinely convinced.
Then, in fancy, his architect wandered back to the house—to the hall, with its two-branched staircase, and the windows in the gallery above.
"This house will be plain grey stone," she said, "and its roof will be of tiles, to prevent the effect being too cold. We shall try to pick up tiles that are already weathered, so that it may not look too new. I will not introduce anything that is a deliberate imitation of what was old, such as timbering, barge-boards, or painted woodwork. You shall have no grotesques; you must not yearn for a letter-box shaped like the Ace of Spades, as they have in Hampstead, nor for garrets with the window set at the end of a tunnel, as one sees in all the new toy suburbs. Our gables will be few; our roof shall not be cut to pieces. All our lines shall be simple, and our chimney-stacks things of beauty."
Her face was rapt as she sat looking at the bare ground where in fancy she saw her creation taking shape. Captain Brooke, sitting at her side, let himself go for a brief moment, gazing his fill upon the face that was always graven on his heart. It did not take her long to become conscious of the scrutiny of his steady eyes. The moment that he saw she had come out of her dream, he rose, and walked away to the excavations his workmen had made, returning with lumps of marl and chalky soil in his hands, and quietly making a remark about foundations.
As they plunged into the discussion of builders, estimates, contracts, etc., she realised that she was full of reluctant admiration for him. How well he bore himself! How completely he was master of his feelings! She felt, she knew, that he was entirely to be trusted. His speech was correct, his bearing dignified; nobody would now take him for anything but an English gentleman. Five years had wrought all this in him. How persistently he must have striven; how hard he must have worked!
And all this, she must conclude, had been done for her—for one whose heart was wholly untouched by any answering feeling—to whom the mere thought of him was pain and humiliation—who asked nothing better than never to see him again.
As the thought of her present position flooded her again, she felt so strong an impulse of resentment that for a long moment she was inclined to throw down her plans, rise and denounce him—repudiate his claims, break the chain that seemed to hold her, leave him where he stood, and flee from him for ever. How could she go on like this, now that she knew? Did not every moment that passed leave her more deeply committed to the incredible situation?
Never did she remember before to have been the victim of indecision. Now she, the self-poised, self-sufficient Miss Lutwyche, was swayed to and fro like a reed in the grip of opposing passions. Terror drew her one way, pride and ambition another. Under all, the mainspring of all, though she knew it not, the desire to defy Bert, to pay him back in his own coin, to seize his masquerade and turn it into a weapon for her own use, to punish him withal.
And all the while the rollicking April wind sang in the tree-tops, the sun moved westward, the light grew mellow, till the lump of earth in the captain's hand gleamed like a lump of gold. And his architect walked to and fro beside him; paused here, moved on again upon a new impulse; measured out the dimensions of things with her long builder's tape, and caused the owner to stick little white bits of wood, marked with weird symbols, into the ground at certain intervals. So they stood and talked, each ignorant of the storms that swept the other.
The surface of the girl's manner—easy, impersonal, remote—was never once impressed by the tremendous undercurrent that lay below the man's cool utterances. She was thinking: "After all, this is quite easy. I could keep it up for ever."
He was telling himself—"This sort of thing can't go on. Could I bear another day like this?"
Suddenly, it was over. She looked at her watch and announced that she must catch the 5.10. For a moment the thought that the strain he had been feeling so acutely was to be forthwith relaxed, gave him so sharp a sense of loss that he could not immediately speak. When he did, it was to beg her to come back first to tea at the inn. She firmly declined this. The inn, to her, was horror-haunted. The ghost of her past had risen there to dog the footsteps which she had believed were free. She replied that she would have an hour at the junction in which to get tea, and must not stop now.
