It was to Barbara that Miltoun unfolded, if but little, the trouble of
his spirit, lying that same afternoon under a ragged tamarisk hedge with
the tide far out. He could never have done this if there had not been
between them the accidental revelation of that night at Monkland; nor
even then perhaps had he not felt in this young sister of his the warmth
of life for which he was yearning. In such a matter as love Barbara was
the elder of these two. For, besides the motherly knowledge of the heart
peculiar to most women, she had the inherent woman-of-the-worldliness to
be expected of a daughter of Lord and Lady Valleys. If she herself were
in doubt as to the state of her affections, it was not as with Miltoun,
on the score of the senses and the heart, but on the score of her spirit
and curiosity, which Courtier had awakened and caused to flap their
wings a little. She worried over Miltoun's forlorn case; it hurt her
too to think of Mrs. Noel eating her heart out in that lonely cottage.
A sister so—good and earnest as Agatha had ever inclined Barbara to a
rebellious view of morals, and disinclined her altogether to religion.
And so, she felt that if those two could not be happy apart, they should
be happy together, in the name of all the joy there was in life!
And while her brother lay face to the sky under the tamarisks, she kept
trying to think of how to console him, conscious that she did not in
the least understand the way he thought about things. Over the fields
behind, the larks were hymning the promise of the unripe corn; the
foreshore was painted all colours, from vivid green to mushroom pink;
by the edge of the blue sea little black figures stooped, gathering
sapphire. The air smelled sweet in the shade of the tamarisk; there was
ineffable peace. And Barbara, covered by the network of sunlight, could
not help impatience with a suffering which seemed to her so corrigible
by action. At last she ventured:
“Life is short, Eusty!”
Miltoun's answer, given without movement, startled her:
“Persuade me that it is, Babs, and I'll bless you. If the singing of
these larks means nothing, if that blue up there is a morass of our
invention, if we are pettily, creeping on furthering nothing, if there's
no purpose in our lives, persuade me of it, for God's sake!”
Carried suddenly beyond her depth, Barbara could only put out her hand,
and say: “Oh! don't take things so hard!”
“Since you say that life is short,” Miltoun muttered, with his smile,
“you shouldn't spoil it by feeling pity! In old days we went to the
Tower for our convictions. We can stand a little private roasting, I
hope; or has the sand run out of us altogether?”
Stung by his tone, Barbara answered in rather a hard voice:
“What we must bear, we must, I suppose. But why should we make trouble?
That's what I can't stand!”
“O profound wisdom!”
Barbara flushed.
“I love Life!” she said.
The galleons of the westering sun were already sailing in a broad
gold fleet straight for that foreshore where the little black stooping
figures had not yet finished their toil, the larks still sang over the
unripe corn—when Harbinger, galloping along the sands from Whitewater to
Sea House, came on that silent couple walking home to dinner.
It would not be safe to say of this young man that he readily diagnosed
a spiritual atmosphere, but this was the less his demerit, since
everything from his cradle up had conspired to keep the spiritual
thermometer of his surroundings at 60 in the shade. And the fact that
his own spiritual thermometer had now run up so that it threatened
to burst the bulb, rendered him less likely than ever to see what was
happening with other people's. Yet, he did notice that Barbara was
looking pale, and—it seemed—sweeter than ever.... With her eldest
brother he always somehow felt ill at ease. He could not exactly afford
to despise an uncompromising spirit in one of his own order, but he
was no more impervious than others to Miltoun's caustic, thinly-veiled
contempt for the commonplace; and having a full-blooded belief in
himself—-usual with men of fine physique, whose lots are so cast that
this belief can never or almost never be really shaken—he greatly
disliked the feeling of being a little looked down on. It was an intense
relief, when, saying that he wanted a certain magazine, Miltoun strode
off into the town.
