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A Case Of Conscience
by
They took their way in silence towards the village; presently a bend of the road hid them from it, and he drew closer to her, helping her with his arm over the rough stones. Emerging, they had gone thirty yards so, before the scent of English tobacco drew their attention to a figure seated by the road-side, under a hedge; they recognised it, and started apart, a little consciously.
‘It is M. Tregellan,’ said the young girl, flushing: ‘and he must have seen us.’
Her companion, frowning, hardly suppressed a little quick objurgation.
‘It makes no matter,’ he observed, after a moment: ‘I shall see your uncle to-morrow and we know, good man, how he wishes this; and, in any case, I would have told Tregellan.’
The figure rose, as they drew near: he shook the ashes out of his briar, and removed it to his pocket. He was a slight man, with an ugly, clever face; his voice as he greeted them, was very low and pleasant.
‘You must have had a charming walk, Mademoiselle. I have seldom seen Ploumariel look better.’
‘Yes,’ she said, gravely, ‘it has been very pleasant. But I must not linger now,’ she added breaking a little silence in which none of them seemed quite at ease. ‘My uncle will be expecting me to supper.’ She held out her hand, in the English fashion, to Tregellan, and then to Sebastian Murch, who gave the little fingers a private pressure.
They had come into the market-place round which most of the houses in Ploumariel were grouped. They watched the young girl cross it briskly; saw her blue gown pass out of sight down a bye street: then they turned to their own hotel. It was a low, white house, belted half way down the front with black stone; a pictorial object, as most Breton hostels. The ground floor was a cafe ; and, outside it, a bench and long stained table enticed them to rest. They sat down, and ordered absinthes, as the hour suggested: these were brought to them presently by an old servant of the house; an admirable figure, with the white sleeves and apron relieving her linsey dress: with her good Breton face, and its effective wrinkles. For some time they sat in silence, drinking and smoking. The artist appeared to be absorbed in contemplation of his drink; considering its clouded green in various lights. After a while the other looked up, and remarked, abruptly.
‘I may as well tell you that I happened to overlook you, just now, unintentionally.’
Sebastian Murch held up his glass, with absent eyes.
‘Don’t mention it, my dear fellow,’ he remarked, at last, urbanely.
‘I beg your pardon; but I am afraid I must.’
He spoke with an extreme deliberation which suggested nervousness; with the air of a person reciting a little set speech, learnt imperfectly: and he looked very straight in front of him, out into the street, at two dogs quarrelling over some offal.
‘I daresay you will be angry: I can’t avoid that; at least, I have known you long enough to hazard it. I have had it on my mind to say something. If I have been silent, it hasn’t been because I have been blind, or approved. I have seen how it was all along. I gathered it from your letters when I was in England. Only until this afternoon I did not know how far it had gone, and now I am sorry I did not speak before.’
He stopped short, as though he expected his friend’s subtilty to come to his assistance; with admissions or recriminations. But the other was still silent, absent: his face wore a look of annoyed indifference. After a while, as Tregellan still halted, he observed quietly:
‘You must be a little more explicit. I confess I miss your meaning.’
‘Ah, don’t be paltry,’ cried the other, quickly. ‘You know my meaning. To be very plain, Sebastian, are you quite justified in playing with that charming girl, in compromising her?’