They returned to the dog-cart, and drove back, in so brooding a silence on his part, that she dashed into small talk, lest he should be contemplating some rash words. As they drove past the inn, she averted her eyes that she might not see the green, or recall what had stood there. The vision of poor Bert, with his bashful, uncertain smile, his ridiculous flowers, his hesitating advance, rose before her, creating sheer nausea. Once more she was lying in the parlour at High Farm, once more she felt the agony of her wounds, the scars of which must to this day be hidden from her dressmaker. The crimson of shame suffused her. Oh, if he could but have kept away! Usually she managed to forget all this—to forget that she was branded, physically and morally, by the searing flames of degradation. He was the living reminder of all she hated and rejected.
She fell silent, unable to continue her babble; and Bert was silent too. But as they neared the railway, and he found moments running short, he made a spasmodic effort at conversation.
"You were brought up in Africa, were you not?" he asked, as casually as he could. He might as well have held a match to gunpowder.
She turned upon him with a deadly quietude.
"Never speak to me of it," she said, almost between her teeth. "I have forgotten it all. Every memory, of place or people, revolts me. There is nothing that ever happened there, and nobody I ever knew there, except Mr. Mayne, that inspires me with any feeling but horror."
They were turning into the station yard. He made no reply to her words until he had brought the pony to a standstill; then, turning fully to her, he said, very simply:
"I beg your pardon."
Something in his dignity shamed her. He helped her down in silence, collected her odds and ends, felt under the seat, and brought out the fatal bunch of primroses, which he carried to the platform.
As they stood waiting, she said, hurriedly and nervously:
"I am sorry, Captain Brooke. I didn't mean to speak so horridly about Africa. I hope I didn't hurt your feelings."
"My mistake," he returned good-humouredly. "We're such slight acquaintances, I expect it was pretty cool cheek of me to ask you a personal question. I'm afraid there are a good many holes in my manners."
No man could have shouldered the blame more naturally. The train came in. He found her a carriage, and handed in her things to her; then shyly offered the flowers.
"A little village kid gave me these," he said; and she thought, as he spoke, how fine a head and shoulders he had, framed in the square of the open window. "I thought you might like to take them to town with you."
She just managed to say, with a vague smile, "Thank you." Then the train started, he had raised his hat, stepped back, and she was in solitude. For full five minutes she sat motionless, crouched together, her two hands gripping the seat, her eyes fixed on the unoffending primroses, whose delicate, mysterious fragrance stole towards her on the evening air.
At last, with a strangled cry, she sprang to her feet, seized them, hurled them with all her force through the window; and then, sinking back into her corner, burst into wild, ungovernable tears.
"Let me alone! Why must you claim me? IAm woman—do you tell me I must lieAll passive in Fate's arms until I die?
I must not care for Art, nor crave to beA force in this fair world—'tis not for meTo live my own life. Was I made for thee?
No! I am rebel! Through life's open gateI pass alone, and free; you come too late!Or is't too soon? I know not; let us wait."
Carol Mayne passed all that day in a state of feverish anxiety. In the evening he suggested to Lance that they should go round to Collis Square. It was late, but it was their only chance to call upon Mrs. Helston before leaving town. They arrived about half-past eight, and found Brenda in the drawing-room, and with her Theo Cooper, who was a frequent visitor.
It was now twelve months since this young lady had defied parental authority and gone on the stage.
She was conspicuously unfitted for such a life, being pretty in a showy way, forward and giddy. But her parents' very natural opposition did not weigh at all with her. They had so often objected to what was wholesome, reasonable, and harmless, that their opinion had no weight with any of their children. With their habitual reserve, they suppressed entirely their deeper reasons for objection, and the only one they ostensibly urged was: "What will people say?" To a girl whose one hope was to be notorious, this was no deterrent.
The affair of Gwendolen and young Freshfield had produced a curious effect in the Vicarage family. The strenuous efforts of Mr. and Mrs. Cooper to hush it up had been successful as regards their neighbours; but this success had been dearly purchased at home at the cost of lowering their children's estimate of them. These merciless critics had now discovered that whatever they did would be condoned, sooner than let the world suspect a family breach, or a family scandal. Mrs. Cooper's own theory of her perfection, and of her success as a wife, mother, and leader of conduct in the village, must be preserved at any sacrifice of truth.
