At Monkland, that same hour, in the little whitewashed 'withdrawing-room'
of a thatched, whitewashed cottage, two men sat talking, one on either
side of the hearth; and in a low chair between them a dark-eyed woman
leaned back, watching, the tips of her delicate thin fingers pressed
together, or held out transparent towards the fire. A log, dropping now
and then, turned up its glowing underside; and the firelight and the
lamplight seemed so to have soaked into the white walls that a wan warmth
exuded. Silvery dun moths, fluttering in from the dark garden, kept
vibrating, like spun shillings, over a jade-green bowl of crimson roses;
and there was a scent, as ever in that old thatched cottage, of woodsmoke,
flowers, and sweetbriar.
The man on the left was perhaps forty, rather above middle height,
vigorous, active, straight, with blue eyes and a sanguine face that glowed
on small provocation. His hair was very bright, almost red, and his fiery
moustaches which descended to the level of his chin, like Don Quixote's
seemed bristling and charging.
The man on the right was nearer thirty, evidently tall, wiry, and very
thin. He sat rather crumpled, in his low armchair, with hands clasped
round a knee; and a little crucified smile haunted the lips of his lean
face, which, with its parchmenty, tanned, shaven cheeks, and deep-set,
very living eyes, had a certain beauty.
These two men, so extravagantly unlike, looked at each other like
neighbouring dogs, who, having long decided that they are better apart,
suddenly find that they have met at some spot where they cannot possibly
have a fight. And the woman watched; the owner, as it were, of one, but
who, from sheer love of dogs, had always stroked and patted the other.
“So, Mr. Courtier,” said the younger man, whose dry, ironic voice, like
his smile, seemed defending the fervid spirit in his eyes; “all you say
only amounts, you see, to a defence of the so-called Liberal spirit; and,
forgive my candour, that spirit, being an importation from the realms of
philosophy and art, withers the moment it touches practical affairs.”
The man with the red moustaches laughed; the sound was queer—at once
so genial and so sardonic.
“Well put!” he said: “And far be it from me to gainsay. But since
compromise is the very essence of politics, high-priests of caste and
authority, like you, Lord Miltoun, are every bit as much out of it as any
“I don't agree!”
“Agree or not, your position towards public affairs is very like the
Church's attitude towards marriage and divorce; as remote from the
realities of life as the attitude of the believer in Free Love, and not
more likely to catch on. The death of your point of view lies in itself—it's
too dried-up and far from things ever to understand them. If you don't
understand you can never rule. You might just as well keep your hands in
your pockets, as go into politics with your notions!”
“I fear we must continue to agree to differ.”
“Well; perhaps I do pay you too high a compliment. After all, you are a
“You speak in riddles, Mr. Courtier.”
The dark-eyed woman stirred; her hands gave a sort of flutter, as though
in deprecation of acerbity.
Rising at once, and speaking in a deferential voice, the elder man said:
“We're tiring Mrs. Noel. Good-night, Audrey, It's high time I was off.”
Against the darkness of the open French window, he turned round to fire a
“What I meant, Lord Miltoun, was that your class is the driest and most
practical in the State—it's odd if it doesn't save you from a poet's
dreams. Good-night!” He passed out on to the lawn, and vanished.
The young man sat unmoving; the glow of the fire had caught his face, so
that a spirit seemed clinging round his lips, gleaming out of his eyes.
Suddenly he said:
“Do you believe that, Mrs. Noel?”
For answer Audrey Noel smiled, then rose and went over to the window.
“Look at my dear toad! It comes here every evening!” On a flagstone of the
verandah, in the centre of the stream of lamplight, sat a little golden
toad. As Miltoun came to look, it waddled to one side, and vanished.
“How peaceful your garden is!” he said; then taking her hand, he very
gently raised it to his lips, and followed his opponent out into the
Truly peace brooded over that garden. The Night seemed listening—all
lights out, all hearts at rest. It watched, with a little white star for
every tree, and roof, and slumbering tired flower, as a mother watches her
sleeping child, leaning above him and counting with her love every hair of
his head, and all his tiny tremors.
Argument seemed child's babble indeed under the smile of Night. And the
face of the woman, left alone at her window, was a little like the face of
this warm, sweet night. It was sensitive, harmonious; and its harmony was
not, as in some faces, cold—but seemed to tremble and glow and
flutter, as though it were a spirit which had found its place of resting.
In her garden,—all velvety grey, with black shadows beneath the
yew-trees, the white flowers alone seemed to be awake, and to look at her
wistfully. The trees stood dark and still. Not even the night birds
stirred. Alone, the little stream down in the bottom raised its voice,
privileged when day voices were hushed.
It was not in Audrey Noel to deny herself to any spirit that was abroad;
to repel was an art she did not practise. But this night, though the
Spirit of Peace hovered so near, she did not seem to know it. Her hands
trembled, her cheeks were burning; her breast heaved, and sighs fluttered
from her lips, just parted.