e change from one age to the other。 But the spirit of the nieenth century was antipathetic to her in the extreme； and thus it took her and broke her； and she was aware of her defeat at its hands as she had never been before。 For it is probable that the human spirit has its place in time assigned to it； some are born of this age； some of that； and now that Orlando was grown a woman； a year or two past thirty indeed； the lines of her character were fixed； and to bend them the wrong way was intolerable。
So she stood mournfully at the drawing–room window （Bartholomew had so christened the library） dragged down by the weight of the crinoline which she had submissively adopted。 It was heavier and more drab than any dress she had yet worn。 None had ever so impeded her movements。 No longer could she stride through the garden with her dogs； or run lightly to the high mound and fling herself beneath the oak tree。 Her skirts collected damp leaves and straw。 The plumed hat tossed on the breeze。 The thin shoes were quickly soaked and mud–caked。 Her muscles had lost their pliancy。 She became nervous lest there should be robbers behind the wainscot and afraid； for the first time in her life； of ghosts in the corridors。 All these things inclined her； step by step； to submit to the new discovery； whether Queen Victoria’s or another’s； that each man and each woman has another allotted to it for life； whom it supports； by whom it is supported； till death them do part。 It would be a fort； she felt； to lean； to sit down； yes； to lie down； never； never； never to get up again。 Thus did the spirit work upon her； for all her past pride； and as she came sloping down the scale of emotion to this lowly and unaccustomed lodging–place； those twangings and tinglings which had been so captious and so interrogative modulated into the sweetest melodies； till it seemed as if angels were plucking harp–strings with white fingers and her whole being was pervaded by a seraphic harmony。
But whom could she lean upon？ She asked that question of the wild autumn winds。 For it was now October； and wet as usual。 Not the Archduke； he had married a very great lady and had hunted hares in Roumania these many years now； nor Mr M。； he was bee a Catholic； nor the Marquis of C。； he made sacks in Botany Bay； nor the Lord O。； he had long been food for fishes。 One way or another； all her old cronies were gone now； and the Nells and the Kits of Drury Lane； much though she favoured them； scarcely did to lean upon。
‘Whom’； she asked； casting her eyes upon the revolving clouds； clasping her hands as she knelt on the window–sill； and looking the very image of appealing womanhood as she did so； ‘can I lean upon？’ Her words formed themselves； her hands clasped themselves； involuntarily； just as her pen had written of its own accord。 It was not Orlando who spoke； but the spirit of the age。 But whichever it was； nobody answered it。 The rooks were tumbling pell–mell among the violet clouds of autumn。 The rain had stopped at last and there was an iridescence in the sky which tempted her to put on her plumed hat and her little stringed shoes and stroll out before dinner。
‘Everyone is mated except myself；’ she mused； as she trailed disconsolately across the courtyard。 There were the rooks； Canute and Pippin even—transitory as their alliances were； still each this evening seemed to have a partner。 ‘Whereas； I； who am mistress of it all；’ Orlando thought； glancing as she passed at the innumerable emblazoned windows of the hall； ‘am single； am mateless； am alone。’
Such thoughts had never entered her head before。 Now they bore her down unescapably。 Instead of thrusting the gate open； she tapped with a gloved hand for the porter to unfasten it for her。 One must lean on someone； she thought； if it is only on a porter； and half wished to stay behind and help him to grill his chop on a bucket of fiery coals； but was too timid to ask it。 So she strayed out into the park alone； faltering at first and apprehensive lest there might be poachers or gamekeepers or even errand–boys to marvel that a great lady should walk alone。
