"He's getting tired," thought the artist. "Poor young man, I thought he would be the first to grow tired of this sort of work."
He wrote Edward Arundel a long letter; a friendly but rather facetious letter; such as he might have written to a child who had asked him to jump over the moon. He ridiculed the idea of a duel, as something utterly Quixotic and absurd.
"I am fifteen years older than you, my dear Mr. Arundel," he wrote, "and a great deal too old to have any inclination to fight with windmills; or to represent the windmill which a high–spirited young Quixote may choose to mistake for a villanous knight, and run his hot head against in that delusion. I am not offended with you for calling me bad names, and I take your anger merely as a kind of romantic manner you have of showing your love for my poor cousin. We are not enemies, and we never shall be enemies; for I will never suffer myself to be so foolish as to get into a passion with a brave and generous–hearted young soldier, whose only error is an unfortunate hallucination with regard to
"Your very humble servant,
"PAUL MARCHMONT."
Edward ground his teeth with savage fury as he read this letter.
"Is there no making this man answer for his infamy?" he muttered. "Is there no way of making him suffer?"
* * * * *
June was nearly over, and the year was wearing round to the anniversary of Edward's wedding–day, the anniversaries of those bright days which the young bride and bridegroom had loitered away by the trout–streams in the Hampshire meadows, when some most unlooked–for visitors made their appearance at Kemberling Retreat.
The cottage lay back behind a pleasant garden, and was hidden from the dusty high road by a hedge of lilacs and laburnums which grew within the wooden fence. It was Edward's habit, in this hot summer–time, to spend a great deal of his time in the garden; walking up and down the neglected paths, with a cigar in his mouth; or lolling in an easy chair on the lawn reading the papers. Perhaps the garden was almost prettier, by reason of the long neglect which it had suffered, than it would have been if kept in the trimmest order by the industrious hands of a skilful gardener. Everything grew in a wild and wanton luxuriance, that was very beautiful in this summer–time, when the earth was gorgeous with all manner of blossoms. Trailing branches from the espaliered apple–trees hung across the pathways, intermingled with roses that had run wild; and made "bits" that a landscape–painter might have delighted to copy. Even the weeds, which a gardener would have looked upon with horror, were beautiful. The wild convolvulus flung its tendrils into fantastic wreaths about the bushes of sweetbrier; the honeysuckle, untutored by the pruning–knife, mixed its tall branches with seringa and clematis; the jasmine that crept about the house had mounted to the very chimney–pots, and strayed in through the open windows; even the stable–roof was half hidden by hardy monthly roses that had clambered up to the thatch. But the young soldier took very little interest in this disorderly garden. He pined to be far away in the thick jungle, or on the burning plain. He hated the quiet and repose of an existence which seemed little better than the living death of a cloister.