For Edward Ashburnham and his wife called me half the world over in order to sit on the back seat of a dog-cart whilst Edward drove the girl to the railway station from which she was to take her departure to India.
They wanted, I suppose, to have a witness of the calmness of that function.
The girl's luggage had been already packed and sent off before.
Her berth on the steamer had been taken.
They had timed it all so exactly that it went like clockwork.
They had known the date upon which Colonel Rufford would get Edward's letter and they had known almost exactly the hour at which they would receive his telegram asking his daughter to come to him.
It had all been quite beautifully and quite mercilessly arranged, by Edward himself.
They gave Colonel Rufford, as a reason for telegraphing, the fact that Mrs Colonel Somebody or other would be travelling by that ship and that she would serve as an efficient chaperon for the girl.
It was a most amazing business, and I think that it would have been better in the eyes of God if they had all attempted to gouge out each other's eyes with carving knives.
But they were "good people".
After my interview with Leonora I went desultorily into Edward's gun-room.
I didn't know where the girl was and I thought I might find her there.
I suppose I had a vague idea of proposing to her in spite of Leonora.
So, I presume, I don't come of quite such good people as the Ashburnhams.
Edward was lounging in his chair smoking a cigar and he said nothing for quite five minutes.
The candles glowed in the green shades; the reflections were green in the glasses of the book-cases that held guns and fishing-rods.
Over the mantelpiece was the brownish picture of the white horse.
Those were the quietest moments that I have ever known.
Then, suddenly, Edward looked me straight in the eyes and said:
"Look here, old man, I wish you would drive with Nancy and me to the station tomorrow."
I said that of course I would drive with him and Nancy to the station on the morrow.
He lay there for a long time, looking along the line of his knees at the fluttering fire, and then suddenly, in a perfectly calm voice, and without lifting his eyes, he said:
"I am so desperately in love with Nancy Rufford that I am dying of it."
Poor devil—he hadn't meant to speak of it.
But I guess he just had to speak to somebody and I appeared to be like a woman or a solicitor.
He talked all night.
Well, he carried out the programme to the last breath.
It was a very clear winter morning, with a good deal of frost in it.
The sun was quite bright, the winding road between the heather and the bracken was very hard.
I sat on the back-seat of the dog-cart; Nancy was beside Edward.
They talked about the way the cob went; Edward pointed out with the whip a cluster of deer upon a coombe three-quarters of a mile away.
We passed the hounds in the level bit of road beside the high trees going into Fordingbridge and Edward pulled up the dog-cart so that Nancy might say good-bye to the huntsman and cap him a last sovereign.
She had ridden with those hounds ever since she had been thirteen.
The train was five minutes late and they imagined that that was because it was market-day at Swindon or wherever the train came from.
That was the sort of thing they talked about.
The train came in; Edward found her a first-class carriage with an elderly woman in it.
The girl entered the carriage, Edward closed the door and then she put out her hand to shake mine.
There was upon those people's faces no expression of any kind whatever.
The signal for the train's departure was a very bright red; that is about as passionate a statement as I can get into that scene.
She was not looking her best; she had on a cap of brown fur that did not very well match her hair.
She said: "So long," to Edward.
Edward answered:
"So long."
He swung round on his heel and, large, slouching, and walking with a heavy deliberate pace, he went out of the station.
I followed him and got up beside him in the high dog-cart.
It was the most horrible performance I have ever seen.
And, after that, a holy peace, like the peace of God which passes all understanding, descended upon Branshaw Teleragh.
Leonora went about her daily duties with a sort of triumphant smile—a very faint smile, but quite triumphant.
I guess she had so long since given up any idea of getting her man back that it was enough for her to have got the girl out of the house and well cured of her infatuation.
Once, in the hall, when Leonora was going out, Edward said, beneath his breath—but I just caught the words: