The Obstacle Race by Ethel M. Dell

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She spoke with most unwonted force, and again the squire's steely eyes
shot upwards, regarding her piercingly. "You're quite right," he said
briefly. "I won't stand it. I've stood too much already. Now, Vera, you
behave yourself, and stop that crying--at once!"

There was that in his tone that quelled all rebellion. Vera shrank closer
to Juliet, but she began to make some feeble efforts to subdue her wild
distress. Fielding sat on the edge of the bed, her hand firmly in his,
and waited. His expression was one of absolute and implacable
determination. He looked so forbidding and so formidable that Juliet
wondered a little at her own temerity in remaining. She decided then and
there that a serious disagreement with the squire would be too great a
tax upon any woman's strength, and she did not wonder that Vera's had
broken down under it.

Suddenly he spoke. "Has she had any breakfast?"

"Not yet," said Juliet.

"Oh, don't!" implored Vera, with a shudder.

He got up and went to the untouched tray. Juliet watched him pour out
some tea as she smoothed the tumbled hair back from his wife's forehead.

He came back with the cup in his hand. "Now," he said, "you are going to
drink this."

She lifted scared eyes to his stern face. "Edward!" she whispered.
"Don't--oh, don't look at me like that!"

He stooped over her, and put the cup to her lips. She drank, quivering,
not daring to refuse. When she had finished he brought her bread and
butter and fed her, mouthful by mouthful, while the tears ran silently
down her face.

At last he turned again to Juliet. "Miss Moore, my wife will not object
to your leaving us now."

It was a distinct command. But she hesitated to obey. Vera looked up at
her piteously, saying no word. The squire frowned heavily, his eyes
grimly, piercingly, upon Juliet.

She met his look with steady resolution. "Won't you leave her to rest for
a little while?" she said. "I think she needs it."

"Very well," he said, and though he did not look like yielding she
realized to her surprise that he had done so. He turned to the door. "I
should like a word with you in the library," he said, as he reached it.
"Please come to me there immediately!"

He was gone. Vera turned with a sob and clasped Juliet closely to her.

"He is going to send you away. I know he is," she wailed. "What shall I
do? What shall I do?"

"Lie down!" said Juliet sensibly, releasing herself to settle the tumbled
bedclothes. "Don't cry any more! Just shut your eyes and lie still!"

She laid her down upon the pillow with the words as if she had been a
child, smoothed the rumpled hair again, and after a moment bent and
kissed the hot forehead.

"Oh, thank you!" murmured Mrs. Fielding. "I'm dreadfully unhappy, Juliet.
I don't know what I shall do without you."

"Go to sleep!" said Juliet, tucking her up. "I'll come back presently.
Lie quite still till I do!"

She guessed that exhaustion would come to her aid in this particular as
she drew the curtains close and turned away to face her own ordeal.

"Come back soon!" Vera called after her as she softly shut the door.

"Presently," Juliet said again.

She realized as she descended the stairs that her heart was beating
uncomfortably hard, but she did not pause on that account. She wanted to
face the squire while her spirit was still high.

She held her head up as she entered the library where he awaited her, but
she knew within herself that it was bravado rather than fearlessness that
enabled her to face him thus. And when he turned sharply from the window
to meet her she was conscious of a moment of most undignified dread.

Whether her face betrayed her or not she never knew but she was aware in
an instant of a change in his attitude. He came straight up to her, and
suddenly her hand was in his and he was looking into her eyes with the
gleam of a smile in his own.

"Come along!" he said. "Let's have it! I'm the biggest brute you ever
came across, and you never want to set eyes on me again. Isn't that it?"

It was winningly spoken, restoring her self-confidence in a second. She
shook her head in answer.

"No. I'm not in a position to judge, and I don't think I want to be. I
have no real liking for meddling in other people's affairs."

"Very wise!" he commented. "But you won't have much choice if you decide
to stay with us. Are you going to stay?"

"Are you going to keep me?" said Juliet.

"Certainly," he returned promptly. "I regard you as the most valuable
member of the household at the present moment. Miss Moore, will you tell
me something?"

"If I can," said Juliet.

"Where did you learn such a lot about men?" he said.

She coloured a little at the question. "Well, I haven't lived with my
eyes shut all this time," she said.

"You evidently haven't," he said. "Allow me to compliment you on your
tact! Ninety-nine women out of a hundred would have taken the obvious
course of siding with their own sex against the oppressor. Why didn't
you, I wonder?"

