"So then I told him I had better go. I had brought him nothing but trouble, and I wasn't worth it. He was angry with me for saying it. I should never leave him--never--he said--but I must go away then because he had letters to write. And I was just going, when he came after me, and--and--he took me in his arms and carried me up-stairs and laid me on the bed and covered me up warmly. Then he stayed a little while at the foot of the bed looking at me, and saying queer things to himself--and at last he went down-stairs....

All day he has been out and about the farm. He has never spoken to me. The men say he's so strange--they don't like to leave him alone--but he drives them away when they go to speak to him. And when he didn't come in all day, I sat down and wrote to you--"

She paused, mechanically running her little hand up and down the front of Marcia's cloak.

"I don't know anybody here. John's lots of friends--but they're not my friends--and even when they're sorry for us--they know--what I've done--and they don't want to have much to do with me. You said you'd speak for us to Mr. Edward--and I know you did--Mr. Edward told John so. You've been kinder to me than any one else here. So I just wanted to tell _you_--what I'm going to do. I'm going away--I'm going right away. John won't know, n.o.body'll know where I'm gone. But I want you to tell Mr. Newbury--and get him and Lord William to be kind to John--as they used to be. He'll get over it--by and by!"

Then, straightening herself, she drew herself away.

"I'm not going to the Sisterhood!" she said, defiantly. "I'd sooner die!

You may tell Mr. Newbury I'll live my own life--and I've got my boy. John won't find me--I'll take care of that. But if I'm not fit for decent people to touch--there's plenty like me. I'll not cringe to anybody--I'll go where I'm welcome. So now you understand, don't you--what I wanted to ask you?"

"No indeed I don't," cried Marcia, in distress. "And you won't--you sha'n't do anything so mad! Please--please, be patient!--I'll go again to Mr.

Newbury. I shall see him to-morrow!"

Mrs. Betts shook her head. "No use--no use. It's the only thing to do for me to take myself off. And no one can stop it. If you were to tell John now, just what I've said, it wouldn't make any difference. He couldn't stop me. I'm going!--that's settled. But _he_ sha'n't go. He's got to take up his work here again. And Mr. Edward must persuade him--and look after him--and watch him. What's their religion good for, if it can't do that?

Oh, how I _hate_ their religion!"

Her eyes lit up with pa.s.sion; whatever touch of acting there might have been in her monologue till now, this rang fiercely true:

"Haven't I good reason?" Her hands clenched at the words. "It's that which has come between us, as well as the farm. Since he's been back here, it's the old ideas that have got hold of him again. He thinks he's in mortal sin--he thinks he's d.a.m.ned--and yet he won't--he can't give me up. My poor old John!--We were so happy those few weeks!--why couldn't they leave us alone!--That hard old man, Lord William!--and Mr. Edward--who's got you--and everything he wants besides in the world! There--now I suppose you'll turn against me too!"

She stood superbly at bay, her little body drawn up against the wall, her head thrown back. To her own dismay, Marcia found herself sobbing--against her will.

"I'm not against you. Indeed--indeed--I'm not against you! You'll see. I'll go again to Mr. Newbury--I promise you! He's not hard--he's not cruel--he's not!..."

"Hush!" said Mrs. Berts, suddenly, springing forward--"there he is!" And trembling all over, she pointed to the figure of her husband, standing just outside the window and looking in upon them. Thunder had been rumbling round the house during the whole of this scene, and now the rain had begun. It beat on the bare grizzled head of John Betts, and upon his weather-beaten cheeks and short beard.

His expression sent a shudder through Marcia. He seemed to be looking at them--and yet not conscious of them; his tired eyes met hers, and made no sign. With a slight puzzled gesture he turned away, back into the pelting rain, his shoulders bent, his step faltering and slow.

"Oh! go after him!" said Marcia, imploringly. "Don't trouble about me! I'll find the motor. Go! Take my cloak!" She would have wrapped it round Mrs.

Betts and pushed her to the door. But the woman stopped her.

"No good. He wouldn't listen to me. I'll get one of the men to bring him in. And the servant'll go for your motor." She went out of the room to give the order, and came back. Then as she saw Marcia under the storm light, standing in the middle of the room, and struggling with her tears, she suddenly fell on her knees beside the girl, embracing her dress, with stifled sobs and inarticulate words of thanks.

"Make them do something for John. It doesn't matter about me. Let them comfort John. Then I'll forgive them."

CHAPTER XIII

Marion Atherstone sat sewing in the cottage garden. Uncertain weather had left the gra.s.s wet, and she had carried her work-table into the shelter of a small summer-house, whence the whole plain, drawn in purple and blue on the pale grounding of its chalk soil, could be seen--east, west, and north.

