Chapter II

HERE is no period of the year in which a long ride can be more delightful than in winter, if circumstances are propitious. For both heat and flies, those supreme enemies to comfort, are absent; the horses are vivacious; and if the sky is clear, though without frost (for that tingles the toes), and windless, and if there is not too much mud, both body and mind are happy.

They had had an exceedingly pleasant visit to Penshurst; there were no other visitors, and the old caretaker, on recognising they had come from Medhurst, was deferential and intelligent. They ate their sandwiches in the garden, and by two o'clock were well on their way homewards.

Their conversation is not worth recording. It was startlingly unimportant, and the only valuable element in the experience was the degree of intimacy that grew upon them both with every mile they traversed. They rode by by-ways and fields. Val opened gates; pheasants ran and scurried in the undergrowth; pigeons sailed over them, shying suddenly like a boat caught in a gust as the riders became visible; the pleasant wintry air, clear and fresh, bearing just the faintest whiff of frost as the sun declined, breathed round them; and the sky gradually began to marshal its colours for a fine sunset effect. Once Gertie dropped her whip; Val was off and up again in an instant; their eyes met as he handed it back to her.

Of course they had arranged about the evening an hour after they had left home. Gertie was to dance with Val at such-and-such times; they were to go to supper together. A certain corner of the music-gallery was to be a kind of try sting-place if either should feel bored. They laughed and their eyes sparkled as they arranged this.

They both really played the game very well. Each was perfectly aware that the stage of intimacy towards which they were advancing was a delicate one and easily upset.

An over-intimate remark, a touch of disproportionate sentimentality, a single unwarranted assumption — any of these things would have disturbed the balance and set it swinging. Both were inexperienced, yet both had a certain sensitiveness of intuition that guided them surely and safely. It might have seemed a little immature to experts in flirtation; Gertie's management of her eyes, for instance, was a degree over-emphatic once or twice;

Val's silences had occasionally a touch of gaucherie; but it suited these two very well. They were gourmands in sensation, rather than gourmets. They did not enjoy the infinite subtleties of young men of forty and young women of thirty; but they would not have understood them either. They were just boy and girl; but they were well-bred boy and girl.

As the sky reached the climax of its evening glory, they came side by side along a field-path up to rising ground where pines stood. It was a kind of vantage-ground over the country round them, and they drew rein at the further edge of the trees to look about them. Behind lay Kent; before them Sussex; and Ashdown Forest stretched away, dark and golden, in front, beneath the wide, glowing sky. Gertie looked wonderful, thought Val, as he glanced at her sideways, with that splendid sunlight straight in her face. Her dark eyes gleamed in the midst of her face, and her face shone like warm ivory. She was ever so slightly flushed with the exercise. Her dark green habit fitted her young outline like a glove; she sat on her white mare like Diana....

And he too, though she never seemed to look at him, appeared a Sir Percival. He was in grey. His face was grave and serious; his hair caught the sunshine and was turned to sombre gold. He seemed to her young and virile and quiet and romantic....

So they sat silent for an instant or two — boy and girl — looking out upon the sea of sunlit air, the golden cloud-islands of the west, the carpet of tree-tops; and each saw what each looked upon only as a framework and a setting for the thought of the other. For each the other was sovereign, and all else a world fit to lie only beneath the other's feet....

(n)

" Let's canter down here," said Gertie, without looking at him. " It's getting late." She lifted her reins and leaned forward, and the white mare was off.

It was a long, straight ride that lay before them, and both knew it well; for they were not an hour's distance from Medhurst.

" Remember the quarry at the end," cried Val, and she nodded sideways at him over her shoulder.

Now there was a cock pheasant who had had a very agitating experience on the previous day. No less than twice had he been aroused by talking persons with sticks and compelled to fly over the tree-tops; and no less than twice had there been a sudden nerve-shattering din beneath him as he flew, protesting, and a horribly suggestive screaming sound in the air immediately behind him. He had arrived in safety again at last a mile from home, with one resolution firmly embedded among his instincts, inherited and acquired, to the effect that it was better to lie still beneath bracken than to run, and better to run than to fly.

