CHAPTER XXXII

THE FRANSDALE SPORTS

"Embrace me then, ye hills, and close me in; Now in the dear and open day I feel Your guardianship; I take it to my heart; 'Tis like the solemn shelter of the night." --WORDSWORTH (The Recluse).

The wedding-day was fixed, and Melicent lived in an atmosphere of wedding presents and dressmakers.

Since her _fiancé's_ return she had altered noticeably, both in appearance and manner. She was paler than usual, large-eyed and languid; and she had grown strangely gentle and yielding. She deferred to Lancelot in everything; and since two people cannot possibly continue to kneel at each other's feet, and as Melicent persistently adopted the lowly posture formerly monopolised by her lover, he had, as a result, grown the least bit dictatorial.

Theoretically, of course, the change pleased him; but as a matter of fact, he had found his lady-love more interesting when she was remote and prickly. Her new meekness was purely passive; it did not make her more demonstrative. She submitted to be caressed, but it was always obvious that it was mere submission.

Brenda was very unhappy about her. She was sure that she was suffering mentally. She knew she did not sleep. However, girls just before marriage are often restless and unsettled, and there was nothing which she could definitely take notice of.

At the end of July the Fransdale Sports took place, an annual event of the highest local importance. They were held in a meadow near the head of the Dale, not far below the Vicarage. The meadow sloped violently, but the fact was accepted by the natives as part of an inexorable law of Nature. All fields sloped; you might as well quarrel with the grass for being green.

From early morning the little heathery tracks leading down from the Riggs were black with a crawling line of folks, descending Indian file by devious ways to the scene of action. Traps of all kinds, crowded with passengers, began to arrive, and to distribute themselves in all the neighbouring stable-yards, which were soon filled to overflowing.

Streams of fine plough-horses, yearlings, hunters and little fluffy foals, moved slowly along various radii to the centre. On the ground, the chief farmers' wives were preparing a "ham tea" of vast proportions in a large tent.

As the day wore on, the whole scene was alive with colour. Exhibits of butter, eggs, vegetables and fruit, were being solemnly appraised by business-like judges. There was a cackle of fowls, a cooing of doves, the outraged cries of lordly rams tethered to stakes and with coloured ribbons round their horns.

And the band! One of the visitors remarked that it was worth coming far, if only to see that band!

The musicians sat upon boards in the large hay-cart in which they had been conveyed to the festal scene, and from which the horses had been removed. Their broad and solid backs, in every hue of weather-stained fustian, formed a study for the eye of the humorously inclined.

Then, of course, there were cocoa-nut shies and gingerbread stalls, and a wheel of fortune. For this one day in the year the austere solitude of the moorland was broken through, and Fransdale was actually noisy and crowded.

Among the throng, which grew thicker as the day wore into afternoon, was a sprinkling of gentry, conspicuous among whom were the Burmesters. Sir Joseph took a genuine interest in all the exhibits, and gave many valuable prizes. There was naturally great interest among all the natives over Lancelot's engagement. Melicent was a most popular person, and glances of affectionate admiration followed her to-day.

She wore a white lace gown, with La France roses, and her white sunshade was lined with rose colour. Brenda thought she had never seen her look so pretty, nor so sad.

"The Ayres' party are here," said Lance, strolling up to where his mother stood, with Mrs. Helston and Melicent, watching the first heats of a race run off. "They've brought their tame crowd of convalescents with them."

"Did you know," said Lady Burmester, "that the Ayres' offered their house for a Convalescent Home for wounded officers? That will arouse enthusiasm, won't it, Lance? The people will cheer, if they know there are African heroes about."

"They exhausted their enthusiasm when Lance came home," smiled Brenda. "What a pity Captain Brooke is not here, then we should have all the African contingent."

"Oh," said Lance, "I forgot to tell you, Mrs. Helston, I have at last persuaded the obstinate old beggar to leave his beloved house to build itself for a few weeks, and to come up here for a bit of rest."

"Oh, well done!" said Brenda, with animation. "I should have been so sorry for him not to have been at the wedding."

"He won't promise that, even now. You know, I wanted him to be best man. He says weddings are not at all in his line. But when we get him here, perhaps you and Melicent can persuade him."

