Lavendar had discovered, much to his dismay, that he must return to London upon important business; it was even a matter of uncertainty whether his father could spare him again or would consent to his returning to Stoke Revel to conclude Mrs. de Tracy’s arrangements about the sale of the land.

Affairs of the heart are like thunderstorms; the atmosphere may sometimes seem charged with electricity, and yet circumstances, like a sudden wind that sweeps the clouds away before they break, may cause the lovers to drift apart. Or all in a moment may come thunder, lightning, and rain from a clear sky, and there is nothing that is apt to precipitate matters like an unexpected parting.

When Lavendar announced that he had 182 to leave Stoke Revel, two pairs of eyes, Miss Smeardon’s and Carnaby’s, instantly looked at Robinette to see how she received the news, but she only smiled at the moment. She was just beginning her breakfast, and like the famous Charlotte, “went on cutting bread and butter,” without any sign of emotion.

“Hurrah!” thought the boy. “Now we can have some fun, and I’ll perhaps make her see that old Lavendar isn’t the only companion in the world.”

“She minds,” thought Miss Smeardon, “for she buttered that piece of bread on the one side a minute ago, and now she’s just done it on the other––and eaten it too.”

“She doesn’t care a bit,” thought Lavendar. “She’s not even changed colour; my going or staying is nothing to her; I needn’t come back.”

He had made up his mind to return just the same, if it were at all possible, and he told Mrs. de Tracy so. She remarked graciously that he was a welcome guest at any 183 time, and Carnaby, hearing this, pinched Lord Roberts till he howled like a fiend, and fled for comfort to his mistress’s lap.

“You little coward,” said Carnaby, “you should be ashamed to bear the name of a hero.”

“I’ve mentioned to you before, Carnaby, I think, that I dislike that jest,” said his grandmother, and Carnaby advancing to the injured beast said, “Yes, ma’am, and so does Bobs, doesn’t he, Bobs?” reducing the lap-dog to paroxysms of fury. “Would it be any better if I called him Kitchener?” hissing the word into the animal’s face. “Jealous, Bobs? Eh? Kitchener.” This last word had a rasping sound that irritated the little creature more than ever; his teeth jibbered with anger, and Miss Smeardon had to offer him a saucer of cream before he could be calmed down enough for the rest of the party to hear themselves speak.

“Had you nice letters this morning? Mine were very uninteresting,” Robinette remarked 184 to Lavendar as they stood together at the doorway in the sunshine, while Carnaby chased the lap-dog round and round the lawn.

“I had only two letters; one was from my sister Amy, the candid one! her letters are not generally exhilarating.”

“Oh, I know, home letters are usually enough to send one straight to bed with a headache! They never sound a note of hope from first to last; although if you had no home, but only a house, like me, with no one but a caretaker in it, you’d be very thankful to get them, doleful or not.”

“I doubt it,” Mark answered, for Amy’s letter seemed to be burning a hole in his pocket at that moment. He had skimmed it hurriedly through, but parts of it were already only too plain.

When the others had gone into the house, he went off by himself, and jumping the low fence that divided the lawn from the fields beyond, he flung himself down under 185 a tree to read it over again. Carnaby, spying him there, came rushing from the house, and was soon pouring out a tale of something that had happened somewhere, and throwing stones as he talked, at the birds circling about the ivied tower of the little church.

The field was full of buttercups up to the very churchyard walls. “I must get away by myself for a bit,” Lavendar thought. “That boy’s chatter will drive me mad.” At this point Carnaby’s volatile attention was diverted by the sight of a gardener mounting a ladder to clear the sparrows’ nests from the water chutes, and he jumped up in a twinkling to take his part in this new joy. Lavendar rose, and strolled off with his hands in his pockets and his bare head bent. The grass he walked in was a very Field of the Cloth of Gold. His shoes were gilded by the pollen from the buttercups, his eyes dazzled by their colour; it was a relief to pass through the stone archway that led into the little churchyard. To his spirit at that moment 186 the chill was refreshing. He loitered about for a few minutes, and then seeing that the door was open, he entered the church, closing the door gently behind him.

It was very quiet in there and even the chirping of the sparrows was softened into a faint twitter. Here at last was a place set apart, a moment of stillness when he might think things out by himself.

He took out Amy’s letter, smoothing it flat on the prayer books before him, and forced himself to read it through. The early paragraphs dealt with some small item of family news which in his present state of mind mattered to Lavendar no more than the distant chirruping of the birds, out there in the sunshine. “You seem determined to stay for some time at Stoke Revel,” his sister wrote. “No doubt the pretty American is the attraction. She sounds charming from your description, but my dear man, that’s all froth! How many times have I heard this sort of 187 thing from you before! Remember I know everything about your former loves.”

“You don’t, then,” said Lavendar to himself. Down, down, down at the bottom of the well of the heart where truth lies, there is always some remembrance, generally a very little one, that can never be told to any confidant.