He was out walking out this evening in the sunshine, picking at such beech-nuts and small grubs as attracted his attention, not a yard away from the ride down which a girl on a white mare happened to be cantering. First he lifted his head, with one foot upraised, as he heard the quick thudding noise grow nearer. Then he put down his head and began to run with extraordinary swiftness and silence, parallel to the ride, since a disagreeable low wire- fence prevented his escape to the right. Yet the thudding noise gained on him. His wings were out behind, hanging wide and loose, and he helped his speed now and again by a flap. Yet the thudding noise gained on him, and now he was aware out of one flaming eye that a disconcerting group was descending straight upon him, as it seemed - first a white and black monster, then a black and grey.

Then, as he lifted himself indeed to fly, and drew that final breath before uttering the cry that was at once his appeal and his defiance, he perceived that the fence on his right wheeled suddenly inwards and barred his way. There was no help for it; he rose with a noise like a rocket, twisted his flight simultaneously, and burst out of his thicket sideways, scarcely a foot in front of the white mare's head.... Higher and higher he rose, far into the sunlight above the pine tops, still crowing with agitated triumph till far away across the woods he saw his goal; then, like a boat coming into harbour at last, he spread his wings, stiff and resolute, and down the long slide of air, descended by a magnificent vol plane down among the tree-tops, down between their stems; landed, ran, walked, and couched, silent again, listening for the sounds of pursuit.

And meanwhile the white mare had swerved, tossed her head, snorted, and bolted, mad with fright, straight down the ride at the end of which lay the quarry-edge, not five hundred yards away.

The moment the first wild scurry was over Gertie settled down to her task. She had torn at the reins in the hope of breaking the rush short before it had settled down into the bolt proper. Then she jerked the snaffle-reins loose and put her whole strength into the curb, sawing first on this side, then on that;

yet she dared not saw too hard, lest the jerk should carry her more into the trees on either side.

It is impossible to say that she was frightened. She saw the facts before her — the possibility that the mare might fall on the slope, the probability that both would go over the quarry-edge together, and the calamity of death if they did. But these facts were remote as a horizon; the immediate thing was that the mare must be stopped. She leaned back, she tugged, she tossed her whip aside, she jerked; then she leaned back again. and da capo.

Little scenes and ideas flitted before her with the speed of intense thought. She seemed to herself to be two persons — the one remote and detached, regarding a fallen log, the amber sky, the flattened ears of the mare, the flying mane; the other at first passionately attentive to the need of stopping this flight, then furious, then miserable. For it seems in such instants as if the two " selves " of modern psychology — the subjective and the objective - are wrenched apart in such critical moments as these; as if each exists on its own lines, follows its own course, and makes its own observations....

Then, at a turn in the ride where the space broadened, she saw straight in front, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards ahead, the low belt of underwood that fringed the edge of the quarry into which she had peered with Val and Austin a week or two before, and beyond it the opposite cliff, crowned with pines, black against the glowing sky. And, simultaneously, two things happened; she began to sob — at least one part of her began to sob — and she saw on the right side Quentin's head move up, first to the girths of her own mare, then level with the mare's head, and Val's hand shot out to clutch her reins.

Val was shouting, she remembered afterwards, but neither then nor afterwards did she know what he shouted. For she was overwhelmed by a sense of relief; she leaned back on the dancing saddle, half closing her eyes; the sickening sense of loneliness was gone; a male was beside her... Val, dear Val. She did not exactly consider whether or no the two would go over the edge together, for she did not really care....

Then came the reaction.... Val had seized her reins by now, and the two beasts tore together, jostling and impeding one another. She understood, and once more her spirit returned; she sat up again, vivid and keen; once more she tugged at the reins, throwing her strength chiefly to the left.... The mare threw up her head; the pace grew suddenly short and tempestuous....