"He ought to be here pretty soon," said Lady Burmester. "He's coming in his motor, by road all the way, I believe, and he promised to try and arrive in time for the sports. I told him they were a sight he ought not to miss."

Melicent was possessed by a most remarkable sensation, as if she were drowning. Fortunately, for a few minutes nobody noticed her; and just as the waters were about to close over her head, they began to recede again, and she drew a deep breath and made a vehement effort to collect her thoughts.

But it was not possible. He was coming. Why, why, in wonder's name, had he changed his plainly expressed intention of keeping away?

She felt sure something must have happened to cause him to reconsider his decision. Had he come to the conclusion that it was right that Lance should know their story--hers and his? Had he resolved to tell it?

If so, they must have another tussle, he and she; for somehow she felt sure that he would do nothing without giving her fair warning.

Every nerve in her quivered at the thought of seeing him. The few short words in which he had expressed his newly-born contempt said themselves over and over in her mind continually. How would he look? What should she say? What would happen?

"They're judging the foals. Such funny little rats! Come and see them run round," said Lance's voice, close to her.

She looked up at him almost pitifully, as if searching his face for visible assurance of love. He was not looking at her, nor thinking much of her apparently. His visit to Russia had been a pleasant experience for a clever young fellow--he had had his fill of flattery and attention from the English _coterie_ at St. Petersburg. He was very fond of Millie, but the idea did cross his mind now and then that she hardly seemed conscious enough of the really fine match she was making. To-day, his attention was by no means hers. It was all concentrated upon the live stock.

She crossed the grass at his side, and stood by the rope enclosure, among the friendly faces of the Dalesmen. There was Alfred Dow, still unmarried, handsome as ever, if more solid; by his side, talking to him, the demure figure of her cousin Barbara. So even the Vicarage was beginning to march with the times! There was the farmer who was reckoned the best judge of horse-flesh in the horse-loving shire, and who might have served as a model for the typical John Bull, as he stood in his gaiters and beaver hat, watching the paces of the candidates. Melicent was watching them too, with real interest, when it seemed to her as though a touch were laid on her heart. Without raising her eyes, she knew who had drawn near. She shivered as she turned, and saw the Captain waiting to be greeted.

She said, "How do you do," without daring to meet his eyes; yet she longed to know how they stood, and on what terms this man was once again at her side.

"O, come ye in peace or come ye in war, Or to dance at my bridal, thou young Lochinvar?"

As once before, at Lone Ash, she became sensible that he wished her to look at him. She knew he must read the signs of confusion on her face. The news of his coming had been too recent for her to have recovered from it. But she could not lift her eyes. Lance's cheerful greetings more than covered her silence; he was sincerely glad to see his friend. After a minute's chat, however, he was called away. He was much in request that day, and had to go off with his father and judge rams, deputing Melicent to "show Brooke round."

Alone with Hubert, her courage turned to water. For a long minute they two stood there, unnoticed in the crowd, holding their breath, dizzy, overwhelmed by the mere fact of each other's presence.

He spoke at last. "You're not looking at all well," he said.

To which she naturally replied in a hurry:

"Oh, I am particularly well, thanks, only a little tired to-day."

"How do you think I look?" he asked quietly.

She dared not refuse the challenge. Her eyes, when she lifted them, held a piteous appeal.

But it was relief of which she was sensible as she met his gaze. It was kind and gentle. He looked ill; so ill that she wondered that Lance had not cried out upon him. He was like a man who has passed through some shattering experience, she thought. There were dark marks below his eyes, he had lost flesh, and he was pale, though so tanned that this was not obvious. But in his face was no shadow of the contempt she had feared to see, and had winced from the thought of.

In her relief she smiled up at him wistfully, as a child smiles at his mother, to make sure she is no longer displeased. When he smiled in answer, it was like sunshine breaking out over a cloudy landscape. It brought all her heart to her lips, it made her inclined to say:

"Oh, I must tell you my doubts and fears, and how I have tortured myself since last I saw you!"

The words were trembling on her tongue. In blind terror of self-betrayal, she said the first safe thing that came into her head; an inquiry after the progress at Lone Ash.

"They are roofing it," he said. "The roof goes on this week."

She coloured with pleasure.

