XXX

Another week went by, and though it went swiftly, still at the end of the time it seemed long, as very happy and significant times do.  Honora was still weak, but as every comfort had been provided for her journey, it seemed more than probable that she would be benefited in the long run by the change, however exhausting it might be temporarily.

“It’s the morning of the last day,” said Wander at breakfast.  “Honora is to treat herself as if she were the finest and most highly decorated bohemian glass, and save herself up for her journey.  All preparations, I am told, are completed.  Very well, then.  Do you and I ride to-day, Miss Barrington?”

“‘Here we ride,’” quoted Kate.  Then she flushed, remembering the reference.

Did Karl recognize it—­or know it?  She could not tell.  He could, at will, show a superb inscrutability.

Whether he knew Browning’s poem or not, Kate found to her irritation that she did.  Lines she thought she had forgotten, trooped—­galloped—­back into her brain.  The thud of them fell like rhythmic hoofs upon the road.

     “Then we began to ride.  My soul
     Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll
     Freshening and fluttering in the wind. 
     Past hopes already lay behind. 
     What need to strive with a life awry? 
     Had I said that, had I done this,
     So might I gain, so might I miss.”

She wove her braids about her head to the measure; buckled her boots and buttoned her habit; and then, veiled and gauntleted she went down the stairs, still keeping time to the inaudible tune:—­

     “So might I gain, so might I miss.”

The mare Wander held for her was one which she had ridden several times before and with which she was already on terms of good feeling.  That subtle, quick understanding which goes from horse to rider, when all is well in their relations, and when both are eager to face the wind, passed now from Lady Bel to Kate.  She let the creature nose her for a moment, then accepted Wander’s hand and mounted.  The fine animal quivered delicately, shook herself, pawed the dust with a motion as graceful as any lady could have made, threw a pleasant, sociable look over her shoulder, and at Kate’s vivacious lift of the rein was off.  Wander was mounted magnificently on Nell, a mare of heavier build, a black animal, which made a good contrast to Lady Bel’s shining roan coat.

The animals were too fresh and impatient to permit much conversation between their riders.  They were answering to the call of the road as much as were the humans who rode them.  Kate tried to think of the scenes which were flashing by, or of the village,—­Wander’s “rowdy” village, teeming with its human stories; but, after all, it was Browning’s lines which had their way with her.  They trumpeted themselves in her ear, changing a word here and there, impishly, to suit her case.