Simultaneously Vengeance leaped, and Nan was only conscious of the ripping of her garments, the sudden pressure of hot bodies round her, and of a blurred sound of hounds baying, the vicious cracking of a whip, and the voices of men shouting.

She sank almost to her knees, instinctively shielding her head and throat with her arms, borne to the ground by the force of the great padded feet which had struck her. Open jaws, red like blood, and gleaming ivory fangs fenced her round. Instantaneously there flashed through her mind the recollection of something she had once been told—that if one hound turns on you, the whole pack will turn with him—like wolves.

This was death, then—death by those worrying, white-fanged mouths—the tearing of soft, warm flesh from her living limbs and afterwards the crushing of her bones between those powerful jaws.

She struck out, struggling gamely to her feet, and visioned Denman cursing and slashing at the hounds as he drove them off. But Vengeance, the untamed, heedless of the lash which scored his back a dozen times, caught at her ankle and she pitched head foremost into the stream of hot-breathed mouths and struggling bodies. She felt a huge weight fling itself upon her—Vengeance, springing again at his prey—and even as she waited for the agony of piercing fangs plunged into her flesh, Trenby's voice roared in her ears as he caught the big, powerful brute by its throat and by sheer, immense physical strength dragged the hound off her.

Meanwhile the second whip had rushed out from his cottage to render assistance and the whistling of the long-lashed hunting-crops drove through the air, gradually forcing the yelping hounds into submission. In the midst of the shouting and commotion Nan felt herself lifted up by Roger as easily as though she were a baby, and at the same moment the whirling lash of one of the men's hunting-crops cut her across the throat and bosom. The red-hot agony of it was unbearable, and as Trenby bore her out of the yard he felt her body grow suddenly limp in his arms and, glancing down, saw that she had lost consciousness.

When Nan came to herself again it was to find she was lying on a hard little horse-hair sofa, and the first object upon which her eyes rested was a nightmare arrangement of wax flowers, carefully preserved from risk of damage by a glass shade.

She was feeling stiff and sore, and the strangeness of her surroundings bewildered her—the sofa upholstered in slippery American cloth and hard as a board to her aching limbs, the waxen atrocity beneath its glass shade standing on a rickety table at the foot of the couch, the smallness of the room in which she found herself.

"Where am I?" she asked in a weak voice that was hardly more than a whisper.

Someone—a woman—said quickly: "Ah, she's coming round!" and bustled, out of the room. Then came Roger's voice:

"You're all right, Nan—all right." And she felt his big hands close round her two slender ones reassuringly. "Don't be frightened."

She raised her head to find Roger kneeling beside the sofa on which she lay.

"I'm not frightened," she said. "Only—what's happened? . . . Oh, I remember! I was in the yard with the hounds. Did one of them bite me?"

"Yes, Vengeance just caught your ankle. But we've bathed it thoroughly—luckily he's only torn the skin a bit—and now I'm going to bind it up for you. Mrs. Denman's just gone to fetch some stuff for me to bind it with. You'll be quite all right again to-morrow."

With some difficulty Nan raised herself to a sitting position and immediately caught sight of a bowl on the ground filled with an ominous-looking reddish-coloured liquid.

"Good gracious! Has my foot been bleeding like that?" she asked, going rather white.

"Bless you, no, my dear!" Mrs. Denman, a cheery-faced countrywoman, had bustled in again, with some long strips of linen to serve as a bandage. "Bless you, no! That's just a drop of Condy's fluid, that is, so's your foot shouldn't get any poison in it."

"That's right, Mrs. Denman," said Roger. "Give me that linen stuff now, and then get me some more hot water."

Nan watched him lift and skilfully bandage the slightly damaged foot. He held it carefully, as though it were something very precious, but delicate as was his handling she could not help wincing once as the bandage accidentally brushed a rather badly scratched ankle. Trenby paused almost breathlessly. The hand in which he held the white, blue-veined foot shook a little.

"Did I hurt? I'm awfully sorry." His voice was gruff. "What he wanted to do was to crush the slim, bruised foot against his lips. The very touch of its satiny skin against his hand sent queer tremors through every nerve of his big frame.

"There!" he said at last, gently letting her foot rest once more on the sofa. "Is that comfortable?"

"Quite, thanks." Then, turning to the whip's wife as she re-entered the room carrying a jug of hot water, she went on, with that inborn instinct of hers to charm and give pleasure: "What a nice, sunny room you have here, Mrs. Denman. I'm afraid I'm making a dreadful mess of it. I'm so sorry."

"Don't mention it, miss. 'Tis only a drop of water to clear away, and it's God mercy you weren't killed, by they savage 'ounds."

Nan bestowed one of her delightful smiles upon the good woman, who, leaving the hot water in readiness; hurried out to tell her husband that if Miss Davenant was going to be mistress of the Hall, why, then, 'twould be a lucky day for everyone concerned, for a nicer, pleasanter-spoken young lady—and she just come round from a faint and all!—she never wished to meet.

Nan put her hand up to her throat.

"Something hurts here," she said in a troubled voice. "Did one of the hounds leap up at my neck?"

"No," replied Trenby, frowning as his eyes rested on the long red weal striping the white flesh disclosed by the Y-shaped neck of her frock. "One of those dunder-headed fools cut you with his whip by mistake. I'd like to shoot him—and Vengeance too!"

With a wonderfully gentle touch he laid a cloth wrung out in hot water across the angry-looking streak, and repeated the process until some of the swelling went down. At last he desisted, wiping dry the soft girlish throat as tenderly as a nurse might wipe the throat of a baby.

More than a little touched, Nan smiled at him.

"You're making a great fuss of me," she said. "After all, I'm not seriously hurt, you know."

"No," he replied briefly. "But you might have been killed. For a moment I thought you were going to be killed in front of my eyes."

"I don't know that it would have mattered, very much if I had been," she responded indifferently.

"It would have mattered to me." His voice roughened again: "Nan—Nan—"

He broke off huskily and, casting a swift glance at his face, she realised that the tide which had been gradually rising throughout the foregoing weeks of close companionship had suddenly come to its full and that no puny effort of hers could now arrest and thrust it back.

