He could thank God, at least, that she had not meant to deceive him; he could thank God, at least, that she had done with the past. But he had received a mortal wound, and after his manner concealed it. His lovely image was soiled; the glass of his life to come dimmed already. He saw nothing more of Mary until the wedding day, though he wrote to her in his usual fashion and on his usual days. “My dear child,” and “Yours with sincere affection.” She did not guess that anything was amiss, could not know what they had cost him to write them twice a week. His brother and sister-in-law noticed his depression. Mrs. James indeed was tempted to believe that, at the eleventh hour—but the Rector knew him better. All his forces were now to put heart in the bridegroom. He spoke much of Mary.
XV
A PHILOSOPHER EMBALES
That young man with the look of a faun, at once sleepy and arch, the habit of a philosopher and the taste for gardening at large, whom we have seen very much at his ease in society quite various, was by name Senhouse—patronym, Senhouse, in the faith John, to the world of his familiars Jack Senhouse, and to many Mad Jack. But madness is a term of convenience to express relations, and to him, it may well be, the world was mad. He thought, for instance, that Lord Bramleigh was mad, to whom we are now to hear him talking, as much at his length and as much at his ease as of late we saw him in the company of Miss Mary Middleham, or of Miss Hertha de Speyne of the Cantacute stem.
Perhaps he was more at his ease. He lay, at any rate, before his tent, full length upon his stomach, his crook’d elbows supported his face, which was wrinkled between his hands. His pipe, grown cold by delay, lay on the sward before him. One leg, from the knee, made frequent excursions towards the sky, and when it did, discovered itself lean and sinewy, bare of sock. His sweater was now blue, and his trousers were grey; it was probably he had no more clothing upon him. Upon a camp-stool near by sat Lord Bramleigh of the round face, corded and gaitered, high-collared and astare. To express bewilderment, he whistled; concerned, he smiled.
“Well,” he said presently, “I think you might. We’re short of a gun—I’ve told you so.”
“My dear man,” said the other, “I shoot no birds. I’d as soon shoot my sister.”
“That’s rot, you know, Jack.”
“To me it’s plain sense. God save you, Bramleigh, have you ever seen a bird fly? It’s the most marvellous—no, it’s not, because we’re all marvels together; but I’ll tell you this—boys frisking after a full meal, girls at knucklebones, a leopard stalking from a bough, horses in a windy pasture—whatever you like of the sort has been done, and well done—but a bird in flight, never! There’s no greater sight—and you’ll flare into it with your filthy explosives and shatter a miracle into blood and feathers. Beastly work, my boy, butchers’ work.”
“Rot,” said Bramleigh—“But of course you’re mad. Why are my cartridges filthier than your pots of paint? Hey?”
“Well, I make something, you see—or try to, and you blow it to smithereens—However, we won’t wrangle, Bramleigh. You’re a nice little man, after all. Those Ramondias—it was really decent of you.”