"I Don't think I need tell you that this is a very severe blow to me; it almost knocks me out, but not quite; there's some fight still left in me. There's one thing which I should take it as a very great favour if you would tell me; have you said--what you have done, because--there's someone else? I know I've no right to ask such a question, but--I can't help it."

Major Harold Reith looked as if he could not; a more woe-begone looking gentleman of six-feet-two one could hardly expect to find. The most absurd part of it was that he had been so very nearly confident. The lady had been so kind--so very much kinder, perhaps, than he supposed, but for that she had her reasons. Then her uncle, old Geoffrey Hovenden, had been not only on his side but so delightfuly sanguine. When the major expressed a doubt as to what the lady's sentiments might be, Mr. Hovenden had pooh-poohed it.

"Don't talk like a schoolboy, Reith; you know better than that; you admit that the girl likes you--you can't expect to be told how much till you give her a chance."

Now he had given her a chance, and if he had not been told how much, she had at least endeavoured to make it clear that it was not as much as he wanted. Her answer to the question he had asked put an end to the little remaining hope he had left.

The proposal had been made in the wood. He had gone for a stroll with her with the intention of finding an opportunity to ask her to be his wife; being conceivably quite aware of his intentions, she had given him one. It was the commencement of April. Spring promised to be early that year. The wood was carpeted with primroses. She had been picking them as they walked, and was arranging her nosegay as she talked.

"Of course, on the face of it, no one has a right to ask a girl such a question; she might be consumed by a secret passion which was not reciprocated, which she knew never would be, and yet which she was aware would render it impossible that she should ever listen to another; by another I mean, for instance, you."

"Is yours a case of a secret passion?" She had dropped some of her primroses; he stooped to pick them up for her; a great bunch of them she had, almost as large as her two hands would hold.

"Thanks; no, I can't say that mine is; yet all the same--I've a fellow-feeling for you."

"That's very good of you; but in what sense have you what you call a fellow-feeling, and to what extent does it go?"

"It goes all the way. There go some of these primroses again; they are such droppy things."

"If you really mean what you say then I am a very happy man."

"You may be or you mayn't; happiness is often largely a question of temperament. For example, I ought to be a very unhappy girl, but I'm not; somehow unhappiness doesn't seem to come easy to me."

"You are very fortunate; what cause have you for unhappiness? I should have thought that there were few people who had less. Has it anything to do with the imagination?"

"There's only one thing I want in this world, and it looks as if I were as little likely to get it as if it were the moon; you may call that imagination, but it's a fact."

"And what may that one thing be?"

"You were just now saying some pretty things about there being only one thing you wanted, and that was the girl you loved, meaning me. I am in the same delightfully romantic situation; there's only one thing I want, and that's the man I love."

A slight change took place in his face, as if a cloud had obscured the sun. He looked at her in silence; it would have been hard to say which was the prettier--she or the flowers. It was seen when he spoke that the change had extended to his voice.

"So there is someone?"

"Oh dear, yes; there always has been, and there always will be."

"Your uncle gave me to understand that the field was clear."

"My uncle Geoffrey Hovenden is--I'm sorry to have to say it of a relation of mine--a Machiavellian old gentleman. No one is better acquainted with my piteous plight than he is; but because he wants you, and wants me to want you, he says nothing about it. Do you mean to say you don't know who it is?"

"Do you suppose that if I had even guessed that there was another I should have said what I have done?"

"There's no telling; his own brother knew all about it, but that didn't stop him."

"Who is the lucky man?"

"Lucky! Pray do let us keep clear of the language of exaggeration, but I doubt if there is a more unlucky creature on the face of God's earth."

"You pique my curiosity; standing with you as he does I can hardly conceive of him as unlucky. Do I know him?"

"You did, if you don't now."

"You speak in riddles, at which I was never any good."

"Sydney Beaton."

He seemed to start away from her. This time not only his face, but his whole bearing, the entire man, seemed to change.