To Harbinger, no less than to Miltoun and Barbara, last night had been
bitter and restless. The sight of that pale swaying figure, with the
parted lips, whirling round in Courtier's arms, had clung to his vision
ever since, the Ball. During his own last dance with her he had been
almost savagely silent; only by a great effort restraining his tongue
from mordant allusions to that 'prancing, red-haired fellow,' as he
secretly called the champion of lost causes. In fact, his sensations
there and since had been a revelation, or would have teen if he could
have stood apart to see them. True, he had gone about next day with his
usual cool, off-hand manner, because one naturally did not let people
see, but it was with such an inner aching and rage of want and jealousy
as to really merit pity. Men of his physically big, rather rushing,
type, are the last to possess their souls in patience. Walking home
after the Ball he had determined to follow her down to the sea, where
she had said, so maliciously; that she was going. After a second almost
sleepless night he had no longer any hesitation. He must see her! After
all, a man might go to his own 'place' with impunity; he did not care if
it were a pointed thing to do.... Pointed! The more pointed the better!
There was beginning to be roused in him an ugly stubbornness of male
determination. She should not escape him!
But now that he was walking at her side, all that determination and
assurance melted to perplexed humility. He marched along by his horse
with his head down, just feeling the ache of being so close to her and
yet so far; angry with his own silence and awkwardness, almost angry
with her for her loveliness, and the pain it made him suffer. When they
reached the house, and she left him at the stable-yard, saying she was
going to get some flowers, he jerked the beast's bridle and swore at
it for its slowness in entering the stable. He, was terrified that she
would be gone before he could get into the garden; yet half afraid of
finding her there. But she was still plucking carnations by the box
hedge which led to the conservatories. And as she rose from gathering
those blossoms, before he knew what he was doing, Harbinger had thrown
his arm around her, held her as in a vice, kissed her unmercifully.
She seemed to offer no resistance, her smooth cheeks growing warmer and
warmer, even her lips passive; but suddenly he recoiled, and his heart
stood still at his own outrageous daring. What had he done? He saw her
leaning back almost buried in the clipped box hedge, and heard her say
with a sort of faint mockery: “Well!”
He would have flung himself down on his knees to ask for pardon but for
the thought that someone might come. He muttered hoarsely: “By God, I
was mad!” and stood glowering in sullen suspense between hardihood and
fear. He heard her say, quietly:
“Yes, you were-rather.”
Then seeing her put her hand up to her lips as if he had hurt them, he
muttered brokenly:
“Forgive me, Babs!”
There was a full minute's silence while he stood there, no longer
daring to look at her, beaten all over by his emotions. Then, with
bewilderment, he heard her say:
“I didn't mind it—for once!”
He looked up at that. How could she love him, and speak so coolly! How
could she not mind, if she did not love him! She was passing her hands
over her face and neck and hair, repairing the damage of his kisses.
“Now shall we go in?” she said.
Harbinger took a step forward.
“I love you so,” he said; “I will put my life in your hands, and you
shall throw it away.”
At those words, of whose exact nature he had very little knowledge, he
saw her smile.
“If I let you come within three yards, will you be good?”
He bowed; and, in silence, they walked towards the house.
Dinner that evening was a strange, uncomfortable meal. But its comedy,
too subtly played for Miltoun and Lord Dennis, seemed transparent to the
eyes of Lady Casterley; for, when Harbinger had sallied forth to ride
back along the sands, she took her candle and invited Barbara to retire.
Then, having admitted her granddaughter to the apartment always reserved
for herself, and specially furnished with practically nothing, she sat
down opposite that tall, young, solid figure, as it were taking stock of
it, and said:
“So you are coming to your senses, at all events. Kiss me!”
Barbara, stooping to perform this rite, saw a tear stealing down the
carved fine nose. Knowing that to notice it would be too dreadful, she
raised herself, and went to the window. There, staring out over the dark
fields and dark sea, by the side of which Harbinger was riding home, she
put her hand up to her, lips, and thought for the hundredth time:
“So that's what it's like!”