Gwendolen and Madeline were despatched to school, the governess was dismissed, and all went on as usual. But from that moment each child took his or her own line.
George, the eldest, whose sulky protest against taking orders had been wholly ignored by his father, ran into debt at Oxford, failed to take his degree, and finally bolted to America, whence he wrote for funds at frequent intervals.
Willie, the next boy, who had some ability, after various letters and conversations which left the vicar enraged, humiliated, well-nigh heart-broken, had gone to reside with an agnostic community in East London. He was just the man they wanted—his intellect exactly of the calibre which quickly assimilates specious argument, and reproduces it in an attractive form; and the Fraternity of Man paid him one hundred pounds per annum to teach men brotherhood, while denying meanwhile the one great antecedent fact of common Fatherhood.
Gwendolen, on leaving school, found herself unable to live at home, and had gone to teach English in a Russian family at St. Petersburg. Madeline remained at the Vicarage, nominally as governess to Barbara and Beatrice; she was the weakest of the five, and the most deeply influenced by her mother.
Theo would have been a very pretty girl, with a little good taste to guide her. But, coming up from the lonely spot where her life had been spent, she, with quick receptive capacity, imbibed notions of dress andcoiffurefrom the girls in the omnibuses in which she travelled. She wore, as Melicent once remarked, a quantity of cheap clothes, extravagantly put on.
A bright-coloured silk blouse, low in the neck, beads, artificial flowers, a becoming hat, but too large—atrocious boots and a reek of scent—these must have convinced anybody of the good ground Theo's parents had for thinking her unsuited to go about London independently. Without conscious intent, her whole appearance laid her open to the chance of being mistaken for quite other than she was; and she had all the vain-glorious self-confidence of a very young, very ignorant girl. If she came off scatheless, it would be because her type is so plentiful, and by no means because of her discretion.
Carol Mayne, when presented to this young lady, as one of Melicent's Fransdale cousins, was guilty of the rudeness of staring. He could not believe that he had heard correctly, as he contemplated the lithe figure, the lounging attitude, the lumpy hair, the cigarette.
"Not—one of the Vicarage cousins?" he asked, in amazement.
Theo was delighted as she saw him visibly trying to adjust her with his preconceived notion of the strictly brought up Miss Coopers.
"My father being a priest doesn't make me a priestess!" she cried. Her voice was a little too loud at all times. "That's where the English make their big mistake. My mother thinks she has every bit as much right to go round lecturing the parishioners as my father has; but that's just tommy-rot, you know. We're always telling her she hasn't any official status. You're not married, are you, Mr. Mayne?"
"There isn't any room in the colonies for the English provincial vicarage life," he replied good-humouredly, mentally contrasting this flower of modern girlhood with his late ward, and trying to realise that this young lady's parents had thought her contaminated by Melicent's companionship.
"Are you living in town?" he asked.
"Yes; I'm on the boards," said Theo, leaning forward to toss her cigarette stump into the fire. "Keen on the theatre?" she asked casually.
Carol looked at Burmester, who was enjoying his friend's consternation. The Cooper girls were the young man's horror and annoyance.
At this moment the door was pushed open, and Melicent came quietly in.
She had been told who was there, and was on guard.
She knew why Mayne had come. He wanted to know how his conspiracy was progressing. Very well; he would get nothing out of her.
Lance hurried to her. "So you've been to look at old Brooke's ancestral acres?"
"Yes." She sat down after greeting the company. Her tone was colourless.
"Dear," said Brenda, "I hope you've had some food; I told them to keep it hot."
"Oh, yes, thanks. How's Pater getting on?"
"He's very anxious to hear what you've done."
"Oh, I don't know that I've done very much."
