IV

The bridge is built, the fence finished, and Other Kingdom lies tethered

by a ribbon of asphalt to our front door. The seventy-eight trees

therein certainly seem nearer, and during the windy nights that followed

Ford's departure we could hear their branches sighing, and would find in

the morning that beech-leaves had been blown right up against the house.

Miss Beaumont made no attempt to go out, much to the relief of the

ladies, for Harcourt had given the word that she was not to go out

unattended, and the boisterous weather deranged their petticoats. She

remained indoors, neither reading nor laughing, and dressing no longer

in green, but in brown.

Not noticing her presence, Mr. Worters looked in one day and said with a

sigh of relief: "That's all right. The circle's completed."

"Is it indeed!" she replied.

"You there, you quiet little mouse? I only meant that our lords, the

British workmen, have at last condescended to complete their labours,

and have rounded us off from the world. I--in the end I was a naughty,

domineering tyrant, and disobeyed you. I didn't have the gate out at the

further side of the copse. Will you forgive me?"

"Anything, Harcourt, that pleases you, is certain to please me."

The ladies smiled at each other, and Mr. Worters said: "That's right,

and as soon as the wind goes down we'll all progress together to your

wood; and take possession of it formally, for it didn't really count

that last time."

"No, it didn't really count that last time," Miss Beaumont echoed.

"Evelyn says this wind never will go down," remarked Mrs. Worters. "I

don't know how she knows."

"It will never go down, as long as I am in the house."

"Really?" he said gaily. "Then come out now, and send it down with me."

They took a few turns up and down the terrace. The wind lulled for a

moment, but blew fiercer than ever during lunch. As we ate, it roared

and whistled down the chimney at us, and the trees of Other Kingdom

frothed like the sea. Leaves and twigs flew from them, and a bough, a

good-sized bough, was blown on to the smooth asphalt path, and actually

switchbacked over the bridge, up the meadow, and across our very lawn.

(I venture to say "our," as I am now staying on as Harcourt's

secretary.) Only the stone steps prevented it from reaching the terrace

and perhaps breaking the dining-room window. Miss Beaumont sprang up

and, napkin in hand, ran out and touched it.

"Oh, Evelyn----" the ladies cried.

"Let her go," said Mr. Worters tolerantly. "It certainly is a remarkable

incident, remarkable. We must remember to tell the Archdeacon about it."

"Harcourt," she cried, with the first hint of returning colour in her

cheeks, "mightn't we go up to the copse after lunch, you and I?"

Mr. Worters considered.

"Of course, not if you don't think best."

"Inskip, what's your opinion?"

I saw what his own was, and cried, "Oh, let's go!" though I detest the

wind as much as any one.

"Very well. Mother, Anna, Ruth, Mrs. Osgood--we'll all go."

And go we did, a lugubrious procession; but the gods were good to us for

once, for as soon as we were started, the tempest dropped, and there

ensued an extraordinary calm. After all, Miss Beaumont was something of

a weather prophet. Her spirits improved every minute. She tripped in

front of us along the asphalt path, and ever and anon turned round to

say to her lover some gracious or alluring thing. I admired her for it.

I admire people who know on which side their bread's buttered.

"Evelyn, come here!"

"Come here yourself."

"Give me a kiss."

"Come and take it then."

He ran after her, and she ran away, while all our party laughed

melodiously.

"Oh, I am so happy!" she cried. "I think I've everything I want in all

the world. Oh dear, those last few days indoors! But oh, I am so happy

now!" She had changed her brown dress for the old flowing green one, and

she began to do her skirt dance in the open meadow, lit by sudden gleams

of the sunshine. It was really a beautiful sight, and Mr. Worters did

not correct her, glad perhaps that she should recover her spirits, even

if she lost her tone. Her feet scarcely moved, but her body so swayed

and her dress spread so gloriously around her, that we were transported

with joy. She danced to the song of a bird that sang passionately in

Other Kingdom, and the river held back its waves to watch her (one might

have supposed), and the winds lay spell-bound in their cavern, and the

great clouds spell-bound in the sky. She danced away from our society

and our life, back, back through the centuries till houses and fences

fell and the earth lay wild to the sun. Her garment was as foliage upon

her, the strength of her limbs as boughs, her throat the smooth upper

branch that salutes the morning or glistens to the rain. Leaves move,

leaves hide it as hers was hidden by the motion of her hair. Leaves move

again and it is ours, as her throat was ours again when, parting the

tangle, she faced us crying, "Oh!" crying, "Oh Harcourt! I never was so

happy. I have all that there is in the world."

