Part 52 (1/2)

An exquisite joyousness trembled in her look.

”Leave it to them!”

Then, as she once more perceived the anxiety and despondency in him, the brightness clouded; pity possessed her: ”Tell me what you are preaching--and writing.”

”_If_ I preach--_if_ I write. And what will you tell me?”

”'How the water comes down at Lodore,'” she said gayly. ”What the mountains look like, and how many rainy days there are in a week.”

”Excellent! I perceive you mean to libel the country I love!”

”You can always come and see!” she said, with a shy courage.

He shook his head.

”No. My Westmoreland holiday is given up.”

”Because of the Movement?”

And sitting down by the fire, still with that same look of suppressed and tremulous joy, she began to question him about the meetings and engagements ahead. But he would not be drawn into any talk about them. It was no doubt quite possible--though not, he thought, probable--that he might soon be ostracized from them all. But upon this he would not dwell, and though her understanding of the whole position was far too vague to warn her from these questions, she soon perceived that he was unwilling to answer them as usual. Silence indeed fell between them; but it was a silence of emotion. She had thrown off her cloak, and sat looking down, in the light of the fire; she knew that he observed her, and the colour on her cheek was due to something more than the flame at her feet. As they realized each other's nearness indeed, in the quiet of the dim room, it was with a magic sense of transformation. Outside the autumn storm was still beating--symbol of the moral storm which threatened them. Yet within were trust and pa.s.sionate grat.i.tude and tender hope, intertwined, all of them, with the sacred impulse of the woman toward the man, and of the man toward the woman. Each moment as it pa.s.sed built up one of those watersheds of life from which henceforward the rivers flow broadening to undreamt-of seas.

When Catharine returned, Meynell was hat in hand for departure. There was no more expression of feeling or reference to grave affairs. They stood a few moments chatting about ordinary things. Incidentally Hugh Flaxman's loss of the two gold coins was mentioned. Meynell inquired when they were first missed.

”That very evening,” said Mary. ”Rose always puts them away herself. She missed the two little cases at once. One was a coin of Velia, with a head of Athene--”

”I remember it perfectly,” said Meynell. ”It dropped on the floor when I was talking to Norham--and I picked it up--with another, if I remember right--a Hermes!”

Mary replied that the Hermes too was missing--that both were exceedingly rare; and that in the spring a buyer for the Louvre had offered Hugh four hundred pounds for the two.

”They feel most unhappy and uncomfortable about it. None of the servants seems to have gone into that room during the party. Rose put all the coins on the table herself. She remembers saying good-bye to Canon France and his sister in the drawing-room--and two or three others--and immediately afterward she went into the green drawing-room to lock up the coins. There were two missing.”

”She doesn't remember who had been in the room?”

”She vaguely remembers seeing two or three people go in and out--the Bishop!--Canon Dornal!”

They both laughed. Then Meynell's face set sharply. A sudden recollection shot through his mind. He beheld the figure of a sallow, dark-haired young man slipping--alone--through the doorway of the green drawing-room.

And this image in the mind touched and fired others, like a spark running through dead leaves....

When he had gone, Catharine turned to Mary, and Mary, running, wound her arms close round her mother, and lay her head on Catharine's breast.

”You angel!--you darling!” she said, and raising her mother's hand she kissed it pa.s.sionately.

Catharine's eyes filled with tears, and her heart with mingled joy and revolt. Then, quickly, she asked herself as she stood there in her child's embrace whether she should speak of a certain event--certain experience--which had, in truth, though Mary knew nothing of it, vitally affected both their lives.

But she could not bring herself to speak of it.