THE RIDE
“Where now?” Antonia asked, wheeling her chestnut mare, as they turned
up High Street, Oxford City. “I won't go back the same way, Dick!”
“We could have a gallop on Port Meadow, cross the Upper River twice, and
get home that way; but you 'll be tired.”
Antonia shook her head. Aslant her cheek the brim of a straw hat threw a
curve of shade, her ear glowed transparent in the sun.
A difference had come in their relations since that kiss; outwardly she
was the same good comrade, cool and quick. But as before a change one
feels the subtle difference in the temper of the wind, so Shelton
was affected by the inner change in her. He had made a blot upon her
candour; he had tried to rub it out again, but there was left a mark,
and it was ineffaceable. Antonia belonged to the most civilised division
of the race most civilised in all the world, whose creed is “Let us love
and hate, let us work and marry, but let us never give ourselves away;
to give ourselves away is to leave a mark, and that is past forgive
ness. Let our lives be like our faces, free from every kind of wrinkle,
even those of laughter; in this way alone can we be really civilised.”
He felt that she was ruffled by a vague discomfort. That he should give
himself away was natural, perhaps, and only made her wonder, but that he
should give her the feeling that she had given herself away was a very
different thing.
“Do you mind if I just ask at the Bishop's Head for letters?” he said,
as they passed the old hotel.
A dirty and thin envelope was brought to him, addressed “Mr. Richard
Shelton, Esq.,” in handwriting that was passionately clear, as though
the writer had put his soul into securing delivery of the letter. It was
dated three days back, and, as they rode away, Shelton read as follows:
IMPERIAL PEACOCK HOTEL,
FOLKESTONE.
MON CHER MONSIEUR SHELTON,
This is already the third time I have taken up pen to write to you, but,
having nothing but misfortune to recount, I hesitated, awaiting better
days. Indeed, I have been so profoundly discouraged that if I had not
thought it my duty to let you know of my fortunes I know not even now
if I should have found the necessary spirit. 'Les choses vont de mal
en mal'. From what I hear there has never been so bad a season here.
Nothing going on. All the same, I am tormented by a mob of little
matters which bring me not sufficient to support my life. I know not
what to do; one thing is certain, in no case shall I return here another
year. The patron of this hotel, my good employer, is one of those
innumerable specimens who do not forge or steal because they have no
need, and if they had would lack the courage; who observe the marriage
laws because they have been brought up to believe in them, and know
that breaking them brings risk and loss of reputation; who do not gamble
because they dare not; do not drink because it disagrees with them; go
to church because their neighbours go, and to procure an appetite for
the mid-day meal; commit no murder because, not transgressing in any
other fashion, they are not obliged. What is there to respect in persons
of this sort? Yet they are highly esteemed, and form three quarters of
Society. The rule with these good gentlemen is to shut their eyes, never
use their thinking powers, and close the door on all the dogs of life
for fear they should get bitten.
Shelton paused, conscious of Antonia's eyes fixed on him with the
inquiring look that he had come to dread. In that chilly questioning she
seemed to say: “I am waiting. I am prepared to be told things--that is,
useful things--things that help one to believe without the risk of too
much thinking.”
“It's from that young foreigner,” he said; and went on reading to
himself.
I have eyes, and here I am; I have a nose 'pour, flairer le humbug'.
I see that amongst the value of things nothing is the equal of “free
thought.” Everything else they can take from me, 'on ne pent pas m'oter
cela'. I see no future for me here, and certainly should have departed
long ago if I had had the money, but, as I have already told you, all
that I can do barely suffices to procure me 'de quoi vivre'. 'Je me sens
ecceuye'. Do not pay too much attention to my Jeremiads; you know what a
pessimist I am. 'Je ne perds pas courage'.
Hoping that you are well, and in the cordial pressing of your hand, I
subscribe myself,
Your very devoted
LOUIS FERRAND.
He rode with the letter open in his hand, frowning at the curious
turmoil which Ferrand excited in his heart. It was as though this
foreign vagrant twanged within him a neglected string, which gave forth
moans of a mutiny.
“What does he say?” Antonia asked.
Should he show it to her? If he might not, what should he do when they
were married?