Roger had risen to his feet. His face was rather white as he stood looking down at her, and the piercing eyes beneath the oddly sunburnt brows held a new light in them. They were no longer cold, but burned down upon her with the fierce ardour of passion.

"What is it?" she whispered. The words seemed wrung from her against her will.

For a moment he made no answer, and in the pulsing silence which followed her low-breathed question Nan was aware of a swiftly gathering fear. She would have to make a decision within the next few moments—and she was not ready for it.

"Do you know"—Roger spoke very slowly—"Do you know what it would have meant to me if you had been killed just now?"

Nan shook her head.

"It would have meant the end of everything."

"Oh, I don't see why!" she responded quickly.

"Don't you?" He stooped over her and took her two slight wrists in his. "Then I'll tell you. I love you and I want you for my wife. I didn't intend to speak so soon—you know so little of me. But this last hour! . . . I can't wait any longer. I want you, Nan, I want you so unutterably that I won't take no."

She tried to rise from the sofa. But in an instant his arms were round her, pressing her back, tenderly but determinedly, against the cushions.

"No, don't get up! See, I'll kneel here beside you. Tell me, Nan, when will you marry me?"

She was silent. What answer could she give him—she who had found one man's love vain and betwixt whom and the man she really loved there was a stern barrier set?

At her silence a swift fear seized him.

"Nan," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "Nan, is it—no good?" Then, as she still made no answer, he let his arms fall heavily to his side.

"God!" he muttered. And his eyes held a blank, dazed look like those of a man who has just received a blow.

Nan caught him by the arm.

"No, no, Roger!" she cried quickly. "Don't look like that! I didn't mean—"

The sudden expression of radiance that sprang into his face silenced the remainder of the words upon her lips—the words of explanation that should have been spoken.

"Then you do care, after all! Nan, there's no one else, is there?"

"No," she said very low.

He stretched out his arms and drew her gently within them, and for a moment she had neither the heart nor the courage to wipe that look of utter happiness from his face by telling him the truth, by saying blankly: "I don't love you."

He turned her face up to his and, stooping, kissed her with sudden passion.

"My dear!" he said, "my dear!" Then, after a moment:

"Oh, Nan, Nan, I can hardly believe that you really belong to me!"

Nan could hardly believe it either. It seemed just to have happened somehow, and her conscience smote her. For what had she to give in return for all the love he was offering her? Merely a little liking of a lonely heart that wanted to warm itself at someone's hearth, and beyond that a terrified longing to put something more betwixt herself and Peter Mallory, to double the strength of the barrier which kept them apart. It wasn't giving Trenby a fair deal!

"Roger," she said, at last, "I don't think I'd better belong to you. No, listen!"—as he made a sudden movement—"I must tell you. There is someone else—only we can't ever be more than friends."

Roger stared, at her with the dawning of a new fear in his eyes. When he spoke it was with a savage defiance.

"Then don't tell me! I don't want to hear. You're mine now, anyway."

"I think I ought—" she began weakly.

But he brushed her scruples aside.

"I'm not going to listen. You've said you'll marry me. I don't want to hear anything about the other men who were. I'm the man who is. And I'm going to drive you straight back to Mallow and tell everybody about it. Then I'll feel sure of you."

Faced by the irrevocableness of her action, Nan was overtaken by dismay. How recklessly, on the impulse of the moment, she had bartered her freedom away! She felt as though she were caught in the meshes of some net from which there was no escaping. A voice inside her head kept urging: "Time! Time! Give me time!"

"Please, Roger," she began with unwonted humility. "I'd rather you didn't tell people just yet."

But Trenby objected.

"I don't see that there's anything gained by waiting," he said doggedly.

"Time! . . . Time!" reiterated the voice inside Nan's head.

"To please me, Roger," she begged. "I want to think things over a bit first."

"It's too late to think things over," he answered jealously. "You've given me your promise. You don't want to take it back again?"

"Perhaps, when you know everything, you'll want me to."

"Tell me 'everything' now, then," he said grimly, "and you'll soon see whether I want you to or not."

Nan was fighting desperately to gain time. She needed it more than anything—time to think, time to weigh the pros and cons of the matter, time to decide. The past was pulling at her heart-strings, filling her with a sudden terror of the promise she had just given Roger.

"I can't tell you anything now," she said rather breathlessly. "I did try—a little while ago, and you wouldn't listen. You—you must give me a few days—you must! If you don't, I'll say 'no' now—at once!" her voice rising excitedly.

She was overwrought, strung up to such a pitch that she hardly knew what she was saying. She had been through a good deal in the last hour or two and Trenby realised it. Suddenly that grim determination of his to force her promise, to bind her his here and now, yielded to an overwhelming flood of tenderness.

"It shall be as you wish, Nan," he said very gently. "I know I'm asking everything of you, and that you're frightened and upset to-day. I ought not to have spoken. And—and I'm a lot older than you."

"Oh, it isn't that," replied Nan hastily, fearing he might be feeling sore over the disparity in their respective ages. She did not want him to be hurt about things that would never have counted at all had she loved him.

"Well, if I wait till Monday—that's four days—will that do?" he asked.

"Yes. I'll tell you then."

"Thank you"—very simply. He lifted her hands to his lips. "And remember," he added desperately, "that I love you, Nan—you're my whole world."

He paced the short length of the room and back, and when he came to her side again, every trace of emotion was wiped out of his face.

"Now I'm going to take you back home. Mrs. Denman"—smiling faintly—"says she'll put 'an 'assock' in the car for your damaged leg to rest on, so with rugs and that coat you were so averse to bringing I think you'll be all right."

He went to the table and poured out something in a glass.

"Drink that," he said, holding it towards her. "It'll warm you up."

Nan sniffed at the liquid in the glass and tendered it back to him with a grimace.

"It's brandy," she said. "I hate the stuff."

"You'll drink it, though, won't you?"—persuasively.

"No," shaking her head. "I can't bear the taste of it."

"But it's good for you." He stood in front of her, glass in hand. "Come, Nan, don't be foolish. You need something before we start. Drink it up."