"Oh, do tell me what the effect is! Do tell me how it looks from the road below the gate!"

"It is beautiful!" he answered quietly. "It grips me afresh every time I see it. Mayne, too, admires it immensely. Did you know I have had Mayne staying with me for the past month?"

"No, indeed; but I am glad to hear it," she cried. "He was so interested in the house; and then, he is quite an authority on gardens, isn't he? You must have found him a great help."

"Yes," said Hubert absently. "That's very true; he has been a great help."

She sent a sidelong glance at him, and noted afresh the marked change in his expression. There was a look upon the mouth that went to her heart in an indescribable way. It made her long to beg his pardon for the things she had said to him that night. The indefensibility of her own conduct throughout smote upon her in quite a new way. Never before in all her life had she felt the salutary self-reproach which now reddened her cheek, tied her tongue, and seemed to leave her helpless before him.

"Oh," she thought, "if he knew how much stronger he is when he looks like that than when he is in one of those awful rages."

He was speaking, and she collected herself with a tremendous effort to listen.

"The effect of those middle windows, with the transoms, which we had such doubt about, is awfully good, to my thinking. It only needs one thing."

"One thing?"

"Which I must consult you about. I have come here on purpose to talk of it I feel, perhaps, as if my presence here may--to you--want a little explaining. I have come because I thought I ought to. When can you give me a few minutes?"

It was true then: there had, as she guessed, been a specific reason for his appearance. Strangely enough, she had never thought that it would be anything in connection with Lone Ash. Yet what more natural?

She looked alarmed. "Is it important?"

"Very."

"You had better come over to Glen Royd to-morrow morning. I do hope it's not--any mistake I've made?"

He hesitated.

"Well, I'm afraid that's just what it is. But I don't think it's irretrievable."

She was filled with consternation.

"Oh, don't tell me it's structural! We managed that thrust of the wall on the north so splendidly with the buttress."

"It's nothing structural," said Hubert.

They had moved away, talking together, from the foals' enclosure, and were crossing the grass slowly, not knowing whither they went. Sybil Ayres approached them, with two or three gentlemen, some of her military convalescents. She bowed to Melicent, whom she cordially disliked, and was passing on, when one of her companions cried:

"Why, surely that must be Miss Lutwyche! How d'ye do? Didn't expect to see me here, did you?"

And Melicent was looking into the humorous, relentless hatchet face of Amurrica. His eye wandered over her, noting every detail of her appearance and costume; from her to her companion; and Melicent, with her faculties sharpened by the emergency, saw with delight that he did not recognise Bert. Her expression did not change.

"I am afraid you are mistaken," she said politely. "I do not think we are acquainted."

"I'm making no mistakes. My name's Otis. 'Amurrica' they used to call me in Slabbert's Poort, as I've been explainin' to these ladies. You're Millie Lutwyche, ain't you?"

"I am. I remember, there was someone of your name in the place. But I do not remember that we were ever acquainted. I did not know any of the diamond miners."

"I'm a diamond major now," cried Amurrica, with an unpleasant laugh. "Look here, Miss Lutwyche, we shall be obliged to refresh your memory a little. D'you remember your father's funeral? I was there."

"The whole town was there," said Millie, with indifference. Then, with an air of stopping the conversation, she said to Miss Ayres: "Have you been in the tents? Is it worth while taking Captain Brooke to see the fruit?"

Then, receiving a dubious answer, she inclined her head in leave-taking, and walked away.

As soon as they were out of earshot, she looked up at Hubert with an altered expression--a look of comradeship--her late nervousness chased away.

"You see! He didn't know you a bit!" she cried.

"Not a bit," he answered. "Just as big a beast as ever! But do you mind my saying I think it was unwise to cut him? You've made him savage, and he may be rude."

"Let him," said Millie contemptuously. "It is quite true that I never knew him. You know, I never would speak to him. How could he be rude?"

"He might say things about you--to other people."

"Well, he can't say anything I'm ashamed of," said Millie coolly.

"You always did despise your enemies."

"Well, I haven't got any enemies now," was the careless answer.

"God grant it!" he replied, thinking of things said to him by Mrs. Cooper and her daughters one day when he went to tennis at the Vicarage.