hand over my two half-crowns, which Roger pockets with a most peculiar sort of smile. There that incident appears to end – with a comment from me that the Marchesa’s garrison is not very alert. Another smile – not less peculiar – from Roger! Hum!
“Then Cromlech! I trust Cromlech as myself – that is, as far as I can see him. He has no secrets from me – that I know of; I have none from him – which would be at all likely to interest him. Yet, soon after Roger’s return, Cromlech goes out! And they had been alone together for some minutes, as I happen to have observed. Cromlech is away an hour and a half! If I were not a man of honour, I would have trained the telescope on to him. I refrained. Where was Cromlech? At the church, he told me. I accept his word – but the church has had a curious effect upon him. Sometimes he is silent, sulky, reflective, embarrassed – constantly rubbing the place where his hair ought to be – not altogether too civil to me either. Anon, sits with a fat happy smile on his face! Has he found a new tomb? No; he’d tell me about a new tomb. What has happened to Cromlech?
“At first sight Violet – the insinuating one – would account for the phenomena. Or Norah’s eyes and lashes? Yet I hesitate. Woman, of course, it is, with both of them. Violet might make men pleased with themselves; Norah could make them merry and happy. Yet these two are not so much pleased with themselves – rather they are pleased with events; they are not merry – they are thoughtful. And I think they are resentful. I believe the hostile squadron has weighed anchor. In these great results, achieved so quickly, demanding on my part such an effort in reply, I see the Marchesa’s touch! I have my own opinion as to what has happened to Roger and to Cromlech. Well, we shall see – to-morrow is the cricket match!”
“Later. I had closed this record; I was preparing to go to bed (wishing to bathe early to-morrow) when I found that I had forgotten to bring up my book. Coltson had gone to bed – or out – anyhow, away. I went down myself. The library door stood ajar; I had on my slippers; a light burnt still; Cromlech and Roger were up. As I approached – with an involuntary noiselessness (I really couldn’t be expected to think of coughing, in my own house and with no ladies about) – I overheard this remarkable, most significant, most important conversation: —
“Cromlech: ‘On my soul, there were tears in her eyes!’
“Roger: ‘Stabb, can we as gentlemen – ?’
“Then, as I presume, the shuffle of my slippers became audible. I went in; both drank whisky-and-soda in a hurried fashion. I took my book from the table. Naught said I. Their confusion was obvious. I cast on them one of my looks; Roger blushed, Stabb shuffled his feet. I left them.
“ ‘Tears in her eyes!’ ‘Can we as gentlemen?’
“The Marchesa moves slowly, but she moves in force!”
It is unnecessary to pursue the diary further; for his lordship – forgetful apparently of the bourne of bed, to which he had originally destined himself – launches into a variety of speculations as to the Nature of Love. Among other questions, he puts to himself the following concerning Love: – (1) Is it Inevitable? (2) Is it Agreeable? (3) Is it Universal? (4) Is it Wise? (5) Is it Remunerative? (6) Is it Momentary? (7) Is it Sempiternal? (8) Is it Voluntary? (9) Is it Conditioned? (10) Is it Remediable? (11) Is it Religious? (There’s a note here – “Consult Cromlech”) – (12) May it be expected to survive the Advance of Civilisation? (13) Why does it exist at all? (14) Is it Ridiculous?
It is not to be inferred that Lord Lynborough answers these questions. He is, like a wise man, content to propound them. If, however, he had answered them, it might have been worth while to transcribe the diary.
“Can we as gentlemen – ?” – Roger had put the question. It waited unanswered till Lynborough had taken his book and returned to record its utterance – together with the speculations to which that utterance gave rise. Stabb weighed it carefully, rubbing his bald head, according to the habit which his friend had animadverted upon.
“If such a glorious creature – ” cried Roger.
“If a thoroughly intelligent and most sympathetic woman – ” said Stabb.
“Thinks that she has a right, why, she probably has one!”
“At any rate her view is entitled to respect – to a courteous hearing.”
“Lynborough does appear to have been a shade – er – ”
“Ambrose is a spoilt child, bless him! She took a wonderful interest in my brasses. I don’t know what brought her to the church.”
“She waited herself to let me through that beastly gate again!”
“She drove me round herself to our gates. Wouldn’t come through Scarsmoor!”
They both sighed. They both thought of telling the other something – but on second thoughts refrained.
“I suppose we’d better go to bed. Shall you bathe to-morrow morning?”
“With Ambrose? No, I sha’n’t, Wilbraham.”
“No more shall I. Good-night, Stabb. You’ll – think it over?”
Stabb grunted inarticulately. Roger drew the blind aside for a moment, looked down on Nab Grange, saw a light in one window – and went to bed. The window was, in objective fact (if there be such a thing), Colonel Wenman’s. No matter. There nothing is but thinking makes it so. The Colonel was sitting up, writing a persuasive letter to his tailor. He served emotions that he did not feel; it is a not uncommon lot.
Lynborough’s passing and repassing to and from his bathing were uninterrupted next morning. Nab Grange seemed wrapped in slumber; only Goodenough saw him, and Goodenough did not think it advisable to interrupt his ordinary avocations. But an air of constraint – even of mystery – marked both Stabb and Roger at breakfast. The cricket match was naturally the topic – though Stabb declared that he took little interest in it and should probably not be there.
“There’ll be some lunch, I suppose,” said Lynborough carelessly. “You’d better have lunch there – it’d be dull for you all by yourself here, Cromlech.”
After apparent consideration Stabb conceded that he might take luncheon on the cricket ground; Roger, as a member of the Fillby team, would, of course, do likewise.
The game was played in a large field, pleasantly surrounded by a belt of trees, and lying behind the Lynborough Arms. Besides Roger and Lynborough, Stillford and Irons represented Fillby. Easthorpe Polytechnic came in full force, save for an umpire. Colonel Wenman, who had walked up with his friends, was pressed into this honourable and responsible service, landlord Dawson officiating at the other end. Lynborough’s second gardener, a noted fast bowler, was Fillby’s captain; Easthorpe was under the command of a curate who had played several times for his University, although he had not actually achieved his “blue.” Easthorpe won the toss and took first innings.
The second gardener, aware of his employer’s turn of speed, sent Lord Lynborough to field “in the country.” That gentleman was well content; few balls came his way and he was at leisure to contemplate the exterior of the luncheon tent – he had already inspected the interior thereof with sedulous care and high contentment – and to speculate on the probable happenings of the luncheon hour. So engrossed was he that only a rapturous cheer, which rang out from the field and the spectators, apprised him of the fact that the second gardener had yorked the redoubtable curate with the first ball of his second over! Young Woodwell came in; he was known as a mighty hitter; Lynborough was signalled to take his position yet deeper in the field. Young
