"Thank you, Mark," she murmured, after a moment's silence. "I shan't forget your parable next time the mallet or the piercing tool tries to improve me, and shall recall this grey stone—so finished, so perfect. Surely loving hands fashioned it, as you say, or it would not have withstood the ravages of centuries to tell its tale to us on this bright morning."
As the two friends wandered on among the grey relics, "praising the chapel sweet with its little porch and its rustic door," Mark was reminded of a description in a well-read page of his favourite poet. In some of its aspects, it so truly described this morning which he was spending with Hester, that he resolved to bring the brown volume in his pocket the next time they rode together and read to her the lovely description of the old chapel and all that followed.
Yes, that "screen" though slight was "sure"! He would try to prove loyal in all things to this girl, who was evidently finding life very different from the flower-strewn path she had looked forward to when that bright letter reached him in the German Gasthaus, telling him of her engagement. He was glad to think it was still given him to cherish her as a friend. "Friends—lovers that might have been," he murmured. Then, in spite of himself, as they walked silently down the steps together, more of the poet's words vibrated in his heart——
"Oh the little more and how much it is,
And the little less, and what worlds away
And life be the proof of this."
Though Hester did not clothe her thoughts in Browning's pathetic words, they followed much the same trend of feeling. How magnetic was the influence of this high-souled companion, who seemed to bring out of the treasure-house of his mind deep things, new and old. How was it that this friend of Charlie's never seemed so magnetic in the days when they had ridden together in green byways at home? Why was it reserved for her only to find his many-sided value and charm when she was the wife of Alfred Rayner? Ah, how different was the daily companionship which was her portion now, strewn as it was with pin-pricks that hurt, even thorns that bled! Some of these she could only cease to feel, she thought with burning cheek, if she could descend from high ideals, ignore moral standards, and sink to the level of base and sordid thoughts and actions. But Alfred must be helped to better things, she resolved with fresh hope and courage, drawn from this happy morning. She must be more patient, more inventive in throwing him in the way of every good influence, and in this, who could help her better than the comrade who now rode by her side?
She reined her horse to a walk and turned to him, saying in a pleading voice:
"Mark, I have a favour to ask of you! Will you see as much of my husband as you can? Will you try to win his confidence and be his friend as I know you are mine? We have old links, of course, which makes friendship easy, but I do feel that Alfred needs a friend like you. He has somehow contracted such shallow aims; his ambitions often seem to me so poor, though I do try to be sympathetic. He is naturally secretive, you know, but I'm sure he isn't happy just now, though he does not open his mind to me. I fear his restlessness makes him extravagant. From some chance words he dropped lately it is evident that we have been spending too much money. As a new-comer, I haven't been able to give him the help he needed. It might have been different if we had come together to face the difficulties and temptations of the new country," wound up Hester with a sigh, some of her fears and perplexities coming sharply into relief.
"I believe you are right," returned Mark, glad to ignore her pitiful request, responding only to the last remark, "though you know the general theory is that the man should come first and prospect."
"Well, in your case I believe it will work all right. Your garnered experience will prove a mine of wisdom to your bride when you bring her to these shores. I'm longing to behold that 'not impossible she,' Mark! When will she arrive?" she asked smilingly, glancing at her companion.
Mark Cheveril did not return her glance, but reflectively stroked his horse's neck. After a moment's silence, he looked at her, and said slowly: