The tennis match was over, and Walter Ingleby stood swinging his racket
impatiently beside an opening in the hazel hedge that overhung the lane.
Wisps of hay were strewn about it, but already the nut bushes were
sprinkled with the honeysuckle's flowers. Beyond the hedge, cornfields
blotched with poppies, and cropped meadows, faded into the cold blueness
of the east.
Ingleby looked out upon the prospect with a slight hardening of his
face, for he loved the quiet, green country in which there was
apparently no room for him; but a little thrill of expectancy ran
through him as he glanced back across the stile towards the little white
village he had left a few minutes earlier. A broad meadow shining with
the tender green of the aftermath divided it from the lane, and light
laughter and a murmur of voices came faintly across the grass. Again a
trace of grimness, which seemed out of place there, crept into his face,
and it was with a little resolute movement of his shoulders that he
turned and raised his eyes to the dim blue ridge behind which burned the
sunset's smoky red. He vaguely felt that it was portentous and
emblematical, for that evening the brightness of the West seemed to
beckon him.
He had graciously been permitted to play for a somewhat exclusive club
during the afternoon, as well as to make himself useful handing round
tea and carrying chairs, because he played tennis well, and the
president's wife had said that while there was a risk in admitting that
kind of people, young Ingleby evidently knew his place, and was seldom
guilty of presumption. This was true, for Ingleby was shrewd enough to
realize that there were limits to the toleration extended him, though
the worthy lady would probably have been astonished had she known what
his self-repression occasionally cost him. That a young man of his
position should not esteem it a privilege to teach beginners and submit
to be snubbed by any one of importance who happened to be out of temper
had never occurred to her. Still, he certainly knew his place, and
having played well, to please himself and his partner, had slipped away
when the last game was over, since he understood that the compliments
were not for him.
Suddenly his heart beat a trifle faster as a figure appeared in the
meadow. It was a girl of about his own age, which did not greatly exceed
twenty, who carried herself well, and moved, it seemed to him, with a
gracefulness he had never noticed in any other woman. She wore a white
hat with red poppies on it, and he noticed that the flowers he had
diffidently offered her were still tucked in the belt of the light grey
dress. She was walking slowly, and apparently did not see him in the
shadow, so that when she stopped a moment with her hand upon the stile
he could, although he felt the presumption of it, look at her steadily.
There were excuses for him, since any one with artistic perceptions
would have admitted that Grace Coulthurst made a sufficiently attractive
picture as she stood with the white clover at her feet and the glow of
the West upon her face. It was warm in colouring and almost too cleanly
cut, but essentially English, with a suggestion of pride and vigour in
it. The eyes were grey, and, perhaps, a trifle too grave and imperious
considering her age; the clustering hair beneath the white hat shone in
the sunset a gleaming bronze. She was also very dainty, though that did
not detract from the indefinite something in the pose of the shapely
head and figure which the lad vaguely recognized as patrician. The term
did not please him. Indeed, it was one he objected to, but he could
think of nothing more appropriate, and as he watched her he became
almost astonished at his temerity. Ingleby was young, and fancied he
knew his own value, but he was also acquainted with the unyielding
nature of social distinction, and it was wholly respectful homage he
paid Grace Coulthurst. She was Major Coulthurst's daughter, and a young
woman of some local importance. When she saw Ingleby a faint tinge of
warmer colour crept into her face for just a moment.
He swung off his straw hat, and held it at his knee as he raised a hand
to her, and though his deference was, perhaps, a trifle overdone, it was
redeemed by its genuineness, and did not displease her.
"I was afraid you would never come," he said.
The girl descended the stile before she looked at him, and then there
was a suggestion of stiffness in her attitude, for the speech, which
seemed to imply something of the nature of an appointment, was not a
tactful one.
"Why did you think I would come this way at all?" she said.
"I don't know," said Ingleby, with a trace of confusion. "Of course,
there wasn't any reason. Still, I hoped you would. That was why I
waited."
Grace Coulthurst said nothing for a moment. It was, though she would
never have admitted it, not altogether by accident that she had met and
walked home with him somewhat frequently during the past month.
"As it happened, I was almost going round by the road, with Lilian
Fownes," she said.
Young Ingleby, as she did not fail to notice, set his lips, for Miss
Fownes had on that and other occasions been accompanied by her
accomplished brother, who was an adept at graceful inanities.
"Then I should not have seen you--and I especially wanted to," he said.
His voice had a little uncertain note in it, and Grace glanced at him
sharply. "In that case, why did you run away as soon as the game was
over?"
"Don't you know?" and Ingleby's laugh had a trace of bitterness in it.
"When it is over they don't want me. Of course, we helped them to win,
but that was what I was there for--that, and nothing more--while you
played splendidly. You see, one depends so much upon his partner."
"Does he?"
"Of course!" and Ingleby lost his head. "Now--I don't mean at tennis
only--I could do almost anything with you to encourage me. Still, that
is evidently out of the question--like the rest."
