CHAPTER XII
It was in the early morning, a few days after her arrival at ScarfedaleManor, the house of her two maiden aunts, that Connie, while all theScarfedale household was still asleep, took pen and paper and began aletter to Nora Hooper.
On the evening before Connie left Oxford there had been a long andintimate scene between these two. Constance, motherless and sisterless,and with no woman friend to turn to more understanding than Annette, hadbeen surprised in passionate weeping by Nora, the night after theMarmion catastrophe. The tact and devotion of the younger girl had beenequal to the situation. She humbly admired Connie, and yet was directlyconscious of a strength in herself, in which Connie was perhaps lacking,and which might be useful to her brilliant cousin. At any rate on thisoccasion she showed so much sweetness, such power, beyond her years, ofcomforting and understanding, that Connie told her everything, andthenceforward possessed a sister and a confidante. The letter ran asfollows:--
* * * * *
"DEAREST NORA,--I have only been at Scarfedale Manor a week, and alreadyI seem to have been living here for months. It is a dear old house, verylike the houses one used to draw when one was four years old--a doorwayin the middle, with a nice semicircular top, and three windows on eitherside; two stories above with seven windows each, and a pretty dormeredroof, with twisted brick chimneys, and a rookery behind it; also awalled garden, and a green oval grass-plot between it and the road. Itseems to me that everywhere you go in England you find these houses,and, I dare say, people like my aunts living in them.
"They are very nice to me, and as different as possible from each other.Aunt Marcia must have been quite good-looking, and since she gave upwearing a rational dress which she patented twenty-five years ago, shehas always worn either black silk or black satin, a large black satinhat, rather like the old 'pokes,' with black feathers in winter andwhite feathers in summer, and a variety of lace scarves--reallace--which she seems to have collected all over the world. AuntWinifred says that the Unipantaloonicoat'--the name of the patentedthing--lost Aunt Marcia all her lovers. They were scared by so muchstrength of character, and could not make up their minds to tackle her.She gave it up in order to capture the last of them--a dear old generalwho had adored her--but he shook his head, went off to Malta to think itout, and there died of Malta fever. She considers herself his widow andhis portrait adorns her sitting-room. She has a poor opinion of thelower orders, especially of domestic servants. But her own servantsdon't seem to mind her much. The butler has been here twenty years, anddoes just what he pleases. The amusing thing is that she considersherself extremely intellectual, because she learnt Latin in heryouth--she doesn't remember a word of it now!--because she always readthe reviews of papa's books--and because she reads poetry every morningbefore breakfast. Just now she is wrestling with George Meredith; andshe asks me to explain 'Modern Love' to her. I can't make head or tailof it. Nor can she. But when people come to tea she begins to talk aboutMeredith, and asks them if they don't think him very obscure. And asmost people here who come to tea have never heard of him, it keeps upher dignity. All the same, she is a dear old thing--and she put a largecase of chocolate in my room before I arrived!
"Aunt Winifred is quite different. Aunt Marcia calls her a'reactionary,' because she is very high church and great friends withall the clergy. She is a very quiet little thing, short and fair, with along thin nose and eyes that look you through. Her two great passionsare--curates, especially consumptive curates--and animals. There isgenerally a consumptive curate living the open-air life in the garden.Mercifully the last patient has just left. As for animals, the house isfull of stray dogs and tame rabbits and squirrels that run up you andlook for nuts in your pocket. There is also a mongoose, who pulled thecloth off the tea-table yesterday and ran away with all the cakes. AuntMarcia bears it philosophically, but the week before I came there was acrisis. Aunt Winifred met some sheep on the road between here and ourlittle town. She asked where they were going to. And the man with themsaid he was taking them to the slaughter-house. She was horrified, andshe bought them all--there and then! And half an hour later, sheappeared here with the sheep, and Aunt Marcia was supposed to put themup in the garden. Well, that was too much, and the aunts had words. Whathappened to the sheep I don't know. Probably Aunt Winifred has eatenthem since without knowing it.