He held it to her lips, and Nan, too proud to struggle or resist like a child, swallowed the obnoxious stuff. As Trenby drove her home she had time to reflect upon the fact that if she married him there would be many a contest of wills between them. He roused a sense of rebellion in her, and he was unmistakably a man who meant to be obeyed.

Her thoughts went back to Peter Mallory. Somehow she did not think she would ever have found it difficult to obey him.



CHAPTER X

INDECISION

Kitty and her husband were strolling together on the terrace when Trenby's car purred up the drive to Mallow.

"You're back very early!" exclaimed Kitty gaily. "Did you get bored stiff with each other, or what?" Then, as Roger opened the car door and she caught sight of Nan's leg stretched out in front of her under the rugs and evidently resting upon something, she asked with a note of fear in her voice: "Is Nan hurt? You've not had an accident?"

Roger hastily explained what had occurred, winding up:

"She's had a wonderful escape."

He was looking rather drawn about the month, as though he, too, had passed through a big strain of some kind.

"I'm as right as rain really," called out Nan reassuringly. "If someone will only unpack the collection of rugs and coats I'm bundled up with, I can hop out of the car as well as anybody."

Barry was already at the car side and as he lifted off the last covering, revealing beneath a distended silk stocking the bandaged ankle, he exclaimed quickly:

"Hullo! This looks like some sort of damage. Is your ankle badly hurt, old thing?"

"Not a bit—nothing but a few scratches," she answered. "Only Mrs. Denman insisted on my driving back with my leg up, and it would have broken her heart if I hadn't accepted her ''assock' for the journey."

She stepped rather stiffly out of the car, for her joints still ached, and Barry, seeing her white face and the heavy shadows beneath her eyes, put a strong, friendly arm round her shoulders to steady her.

"You've had a good shaking up, my dear, anyway," he observed with concern in his voice. "Look, I'm going to help you into the hall and put you on the big divan straight away. Then we'll discuss what's to be done with you," he added, smiling down at her.

"You won't let them keep me in bed, Barry, will you?" urged Nan as he helped her up the steps and into the great hall, its ancient panelling of oak gleaming like polished ebony in the afternoon sunlight.

Barry pulled thoughtfully at his big fair moustache.

"If Kitty says 'bed,' you know it'll have to be bed," he answered, his eyes twinkling a little.

Nan subsided on to the wide, cushioned divan.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed crossly, "You don't stay in bed because you've scratched your ankle."

"No. But you must remember you've had a bit of a shock."

By this time Kitty and Roger had joined them, overhearing the last part of the conversation.

"Of course you'll go to bed at once," asserted Kitty firmly. "Will you give her a hand upstairs, Barry?"

"You see?" said Barry, regarding the patient humorously. "Come along, Nan! Shall I carry you or will you hobble?"

"I'll walk," returned Nan with emphasis.

"Bed's much the best place for you," put in Roger.

He followed her to the foot of the staircase and, as he shook hands, said quietly:

"Till Monday, then."

"Where's Penelope?" asked Nan, as Barry assisted her upstairs with a perfectly unnecessary hand under her arm, since—as she curtly informed him—she had "no intention of accomplishing two faints in one day."

"Penelope is out with Fenton—need you ask?" And Barry chuckled good-humouredly. "Kitty fully expects them to return an engaged couple."

"Oh, I do hope they will!" cried Nan, bubbling up with the instantaneous feminine excitement which generally obtains when a love-affair, after seeming to hang fire, at last culminates in a bona fide engagement. "Penny has kept him off so firmly all this time," she continued. "I can't think why, because it's perfectly patent to everybody that they're head over ears in love with each other."

Barry, who could have hazarded a very fair idea as to the reason why from odd scraps of information on the subject elicited from his wife, was silent a moment. Finally he said slowly:

"I shouldn't ask Penelope anything about it when she comes in, if I were you. If matters aren't quite settled between them yet, it might upset everything again."

Nan paused outside the door of her bedroom.

"But, my dear old Barry, what on earth is there to upset? There's no earthly obstacle to their marrying that I can see!"

As she spoke she felt a sudden little qualm of apprehension. It was purely selfish, as she told herself with a twinge of honest self-contempt. But what should she do without Penelope? It would create a big blank for her if her best friend left her for a home of her own. Somehow, the inevitable reaction of Penelope's marriage upon her own life had not occurred to her before. It hurt rather badly now that the thought had presented itself, but she determined to ignore that aspect of the matter firmly.

"Well, I hope they will come back engaged," she declared. "Anyway, I won't say a word till one or other of them announces the good news."

"Better not," agreed Barry. "I think part of the trouble is this big American tour Fenton's been offered. It seems to have complicated matters."

There came a light footstep on the staircase and Kitty swished round the bend. Barry and Nan started guiltily apart, smiling deprecatingly at her.

"Nan, you ought to be in bed by now!" protested Kitty severely. "You're not to be trusted one minute, Barry, keeping her standing about talking like this."

She shoo'd her big husband away with a single wave of her arm and marshalled Nan into the bedroom. In her hand she carried a tray on which was a glass of hot milk.

"There," she continued, addressing Nan. "You've got to drink that while you're undressing, and then you'll sleep well. And you're not to come down to-morrow except for dinner. I'll send your meals up—you shan't be starved! But you must have a thorough rest."

"Oh, Kitty!" Nan's exclamation was a positive wail of dismay.

Kitty cheerfully dismissed any possibility of discussion.

"It's quite settled, my dear. You'll be feeling it all far worse to-morrow than to-day. So get into bed now as quickly as possible."

"This milk's absolutely boiling," complained Nan irritably. "I can't drink it."

"Then undress first and drink it when you're in bed. I'll brush your hair for you."

It goes without saying that Kitty had her way—it was a very kind-hearted way—and before long Nan was sipping her glass of milk and gratefully realising the illimitable comfort which a soft bed brings to weary limbs.

"By the way, I've some news for you," announced Kitty, as she sat perched on the edge of the bed, smoking one of the tiny gold-tipped cigarettes she affected.

"News? What news?"

"Well, guess who's coming here?"

