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“Well, what do you think of our cousins?”
“He’s a good chap. I thought he seemed rather gone on you.’”
“Did you now? When would you like them to come over?”
“Any time.”
“Next week?”
“Yes.”
Seeing that he did not mean to be drawn, she lapsed into savouring the day’s slowly sinking light and beauty. The high land, Wantage, and Faringdon way, was glamoured by level sunlight; and Wittenham Clumps bastioned-up the rise ahead. Rounding to the right, they came on the bridge. In the middle of it she touched his arm:
“That stretch up there is where we saw the kingfishers, Hubert; d’you remember?”
Halted, they gazed up the quiet river, deserted and fit for the bright birds. Falling light sprinkled it through willows on the southern bank. The quietest river, it seemed, in the world, most subdued to the moods of men, flowing with an even clear stream among bright fields and those drooping shapely trees; having, as it were, a bland intensity of being, a presence of its own, gracious and apart.
“Three thousand years ago,” said Hubert suddenly, “this old river used to be like those I’ve seen in the wilds, an unshaped flow of water in matted jungle.”
He drove on. They had their backs to the sunlight now, and it was like driving into what had been painted for them.
And so they sped on, while into the sky crept the sunset glow, and the cleaned-up fields darkened a little, and gathered loneliness under the evening flight of birds.
At the door of Condaford Grange Di
CHAPTER 12
The outline of a young Englishman of the inarticulate variety is difficult to grasp. The vocal variety is easily enough apprehended. Its ma
“Look at this!”
Di
“SIR,—
“You will pardon me, I trust, this intrusion on your space. It has come to my knowledge that certain passages in my book, ‘Bolivia and Its Secrets,’ published last July, have grievously a
“Sir, Your obedient servant,
“EDWARD HALLORSEN (Professor).
“Piedmont Hotel,
“London.”
“Very handsome!” said Di
She began pulling yellowed leaves out of an Agapanthus. The danger of doing things for other people was being disclosed to her.
“It almost looks like repentance, dear.”
“That fellow repent! Not he! There’s something behind it.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You!”
Di
“I met Hallorsen at Diana’s in London; he was at Lippinghall, too. So I—er—got at him.”
Hubert’s sallowed face went red.
“You asked—you begged—?”
“Oh! no!”
“What then?”
“He seemed to take rather a fancy to me. It’s odd, but I couldn’t help it, Hubert.”
“He’s done this to curry favour with you?”
“You put it like a man and a brother.”
“Di
Di
“I didn’t lead him on. He took this highly unreasonable fancy, in spite of plenty of cold water. But, if you ask me, Hubert, he has quite a decent side to him.”
“You would naturally think so,” said Hubert, coldly. His face had resumed its sallow hue and was even a little ashened.
Di
“Don’t be silly, dear! If he chooses to make a public apology for any reason, even such a bad one, isn’t it all to the good?”
“Not when my own sister comes into it. In this thing I’m like—I’m like a—” he put his hands to his head: “I’m in Chancery. Anyone can punch my head, and I can’t move.”
Di
“You needn’t be afraid that I shall compromise you. This letter is very good news; it takes the wind out of the whole thing. In face of this apology, who can say anything?”
But Hubert, leaving the paper in her hand, went back into the house.
Di
Hubert’s resentment was natural enough. If Hallorsen’s apology had been dictated by conviction, it would have soothed him; arising from a desire to please his sister, it was only the more galling; and he clearly abhorred the Professor’s fancy for her. Still, there was the letter—an open and direct admission of false criticism, which changed the whole position! At once she began to consider what use could be made of it. Should she send it to Lord Saxenden? Having meddled so far, she decided that she would, and went in to write the covering letter.
‘Condaford Grange. Sept. 21.
‘Dear Lord Saxenden,—
‘I am venturing to send you the enclosed cutting from today’s “Times,” for I feel it excuses me to some extent for my effrontery the other evening. I really ought not to have bored you at the end of a long day with those passages of my brother’s diary. It was unpardonable, and I don’t wonder that you sought refuge. But the enclosed will show you the injustice from which my brother has suffered; and I hope you will forgive me.
‘Sincerely yours,
‘Elizabeth Charwell.’