"Dear Nora--I wonder why I write you all these silly things when thereis so much else to say--and I know you want to hear it. But it'shorribly difficult to begin.--Well, first of all, Mr. Sorell and OttoRadowitz are about three miles from here, in a little vicarage that hasa wide lookout upon the moors and a heavenly air. The aunts have foundme a horse, and I go there often. Otto is in some ways very much better.He lives an ordinary life, walks a fair amount, and is reading someclassics and history with Mr. Sorell, besides endless books of musicaltheory and biography. You know he passed his first musical exam lastMay. For the second, which will come off next year, he has to write acomposition in five-part harmony for at least five stringed instruments,and he is beginning work for it now. He writes and writes, and hislittle study at the vicarage is strewn deep in scribbled music-paper.With his left hand and his piano he does wonders, but the poor righthand is in a sling and quite useless, up to now. He reads scoresendlessly, and he said to me yesterday that he thought his intellectualunderstanding of music--his power of grasping it through the eye--ofhearing it with the mind--'ditties of no tone!'--had grown since hishand was injured. But the pathetic thing is that the sheer pleasure--thejoy and excitement--of his life is gone; those long hours of dreamingand composing with the piano, when he could not only make himselfblissfully happy, but give such exquisite pleasure to others.
"He is very quiet and patient now--generally--and quite determined tomake a name for himself as a composer. But he seems to meextraordinarily frail. Do you remember that lovely French poem of SullyPrudhomme's I read you one night--'_Le Vase Brise_'? The vase has had ablow. No one knew of it. But the little crack widens and grows. Thewater ebbs away--the flowers die. '_Il est brise_--_n'y touchez pas_!' Ican see it is just that Mr. Sorell feels about Otto.
"What makes one anxious sometimes, is that he has hours of a kind offierce absent-mindedness, when his real self seems to be far away--asthough in some feverish or ugly dream. He goes away and wanders about byhimself. Mr. Sorell does not attempt to follow him, though he is alwayshorribly anxious. And after some hours he comes back, limp and worn out,but quite himself again--as though he had gone through some terriblewrestle and escaped.
"Mr. Sorell gave him, a little while ago, a wonderful new automaticthing--a piano-player, I think they call it. It works with a roll like amusical box and has pedals. But Otto can't do much with it. To get anyexpression out of it you must use your hands--both hands; and I amafraid it has been more disappointment than joy. But there are rumoursof some development--something electric--that plays itself. They saythere is an inventor at work in Paris, who is doing something wonderful.I have written to a girl I know at the Embassy to ask her to find out.It might just help him through some weary hours--that's all one can say.
"The relation between him and Mr. Sorell is wonderful. Oh, what an angelMr. Sorell is! How can any human being, and with no trouble at allapparently, be so unselfish, so self-controlled? What will any woman dowho falls in love with him? It won't make any difference that he'llthink her so much better than himself--because she'll know the truth. Isee no chance for her. My dear Nora, the best men are better than thebest women--there! But--take note!--I am not in love with him, though Iadore him, and when he disapproves of me, I feel a worm.
"I hear a good deal of the Fallodens, but nobody sees them. Every oneshrinks from pestering them with society--not from any bad feeling--butbecause every one knows by now that they are in hideous difficulties,and doesn't want to intrude. Lady Laura, they say, is very much changed,and Sir Arthur looks terribly ill and broken. Aunt Marcia hears thatDouglas Falloden is doing all the business, and imp
ressing the lawyersvery much. Oh, I do hope he is helping his father!
"I can't write about him, Nora darling. You would wonder how I can feelthe interest in him I do. I know that. But I can't believe, as Ottodoes, that he is deliberately cruel--a selfish, hard-hearted monster. Hehas been a spoilt child all his life. But if some great call were madeupon him, mightn't it stir up something splendid in him, finer thingsthan those are capable of 'who need no repentance'?