Nan named one or two mutual friends, only to be met by a triumphant negative. Finally Kitty divulged her secret.

"Why, Peter Mallory!"

The glass in Nan's hand jerked suddenly, spilling a few drops of the milk.

"Peter?" She strove to keep all expression out of her voice.

"Yes. He finds he can come after all. Isn't it jolly?"

"Very jolly."

Nan's tones were so non-committal that Kitty looked at her with some surprise.

"Aren't you pleased?" she asked blankly. She was relying tremendously on Peter's visit to restore Nan to normal, and to prevent her from making the big mistake of marrying Roger Trenby, so that the lukewarm reception accorded to her news gave her a qualm of apprehension lest his advent might not accomplish all she hoped.

"Of course I'm pleased!" Nan forced the obviously expected enthusiasm into her affirmative, then, swallowing the last mouthful of milk with an effort, she added: "It'll be topping."

Kitty took the glass from her and with an admonishing, "Now try and have a good sleep," she departed, blissfully unconscious of how effectually she herself had just destroyed any possibility of slumber.

Peter coming! The first thrill of pure joy at the thought of seeing him again was succeeded by a rush of apprehension. She felt herself caught up into a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. The idea of marriage with Roger Trenby seemed even more impossible than ever with the knowledge that in a few days Peter would be there, close beside her with that quiet, comprehending gaze of his, while every nerve in her body would be vibrating at the mere touch of his hand.

In the dusk of her room, against the shadowy background of the blind-drawn windows, she could visualise each line of his face—the level brows and the steady, grey-blue eyes under them—eyes that missed so little and understood so much; the sensitive mouth with those rather tired lines cleft each side of it that deepened when he smiled; the lean cheek-bones and squarish chin.

She remembered them all, and they kept blotting out the picture of Roger as she had so often seen him—big and bronzed by the sun—when he came striding over the cliffs to Mallow Court. The memory was like a hand holding her back from casting in her lot with him.

And then the pendulum swung back and she felt that to marry—someone, anyone—was the only thing left to her. She was frightened of her love for Peter. Marriage, she argued, would be—must be—a shield and buckler against the cry of her heart. If she were married she would be able to stifle her love, crush it out, behind those solid, unyielding bars of conventional wedlock.

The fact of Peter's own marriage seemed to her rather dream-like. There lay the danger. They had never met until after his wife had left him, so that her impression of him as a married man was necessarily a somewhat vague and shadowy one.

But there would be nothing vague or shadowy about marriage with Trenby! That Nan realised. And, utterly weary of the persistent struggle in her heart, she felt that it might cut the whole tangle of her life once and for all if she passed through the strait and narrow gate of matrimony into the carefully shepherded fold beyond it. After all, most women settled down to it in course of time, whether their husbands came up to standard or not. If they didn't, the majority of wives contrived to put up with the disappointment, and probably she herself would be so fully occupied with the putting up part of the business that she would not have much time in which to remember Peter.

But perhaps, had she known the inner thoughts of those women who have been driven into the "putting up" attitude towards their husbands, she would have realised that memories do not die so easily.



CHAPTER XI

GOING WITH THE TIDE

As Nan, who had reluctantly complied with Kitty's stern decree that she must rest in bed during the greater part of the following day, at last descended from her room, she discovered, much to her satisfaction, that her ankle had ceased to pain her. But she still felt somewhat stiff and sore after the knocking about of the previous day.

At dinner she was astonished to find that the house-party had decreased by one. Ralph Fenton was absent.

"He left for town this morning, by the early train from St. Wennys Halt," explained Kitty. "He was—was called away very suddenly," she added blandly, in answer to Nan's surprised enquiries.

A somewhat awkward pause ensued, then everybody rushed into conversation at once, so that Nan could only guess that some contretemps must have occurred between Penelope and the singer of which she was in ignorance. As soon as dinner was at an end she manoeuvred Kitty into a corner and demanded an explanation.

"Why has Ralph gone away?" she asked. "And why did you look so uncomfortable when I asked about him? And why did Penelope blush?"

"Could I have them one at a time?" suggested Kitty mildly.

"You can have them combined into one. Tell me, what's been happening to-day?"

"Well, I gather that Ralph has been offering his hand and heart to Penelope."

"It seems to be epidemic," murmured Nan sotto voce.

"What did you say?"

"Only that it seems an odd proceeding for a newly-engaged young man to go careering off to London immediately."

"But he isn't engaged—that's just it. Penelope refused him."

"Refused him? But—but why?" asked Nan in amazement.

"You'd better ask her yourself. Perhaps you can get some sense out of her—since you appear to be the chief stumbling-block."

"I?"

"Yes. I saw Ralph before he went away. He seemed very down on his luck, poor dear! He's been trying to persuade Penelope to say yes and to fix an early date for their wedding, as he's got the offer of a very good short tour in America—really thumping fees—and he won't accept it unless she'll marry him first and go with him."

"Well, I don't see how that's my fault."

"In a way it is. The only reason Penelope gave him as to why she wouldn't consent was that she will never marry as long as you need her."

Nan digested this information in silence. Then she said quietly:

"If that's all, you can take off your sackcloth and ashes and phone Ralph at his hotel to come back here to-morrow. I'll—I'll talk to Penelope to-night."

Kitty stared at her in surprise.

"You seem very sure of the effect of your persuasions," she answered dubiously.

"I am. Quite sure. It won't take me five minutes to convince Penelope that there is no need for her to remain in a state of single blessedness on my account. And now, I'm going out of doors to have a smoke all by myself. You were quite right"—smiling briefly—"when you said I should feel everything more to-day than yesterday. Do keep people away from me, there's a good soul."

Kitty gave her a searching glance. But for two spots of feverishly vivid colour in her cheeks, the girl's face was very pale, and her eyes over-bright, with heavy shadows underlying them.

"Very well," she said kindly. "Tuck yourself up in one of the lounge chairs and I'll see that no one bothers you."

But Nan was in no mood for a lounge chair. Lighting a cigarette, she paced restlessly up and down the flagged path of the quadrangular court, absorbed in her thoughts.