But he, entrammelled in love's ecstasy, forgetting certain Madonnas of

Raphael, forgetting, I fancy, his soul, sprang to inarm her with,

"Evelyn! Eternal Bliss! Mine to eternity! Mine!" and she sprang away.

Music was added and she sang, "Oh Ford! oh Ford, among all these

Worters, I am coming through you to my Kingdom. Oh Ford, my lover while

I was a woman, I will never forget you, never, as long as I have

branches to shade you from the sun," and, singing, crossed the stream.

Why he followed her so passionately, I do not know. It was play, she was

in his own domain which a fence surrounds, and she could not possibly

escape him. But he dashed round by the bridge as if all their love was

at stake, and pursued her with fierceness up the hill. She ran well, but

the end was a foregone conclusion, and we only speculated whether he

would catch her outside or inside the copse. He gained on her inch by

inch; now they were in the shadow of the trees; he had practically

grasped her, he had missed; she had disappeared into the trees

themselves, he following.

"Harcourt is in high spirits," said Mrs. Osgood, Anna, and Ruth.

"Evelyn!" we heard him shouting within.

We proceeded up the asphalt path.

"Evelyn! Evelyn!"

"He's not caught her yet, evidently."

"Where are you, Evelyn?"

"Miss Beaumont must have hidden herself rather cleverly."

"Look here," cried Harcourt, emerging, "have you seen Evelyn?"

"Oh, no, she's certainly inside."

"So I thought."

"Evelyn must be dodging round one of the trunks. You go this way, I

that. We'll soon find her."

We searched, gaily at first, and always with a feeling that Miss

Beaumont was close by, that the delicate limbs were just behind this

bole, the hair and the drapery quivering among those leaves. She was

beside us, above us; here was her footstep on the purple-brown

earth--her bosom, her neck--she was everywhere and nowhere. Gaiety

turned to irritation, irritation to anger and fear. Miss Beaumont was

apparently lost. "Evelyn! Evelyn!" we continued to cry. "Oh, really, it

is beyond a joke."

Then the wind arose, the more violent for its lull, and we were driven

into the house by a terrific storm. We said, "At all events she will

come back now." But she did not come, and the rain hissed and rose up

from the dry meadows like incense smoke, and smote the quivering leaves

to applause. Then it lightened. Ladies screamed, and we saw Other

Kingdom as one who claps the hands, and heard it as one who roars with

laughter in the thunder. Not even the Archdeacon can remember such a

storm. All Harcourt's seedlings were ruined, and the tiles flew off his

gables right and left. He came to me presently with a white, drawn face,

saying: "Inskip, can I trust you?"

"You can, indeed."

"I have long suspected it; she has eloped with Ford."

"But how----" I gasped.

"The carriage is ready--we'll talk as we drive." Then, against the rain

he shouted: "No gate in the fence, I know, but what about a ladder?

While I blunder, she's over the fence, and he----"

"But you were so close. There was not the time."

"There is time for anything," he said venomously, "where a treacherous

woman is concerned. I found her no better than a savage, I trained her,

I educated her. But I'll break them both. I can do that; I'll break them

soul and body."

No one can break Ford now. The task is impossible. But I trembled for

Miss Beaumont.

We missed the train. Young couples had gone by it, several young

couples, and we heard of more young couples in London, as if all the

world were mocking Harcourt's solitude. In desperation we sought the

squalid suburb that is now Ford's home. We swept past the dirty maid and

the terrified aunt, swept upstairs, to catch him if we could red-handed.

He was seated at the table, reading the _Oedipus Coloneus_ of Sophocles.

"That won't take in me!" shouted Harcourt. "You've got Miss Beaumont

with you, and I know it."

"No such luck," said Ford.

He stammered with rage. "Inskip--you hear that? 'No such luck'! Quote

the evidence against him. I can't speak."

So I quoted her song. "'Oh Ford! Oh Ford, among all these Worters, I am

coming through you to my Kingdom! Oh Ford, my lover while I was a woman,

I will never forget you, never, as long as I have branches to shade you

from the sun.' Soon after that, we lost her."

"And--and on another occasion she sent a message of similar effect.

Inskip, bear witness. He was to 'guess' something."

"I have guessed it," said Ford.

"So you practically----"

"Oh, no, Mr. Worters, you mistake me. I have not practically guessed. I

have guessed. I could tell you if I chose, but it would be no good, for

she has not practically escaped you. She has escaped you absolutely, for

ever and ever, as long as there are branches to shade men from the sun."