“You will find out faults in Mrs. Loring presently, just like the rest of them,” continued the pitiless writer. (Amy’s handwriting was painfully distinct.) “I must tell you that at the Cowleys’ the other day, I suddenly came face to face with Gertrude Meredith and Dolly! Dolly looks a good deal older already and fatter, I thought. I fear she is losing her looks, for her colour has become fixed, and she will wear no collars still, although on a rather thick neck, it’s not at all becoming. I spoke to her for about three minutes, as it was less awkward, when we met suddenly face to face like that. She laughed a good deal, and asked for you 188 rather audaciously, I thought. They live near Winchester now, and since the Colonel’s death are pretty badly off, Gertrude says. Dolly is going to Devonshire to stay with the Cowleys; you may meet her there any day, remember. It does seem incredible to me that a man of your discrimination could have been won by the obvious devotion of a girl like Dolly; but having given your word I almost think you would better have kept it, rather than suffer all this criticism from a host of mutual friends.”

Lavendar groaned aloud. He had a good memory, and with all too great distinctness did he now remember Dolly Meredith’s laugh. How wretched it had all been; not a word had ever passed between them that had any value now. If he could have washed the thought of her forever from his memory, how greatly he would have rejoiced at that moment.

Well, it was over; written down against him, that he had been what the world called 189 a jilt and a fool; yes, certainly a fool, but not so great a one as to follow his folly to its ultimate conclusion, and tie himself for life to a woman he did not love.

Lavendar was extraordinarily sensitive about the breaking of his engagement; partly because Miss Meredith herself, in her first rage, had avowed his responsibility for her blighted future, giving him no chance for chivalrous behaviour; partly because in all his transient love affairs he had easily tired of the women who inspired them. He seemed thirsty for love, but weary of it almost as soon as the draught reached his lips.

And now had he a chance again?––or was it all to end in disappointment once more, in that cold disappointment of the heart that has received stones for bread? It was not entirely his own fault; he had expected much from life, and hitherto had received very little. But Robinette!

“Let me find all her faults now,” he said to himself, “or evermore keep silent; meantime 190 I hope I am not concealing too many of my own.”

He tried to force himself into criticism; to look at her as a cold observer from the outside would have done; for that curious Border country of Love which he had entered has not an equable climate at all. It is fire and frost alternate; and criticism is either roused almost to a morbid pitch, or else the faculty is drugged, and nothing, not even the enumeration of a hundred foibles will awaken it for a time.

When the cold fit had been upon him the evening before, Lavendar had said to himself that her manner was too free––that she had led him on too quickly; no, that expression was dishonourable and unjust; he repented it instantly; she had been too unself-conscious, too girlish, too unthinking, in what she said and did. “But she’s a widow after all, though she’s only two and twenty,” he went on to himself. “Hang it! I wish she were not! If her heart were in her husband’s 191 grave I should be moaning at that; and because I see that it is not, I become critical. There’s nothing quite perfect in life!”

He had begun by noticing some little defects in her personal appearance, but he was long past that now; what did such trifles matter, here or there? Then he remembered all that he had heard said about American women. Did those pretty clothes of hers mean that she would be extravagant and selfish to obtain them? Could a young man with no great fortune offer her the luxury that was necessary to her? and even so, what changes come with time! He had a full realization of what the boredom of family life can be, when passion has grown stale.

“At seventy, say, when I am palsied and she is old and fat, will romance be alive then? Will such feeling leave anything real behind it when it falls away, as the white blossoms on Mrs. Prettyman’s plum tree will shrink and fall a fortnight hence?”

He looked about him. On the walls of the little church were tablets with the de Tracy names; the names of her forefathers amongst them. Under his feet were other flags with names upon them too; and out there in the sunshine were the grave-stones of a hundred dead. How many of them had been happy in their loves?

Not so many, he thought, if all were told, and why should he hope to be different? Yet surely this was a new feeling, a worthy one, at last. It was not for her charming person that he loved her; not because of her beauty and her gaiety only; but because he had seen in her something that gave a promise of completion to his own nature, the something that would satisfy not only his senses but his empty heart.

He clenched his hands on the carved top of the old pew in front of him, which was fashioned into a laughing gnome with the body of a duck. “And if this should be all a dream,” he asked himself again, “if this 193 should all be false too! Good Lord!” he cried half aloud, “I want to be honest now! I want to find the truth. My whole life is on the throw this time!”

There was a moment’s silence after he had uttered the words. He got up and moved slowly down the aisle, opening the door, seeing again the meadow of buttercups, yellow as gold, and listening again to the sparrows chirruping in the sunshine outside.

“I have been in that church a quarter of an hour,” he said to himself, “and in trying to dive to the depths of myself and find out whether I was giving a woman all I had to give, I did not get time to consider that woman’s probable answer, should I place my uninteresting life and liberty at her disposal.”