"You look tired."
"I am. Such a horrid journey. I wish Pater could have come."
"Why, was Captain Brooke not cordial?" asked Brenda, in surprise.
"Oh, quite, thanks. Only I don't know that I shall undertake the commission after all; it's such a big thing."
"Millie!" Brenda almost gasped, for this speech was wholly out of character with the habitual utterances of Miss Lutwyche, among whose failings diffidence could not be reckoned.
"Well, you'll never get on," said Theo earnestly. "Hitch your waggon to a star, my dear. You might live to be fifty, and never get such another chance."
"That's very true," said Melicent, with curious emphasis.
Then she remembered Mayne's presence, and could have bitten out her tongue.
"What do you think of Brooke, eh, Miss Lutwyche?" asked Lance, eager to have his friend approved.
"Well, I thought him rather—what shall I say—capricious, unstable," she said, and was met with a simultaneous protest from both men.
"You couldn't say that of Brooke!"
"Oh, you both know him, of course, and I don't," said she composedly. "But I thought him a little undecided. Seemed quite ready, at a moment's whim, to throw up his idea of building in Wiltshire, and try another county, after he had bought the land."
"If he is like that, it would be better not to undertake his work, I should think," said Brenda, in tones of disappointment.
"But, Mrs. Helston, I assure you he's not like that!" cried Mayne, with warmth. "And he's rich enough to build two houses if he wants them."
"He seemed to like the ideas I suggested," said Melicent, leaning back restfully in a corner of the sofa. "I daresay I shall get on all right. I'm a bit tired to-night, but I feel better already for the comforts of home. I know how it is that men often come home of an evening as cross as two sticks. How goes the world with you, Theo?" she went on, as Brenda left the room to see if her husband wanted anything.
"Oh, not so bad! Bates"—her agent—"thinks he knows of a crib for me. Gertie Gordon's got it; but she's too stumpy, and they're going to sack her; and it lies between Lillie Billington and me. I'm going to see Freeman to-morrow."
"Freeman? Then it's musical light comedy? I thought that wasn't your line."
"My dear, when you're a beginner, you take what you can get," said Theo coolly.
"That's the worst of it, I should think. Is it a good part?"
"Ra-ther! Principal boy!"
"Principal boy!" Melicent thought of the Vicarage at Fransdale. But her attention was diverted by the gentlemen rising to go. Evidently Theo meant to stay, and her presence prevented either of them from carrying out the design with which they had come.
Lance's manner, as he spoke of their early meeting again, was so significant, so obviously fraught with admiration, that the girl could not mistake it. As she stood by him, near the door, while he took his leave, an idea darted into the back of her mind.
Bert would be powerless to pursue her if she were married to someone else.
It was very different from the career she had planned. She wanted to build up a future, not to resign herself to a level, monotonous domesticity. But under the pressure of her present scare, the bare notion of any way of escape was welcome.
Carol departed with a distinct sense of disappointment. He hardly knew what he had hoped. But the impression he took away with him was that Bert had wholly failed to please or interest Millie. Not for a moment did he guess that the secret was out. Under such circumstances, with the state of feeling which she had so lately confessed to him, he would not have thought her self-possession possible.
Slowly Melicent walked back to her seat by the fire, where Theo had lighted another cigarette. On her homeward journey she had had time to decide upon her plan of action. She was not going to say a word of her discovery to anybody.
Her first impulse had been vehemently to reproach Carol Mayne for treachery; but reflection had showed that she could not do this without Bert being made aware that she knew him. To tell the Helstons would be to subject herself to the continual fret of knowing herself observed. They might even urge her to tell Bert that she knew; or counsel her to give up this building scheme, to which her ambition turned with fierce longing. She felt sure, in spite of her diffident words, that she could design and build at Lone Ash a house which should make her reputation. To do this in peace, she must keep her own counsel. After all, this was nobody's affair but her own. If Bert had come for her, as seemed fatally obvious, it all rested with him and with her. Single-handed he had engaged on the contest, and single-handed she would fight him. There seemed something a little cowardly in calling in the Helstons to her rescue. She did not mean to marry him. Well! He would soon find that out. There were plenty of girls in England for a man of property to woo successfully—Theo, for instance.