He concluded somewhat incoherently, for he realized that this was going
too far, and in his embarrassment naturally made matters worse by the
attempted qualification. Still, though the girl's colour was a trifle
higher, she was not altogether displeased, and felt that there was,
perhaps, some excuse for his confidence as she glanced at him covertly.
Walter Ingleby was not remarkably different from most other young
Englishmen, but he had a sturdy, well set-up figure, and an expressive
and by no means unattractive face, with broad forehead, fearless blue
eyes, and a certain suggestive firmness of his mouth. He had also a
trick of looking at one steadily with his head held well erect, and then
speaking with a curious clipped curtness. It was a trifling mannerism
which nevertheless carried with it a suggestion of vigour and
straightforwardness. Just then there was a little scintillation in his
eyes, and he looked like one who had at least the courage to attempt a
good deal.
"Well," she said, in a non-committal fashion, "we certainly won the
match, and I think you were wrong to slip away. One would almost fancy
that you are unduly sensitive now and then."
Ingleby laughed. "Perhaps I am, but it isn't so very astonishing that I
should occasionally resent a slight that isn't meant when there are so
many of them that certainly are. No doubt, it's my own fault. I should
have known what to expect when I crept into the exclusive tennis club at
Holtcar."
"Then I wonder why you joined it at all."
"So do I at times. Still, I wanted to see what people of position and
refinement were really like, and to learn anything they might be
inclined to teach me. I was ambitious, you see--and besides, I was
really fond of the game."
"And you were disappointed when you met them?"
Ingleby made a little expressive gesture. "Chiefly in myself. I thought
I was strong enough not to mind being treated as a professional and
politely ignored except when I was useful. Then I imagined it would be
excellent discipline, and discipline is presumably good for one, as the
worthy vicar, who really appears to have ideas, is fond of observing."
Again the girl glanced at him sharply, with a faint but perceptible
arching of her brows.
"Isn't that a trifle patronizing?" she said. "You can't be very much
older than I am, and he has, at least, seen a good deal of the world."
Ingleby laughed frankly, though there was a little flush in his face. "I
know I very often talk like a fool--and the difference between you and
the others is that you very seldom think it necessary to remind me of
it. That is, of course, one difference. The rest----"
"I think," said the girl, severely, "we were talking about the vicar."
"Well," said Ingleby, "I really believe he means well, but he is, after
all, part of the system, and naturally interested in maintaining the
existing state of things. We have in England a few great bolstered-up
professions, one could almost call them professional rings, and the men
fortunate enough to enter them are more or less compelled to play into
one another's hands. The millions who don't belong to them are, of
course, outsiders, and couldn't be expected to count, you see."
The girl stiffened perceptibly, and really looked very patrician as she
turned and regarded him indignantly.
"You appear to forget that my father belongs to one of those
professions," she said.
"He did," corrected Ingleby, and then stopped abruptly, as he remembered
it was reputed that it was not exactly by his own wish Major Coulthurst
no longer actively served his nation.
"I wonder if you have deliberately made up your mind to offend me?"
asked Grace Coulthurst with icy quietness.
"You know I would cut my hand off sooner than do anything I thought
would vex you," Ingleby answered. "I'm afraid I talk too much, but I
can't help it now and then. There are, you see, so few people who will
listen to me seriously. Unless you are content to adopt the accepted
point of view, everybody seems to think it his duty to put his foot on
you."
Grace's anger was usually short-lived, for she had a generous nature as
well as a sense of humour, and the lad's naive admission appealed to the
latter.
"Well," she said, with a little gleam in her eyes, "I really think I, at
least, have listened to you with patience; but your views are likely to
lead you into trouble. Where did you get them?"
Ingleby laughed. "To tell the truth, I often wonder myself. In any case,
it wasn't from my father. He was a staunch and consistent churchman, and
kept a little book shop. You can see it in the High Street now. He sold
books--and papers behind the counter; I would like you to remember this.
Still, as I said, he was consistent, and there was literature he would
not handle, nor when they made him a councillor would he wink at certain
municipal jobbery. The latter fact was duly remembered when his lease
fell in, as well as on other occasions, and when he died, when I was
fourteen, there was nothing left for me. He was a scholar, and an
upright man--as well as a Tory of the old school and a high churchman."
"Is it very unusual for a scholar to be either of the latter then?"
"Well," said Ingleby, with a little twinkle in his eyes, "one would
almost fancy that it ought to be. However, you can't be in the least
interested in these fancies of mine. Shall I gather you that spray of
blossom?"
Grace looked curiously at him instead of at the pale-tinted honeysuckle
whose sweetness hung about them. She was quite aware that he had
somewhat eccentric views, and it was perhaps his originality which had
attracted her when, prompted chiefly by pity for the lad who was usually
left out in the cold, she had made his acquaintance; but her interest in
him had increased with suspicious rapidity considering that it was only
a month or two since she had delicately made the first overtures. She
was quite willing to admit that she had made them, for she had
understood, and under the circumstances sympathized with, the lad's
original irresponsiveness, which had vanished when he saw that her
graciousness sprang from a kindly nature and was unspoiled by
condescension; and Grace Coulthurst could afford to do what other young
women of her age at Holtcar would have shrunk from. She had also a
certain quiet imperiousness which made whatever she did appear fitting.
