The man who won

CHAPTER XXVI

THE END OF THE FIRST ROUND

"Go, if you will! Let continents divide us,
And put the seas between, and sink the ships!
What space shall sunder us, what darkness hide us,
What force shall keep apart our meeting lips?"

One of Captain Brooke's first purchases when he came to England was a motor; and it had since been Carol Mayne's fate to be driven hither and thither by a driver whose want of skill at first was only equalled by his recklessness. Now he had mastered the art, as he mastered most of the things he cared to try; and it fell out that he drove Mayne and Burmester home from the Glen Royd tennis-party, the early spring air being chilly, and the ladies of the party all preferring Sir Joseph's motor, which was closed.

He took his seat at the wheel, with Mayne beside him and Lance behind, in the tonneau. They had not gone far before Lance brought out his secret. His people had not been told yet, he said, but these two were his very good friends, and he must make known to them the great news that he had proposed to Miss Lutwyche that afternoon and been accepted by her.

To Mayne the thing was like a bomb exploding in a non-combatant country. It was utterly unlooked for. He had seen that something was afoot, of course—had had vague fears that by the end of the summer perhaps...

And now it was suddenly all over. His champion had been knocked out in the first round. To such a man as Carol the announcement had all the effect of a hopeless finality. Melicent was betrothed; then Bert's chance was over. He almost expected to see him reel visibly under the blow. Of course the ordinary man is not openly affected by such things. We most of us in our time have to listen politely while somebody cheerfully calls upon us for congratulation upon the circumstance that is defeating our hopes. But to Bert this news meant the loss of all things. His money, his lands, his education, all he had and was, existed for Melicent....

The Bishop elect felt himself turning cold. Visions of possible tragedy had brushed his eyes with their dark wing that afternoon, and behold, already the darkness was upon them. Once before, after Bert's long patience, at the moment of fruition, Carol had stepped in and asked him to forego. He remembered the effect of brute strength in leash, the impact, almost physical, of this man's will against his own. And then he had been able to hold out hope, to say: "Wait, and try again when you have proved yourself."

But this time it was final!

What would Bert do? Would his civilisation, his Christianity, even his manhood, be proof against this stroke of Fate?

It had been better far for him to present himself avowedly to the girl, to say: "Behold the result of my long effort to be more worthy of you. Will you try to learn to love me?"

Mayne had counselled this all along; but Bert had, as usual, taken his own way.

Mayne's eyes were fixed apprehensively upon the firm hands grasping the wheel. He almost expected some explosion, some display of violent resentment, of ungoverned temper, that should shoot them all down into the ravine on their left, where the limekiln smoked blue against the dark moor beyond.

There was not even a change of colour. Bert continued to look out keenly along the road, as his manner was when driving.

"Asked Miss Lutwyche to marry you?" he said, in a preoccupied voice. "What on earth d'you do that for?"

Lance was silent for a moment, in something closely approaching stupefaction. Carol stared at Bert, in whose temples he saw a pulse visibly throbbing; no other sign of discomposure.

"Surely you've seen, Brooke, that I was hard hit in that direction?" said Lance presently, in a hurt tone.

"Saw you admired her, of course; but so do I," said Bert shortly. "Had no idea you had made up your mind."

"You must forgive our lack of warmth, Burmester," said Mayne. "It seems to me very sudden. But you know they say, 'Happy's the wooing that's not long a-doing.'"

"You don't know enough of each other," said Bert, still in that preoccupied tone, as though his mind was concentrated on the road before him.

"Well," said Lance, "but what were you saying last night in the smoking-room? One has got to take one's chances. It is true, and it was that that gave me courage to speak to-day."

Mayne saw the blood slowly overspread Bert's face. Lance, behind, could not see the sardonic grin which accompanied the manifestation.

"Well, it seems I've made myself responsible for a big order," remarked the chauffeur.

"Don't you think she's charming?" said Lance anxiously. "Charming in such a very unusual way? You know, lots of girls are pretty, but you feel you'd so soon get tired of 'em—run through 'em, so to speak, if Mayne will pardon the expression. But with her—" his voice broke and softened.

Bert put on power, then jammed down the brake, as an opportune cart came galloping downhill towards them; opportune, because it enabled him to say "Damn!" with expression, to violently control the rocking car, and to be occupied with it busily. When he spoke again, which was not for several minutes, during which Mayne vainly searched his own mind for a suitable remark, it was to say:

"What are you going to do about St. Petersburg?"

"Oh!" said Lance, unpleasantly reminded.

It was only a fortnight since he had been rejoicing in the offer, made to him by his newspaper, of going to Russia under very favourable conditions.

"Well," he said, after a pause, "that will have to be referred to—" Bert made his whistle hoot so noisily that the final word was lost.

When they drew up at the door of the Grange, Bert said to Mayne, upon whom he had not bestowed glance nor sign:

"Mayne, like a good chap, see if there's any post for me before I send this machine away."

Mayne went in, and sent out the servant with a bundle of correspondence, of that unclassified kind which the rich man and the buyer is always burdened withal. Brooke sat in the car, opening envelope after envelope; and after a minute, Mayne came slowly down the steps again and stood near, his eyes soft with sympathy, but no words on his tongue.

"Ha!" said the Captain at last, as though to himself. "Yes; that's what I expected. Well, I think I shall be off at once, and take my machine to Wiltshire by road."

After a moment's surprise: "A good idea," said Mayne heartily.

Bert looked at him as if he had never seen him before.

"Oh," he said, "you think so, do you?" Then turning to Sir Joseph's chauffeur, who waited: "Tell my man to be ready in an hour to take me to London," he said laconically, getting out of the car as he spoke. "I must go and apologise to Lady B." he remarked, with a grin, as he passed Mayne. "See you later, old man. These are my builders' estimates, and I must get on with that house of mine."

