: Mr. Carteret and Others by Gray David - England Fiction; Americans England Fiction; Fox hunting Fiction

@FreeBooksThu 08 Jun, 2023

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Nevertheless, he still protested that it was absurd, that the affair was over. Even if there were no Wynford, he knew that she would never change her mind; and, then, there was Wynford. Even now he was sitting beside her only because her eyes were sightless, because she herself was away. When she came back, it would be trespass to remain. He was in another's place. It was Wynford who ought to have found her.

If he could have stolen away he would have done so. But that being impossible, he fell to watching her as if she were not herself, but a room that she had once lived in--a room that he too had known, that was delightful with associations and fragrant with faint memory-stirring perfumes. And yet, though the tenant seemed to be away, was it not after all her very self that was before him? There was the treasure of her brown hair, with the gold light in it, tumbled in heaps about her head; there was the face that had been for him the loveliness of early morning in gardens, that had haunted him in the summer perfume of clover-fields and in the fragrance of night-wrapped lawns. There was the slim, rounded figure that once had brought the blood into his face as it brushed against him. There were the hands whose touch was so smooth and cool and strong. Presently he found himself wiping the mud from her cheek as if he were enacting a ritual over some holy thing. He looked around. No human being was in sight. The afternoon sun shone mildly. In the hedgerow some little birds twittered pleasantly, and sang their private little songs.

Suddenly she opened her eyes. She looked up at him, knew him, and smiled.

"Hello, Carty," she said in her low, vibrant tones. A thrill ran through him. It was the way it used to be.

"You've had a bad fall," he said. "How do you feel?"

A little laugh came into her eyes. "How do I look?" she murmured.

"You're coming out all right," he said; "but you mustn't talk just yet."

"If I want to," she said slowly. Her eyes laughed again. "If I want to, I'll talk."

"No," said Mr. Carteret.

"Hear him boss!" she murmured. She looked up at him for a moment, and then her eyes closed. But it was not the same. The lashes lay more lightly, and a tinge of color had come into her cheeks. He sat and watched her, his mind a confusion, a great gladness in his heart.

In a little while she opened her eyes as before. "Hello, Carty," she began, but Mr. Carteret's attention was attracted by the sound of wheels in the lane. He saw an old pha?ton, driven by a farmer, coming toward them.

The man saw him, and stopped. "Is this the place where a lady was hurt?" he asked.

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