Next day Willy called at the studio, and Frank told him what had
occurred.
“But I don't see why you shouldn't come to the Manor House,” said Willy.
“If you will only say something about the Measons, I think it can be
made all right.”
“No, I'm not going to turn against Meason; I have always found him a
good fellow. I know nothing about his flirtation with Sally.”
“No more do I; I think it has been exaggerated, but, as you know, I
never interfere. I wish you would come in to dinner one night.”
“Supposing I were to meet Berkins?”
Willy stroked his moustache.
“No, it is quite impossible that I could return to the Manor House. Your
father behaved in a way--well, I will not say what I think of it.”
“Berkins hasn't been to the City since. Grace was over here yesterday,
she says he limps about the garden. He'll never forgive you; he says
that you didn't call the dog off at once.”
“That's a lie; and I said, 'So far as the incident with the dog is
concerned, I am very sorry.'”
“I think that made him more angry than anything else; he thought you
were laughing at him.”
“I was not. It was most unfortunate. I shall not give Maggie up. I am
writing to-morrow or next day to Mount Rorke.”
All were agreed that things must come right sooner or later. Maggie
fought for her lover, and emphatically asserted her engagement. She
yielded on one point only--not to visit the studio; but she maintained
her right in theory and in practice to go where she liked with him in
train or in cart, to walk with him on the cliff, to lunch with him
at Mutton's. They found pleasure in thus affirming their love, and
it pleased them to see they were observed, and to hear that they were
spoken about. Nevertheless the string that sung their happiness had
slipped a little, and the note was now not quite so clear or true. Frank
could not go to the Manor House; Maggie could not go to the studio.
Whether Mount Rorke would consent to their marriage perplexed them as it
had not done before.
The summer fades, the hills grow grey, and a salt wind blew up from
the sea, blackening the trees, and the beauty of autumn was done. Frank
thought of Ireland, and what personal intercession might achieve. She
begged of him to go, and he promised to write to her every day.
“Every day, darling, or I shall be miserable.”
“Every day.”
“Arrived safe after a very rough passage. Every one was ill, I most of
all.”
She received a post-card:--“It was raining cats and dogs when I got out
of the train. Mount Rorke sent a car to meet me; the result is that I
am in bed with a bad cold. The house is full of company--people I have
known, or known of, since I was a boy; we shall begin pheasant-shooting
in a few days. When I am out of bed I shall write a long letter. Do you
write to me; I shall be awfully disappointed if I do not get a letter
to-morrow morning.”