"There--something has splashed on my paper. I have written enough. Nowyou must tell me of yourselves. How is your father? Does Aunt Ellen likeRyde? I am so delighted to hear that Mr. Pryce is actually coming. Tellhim that, of course, I will write to Uncle Langmoor, and Lord Glaramara,whenever he wishes, about that appointment. I am sure something can bedone. Give Alice my love. I thought her new photographs charming. Andyou, darling, are you looking after everybody as usual? I wish I couldgive you a good hug. Good-bye."
* * * * *
To which Nora replied, a couple of days later--
* * * * *
"Your account of Aunt Marcia and Aunt Winifred amused fathertremendously. He thinks, however, that he would like Aunt Marcia betterthan Aunt Winifred, as he--and I--get more anticlerical every year. Butwe keep it to ourselves. Mamma and Alice wouldn't understand. Ryde isvery full, and mamma and Alice want nothing more than the pier and thesands and the people. Papa and I take long walks along the coast, oracross the island. We find a cliff to bask on, or a wood that comes downto the water, and then papa gets out a Greek book and translates to me.Sometimes I listen to the sea, instead of to him, and go to sleep. Buthe doesn't mind. He is looking better, but work is loading up for himagain as soon as we get back to Oxford about a week from now. If only hecould get rid of drudgery, and write his best about the things he loves.Nobody knows what a mind he has. He is not only a scholar--he is a poet.He could write things as beautiful as Mr. Pater's, but his life isground out of him.
"I won't go on writing this--it's no good.
"Herbert Pryce came down yesterday, and has taken mother and Alice outboating to-day. If he doesn't mean to propose to Alice, it is very oddhe should take the trouble to come here. But he doesn't say anythingdefinite; he doesn't propose; and her face often makes me furious. Hismanner to mamma--and to me--is often brusque and disagreeable. It is asthough he felt that in marrying Alice--if he is going to marry her--heis rather unfairly burdened with the rest of us. And it is no goodshirking the fact that you count for a good deal in the matter. He wasdelighted with your message, and if you can help him he will propose toAlice. Goodness, fancy marrying such a man!
"As to Mr. Falloden, I don't believe he will ever be anything but hardand tyrannical. I don't believe in conversion and change of heart, andthat kind of thing. I don't--I don't! You are not to be taken in,Connie! You are not to fall in love with him again out of pity. If hedoes lose all his money, and have to work like anybody else, what doesit matter? He was as proud as Lucifer--let him fall like Lucifer. Youmay be sure he won't fall so very far. That kind never does. No, I wanthim put down. I want him punished. He won't repent--he can't repent--andthere was never any one less like a lost sheep in the world.
"After which I think I will say good-night!"
* * * * *
A few days later, Connie, returning from a ramble with one of LadyWinifred's stray dogs along the banks of the Scarfe, found her two auntsat tea in the garden.
"Sit down, my dear Connie," said Lady Marcia, with a preoccupied look."We have just heard distressing news. The clergy are such gossips!"
The elevation of Aunt Winifred's sharp nose showed her annoyance.
"And you, Marcia, are always so dreadfully unfair to them. You weresimply dying for Mr. Latimer to tell you all he knew, and then youabuse him."
"Perfectly true," said Lady Marcia provokingly, "but if he had snubbedme, I should have respected him more."
Whereupon it was explained to Connie that a Mr. Latimer, rector of theFallodens' family living of Flood Magna, had just been paying a longvisit to the two ladies. He was a distant cousin and old crony oftheirs, and it was not long before they had persuaded him to pour outall he knew about the Falloden affairs. "They must sell everything!"said Lady Marcia, raising her hands and eyes in protest--"the estates,the house, the pictures--my dear, think of the pictures! The nation ofcourse ought to buy them, but the nation never has a penny. And howevermuch they sell, it will only just clear them. There'll be nothing leftbut Lady Laura's settlement--and that's only two thousand a year."