It seemed to her as though Fate had suddenly given her a gentle push in the direction of marriage with Roger. She knew now that Penny had refused Ralph solely on her account—so that she might not be left alone. If she could go to her and tell her that she herself was about to marry Trenby, then the only obstacle which stood in the way of Penelope's happiness would be removed. Last night her thoughts had swung from side to side in a ceaseless ding-dong struggle of indecision, but this new factor in the matter weighted the scales heavily in favour of her marrying Trenby.

At last she made up her mind. There were two chances, two avenues which might lead away from him. Should both of these be closed against her, she would yield to the current of affairs which now seemed set to sweep her into his arms.

She would use her utmost persuasions to induce Penelope to marry Ralph Fenton, irrespective of whether she herself proposed to enter the matrimonial state or not. That was the first of her two chances. For if she succeeded in prevailing upon Penelope to retract her refusal of Ralph, she would feel that she had dealt at least one blow against the fate which seemed to be driving her onward. The urgency of that last push towards Roger would be removed! Then if Penelope remained obdurate, to-morrow she would tell Trenby frankly that she had no love, but only liking, to give him, and she would insist upon his facing the fact that there had been someone else in her life who had first claim upon her heart. That would be her other chance. And should Roger—as well he might—refuse to take second best, then willy-nilly she would be once more thrust forth into the troublous sea of longing and desire. But if he still wanted her—why, then she would have been quite honest with him and it would seem to be her destiny to be his wife. She would leave it at that—leave it for chance, or fate, or whatever it is that shapes our ends, to settle a matter that, swayed as she was by opposing forces, she was unable to decide for herself.

She heaved a sigh of relief. After those wretched, interminable hours of irresolution, when love, and fear of that same love, had tortured her almost beyond bearing, it was an odd kind of comfort to feel that she had given herself two chances, and, if both failed, to know that she must abide by the result.

The turmoil of her mind drove her at last almost insensibly towards the low, wide wall facing the unquiet sea. Here she sat down, still absorbed in her thoughts, her gaze resting absently on the incoming tide below. She was conscious of a strange feeling of communion with the shifting, changeful waters.

As far as eye could see the great billows of the Atlantic, silver-crested in the brilliant moonlight, came tumbling shoreward, breaking at last against the inviolate cliffs with a dull, booming noise like the sound of distant guns. Then came the suction of retreat, as the beaten waves were hurled backwards from the fierce headlands in a grey tumult of surging waters, while the big stones and pebbles over which they swirled clashed and ground together, roaring under the pull of the outgoing current—that "drag" of which any Cornish seaman will warn a stranger in the grave tones of one who knows its peril.

To right and left, at the foot of savage cliffs black against the silver moonlight, Nan could see the long combers roll in and break into a cloud of upflung spray, girdling the wild coast with a zone of misty, moonlit spray that must surely have been fashioned in some dim world of faery.

She sat very still, watching the eternal battle between sea and shore, and the sheer splendour of it laid hold of her, so that for a little while everything that troubled her was swept away. For the moment she felt absolutely happy.

Always the vision, of anything overwhelmingly beautiful seemed to fill her soul, drawing with it the memories of all that had been beautiful in life. And watching this glory of moon and sea and shore, Nan felt strangely comforted. Maryon Rooke had no part in it, nor Roger Trenby. But her love for Peter and his for her seemed one and indivisible with it. That, and music—the two most beautiful things which had entered into her life.

. . . A bank of cloud, slowly spreading upward from the horizon, suddenly clothed the moon in darkness, wiping out the whole landscape. Only the ominous boom of the waves and the roar of the struggling beach still beat against Nan's ears.

The vision had fled, and the grim realities of life closed round her once again.

Late that evening she slipped into a loose wrapper—a very characteristic little garment of lace and ribbons and clinging silk—and marched down the corridor to Penelope's room. The latter was diligently brushing her hair, but at Nan's abrupt entrance she laid down the brush resignedly. She had small doubt as to the primary cause of this late visit.

"Well?" she said, a faintly humorous twinkle gleaming in the depths of her brown eyes, although there were tired shadows underneath them. "Well?"

"Yes, you dear silly woman, of course you know what I've come about," responded Nan, ensconcing herself on the cushioned window seat.

"I'd know better if you were to explain."

"Then—in his words—why have you refused Ralph Fenton?"

"Oh, is that it?"—indifferently. "Because I don't want to marry—at present." And Penelope picked up her brush and resumed the brushing of her hair as though the matter were at an end.

"So that's why you told him—as your reason for refusing him—that you wouldn't marry him as long as I needed you?"

The hair-brush clattered to the floor.

"The idiot!—I suppose he told Kitty?" exclaimed Penelope, making a dive after her brush.

"Yes, he did. And Kitty told me. And now I've come to tell you that I entirely decline to be a reason for your refusing to marry a nice young man like Ralph."

Penelope was silent, and Nan, coming over to her side, slipped an arm about her shoulders.

"Dear old Penny! It was just like you, but if you think I'm going to let you make a burnt-offering of yourself in that way, you're mistaken. Do you suppose"—indignantly—"that I can't look after myself?"

"I'm quite sure of it."

"Rubbish! Why, I've got Kitty and Uncle David and oh! dozens of people to look after me!"

Penelope's mouth set itself in an obstinate line.

"I shall never marry till you do, Nan . . . because not one of the 'dozens' understand your—your general craziness as well as I do."

Nan laughed.

"That's rude—though a fairly accurate statement. But still, Penny dear, just to please me, will you marry Ralph?"

"No"—with promptitude—"I certainly won't. If I married him at all, it would be to please myself."

"Well," wheedled Nan, "wouldn't it please you—really?"

"We can't always do as we please in this world."

Nan grimaced.

"Hoots, lassie! Now you're talking like Aunt Eliza."

Penelope continued brushing her hair serenely and vouchsafed no answer.

Nan renewed the attack.

"It amounts to this, then—that I've got to get married in order to let Ralph marry you!"

"Of course it doesn't!"

"Well, answer me this: If I were going to be married, would you give Ralph a different answer?"

"I might"—non-committally.

