That afternoon the wind, which had been rising steadily, brought a
flurry of clouds up from the South-West. Formed out on the heart of
the Atlantic, they sailed forward, swift and fleecy at first, like
the skirmishing white shallops of a great fleet; then, in serried
masses, darkened the sun. About four o'clock they broke in rain,
which the wind drove horizontally with a cold whiffling murmur. As
youth and glamour die in a face before the cold rains of life, so
glory died on the moor. The tors, from being uplifted wild castles,
became mere grey excrescences. Distance failed. The cuckoos were
silent. There was none of the beauty that there is in death, no
tragic greatness--all was moaning and monotony. But about seven the
sun tore its way back through the swathe, and flared out. Like some
huge star, whose rays were stretching down to the horizon, and up to
the very top of the hill of air, it shone with an amazing murky
glamour; the clouds splintered by its shafts, and tinged saffron,
piled themselves up as if in wonder. Under the sultry warmth of this
new great star, the heather began to steam a little, and the glitter
of its wet unopened bells was like that of innumerable tiny smoking
fires. The two brothers were drenched as they cantered silently
home. Good friends always, they had never much to say to one
another. For Miltoun was conscious that he thought on a different
plane from Bertie; and Bertie grudged even to his brother any inkling
of what was passing in his spirit, just as he grudged parting with
diplomatic knowledge, or stable secrets, or indeed anything that
might leave him less in command of life. He grudged it, because in a
private sort of way it lowered his estimation of his own stoical
self-sufficiency; it hurt something proud in the withdrawing-room of
his soul. But though he talked little, he had the power of
contemplation--often found in men of decided character, with a
tendency to liver. Once in Nepal, where he had gone to shoot, he had
passed a month quite happily with only a Ghoorka servant who could
speak no English. To those who asked him if he had not been horribly
bored, he had always answered: "Not a bit; did a lot of thinking."
With Miltoun's trouble he had the professional sympathy of a brother
and the natural intolerance of a confirmed bachelor. Women were to
him very kittle-cattle. He distrusted from the bottom of his soul
those who had such manifest power to draw things from you. He was
one of those men in whom some day a woman might awaken a really fine
affection; but who, until that time, would maintain the perfectly
male attitude to the entire sex, and, after it, to all the sex but
one. Women were, like Life itself, creatures to be watched,
carefully used, and kept duly subservient. The only allusion
therefore that he made to Miltoun's trouble was very sudden.
"Old man, I hope you're going to cut your losses."
The words were followed by undisturbed silence: But passing Mrs.
Noel's cottage Miltoun said:
"Take my horse on; I want to go in here."....
She was sitting at her piano with her hands idle, looking at a line
of music.... She had been sitting thus for many minutes, but had not
yet taken in the notes.
When Miltoun's shadow blotted the light by which she was seeing so
little, she gave a slight start, and got up. But she neither went
towards him, nor spoke. And he, without a word, came in and stood by
the hearth, looking down at the empty grate. A tortoise-shell cat
which had been watching swallows, disturbed by his entrance, withdrew
from the window beneath a chair.
This silence, in which the question of their future lives was to be
decided, seemed to both interminable; yet, neither could end it.
At last, touching his sleeve, she said: "You're wet!"
Miltoun shivered at that timid sign of possession. And they again
stood in silence broken only by the sound of the cat licking its
But her faculty for dumbness was stronger than his, and--he had to
"Forgive me for coming; something must be settled. This--rumour----"
"Oh! that!" she said. "Is there anything I can do to stop the harm
It was the turn of Miltoun's lips to curl. "God! no; let them talk!"
Their eyes had come together now, and, once together, seemed unable
Mrs. Noel said at last:
"Will you ever forgive me?"
"What for--it was my fault."
"No; I should have known you better."
The depth of meaning in those words--the tremendous and subtle
admission they contained of all that she had been ready to do, the
despairing knowledge in them that he was not, and never had been,
ready to 'bear it out even to the edge of doom'--made Miltoun wince
"It is not from fear--believe that, anyway."
There followed another long, long silence! But though so close that
they were almost touching, they no longer looked at one another.
Then Miltoun said:
"There is only to say good-bye, then."
At those clear words spoken by lips which, though just smiling,
failed so utterly to hide his misery, Mrs. Noel's face became
colourless as her white gown. But her eyes, which had grown immense,
seemed from the sheer lack of all other colour, to have drawn into
them the whole of her vitality; to be pouring forth a proud and
Shivering, and crushing himself together with his arms, Miltoun
walked towards the window. There was not the faintest sound from
her, and he looked back. She was following him with her eyes. He
threw his hand up over his face, and went quickly out. Mrs. Noel
stood for a little while where he had left her; then, sitting down
once more at the piano, began again to con over the line of music.
And the cat stole back to the window to watch the swallows. The
sunlight was dying slowly on the top branches of the lime-tree; a,
drizzling rain began to fall.