"But"—Mayne was so mystified that he followed him through the hall—"but if your architect is—what I mean to suggest is, that she may not be able to carry out—"

Brooke turned and faced him with clear grey eyes that had the effect of a locked door.

"She's signed her contract," he said, "and if she don't keep to it, I'll go to law and make her. But this is business: women aren't so unbusiness-like as you seem to suppose. Forman, where's her ladyship?"

* * * * * * * *

There is little doubt that her son's engagement would have been wholly unpleasing to Lady Burmester had it not been for one fact which, curiously enough, made her look more favourably upon it. This was nothing else than the total lack of enthusiasm with which the Helstons regarded the new idea.

The thing was sudden; on Melicent's side they had noticed no symptoms. They thought it rash and ill-considered. No doubt many young people made up a match upon equally slender acquaintance; in fact, one way and another, before Lance went abroad, he and Melicent had seen a good deal of one another. Undoubtedly, from the worldly point of view, it was an excellent match for their girl. The thing that distressed them was that they felt sure her heart was not in it.

"But in that case—why?" they asked each other blankly.

They thought they knew her too well to imagine that the social advantages weighed enough in her eyes to turn the scale. They were simply mystified, without a clue.

"Are you sure you are wise, my child?" said Brenda earnestly, when first discussing it with her adopted daughter. "You know we have always spoken out frankly to each other. Don't let us forego that habit. Tell me plainly. You care for Lance deeply? He's a charming fellow, I know, but weak. Have you realised that he is weak, Melicent?"

"I don't like strong men," said the girl, with a perceptible shudder. "There's something brutal about all strength, even moral strength. I fear it."

This speech deepened the darkness in which Brenda groped. She could not fathom it.

"Of course I understand his feeling for you," she said slowly. "You are just the woman for him, and he has penetration to see it—"

"But you won't give me the credit for like penetration? Why shouldn't I see it too? Isn't that kind of thing generally mutual?"

"Well, if you tell me it is so ... but it seems to me so rapid."

"It was unexpected to me," said Melicent thoughtfully. "I did ask him to give me time to think. But he seemed so sure. You know, mater, I don't think I should ever smile and cry and bill and coo. I'm not that kind. But I know I like Lance better than anybody else. If I find that we don't get on, I could break it off, you know."

"Lady Burmester would never forgive that."

"Oh, bother Lady Burmester!"

"There! That's the mood I distrust!" cried Brenda. "Melicent, you're behaving like a child! You will have to consider your husband's relations, and especially his mother! This is real life, remember. You are not going away to live in an enchanted castle."

"Well, it seems to me that you want me to act as if I were, and doubt me because I speak sensibly!" cried Melicent, hurt.

Brenda began to see that she had made up her mind. For the first time—the very first time since she took this orphan to her heart—she was conscious of feeling jarred. She ceased to argue, but went instead to her own room and wept.

This was early in the day. Lancelot and his parents came to lunch.

Mr. Helston was quite outspoken. He said his position briefly was that he was a man of moderate fortune, with two brothers, both with large and needy families. He could not feel justified in leaving much to his adopted daughter, as he had carefully explained to her uncle when he first took her. He had carried out his plan of giving her a first-rate education and a means of livelihood; and as long as he or his wife lived, she had a home. But she was a poor match for a prospective baronet.

Sir Joseph asked a few questions as to her birth and parentage, which Mr. Helston answered as fully as he could. Her father, Arnold Lutwyche, was a member of a reputable family which had gone to the West Indies, and there gained, and subsequently lost, a large fortune. He had no near relations, being the last of his line, and had been brought up in a luxury which, after the early death of his parents, had been found to be wholly unjustified. He had married Mr. Chetwynd-Cooper's sister, against the wish of her family, the opposition being solely on pecuniary grounds. Melicent had been sent to England on his death, her mother having predeceased him.

In his brief account of her home-coming, and Mr. Mayne's guardianship, Helston made no mention whatever of the Boer half-brothers and sisters, simply because he never thought about them. From the day of Melicent's first arrival in England, no word had come from Tante Wilma. Melicent herself never seemed to realise that the Boer woman's children were in any way akin to her. The stupor of coldness which had congealed her heart in the old days had seemingly rendered her incapable of loving anybody. Even now she loved but few; and those slowly, and, as it were, with difficulty. She repudiated her African life so wholly that Helston and his wife had hardly ever heard her speak of it.

But Brenda was urgent in recommending delay. She thought Sir Joseph ought to bring pressure to bear upon his son not to go forward in the matter at present. She owned that she was not altogether certain of Melicent's feelings. It was then that Lancelot's mother showed cold surprise. Naturally she did not find it difficult to believe that her son's attractions had proved fatal.

"Lancelot himself seems to have no doubts," she said. "It is possible he may understand the woman he loves better than you yourself, Mrs. Helston."

"That is very possible," said Brenda.

"His particular reason for wishing the engagement announced," said Sir Joseph, "is that his newspaper wishes him to go to St. Petersburg on a three months' commission. He would like to be married on his return, in the summer. His mother and I have every desire to see him settled, and he is by no means a boy who has given trouble in the way of flirtations—I mean, that I feel tolerably sure of his knowing his own mind; and that being so, I should not feel justified in putting obstacles in his way."

Brenda was aghast. She tried to say that her main objection to the engagement was the insufficient knowledge of each other possessed by the contracting couple; and that, if they were to be separated during the whole of their betrothal, and married with little chance of improving acquaintance, she felt considerable anxiety for their chances of future happiness.

It ended by Lady Burmester taking up the cudgels definitely on behalf of Romance. She naturally felt it most unlikely that, quite apart from the question of position, any girl could ever possibly repent marriage with her boy. She seemed inclined to treat Mrs. Helston's hesitation as an implied slight upon an exemplary son.