"Then you may as well go and do it. As I am going to be married—to Roger Trenby."

"To Roger! Nan, you don't mean it? It isn't true?"

"It is—perfectly true. Have you anything to say against it?"—defiantly.

"Everything. He's the last man in the world to make you happy."

"Time will decide that. In any case he's coming on Monday for my answer. And that will be 'yes.' So you and Ralph can have your banns put up with a clear conscience—as the only just cause and impediment is now removed."

Penelope was silent.

"You ought to be rather pleased with me than otherwise," insisted Nan.

When at length Penelope replied, it was with a certain gravity.

"My dear, matrimony is one of the affairs of life in which it is fatal to accept second best. You can do it in hats and frocks—it's merely a matter of appearances—although you'll never get quite the same satisfaction out of them. But you can't do it in boots and shoes. You have to walk in those—and the second best wear out at once. Matrimony is the boots and shoes of life."

"Well, at least it's better to have the second quality—than to go barefoot."

"I don't think so. Nan, do wait a little. Don't, in a fit of angry pique over Maryon Rooke, go and bind yourself irrevocably to someone else."

"Penny, the bluntness of your methods is deplorable. Instead of insinuating that I am accepting Roger as a pis-aller, it would be more seemly if you would congratulate me and—wish me luck."

"I do—oh, I do, Nan. But, my dear—"

"No buts, please. Surely I know my own business best? I assure you, Roger and I will be a model couple—an example, probably, to you and Ralph! You'll—you'll say 'yes' to him to-morrow when he comes back again, won't you, Penny?"

"He isn't coming back to-morrow."

"I think he is." Nan smiled. "You'll say 'yes' then?"

Penelope looked at her very straightly.

"Would you marry Roger in any case—whether I accepted Ralph or not?" she asked.

Nan lied courageously.

"I should marry Roger in any case," she answered quietly.

A long silence ensued. Presently Nan broke it, her voice a little sharpened by the tension of the moment.

"So when Ralph comes back you'll be—kind to him, Penny? You'll give him the answer he wants?"

Penelope's face was hidden by a curtain of dark hair. After a moment an affirmative came softly from behind the curtain.

With a sudden impulse Nan threw her arms round her and kissed her.

"Oh, Penny! Penny! I do hope you'll be very happy!" she exclaimed in a stifled voice. Then slipped from the room like a shadow—very noiselessly and swiftly—to lie on her bed hour after hour staring up into the blackness with wide, tearless eyes until sheer bodily exhaustion conquered the tortured spirit which could find neither rest nor comfort, and at last she slept.



CHAPTER XII

THE DOUBLED BARRIER

Except for one of Trenby's frequent telephone calls, enquiring as to Nan's progress, Saturday passed uneventfully enough until the evening. Then, through the clear summer dusk Kitty discerned the Mallow car returning from the station whither it had been sent to meet Ralph's train.

Hurrying down the drive, she saw Ralph lean forward and speak to the chauffeur who slowed down to a standstill, while he himself sprang out and came eagerly to her side.

"You angelic woman!" he exclaimed fervently. "How did you manage it? Will she—will she really—"

"I think she will," answered Kitty, smiling. "So you needn't worry. But I'm not the dea ex machina to whom you owe the 'happy ending.' Nan managed it—in some incomprehensible way of her own."

"Then blessed be Nan!" said Ralph piously, as he opened the door of the car for her to enter. Two minutes' further driving brought them to the house.

Following his hostess's instructions, Ralph remained outside, and as Kitty entered the great hall, alone, a white-clad figure suddenly made as though to escape by a further door.

"Come back, Penny," called Kitty, a hint of kindly mischief in her voice. "You'll just get half an hour to yourselves before the dressing-bell rings. Afterwards we shall expect to see you both, clothed and in your right minds, at dinner."

The still look of happiness that had dwelt all day in Penelope's eyes woke suddenly into radiance, just as you may watch the calm surface of the sea, when the tide is at its full, break into a hundred sparkling ripples at the vivifying touch of a wandering breeze.

She turned back hesitatingly, looking all at once absurdly young and a little frightened—this tall and stately Penelope—while a faint blush-rose colour ran swiftly up beneath the pallor of her skin, and her eyes—those nice, humorous brown eyes of hers that always looked the world so kindly and honestly in the face—held the troubled shyness of a little child.

Kitty laid a gentle hand on her arm.

"Run along, my chicken," she said, suddenly feeling a thousand years old as she saw Penelope standing, virginal and sweet, at the threshold of the gate through which she herself had passed with happy footsteps years ago—that gate which opens to the wondering fingers of girlhood, laid so tremulously upon love's latch, and which closes behind the woman, shutting her into paradise or hell.

"Run along, my chicken. . . . And give Ralph my blessing!"

* * * * * *

It was not until the next day, towards the end of lunch, that Ralph shot his bolt from the blue. Other matters—which seemed almost too good to be true in the light of Penelope's unqualified refusal of him three days ago—had occupied his mind to the exclusion of everything else. Nor, to give him his due, was he in the least aware that he was administering any kind of shock, since he was quite ignorant as to the actual state of affairs betwixt Nan and Maryon Rooke.

It was Kitty herself who inadvertently touched the spring which let loose the bolt.

"What's the news in town, Ralph?" she asked. "Surely you gleaned something, even though you were only there for a single night?"

Fenton laughed.

"Would I dare to come back to you without the latest?" he returned, smiling. "The very latest is that Maryon Rooke is to be married."

A silence followed, as though a bombshell had descended in their midst and scattered the whole party to the four winds of heaven.

Then Kitty, making a desperate clutch at her self-possession, remarked rather superficially:

"Surely that's not true? I thought Maryon was far too confirmed a bachelor to be beguiled into the holy bonds."

"It's perfectly true," returned Fenton. "First-hand source. I ran across Rooke himself and it was he who told me. They're to be married very shortly, I believe."

Fell another awkward silence. Then:

"So old Rooke will be in the cart with the rest of us poor married men," observed Barry, whose lazy blue eyes had yet contrived to notice that Nan's slim fingers were nervously occupied in crumbling her bread into small pieces.