"Well, they won't starve," said Aunt Winifred, with a sniff, applyingfor another piece of tea-cake. "It's no good, Marcia, your trying tostir us up. The Fallodens are not beloved. Nobody will break theirhearts--except of course we shall all be sorry for Lady Laura and thechildren. And it will be horrid to have new people at Flood."
"My dear Connie, it is a pity we haven't been able to take you toFlood," said Lady Marcia to her niece, handing a cup of tea. "You knowDouglas, so of course you would have been shown everything. Suchpictures! Such lovely old rooms! And then the grounds--the cedars--theold gardens! It really is a glorious place. I can't think why Winifredis so hard-hearted about it!"
Lady Winifred pressed her thin lips together.
"Marcia, excuse me--but you really do talk like a snob. Before I cryover people who have lost their property, I ask myself how they havelost it, and also how they have used it." The little lady drew herselfup fiercely.
"We have all got beams in our own eyes," cried Aunt Marcia. "And ofcourse we all know, Winifred, that Sir Arthur never would give youanything for your curates."
"That has nothing to do with it," said Lady Winifred angrily. "I gaveSir Arthur a sacred opportunity--which he refused. That's his affair.But when a man gambles away his estates, neglects his duties and hispoor people, wastes his money in riotous living, and teaches hischildren to think themselves too good for this common world, and thencomes to grief--I am not going to whine and whimper about it. Let himtake it like a man!"
"So he does," said her sister warmly. "You know Mr. Latimer said so, andalso that Douglas was behaving very well."
"What else can he do? I never said he wasn't fond of his father. Well,now let him look after his father."
The two maiden ladies, rather flushed and agitated, faced each othernervously. They had forgotten the presence of their niece. Constance satin the shade, her beautiful eyes passing intently from one sister to theother, her lips parted. Aunt Marcia, by way of proving to her sisterWinifred that she was a callous and unkind creature, began to rake upinconsequently a number of incidents throwing light on the relations offather and son; which Lady Winifred scornfully capped by another seriesof recollections intended to illustrate the family arrogance, andDouglas Falloden's full share in it. For instance:
_Marcia_--"I shall never forget that charming scene when Douglas made ahundred, not out, the first day of the Flood cricket week, when he wassixteen. Sir Arthur's face! And don't you remember how he went abouthalf the evening with his arm round the boy's shoulders?"
_Winifred_--"Yes, and how Douglas hated it! I can see him wriggling now.Do you remember that just a week after that, Douglas broke hishunting-whip beating a labourer's boy, whom he found trespassing in oneof the coverts, and how Sir Arthur paid fifty pounds to get him out ofthe scrape?"
_Marcia_, indignantly--"Of course that was just a lad's high spirits! Ihave no doubt the labourer's boy richly deserved it."
_Winifred_--"Really, Marcia, your tone towards the lower orders! Youdon't allow a labourer's boy any high spirits!--not you! And I supposeyou've quite forgotten that horrid quarrel between the hunt and thefarmers which was entirely brought about by Douglas's airs. 'Paythem!--pay them!' he used to say--'what else do the beggars want?' As ifmoney could settle everything! And I remember a farmer's wife telling mehow she had complained to Douglas about the damage done by the Floodpheasants in their fields. And he just moc
ked at her. 'Why don't yousend in a bigger bill?' 'But it's not only money, my lady,' she said tome. 'The fields are like your children, and you hate to see them wastedby them great birds--money or no money. But what's the good of talking?Fallodens always best it!'"
_Marcia_--with the air of one defending the institutions of hercountry--"Shooting and hunting have to be kept up, Winifred, for thesake of the physique of our class; and it's the physique of our classthat maintains the Empire. What do a few fields of corn matter comparedwith that! And what young man could have done a more touching--a moreheroic thing--than--"
_Winifred_, contemptuously--"What?--Sir Arthur's accident? You alwaysdid lose your head about that, Marcia. Nothing much, I consider, in thestory. However, we shan't agree, so I'd better go to my choir practice."