She leaned forward.
"Theo!" she said abruptly, "you've got to mind what you're about. There was a girl at school with me who went on the stage, and she did what you are doing—signed an agreement as principal boy—and she found she had done for herself. Ever after, she had only boys' parts offered her. 'Oh,' said they, 'you can't object, you have done it before.' She left the stage in consequence. Of course, for all I know, you may prefer being boy, but I thought I would just warn you what to expect."
"Awfully good of you," said Theo. She smoked in silence for a minute, then broke out: "Anyway, I'm not going another tour with Tarver's Company. After that Minnie Leslie's husband turning up, as I told you, at Crewe, when she was in rooms with—"
"'Tsha!'" It was a little soft sound of disgust that Millie was prone to make. "Look here, Theo, if you really are going on with this kind of life, your only way to keep clean is to turn your back on all that kind of thing. Don't be mixed up in it—don't talk about it."
"It's the agent that counts," said Theo evasively. "Bates is a right good sort, and he isn't going to see me let in, you bet I was pretty careful what agent I went to. I know the ropes, though you think me a country bumpkin. I can't help knowing that Batey's going to give me every lift he can."
"Why?" asked Milicent bluntly.
"Because he thinks there's money in me."
This was unanswerable.
"Can it be right to give what I can give?"—SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
The mild spring weather made strolling in the garden pleasant, even in the keen air of Fransdale. Carol Mayne strolled accordingly, in company with Mr. Hall of Ilberston, and forgot manifold preoccupations in the pleasure of his company.
The last fortnight had been a curious and trying period in his life. He had become a mere bystander, where he had previously been a confidant. He was in the position of the trainer who has coached his man and sent him into the ring, and now has no more that he can do but to watch the conflict. Bert had stepped down into the arena, and had ever since ignored Carol to the point of rudeness. He had refused interviews, shirked even looks; had borne in total silence the daily rebuffs inflicted by Melicent—the continual pin-pricks of indifference under which he smarted.
Carol would have liked to hold the sponge between these preliminary rounds, but this was denied him. Perhaps, when some knock-out blow was dealt, his champion would have need of him. Just now, he was nowhere in the scheme of things.
But so deeply had he grown attached to this man that there was an unexpected degree of suffering entailed by the sight of his pain. Day by day his eye detected more and more of the old Bert surging up baffled, dogged, passionate, under the fine bearing of Captain Brooke. He remembered so well how things had gone in the old days—how long the big man would endure, and then suddenly, the oath that showed him goaded past bearing, the brief rage, the wild repentance. Twice he had seen Melicent—as he believed, unconsciously—bring things to this point, and Bert only save himself by immediate departure. But not a word of complaint, or of any kind of feeling, was to be got out of him afterwards. The thing seemed too deep, too momentous for comment to be possible. A kind of terror grew in Mayne as the days went by. What would happen if Bert were ultimately foiled? He could not foresee it, even dimly. He looked at the slip of a girl who swayed the man's wild blood, and tried to choke back his secret fear that tragedy might be the outcome of it all.
For Bert had encountered a rival on the very threshold of his enterprise; and the rival was the man whose life he had saved, at risk of his own, because he knew that through him he could get the introduction to Millie which he craved.
That Lance should admire Melicent was in itself no bad thing. It was no doubt well that Bert should not find himself alone in the field. But as the days went by, it was clear to Carol, who thought of nothing else, and watched all that went on, that Millie was, by her own conduct, whether of set purpose or no, leading Lance on to be serious, where at first he had merely been making holiday.