"In the car, rather," responded Ralph, "The lady is fabulously wealthy, I believe. Former husband, a steel magnate or something of the sort."

"Well, that will help Maryon in his profession," said Nan, "with a quiet composure that was rather astonishing. But, as usual, in a social crisis of this nature, she seemed able to control her voice, though her restless fingers betrayed her.

"Yes, presumably that's why he's marrying her," replied Ralph. "It can't be a case of love at first sight"—grimly.

"Isn't she pretty, then?" asked Penelope.

"Plain as a pikestaff"—with emphasis. "I've met her once or twice—Lady Beverley."

It appeared from the chorus which followed that everyone present knew her more or less.

"I should think she is plain!" exclaimed Kitty heartily.

"Yes, she'd need to be very well gilded," commented her husband.

"You're all rather severe, aren't you?" suggested Lord St. John. "After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"Not with an artist," asserted Nan promptly. "He can't see beauty where there isn't any."

To the depths of her soul she felt that this was true, and inwardly she recoiled violently from the idea of Maryon's marriage. She had been bitterly hurt by his treatment of her, but to a certain extent she had been able to envisage the whole affair from his point of view and to understand it.

A rising young artist, if he wishes to succeed, cannot afford to hamper himself with a wife and contend with the endless sordid details of housekeeping conducted on a necessarily economical scale. It slowly but surely deadens the artist in him—the delicate creative inspiration that is so easily smothered by material cares and worries. Nan refused to blame Maryon simply because he had not married her then and there. But she could not forgive him for deliberately seeking her out and laying on her that strange fascination of his when, in his own heart, he must have known that he would always ultimately place his art before love.

And that he should marry Lady Beverley, a thoroughly commonplace woman hung round with the money her late husband had bequeathed her, Maryon's very antithesis in all that pertained to the beautiful—this sickened her. It seemed to her as though he were yielding his birthright in exchange for a mess of pottage.

Where was his self-respect that he could do this thing? The high courage of the artist to conquer single-handed? Not only had he trampled on the love which he professed to have borne her—and which, in her innermost heart, she knew he had borne her—but he was trampling on everything else in life that mattered. She felt that his projected marriage with Lady Beverley was like the sale of a soul.

When lunch was over, the whole party adjourned to the terrace for coffee, and as soon as she decently could after the performance of this sacred rite, Nan escaped into the rose-garden by herself, there to wrestle with the thoughts to which Ralph's carelessly uttered news had given rise.

They were rather bitter thoughts. She was aware of an odd sense of loss, for whatever may have come between them, no woman ever quite believes that the man who has once loved her will eventually marry some other woman. Whether it happens early or late, it is always somewhat of a shock. These marriages deal such a blow at faith in the deathlessness of love, and whether the woman herself is married or not, there remains always a secret and very tender corner in her heart for the man who, having loved her unavailingly, has still found no other to take her place even twenty or thirty years later.

Nan was conscious of an unspeakably deserted feeling. Maryon had gone completely out of her life; Peter, the man she loved, could never come into it; and the only man who strove for entrance was, as Penelope had said, the last man in the world to make her happy.

Nevertheless, it seemed as though with gentle taps and pushes Fate were urging them together—forcing her towards Roger so that she might escape from forbidden love and the desperate fear and pain of it.

And then she saw him coming—it seemed almost as though her thought had drawn him—coming with swift feet over the grassy slopes of the park, too eager to follow the winding carriage-way, while the fallow-deer bounded lightly aside at the sound of his footsteps, halting at a safe distance to regard the intruder with big, timorous, velvety eyes.

Nan paused in the middle of the rose-garden, where a stone sundial stood—grey and weather-beaten, its warning motto half obliterated by the tender touches of the years:

"Time flies. Remember that each breath But wafts thy erring spirit nearer death."

Rather nervously, while she waited for Trenby to join her, she traced the ancient lettering with a slim forefinger. He crossed the lawn rapidly, pausing beside her, and without looking up she read aloud the grim couplet graven round the dial.

"That's a nice cheery motto," commented Trenby lightly. "They must have been a lugubrious lot in the good old days!"

"They weren't so afraid of facing the truth as we are," Nan made answer musingly. "I wonder why we always try to shut our eyes against the fact of death? . . . It's there waiting for us round the corner all the time."

"But there's life and love to come first," flashed out Roger.

Nan looked at him thoughtfully.

"Not for everyone," she said. Then suddenly: "Why are you here to-day, Roger? I told you to come on Monday."

"I know you did. But I couldn't wait. It was horrible, Nan, just getting a few words over the 'phone twice a day to say how you were. I had to see for myself."

His eyes sought her throat where the lash of the hunting-crop had wealed it. The mark had almost disappeared. With a sudden, passionate movement he caught her in his arms and pressed his lips against the faint scar.

"Nan!" he said hoarsely. "Nan, say 'yes'! Say it quickly!"

She drew away from him, freeing herself from the clasp of his arms.

"I'm not sure it is 'yes.' You must hear what I have to say first. You wouldn't listen the other day. But to-day, Roger, you must—you must."

"You're not going to take back your promise?" he demanded jealously.

"It wasn't quite a promise, was it?" she said gently. "But it's for you to decide—when you know everything."

"Then I'll decide now," he answered quickly. "I want you—Nan, how I want you! I don't care anything at all about the past—I don't want to know anything—"

"But you must know"—steadily. "Perhaps when you know—you won't want me."

"I shall always want you."

Followed a pause. Then Nan, with an effort, said quietly:

"Do you want to marry a woman who has no love to give you?"

He drew a step nearer.

"I'll teach you how to love," he said unevenly. "I'll make you love me—love me as I love you."

"No, no," she answered. "You can't do that, Roger. You can't."

His face whitened. Then, with his piercing eyes bent on her as though to read her inmost thoughts, he asked:

"What do you mean? Is there—anyone else?"

"Yes." The answer came very low.

"And you care for him?"

She nodded.

"But we can never be anything to each other," she said, still in that same low, emotionless voice.