When she was out of sight, and Marcia, who was always much agitated byan encounter with her sister, was still angrily fanning herself, Connielaid a hand on her aunt's knee. "What was the story, Aunt Marcia?"
Lady Marcia composed herself. Connie, in a thin black frock, with ashady hat and a tea-rose at her waist, was looking up at the elder ladywith a quiet eagerness. Marcia patted the girl's hand.
"Winifred never asked your opinion, my dear!--and I expect you know hima great deal better than either of us."
"I never knew him before this year. That's a very little while. I--I'msure he's difficult to know. Perhaps he's one of the people--who"--shelaughed--"who want keeping."
"That's it!" cried Lady Marcia, delighted. "Of course that's it. It'slike a rough fruit that mellows. Anyway I'm not going to damn him forgood at twenty-three, like Winifred. Well, Sir Arthur was very badlythrown, coming home from hunting, six years ago now and more, whenDouglas was seventeen. It was in the Christmas holidays. They had had arun over Leman Moor and Sir Arthur and Douglas got separated from therest, and were coming home in the dark through some very lonelyroads--or tracks--on the edge of the moor. They came to a place wherethe track went suddenly into a wood, and a pheasant was startled by thehorses, and flew right across Sir Arthur, almost in his face. Thehorse--it was always said no one but Sir Arthur Falloden could rideit--took fright, bolted, dashed in among the trees, threw Sir Arthur,and made off. When Douglas came up he found his father on the ground,covered with blood, and insensible. There was no one anywhere near. Theboy shouted--no one came. It was getting dark and pouring with rain--anawful January night--I remember it well! Douglas tried to lift hisfather on his own horse, but the horse got restive, and it couldn't bedone. If he had ridden back to a farm about a mile away he could havegot help. But he thought his father was dying, and he couldn't make uphis mind, you see, to leave him. Then--imagine!--he somehow was able--ofcourse he was even then a splendid young fellow, immensely tall andstrong for his age--to get Sir Arthur on his back, and to carry himthrough two fields to a place where he thought there was a cottage. Butwhen he got there, the cottage was empty--no lights--and the doorpadlocked. He laid his father down under the shelter of the cottage, andcalled and shouted. Not a sign of help! It was awfully cold--a bitternorth wind--blowing great gusts of rain. Nobody knows quite how longthey were there, but at last they were found by the vicar of the villagenear, who was coming home on his bicycle from visiting a sick woman atthe farm. He told me that Douglas had taken off his own coat and aknitted waistcoat he wore, and had wrapped his father in them. He wassitting on the ground with his back to the cottage wall, holding SirArthur in his arms. The boy himself was weak with cold and misery. Thevicar said he should never forget his white face, when he found themwith his lamp, and the light shone on them. Douglas was bending over hisfather, imploring him to speak to him--in the tenderest, sweetest way.Then, of course, when the vicar, Mr. Burton, had got a cart and takenthem to the farm, and a carriage had come from Flood with two doctors,and Sir Arthur had begun to recover his senses, Douglas--looking like aghost--was very soon ordering everybody about in his usual lordlymanner. 'He slanged the farmer,' said Mr. Burton, 'for being slow withthe cart; he sent me off on errands as though I'd been his groom; andwhen the doctors came, you'd have thought he was more in charge of thecase than they were. They thought him intolerable; so he was. But I madeallowances, because I couldn't forget how I had seen them first--theboy's face, and his chattering teeth, and how he spoke to his father.He's spoilt, that lad! He's as proud as Satan. If his father and motherdon't look out, he'll give them sore hearts some day. But he canfeel!--and--if he could have given his life for his father's that night,he would have done it with joy.'--Well, there it is, Connie!--it's atrue story anyway, and why shouldn't we remember the nice things abouta young man, as well as the horrid ones?"
"Why not, indeed?" said Connie, her chin on her hands, her eyes bent onthe ground.
