The brook by which he stood, patched with silver by the young March moon, found its way between bronze-stemmed alders, past willows cloudy in pollen-yellow, under banks where the kingcups spread their nosegays of burnished green and gold. Violets, invisible but sweet, clustered at the root of every rose. The scene was set for lovers, and Denis had been making love. Did he do it well? It might have been worse. There had been opposition to overcome, unexpected, stimulating: Evey Byrne with a conscience, forsooth! Denis had tasted the first-fruits of pleasure in crushing down her scruples and making her own she loved him. He had wrung out the confession without mercy. She tried to hold him off with her weak little hands against his breast.
"Ah, but ye don't truly love me, Denis!"
"Don't I?" said Denis, kissing her fawn-soft eyes and sweet, half-reluctant lips.
"Ah, but 'tis so wicked! God'll never forgive us!"
"There is no God that counts," Denis answered. He kissed her again. He had no idea that in his heart he was kissing Dorothea.
That was ten minutes ago. Was it time yet? Hardly, he decided; he might allow himself to finish his cigar. Alas! out of her presence the blaze had all too quickly died down. Mrs. Byrne was sweet, but she bored him like everything else. Still, he would go to her; yes, he would certainly go in a minute. It was his duty to see the thing through. (Naturam expellas furca—it seemed that Denis could not get away from that word!)
What a fool he was! Who would believe that he had reached his present age in his present state of innocence? He hoped Mrs. Byrne hadn't found it out, but he was rather afraid she had. If Denis had been honest with himself he would have had to admit that one reason why he lingered here by the river, instead of seeking the welcome that awaited him, was that he was shy. Too ignominious, that; he shuffled away from the thought. He was dissatisfied with himself all round. Why couldn't he behave like other men? In the old days at Bredon how gloriously happy he had been, with the delicate engine of his brain working at full pressure, solving problems faster than his pencil could write them down! Now, it seemed, he could neither play nor work. What was it he had been sticking over, that last evening before he went to Westby? The everlasting difficulty, speed versus safety. There had been one or two rather clever things in the show to-day. The Sturt bus, that used I-struts, as he had meant to do; but the chord of the wings was too large, the stresses would be impossibly high. Why on earth couldn't Sturt see—
Who can tell whence ideas come? Inter-stellar drift? Some beam from the eternal verities shone suddenly in Denis's brain. He pulled out an old envelope and began covering it with rapid calculations. Ten minutes later, when he next looked up, there was scarcely room for another figure. He had come to a halt; he could go no further without referring to his old work. What time was it? He peered at his watch in the moonlight. Half-past ten: if he got up to town to-night, and slept at the Grosvenor, he could catch the five-forty down and be at Bredon in time for breakfast. He thrust the sheet of calculations into his pocket, and, with about one-twentieth of his mind upon the scene, started for the house. Coming in sight of its lighted windows, however, he slackened and stopped. Mrs. Byrne. There was not much sense left in his head, but it had occurred to him that his errand might be awkward to explain in person.
Denis never had been, or would be, afflicted with self-consciousness. He turned back from the lawn, skulked like a burglar through shrubberies and behind trees, and climbed in at the window of the room where they had dined. Still without a thought of false shame, he sat down at Mrs. Byrne's own writing-table, and wrote with Mrs. Byrne's own pen, on her own paper. Another man might have found some difficulty in putting into words what he had to say; to Denis it seemed quite simple.
"My dearest Evey,—I was standing on your bridge just now, thinking of nothing else likely, when suddenly an idea flashed into my head which settles a problem that has worried me for years. If it works out as it should, it will make a revolution in aircraft design. There's been nothing like it since the Wrights. So I shall have to get straight back into harness. You'll forgive me, I know." Here he paused, and debated whether to quote, "I could not love thee, dear, so much," but decided against it. Mrs. Byrne was not literary. "One has to put the big things first, hasn't one? And after all, this hits me even harder than it hits you." Denis was pleased with this phrase. "If all goes well, I will come back and make my apologies in person. I am not waiting now, because I am afraid if I saw you I might not go." He was even better pleased with this. A satisfied smile overspread his face as he signed himself, "Devotedly yours," a form which he had never used before, and which took him some time to excogitate. Then he rang the bell, gave the note to a servant, and took himself off—again by the window.
"Make my apologies in person." Denis, it will be seen, was not repentant. He returned, as he had promised, a week later, prepared to pick up the thread of his adventure and do his duty to its boring end. He was surprised—surprised and aggrieved—to learn that Mrs. Byrne was not at home. "But she was expectin' me!" he said, quite indignant, to the model of decorum who stood guardian at the gate.
"Yes, sir. She asked me to give you this note," said the model without moving an eyelid. But he scanned Denis's face very inquisitively as he tore open the paper and read:
"Denis darling, this is God. I tried to steal you away from Him, but He won't let me have you. I knew all the time how wrong it was. It has all been my fault. I am going where I can pray for you and pray to be forgiven. Oh! don't be angry with me, and don't let her be angry with me. I have been very wicked, but I did love you so.
"Evey."