When Brenda found that Melicent herself was against her, she surrendered. The arrangement was in truth just what the girl had wished for. Her engagement would be merely nominal for the next three months while Lone Ash was in building. It would be there, an impregnable barrier against Hubert Mestaer, and in no sense a drag upon herself. The calmness with which she faced the idea of parting from her lover added the final touch to Mrs. Helston's conviction that there was something desperately wrong. She began to think she must be mistaken in her girl after all. Was her head really turned on finding herself the chosen of one of the county eligibles? It must be so. Doubtless the girl herself did not realise it. Excitement lent a glamour to the situation, and Melicent, like many another silly maid, mistook the glitter for the rainbow glory of the wings of the Love-god whom she had never seen.

Not even her husband could understand the full depth of Brenda's disappointment. It seemed to her that she would have to learn Melicent all over again. She brooded over the subject continually, searching and searching for a motive for conduct which nobody but herself found in the least unnatural.

CHAPTER XXVII

THREE MONTHS' TRUCE

"Red marble shall not ease the heartache..."

"Why should I rear me halls of rare
Design, on proud shafts mounting high?
Why bid my Sabine vale good-bye
For doubled wealth and care?"
                                                        —C. S. CALVERLEY.

There was, however, much in Melicent's new position which was irksome, and to her inexperience, wholly unexpected. She had not foreseen that the event would make a stir in the county, and bring her into a prominence much accented by the fact that she was a qualified architect, now occupied in building a gentleman's country-seat.

Sir Joseph's paternal kiss was an infliction which positively scared her; and the influx of congratulatory visitors still worse.

"Capital, Melicent darling!" was Mrs. Cooper's honeyed sting; "you are quite a lesson to us all in overcoming unfortunate tendencies! I always quote you to anybody who complains to me of children that are difficult to manage."

Lancelot was out of earshot when this amenity was uttered; but Mr. Helston heard it, and, being unregenerate, hit back.

"Talking of children that are difficult to manage," he said, "what news have you of George?"

"A most amusing letter," promptly replied the vicar, who was always ready, with armour girt on, to defend his own. "He gives a capital account of the colonial method of pooling labour for harvesting purposes. Had you that custom among the Boers, Millie?"

"I don't know," said Melicent. "Ask Captain Brooke."

"Brooke's gone back to town," said Helston. "He went off last night on his motor. He is going to take it to Clunbury by road."

"Oh," said Millie, "I wish he had taken me! Travelling all night too! I should have enjoyed it!"

"Oh," cried her aunt, "we must really tell Mr. Burmester this! You must remember, Melicent darling, that you are appropriated now. It would never do to make Mr. Burmester jealous."

"Really, Aunt Minna," said Melicent disgustedly, "one would think you were the under-housemaid."

She walked away, with her head in the air, after this unpardonable speech, and told Lancelot that she could not stand Fransdale now that she was engaged; they must go back to town at once.

"Well," said Lance, "of course I ought to be back, only I was waiting till you went. We'll travel together."

"Captain Brooke's off, I hear."

"Yes; the builders' estimates for that confounded house came in, and he was off like a shot; thinks of nothing else but his house and his motor car; hardly took any notice when I told him we were engaged."

"Oh, well," said Melicent vaguely; "one wouldn't expect him to be interested in that."

"I did. I do. He's my friend."

"Ah! That's why, I expect! You see, he knows me better than you do."

Until Lance's blank stare faced her she did not realise the thing she had said.

"I mean," she hastily subjoined, "that he may have heard all about what a naughty girl I used to be from Mr. Mayne. You know, they are great friends."

"Ah," said Lance tenderly, "but Mayne thinks the world of you."

"Does he?" said Melicent, rather wearily.

* * * * * * * *

In the train, on the way to town, she felt happier. Things were falling out as she wished. It was unconsciously that she was acting with such surpassing selfishness. She did not tell herself that she was fencing herself with an engagement in order to be free to gratify her ambition. She did not even know that at the back of her mind lay the treacherous thought that, when Lone Ash was built, Lance might be thrown over. But a deeper self-knowledge would have shown her that this was what she really intended. Her mind just now was full of dreams: but they were in stone and mortar. Visions of corbie-stepped gables, of oriel windows, of mullions, drip-stones and other bewitching details, would keep coming in between her and Lance's scholarly, boyish face opposite. She and he were at one end of the carriage, the Helstons, with newspapers ostentatiously spread, at the other.

Lancelot was a good deal elated and somewhat thrown off his balance by the great fact of his engagement. He arrived at the railway station brimful of the idea of writing to his paper to decline the St. Petersburg mission. He was terribly dashed at first by his fiancée's warm opposition to this idea.

"You can't care for me, if you can coolly face the idea of my being away till the end of June!" he cried.

"I never pretended to care for you in that emotional kind of way; I'm not emotional," said Millie, with calmness. "I care with my mind, and I like a man to go and do his duty, not to hang round a woman's apron-string. Look how soldiers and sailors have to part from the women they love! You have your name to make in the world."

"I see your point of view," said the lover wistfully, "but it is a little hard to go off and leave you so soon. I'm—I'm very much in love, you know, darling. You are the kind of girl men do make fools of themselves for."

Melicent sighed. Perhaps she was thinking of a certain cup of coffee streaming down a man's face and shirt, and the fight that ensued on that swift insult.

"I tell you honestly, Lance, I'm not in love with you," she said. "It's no use pretending."

He was silent, giving her only an ardent look—a look that she resented.

But she told herself, a man is only in love for such a short time. It is the kind of thing a woman must tolerate and allow until the brief madness passes. Now with regard to Bert, she doubted if such well-recognised rules would hold. He might easily prove capable of being in love all his life, which made him inexcusable. Her fancy ran off again upon this tack, till she was recalled by hearing Lance say:

"If you knew how awful it is to think of leaving you. Words don't convey the horrible feeling, the craving for you, when you are out of my sight."

"Perhaps you don't trust me," she said, with a little supercilious smile. "Perhaps you think I shall not keep faith if you leave me?"