“I don't quite know,” he said at last; “it 's not particularly
cheering.”
“What is he like, Dick--I mean, to look at? Like a gentleman, or what?”
Shelton stifled a desire to laugh.
“He looks very well in a frock-coat,” he replied; “his father was a wine
merchant.”
Antonia flicked her whip against her skirt.
“Of course,” she murmured, “I don't want to hear if there's anything I
ought not.”
But instead of soothing Shelton, these words had just the opposite
effect. His conception of the ideal wife was not that of one from whom
the half of life must be excluded.
“It's only,” he stammered again, “that it's not cheerful.”
“Oh, all right!” she cried, and, touching her horse, flew off in front.
“I hate dismal things.”
Shelton bit his lips. It was not his fault that half the world was dark.
He knew her words were loosed against himself, and, as always at a sign
of her displeasure, was afraid. He galloped after her on the scorched
turf.
“What is it?” he said. “You 're angry with me!”
“Oh no!”
“Darling, I can't help it if things are n't cheerful. We have eyes,” he
added, quoting from the letter.
Antonia did not look at him; but touched her horse again.
“Well, I don't want to see the gloomy side,” she said, “and I can't see
why YOU should. It's wicked to be discontented;” and she galloped off.
It was not his fault if there were a thousand different kinds of men, a
thousand different points of view, outside the fence of her experience!
“What business,” he thought, digging in his dummy spurs, “has our class
to patronise? We 're the only people who have n't an idea of what life
really means.” Chips of dried turf and dust came flying back, stinging
his face. He gained on her, drew almost within reach, then, as though
she had been playing with him, was left hopelessly behind.
She stooped under the far hedge, fanning her flushed face with
dock-leaves:
“Aha, Dick! I knew you'd never catch me” and she patted the chestnut
mare, who turned her blowing muzzle with contemptuous humour towards
Shelton's steed, while her flanks heaved rapturously, gradually
darkening with sweat.
“We'd better take them steadily,” grunted Shelton, getting off and
loosening his girths, “if we mean to get home at all.”
“Don't be cross, Dick!”
“We oughtn't to have galloped them like this; they 're not in condition.
We'd better go home the way we came.”
Antonia dropped the reins, and straightened her back hair.
“There 's no fun in that,” she said. “Out and back again; I hate a dog's
walk.”
“Very well,” said Shelton; he would have her longer to himself!
The road led up and up a hill, and from the top a vision of Saxonia
lay disclosed in waves of wood and pasture. Their way branched down
a gateless glade, and Shelton sidled closer till his knee touched the
mare's off-flank.
Antonia's profile conjured up visions. She was youth itself; her eyes
so brilliant, and so innocent, her cheeks so glowing, and her brow
unruffled; but in her smile and in the setting of her jaw lurked
something resolute and mischievous. Shelton put his hand out to the
mare's mane.
“What made you promise to marry me?” he said.
She smiled.
“Well, what made you?”
“I?” cried Shelton.
She slipped her hand over his hand.
“Oh, Dick!” she said.
“I want,” he stammered, “to be everything to you. Do you think I shall?”
“Of course!”
Of course! The words seemed very much or very little.
She looked down at the river, gleaming below the glade in a curving
silver line. “Dick, there are such a lot of splendid things that we
might do.”
Did she mean, amongst those splendid things, that they might understand
each other; or were they fated to pretend to only, in the old
time-honoured way?
They crossed the river by a ferry, and rode a long time in silence,
while the twilight slowly fell behind the aspens. And all the beauty of
the evening, with its restless leaves, its grave young moon, and lighted
campion flowers, was but a part of her; the scents, the witchery and
shadows, the quaint field noises, the yokels' whistling, and the splash
of water-fowl, each seemed to him enchanted. The flighting bats, the
forms of the dim hayricks, and sweet-brier perfume-she summed them
all up in herself. The fingermarks had deepened underneath her eyes,
a languor came upon her; it made her the more sweet and youthful. Her
shoulders seemed to bear on them the very image of our land--grave and
aspiring, eager yet contained--before there came upon that land the grin
of greed, the folds of wealth, the simper of content. Fair, unconscious,
free!
And he was silent, with a beating heart.