"I'm not sure that I don't," she said, smiling faintly.

He pressed her hand and released it. "No, you don't. You've too much
sense. You know as well as I do that she deserved all she got and more.
You haven't always found her exactly easy to get on with yourself, I'll
be bound."

"I don't think you are either of you that," Juliet said quietly.

He nodded. "Now it's coming! I thought it would. No, Miss Moore, I am
not easy to get on with. I've had a rotten life all through, and it
hasn't made me very pliable." He paused, looking at her under his black
brows as if debating with himself as to how far he would take her into
his confidence. "I've been cheated of the best from the very outset," he
said, "cheated and thwarted at every turn. That sort of treatment may
suit some people, but it hasn't made an archangel of me." He fell to
pacing up and down the room, staring moodily at the floor, his hands
behind him. "Life is such an infernal gamble at the best," he said; "but
I never had a chance. It's been one damn thing after another. I've
tripped at every hurdle. I suppose you never came a cropper in your
life--don't know what it means."

"I think I do know what it means," Juliet said slowly. "I've looked on,
you know. I've seen--a good many things."

"Just as you're looking on now, eh?" said the squire, grimly smiling.
"Well, you profit by my experience--if you can! And if love ever comes
your way, hang on to it, hang on to it for all you're worth, even if you
drop everything else to do it! It's the gift of the gods, my dear, and if
you throw it away once it'll never come your way again."

"No, I know," said Juliet. She rested her arm on the mantelpiece, gravely
watching him. "I've noticed that."

"Noticed it, have you?" He flung her a look as he passed. "You've
never been in love, that's certain, never seriously I mean,--never up
to the neck."

"No, never so deep as that!" said Juliet.

He passed on to the end of the room, and came to a sudden stand before
the window. "I--have!" he said, and his voice came with an odd jerkiness
as if it covered some emotion that he could not wholly control. "I won't
bore you with details. But I loved a woman once--I loved her madly. And
she loved me. But--Fate--came between. She's dead now. Her troubles are
over, and I'm not such a selfish brute as to want her back. Yet I
sometimes think to myself--that if I'd married that woman--I'd have made
her happy, and I'd have been a better man myself than I am to-day." He
swung round restlessly, found her steady eyes upon him, and came back to
her. "The fact of the matter is, Miss Moore," he said, "I was a skunk
ever to marry at all--after that."

"It depends how you look at it," she said gently.

"Don't you look at it that way?" he said, regarding her curiously.

She hesitated momentarily. "Not entirely, no. The woman was dead and you
were alone."

"I was--horribly alone," he said.

"I don't think it was wrong of you to marry," she said. "Only--you ought
to love your wife."

"Ah!" he said. "I thought we agreed that love comes only once."

She shook her head. "Not quite that. Besides, there are many kinds of
love." Again for a second she hesitated looking straight at him. "Shall I
tell you something? I don't know whether I ought. It is almost like a
breach of confidence--though it was never told to me."

"What is it?" he said imperatively.

She made a little gesture of yielding. "Yes, I will tell you. Mr.
Fielding, you might make your wife love you--so dearly--if you cared to
take the trouble."

"What?" he said.

Her eyes met his with a faint, faint smile. "Doesn't it seem absurd," she
said, "that it should fall to me--a comparative stranger--to tell you
this, when you have been together for so long? It is the truth. She is
just as lonely and unhappy as you are. You could transform the whole
world for her--if you only would."

"What! Give her her own way in everything?" he said. "Is that what you're
advising?"

"No. I'm not advising anything. I am only just telling you the truth,"
said Juliet. "You could make her love you--if you tried."

He stared at her for some seconds as if trying to read some riddle in her
countenance. "You are a very remarkable young woman," he said at last. "I
wouldn't part with you for a king's ransom. So you think I might turn
that very unreasonable hatred of hers into love, do you?"

"I am quite sure," said Juliet steadily.

"I wonder if I should like it if I did!" said the squire.

She laughed--a sudden, low laugh. "Yes. You would like it very much. It's
the last and greatest obstacle between you and happiness. Once clear
that, and--"

"Did you say happiness?" he broke in cynically.

"Yes, of course I did." Her look challenged him. "Once clear that and if
you haven't got a straight run before you--" She paused, looking at him
oddly, very intently, and finally stopped.

"Well?" he said. "Continue!"

She coloured vividly under his eyes.