"Melicent!" He insisted upon taking her hand, unbuttoning and removing her glove, kissing the palm and holding it to his cheek. "I shan't say another word. I'm the happiest man on earth. I shall look on my exile as the proof of my manhood."

"I am more likely to value you correctly if you go away," said Melicent, withdrawing her hand when she had borne his caress as long as she could. "I shall grow used to the idea of you. I can't adjust my horizons at present, with you in the foreground. It used to be so empty."

"And you will spend all to-morrow with me, won't you? We will lunch, shop, dine together, go to the theatre—we will have one day of happiness, and then part."

One day of happiness! The girl looked wistfully at him.

"Lance, will it truly make you very happy to spend the day with me?"

"I wonder you can ask," he said. He added a string of lovers' folly—tender names and protestations.

"Well, then, we'll try it!" she cried recklessly. "I want a day of happiness too. You shall take me where you like, and I shall try and be happy. I think I am too cold and selfish. I'll try and let myself go to-morrow, and enjoy things, and be sweet to you. You shall have a memory to carry to Russia with you—the memory of a day as happy as I can make it."

* * * * * * * *

The day of happiness was a pitiable failure as far as Melicent was concerned. She did her best, honestly. She wore her prettiest clothes, and tried hard to be really interested in jewellery, and to persuade herself that driving down Bond Street in a hansom, purchasing a smart diamond ring, lunching at the Trocadero, and so on, in company with a good-looking, well-dressed, clever and agreeable young man, constituted the elements of enjoyment for her. But it would not do. She would rather have been wandering alone on Fransdale Rigg in a storm and a mackintosh; or, better still, superintending the foundation-laying of the first child of her genius.

After their final leave-taking, and the passionate demonstration on the part of Lance which she had not been able to evade, she was almost determining to put an end to the whole thing. But when he was gone the tension relaxed at once. She liked him very well at a distance. Perhaps—almost certainly—by the time he returned, she would find that her affections had progressed in his direction. Meanwhile, she blindly felt the protection of her engagement to be an imperious necessity in the present circumstances.

And three days after the sailing of her lover, the idea of her approaching wedding had grown dim and far; for Captain Brooke came to Mr. Helston's office to consider the builders' estimates.

Melicent was at her drawing-board when he came in, her fair head bent over a piece of delicate work. The meeting was expected on both sides, and both were thoroughly on guard. Mr. Helston was present, and after the usual greetings had passed, the Captain, without pause, offered Melicent his congratulations on her engagement.

"Mayne seemed afraid that you would throw up your commission and leave me in the lurch in consequence of more pressing interests," he said. "I am glad to find you are more business-like than that."

She smiled.

"I'm afraid Lance knows that he will have to go shares with architecture in my heart," she said, slightly shrugging her shoulders.

Helston had gone for a moment to the outer office, to carry a paper to a clerk: the two were alone.

"What a fool Burmester must be!" said Brooke hurriedly, under his breath.

She looked up, angry, amazed; but his eyes were in another direction, and it was impossible for her to answer him, because Helston immediately returned. They plunged into business; and thereafter her client's manner was wholly natural, quiet and business-like.

In the course of two or three interviews, the raw surfaces of Melicent's susceptibilities were healed, her apprehensions lulled.

Fired through and through with professional enthusiasm, she gave herself heart and soul to the difficulties and the fascinations of her profession.

The glory of it! To see her Idea taking shape in material that should endure for ages! To see dreams and thoughts reduced to dimensions and proportions and traced upon the bosom of the ground in foundations that would be still young, years after their designer was dust!

The circumstances were exceptional. Her client gave her carte-blanche, and was to the full as enthusiastic as she. The spring was a glorious one. As the fruit trees in the old orchard of Lone Ash Farm burst into flower, the outline of Melicent's creation began to rise imperishable, on the hill-side.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE GATES OF SPRING ARE OPENED

"For rest of body perfect was the spot,
All that luxurious nature could desire;
But stirring to the spirit; who could gaze
And not feel motions there? ...
                    But the gates of Spring
Are opened; churlish winter hath given leave
That she should entertain for this one day,
Perhaps for many genial days to come,
Her guests, and make them welcome."
                                    —WORDSWORTH (The Recluse).

There was a little ceremony when the foundation-stone of Lone Ash was laid.

Mr. Harland, lord of the manor of Clunbury, had an aged grandmother living in his house, who actually remembered Captain Brooke's grandfather, and the departure of the family to South Africa when the old place was sold up. This venerable dame, as forming so interesting a link with the past, was at the Squire's suggestion, asked to lay the stone; and on the first of May the ceremony was performed, before quite a concourse of spectators.

It was a fine opportunity for the county to show sympathy with the eligible owner by being present; and there was many a pretty girl who would have dearly liked to preside at future gatherings on the same spot.

For the few with whom he was personally acquainted, the Captain provided champagne luncheon at the primitive inn, where he still had his unpretentious quarters. Melicent had feelings to contend with on entering that inn once more.

The health of the architect was proposed by Mr. Harland, and enthusiastically drunk by those present, among whom the slight young girl, whose talent was undeniable, was an interesting figure.

Mayne was among the guests, observant but aloof. He was shut out completely from the confidence of both those who were dear to him. He could see that the girl was wholly possessed and dominated by her one absorbing interest. He imagined that she had accepted Lance simply because he asked her, and because she was young and undeveloped, and did not know exactly what she wanted; or because Lance admired her, and the admiration of the young male will always for a time influence the warm blood of the young girl. But Bert he found more inscrutable. The man lived within himself to a quite incredible extent. But as far as Mayne could see, he was not unhappy: certainly not in despair. He seemed to have accepted, without one kick, the hardest stroke of Destiny. In such submission, to one who knew Bert, there was something ominous.

Mayne knew nothing of one electric moment in which Bert had torn from Melicent's eyes three secrets. First, that she knew him; second, that she feared him; third, that she was going to entrench herself against him.

These things lay unspoken in the man's dogged heart.

