LITMIR.BIZ

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Mrs. Leivers said to Clara:

      “And you find life happier now?”

      “Infinitely.”

      “And you are satisfied?”

      “So long as I can be free and independent.”

      “And you don't MISS anything in your life?” asked Mrs. Leivers gently.

      “I've put all that behind me.”

      Paul had been feeling uncomfortable during this discourse. He got up.

      “You'll find you're always tumbling over the things you've put behind you,” he said. Then he took his departure to the cowsheds. He felt he had been witty, and his manly pride was high. He whistled as he went down the brick track.

      Miriam came for him a little later to know if he would go with Clara and her for a walk. They set off down to Strelley Mill Farm. As they were going beside the brook, on the Willey Water side, looking through the brake at the edge of the wood, where pink campions glowed under a few sunbeams, they saw, beyond the tree-trunks and the thin hazel bushes, a man leading a great bay horse through the gullies. The big red beast seemed to dance romantically through that dimness of green hazel drift, away there where the air was shadowy, as if it were in the past, among the fading bluebells that might have bloomed for Deidre or Iseult.

      The three stood charmed.

      “What a treat to be a knight,” he said, “and to have a pavilion here.”

      “And to have us shut up safely?” replied Clara.

      “Yes,” he answered, “singing with your maids at your broidery. I would carry your banner of white and green and heliotrope. I would have 'W.S.P.U.' emblazoned on my shield, beneath a woman rampant.”

      “I have no doubt,” said Clara, “that you would much rather fight for a woman than let her fight for herself.”

      “I would. When she fights for herself she seems like a dog before a looking-glass, gone into a mad fury with its own shadow.”

      “And YOU are the looking-glass?” she asked, with a curl of the lip.

      “Or the shadow,” he replied.

      “I am afraid,” she said, “that you are too clever.”

      “Well, I leave it to you to be GOOD,” he retorted, laughing. “Be good, sweet maid, and just let ME be clever.”

      But Clara wearied of his flippancy. Suddenly, looking at her, he saw that the upward lifting of her face was misery and not scorn. His heart grew tender for everybody. He turned and was gentle with Miriam, whom he had neglected till then.

      At the wood's edge they met Limb, a thin, swarthy man of forty, tenant of Strelley Mill, which he ran as a cattle-raising farm. He held the halter of the powerful stallion indifferently, as if he were tired. The three stood to let him pass over the stepping-stones of the first brook. Paul admired that so large an animal should walk on such springy toes, with an endless excess of vigour. Limb pulled up before them.

      “Tell your father, Miss Leivers,” he said, in a peculiar piping voice, “that his young beas'es 'as broke that bottom fence three days an' runnin'.”

      “Which?” asked Miriam, tremulous.

      The great horse breathed heavily, shifting round its red flanks, and looking suspiciously with its wonderful big eyes upwards from under its lowered head and falling mane.

      “Come along a bit,” replied Limb, “an' I'll show you.”

      The man and the stallion went forward. It danced sideways, shaking its white fetlocks and looking frightened, as it felt itself in the brook.

      “No hanky-pankyin',” said the man affectionately to the beast.

      It went up the bank in little leaps, then splashed finely through the second brook. Clara, walking with a kind of sulky abandon, watched it half-fascinated, half-contemptuous. Limb stopped and pointed to the fence under some willows.

      “There, you see where they got through,” he said. “My man's druv 'em back three times.”

      “Yes,” answered Miriam, colouring as if she were at fault.

      “Are you comin' in?” asked the man.

      “No, thanks; but we should like to go by the pond.”

      “Well, just as you've a mind,” he said.

      The horse gave little whinneys of pleasure at being so near home.

      “He is glad to be back,” said Clara, who was interested in the creature.

      “Yes—'e's been a tidy step to-day.”

      They went through the gate, and saw approaching them from the big farmhouse a smallish, dark, excitable-looking woman of about thirty-five. Her hair was touched with grey, her dark eyes looked wild. She walked with her hands behind her back. Her brother went forward. As it saw her, the big bay stallion whinneyed again. She came up excitedly.

      “Are you home again, my boy!” she said tenderly to the horse, not to the man. The great beast shifted round to her, ducking his head. She smuggled into his mouth the wrinkled yellow apple she had been hiding behind her back, then she kissed him near the eyes. He gave a big sigh of pleasure. She held his head in her arms against her breast.

      “Isn't he splendid!” said Miriam to her.

      Miss Limb looked up. Her dark eyes glanced straight at Paul.

      “Oh, good-evening, Miss Leivers,” she said. “It's ages since you've been down.”

      Miriam introduced her friends.

      “Your horse IS a fine fellow!” said Clara.

      “Isn't he!” Again she kissed him. “As loving as any man!”

      “More loving than most men, I should think,” replied Clara.

      “He's a nice boy!” cried the woman, again embracing the horse.

      Clara, fascinated by the big beast, went up to stroke his neck.

      “He's quite gentle,” said Miss Limb. “Don't you think big fellows are?”

      “He's a beauty!” replied Clara.

      She wanted to look in his eyes. She wanted him to look at her.

      “It's a pity he can't talk,” she said.

      “Oh, but he can—all but,” replied the other woman.

      Then her brother moved on with the horse.

      “Are you coming in? DO come in, Mr.—I didn't catch it.”

      “Morel,” said Miriam. “No, we won't come in, but we should like to go by the mill-pond.”

      “Yes—yes, do. Do you fish, Mr. Morel?”

      “No,” said Paul.

      “Because if you do you might come and fish any time,” said Miss Limb. “We scarcely see a soul from week's end to week's end. I should be thankful.”

      “What fish are there in the pond?” he asked.

      They went through the front garden, over the sluice, and up the steep bank to the pond, which lay in shadow, with its two wooded islets. Paul walked with Miss Limb.

      “I shouldn't mind swimming here,” he said.

      “Do,” she replied. “Come when you like. My brother will be awfully pleased to talk with you. He is so quiet, because there is no one to talk to. Do come and swim.”

      Clara came up.

      “It's a fine depth,” she said, “and so clear.”

      “Yes,” said Miss Limb.

      “Do you swim?” said Paul. “Miss Limb was just saying

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