The spring was early that year. The swallows must have known it, for
they had returned several days before their time, and to-day, the 16th
of April, the silence of the Roman road was broken by their twittering
and crossed by their shadows. The trees in the woods were green again,
the little river beneath the bridge was foaming in spate, and from far
away in the wood depths came the moist, sweet sound of the cuckoo,
singing just as he sang in Chaucer's time, just as he will sing in times
a thousand years unborn.
The girl had freed herself from Effie and had wandered down to the
bridge, where she stood now watching the wimpling water and the brown
weeds, listening to the cuckoo and the chatter of the blue-tits in the
branches of the trees.
A telegram had brought her, yesterday, the grand news of Garryowen's
victory, and this morning's post had brought her two letters--one from
Mr. French and one from Mr. Dashwood.
From what she could gather in the perusal of these letters, each man was
in love with her, yet each was proposing that she should not look coldly
on the other.
They would return that evening. She would have to make up her mind on
the question, and she had come here, apparently, to argue the question
out.
Now that she was brought face to face with the matter, the chivalry of
these two gentlemen one towards the other was the thing that perplexed
her most.
She had come here, apparently, to argue the matter out, but, in reality,
her subliminal mind had already made the decision as to which of these
two gentlemen she would choose as her natural protector for life.
She had no one to confide in, no one to make a confidant of her choice;
she had taken her seat on a little ledge of the parapet, and, with that
charming impulse which prompts a woman to put her name on paper coupled
with the name of the man she loves, the girl, with the point of her
parasol, dreamily and like a mesmerist under the dictation of a spirit,
wrote upon the dust of the old road's face--
VIOLET
Then, with a half-blush, she was preparing to add the fateful other
name, and the blue-tits in the branches above were craning their necks
to see, when from beyond the hilltop the sound of a motor-car rapidly
approaching broke the spell.
As it passed she was standing looking at the river, and name on the dust
of the road there was none, nor anything to hint of love but the
graceful figure of the girl and the beauty of the morning.