In the late afternoon, the Captain turned to his architect, who had been saying good-bye to the Harland party, and took out his watch.

"You have three quarters of an hour before your fly comes to fetch you," he said, "and Mayne has taken the Helstons to look at the church. I want to show you something, if you would stroll down the lane with me."

To refuse would have been ridiculous; but as they went, she was acutely conscious that this was the first time they had been alone together since the day she had recognised him.

They were walking towards Lone Ash, and the wonderful beauty of the May evening breathed incense about them as they went. Orchards everywhere made the whole earth seem a-bloom. A glory of distant gorse blazed on the horizon line.

After a few moments Melicent grew nervous, and felt she must speak.

"Is the first consignment of dressing-stone delivered?" she asked.

"Up at the station," he replied eagerly, as if the question pleased him. "We bring some down to-morrow; it ought to be on the ground at ten o'clock. I took a look at it to-day, and thought it was up to sample; but I should like you to see it."

"It's a pity the journey from London is so long," she said regretfully.

"The very point I want to raise," returned he, with unconcern which was not overdone. "I think I need my architect on the spot, and I'm prepared to pay to have her there. Ah!" as they turned a corner and a charming cottage faced them, "this is what I want to show you. How do you like it?"

She stopped short, with a certain glow of feature and glint of the eye, which was characteristic. As usual, when very pleased, she did not speak. He watched her eyes as they dwelt on the rustic English beauty of the place.

The white smother of cherry-blossom melted against the mellow red tiles. By the garden-gate a big Forsythia bush bore a burden of honey-coloured flowers. The garden was a tangle of periwinkle, woodruff, and forget-me-not, with the all-pervading sweetness of wallflower; and the glowing coral of the ribes nestled against the tumble-down porch.

"It will be a mass of lilac-bloom in a fortnight," said the girl, hardly knowing she spoke.

"I want you to come in," Brooke told her.

The door was ajar. It opened upon a kitchen, beautifully clean and tidy, evidently for ornament, not use. Within was a tiny parlour, with gate-leg table, grandfather's clock and oak dresser.

"This is what I would ask my architect to put up with now and then, to save her a good deal of going to and fro," said Brooke. "I have taken it for three months, to accommodate my visitors, as there is no room in the inn."

Carried away by the sweetness of the place, she sat down upon the window-seat.

"This is Arcady!" she said.

He leaned against the print valance of the mantel, looking very large in the tiny place.

"Do you like it? Would you like to stay here now and again?"

She turned her little head, its outlines sungilt against the light without, and looked at him; and she answered like a child, accepting unconsciously the suggestion of an older person.

"I like it very much. It would be a great convenience to be able to stay. I am so anxious about the house."

"If that is so, you shall wait here and talk to Mrs. Barrett, and ask her to show you the upstairs rooms, while I go and fetch the Helstons to look at it. There will just be time."

CHAPTER XXIX

THE FRIENDSHIP GROWS

"A whole white world of revival awaits May's whisper a while,
Abides and exults in the bud as a soft hushed laugh in a smile.
As a maid's mouth, laughing with love and subdued for the love's
        sake, May
Shines, and withholds for a little the word she revives to say."
                                                                                    —A. C. SWINBURNE.

For three weeks, Melicent came down to the cottage on Tuesday and stayed till Friday. The first twice Brenda had accompanied her; but Pater grumbled, and the third time she came alone.

She was growing bold. Brooke's behaviour never varied. He was courteous and easy, but never confidential. He would come down the lane with his dogs, whistling, and lean over the gate among the lilacs until Melicent appeared from the cottage door, and they went on to Lone Ash together. His first greeting always was:

"How are you? Good news of Burmester, I hope?"

He was in great social request, and dined out most nights, often hurrying away from the absorbing spectacle of the rising walls of his home to lunch with some neighbouring magnate.

During the third week, except for their morning chat together, she scarcely saw him at all until Friday afternoon.

The week had been wet and cold, and she had been tramping about in a mackintosh and gaiters; but to-day was brilliantly fine, and she was lunching al fresco, up at the works, being immensely interested in some fresh boring operations then in progress in connection with her beloved fish-pond. She was sitting upon a pile of dry planks, making a dessert of almonds and raisins, and deep in a book, when she saw the Captain drive up. He seldom brought the motor up to the works. He had his own cart now, and a fast cob; and a trim young groom to look after them.

He sprang out, came up to where she sat, and began asking eager questions about the boring. They talked shop for several minutes, he sitting among the planks a little below her perch, bare-headed, and with his gaze upon the long foundation-lines.

Then a short silence fell, while the exhilarating May air sang about them. Looking straight before him, he said unconcernedly:

"Came to see if you cared for a drive this afternoon. It's a jolly day, and I've got to go to Arnstock. Care to come?"

She hesitated. Why not? She had evicted Mrs. Grundy long ago, and on what other grounds could she refuse? Yet something within said, "Don't," so loudly as to drown the voice of calm reason.

"I think I'd better not. I'm waiting here to see them begin to lay the damp course. Thanks all the same."

He looked at his watch. Then turned to her with a gleam in his eye.

"They quit work in an hour, so that reason won't do. Don't you trust me?"

"I have no notion what you mean," said Melicent, instantly frozen.

"Well," he said, "of course I know you despise conventionalities or you would not be following your present profession. When a girl steps down into the arena and joins the wrestling, one takes it for granted that she doesn't mind what folks say. So, if you refuse to let me take you a drive, I have to conclude that your objection is personal, don't I?"

"Then you don't consider it possible that I really may not wish to take a drive this afternoon?"

"Seeing what the weather's been this week, and what it is to-day, and the way you've been sticking to work, I think it's unlikely," he said calmly. He rose. "Pity you won't come," he added. "They're enlarging Arnstock Churchyard, and they've unearthed the head of a Saxon cross." Melicent sprang involuntarily to her feet. He looked at her steadily. "Knot-work," he said firmly. "As clean-cut as if it had been carved last week. They have got several bits. Harland thinks they may find it all. That's what I'm going to see."

