saw her against the light as soon as he came in. She was still in her blue riding-dress, with the hood on her shoulders, and held her whip in her hand; but he could see no more of her head than the paleness of her face and the gleam on her black hair.
"Well, then?" she whispered sharply; and then: "Why, what a state you are in!"
"It's nothing," said Robin. "I rolled in a bog-hole."
She looked at him anxiously.
"You are not hurt? … Sit down at least."
He sat down stiffly, and she beside him, still watching to see if he were the worse for his falling. He took her hand in his.
"I am not fit to touch you," he said.
"Tell me the news; tell me quickly."
So he told her; of the wrangle in the parlour and what had passed between his father and him; of his own bitterness; and his letter, and the way in which the old man had taken it.
"He has not spoken to me since," he said, "except in public before the servants. Both nights after supper he has sat silent and I beside him."
"And you have not spoken to him?" she asked quickly.
"I said something to him after supper on Sunday, and he made no answer.
He has done all his writing himself. I think it is for him to speak now.
I should only anger him more if I tried it again."
She sighed suddenly and swiftly, but said nothing. Her hand lay passive in his, but her face was turned now to the bright southerly window, and he could see her puzzled eyes and her down-turned, serious mouth. She was thinking with all her wits, and, plainly, could come to no conclusion.
She turned to him again.
"And you told him plainly that you and I … that you and I—"
"That you and I loved one another? I told him plainly. And it was his contempt that angered me."
She sighed again.
* * * * *
It was a troublesome situation in which these two children found themselves. Here was the father of one of them that knew, yet not the parents of the other, who should know first of all. Neither was there any promise of secrecy and no hope of obtaining it. If she should not tell her parents, then if the old man told them, deception would be charged against her; and if she should tell them, perhaps he would not have done so, and so all be brought to light too soon and without cause. And besides all this there were the other matters, heavy enough before, yet far more heavy now—matters of their hopes for the future, the complications with regard to the Religion, what Robin should do, what he should not do.
So they sat there silent, she thinking and he waiting upon her thought.
She sighed again and turned to him her troubled eyes.
"My Robin," she said, "I have been thinking so much about you, and I have feared sometimes—"
She stopped herself, and he looked for her to finish. She drew her hand away and stood up.
"Oh! it is miserable!" she cried. "And all might have been so happy."
The tears suddenly filled her eyes so that they shone like flowers in dew.
He stood up, too, and put his muddy arm about her shoulders. (She felt so slight and slender.)
"It will be happy," he said. "What have you been fearing?"
She shook her head and the tears ran down.
"I cannot tell you yet. … Robin, what a holy man that travelling priest must be, who said mass on Sunday."
The lad was bewildered at her swift changes of thought, for he did not yet see the chain on which they hung. He strove to follow her.
"It seemed so to me too," he said. "I think I have never seen—"
"It seemed so to you too," she cried. "Why, what do you know of him?"
He was amazed at her vehemence. She had drawn herself clear of his arm and was looking at him full in the face.
"I met him on the moor," he said. "I had some talk with him. I got his blessing."
"You got his blessing! Why, so did I, after the mass, when you were gone."
"Then that should join us more closely than ever," he said.
"In Heaven, perhaps, but on earth—" She checked herself again. "Tell me what you thought of him, Robin."
"I thought it was strange that such a man as that should live such a rough life. If he were in the seminary now, safe at Douay—"
She seemed a shade paler, but her eyes did not flicker.
"Yes," she said. "And you thought—?"
"I thought that it was not that kind of man who should fare so hardly. If it were a man like John Merton, who is accustomed to such things, or a man like me—"
Again he stopped; he did not know why. But it was as if she had cried out, though she neither spoke nor moved.
"You thought that, did you, Robin?" she said presently, never moving her eyes from his face. "I thought so, too."
"But I do not know why we are talking about Mr. Simpson," said the lad.
"There are other affairs more pressing."
"I am not sure," said she.
"Marjorie, my love, what are you thinking about?"
She had turned her eyes and was looking out through the little window. Outside the red sunlight still lay on the crags and slopes beyond the deep valley beneath them, and her face was bright in the reflected brightness. Yet he thought he had never seen her look so serious. She turned her eyes back to him as he spoke.
"I am thinking of a great many things," she said. "I am thinking of the
Faith and of sorrow and of love."
"My love, what do you mean?"
Suddenly she made a swift movement towards him and took him by the lapels. He could see her face close beneath his, yet it was in shadow again, and he could make out of it no more than the shadows of mouth and eyes.
"Robin," she said, "I cannot tell you unless God tells you Himself. I am told that I am too scrupulous sometimes. … I do not know what I think, nor what is right, nor what are fancies. … But … but I know that I love you with all my heart … and … and that I cannot bear—"
Then her face was on his breast in a passion of weeping, and his arms were round her, and his lips on her hair.
IV
Dick found his master a poor travelling companion as they rode home. He made a few respectful remarks as to the sport of the day, but he was answered by a wandering eye and a complete lack of enthusiasm. Mr. Robin rode loosely and heavily. Three or four times his mare stumbled (and no wonder, after all that she had gone through), and he jerked her savagely.
Then Dick tried another tack and began to speak of the company, but with no greater success. He discoursed on the riding of Mrs. Fenton, and the peregrine of Mr. Thomas, who had distinguished herself that day, and he was met by a lack-lustre eye once more.
Finally he began to speak of the religious gossip of the countryside—how it was said that another priest, a Mr. Nelson, had been taken, in London, as Mr. Maine had been in Cornwall; that, it was said again, priests would have to look to their lives in future, and not only to their liberty; how the priest, Mr. Simpson, was said to be a native of Yorkshire, and how he was ridden northwards again, still with Mr. Ludlam. And here he met with a little more encouragement. Mr. Robin asked where was Mr. Simpson gone to, and Dick told him he did not know, but that he would be back again by Easter, it was thought, or,