"I'm afraid I've lost my thread. It doesn't really matter. You know what
I was going to say. The way to happiness does not lie in pleasing
oneself. The self-seekers never get there."

He made her a courteous bow. "Thank you, fairy god-mother! I believe you
are right. That may be why happiness is so shy a bird. We spread the net
too openly. Well," he heaved a sigh, "we live and learn." He turned to
the table and took up his riding whip. "I suppose my wife will be in bed
and sulk all day because I vetoed the Graydown Races."

"Oh, was that the trouble?" said Juliet.

He nodded gloomily. "I hate the set she consorts with at these shows.
There are some of the Fairharbour set--impossible people! But they boast
of being on nodding terms with that arch-bounder Lord Saltash, and so
everything is forgiven them."

Juliet suddenly stood up very straight. "I think I ought to tell you,"
she said, "that I know Lord Saltash. I have lived with the Farringmore
family, as you know. He is a friend of Lord Wilchester's."

The squire turned sharply. "I hope you're going to tell me also that you
can't endure the man," he said.

She made a little gesture of negation. "I never say that of anybody. I
don't feel I can afford to. Life has too many contradictions--too many
chances. The person we most despise to-day may prove our most valuable
defender to-morrow."

"Heaven forbid!" said the squire. "You wouldn't touch such pitch as that
under any circumstances. Besides, what do you want in the way of
defenders? You're safe enough where you are."

Juliet was smiling whimsically. "But who knows?" she said. "I may be
dismissed in disgrace to-morrow."

"No," he said briefly. "That won't happen. Your position here is secure
as long as you consent to fill it."

"How rash of you," she said.

"A matter of opinion!" said Fielding. "How would you like to go over and
see the cricket at Fairharbour this afternoon?"

She gave him a quick look. "Oh, is that the alternative to the races?"

He frowned. "I have already told you the races are out of the question."

"I see," said Juliet thoughtfully. "Then I am afraid the cricket-match is
also--unless Mrs. Fielding wants to go."

"I'll make her go," said squire.

"No! No! Don't make her do anything--please!" begged Juliet. "That is
just the worst mistake you could possibly make. To be honest, I would
rather--much--go to the open-air concert at High Shale this evening."

"Along with those rowdy miners?" growled the squire. "I see enough of
them on the Bench. Green of course is cracked on that subject. He'd like
to set the world in order if he could."

"I admire his enterprise," said Juliet.

He nodded. "So do I. He's cussed as a mule, but he's a goer. He's also a
gentleman. Have you noticed that?"

She smiled. "Of course I have."

"And I can't get my wife to see it," said the squire. "Just because--by
his own idiotic choice--he occupies a humble position, she won't allow
him a single decent quality. She classes them all together, when anyone
can see--anyone with ordinary intelligence can see--that he is of a
totally different standing from those brothers of his. He is on another
plane altogether. It's self-evident. You see it at once."

"Yes," said Juliet.

He moved restlessly. "I would have placed him in his proper sphere if
he'd consented to it. But he wouldn't. It's a standing grievance between
us. That fellow Robin is a millstone round his neck. Miss Moore," he
turned on her suddenly, "you have a wonderful knack of making people see
reason. Couldn't you persuade him to let Robin go?"

"Oh no!" said Juliet quickly. "It's the very last thing I would
attempt to do."

"Really!" He looked at her in genuine astonishment.

Juliet flushed. "But of course!" she said. "They belong to each other.
How could Mr. Green possibly part with him? You wouldn't--surely--think
much of him if he did?"

"I think he's mad not to," declared the squire. "But," he smiled at her,
"I think it's uncommonly kind of you to take that view, all the same.
I'll take you to that concert to-night if you really want to go."

"Will you? How kind!" said Juliet, turning to go. "But you won't mind if
I consult Mrs. Fielding first? I must do that."

He opened the door for her. "You are not to spoil her now," he said.
"She's been spoilt all her life by everybody."

"Except by you," said Juliet daringly.

And with that parting shot she left him, swiftly traversing the hall to
the stairs without looking back.

The squire stood for some seconds looking after her. She had opposed him
at practically every point, and yet she had not offended him.

"A very remarkable young woman!" he said again to himself as she passed
out of his sight. "A very--gifted young woman! Ah, Dick, my friend, she'd
make a rare politician's wife." And then another thought struck him and
he began to laugh. "And she'll be equally charming as the helpmeet of the
village schoolmaster. Egad, we can't have everything, but I think you've
found your fate."

