A little surprised, since the bird that interested Kellock was unknown, Ned nevertheless agreed to take a walk.
“Certainly,” he answered. “Me and Trood flushed a woodcock there yesterday, and I dare say on Saturday Trood will bring him down. He’s a mark on a woodcock—never misses ’em.”
They strolled together up the valley where it fell gently to the Mill.
A quarter of a mile above the works the coomb narrowed to a bottle-neck, through which a water-fall came down. The road wound through this gap and on one side of it rose old, blue limestone quarries, their jagged scarps and ridges fledged with gorse and oak scrub; while on the other side of the water a limestone bluff ascended, weathered to fine colour, and above it towered Scotch firs and ivy-clad beeches that followed the foot of the hill and flung their arms around a little mere, lying in the hollow of the undulating land.
In spring this cup shone emerald green; but now the place was grey and silver. Alders and sallows towered black against the bright water; sedges and reed mace had huddled into tangle of russet and amber. They brightened where the sun touched them and burned over the placid lake, while the highest colour note was a spindle tree, whereon hung its harvest of pink and orange fruit, though all the leaves were fled. The flame of it cast a brilliant reflection into the face of the mirror below; and as Ned and Jordan approached by a winding way, that skirted the mere, coot and moorhen scuttled off leaving double trains behind them, widening out upon the waters.
Here it was that Kellock broached the great matter at his heart; and because it was at his heart, whereas he imagined it solely in his head, he found within the space of two minutes that he had made a very grievous mistake.
Beside the lake spoke Jordan, while Ned had his eyes in the sedges and distant mud flats for a woodcock.
“It’s about your wife I wanted to say a word, and I know we’re too good friends for you to object. You see, Ned, when you look at the past—”
“To hell with the past,” answered Dingle shortly. “It’s the future I look at. You take my tip and keep out of this—specially seeing you wanted her yourself once.”
“I must speak,” answered the vatman mildly, “and just for that reason, Ned. When she took you, you’ll remember I followed a very self-respecting line about it. But at your wish—at your wish, Ned—I kept my friendship for Medora and you; and it’s out of that friendship I want to say I think things might be bettered.”