For Lance she broke through the crystal armour of "stand-offishness" which she usually wore. She talked to him; as a rule, she listened only to men, saying little. But she gave to Lance looks, smiles, and low tones.
To Bert her manner was quite friendly, even cordial, as from an unknown artist to her first patron. But of good fellowship there was not a trace. So clever was she that in all this fortnight Carol had not been able to determine whether it was by accident or design that she had never for one minute beentête-à-têtewith Captain Brooke. Had he known the girl as thoroughly as he knew the man, the underlying strain must have been visible to him as it was to two who loved and understood her—Brenda Helston and Mr. Hall. Brenda thought she knew its cause—that it was the result of the sudden fulfilling of the girl's hopes, the terror lest her first great effort should end in failure, and her professional prospects be injured by her having undertaken what was beyond her powers.
This was in a measure true. But not the whole truth. Melicent's real preoccupation lay deeper; it was more complicated. How could she build Bert's house, and keep clear of Bert himself?
If she meant to have nothing to do with him, as she vehemently did, was it honest, was it wise, was it even sensible, to go on with the building?
But pride was at present a far stronger factor with Millie than self-sacrifice. At the first suggestion that she should design a really big thing, her ambitions had flown skyward. In spite of her secret knowledge, she knew that she meant to go on.
"That's a fine fellow, that friend of yours, Captain Brooke," said Mr. Hall musingly to Carol, as they paused to look at the first game of tennis that season, now in progress on the Helston's court at Glen Royd.
"Yes; he's an unusual person," said Mayne. "He says odd things at times. Last night, up at Ilbersdale, we got talking in the smoking-room about the different things men mean when they speak of love. Most of the things said had the materialistic tendency which I find to be characteristic of English thought to-day. Then suddenly Brooke, who seldom argues, came out with his opinion. He said that the difference between passion and love was comparable to the difference between fact and truth. They asked him to define the difference between fact and truth, and he answered without a moment's hesitation that he thought that was obvious; fact is temporal and truth eternal. How does that strike you?"
"Then he suggested that passion is temporal, and love eternal, just in the same way?"
"Yes; I have been thinking it out, and there's a deal of truth in it. One of the men asked him how you were to distinguish between the temporal thing and the eternal, and he quite simply answered that you could only tell in the result. They then said much what was said to Christ on the subject—that it is not good to marry. He replied that we were in the same case with all big things. We have to take chances in life. Nobody can say how anything will turn out until they try. He said, in love, as in religion, as in art, as in all big business undertakings, you don't have to hold an opinion merely, but to live a life. They chaffed him tremendously about being a devout lover, but it had simply no effect at all upon him."
"He must certainly be unusual! I should like to know more of him. He might be strong enough to tame my wild bird."
"Your wild bird?"
"I mean your ward, Miss Lutwyche. She needs a deal of taming. She is full of fine qualities, but has no chance to exercise them, all things being well with her. She is spoilt, as the only child proverbially is. However, as your friend says, we must leave it to life to teach her various things that she will have to learn."
As he spoke, Carol's eye was following Melicent, who had finished playing, and was arranging another sett. She had not once played in the same sett as Brooke. Now she put him to play with Theo, against Sybil Ayres and a curate. She was sorry for Theo, who had, after all, not succeeded in obtaining Gertie Gordon's "crib," and was still "resting" according to the language of her profession—a euphemism which ought to have delighted Mr. Cooper.
Lancelot had been Melicent's partner, and was at her heels.
"You promised to show me the latest treasure-trove," he said, "and I've been waiting all the afternoon."
"We found it at Citta della Piève," she said, "and I really do believe it is valuable. Pater is wonderful, he has such an eye for the real thing."
She led the way to a little garden-house which was Harry Helston's workshop, and lifted a cloth carefully from an object which lay on the table.