"I am afraid you are an inveterate radical," she said.
"I scarcely think that goes quite far enough, as radicalism seems to be
understood by its acknowledged leaders. Blatant is the adjective
usually hurled at us; and no doubt I deserve it, as witness what you
have endured to-night. Still, you see, I wasn't talking quite without a
purpose, because I want you to understand my attitude--and that brings
me to the point. I'm afraid I can't play with you at the tournament, as
was arranged."
"No?" said Grace, a trifle sharply, for she was very human, and after
somewhat daringly showing favour to the man of low degree it was a
trifle galling to discover that he failed to appreciate it. "You have,
presumably, something that pleases you better to do that day?"
Ingleby turned partly away from her, and glanced across the valley.
"No," he said with unusual quietness, "I think you know that could not
be. I am, in fact, going away."
Grace was a trifle startled, as well as more concerned than she would
have admitted, and had Ingleby been looking at her he might have seen
this. It had not been exactly pleasant to hear that he was an advanced
democrat, for, while by no means unduly conventional, she had an inborn
respect for established customs and procedure, and she felt that the
existing condition of affairs, while probably not beyond improvement,
might be made considerably worse, at least, so far as she and her
friends were concerned. Still, it was disconcerting to find that he was
going away, for there would then be no opportunity for teaching
him--indirectly, of course--the erroneous nature of his views. This, at
least, was the reason she offered herself.
"Where are you going?" she asked, with studied indifference.
Ingleby swung around, with head tilted a trifle backwards--she knew that
unconscious pose and the little gleam in his eyes which usually
accompanied it--and looked across the cool blue-green meadows towards
the fading splendours of the West.
"Out there where men are equal, as they were made to be, and the new
lands are too wide for the cramped opinions and prejudices that crush
one here!" Then he turned to the girl with a little laugh. "I wish you
would say something quietly stinging. I deserve it for going off in that
way again. Still, I really felt it."
"Do you think I could?" and Grace's tone was severe.
Ingleby was even more contrite than she expected. "It was absurd to
suggest it. You could never say an unkind or cutting thing to anybody.
In fact, your kindness is the one pleasant memory I shall carry away
with me. I--you see----"
He pulled himself up abruptly, but the colour was in his cheeks, and the
little thrill in his voice again, while it seemed only natural that the
girl should smile prettily.
"I wonder," she said, "if one might ask you why you are going?"
The lane was growing dusky now, and Grace, as it happened, held a white
glove and a fold of the silvery grey skirt in an uncovered hand, for the
dew was settling heavily upon the grass between the wheel ruts. Ingleby
did not look at her.
"I don't think I could make you understand how sordid and distasteful my
life here is--and it can't be changed," he said. "Every door is closed
against the man with neither friends nor money. He must be taught his
place, and stay in it, dragging out his life in hopeless drudgery, while
I----"
He stopped again, and then looked his companion steadily in the face. "I
have found out in the last month how much life has to offer one who has
the courage to make a bold bid for what he is entitled to."
"And you expect to make it out there--which presumably means America or
Canada?"
They had reached an oaken door in a mossy wall, and Ingleby stood still.
"Yes," he said, slowly, "I intend to make it there. Life holds so
much--I did not know how much a little while ago--and there are alluring
possibilities if one has the courage to break away from the groove
prejudice and tradition force him into here. I may never see you
again--unless I am successful I think I never shall. Would it be a very
great presumption if I asked you for something, a trifle, to carry away
with me?"
He stood looking down upon her with a curious wistfulness in his face,
and Grace afterwards tried to believe that it was by accident she
dropped her glove just then. In any case, next moment young Ingleby
stooped, and when he straightened himself again he not only held the
glove exultantly fast, but the hand she had stretched out for it. Then a
patch of vivid crimson showed in Grace Coulthurst's cheek as they stood
face to face in the summer twilight--the lad of low degree, with
tingling nerves and throbbing heart, and the girl of station rudely
shaken out of her accustomed serenity. In those few moments they left
their youth behind, and crossed the mystic threshold into the ampler
life of man and woman.
Then Ingleby, swinging off his straw hat, let the little hand go, and
looked at the girl steadily.
"If that was wrong you will have a long while in which to forgive me,"
he said. "If I live and prosper out there I will bring you back the
glove again--and, whatever happens, you cannot prevent my carrying your
memory away with me."
Then he turned away, looked back, still bareheaded, and with a little
resolute shake of his shoulders swung away down the darkening lane,
while Grace inserted a key in the oaken door with somewhat unsteady
fingers. She was as yet neither pleased nor angry, but bewildered, and
only certain that he had gone, and her face was burning still.