Buxton, who smiled at her once more, and
pressed it in his own. Hubert laughed again sharply; his face grew white
under the tan, and his lips wrinkled back once or twice.
"So, if you can spare me room to pass," he went on in the same tone, "I
will begone to the inn."
Mr. Buxton stepped aside from the door, and Hubert bowed to Isabel so low
that it was almost an insult in itself, and strode out, his spurs ringing
on the oak boards.
When he half turned outside the front door to beckon to his groom to
bring up the horses, he became aware that Isabel was beside him.
"Hubert," she said, "Hubert, I cannot bear this."
There were tears in her voice, and he could not help turning and looking
at her. Her face, more grave and transparent than ever, was raised to
his; her red down-turned lips were trembling, and her eyes were full of a
great emotion. He turned away again sharply.
"Hubert," she said again, "I was not born a Catholic, and I do not feel
like Mr. Buxton. And--and I do thank you for coming; and for your desire
to repair the house; and--and will you give my love to Grace?"
Then he suddenly turned to her with such passion in his eyes that she
shrank back. At the same moment the groom brought up the horses; he
turned and mounted without a word, but his eyes were dim with love and
anger and jealousy. Then he drove his spurs into his great grey mare, and
Isabel watched him dash between the iron gates, with his groom only half
mounted holding back his own plunging horse.
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