She laughed a little uneasily. "I don't believe I can resist that," she said.

"Come along then," he replied coolly, picking up her warm coat from the planks. "There's Alfred to play propriety, you know."

"I don't believe you've ever been to Arnstock," he said, as they bowled lightly along the firm high-road. "You do nothing but stick to work. It isn't good for you."

"I have been to tea with the Harlands, and I am going to dine there next week. I don't know what more you can suggest in the way of dissipation. I'm sorry if I am ridiculous about Lone Ash, but you must consider the fascination of it. My first house—my dream! To see it taking shape before my eyes!"

She gazed before her with eyes that saw visions, and Hubert looked at her.

"I feel great scruples about monopolising you so much," he remarked. "Ought not all your energies just now to be concentrated on your trousseau?"

He was in a position to see the full play of expression in the face she sought to avert He marked the instinctive repugnance, the effort at concealment, the cold annoyance.

"Lancelot understands that I must first do what I undertook to do," she said stiffly.

"Then I am actually postponing the wedding arrangements? This is serious. My only excuse must be that there was no one who had a prior claim when you pledged yourself to me."

For just one moment she misunderstood—for one second she was on the verge of self-betrayal. It was on her tongue to say: "I never pledged myself to you!" when she saw the trap laid for her. Was it intentional? Swiftly she flashed a look at him. No babe could have been more innocent in expression.

"My private concerns will never be allowed to clash with business arrangements," she said haughtily. "What man would postpone, or throw up good work, just because he was going to be married?"

"Marriage is a mere episode nowadays, isn't it?" he said. "Just a holiday experience. The English fashion of it wouldn't content me."

"Marriage is not a thing you can talk about in the abstract," she said irritably. "One marriage is not a bit like another. You can choose your own kind, I suppose."

"Can you?" he asked urgently, in the candid tones of one seeking useful information.

There was a shadow of emphasis on the pronoun. She made no reply, and he went on:

"People's circumstances are so different I can imagine that you might face the idea of marriage as a mere interlude, because your life is so full, and holds so much else of love and fame and what not. Now in my case ... will you allow a lonely man the luxury of talking about himself for five minutes?"

"I am interested," said Melicent, quite politely.

"Well, you see, here am I, alone in the world. I can hardly remember my mother. I never had but one real friend—a man. I don't think I can remember a woman speaking one solitary kind word to me until I turned up in England with money. Now do you see, that friendless as I am, without human ties of kith or kin, what seems to you just a convenient arrangement, is to me the one possibility life offers? ... I wonder if you have ever thought what it must be to live altogether without intimacies, as I have done, for thirty years?"

There was a quiet, earnest simplicity in his voice which disarmed her. Suddenly she saw him in a new light. He was no longer the relentless pursuer, the man who hunted down a girl as his desired quarry. He was a lonely, heart-hungry fellow, who had been starving for kind words, thirsting for feminine sympathy. Seeing him in the light of what he had since become, she revolted from the memory of her own hardness. She had been the only English girl—the only creature with whom he felt affinity—in Slabbert's Poort. Among all the degradation and savagery of the place, he had stretched out appealing hands to the one woman who might have understood. And she had never given him one kind word! He said he could not remember one!

Without her own volition she felt her heart assailed with a rush of pity and tenderness wholly new in her self-centred, balanced experience. Without a word of reproach, with an almost bald simplicity, this man had opened the flood-gates of compassion. He had done more; made her ashamed of herself. She felt her face suffused with colour—she knew that her eyes swam with tears. The brilliant sun, facing them as they drove westward, almost blinded her. She felt she must say something; but the effect of his words had been so unexpected, so overwhelming, that she could not control her voice at once. At last, feeling that her lack of response must seem unkind, she faltered out:

"I—I am so sorry for you. I never guessed you were so—lonely!"

And to her rage and fury, her eyes over-brimmed and two tears—rare indeed with her—splashed down upon the rug that covered her knees.

Hubert made some kind of an inarticulate exclamation, and an abrupt movement, abruptly checked by the consciousness of the neatly apparelled back of Alfred, the groom, almost touching his own. He maintained complete silence for a long minute, then, bending towards Melicent:

"Were those tears for me?" he asked, very low.

She had hastily found her handkerchief.

"I—I think so. I can't quite explain; what you said recalled something else ... and I suppose I'm tired."

"Nevertheless," he replied, still below his breath, "I have had, at least for a moment, the sympathy of a woman. I shan't forget that. I hope you don't think I am in the habit of puling and drivelling about my lonely lot. I don't know what impelled me to sentiment, but I assure you it is all over now. See, there is Arnstock Church! We will have tea at the inn, and then the workmen will be gone home, and we can have the churchyard to ourselves."

They pulled up at a little low inn, covered with wisteria and honeysuckle. As he helped her down, she realised that her fear of him had suddenly disappeared.

Seated by a little table at an open window over-looking a quaint garden, she poured out tea for him, and enjoyed home-made bread, and honey from the row of hives which stood before the hawthorn hedge.

They talked easily and naturally, like two between whom a barrier has been swept away. Hubert told her of his search among his mother's papers, his discovery there of the name of his grandfather's native village, his coming to England, and his quest of what Lance called his ancestral acres.

Tea over, they proceeded to the churchyard, and spent a vivid half-hour with the fragments of the Saxon cross and its knot-work. Melicent was in a fever of eagerness to discover runes, but there were none. However, they found what was almost as good, a series of grotesques down the sides of the shaft.

The workmen had turned up almost all the pieces, and when Melicent suggested, in a moment of inspiration, that the Captain should pay for its restoration and erection in the churchyard, by way of inaugurating his reign at Clunbury, he took up the idea with avidity.

They drove back almost in silence; but a silence so full for both, that they hardly realised their lack of words.

