“Hard for the knights, too, for they cannot
come back and carry off their ladies. In the
old days it used to be so, but then simplicity has
gone out of life.”
“And the princess waits and watches and cries
herself to sleep?
“And the knight goes off to the World’s
End and never forgets.”
They were at Glenavelin gates now, and stood silent
against the moment of parting. She flew to his
arms, for a second his kisses were on her lips, and
then came the sundering. A storm of tears was
in her heart, but with dry eyes she said the words
of good-bye. Meanwhile from the hills came a
drift of snow, and a dreary wind sang in the pines
the dirge of the dead summer, the plaint of long farewells.
THE EASTERN ROAD
If you travel abroad in certain seasons you will find
that a type predominates among the travellers.
From Dover to Calais, from Calais to Paris, there
is an unnatural eagerness on faces, an unrest in gait,
a disorder in dress which argues worry and haste.
And if you inquire further, being of a speculative
turn, you will find that there is something in the
air. The papers, French and English, have ugly
headlines and mystic leaders. Disquiet is in the
atmosphere, each man has a solution or a secret, and
far at the back sits some body of men who know that
a crisis is near and square their backs for it.
The journalist is sick with work and fancied importance;
the diplomat’s hair whitens with the game which
he cannot understand; the statesman, if he be wise,
is in fear, knowing the meaning of such movements,
while, if he be foolish, he chirps optimistically
in his speeches and is applauded in the press.
There are grey faces at the seats of the money-changers,
for war, the scourge of small cords, seems preparing
for the overturning of their tables, and the castigation
of their persons.
Lewis and George rang the bell in the Faubourg St.
Honore on a Monday afternoon, and asked for Lord Rideaux.
His lordship was out, but, if they were the English
gentlemen who had the appointment with M. Gribton,
Monsieur would be with them speedily.
Lewis looked about the heavily furnished ante-room
with its pale yellow walls and thick, green curtains,
with the air of a man trying to recall a memory.
“I came over here with John Lambert, when his
father had the place. That was just after I left
Oxford. Gad, I was a happy man then. I thought
I could do anything. They put me next to Madame
de Ravignet because of my French, and because old
Ankerville declared that I ought to know the cleverest
woman in Europe. Sery, the man who was Premier
last year, came and wrung my hand afterwards, said
my fortune was assured because I had impressed the
Ravignet, and no one had ever done it before except
Bismarck. Ugh, the place is full of ghosts Poor
old John died a year after, and here am I, far enough,
God knows, from my good intentions.”