CHAPTER VI

RECONCILIATION

The luncheon-gong rang through the house with a tremendous booming, and
Vera Fielding, sitting limply in a chair by her open window, closed her
eyes with drawn brows as if the sound were too much for her overwrought
nerves. The tempest of three hours before had indeed left her spent and
shaken, and an unacknowledged tincture of shame mingling with her
exhaustion did not improve matters. She had wept away her fury, and a
dull resentment sat heavily upon her. She had entered upon the second
stage of the conflict which usually lasted for some days,--days during
which complete silence reigned between her husband and herself until he
either departed to town to end the tension or his wrath boiled up afresh
cowing her into a bitter submission to his will which brought nothing but
misery to them both.

The last deep notes of the gong died away, and Vera's eyes half-opened
again. They dwelt restlessly upon the brilliant patch of garden visible
under the lowered sun-blind. The splendour of the June world without
served to increase the wretchedness of her mood by contrast. The sultry
heat seemed to weigh her down. Life was one vast oppression and bondage.
She was weary to the soul.

Juliet had gone down to aid Cox in the selection of something tempting
for her luncheon. She had every intention of refusing it whatever it was.
Who as miserable as she could bear to eat anything--unless forced to do
so by brutal compulsion?

Her head throbbed painfully. Her nerves were stretched for the sound of
her husband's step in the adjoining room. She wished she had told Juliet
to lock the communicating door, though she hardly expected him to come in
upon her a second time. Even his wrath had its limits. It seldom gathered
to its full height twice in a day.

She was trying to comfort herself with this reflection when suddenly she
heard him enter his room, and in a moment all her lassitude vanished in
so violent an agitation that she found herself gasping for breath. Still
she told herself that he would not come in. It had always been his habit
to leave her severely alone after a battle. He would not come in! Surely
he would not come in. And then the handle of the intervening door turned,
and she sank back in her chair with a sick effort to appear indifferent.

She did not look at him as he came in. Only by the quick heaving of her
breast which was utterly beyond control did she betray her knowledge of
his presence. Her face was turned away from him. She stared down into the
dazzling sunlight with eyes that saw nothing.

He came to her, halted beside her. And suddenly a warm sweet fragrance
filled the air. She looked round in spite of herself and found a bunch of
exquisite lilies-of-the-valley close to her cheek. She lifted her eyes
with a great start.

"Edward!"

His face was red. He looked supremely ill at ease. He pushed the flowers
under her nose. "Take 'em for heaven's sake!" he said irritably. "I hate
the things myself."

She took them, too amazed for comment, and buried her face in their
perfumed depths.

He stood beside her, impatiently clicking his fingers. There fell an
uncomfortable silence, during which Vera gradually remembered her dignity
and at length laid the flowers aside. Her agitation had subsided. She sat
and waited noncommittally for the new situation to develop. Even in their
engagement days he had never brought her flowers, and any overture from
him after a quarrel was a thing unknown.

She waited therefore, not looking at him, and in a few moments, very
awkwardly, with obvious reluctance, he spoke again.

"I don't think we want to keep this up any longer, do we? Seems a bit
senseless, what? I'm ready to forget it if you are."

Again, she was taken by surprise, for his voice had a curious urgency
that made her aware that he for one had certainly had enough of it, and
there was that in her which leaped in swift response. But it was not to
be expected of her that she should be willing to bury the hatchet at a
moment's notice after the treatment she had received, and she checked the
unaccountable impulse.

"There are some things that it is not easy to forget," she said coldly.

His demeanour changed in an instant. "Oh, all right," he said, "if you
prefer to sulk!"

He swung upon his heel. In a moment he would have been gone; but in that
moment the inner force that Vera had ignored suddenly sprang above every
other emotion or consideration. She put out a quick hand and stayed him.

"I am not sulking! I never sulk! But I can't behave--all in a moment--as
if nothing had happened. Edward!"

It was her voice that held pleading now, for he made as if he would leave
her in spite of her detaining hold. She tightened her fingers on his arm.

"Edward, please!" she said.

He stopped. "Well?" he said gruffly. Then, as she said nothing
further, he turned slowly and looked at her. Her head was bent. She
was striving for self-control. Something in her attitude went straight
to the man's heart. She looked so small, so forlorn, so pathetic in
her struggle for dignity.

On a generous impulse he flung his own away. "Oh, come, my dear!" he
said, and stooping took her into his arms. "I'm sorry. There!"

She clung to him then, clung closely, still battling to check the tears
that she knew he disliked.

