CHAPTER XXXIII
The spring was early that year. The swallows must have known it, for they had returned several days before their time, and to-day, the 16th of April, the silence of the Roman road was broken by their twittering and crossed by their shadows. The trees in the woods were green again, the little river beneath the bridge was foaming in spate, and from far away in the wood depths came the moist, sweet sound of the cuckoo, singing just as he sang in Chaucer's time, just as he will sing in times a thousand years unborn.
The girl had freed herself from Effie and had wandered down to the bridge, where she stood now watching the wimpling water and the brown weeds, listening to the cuckoo and the chatter of the blue-tits in the branches of the trees.
A telegram had brought her, yesterday, the grand news of Garryowen's victory, and this morning's post had brought her two letters—one from Mr. French and one from Mr. Dashwood.
From what she could gather in the perusal of these letters, each man was in love with her, yet each was proposing that she should not look coldly on the other.
They would return that evening. She would have to make up her mind on the question, and she had come here, apparently, to argue the question out.
Now that she was brought face to face with the matter, the chivalry of these two gentlemen one towards the other was the thing that perplexed her most.
She had come here, apparently, to argue the matter out, but, in reality, her subliminal mind had already made the decision as to which of these two gentlemen she would choose as her natural protector for life.