The Fighting Chance | Page 6

to be so horrid. … Yet--it wasn’t so dreadful, after all; only the
publicity! Dear me! I knew we were going too fast.”
“Miss Landis,” he said.
“Mr. Siward?”--very gently. It was her way to be gentle when
generous.
“I think,” he said, “that you are beginning to remember where you may
have heard my name.”
“Yes--a little--” She looked at him with the direct gaze of a child, but

the lovely eyes were troubled. His smile was not very genuine, but he
met her gaze steadily enough.
“It was rather nice of Mrs. Ferrall to ask me,” he said, “after the mess I
made of things last spring.”
“Grace Ferrall is a dear,” she replied.
After a moment he ventured: “I suppose you saw it in the papers.”
“I think so; I had completely forgotten it; your name seemed to--”
“I see.” Then, listlessly: “I couldn’t have ventured to remind you
that--that perhaps you might not care to be so amiable--”
“Mr. Siward,” she said impulsively, “you are nice to me! Why
shouldn’t I be amiable? It was--it was--I’ve forgotten just how
dreadfully you did behave--”
“Pretty badly.”
“Very?”
“They say so.”
“And what is your opinion Mr. Siward?”
“Oh, I ought to have known better.” Something about him reminded
her of a bad small boy; and suddenly in spite of her better sense, in
spite of her instinctive caution, she found herself on the very verge of
laughter. What was it in the man that disarmed and invited a
confidence--scarcely justified it appeared? What was it now that moved
her to overlook what few overlook--not the fault, but its publicity? Was
it his agreeable bearing, his pleasant badinage, his amiably listless
moments of preoccupation, his youth that appealed to her--aroused her
charity, her generosity, her curiosity?
And had other people continued to accept him, too? What would
Quarrier think of his presence at Shotover? She began to realise that

she was a little afraid of Quarrier’s opinions. And his opinions were
always judgments. However Grace Ferrall had thought it proper to ask
him, and that meant social absolution. As far as that went she also was
perfectly ready to absolve him if he needed it. But perhaps he didn’t
care!--She looked at him, furtively. He seemed to be tranquil enough in
his abstraction. Trouble appeared to slide very easily from his broad
young shoulders. Perhaps he was already taking much for granted in
her gentleness with him. And gradually speculation became interest and
interest a young girl’s innocent curiosity to learn something of a man
whose record it seemed almost impossible to reconcile with his
personality.
“I was wondering,” he said looking up to encounter her clear eyes,
“whose house that is over there?”
“Beverly Plank’s shooting-box; Black Fells,” she replied nodding
toward the vast pile of blackish rocks against the sky, upon which
sprawled a heavy stone house infested with chimneys.
“Plank? Oh yes.”
He smiled to remember the battering blows rained upon the ramparts of
society by the master of Black Fells.
But the smile faded; and, glancing at him, the girl was surprised to see
the subtle change in his face--the white worn look, then the old listless
apathy which, all at once to her, hinted of something graver than
preoccupation.
“Are we near the sea?” he asked.
“Very near. Only a moment to the top of this hill. … Now look!”
There lay the sea--the same grey-blue crawling void that had ever
fascinated and repelled him--always wrinkled, always in flat
monotonous motion, spreading away, away to the sad world’s ends.
“Full of menace--always,” he said, unconscious that he had spoken

aloud.
“The sea!”
He spoke without turning: “The sea is a relentless thing for a man to
fight. … There are other tides more persistent than the sea, but like
it--like it in its menace.”
His face seemed thinner, older; she noticed his cheek bones for the first
time. Then, meeting her eyes, youth returned with a laugh and a touch
of colour; and, without understanding exactly how, she was aware,
presently, that they had insensibly slipped back to their light badinage
and gay inconsequences--back to a footing which, strangely, seemed to
be already an old footing, familiar, pleasant, and natural to return to.
“Is that Shotover House?” he asked as they came to the crest of the last
hillock between them and the sea.
“At last, Mr. Siward,” she said mockingly; “and now your troubles are
nearly ended.”
“And yours, Miss Landis?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured to herself, thinking of the telegram with
the faintest misgiving.
For she was very young, and she had not had half enough out of life as
yet; and besides, her theories and preconceived plans for the safe and
sound ordering of her life appeared to lack weight--nay, they were