Lady Marcia was silent a moment, then she said with a tremulous accentthat belied her height, her stateliness and her black satin gown:
"You see, Connie, I know more about men than Winifred does. We have haddifferent experiences."
"She's thinking about the General," thought Connie. "Poor old dear!" Andshe gently touched her aunt's long thin hand.
Lady Marcia sighed.
"One must make allowances for men," she said slowly.
Connie offered no reply, and they sat together a few more minutes insilence. Then Connie rose.
"I told the coachman, Aunt Marcia, I should ride for an hour or so aftertea. If I take the Lawley road, does that go anywhere near Flood?"
"It takes you to the top of the moor, and you have a glorious view ofthe castle and all its woods. Yes, do go that way. You'll see what thepoor things have lost. You did like Douglas, didn't you?"
"'Like' is not exactly the word, is it?" said Constance with a littlelaugh, vexed to feel that she could not keep the colour out of hercheeks. "And he doesn't care whether you like him or not!"
She went away, and her elderly aunt watched her cross the lawn. LadyMarcia looked puzzled. After a few moments' meditation a half lightbroke on her wrinkled face. "Is it possible? Oh, no!"
It was a rich August evening. In the fields near the broad river theharvest had begun, and the stubbles with their ranged stocks alternatedwith golden stretches still untouched. The air was full of voices--theprimal sounds of earth, and man's food-gathering; calling reapers,clattering carts, playing children. And on the moors that closed thevalley there were splashes and streaks of rose colour, where the heatherspread under the flecked evening sky.
Constance rode in a passion of thought. "On the other side of thatmoor--five miles away--there he is! What is he doing now--at thismoment? What is he thinking of?"
Presently the road bent upward, and she followed it, soothed by thequiet movement of her horse and by the evening air. She climbed andclimbed, till the upland farms fell behind, and the road came out uponthe open moor. The distance beyond began to show--purple woods in theevening shadow, dim valleys among them, and wide grassy stretches. Alittle more, and she was on the crest. The road ran beforeher--westward--a broad bare whiteness through the sun-steeped heather.And, to the north, a wide valley, where wood and farm and pasture hadbeen all fashioned by the labour of generations into one proud settingfor the building in its midst. Flood Castle rose on the green bottom ofthe valley, a mass of mellowed wall and roof and tower, surrounded byits stately lawns and terraces, and girdled by its wide "chase," ofalternating wood and glade--as though wrought into the landscape by thecare of generations, and breathing history. A stream, fired with thesunset, ran in loops and windings through the park, and all around thehills rose and fell, clothed with dark hanging woods.
_Lady Connie held in her horse, feeding her eyes uponFlood Castle and its woods_]
Constance held in her horse, feeding her eyes upon the castle and itswoods. Her mind, as she looked, was one riot of excuse for DouglasFalloden. She knew very well--her own father had been an instance ofit--that a man can be rich and well-born, and still remain modest andkind. But--but--"How hardly shall they that have riches--!"
She moved slowly on, thinking and
gazing, till she had gone much furtherthan she intended, and the light had begun to fail. She would certainlybe late for dinner. Looking round her for her bearings, she saw on theScarfedale side of the hill, about three miles away, what she took to beher aunts' house. Surely there must be a short cut to it. Yes! there wasa narrow road to be seen, winding down the hill, and across the valley,which must certainly shorten the distance. And almost immediately shefound herself at the entrance to it, where it abutted on the moor; and asignpost showed the name of Hilkley, her aunts' village. She took theroad at once, and trotted briskly along, as the twilight deepened.
A gate ahead! Well, never mind. The horse was quiet; she could easilymanage any ordinary latch.
But the gate was difficult, and she fumbled at, it. Again and again, shebrought up her horse, only to fail. And the cob began to get nervous andjump about--to rear a little. Whenever she stooped towards the gate, itwould swerve violently, and each unsuccessful attempt made it morerestive. She began to get nervous herself.
"How abominable! Must I go back? Suppose I get off? But if I do, can Iget on again?" She looked round her for a log or a stone.
