Marriage a la mode Part 16

"No--you never sent it back. You have three of mine. And you know how careless you are--how you leave things about. I was always on tenterhooks. Look again, _please_! You must have some idea where they might be."

Perplexity--annoyance!

"When we sold the London house, all papers and doc.u.ments were sent down here. We reserved a room--which was locked up."

"_A la bonne heure!_ Of course--there they are."

But all the same--great unwillingness to search. It was most unlikely he would be able to find anything--most unlikely there was anything to find. He was sure he had sent back everything. And then a look in the fine hazel eyes--like a horse putting back its ears.

All of no avail--against the laughing persistence which insisted on the letters. "But I must have them--I really must! It is a horrid tragedy, and I told you everything--things I had no business to tell you at all."

On which, at last, a grudging consent to look, followed by a marked determination to go back to the drawing-room....

But it was the second _tete-a-tete_ that was really adroit! After tea--just a touch on the arm--while the d.u.c.h.ess was showing the Nattiers to Mrs. Barnes, and Lelius was holding the lamp. "One moment more!--in the conservatory. I have a few things to add." And in that second little interview--about nothing, in truth--a mere piece of audacity--the lion's claws had been a good deal pared. He had been made to look at her, first and foremost; to realize that she was not afraid of him--not one bit!--and that he would have to treat her decently. Poor Roger! In a few years the girl he had married would be a plain and p.r.i.c.kly little pedant--ill-bred besides--and he knew it.

As to more recent adventures. If people meet in society, they must be civil; and if old friends meet at a dance, there is an inst.i.tution known as "sitting out"; and "sitting out" is nothing if not conversational; and conversation--between old friends and cousins--is beguiling, and may be lengthy.

The ball at Brendon House--Chloe still felt the triumph of it in her veins--still saw the softening in Roger's handsome face, the look of lazy pleasure, and the disapproval--or was it the envy?--in the eyes of certain county magnates looking on. Since then, no communication between Heston and Upcott.

Mrs. Fairmile was now a couple of miles from the meet. She had struck into a great belt of plantations bounding one side of the ducal estate.

Through it ran a famous green ride, crossed near its beginning by a main road. On her right, beyond the thick screen of trees, was the railway, and she could hear the occasional rush of a train.

When she reached the cross road, which led from a station, a labourer opened the plantation gates for her. As he unlatched the second, she perceived a man's figure in front of her.

"Roger!"

A touch of the whip--her horse sprang forward. The man in front looked back startled; but she was already beside him.

"You keep up the old habit, like me? What a lovely day!"

Roger Barnes, after a flush of amazement and surprise, greeted her coldly: "It is a long way for you to come," he said formally. "Twelve miles, isn't it? You're not going to hunt?"

"Oh, no! I only came to look at the hounds and the horses--to remind myself of all the good old times. You don't want to remember them, I know. Life's gone on for you!"

Roger bent forward to pat the neck of his horse. "It goes on for all of us," he said gruffly.

"Ah, well!" She sighed. He looked up and their eyes met. The wind had slightly reddened her pale skin: her expression was one of great animation, yet of great softness. The grace of the long, slender body in the close-fitting habit; of the beautiful head and loosened hair under the small, low-crowned beaver hat; the slender hand upon the reins--all these various impressions rushed upon Barnes at once, bringing with them the fascination of a past happiness, provoking, by contrast, the memory of a hara.s.sing and irritating present.

"Is Heston getting on?" asked Mrs. Fairmile, smiling.

He frowned involuntarily.

"Oh, I suppose we shall be straight some day;" the tone, however, belied the words. "When once the British workman gets in, it's the deuce to get him out."

"The old house had such a charm!" said Chloe softly.

Roger made no reply. He rode stiffly beside her, looking straight before him. Chloe, observing him without appearing to do anything of the kind, asked herself whether the Apollo radiance of him were not already somewhat quenched and shorn. A slight thickening of feature--a slight coa.r.s.ening of form--she thought she perceived them. Poor Roger!--had he been living too well and idling too flagrantly on these American dollars?

Suddenly she bent over and laid a gloved hand on his arm.

"Hadn't it?" she said, in a low voice.

He started. But he neither looked at her nor shook her off.

"What--the house?" was the ungracious reply. "I'm sure I don't know; I never thought about it--whether it was pretty or ugly, I mean. It suited us, and it amused mother to fiddle about with it."

Mrs. Fairmile withdrew her hand.

"Of course a great deal of it was ugly," she said composedly. "Dear Lady Barnes really didn't know. But then we led such a jolly life in it--_we_ made it!"

She looked at him brightly, only to see in him an angry flash of expression. He turned and faced her.

"I'm glad you think it was jolly. My remembrances are not quite so pleasant."

She laughed a little--not flinching at all--her face rosy to his challenge.

"Oh, yes, they are--or should be. What's the use of blackening the past because it couldn't be the present. My dear Roger, if I hadn't--well, let's talk plainly!--if I hadn't thrown you over, where would you be now? We should be living in West Kensington, and I should be taking boarders--or--no!--a country-house, perhaps, with paying guests. You would be teaching the c.o.c.kney idea how to shoot, at half a guinea a day, and I should be buying my clothes second-hand through the _Exchange and Mart_. Whereas--whereas----"

She bent forward again.

"You are a very rich man--you have a charming wife--a dear little girl--you can get into Parliament--travel, speculate, race, anything you please. And I did it all!"

"I don't agree with you," he said drily. She laughed again.

"Well, we can't argue it--can we? I only wanted to point out to you the plain, bare truth, that there is nothing in the world to prevent our being excellent friends again--_now_. But first--and once more--_my letters!_"

Her tone was a little peremptory, and Roger's face clouded.

"I found two of them last night, by the merest chance--in an old dispatch-box I took to America. They were posted to you on the way here."

"Good! But there were three."

"I know--so you said. I could only find two."

"Was the particular letter I mentioned one of them?"

He answered unwillingly.

"No. I searched everywhere. I don't believe I have it."

She shook her head with decision.

"You certainly have it. Please look again."

He broke out with some irritation, insisting that if it had not been returned it had been either lost or destroyed. It could matter to no one.