'Now, let's be logical,' he said next morning. 'Let's be logical and
hopeful--yet not too hopeful, not utopian. Let's look the matter
courageously in the face. Since she rode there once, why may she not
ride again in the Sentier des Contrebandiers? Why mayn't she ride
there often--even daily? I think that's logical. Don't _you_ think
that's logical?'
The person he addressed, a tall, slender young man, with a
fresh-coloured skin, a straight nose, and rather a ribald eye, was
vigorously brushing a head of yellowish hair, in the looking-glass
before him.
'Tush! But of course _you_ think so,' Paul went on. 'You always think
as I do. If you knew how I despise a sycophant! And yet--you're not
bad looking. No, I'll be hanged if I can honestly say that you're bad
looking. You've got nice hair, and plenty of it; and there's a
weakness about your mouth and chin that goes to my heart. I hate firm
people.--What? So do you? I thought so.--Ah, well, my poor friend,
you're booked for a shocking long walk this morning. You must summon
your utmost fortitude.--_Under the greenwood tree, who loves to lie
with me?_' he carolled forth, to Marzials's tune. 'But come! I say!
That's anticipating.'
And he set forth for the Smugglers' Pathway,--where, sure enough, she
rode again. As she passed him, her eyes met his: at which he was
conscious of a good deal of interior commotion. 'By Jove, she's
magnificent, she's really stunning,' he exclaimed to himself. He
perceived that she was rather a big woman, tall, with finely-rounded,
smoothly-flowing lines. Her hair,--velvety blue-black in its
shadows,--where the light caught it was dully iridescent. Her features
were irregular enough to give her face a high degree of individuality,
yet by no means to deprive it of delicacy or attractiveness. She had
a superb white throat, and a soft voluptuous chin; and 'As I live, I
never saw such a mouth,' said Paul.
Where did she come from? Bayonne? Never. André might have been
mistaken about Château Yroulte; the Spanish Jew had perhaps sold it,
or found a tenant. Or, further afield, there were Châteaux Labenne,
Saumuse, d'Orthevielle. Or else, the Queen had a guest.
'Anyhow,' he mused, when he got home, 'that makes five, six miles that
you have tramped, to enjoy an instant's glimpse of her. Fortunately
they say walking is good for the constitution. It only shows what
extremities a country life may drive one to.'
The next day, not only did her eyes meet his, but he could have sworn
that she almost smiled. Oh, a very furtive smile, the mere transitory
suggestion of a smile. But the inner commotion was more marked.
The next day (the fourth) she undoubtedly did smile, and slightly
inclined her head. He removed his hat, and went home, and waited
impatiently for twenty-four hours to wear away. 'She smiled--she
bowed,' he kept repeating. But, alas, he couldn't forget that in that
remote countryside it is very much the fashion for people who meet in
the roads and lanes to bow as they pass.
On the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth days she bowed and smiled.
'I fairly wonder at myself--to walk that distance for a bow and
smile,' said Paul. 'To-morrow I'm going to speak. _Faut brusquer les
choses_.'
And he penetrated into the forest, firmly determined to speak. 'Only I
can't seem to think of anything very pat to say,' he sighed. 'Hello!
She's off her horse.'
She was off her horse, standing beside it, holding the loose end of a
strap in her hand.
Providence was favouring him. Here was his obvious chance. Something
was wrong. He could offer his assistance. And yet, that inner
commotion was so violent, he felt a little bewildered about the _mot
juste_. He approached her gradually, trying to compose himself and
collect his wits.
She looked up, and said in French 'I beg your pardon. Something has
come undone. Can you help me?'
Her voice was delicious, cool and smooth as ivory. His heart pounded.
He vaguely bowed, and murmured, 'I should be delighted.'
She stood aside a little, and he took her place. He bent over the
strap that was loose, and bit his lips, and cursed his embarrassments.
'Come, I mustn't let her think me quite an ass.' He was astonished at
himself. That he should still be capable of so strenuous a sensation!
'And I had thought I was blasé!' He was intensely conscious of the
silence, of the solitude and dimness of the forest, and of their
isolation there, so near to each other, that superb pale woman and
himself. But his eyes were bent on the misbehaving strap, which he
held helplessly between his fingers.
At last he looked up at her. 'How warm and beautiful and fragrant she
is,' he thought. 'With her white face, with her dark eyes, with those
red lips and that splendid figure--what an heroic looking woman!'
'This is altogether disgraceful,' he said, 'and I assure you I'm
covered with confusion. But I won't dissemble. I haven't the remotest
notion what needs to be done. I'm afraid this is the first time in my
life I have ever touched anything belonging to a horse.'
He said it with a pathetic drawl, and she laughed.--'And yet you're
English.'
'Oh, I dare say I'm English enough. Though I don't see how you knew
it. Don't tell me you knew it from my accent.'
'_Oh, non pas_,' she hastened to protest. 'But you're the new owner of
Saint-Graal. Everybody of the country knows, of course, that the new
owner of Saint-Graal, Mr. Warringwood, is English.'
'Ah, then she's of the country,' was Paul's mental note.
'And I thought all Englishmen were horsemen,' she went on.
'Oh, there are a few bright exceptions--there's a little scattered
remnant. It's the study of my life to avoid being typical.'
'Ah, well, then give _me_ the strap.'
He gave her the strap, and in the twinkling of an eye she had snapped
the necessary buckle. Then she looked up at him and smiled oddly. It
occurred to him that the entire comedy of the strap had perhaps been
invented as an excuse for opening a conversation; and he was at once
flattered and disappointed. 'Oh, if she's that sort ...' he thought.
'I'm heart-broken not to have been able to serve you,' he said.
'You can help me to mount,' she answered.
And, before he quite knew how it was done, he had helped her to mount,
and she was galloping down the path. The firm grasp of her warm gloved
hand on his shoulder accompanied him to Saint-Graal. 'It's amazing how
she sticks in my mind,' he said. He really couldn't fix his attention
on any other subject. 'I wonder who the deuce she is. She's giving me
my money's worth in walking. That business of the strap was really
brazen. Still, one mustn't quarrel with the means if one desires the
end. I hope she _isn't_ that sort.'