years, wasn’t it? Came over from the Ansells—friends.”
“How disgraceful, Rickie! Why don’t you come and see me oftener?”
He could not retort that she never asked him.
“Agnes will make you come. Oh, let me introduce Mr. Wonham—Miss Pembroke.”
“I am deputy hostess,” said Agnes. “May I give you some tea?”
“Thank you, but I have had a little beer.”
“It is one of the shepherds,” said Mrs. Failing, in low tones.
Agnes smiled rather wildly. Mrs. Lewin had warned her that Cadover was an extraordinary place, and that one must never be astonished at anything. A shepherd in the drawing-room! No harm. Still one ought to know whether it was a shepherd or not. At all events he was in gentleman’s clothing. She was anxious not to start with a blunder, and therefore did not talk to the young fellow, but tried to gather what he was from the demeanour of Rickie.
“I am sure, Mrs. Failing, that you need not talk of ‘making’ people come to Cadover. There will be no difficulty, I should say.”
“Thank you, my dear. Do you know who once said those exact words to me?”
“Who?”
“Rickie’s mother.”
“Did she really?”
“My sister-in-law was a dear. You will have heard Rickie’s praises, but now you must hear mine. I never knew a woman who was so unselfish and yet had such capacities for life.”
“Does one generally exclude the other?” asked Rickie.
“Unselfish people, as a rule, are deathly dull. They have no colour. They think of other people because it is easier. They give money because they are too stupid or too idle to spend it properly on themselves. That was the beauty of your mother— she gave away, but she also spent on herself, or tried to.”
The light faded out of the drawing-room, in spite of it being September and only half-past six. From her low chair Agnes could see the trees by the drive, black against a blackening sky. That drive was half a mile long, and she was praising its gravelled surface when Rickie called in a voice of alarm, “I say, when did our train arrive?”
“Four-six.”
“I said so.”
“It arrived at four-six on the time-table,” said Mr. Wonham. “I want to know when it got to the station?”
“I tell you again it was punctual. I tell you I looked at my watch. I can do no more.”
Agnes was amazed. Was Rickie mad? A minute ago and they were boring each other over dogs. What had happened?
“Now, now! Quarrelling already?” asked Mrs. Failing.
The footman, bringing a lamp, lit up two angry faces.
“He says—”
“He says—”
“He says we ran over a child.”
“So you did. You ran over a child in the village at four-seven by my watch. Your train was late. You couldn’t have got to the station till four-ten.”
“I don’t believe it. We had passed the village by four-seven. Agnes, hadn’t we passed the village? It must have been an express that ran over the child.”
“Now is it likely”—he appealed to the practical world —“is it likely that the company would run a stopping train and then an express three minutes after it?”
“A child—” said Rickie. “I can’t believe that the train killed a child.” He thought of their journey. They were alone in the carriage. As the train slackened speed he had caught her for a moment in his arms. The rain beat on the windows, but they were in heaven.
“You’ve got to believe it,” said the other, and proceeded to “rub it in.” His healthy, irritable face drew close to Rickie’s. “Two children were kicking and screaming on the Roman crossing. Your train, being late, came down on them. One of them was pulled off the line, but the other was caught. How will you get out of that?”
“And how will you get out of it?” cried Mrs. Failing, turning the tables on him. “Where’s the child now? What has happened to its soul? You must know, Agnes, that this young gentleman is a philosopher.”
“Oh, drop all that,” said Mr. Wonham, suddenly collapsing.
“Drop it? Where? On my nice carpet?”
“I hate philosophy,” remarked Agnes, trying to turn the subject, for she saw that it made Rickie unhappy.
“So do I. But I daren’t say so before Stephen. He despises us women.”
“No, I don’t,” said the victim, swaying to and fro on the window-sill, whither he had retreated.
“Yes, he does. He won’t even trouble to answer us. Stephen! Podge! Answer me. What has happened to the child’s soul?”
He flung open the window and leant from them into the dusk. They heard him mutter something about a bridge.
“What did I tell you? He won’t answer my question.”
The delightful moment was approaching when the boy would lose his temper: she knew it by a certain tremor in his heels.
“There wants a bridge,” he exploded. “A bridge instead of all this rotten talk and the level-crossing. It wouldn’t break you to build a two-arch bridge. Then the child’s soul, as you call it— well, nothing would have happened to the child at all.”
A gust of night air entered, accompanied by rain. The flowers in the vases rustled, and the flame of the lamp shot up and smoked the glass. Slightly irritated, she ordered him to close the window.
XI
Table of Contents
Cadover was not a large house. But it is the largest house with which this story has dealings, and must always be thought of with respect. It was built about the year 1800, and favoured the architecture of ancient Rome—chiefly by means of five lank pilasters, which stretched from the top of it to the bottom. Between the pilasters was the glass front door, to the right of them the drawing room windows, to the left of them the windows of the dining-room, above them a triangular area, which the better-class servants knew as a “pendiment,” and which had in its middle a small round hole, according to the usage of Palladio. The classical note was also sustained by eight grey steps which led from the building down into the drive, and by an attempt at a formal garden on the adjoining lawn. The lawn ended in a Ha-ha ("Ha! ha! who shall regard it?"), and thence the bare land sloped down into the village. The main garden (walled) was to the left as one faced the house, while to the right was that laurel avenue, leading up to Mrs. Failing’s arbour.
It was a comfortable but not very attractive place,