And then her mare had stopped, shaking and sweating, and Val, still holding the rein, was in front of her, leaning right forward over his horse's neck, staring at her, his face set and resolute, while Quentin capered gently. The underwood that fringed the edge of the quarry was still forty yards away.

" Thanks very much/' said Gertie.... " Oh! Val...."

The ride home was very tremulous. They rode at a foot's pace, and Val's belt was clasped round the mare's curb-chain. He had the other end in his left hand. They talked and retalked, over and over the same ground, as to the unexpectedness of the pheasant, the excuses that must be made for the mare, the rival advantages of long, steady pulls with pauses and of the sawing of the curb. Val supported the former, Gertie the latter.

Val himself was radiant. His manhood stood out from him like an aura. He glanced at her as he talked, and even in the deepening gloom of the woods she could see that his eyes shone and that his mouth alternately was stern and smiled. But they were both tremulous; their voices quavered now and then, and there were long silences.

Val told her that never had Quentin seemed so slow. He could not get him into a gallop. Quentin had slipped a little, it seemed, at the corner. Then he had got him into a gallop without difficulty.

He told her that his one fear was that Quentin would bolt too and get out of hand, and patting him, had praised him in extravagant language for keeping his head and being so sensible. He described it all admirably — his terror that the mare would fall and roll over; that he would not be in time; his vision of a rabbit that must have run out, it seemed to him, actually between Quentin's feet.

But he did not tell her — in fact, he was practically unconscious of it so long as he talked — that a vow had registered itself within him like an explosion, that if he missed her rein in that wild dash for it, sixty yards from the edge, he would pull up... for... for fear that he might do more harm than good....

They sat together in the little entry to the south door, and the sound of the band came to them like celestial music. They had sat there now for a full five minutes without speaking.

They were perfectly retired here from the world, for Val had slipped a tall screen over the entrance. (She had pretended not to notice.)

Over there beyond the passages moved ordinary human beings — phantom personages of a world that had lost all interest. Austin was there somewhere, no doubt, priggish and prosaic, in his solemn suit of evening clothes. His mother still sat there, no doubt, with her stick beside her, talking to Professor Macintosh, in his brown velvet coat and his ridiculous frilled shirt with pearl buttons. The master of the house was there, John Medd of Medhurst, tall and unadorned, dancing for the third time, probably, with the flimsy and black-silk Miss Deverell; and the Merediths were there; and the Vicar and his wife, and old Lady Debenham, and the parties that had driven over from every house in the neighborhood, and the little doctor, and the rest of the crowd of guests that supposed themselves to be real and human.... Val had seen them all just now, had moved through them, smiling and speaking — he even condescended to that — until he had seen Her in Her blue dress, Her slender brown arms ending in long white gloves, Her bright dark eyes that had met his... talking to a fat, red Captain who had driven over with the Fergussons. Then he had come up and led her away. Neither had spoken; they had danced together; then, as if by some strange sympathy, they had hesitated together as they came near the door. The rhythm of the feet had ceased; and they walked together, her hand in his arm, through the two parlours, set out with chrysanthemums, with their furniture pushed against the wall, into the passage by the billiard-room, round to the right, and so into the south porch. There he had drawn the screen across the entrance.... They had not yet spoken. The world was gone; only, now and again, the gusts of music swept out from the hall.

He suddenly put out his hand and took hers. It lay in his passively, and he closed his other upon it....

" Gertie..." he whispered.

Every pulse and fibre of his being seemed alive as never before. His imagination was drunk with joy and courage. He had saved her life to-day; his mother had kissed him; his father had said three words, looking at him kindly; Austin had eyed him oddly. And she herself, it had seemed to him, had said little or nothing, had refused to meet his eyes, yet had been conscious of him with a power that thrilled his very life. She seemed even now to be trembling a little.

His hand stole upon her arm and fumbled at the buttons beneath her smooth elbow. She withdrew her arm suddenly, drawing a swift breath.