He kissed her forehead and patted her shoulder with a queer compunction
that had never troubled him before in his dealings with her.

"There!" he said. "There! That's all right, isn't it? We shall have Miss
Moore in directly. Where's your handkerchief?"

She found it and dried her eyes with her head against his shoulder. Then
she lifted a still quivering face to his. "Edward,--I'm--just as sorry
as you are," she said, with a catch in her voice.

He kissed her again, wondering a little at his own softened feelings.
"All right, my girl. Let's forget it!" he said. "You have a good lunch
and you'll feel better! What are they giving you? Champagne?"

"Oh no, of course not!"

"Well, why not? It's the very thing you want. Just the occasion.
What? You sit still and I'll go and see about it!" He put her down
among her cushions, but she clung to him still. "No, don't go for a
minute!" she said, with a shaky smile. "It's so good to have
you--kind to me for once."

"Good gracious!" he said, but half in jest. "Am I such a brute as
all that?"

She pushed back her sleeve and mutely showed him the marks upon her arm.

He looked, and his brows drew together. "My doing?"

She nodded. "Last night--when--when I said--something you didn't
like--about Mr. Green."

He scowled a moment longer, then abruptly stooped, took the white arm
between his hands and kissed it. "I'll get a stick and beat you the next
time," he said. "You remember that--and be decent to Green, see?"

The kiss belied the words, covering also a certain embarrassment which
Vera was not slow to perceive. Because of it she found strength to
abstain from further argument. He had undoubtedly conceded a good deal.

"I'll be decent to anyone," she said, "so long as you are decent to me."

"Hear, hear!" said the squire. "Now dry your eyes and be sensible! Miss
Moore will go for me like mad if she finds you crying again. If we don't
pull together we shall have that girl running the whole show before we
are much older, and neither of us will ever dare even to contradict the
other in her presence again. We shouldn't like that, should we?"

She laughed a little in spite of her wan countenance. "Oh, no, Edward. We
mustn't risk that." Then, with a touch of anxiety, "It wasn't Miss
Moore's idea that you should bring me flowers, was it?"

"No." The squire grinned at her suddenly. "The worthy Columbus was
responsible for that. I found him routing in the lily-bed after snails or
some such delicacy. He was so infernally busy he made me feel ashamed. So
I went down on my knees and joined him, gathered the lot,--nearly killed
myself over it, but that's an unimportant detail. Now for your
champagne! You'll feel a different woman when you've had it."

He departed, leaving his wife looking after him with an odd wistfulness
in her eyes. She was seeing him in a new light which made her feel
strangely uncertain of herself also. Was it possible that all these years
of misunderstanding, which she had regarded as inevitable, might have
been avoided after all?

A quick sigh rose to her lips as again she took his flowers and held them
against her face.

CHAPTER VII

THE SPELL

A wonderful summer evening followed the sultry day. The sun sank
gloriously behind High Shale, and a soft breeze blew in from the sea.

On the slope of the hill behind the lighthouse and above the miners'
village there stood an old thatched barn, and about this a knot of men
and youths loitered, smoking and talking in a desultory, discontented
fashion. On the other side of the barn a shrill cackling proclaimed the
presence of some of the feminine portion of the community, and the
occasional squall of a baby or a squeal of a bigger child testified to
the fact that the greater part of the village population awaited the
entertainment which Green contrived to give on the first Saturday of
every month.

He had started these concerts two winters before down in the village of
Little Shale, and they had originally been for men and boys only, but
the women had grumbled so loudly at their exclusion that Green had very
soon realized the necessity of extending a welcome to them also. So now
they flocked in a body to his support, even threatening to crowd out
the men in the winter evenings when he had to assemble his audience at
the Village Club at Little Shale. But in the summer, as a concession to
High Shale, he held his concerts, whenever feasible, up on the hill,
and practically the whole of High Shale village came to them. Little
Shale was also well represented, but he always felt that he was in
closer touch with the miners on these occasions, when he met them on
their own ground.

The two villages were apt to eye one another with scant sympathy, the
fisher population of the one and the mining population of the other
having little in common beyond the liquor which they uniformly sought at
The Three Tuns by the shore. Green never permitted any bickering, and
they were all alike in their respect for him, but a species of armed
neutrality which was very far removed from comradeship existed between
them. Fights at The Three Tuns were by no means of unusual occurrence and
the miners of High Shale were invariably spoken of with wholesale
contempt by the men along the shore.

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