At the lilac-decked cottage gate, Hubert jumped out, and as usual held his hands to help her down. She had just drawn off her leather gloves, and there seemed something significant and wonderful in the warm contact of their bare hands. The light was not good. That, or something else, caused her foot to slip on the high step.

For just one moment she felt an instinctive tightening of his grasp, and one arm went round her so swiftly that all danger of a fall was over before recognised. She was set on the ground ... she felt dizzy, and almost staggered when released. For in that arresting instant, his mouth had been close to her ear, and she thought a sentence came to her—that he said, so low that she could scarcely hear:

"Hadn't you better give in?"

She had regained her poise, drawn herself away, her eyes shot a bewildered glance at him in the twilight. He did not look at her, but seemed in a tremendous hurry to be off. He had jumped back into the cart and was spinning down the lane before she had time to draw breath, or to ask herself if he had really said what she thought she heard.

She stood there, listening to the brisk beat of the horse's hoofs on the dry road, for quite a long time. Not a twig stirred in a stillness which seemed almost portentous. The dampness and fragrance of earth and growing things rose about her like incense. In a thicket not far distant, a nightingale began to bubble and gurgle into song.

Had he said it? If so, what did he mean? To what was she to give in? To the influence which that afternoon had softened, and as it were, dilated her heart? To the new kindness which she felt for him?

It must be illusion. Would he have asked a question of the kind and ridden away without an answer? Was it an inner voice that had spoken? If so, what was the purport?

Anger and self-will awoke. Her understanding, her emotions, her will were and should remain in her own keeping. What was the sensation she had experienced a moment ago, with his arms about her? She felt herself blush scarlet in the darkness.

* * * * * * * *

Next morning she went back to London.

CHAPTER XXX

THE TREACHERY

"Doubt you if, in some such moment
    As she fixed me, she felt clearly
Ages past the soul existed,
    Here an age 'tis resting merely,
And hence fleets again for ages,
    While the true end, sole and single,
It stops here for, is this love-way,
    With some other soul to mingle?

"Else it loses what it lived for,
    And eternally must lose it;
Better ends may be in prospect,
    Deeper blisses (if you choose it);
But this life's end and this love-bliss
    Have been lost here; doubt you whether
This she felt, as looking at me,
    Mine and her souls rushed together?"
                                                —ROBERT BROWNING.

Melicent only came down to Clunbury for one day the following week; and Mr. Helston was with her. The week after, she came for two days, and brought Brenda.

This was not the result of any scheme of self-defence; it simply happened in the ordinary course of events.

For she no longer disliked Hubert. Her mental attitude had changed.

The enlightenment which his simple and sparing speech had brought to her had been a veritable shock. She saw herself again as she had been at the time of his early devotion—the despised Cinderella, the half-grown slattern, the insolent, self-absorbed little upstart. Her own dulness of perception and ingratitude began to show themselves to her in a strong light. She marvelled at his constancy, and stood amazed at his insight. He had seen her, not as she was, but as she might be. It was she who had been blind.

So she thought of him: and yet, at the bottom of her mind, lurked a mysterious reluctance to go down to Lone Ash again.

She wrote to Lance more affectionately than she had ever done. She told him she meant to be less hard, more unselfish, to do her best to respond to the affection he lavished upon her.

Time was flowing swiftly past her. In three weeks he would be home!

And it was June.

At last Captain Brooke wrote to say that there was a question in the builder's mind respecting an additional support at a point where the thrust of the wall was greater than had been reckoned for. He added that the builder and the engineer were quarrelling about the Lee-Simmons man-holes. Moreover, the weathered tiles were beginning to arrive, and there was a question raised as to the condition of some of them. There was no doubt that her presence was necessary, and finally she went down, upon a day that focussed in its heart all the tender glories of an English summer.

The lilacs were fading now, but pink may and golden laburnum flaunted in beauty; and Melicent, as she cycled up the lane from the station, caught the intoxicating fragrance of syringa.

"What a garden this is! I believe it holds a bit of everything in the world that smells sweet!" she cried, as she greeted Mrs. Barrett. "It reminds me of the garden in Solomon's Song. How this sunshine does make the spices flow out!" As she spoke, she gathered a tiny spray of waxen syringa and a cluster of double pink may, like wee Banksia roses, and fastened them in her white gown. "After London, this is so wonderful!" she sighed.

"You look pale, miss. The fresh air'll set you up. The Captain was round this morning to know if you'd come. He seemed that disappointed not to find you. I expect now he'll think you're not coming down till to-morrow."

"Is he up at Lone Ash now, do you think?"

"I believe he will be, miss. Tommy, have you heard the Captain drive back, down the lane?"

No, Tommy had not; he was sure the Cap'n had not returned.

"I'll have a glass of milk now, please, Mrs. Barrett, and then go up and find him," said Melicent.

"There's been a gentleman had your rooms this week-end," said Mrs. Barrett, as she provided refreshment. "Mr. Mayne, a clergyman. They do say he's to be made a bishop. He was fine and took up with the building, and as friendly as ever I see. I'm sure we oughter be grateful to the Lord for sending of the Captain down here. A godsend to this village he be. There's Carter down the lane, talked of drowning hisself, he did; wife and three childer, no work to be had, nowhere to live if he got it. Now he's to have head gardener's place, and Captain's going to build him a cottage, four rooms and a kitchen! He just goes about, does the Captain, and finds out truth about everybody. Nobody's going to get over him, not they! Keeps his eyes skinned, and no mistake about it. Been into the bar of the Hearty Welcome night after night since he's been staying there, and found out all he wants to know about they chaps. He's got the whip-hand of the lot by now; knows twice as much about 'em as what vicar does; and it's my belief, he'll be the best served master in this county."

Melicent drank her milk absently. She wished, yet dreaded to see Hubert again. Her novel mood of self-abasement craved humiliation. Since realising how unlovable her conduct had been, she was invaded by unreasonable desires to let him know that she was really not such a beast as she seemed. A wish to tell him that she knew who he was, and would like to be friends, assailed her like a temptation, though she knew that such confidences would be the very height and apex of folly.

