CHAPTER V
MINE ENEMY'S ROOF-TREE
I rode down the Wye to Rowsley, and by the will of my horse rather than by any intention of my own took the road up through Lathkil Dale. I had determined if possible to reach the city of Chester, and thence to ride down into Wales, hoping to find on the rough Welsh coast a fishing boat or a smuggler's craft that would carry me to France. In truth, I cared little whether I went to the Tower or to France, since in either case I felt that I had looked my last upon Haddon Hall, and had spoken farewell to the only person in all the world for whom I really cared. My ride from Haddon gave me time for deliberate thought, and I fully agreed with myself upon two propositions. First, I became thoroughly conscious of my real feeling toward Madge, and secondly, I was convinced that her kindness and her peculiar attitude toward me when I parted from her were but the promptings of a tender heart stirred by pity for my unfortunate situation, rather than what I thought when I said farewell to her. The sweet Wye and the beautiful Lathkil whispered to me as I rode beside their banks, but in their murmurings I heard only the music of her voice. The sun shone brightly, but its blessed light only served to remind me of the beautiful girl whom I had left in darkness. The light were worthless to me if I could not share it with her. What a mooning lout was I!
All my life I had been a philosopher, and as I rode from Haddon, beneath all my gloominess there ran a current of amusement which brought to my lips an ill-formed, half-born laugh when I thought of the plight and condition in which I, by candid self-communion, found myself. Five years before that time I had left France, and had cast behind me all the fair possibilities for noble achievement which were offered to me in that land, that I might follow the fortunes of a woman whom I thought I loved. Before my exile from her side I had begun to fear that my idol was but a thing of stone; and now that I had learned to know myself, and to see her as she really was, I realized that I had been worshipping naught but clay for lo, these many years. There was only this consolation in the thought for me: every man at some time in his life is a fool—made such by a woman. It is given to but few men to have for their fool-maker the rightful queen of three kingdoms. All that was left to me of my life of devotion was a shame-faced pride in the quality of my fool-maker. "Then," thought I, "I have at last turned to be my own fool-maker." But I suppose it had been written in the book of fate that I should ride from Haddon a lovelorn youth of thirty-five, and I certainly was fulfilling my destiny to the letter.
I continued to ride up the Lathkil until I came to a fork in the road. One branch led to the northwest, the other toward the southwest. I was at a loss which direction to take, and I left the choice to my horse, in whose wisdom and judgement I had more confidence than in my own. My horse, refusing the responsibility, stopped. So there we stood like an equestrian statue arguing with itself until I saw a horseman riding toward me from the direction of Overhaddon. When he approached I recognized Sir John Manners. He looked as woebegone as I felt, and I could not help laughing at the pair of us, for I knew that his trouble was akin to mine. The pain of love is ludicrous to all save those who feel it. Even to them it is laughable in others. A love-full heart has no room for that sort of charity which pities for kinship's sake.
"What is the trouble with you, Sir John, that you look so downcast?" said I, offering my hand.
"Ah," he answered, forcing a poor look of cheerfulness into his face, "Sir Malcolm, I am glad to see you. Do I look downcast?"
"As forlorn as a lover who has missed seeing his sweetheart," I responded, guessing the cause of Sir John's despondency.
"I have no sweetheart, therefore missing her could not have made me downcast," he replied.
"So you really did miss her?" I queried. "She was detained at Haddon Hall, Sir John, to bid me farewell."