The Fighting Chance | Page 8

Black Fells Crossing to meet
his train from the Lakes and drive him back to Shotover. The drive,
therefore, was of course a drive for pleasure.
“I see,” repeated Siward amiably.
“Perhaps you do,” she observed, rising to her graceful height. He was
on his feet at once, so carelessly, so good-humouredly acquiescent that
without any reason at all she hesitated.
“I had meant to show you about--the cliffs--the kennels and stables; I’m
sorry,” she concluded, lingering.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he rejoined without meaning anything in particular.
That was the trouble, whatever he said, apparently meant so much.
With the agreeable sensation of being regretted, she leisurely gloved
herself, then walked through the gun-room and hall, Siward strolling
beside her.

The dog followed them as they turned toward the door and passed out
across the terraced veranda to the driveway where a Tandem cart was
drawn up, faultlessly appointed. Quarrier’s mania was Tandem. She
thought it rather nice of her to remember this.
She inspected the ensemble without visible interest for a few moments;
the wind freshened from the sea, fluttering her veil, and she turned
toward the east to face it. In the golden splendour of declining day the
white sails of yachts crowded landward on the last leg before beating
westward into Blue Harbour; a small white cruiser, steaming south, left
a mile long stratum of rose-tinted smoke hanging parallel to the
horizon’s plane; the westering sun struck sparks from her bright-work.
The magic light on land and water seemed to fascinate the girl; she had
walked a little way toward the cliffs, Siward following silently, offering
no comment on the beauty of sky and cliff. As they halted once more
the enchantment seemed to spread; a delicate haze enveloped the sea;
hints of rose colour tinted the waves; over the uplands a pale mauve
bloom grew; the sunlight turned redder, slanting on the rocks, and
every kelp-covered reef became a spongy golden mound, sprayed with
liquid flame.
They had turned their backs to the Tandem; the grooms looked after
them, standing motionless at the horses’ heads.
“Mr. Siward, this is too fine to miss,” she said. “I will walk as far as the
headland with you. … Please smoke if you care to.”
He did care to; several matches were extinguished by the wind until she
spread her skids as a barrier; and kneeling in their shelter he got his
light.
“Tobacco smoke diluted with sea breeze is delicious,” she said, as the
wind whirled the aromatic smoke of his cigarette up into her face.
“Don’t move, Mr. Siward; I like it; there is to me always a faint odour
of sweet-brier in the mélange. Did you ever notice it?”
The breeze-blown conversation became fragmentary, veering as

capriciously as the purple wind-flaws that spread across the shoals. But
always to her question or comment she found in his response the charm
of freshness, of quick intelligence, or of a humourous and idle
perversity which stimulates without demanding.
Once, glancing back at the house where the T-cart and horses stood,
she said that she had better return; or perhaps she only thought she said
it, for he made no response that time. And a few moments later they
reached the headland, and the Atlantic lay below, flowing azure from
horizon to horizon--under a universe of depthless blue. And for a long
while neither spoke.
With her the spell endured until conscience began to stir. Then she
awoke, uneasy as always, under the shadow of restraint or pressure,
until her eyes fell on him and lingered.
A subtle change had come into his face; its leanness struck her for the
first time; that, and an utter detachment from his surroundings, a
sombre oblivion to everything--and to her.
How curiously had his face altered, how shadowy it had grown,
effacing the charm of youth, in it.
The slight amusement with which she had become conscious of her
own personal exclusion grew to an interest tinged with curiosity.
The interest continued, but when his silence became irksome to her she
said so very frankly. His absent eyes, still clouded, met hers, unsmiling.
“I hate the sea,” he said.
“You--hate it!” she repeated, too incredulous to be disappointed.
“There’s no rest in it; it tires. A man who plays with it must be on his
guard every second. To spend a lifetime on it is ridiculous--a whole life
of intelligent effort, against perpetual, brutal, inanimate resistance-- one
endless uninterrupted fight--a ceaseless human manoeuvre against
senseless menace; and then the counter attack of the lifeless monster,

the bellowing advance, the shock--and no battle won--nothing final,
nothing settled, no! only the same eternal nightmare of surveillance, the
same sleepless watch for stupid treachery.”
“But--you don’t have to fight it!” she said, astonished.
“No; but it is no