It was the oaken figure of a winged child, with dimpled hands and feet, and exquisite face. It had evidently been wrenched from a frieze or mantel-carving of leaves and flowers. Great part of the surface was still coated in grey mould, but the face and throat had been skilfully cleansed.
"He is treating it with glass paper, and it's slow work," said Melicent, touching the angel with soft, appreciative fingers. "It was broken in two places, but he has mended it perfectly. When it is polished, it is going to be the finial of the baluster in the hall."
"Jove, he is clever!" said Lance. "What a house this is! One feels that a mind created it! Brooke's a lucky chap if he's going to have such another."
Melicent laughed:
"We shan't exploit Tuscany for him, unless we get a special commission to do so," she said. "But he is so rich, he can have what he chooses."
"How go the plans?"
"He seems to like them very much. But I have made two alternative elevations, and he has not yet decided between them. Pater has helped me tremendously, of course. But I'm afraid I'm neglecting your father's cottages."
"He is very pleased with the drawings, I can tell you. Who would have thought you were such a genius? But do you know, I feel very proud of myself. I said so from the first."
"Said what?"
"That you were something wonderful. Do you remember"—his voice grew soft—"how you sat up on the Rigg, on Tod's Trush, and we came by, and you shot a grouse with my gun?"
"Yes; I remember."
"I said afterwards, to Helston, that there was something wonderful about you, I felt a power in you..."
He broke off mute, like most of his countrymen, in face of an emotion. Putting his hands in his pockets, he strolled round the little room, idly taking up bits of carved wood and stone, tools and drawings, and laying them down again. Melicent neither moved nor spoke. She stood silent beside the oaken angel.
"It's wonderful," he suddenly began again—"don't you think it's wonderful, how sometimes one's identity seems to come up against someone else's, and a response sounds, as if we were two Marconi instruments, and were in tune with each other. Have you noticed that?"
"I know what you mean."
He came nearer and stood beside her.
"The thing goes on a long time, before you're conscious of it; at least, it did with me. When I got to London, I didn't realise why I wanted to go straight and call upon the Helstons, until—until I saw you come into the room. Then I knew that all the while I was in Africa, I had been thinking about you.... Are you angry?" for she had turned away a little.
"No, I'm not angry. But ... you know very little of me. I ... never thought about you like that."
"No, I daresay not. But as to knowing—when two people are tuned together, intimacy comes, one hardly knows how. This Easter has been the jolliest time I have ever known. I feel like the chap in Locksley Hall, who thought the grass was greener than usual, and the birds brighter coloured.... This spring is like that to me, because of you—because of you! ...Melicent!"
The girl looked up. She was of those whom excitement renders pale. Her cheek was white, but as if a fire shone through the whiteness. Here was the way definitely open to her, out of the intolerable strain of the past ten day. But she was honest.
"I'm going to disappoint you," she said slowly. "I must. I don't feel like that. I don't believe I ever should. My enthusiasm seems to be for things, not people. I am ambitious and selfish. I suppose, to be ambitious is always to be selfish."
His voice was uneven and broken now, as if it fell over rough edges.
"You can only disappoint me by saying that you care for ... some other fellow ... more than for me."
"I like you better than anybody else," said Melicent simply, raising her eyes to his agitated face.
She was quite unprepared for the result.
Her hands, her waist, were caught, she was in his arms; before she was fairly conscious of what he was about, he had kissed the ineffable, smooth rose whiteness of her cheek.
"I'm content," he whispered. "You like me better than anybody else! Oh, you darling! What is it? Have I frightened you? There, I will be good, I swear I will! I'm not a brute ... only I lost my head! I never thought you would, or could, but now—"
She edged away, sick and trembling. To her virginal aloofness, the fact of his embrace clinched the matter. He had stolen a march on her. Unless he were her betrothed, how could she face him again? He would become a second incubus, like Bert Mestaer. Yet still her honesty fought for liberty.
"You did not let me speak," she cried. "I mean to say—I like you better than anybody else, but that is not enough!"