He took his seat at the wheel, with Mayne beside him and Lance behind, in the tonneau. They had not gone far before Lance brought out his secret. His people had not been told yet, he said, but these two were his very good friends, and he must make known to them the great news that he had proposed to Miss Lutwyche that afternoon and been accepted by her.
To Mayne the thing was like a bomb exploding in a non-combatant country. It was utterly unlooked for. He had seen that something was afoot, of course—had had vague fears that by the end of the summer perhaps...
And now it was suddenly all over. His champion had been knocked out in the first round. To such a man as Carol the announcement had all the effect of a hopeless finality. Melicent was betrothed; then Bert's chance was over. He almost expected to see him reel visibly under the blow. Of course the ordinary man is not openly affected by such things. We most of us in our time have to listen politely while somebody cheerfully calls upon us for congratulation upon the circumstance that is defeating our hopes. But to Bert this news meant the loss of all things. His money, his lands, his education, all he had and was, existed for Melicent....
The Bishop elect felt himself turning cold. Visions of possible tragedy had brushed his eyes with their dark wing that afternoon, and behold, already the darkness was upon them. Once before, after Bert's long patience, at the moment of fruition, Carol had stepped in and asked him to forego. He remembered the effect of brute strength in leash, the impact, almost physical, of this man's will against his own. And then he had been able to hold out hope, to say: "Wait, and try again when you have proved yourself."
But this time it was final!
What would Bert do? Would his civilisation, his Christianity, even his manhood, be proof against this stroke of Fate?
It had been better far for him to present himself avowedly to the girl, to say: "Behold the result of my long effort to be more worthy of you. Will you try to learn to love me?"
Mayne had counselled this all along; but Bert had, as usual, taken his own way.
Mayne's eyes were fixed apprehensively upon the firm hands grasping the wheel. He almost expected some explosion, some display of violent resentment, of ungoverned temper, that should shoot them all down into the ravine on their left, where the limekiln smoked blue against the dark moor beyond.
There was not even a change of colour. Bert continued to look out keenly along the road, as his manner was when driving.