CHAPTER XXVIII
THE GATES OF SPRING ARE OPENED
"For rest of body perfect was the spot, All that luxurious nature could desire; But stirring to the spirit; who could gaze And not feel motions there? ... But the gates of Spring Are opened; churlish winter hath given leave That she should entertain for this one day, Perhaps for many genial days to come, Her guests, and make them welcome." --WORDSWORTH (The Recluse).
There was a little ceremony when the foundation-stone of Lone Ash was laid.
Mr. Harland, lord of the manor of Clunbury, had an aged grandmother living in his house, who actually remembered Captain Brooke's grandfather, and the departure of the family to South Africa when the old place was sold up. This venerable dame, as forming so interesting a link with the past, was at the Squire's suggestion, asked to lay the stone; and on the first of May the ceremony was performed, before quite a concourse of spectators.
It was a fine opportunity for the county to show sympathy with the eligible owner by being present; and there was many a pretty girl who would have dearly liked to preside at future gatherings on the same spot.
For the few with whom he was personally acquainted, the Captain provided champagne luncheon at the primitive inn, where he still had his unpretentious quarters. Melicent had feelings to contend with on entering that inn once more.
The health of the architect was proposed by Mr. Harland, and enthusiastically drunk by those present, among whom the slight young girl, whose talent was undeniable, was an interesting figure.
Mayne was among the guests, observant but aloof. He was shut out completely from the confidence of both those who were dear to him. He could see that the girl was wholly possessed and dominated by her one absorbing interest. He imagined that she had accepted Lance simply because he asked her, and because she was young and undeveloped, and did not know exactly what she wanted; or because Lance admired her, and the admiration of the young male will always for a time influence the warm blood of the young girl. But Bert he found more inscrutable. The man lived within himself to a quite incredible extent. But as far as Mayne could see, he was not unhappy: certainly not in despair. He seemed to have accepted, without one kick, the hardest stroke of Destiny. In such submission, to one who knew Bert, there was something ominous.
Mayne knew nothing of one electric moment in which Bert had torn from Melicent's eyes three secrets. First, that she knew him; second, that she feared him; third, that she was going to entrench herself against him.
These things lay unspoken in the man's dogged heart.
In the late afternoon, the Captain turned to his architect, who had been saying good-bye to the Harland party, and took out his watch.
"You have three quarters of an hour before your fly comes to fetch you," he said, "and Mayne has taken the Helstons to look at the church. I want to show you something, if you would stroll down the lane with me."
To refuse would have been ridiculous; but as they went, she was acutely conscious that this was the first time they had been alone together since the day she had recognised him.
They were walking towards Lone Ash, and the wonderful beauty of the May evening breathed incense about them as they went. Orchards everywhere made the whole earth seem a-bloom. A glory of distant gorse blazed on the horizon line.
After a few moments Melicent grew nervous, and felt she must speak.
"Is the first consignment of dressing-stone delivered?" she asked.
"Up at the station," he replied eagerly, as if the question pleased him. "We bring some down to-morrow; it ought to be on the ground at ten o'clock. I took a look at it to-day, and thought it was up to sample; but I should like you to see it."
"It's a pity the journey from London is so long," she said regretfully.
"The very point I want to raise," returned he, with unconcern which was not overdone. "I think I need my architect on the spot, and I'm prepared to pay to have her there. Ah!" as they turned a corner and a charming cottage faced them, "this is what I want to show you. How do you like it?"
She stopped short, with a certain glow of feature and glint of the eye, which was characteristic. As usual, when very pleased, she did not speak. He watched her eyes as they dwelt on the rustic English beauty of the place.
The white smother of cherry-blossom melted against the mellow red tiles. By the garden-gate a big Forsythia bush bore a burden of honey-coloured flowers. The garden was a tangle of periwinkle, woodruff, and forget-me-not, with the all-pervading sweetness of wallflower; and the glowing coral of the ribes nestled against the tumble-down porch.
"It will be a mass of lilac-bloom in a fortnight," said the girl, hardly knowing she spoke.
"I want you to come in," Brooke told her.
The door was ajar. It opened upon a kitchen, beautifully clean and tidy, evidently for ornament, not use. Within was a tiny parlour, with gate-leg table, grandfather's clock and oak dresser.
"This is what I would ask my architect to put up with now and then, to save her a good deal of going to and fro," said Brooke. "I have taken it for three months, to accommodate my visitors, as there is no room in the inn."
Carried away by the sweetness of the place, she sat down upon the window-seat.
"This is Arcady!" she said.
He leaned against the print valance of the mantel, looking very large in the tiny place.
"Do you like it? Would you like to stay here now and again?"
She turned her little head, its outlines sungilt against the light without, and looked at him; and she answered like a child, accepting unconsciously the suggestion of an older person.
"I like it very much. It would be a great convenience to be able to stay. I am so anxious about the house."
"If that is so, you shall wait here and talk to Mrs. Barrett, and ask her to show you the upstairs rooms, while I go and fetch the Helstons to look at it. There will just be time."