"Miss Forster, are you in earnest?"

His tone, his manner seemed all at once to have grown cold; he could hardly have held his figure more stiffly erect.

"And pray why shouldn't I be in earnest?"

"You place me in a difficult position; what answer am I to give to that?"

"I know very well what you mean. No one knows better than I do that Sydney is not all wisdom, but do you suppose a woman loves a man because he is wise? Go to!"

"I presume that there are qualities that a woman requires in a man."

"What are they?"

"Surely she looks for at least some of the primitive virtues, say, common honesty, some sense of decency, and that kind of thing."

"Well?" She paused as if for him to speak, but he was still. "Now how am I going to tie these flowers together? I ought to have brought a reel of cotton; as I haven't, you'll have to find me a nice long piece of grass. Yes, I think that will do. Now, I'll hold the flowers if you'll pass it round--so."

While together they secured the primroses she went on. The exigencies of the situation required that they should be very close together; her nearness so affected him that he found it difficult to comment upon her words as frankly as he might otherwise have done, which was a fact of which she was possibly aware.

"I know very well all about his having been supposed to have cheated at cards; but I also know him much too well to believe for a single instant that he ever did it; he couldn't, not Sydney Beaton."

"Then--forgive my saying so--why did he run away?"

"Oh, I'll forgive you anything; I want you to say just what is in your mind; that's what I brought you here for. You brought me here to propose; and I brought you because I wanted you to tell me things which I could never find out from anybody else; you've done what you wanted, so now it's my turn."

"It's beginning to occur to me that your uncle is not the only Machiavellian member of your family."

"No? Perhaps not. I wish you'd pull that tighter--what big, strong fingers you have got! Most of my information has been derived from what I call tainted sources--from his brother, for instance. George Beaton wants me to believe that his brother is an unutterable creature. He has told me tales about him which have had quite a different effect to that which he intended; it sometimes is like that when a man tells a girl tales about another man. It seems to me that between you Sydney has been very badly used indeed. His brother's behaviour has been inconceivably bad, and so I took the liberty to tell him. And I'm afraid you don't come out with flying colours."

"What have I done? I am not conscious of having even mentioned his name to you."

"All those men against one; though I'll do you the justice to admit that I think it's quite possible that you are ashamed of yourself."

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow." Again his bearing had stiffened.

"If you don't take care, all these primroses will fall, and then where shall we be? That's better--tied at last. Thank you, Major Reith. George Beaton told me all about the affair--how all you men set upon one, and actually--according to Sir George--threw him out of the room. I can't think whatever men can be made of, that you should still be walking about with your heads in the air."

"It's a subject, Miss Forster, which I'm afraid I can hardly discuss with you; there are subjects which men do not discuss with women."

"Is that so, Major Reith? And pray is that meant for a snub? That shows the kind of treatment which I might expect to receive if I consented to become your wife; because I'll have you know that this is a subject that I mean a good many men to discuss with this woman, and, to begin with, you're going to be one of them. What do you think I brought you into the wood for? Didn't I tell you? Now you're in the witness box; if you don't answer all the questions which are put to you I'll have you committed for contempt of court. Sydney Beaton is alleged to have cheated at cards; what is the exact act of which he is said to have been guilty?"

"He substituted one card for another."

"Did you see him do it?"

"No, but he was seen by others. The original accusation was made by Anthony Dodwell--you know Dodwell?"

"I know of him, Major Reith, and, thank you, that is quite enough. Was Mr. Dodwell the only eyewitness?"

"Draycott saw him also. Do you know Draycott?"

"Mr. Noel Draycott? Oh, yes, I do know Mr. Noel Draycott. I daresay Mr. Noel Draycott means well; I wish to speak ill of no one, but I've heard him make some surprising statements, and I'm afraid I shouldn't believe anything Mr. Noel Draycott said merely because he said it. Was he seen to do this thing by anyone else?"

"He was not actually seen."

