and
each other; or were they fated to pretend to only, in the old
time-honoured way?

They crossed the river by a ferry, and rode a long time in silence,
while the twilight slowly fell behind the aspens. And all the beauty of
the evening, with its restless leaves, its grave young moon, and lighted
campion flowers, was but a part of her; the scents, the witchery and
shadows, the quaint field noises, the yokels' whistling, and the splash
of water-fowl, each seemed to him enchanted. The flighting bats, the
forms of the dim hayricks, and sweet-brier perfume-she summed them
all up in herself. The fingermarks had deepened underneath her eyes,
a languor came upon her; it made her the more sweet and youthful. Her
shoulders seemed to bear on them the very image of our land--grave and
aspiring, eager yet contained--before there came upon that land the grin
of greed, the folds of wealth, the simper of content. Fair, unconscious,
free!

And he was silent, with a beating heart.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE BIRD 'OF PASSAGE

That night, after the ride, when Shelton was about to go to bed, his
eyes fell on Ferrand's letter, and with a sleepy sense of duty he began
to read it through a second time. In the dark, oak-panelled bedroom, his
four-post bed, with back of crimson damask and its dainty sheets, was
lighted by the candle glow; the copper pitcher of hot water in the
basin, the silver of his brushes, and the line of his well-polished
boots all shone, and Shelton's face alone was gloomy, staring at the
yellowish paper in his hand.

"The poor chap wants money, of course," he thought. But why go on
for ever helping one who had no claim on him, a hopeless case,
incurable--one whom it was his duty to let sink for the good of the
community at large? Ferrand's vagabond refinement had beguiled him into
charity that should have been bestowed on hospitals, or any charitable
work but foreign missions. To give a helping hand, a bit of himself, a
nod of fellowship to any fellow-being irrespective of a claim, merely
because he happened to be down, was sentimental nonsense! The line
must be drawn! But in the muttering of this conclusion he experienced
a twinge of honesty. "Humbug! You don't want to part with your money,
that's all!"

So, sitting down in shirt-sleeves at his writing table, he penned the
following on paper stamped with the Holm Oaks address and crest:

MY DEAR FERRAND,

I am sorry you are having such a bad spell. You see