HE Duchess walked with swift footsteps along the carriage-road which led from the park, through a high stone arch, straight on to the beautiful stretch of solitary downland, where, according to local tradition, Boadicea made her last stand.
Feeling what she very seldom did feel, just a little lonely, she had put on her hat, and slipped out, with her griffon, Puck, for only companion, from the charming room in the castle, which was called her grace's boudoir, down a narrow staircase leading straight out of doors. Her eldest son and his sister had been spending two or three days at Chillingworth Place, a neighbouring house, of which the hostess was a noted Mrs. Leo Hunter. The two were to come home this morning, and their mother thought that there was just a chance she might meet them on their way; only a chance, because there were two ways back—one by the downs, another by what was called the lower road to the castle.
All at once she became aware that, as if framed in the arch, there stood on the rutty, white chalk cart-track cut in the short grass a small empty open motor-car, with two shabby suit-cases strapped on behind.
And then there fell on her ears the sound of bitter sobbing—a girl or woman crying her heart out on the other side of the park wall.
The Duchess stayed her steps just under the high arch, and she was glad she had done so, for suddenly there rose on the still air words, uttered in a man's voice, words which sounded startlingly near to where she stood concealed.
"Why should we say good-bye now? Why don't you throw up everything? It isn't a bad sort of life out there—there are lots of jolly people! I know I could make you happy"
There rose a wailing cry in the still air: "Don't tempt me, Jack! I've promised to give you up—you know I have. They're both so proud of me, and they've been so good to me!"
The answer came at once, fiercely bitter: "Good? What rot! They're selfish brutes—both of them, and I think your mother's the worst. If you sell yourself, as they hope you will, to some rich man, or what's called 'an elder son,' they'll have a cosy old age. You know that as well as I do! You've admitted it again and again!"
The girl's answer was uttered in quieter, more resolute, accents: "I hate your talking like that, Jack. It's beastly of me ever to say a word against mother. She knows I've become luxurious and pleasure-loving, and that now I'm not fit to be a poor man's wife. And you know, after all, that you've been awfully extravagant"
The man broke in furiously, "And whose fault was that? It was for you—to be near you—that I flung my money away! If I'm a pauper now, it's because I've been fool enough to love you. If it weren't for leaving you, I'd be thankful to get away from the hateful crowd of mindless idiots who've made you what you are"
Suddenly his voice changed, it became low, insistent, tender. "I shouldn't mind if I didn't know you love me, too—even if I have been a rotter. We're such pals, we care for all the same things—oh, darling, we'd have such a glorious life together out there, if you'd only take the plunge!"
And then to those two, who believed themselves so utterly alone in that solitary, windswept spot, there came a startling diversion. Puck, the griffon, began barking furiously.
There was nothing for it, now, but for the Duchess to walk forward from under the arch. And then, while calling her dog, instinctively she looked to her right, where stood the two people whose voices she had just heard raised in the eternal duet of love, pain, and parting. They were standing close up to the rose-red brick wall, under the spreading branches of an evergreen oak.
The young man was tall and fair, and his now haggard face had about it something both arresting and attractive. Clasped in his arms was a girl whose slender body was now again shaking with agonised sobs. She was bare-headed, the woollen cap she had been wearing lay at her feet.
Though she quickly looked away from the, to her, piteous sight, the Duchess had time to note that the girl was wearing a rather peculiar sports-frock. It consisted of a bold grey and brown check skirt, edged with turquoise blue, and a plain brown jumper, into whose grey collar a touch of the same blue as that edging of the skirt had been cleverly introduced. What made the unhappy pair's unwilling eavesdropper specially notice what the young woman was wearing was owing to the odd accident that she herself possessed the exact twin of that frock. It had been sent to the castle a week ago, on approval, from the artist in dress where she got her country clothes.