"What do you mean by that, Major Reith? Either he was, or he was not, seen; surely in such a juxtaposition the word 'actually' is out of place. Explain yourself; don't convey to my mind the impression that you also are prejudiced."

"I assure you that, so far as I am concerned, it is all the other way. I should be only too glad to believe him innocent, but--Miss Forster, it's a tall order."

"Tell me exactly why; has he ever been suspected of such practices before?"

"Never. God forbid! To some extent I am inclined to excuse him as it is; he had been drinking too much. I think that had as much to do with it as anything."

"My dear Major Reith, that is not an excuse, but an aggravation. I have seen it written somewhere that when a man is drunk his real character is seen, because he is no longer able to hide it. If what you suggest is correct, then--Sydney Beaton must be past praying for. But it is incorrect. I am convinced that Sydney Beaton, drunk or sober, is a man of honour; else I could not love him as I do."

"But what has become of him? Do you know?"

"I do not, but I'm going to find out; so now you see why I ought to be unhappy. All these months I've been wondering where he was--waiting, longing, hoping to hear. Every post I thought would bring me news; every time that there was a telegram my heart beat a little faster. I made inquiries in my own way, but I've found nothing. All I know is that one night his brother officers attacked him--about twelve men to one. I have the charity to suppose that they were in a condition in which they did not know what they were doing. Sydney was always apt to do things first and think afterwards. I don't wonder that such treatment caused him to lose his head; I should have wondered if it hadn't. I can understand why he hasn't communicated with me; I know my Quixote. But now that all these months have gone, and there's still no news, I'm getting anxious."

"I don't wonder. Has absolutely nothing been heard of him, by anyone, by his brother?"

"Sir George Beaton would be the last to hear, if Sydney could help it. You can be trusted to keep a secret?"

"Where you are concerned I certainly can."

"I have been a bone of contention between those two brothers since ever. George, being the head of the family, is of opinion that he has the first claim on me; as I think otherwise, he shows what seems to me to be the most unfraternal eagerness to think the very worst of Sydney. And that seems to be the case with everyone. You all, when you come to look into the matter, seem to have discreditable reasons of your own for pretending to think ill of him."

"Am I included among that 'all'?"

"No, it happens that you're not, and that's why I'm talking to you now. I'm going to look for Sydney; I'm going to leave no stone unturned to find out where he is. I'm getting tired of waiting; and, while I'm looking, I'm going to find out the truth of what took place on that disgraceful night. You're going to tell me all you know; I'm sure that will be the truth as far as it goes, but I'm afraid it won't go far enough. I shall have to go to other sources to get at all I want, and that is what I am presently going to do."

"How do you propose to set about it?"

"I have a friend--a very, very dear friend. You know Lady Cantyre?"

"Who doesn't? Saving your presence, is there anyone better worth knowing?"

"Saving nothing, there isn't; and she's my very, very dear friend. She knows the pickle I'm in and she's going to help me; this is between ourselves, mind. I want to get at Mr. Noel Draycott under circumstances in which he will find it hard to get away. She has asked him down to Avonham, and I shall be there to meet him; before we part I shall find out a great deal more about what Mr. Noel Draycott really did see, as well as about other things, than he in the least anticipates."

"I can quite believe it; when a man like Draycott is concerned, I should imagine that you could turn him inside out like an old glove."

"I don't know about the old glove, but I do mean to do something like turn him inside out, and the process is going to begin next week. Sydney has been too long under a cloud which was none of his making; I am going to bring him out from under it into the sun. I am going to do it single-handed; and it's because I am so sure that I shall do it that I cannot be unhappy. Major Reith, I talk like a braggart of doing it all single-handed; but all the same I am conscious that occasion may arrive when I shall require some assistance; if I do, will you give it?"

"I will give you, very gladly, all the assistance which, in such a position, a man may give to a woman."

"Then--that's all right. Thank you, Major Reith."

In her left hand she had the bunch of primroses, which she held close to her face; her right she held out to him.