Taken from an architectural point of view there was nothing to be said
for French’s Court. It belonged to the race of stone boxes, with
tightly-fitting lids, that were built in Ireland a hundred years ago,
the greater box or the less, according to the circumstances of the
builder, and it was of as Presbyterian a gauntness as its tribe.
Contrary, however, to the rule which ordained that the stone box should,
as far as possible, face north and east, French’s Court, with its ranks
of high windows, looked out into the sunset across a great plain of
western ocean. From the edge of the long bare terrace in front of the
house, the grass-lands sloped suavely between plantations to the sea,
where Atlantic rollers charged and volleyed in stubborn fastnesses of
cliff. The low hills behind the house were clothed with woods, brown and
grey now in the mute suspense of January, touched here and there with
orange where last year’s beech leaves clung like a stain of rust.
It was a big outlook, and the owner of French’s Court was a very small
incident of the foreground, as he stood on the terrace and watched the
fishing-boats creeping out in the raw, grey calm to the solitudes beyond
the horizon. A portmanteau and a gun-case stood on the steps of the hall
door, and a brown retriever was moving nervously round the gun-case,
hurrying from it now and again to thrust her curly head into Hugh’s
hand, and beseech him with her amber eyes not to leave her behind. Every
dog believed in Hugh, and told him so by the varied and untiring dog
methods, but now, with that restless and aching reference of all things
to one subject, Hugh gave his hand to the innocent homage with the
feeling that every one except his dog had found him out. His wife knew
it, Bunbury knew it, he writhed under their tact when they avoided all
discussion of his part in the run that the Silver Fox had given them; he
detected with agony the consideration that prompted Lady Susan’s gallant
efforts to talk on subjects unconnected with horses. He could have found
it in his heart to swear at her and tell her she need not take so much
trouble; he would have liked to quarrel with Bunbury and show him which
was the pluckier man; he dwelt on the thought with pitiful, childish
intensity, and drove his heel into the gravel, half knowing himself to
be pitiful and childish.
There are junctures in a life when deficiency of intellect may
disastrously alter the moral balance, and the smaller mind may have need
of supreme and heroic effort to attain the philosophy or even the sanity
that are easy to stronger intelligences. All Hugh’s native good-feeling
was not enough to avail him when he remembered his wife’s figure up
against the sky on the top of the stone-faced bank, while he turned and
made for the byways and highways that had been his portion throughout
the day. Passionate admiration, turning to passionate jealousy of her
flawless courage, and self-contempt, and knowledge that his eyes would
never again meet hers without consciousness of failure; all these
because a good little average man had but two ideas in his life, and
when one was taken from him, the other sickened like a poisoned thing.
The slow beat of a horse’s hoofs became audible on the avenue, and a
sombre vehicle, that was half brougham and half cab, emerged from the
trees into the open. Its coachman had a long red beard, a frieze coat,
and a hat with a silver cord round it; the horse was white and shaggy,
the wheels of the brougham turned in as if it were bandy-legged. Hugh
recognized the equipage of his Uncle Charles, and stationed himself at
the hall door to receive it.
“It’s awfully good of you to come, Slaney,” he said, with an effort at
his wonted geniality. “Such short notice too. I didn’t know that I was
going to this shoot till I got in from hunting the day before
yesterday.”
He could remember, as he spoke, the mountain stream by which, when
riding home, he had made up his mind to go, while the steady patter of
the hounds’ paws sounded behind him on the wet road, and the honest
hound faces that he was beginning to hate looked up at him from time to
time.
Slaney and he found the drawing-room empty of all but a smell of
cigarettes, and pursuing a fresh trail of it to the smoking-room, found
Lady Susan sitting with a cigarette in her shapely mouth, and in front
of her a mandoline, from which she was plucking a shrill and agueish
chatter of melody, representing a waltz. A grey poodle lay at her feet,
with his moustached muzzle buried in the fur rug, and his eyes rolling
purgatorially upward in the forbidden longing to lift up his voice and
howl an accompaniment to the tune. Major Bunbury was reading a newspaper
with that air of serving his country that belongs to men when they read
papers. No woman can hope to read the _Times_ as though it were a
profession; it is a masculine gift, akin to that of dining.
“Oh, it’s only Slaney!” exclaimed Lady Susan. “We bolted in here when we
saw the white horse. We thought it was the parson. Well, you’re very
good to come, dear, and it’s very nice to have you.” She kissed Slaney
briskly on both cheeks, conveying a mingled flavour of smart clothes,
tobacco, and careless friendliness. “Hughie could never have gone away
and left Bunny and me here together for a week, you know! It would have
been hideously improper, wouldn’t it? Uncle Charles would have had three
fits on the spot, wouldn’t he?” She stationed herself on the arm of
Major Bunbury’s chair, and put her elbow on his shoulder.
Slaney realized that of the whole party she alone felt the proceeding to
be unusual, yet Major Bunbury did not seem to appreciate it.
“Well, I’m off, anyhow,” said Hugh. “Make them look after you, Slaney.
If Glasgow wants to know anything more about the next meet or stopping
the earths, or anything, Bunbury, Dan can tell him.” In spite of
himself, his voice stiffened till all the good-fellowship was gone from
it. “Well, good-bye, everybody.”
He wondered whether his wife would come out to see him off, but he could
not ask her. She got up and came to the door, and stood leaning against
it as he passed out. She was not quite sufficiently feminine to discern
that, in spite of his unprepossessing manner, and bald brevity of
farewell, he hated going away from her, and he went down the passage
unaccompanied except by his dog.
“I think Hughie’s got influenza, or liver, or something,” remarked Lady
Susan, returning to the mandoline, “he’s awfully grumpy.”
Bunbury got up without answering, and followed his host to the hall
door.