Who was that approaching? For suddenly she saw a horse and rider comingfrom the Hilkley direction towards the gate. A moment--then through thedusk she recognised the rider; and agitation--suffocating,overwhelming--laid hold upon her.
A sharp movement on the part of the horseman checked his horse. Fallodenpulled up in amazement on the further side of the gate.
"You?--Lady Constance!"
She controlled herself, with a great effort.
"How do you do? My horse shies at the gate. He's so tiresome--I was justthinking of getting off. It will be most kind if you will letme through."
She drew aside, quieting and patting the cob, while he opened the gate.Then she passed through and paused, looking back.
"Thank you very much. Are there any more gates?"
"Two more I am afraid," he said formally, as he turned and joined her."Will you allow me to open them for you?"
"It would be very good of you," she faltered, not knowing how to refuse,or what to say.
They walked their horses side by side, through the gathering darkness.An embarrassed and thrilling silence reigned between them, till at lasthe said: "You are staying at Scarfedale--with your aunts?"
"Yes."
"I heard you were there. They are only five miles from us."
She said nothing. But she seemed to realise, through every nerve, thesuppressed excitement of the man beside her.
Another couple of minutes passed. Then he said abruptly:
"I should like to know that you read my last letter to you--only that! Iof course don't ask for--for any comments upon it."
"Yes, I received it. I read it."
He waited a little, but she said no more. He sharply realised hisdisappointment, and its inconsequence. The horses slowly descended thelong hill. Falloden opened another gate, with the hurried remark thatthere was yet one more. Meanwhile he saw Connie's slender body, herbeautiful loosened hair and black riding-hat outlined against the stillglowing sky behind. Her face, turned towards the advancing dusk, hecould hardly see. But the small hand in its riding-glove, so close tohim, haunted his senses. One movement, and he could have crushed itin his.
Far away the last gate came into sight. His bitterness and pain brokeout.
"I can't imagine why you should feel any interest in my affairs," hesaid, in his stiffest manner, "but you kindly allowed me to talk to yousometimes about my people. You know, I presume, what everybody knows,that we shall soon be leaving Flood, and selling the estates."
"I know." The girl's voice was low and soft. "I am awfully, awfullysorry!"
"Thank you. It doesn't of course matter for me. I can make my own life.But for my father--it is hard. I should like you to know"--he spoke withgrowing agitation--"that when we met--at Cannes--and at Oxford--I had noknowledge--no idea--of what was happening."
She raised her head suddenly, impetuously.
"I don't know why you say that!"
He saw instantly that his wounded pride had betrayed him into ablunder--that without meaning it, he had seemed to suggest that shewould have treated him differently, if she had known he was not arich man.
"It was a stupid thing to say. Please consider it unsaid."
The silence deepened, till she broke it again--
"I see Mr. Radowitz sometimes. Won't you like to know that he iscomposing a symphony for his degree? He is always working at it. Itmakes him happy--at least--contented."
"Yes, I am glad. But nothing can ever make up to him. I know that."
"No--nothing," she admitted sadly.
"Or to me!"
Constance started. They had reached the last gate.
Falloden threw himself off his horse to open it and as she rode through,she looked down into his face. Its proud regularity of feature, its richcolour, its brilliance, seemed to her all blurred and clouded. Aflashing insight showed her the valley of distress and humiliationthrough which this man had been passing. His bitter look, at once ofchallenge and renunciation, set her trembling; she felt herself allweakness; and suddenly the woman in her--dumbly, unguessed--held outits arms.
But he knew nothing of it. Rather her attitude seemed to him one ofembarrassment--even of _hauteur_. It was suddenly intolerable to him toseem to be asking for her pity. He raised his hat, coldly gave her afew directions as to her road home, and closed the gate behind her. Shebowed and in another minute he was cantering away from her, towardsthe sunset.
Connie went on blindly, the reins on her horse's neck, the passionatetears dropping on her hands.