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Angela blushed at those words, "rapture and romance," knowing how little there had been of either in her thoughts, or in Denzil's sober courtship. Romance! Alas! there had been but one romance in her life, and that a guilty one, which she must ever remember with remorse. "Come now, confess you have not a gown ordered." "I have gowns enough and to spare.
Barouche spoke to the occupant, and presently both men were admitted to the phaeton just as a tram-car came near. As the phaeton would make the distance to the station in less time than the car, this seemed the sensible thing to do, and Denzil's spirits fell. There remained enough time for Barouche to reach the station before the New York train started!
The two men were standing opposite one another, and both their faces were pale and stern, but Denzil's blue eyes were blazing with some wonderful new emotion, as they looked at John. "Very well," he said, and held out his hand. "I appreciate the tremendous faith you have placed in me, and on my word of honour as an Ardayre, I will not abuse it, nor take advantage of it afterwards.
John began to speak presently with a note of deep seriousness in his voice. He talked of the war and of his Yeomanry's going out, and of Denzil's regiment also.
For Sir Denzil's male descendants, one and all, so says tradition, so say too the written and printed family records, the fine monuments in the chancel of Sandyfield Church, and more than one tombstone in the yew-shaded church-yard, have displayed a disquieting incapacity for living to the permitted "threescore years and ten," let alone fourscore, and dying decently, in ordinary, commonplace fashion, in their beds.
Hammond, the editor, subsequently penned that significant paragraph which next morning attracted all eyes. On returning to supper, Mr. Liversedge found his wife and Denzil in conversation with Eustace Glazzard. With the latter he had a bare acquaintance; from Denzil's report, he was disposed to think of him as a rather effeminate old-young man of metropolitan type.
Ardayre was a very modern person, but she could not help exclaiming in a half voice while she sat by her son's bed: "You know she is going to have a baby in a month, dear boy, perhaps she won't care to see you now." A flush rose to Denzil's forehead: "Yes, I do know," he said a little hurriedly, "but we are not conventional in these days. I wish to see her; please, darling Mother, do what I ask."
Denzil's head was squat upon his shoulders, and his long, handsome body was also squat, because his legs were as short, proportionately, as his mind was long.
"Who is this? Who are you?" "A lost soul!" wailed the deep voice, "which God will not bless!" And then came the sobbing again. It made Denzil's blood run cold to hear this unseen creature weeping in the gloom. Moving cautiously in the direction of the sound, he stumbled against a man with his folded arms resting on the railings, and his face bent down on his arms.
Denzil's arguments, when she tried to muster them in her defence, answered with hollow, meaningless sound. Love alone would stead her; she could but shut her eyes, and breathe, as if in prayer, the declaration that her love was a sacred thing, cancelling verbal untruth. She changed her dress, and went down to luncheon.
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