Serried ranks, line above line, of purplish cloud girded the horizon, each circle of the great amphitheater rising from its shadowy foundations into pearly white and shining gray, while the topmost series of all soared in snowy majesty upon a sea of blue, above the far-spread woods and fields.

From these hills, the Dane in his high clearings had looked out upon the unbroken forests below, and John Hampden had ridden down with his yeomen to find death at Chalgrove Field.

Marion was an Englishwoman to the core; and not ill-read. From this post of hers, she knew a hundred landmarks, churches, towns, hills, which spoke significantly of Englishmen and their doings. But one white patch, in particular, on an upland not three miles from the base of the hills, drew back her eyes and thoughts perpetually.

The patch was Knatchett, and she was thinking of Lord Coryston. She had not seen him for a fortnight; though a stout packet of his letters lay within, in a drawer reserved to things she valued; but she was much afraid that, as usual, he had been the center of stormy scenes in the north, and had come back embittered in spirit. And now, since he had returned, there had been this defiance of Lady Coryston, and this planting of the Baptist flag under the very tower of the old church of Coryston Major. Marion Atherstone shook her head over it, in spite of the humorous account of the defeat of Lady Coryston which her father had given to the Chancellor, at their little dinner of the night before; and those deep laughs which had shaken the ample girth of Glenwilliam.

... Ah!--the blind was going up. Marion had her eyes on a particular window in the little house to her right. It was the window of Enid Glenwilliam's room. Though the church clock below had struck eleven, and the bell for morning service had ceased to ring, Miss Glenwilliam was not yet out of bed. Marion had stayed at home from church that she might enjoy her friend's society, and the friend had only just been called. Well, it was Enid's way; and after all, who could wonder? The excitement of that huge meeting of the night before was still tingling even in Marion's quiet Conservative veins. She had not been carried away by Glenwilliam's eloquence at all; she had thought him a wonderful, tawdry, false man of genius, not unlikely to bring himself and England to ruin. All the same, he must be an exhausting man for a daughter to live with; and a daughter who adored him. She did not grudge Enid her rest.

Ah, there was the little gate opening! Somehow she had expected the opener--though he had disappeared abruptly from the meeting the night before, and had given no promise that he would come.

Coryston walked up the garden path, looking about him suspiciously. At sight of Marion he took off his cap; she gave him her hand, and he sat down beside her.

"n.o.body else about? What a blessing!"

She looked at him with mild reproach.

"My father and the Chancellor are gone for a walk. Enid is not yet down."

"Why? She is perfectly well. If she were a workman's wife and had to get up at six o'clock, get his breakfast and wash the children, it would do her a world of good."

"How do you know? You are always judging people, and it helps nothing."

"Yes, it does. One must form opinions--or burst. I can tell you, I judged Glenwilliam last night, as I sat listening to him."

"Father thought it hardly one of his best speeches," said Marion, cautiously.

"Sheer wallowing claptrap, wasn't it! I was ashamed of him, and sick of Liberalism, as I sat there. I'll go and join the Primrose League."

Marion lifted her blue eyes and laughed--with her finger on her lip.

"Hush! She might hear." She pointed to the half-open window on the first floor.

"And a good thing too," growled Coryston. "She adores him--and makes him worse. Why can't he _work_ at these things--or why can't his secretaries prime him decently! He makes blunders that would disgrace an undergraduate--and doesn't care a rap--so long as a hall-full of fools cheer him."

"You usen't to talk like this!"

"No--because I had illusions," was the sharp reply. "Glenwilliam was one of them. Land!--what does he know about land?--what does a miner--who won't learn!--know about farming? Why, that man--that fellow, John Betts"--he pointed to the Hoddon Grey woods on the edge of the plain--"whom the Newburys are driving out of his job, because he picked a woman out of the dirt--just like these Christians!--John Betts knows more about land in his little finger than Glenwilliam's whole body! Yet, if you saw them together, you'd see Glenwilliam patronizing and browbeating him, and Betts not allowed a look in. I'm sick of it! I'm off to Canada with Betts."

Marion looked up.

"I thought it was to be the Primrose League."

"You like catching me out," said Coryston, grimly. "But I a.s.sure you I'm pretty downhearted."

"You expect too much," said Marion, softly, distressed as she spoke, to notice his frayed collar and cuffs, and the tear in his coat pocket. "And,"

she added, firmly, "you should make Mrs. Potifer mend your coat."

"She's another disillusion. She's idle and dirty. And Potifer never does a stroke of work if he can help it. Moral--don't bother your head about martyrs. There's generally some excellent reason for martyrizing them."

He broke off--looking at her with a clouded brow.

"Marion!"

She turned with a start, the color flooding her plain, pleasant face.