A beater came up bringing the mare just before the start was made.

"All right, you can leave her," said Jenny. "I won't mount yet. Just hitch the bridle on to something."

It was a pleasant and picturesque sight to see the beaters, like a file of medieval huntsmen, dwindle down the hill in their green and silver in one direction, and, five minutes later, the sportsmen in another. It looked like some mysterious military maneuver on a small scale; and again Jenny considered the illusion of free choice enjoyed by the grouse, who, perhaps, two miles away, crouched in hollows among the heather. And yet, practically speaking, there was hardly any choice at all....

Lady Richard, the wife of one of the men, interrupted her in a drawl.

"Looks jolly, doesn't it?" she said.

Jenny a.s.sented cordially.

(She hated this woman, somehow, without knowing why. She said to herself it was the drawl and the insolent cold eyes and the astonishing complacency; and she only half acknowledged that it was the beautiful lines of the dress and the figure and the a.s.sured social position.)

"We're driving," went on the tall girl. "You rode, didn't you?

"Yes."

"Lord Talgarth's mare, isn't it? I thought I recognized her."

"Yes. I haven't got a horse of my own, you know," said Jenny deliberately.

"Oh!"

Jenny suddenly felt her hatred rise almost to pa.s.sion.

"I must be going," she said. "I've got to visit an old woman who's dying. A rector's daughter, you know--"

"Ah! yes."

Then Jenny mounted from a rock (Lady Richard held the mare's head and settled the habit), and rode slowly away downhill.

(III)

d.i.c.k approached the Rectory next day a little before twelve o'clock with as much excitement in his heart as he ever permitted to himself.

d.i.c.k is a good fellow--I haven't a word to say against him, except perhaps that he used to think that to be a Guiseley, and to have altogether sixteen hundred a year and to live in a flat in St. James's, and to possess a pointed brown beard and melancholy brown eyes and a reposeful manner, relieved him from all further effort. I have wronged him, however; he had made immense efforts to be proficient at billiards, and had really succeeded; and, since his ultimate change of fortune, has embraced even further responsibilities in a conscientious manner.

Of course, he had been in love before in a sort of way; but this was truly different. He wished to marry Jenny very much indeed.... That she was remarkably sensible, really beautiful and eminently presentable, of course, paved the way; but, if I understand the matter rightly, these were not the only elements in the case. It was the genuine thing. He did not quite know how he would face the future if she refused him; and he was sufficiently humble to be in doubt.

The neat maid told him at the door that Miss Launton had given directions that he was to be shown into the garden if he came.... No; Miss Launton was in the morning-room, but she should be told at once. So d.i.c.k strolled across the lawn and sat down by the garden table.

He looked at the solemn, dreaming house in the late summer sunshine; he observed a robin issue out from a lime tree and inspect him sideways; and then another robin issue from another lime tree and drive the first one away. Then he noticed a smear of dust on his own left boot, and flicked it off with a handkerchief. Then, as he put his handkerchief away again, he saw Jenny coming out from the drawing-room window.

She looked really extraordinarily beautiful as she came slowly across towards him and he stood to meet her. She was bare-headed, but her face was shadowed by the great coils of hair. She was in a perfectly plain pink dress, perfectly cut, and she carried herself superbly. She looked just a trifle paler than yesterday, he thought, and there was a very reserved, steady kind of question in her eyes. (I am sorry to be obliged to go on saying this sort of thing about Jenny every time she comes upon the scene; but it is the sort of thing that everyone is obliged to go on thinking whenever she makes her appearance.)

"I've got a good deal to say," said d.i.c.k, after they had sat a moment or two. "May I say it right out to the end?"

"Why, certainly," said Jenny.

d.i.c.k leaned back and crossed one knee over the other. His manner was exactly right--at any rate, it was exactly what he wished it to be, and all through his little speech he preserved it. It was quite restrained, extremely civilized, and not at all artificial. It was his method of presenting a fact--the fact that he really was in love with this girl--and was in his best manner. There was a lightness of touch about this method of his, but it was only on the surface.

"I daresay it's rather bad form my coming and saying all this so soon, but I can't help that. I know you must have gone through an awful lot in the last month or two--perhaps even longer--but I don't know about that.

And I want to begin by apologizing if I am doing what I shouldn't. The fact is that--well, that I daren't risk waiting."

He did not look at Jenny (he was observing the robin that had gone and come again since Jenny had appeared), but he was aware that at his first sentence she had suddenly settled down into complete motionlessness. He wondered whether that was a good omen or not.

"Well, now," he said, "let me give a little account of myself first. I'm just thirty-one; I've got four hundred a year of my own, and Lord Talgarth allows me twelve hundred a year more. Then I've got other expectations, as they say. My uncle gives me to understand that my allowance is secured to me in his will; and I'm the heir of my aunt, Lady Simon, whom you've probably met. I just mention that to show I'm not a pauper--"

"Mr. Guiseley--" began Jenny.

"Please wait. I've not done yet. Do you mind? ... I'm a decent living man. I'm not spotless, but I'll answer any questions you like to put--to your father. I've not got any profession, though I'm supposed to be a solicitor; but I'm perfectly willing to work if ... if it's wished, or to stand for Parliament, or anything like that--there hasn't, so far, seemed any real, particular reason why I should work. That's all. And I think you know the sort of person I am, all round.

"And now we come to the point." (d.i.c.k hesitated a fraction of a second.

He was genuinely moved.) "The point is that I'm in love with you, and I have been for some time past. I ... I can't put it more plainly ... (One moment, please, I've nearly done.) ... I can't think of anything else; and I haven't been able to for the last two or three months. I ... I ...

I'm fearfully sorry for poor old Frank; I'm very fond of him, you know, but I couldn't help finding it an extraordinary relief when I heard the news. And now I've come to ask you, perfectly straight, whether you'll consent to be my wife."

d.i.c.k looked at her for the first time since he had begun his little speech.

She still sat absolutely quiet (she had not even moved at the two words she had uttered), but she had gone paler still. Her mouth was in repose, without quiver or movement, and her beautiful eyes looked steadily on to the lawn before her. She said nothing.

"If you can't give me an answer quite at once," began d.i.c.k again presently, "I'm perfectly willing to--"

She turned and looked him courageously in the face.

"I can't say 'Yes,'" she said. "That would be absurd.... You have been quite straightforward with me, and I must be straightforward with you.

That is what you wish, isn't it?"

d.i.c.k inclined his head. His heart was thumping furiously with exultation--in spite of her words.

"Then what I say is this: You must wait a long time. If you had insisted on an answer now, I should have said 'No.' I hate to keep you waiting, particularly when I do really think it will be 'No' in the long run; but as I'm not quite sure, and as you've been perfectly honest and courteous, if you really wish it I won't say 'No' at once. Will that do?"

"Whatever you say," said d.i.c.k.

"You mustn't forget I was engaged to Frank till quite lately. Don't you see how that obscures one's judgment? I simply can't judge now, and I know I can't.... You're willing to wait, then?--even though I tell you now that I think it will be 'No'?"

"Whatever you say," said d.i.c.k again; "and may I say thank you for not saying 'No' at once?"

A very slight look of pain came into the girl's eyes.

"I would sooner you didn't," she said. "I'm sorry you said that...."

"I'm sorry," said poor d.i.c.k.

There was a pause.

"One other thing," said Jenny. "Would you mind not saying anything to my father? I don't want him to be upset any more. Have you told anybody else you were--?"

"Yes," said d.i.c.k bravely, "I told Archie."