Why didn't Geoffrey come? Or at least write? She could not write to

him. Letters from the castle left only by way of the castle

post-bag, which Rogers, the chauffeur, took down to the village

every evening. Impossible to entrust the kind of letter she wished

to write to any mode of delivery so public--especially now, when

her movements were watched. To open and read another's letters is a

low and dastardly act, but she believed that Lady Caroline would do

it like a shot. She longed to pour out her heart to Geoffrey in a

long, intimate letter, but she did not dare to take the risk of

writing for a wider public. Things were bad enough as it was, after

that disastrous sortie to London.

At this point a soothing vision came to her--the vision of George

Bevan knocking off her brother Percy's hat. It was the only

pleasant thing that had happened almost as far back as she could

remember. And then, for the first time, her mind condescended to

dwell for a moment on the author of that act, George Bevan, the

friend in need, whom she had met only the day before in the lane.

What was George doing at Belpher? His presence there was

significant, and his words even more so. He had stated explicitly

that he wished to help her.

She found herself oppressed by the irony of things. A knight had

come to the rescue--but the wrong knight. Why could it not have

been Geoffrey who waited in ambush outside the castle, and not a

pleasant but negligible stranger? Whether, deep down in her

consciousness, she was aware of a fleeting sense of disappointment

in Geoffrey, a swiftly passing thought that he had failed her, she

could hardly have said, so quickly did she crush it down.

She pondered on the arrival of George. What was the use of his

being somewhere in the neighbourhood if she had no means of knowing

where she could find him? Situated as she was, she could not wander

at will about the countryside, looking for him. And, even if she

found him, what then? There was not much that any stranger, however

pleasant, could do.

She flushed at a sudden thought. Of course there was something

George could do for her if he were willing. He could receive,

despatch and deliver letters. If only she could get in touch with

him, she could--through him--get in touch with Geoffrey.

The whole world changed for her. The sun was setting and chill

little winds had begun to stir the lily-pads, giving a depressing

air to the scene, but to Maud it seemed as if all Nature smiled.

With the egotism of love, she did not perceive that what she

proposed to ask George to do was practically to fulfil the humble

role of the hollow tree in which lovers dump letters, to be

extracted later; she did not consider George's feelings at all. He

had offered to help her, and this was his job. The world is full of

Georges whose task it is to hang about in the background and make

themselves unobtrusively useful.




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