"No... no; take it off," he whispered. " I... I want to kiss your hand."

Oh! it was clumsy love-making, I know that; but it did very well for these two. Gertie could have taught him far more of the art than he knew, yet she loved him for the very artlessness; it was in keeping with his courage, his virile honour, his simplicity, his clean boyishness; and it was with these that she was in love just now. He was her Man, not her Troubadour. He had ridden with her to-day; he had pulled up her mare, protected her and saved her. It had been the crown and climax of that intimacy that had deepened all to-day, that had begun — to her knowledge at least — on that summer morning when she had heard the sound of wheels and stolen to the window to look out at the boy who was to do such great things in Switzerland. She felt older than him now and again; she had smiled to herself when he sulked with Austin; she had laughed tenderly over him with his sister; and even now she was aware that that strange motherly instinct was mixed with her admiration. Yet just now she felt as young as he. She trembled to feel him so near to her. She pictured him strong, virile, courageous — her Man, I say, not a Troubadour.

And for him, this was the very ecstasy of all. This wonderful girl was, for these moments, in his possession. It was incredible, yet inevitable. How could it not be that a love like his should win? She was near him — nearer in this darkness than in the blaze of light in the hall, nearer than when he had her there, before the eyes of all.

So, presently, he had kissed her hand; and then, in an instant, had his arms about her and his face against her cheek.

..." Then that's settled," whispered Val ten minutes later. " We're absolutely engaged. And neither of us must say a word to anyone."

She began to whisper back rapidly and confusedly.

" My darling, it's no good/' went on Val. " We can't have half-and-half things. If we tell a soul we shan't be allowed to see one another any more. And you're going to-morrow.... Oh, Gertie!"

Absolute blankness seemed to open before him as he contemplated this. She was explicitly and objectively a part of his life, now that he had spoken. Life was unthinkable without her.... And after the desolation of Medhurst would come the wilderness of Cambridge....

" You must come again at Easter," he said.

" Val dear, what's the good? We... we shan't be allowed "

His will rose up in resolution.

" I tell you we shall. And if we're not we'll do it without. Tell me, Gertie, would you run away with me if that was our only chance? "

There was no answer. He could hear her breathing in the darkness; he could feel beneath his arm her pulses beating; he could see a glimmer of her pale face beneath her heavy hair, itself darkness.

He burst out into whispered entreaties, drawing her closer, flinging his other arm about her too and clasping his hands. She seemed to him a child in his arms, so slender and unresisting was she, so determined and nerve-contracted was he.

" Oh! Gertie... say you would... say you would. I love you more than all the world.... I'd... I'd die for you... We shan't have to... it'll be all right. But tell me you would; tell me you would...."

He slipped down on to his knees, still holding her, drawing her down to himself. Her face was very near his; he could perceive the faint perfume of her hair; her bare arm lay clenched across his hands. She struggled a little, almost gasping.... Then she grew passive.

And then the response came.

For an instant she tore herself free. Then he felt himself seized, and kissed, kissed, kissed, on mouth and eyes and forehead.

" Yes, I would, my darling; I would," she stammered. " I'd do anything for you, Val... anything.... Oh! my Val, I do love you... I'd die for you... you're... you're so strong, and so brave...."

(v)

Professor Macintosh was describing to Miss Deverell at supper, now that Lady Beatrice was talking to her partner on the other side, the proper way to manage a runaway horse. It seemed that one had but to keep one's head, and to pull quite steadily and unagitatedly, talking, if possible, all the while in a soothing and reassuring manner. Jerking was fatal. So was fright; as it was communicated so easily to the horse.

He looked up and saw a pair advancing from the door.

" Why, here come the hero and the heroine! "

He rose from the table and began to wave his hands as if conducting a band.

" See the conquering hero comes! " he sang in a large resonant voice.

" There's a seat over there, my son," said Lady Beatrice. " Two. How late you are! "

Val took Gertie to the chair, and then went to the sideboard for cold chicken and a jug of champagne-cup.