Part 17 (1/2)

Some snaring, entangling instinct--an instinct of the hunter--made her persist. She must have it. It was a point of honour. ”Poor Theresa is so unhappy, so pursued! You saw that odious paragraph last week? I can't run the risk!”

With a groan of annoyance, he promised at last that he would look again.

Then the sparkling eyes changed, the voice softened.

She praised--she rewarded him. By smooth transitions she slipped into ordinary talk; of his candidature for the County Council--the points of the great horse he rode--the gossip of the neighbourhood--the charms of Beatty.

And on this last topic he, too, suddenly found his tongue. The cloud--of awkwardness, or of something else not to be a.n.a.lyzed--broke away, and he began to talk, and presently to ask questions, with readiness, even with eagerness.

Was it right to be so very strict with children?--babies under three?

Wasn't it ridiculous to expect them not to be naughty or greedy? Why, every child wanted as much sweetstuff as it could tuck in! Quite right too--doctors said it was good for them. But Miss Farmer----

”Who is Miss Farmer?” inquired Mrs. Fairmile. She was riding close beside him--an embodied friendliness--a soft and womanly Chloe, very different from the old.

”She's the nurse; my mother found her. She's a lady--by way of--she doesn't do any rough work--and I dare say she's the newest thing out.

But she's too tight a hand for my taste. I say!--what do you think of this! She wouldn't let Beattie come down to the drawing-room yesterday, because she cried for a sweet! Wasn't that _devilish_!” He brought his hand down fiercely on his thigh.

”A Gorgon!” said Mrs. Fairmile, raising her eyebrows. ”Any other qualifications? French? German?”

”Not a word. Not she! Her people live somewhere near here, I believe.”

Roger looked vaguely round him. ”Her father managed a brick-field on this estate--some parson or other recommended her to mother.”

”And you don't like her?”

”Well, no--I don't! She's not the kind of woman _I_ want.” He blurted it out, adding hurriedly, ”But my wife thinks a lot of her.”

Chloe dismissed the topic of the nurse, but still let him run on about the child. Amazing!--this development of paternity in the careless, handsome youth of three years before. She was amused and bored by it.

But her permission of it had thawed him--that she saw.

Presently, from the child she led him on to common acquaintance--old friends--and talk flowed fast. She made him laugh; and the furrows in the young brow disappeared. Now as always they understood each other at a word; there was between them the freemasonry of persons sprung from the same world and the same tradition; his daily talk with Daphne had never this easy, slipping pleasure. Meanwhile the horses sauntered on, unconsciously held back; and the magical autumn wood, its lights and lines and odours, played upon their senses.

At last Roger with a start perceived a gate in front. He looked at his watch, and she saw him redden.

”We shall be late for the meet.”

His eyes avoided hers. He gathered up the reins, evidently conscious.

Smiling, she let him open the gate for her, and then as they pa.s.sed into the road, shadowed with over-arching trees, she reined in Whitefoot, and bending forward, held out her hand. ”Good-bye!”

”You're not coming?”

”I think I've had enough. I'll go home. Good-bye.”

It was a relief. In both minds had risen the image of their arrival together--amid the crowd of the meet. As he looked at her--gratefully--the grace of her movement, the temptation of her eyes, the rush of old memories suddenly turned his head. He gripped her hand hard for a minute, staring at her.

The road in front of them was quite empty. But fifty yards behind them was a small red-brick house buried in trees. As they still paused, hand in hand, in front of the gate into the wood, which had failed to swing back and remained half open, the garden door of this house unclosed and a young woman in a kind of uniform stepped into the road. She perceived the two riders--stopped in astonishment--observed them unseen, and walked quickly away in the direction of the station.

Roger reached Heston that night only just in time to dress for dinner.