His brain was working rapidly, the while he felt a curious leaden sensation at his heart. He had never even contemplated the possibility of the Duchessa living in the neighbourhood, though he now marvelled why he had never happened to question her as to the exact locality of Woodleigh.

Of course he knew, and assured himself that he knew, that the chances were all against any probability of their meeting. How was it likely they should meet, seeing that she was a grande dame, and he merely an under-gardener at the Hall? Of course it was not probable. Nevertheless there was just the faintest chance. He couldn’t deny that remote chance. And if they did meet, and she should recognize him?—There was the question.

Explanation would be impossible in view of his promise. And what would she think? Wouldn’t it be conceivable, nay, wouldn’t it be natural that she should be indignant at the thought that she had admitted to her friendship a man, who, to her eyes, would appear one of inferior birth? Wouldn’t his behaviour on the Fort Salisbury appear to her in the light of a fraud? Wouldn’t his letter appear to her as a piece of preposterous presumption on his part? How could it be expected that she should see beneath the surface of things as they seemed to be, and solve the riddle of appearances? It was such an inconceivable situation, such an altogether unheard of situation, laughable too, if it weren’t for the vague possibility of the—to him—tragedy he now saw involved in it. It was this, this vague sense of tragedy, that was causing that leaden sensation at his heart.

He tried to tell himself that he was being morbid, that he ran no possible risk of coming face to face with the Duchessa, in spite of the fact that the Manor House Woodleigh lay but two miles distant. But the assurances he heaped upon his soul, went a remarkably small way towards cheering it.

And yet, through the leadenness upon his soul, through that vague, almost indefinable sense of tragedy at hand, ran a curious little note of exultation. Though he had no smallest desire for her to set eyes on him, might not he set eyes on her? And yet, if he did, would the joy in the sight be worth the dull ache, the horrible sense of isolation in the knowledge that word with her was forbidden.

He realized now, for the first time in its fullest measure, what her advent into his life meant to him. Bodily separation for a year had been possible to contemplate. Even should it extend to a lifetime, he would still have three golden weeks of memory to his comfort. But should mental separation fall upon him, should it ever be his lot to read anger in her eyes, he felt that his very soul would die. Even memory would be lost to him, by reason of the unbearable pain it would hold. And then, with the characteristics of a man accustomed to face possibilities, to confront contingencies and emergencies beforehand, he saw himself face to face with a temptation. Should the emergency he contemplated arise, was there not a simple solution of it? She was quick-witted, she might quite conceivably guess at the existence of some riddle. Would not the tiniest hint suffice for her? The merest possible inflection of his voice?

He had reached his cottage by now. He went in and shut the door.

He sat down on the oak settle, staring at the little casement window opposite to him, without seeing it. It appeared to him that there were voices talking within his brain or soul,—he didn’t know which,—while he himself was answering one of them—the loudest.

The loudest voice spoke quite cheerfully, and was full of common sense. It urged him to abandon the consideration of the whole matter for the present; it told him that the probability of his meeting the Duchessa was so extraordinarily remote, that it was not worth while torturing his mind with considerations of what line of action he would take should the emergency arise. Should it do so, he could act then as his conscience prompted.

He found himself replying to this voice, speaking almost stubbornly. He had got to fight the matter out now, he declared. He had got to decide absolutely definitely what course of action he intended to pursue, should the emergency he feared arise. He was not going to leave matters to chance and be surprised into saying or doing something he might either way afterwards regret. He knew the danger of not making up his mind beforehand. To which the loud voice responded with something like a sneer, telling him to have it his own way. And then it remained mockingly silent, while another and more insidious voice began to speak.

The insidious voice told him quite gently that this emergency might indeed arise; it pointed out to him the quite conceivable events that might occur from it; it assured him that it had no possible desire that he should break his promise in any way. He was not to dream of giving any explanation to the Duchessa, but that he would owe it to himself, and to her, to give her the faintest hint that at a future date he could give her an explanation. That was all. There would be no breaking of his promise. She could not possibly even guess at what that explanation might be. She would merely realize that something underlay the present appearances.

The proposition sounded perfectly reasonable, perfectly just. His own common sense told him that there could be no harm in it. It was the rightful solution of the difficulty, arrived at by silencing that first loud voice,—the voice which had clearly wished him to abandon all consideration of the matter, that he might be surprised into giving a full explanation of the situation.

Antony drew a long breath of relief.

After all, he had been torturing himself needlessly. She herself had spoken of trust. Should that trust totter for an instant, would not the faintest possible hint be sufficient to re-establish it on a firm basis?

With the thought, the little square of casement window came back once more to his vision. He saw through it an old-fashioned rose bush of crimson roses in the garden; he heard a bird twitter, and call to its mate. The abnormal had vanished, reduced itself once more to plain wholesome common sense. And then suddenly, and without warning, a sentence flashed through his brain.

Antony sat up, clenching his hands furiously between his knees. It was absurd, preposterous. There was no smallest occasion to take those words in such a desperately literal sense.

“In short, he will do all in his power to give the impression that he is simply and solely Michael Field, working-man, and under-gardener at Chorley Old Hall.”

The words rang as clearly in his brain as if there were someone in the room speaking them aloud. Once more the window vanished. There were no voices speaking now; there was only a curious and rather horrible silence, in which there was no need for voices.

The faintest little whine from Josephus aroused him. It was long past the dinner hour, and racing the sands is exceedingly hungry work.

Antony’s eyes came back from the window. His face was rather white, and his mouth set in a straight line. But there was an oddly triumphant look in his eyes.

“I think a meal will do us both good, old man,” he said with a little whimsical smile. And he began getting down plates from the dresser.