There was nothing for it, she firmly told herself, as she put on her shady hat and mounted her bicycle, but to remain upon business terms.

It gave her a little shock of joy, as she neared the gate leading to the Captain's property, to see the grey walls high enough to be clearly discerned from the road.

She rode noiselessly over the pasture, dismounted at the hill, wheeled her bicycle forward among the trees, and propped it against the trunk of a big beech.

The workmen were gone. She could see Hubert sitting there, on the pile of planks where she had sat last month. How long ago that seemed! How far she had travelled since their drive together!

He did not appear to be doing anything but meditating. His arms rested on his knees, his hands hung down between; he was looking at the ground. Melicent was taken with a sudden conviction that it would be wise to turn and run before he saw her. She combated the feeling with indignation. She remembered how loath she had been to go that drive. And how glad she now was that she went! It had made so vast a difference to her, she felt something as Gareth felt when he unhorsed the dread Black Knight, and found the rosy child within.

Why not go forward?

The alternative no longer remained: he looked up and saw her.

She came towards him from among the trees, in her white gown, wearing a look he had never seen upon her face before in life, though he had dreamed of it now and then. Her eyes seemed to have grown larger, darker, softer. Her face was of that warm rose whiteness which relieves itself so vividly and strangely against a white dress.

He stood up; but absorbed in the picture she made, he did not advance to greet her.

"I thought you had not come," he said; and even to say so much was an effort.

"I had things to do." She smiled. "Some of that shopping you reminded me of the other day! I came by the later train."

He recollected himself.

"I hope you have good news of Burmester," he said mechanically.

"The best," answered Melicent quietly. "He will be home in less than three weeks."

He had been staring at the grass, but on that he raised his eyes.

"And when shall you be—married?"

"The day is not fixed; only that it will be at Fransdale." There was a pause, and to fill it she said: "I hear Mr. Mayne has been here."

"Yes; I suppose you are going to his consecration next week?"

"Oh, yes; he sent us tickets. Do you know how long he stays in England? He ought to wait for my wedding."

"So I told him," said Captain Brooke slowly, balancing a long screw-driver with which he was playing across one finger of his left hand.

"What did he say?"

"Oh!—well, he said several things; but he didn't mean me to repeat them, so don't ask me, please."

She gave an odd, excited laugh. "I don't ask; I order you to tell me."

He gazed upon her, so absorbed in his thoughts about her, that the subject in hand faded out of sight. She could not meet his look. Tossing her head, she turned a little away.

"So you won't tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"What he said."

"What who said?"

"Captain Brooke, what is the matter with you? We were talking of Mr. Mayne. We had better leave off if you are not attending, and go and look at those tiles."

"The more serious matter is the water," he said, shaking off his preoccupation and sensibly relieved by the change of subject.

He led the way from where they stood to a pit four feet deep, with a stand-pipe projecting from the newly-turned soil. Kneeling down on the edge, he bent over, and turned on the union tap, which had been fixed for connection with a rubber hose. The girl gave a mortified exclamation:

"Why, it's dry!"

He acquiesced.

"That's where Shepherd's rage against the Lee-Simmons engineer comes in, and why he wants to wipe up the floor with him. The supply was all right the first two days, dribbled for two more; then stopped. The engineer says it is simply that Shepherd's men have fixed the thing so carelessly that the pipe's blocked down below. I think I'll get the jointed rod and probe it."

"Oh, my fish-pond, I thought I had secured you!" said Melicent sadly.

"You shall have it, if there's water in Wiltshire," he began; then stopping dead—"I mean, the thing must be made to act somehow. By the way, there's Alfred with the cart. I'll send him back for the rod; he can bring it in a few minutes."

"Lend me your wrench, then, and I'll get the tap right off," said the girl.

He handed her the tool she asked for, and went off across the field to give his directions.

She jumped down into the muddy pit, and set herself to unscrew the tap. It was not very easy, but she managed it at last; and then, with the thing in her hand, remained in her crouching attitude, examining it to see if there was any obstruction.

There was a sound like a deep sigh—a rush like heavy rain—a jet of yellow water flew from the pipe, hit the opposite side of the pit with great violence, and before she knew what had happened, she was over her ankles in water. In a calmer moment, she would have scaled the miry sides of the pit, regardless of appearances; but she was not calm, and she lost her head. The unexpected nature of the thing scared her—she had the idea that if once she let the pit fill, they would be unable to stop the flow; and so, with a spring, she flung herself upon the pipe, clasping her two hands rigidly about it, and stanching the most part of the rush. But the strength of the pulsing water was great, her footing slimy, her purchase feeble. Raising her voice, regardless of all but the emergency, she cried aloud:

"Bert! Bert! Bert! Quick!"

He had only just dismissed Alfred on his errand, and was hurrying back, when that sound smote his ear. He broke into a laugh of pure joy as he heard it, but he ran with all his might.

The moment he got to the brink of the pit, he saw what was happening; and he, too, lost his head. Instead of calling to her to let go, and holding down his hands to draw her up, at the expense of a drenching, he forthwith sprang down, placed himself beside her, and locked his hands over hers.

The fact of his doing this bereft her of all power of speech.

She was totally unconscious of having called him by name; she did not know the reason of his kindled, glowing look. Neither, for a few long-drawn seconds, considered what was to be done. They simply stood there, so acutely conscious of each other that nothing else in all the universe seemed real.

She was the first to recall her scattered wits.

"Oh, this is too ridiculous," she said faintly. "We can't hold on! We can't hold on!"

"Just long enough for Alfred to get back," he whispered. "He can't be ten minutes. He can have the thing ready to screw on, and save you a deluge—"

"Nonsense!" she uttered feebly. "We can't hold on here for ten minutes! We can't, simply."