The Misses Mallett | Page 2

her when she rode on his domains or in their neighbourhood, and she was surprised to feel a slight annoyance at his absence, an annoyance which, illogically, was increased by the sight of his black spaniel, the sure forerunner of his master, making his way through the hedge. A moment later the tall figure of Sales himself appeared above the budding twigs.
He greeted her in the somewhat sulky manner to which she was accustomed. He was a young man with a grievance, and he looked at her as though to-day it were personified in her.
She answered him cheerfully: 'What a wonderful day!'
'The day's all right,' he said.
Holding the primroses to her nose, she looked round. Catkins were swaying lightly on the willows, somewhere out of sight a tiny runnel of water gurgled, the horse ate noisily, the grass had a vividness of green like the concentrated thought of spring.
'I don't see how anything can be wrong this morning,' she said.
'Ah, you're lucky to think so,' he answered, gazing at her clear, pale profile.
'Well,' she turned to ask patiently, 'what is the matter with you?'
'I'm worried.'
'Has a cow died?' And ignoring his angry gesture, she went on: 'I don't think you take enough care of your property. Whenever I ride here I find you strolling about miserably, with a dog.'
'That's your fault.'
'I don't quite see why,' she said pleasantly; 'but no doubt you are right. But has a cow died?'
'Of course not. Why should it?'
'They do, I suppose?'
'It's the old man. He isn't well, and he's badgering me to go away, to Canada, and learn more about farming.'
'So you should.'
'Of course you'd say so.'
'Or do you think you can't?'
He missed, or ignored, her point. 'He's ill. I don't want to leave him'; and in a louder voice he added, almost shouted, 'I don't want to leave you!'
Her grey eyes were watching the swinging catkins, her hand, lifting the primroses, hid a smile. Again he had the benefit of her profile, the knot of her dark, thick hair and the shadowy line of her eyelashes, but she made no comment on his remark and after a moment of sombre staring he uttered the one word, 'Well?'
'Yes?'
'Well, I've told you.'
'Oh, I think you ought to go.'
'Then you don't love me?'
From under her raised eyebrows she looked at him steadily. 'No, I don't love you,' she said slowly. There was no need to consider her answer: she was sure of it. She was fond of him, but she could not romantically love some one who looked and behaved like a spoilt boy. She glanced from his handsome, frowning face in which the mouth was opening for protest to a scene perfectly set for a love affair. There was not so much as a sheep in sight: there was only the horse who, careless of these human beings, still ate eagerly, chopping the good grass with his teeth, and the spaniel who panted self-consciously and with a great affectation of exhaustion. The place was beautiful and the sunlight had some quality of enchantment. Faint, delicious smells were offered on the wind and withdrawn in caprice; the trees were all tipped with green and interlaced with blue air and blue sky; she wished she could say she loved him, and she repeated her denial half regretfully.
'Rose,' he pleaded, 'I've known you all my life!'
'Perhaps that's why. Perhaps I know you too well.'
'You don't. You don't know how--how I love you. And I should be different with you. I should be happy. I've never been happy yet.'
'You can't,' she said slowly, 'get happiness through a person if you can't get it through yourself.'
'Yes--if you are the person.'
She shook her head. 'I'm sorry. I can't help it.'
He reproached her. 'You've never thought about it.'
'Well, isn't that the same thing? And,' she added, 'you're so far away.'
'I can get through the hedge,' he said practically.
She smiled in the way that always puzzled, irritated and allured him. His words set him still farther off; he did not even understand her speech.
'Is it better now?' he asked, close to her.
'No, no better.' She looked at his face, so deeply tanned that his brown hair and moustache looked pale by contrast and his eyes extraordinarily blue. His appearance always pleased her. It was almost a part of the landscape, but the landscape was full of change, of mystery in spite of its familiarity, and she found him dull, monotonous, with a sort of stupidity which was not without attraction, but which would be wearying for a whole life. She had no desire to be his wife and the mistress of Sales Hall, its fields and woods and farms. The world was big, the possibilities in life were infinite, and she felt she was fit, perhaps destined, to play a larger part than