At every step she glanced nervously lest some male form should be hiding behind a furze bush or some savage cow be lowering its horns to toss her。 But there were only the rooks flaunting in the sky。 A steel–blue plume from one of them fell among the heather。 She loved wild birds’ feathers。 She had used to collect them as a boy。 She picked it up and stuck it in her hat。 The air blew upon her spirit somewhat and revived it。 As the rooks went whirling and wheeling above her head and feather after feather fell gleaming through the purplish air； she followed them； her long cloak floating behind her； over the moor； up the hill。 She had not walked so far for years。 Six feathers had she picked from the grass and drawn between her fingers and pressed to her lips to feel their smooth； glinting plumage； when she saw； gleaming on the hill–side； a silver pool； mysterious as the lake into which Sir Bedivere flung the sword of Arthur。 A single feather quivered in the air and fell into the middle of it。 Then； some strange ecstasy came over her。 Some wild notion she had of following the birds to the rim of the world and flinging herself on the spongy turf and there drinking forgetfulness； while the rooks’ hoarse laughter sounded over her。 She quickened her pace； she ran； she tripped； the tough heather roots flung her to the ground。 Her ankle was broken。 She could not rise。 But there she lay content。 The scent of the bog myrtle and the meadow–sweet was in her nostrils。 The rooks’ hoarse laughter was in her ears。 ‘I have found my mate；’ she murmured。 ‘It is the moor。 I am nature’s bride；’ she whispered； giving herself in rapture to the cold embraces of the grass as she lay folded in her cloak in the hollow by the pool。 ‘Here will I lie。 （A feather fell upon her brow。） I have found a greener laurel than the bay。 My forehead will be cool always。 These are wild birds’ feathers—the owl’s； the nightjar’s。 I shall dream wild dreams。 My hands shall wear no wedding ring；’ she continued； slipping it from her finger。 ‘The roots shall twine about them。 Ah！’ she sighed； pressing her head luxuriously on its spongy pillow； ‘I have sought happiness through many ages and not found it； fame and missed it； love and not known it； life—and behold； death is better。 I have known many men and many women；’ she continued； ‘none have I understood。 It is better that I should lie at peace here with only the sky above me—as the gipsy told me years ago。 That was in Turkey。’ And she looked straight up into the marvellous golden foam into which the clouds had churned themselves； and saw next moment a track in it； and camels passing in single file through the rocky desert among clouds of red dust； and then； when the camels had passed； there were only mountains； very high and full of clefts and with pinnacles of rock； and she fancied she heard goat bells ringing in their passes； and in their folds were fields of irises and gentian。 So the sky changed and her eyes slowly lowered themselves down and down till they came to the rain–darkened earth and saw the great hump of the South Downs； flowing in one wave along the coast； and where the land parted； there was the sea； the sea with ships passing； and she fancied she heard a gun far out at sea； and thought at first； ‘That’s the Armada；’ and then thought ‘No； it’s Nelson’； and then remembered how those wars were over and the ships were busy merchant ships； and the sails on the winding river were those of pleasure boats。 She saw； too； cattle sprinkled on the dark fields； sheep and cows； and she saw the lights ing here and there in farm–house windows； and lanterns moving among the cattle as the shepherd went his rounds and the cowman； and then the lights went out and the stars rose and tangled themselves about the sky。 Indeed； she was falling asleep with the wet feathers on her face and her ear pressed to the ground when she heard； deep within； some hammer on an anvil； or was it a heart beating？ Tick–tock； tick–tock； so it hammered； so it beat； the anvil； or the heart in the middle of the earth； until； as she listened； she thought it changed to the trot of a horse’s hoofs； one； two； three； four； she counted； then she heard a stumble； then； as it came nearer and nearer； she could hear the crack of a twig and the suck of the wet bog in its hoofs。 The horse was almost on her。 She sat upright。 Towering dark against the yellow–slashed sky of dawn； with the plovers rising and falling about him； she saw a man on horseback。 He started。 The horse stopped。
‘Madam；’ the man cried； leaping to the ground； ‘you’re hurt！’
‘I’m dead； sir！’ she replied。
A few minutes later； they became engaged。
The morning after； as they sat at breakfast； he told her his name。 It was Marmaduke Bonthrop Shelmerdine； Esquire。
‘I knew it！’ she said； for there was something romantic and chivalrous； passionate； melancholy； yet determined about him which went with the wild； dark–plumed name—a name which had； in her mind； the steel–blue gleam of rooks’ wings； the hoarse laughter of their caws； the snake–like twisting descent of their feathers