Senhouse inspected the gate, then his watch. “Rosemount Academy for Young Ladies—three o’clock. She’s teaching till four. She expects him.” He retired to his trees; but had to call Bingo twice. He was halfway up the drive, nosing out his friend.
Duplessis came up the hill at five minutes to four, and smoked three cigarettes one after another. He looked at his watch incessantly, as he walked up and down the road. Senhouse watched him calmly, not making any effort at concealment—but concealed, because, it was obvious, Duplessis had no notion of his whereabouts. Ladies—young ladies in straw hats—came out of Rosemount Academy in twos and threes and vanished up or down the road, as the case might be. Some rode bicycles, and waved the prouder farewells to their friends afoot. One was fetched in a brougham by a furred matron; two had a maid; and one joined a brother in a cricket cap. Ladies of severer mien, tightly jacketed and in black, came presently; a long-haired music-master—and Mary.
As she stood beyond the gate she saw Duplessis. Senhouse knew that by her look. She had a trick, when she was at a pass, of driving all expression from her eyes. They showed then as masks of black: it was her way of defence. You could not tell whether she was glad or afraid of you.
But she addressed herself to her task; completed, or allowed the young musician to complete, the conversation, bade him a smiling farewell which sent him happily on his way, and then waited, blankly, but with colour, for Duplessis. The road was now empty but for these two.
He came up, lifting his hat; he took her hand, and held it while he bent to speak to her. Senhouse saw her so held, but with averted face; saw that she was listening, that she was serious—too serious to be frightened. Once he saw her look up at the man, and frame No with her grave lips; once again look up and frame Yes. At that second answer Duplessis took her hand again—her left hand which had been idle by her side—and held it while he continued to talk vehemently, in low tones. He watched her now intently, as she fought these long odds; and had Bingo by the scruff—Bingo on his hind legs, shivering and whining in whispers—“Steady, boy; hold yourself——.”
Mary was now pale, and in her eyes was the light of distress. They beaconed across the way: but no help came. As she listened she began to breathe quickly; he could see her bosom’s unrest. Her hand was caught up to Tristram’s lips—but she sprang away then, and her “Oh, no, no! Never, never—I could not do it,” gave Senhouse the cue for which he shook. He loosed Bingo, who, like a streak of grey light, shot across the road.
Duplessis started violently; but a low glad cry came from Mary’s heart. “Bingo! Oh, my dearest friend! Oh, Bingo!” She stooped in the road, and the two were one. Then she rose vividly bright and waited for Senhouse.
He crossed the road leisurely—with no looks for Duplessis. He held out the maple-branch. “My excuse,” he said. She took it from him, and kept it in her hand. But she could not speak. In the presence of the two men she showed nothing common or mean—no consciousness. She was perhaps at her best: her colour high, but not painful, her eyes serious, but not veiled. Modesty had been jarring affectation here: modesty was not possible. Her left hand still held Bingo’s head to her side: Bingo on his hind legs, revelling in her hand.
The two men, each in his way, put their fate to the touch. Neither took his eyes off her, neither gave an inch. Duplessis would not have compromised if he could. His sullen rage was patent: he let it smoulder. Senhouse smiled—all the faun showed in him: the stored secret knowledge, the power of the adept, of the seer into the dark, of him who would mock if he were not full of pity.
He spoke first. “It seems that you are to choose,” he said. “I can ask you to do that.”