While Celia Humphrey, in a trance of misery, went woodenly about her household duties, supervised her domestics, listened mechanically to her father’s talk, and told herself that she had done with men for ever, a horse called Tarquin, the best in the Marden stables, carried his master swiftly towards her. To be riding so gallant an animal gave Marden a sense of exhilaration and power, which, added to the new hope that beat in him, made him feel irresistible. On fire with love, and with a kind of glad fury goading him, he had already persuaded himself of success; and this persuasion endured until the moment when he found himself entering the drive of the house at Fedrum. There, a trembling came over him, and he wondered at himself. How came I here, and what am I doing? She does not love me: I had best go back. But Tarquin carried him on: and here the drive ended, here was the house, and here, within ten yards of him, was Celia herself, returning from a walk, with her favourite dog, a large black retriever, following at her heels. His heart turned over in his breast; hope worked a dire agony in him; but suddenly, with anger, he recalled her scornful face of yesterday, and so at last went forward gladly and sternly as to battle. She was not yet aware of his presence. She walked slowly towards the house; and because the world was empty, the fair sky a mockery, the sunlight cruel, she looked only on the ground, and told herself, for the twentieth time, that she would never see that presuming wretch again; nor wanted to, since it was clear that he did not truly love her.
‘Good morning, madam!’
He was dismounted; and Tarquin, knowing his manners, trotted quietly away in the direction of the stables. Celia turned and stared, for a moment unbelieving. ‘So you are back?’ she said. How cool she is, he thought: a bright sword, finely tempered. But he smiled grimly, and bowed. ‘I am back.’
They faced each other with bright angry eyes. From the house came the sound of a gong, militant, challenging, rousing to battle.
‘Why have you come?’ she asked. ‘I have come to tell you, my dear, that everything is arranged and we are to be married at once, you and I.’
Her cheeks reddened; her eyes flashed. ‘You are impudent, sir.’
‘I am resolved, madam.’
Her eyes became brighter still, and her mouth trembled. ‘It is very civil in you, Mr Marden, that you take the trouble to inform me of my future, since it seems I am given no voice in the matter.’
He was silent.
‘So I am to marry you? And at once, I think you said?’
‘At once.’ He stood his ground. ‘That is,’ he added, sadly conscious of the anticlimax, ‘next week, on any day of your choosing.’
Celia laughed. ‘I am glad,’ she said, ‘that we are permitted to dine first. Shall we go in, Jack? My father will be waiting.’