"Then—then—you'd grow to care—"

"No. I shall never care for anyone else again. That love has burnt up everything—like a fire." She paused. "You don't want to marry—an empty grate, do you?" she asked, with a sudden desperate little laugh.

Roger's arm drew her closer.

"Yes, I do. And I'll light another fire there and by its warmth we'll make our home together. I won't ask much, Nan dear—only to be allowed to love you and make you happy. And in time—in time, I'll teach you to love me in return and to forget the past. Only say yes, sweetheart! I'll keep you so safe—so safe!"

What magic is it teaches men how to answer the women they love—endows them with a quickness of perception denied them till the flame of love flares up within them, and doubly denied them should that flame burn low behind the bars of matrimony? Surely it must be some cunning wile of old Dame Nature's—whose chief concern is, after all, the continuation of the species. She it is who knows how to deck the peacock in fine feathers to the undoing of the plain little peahen, to crown the stag with the antlers of magnificence so that the doe's velvet eyes melt in adoration. And shall not the same wise old Dame know how to add a glamour to the sons of men when one of them goes forth to seek his mate?

Had Roger been just his normal self that afternoon—his matter-of-fact, imperceptive self—he would never have known how to answer Nan's half-desperate question, and the rose-garden might have witnessed a different ending to the scene. But Mother Mature was fighting on the side of this man-child of hers, whispering her age-old wisdom into his ears, and the tender comprehension of his answer fell like balm on Nan's sore heart.

"I'll keep you safe!"

It was safety she craved most of all—the safety of some stronger barrier betwixt herself and Peter. Once she were Roger's wife she knew she would be well-guarded. The barrier would be too high for her to climb, even though Peter called to her from the other side.

A momentary terror of giving up her freedom assailed her, and for an instant she wavered. Then she remembered her bargain with Fate—and if, finally, Roger were willing to take her when he knew everything, she would marry him.

Her hand crept out and slid into his big palm.

"Very well, Roger," she said quietly. "If—knowing everything—you still want me . . . I'll marry you."

And as his arms closed round her, crushing her in his embrace, she seemed to hear a distant sound like the closing of a door—the door of the forbidden might-have-been.



CHAPTER XIII

BY THE LOVERS' BRIDGE

The usual shower of congratulations descended upon the heads of Nan and Roger when, on their return from the rose-garden, the news of their engagement filtered through the house-party and the little bunch of friends who had "dropped in" for tea, sure of the unfailing hospitality of Mallow Court. Those amongst the former who had deeper and more troubled thoughts about the matter were perforce compelled to keep them in abeyance for the time being.

It was only when the visitors had departed that Kitty succeeded in getting Nan alone for a few minutes.

"Are you quite—quite happy, Nan?" she asked somewhat wistfully.

Nan's eyes met hers with a blankness of expression which betrayed nothing.

"Yes, thank you. What a funny question to ask!" she responded promptly.

And Kitty felt as though she had laid her hand on the soft folds of a velvet curtain, only to come sharply up against a shutter of steel concealed beneath it.

In duty bound, however, she invited Trenby to remain for dinner, an invitation which he accepted with alacrity, and throughout the meal Nan was at her gayest and most sparkling. It seemed impossible to believe that all was not well with her, and if the brilliant mood were designed to prevent Penny from guessing the real state of affairs it was eminently successful. Even Lord St. John and the Seymours were almost persuaded into the belief that she was happy in her engagement. But as each and all of them were arguing from the false premise that the change in Nan had been entirely due to Rooke's treatment of her, they were inevitably very far from the truth.

That Peter was in love with Nan, Kitty was aware, but she knew nothing of that brief scene at the flat, interrupted by the delivery of Rooke's telegram, and during which, with hardly a word spoken, Nan had suddenly realised that Peter loved her and that she, too, returned his love. Perhaps had any of them known of that first meeting between the two, when Peter had come to Nan's rescue in Hyde Park and helped her to her journey's end, it might have gone far towards enlightening them, but neither Peter nor Nan had ever supplied any information on the subject. It almost seemed as though by some mental process of thought transference, each had communicated with the other and resolved to keep their secret—an invisible bond between them.

"You're not frightened, are you, Nan?" asked Roger, when the rest of the household had tactfully left them alone together a few minutes before his departure.

He spoke very gently and tenderly. Like most men, he was at his best just now, when he had so newly gained the promise of the woman he loved—rather humble, even a little awed at the great gift bestowed upon him, and thinking only of Nan and of what he would do to compass her happiness in the future when she should be his wife.

"No, I'm not frightened." replied Nan. "I think"—quietly—"I shall be so—safe—with you."

"Safe?"—emphatically. "I should think you would be safe! I'm strong enough to guard my wife from most dangers, I think!"

The violet-blue eyes meeting his held a somewhat weary smile. It was beginning already—that inevitable noncomprehension of two such divergent natures. They did not sense the same things—did not even speak the same language. Trenby took everything quite literally—the obvious surface meaning of the words, and the delicate nuances of speech, the significant inflections interwoven with it, meant about as much to him as the frail Venetian glass, the dainty porcelain figures of old Bristol or Chelsea ware, would mean to the proverbial bull in a china-shop.

"And now, sweetheart," he went on, rather conventionally, "when will you come to see my mother? She will be longing to meet you."

Nan shuddered inwardly. Of course she knew one always did ultimately meet one's future mother-in-law, but the prompt and dutiful way in which Roger brought out his suggestion seemed like a sentence culled from some Early Victorian book. Certainly it was altogether alien to Nan's ultra-modern, semi-Bohemian notions.

"Suppose you come to lunch to-morrow? I should like you to meet her as soon as possible."

There was something just the least bit didactic in the latter part of the sentence, a hint of the proprietary note. Nan recoiled from it instinctively.

"No, not to-morrow," she exclaimed hastily. "I'm going over to see Aunt Eliza—Mrs. McBain, you know—and I can't put it off. I haven't been near her for a fortnight, and she'll he awfully offended if I don't go."

"Then it must be Tuesday," said Roger, with an air of making a concession.

Nan felt that nothing could save her from Tuesday, and agreed meekly. At the same moment, to her unspeakable relief, Kitty looked into the room to enquire gaily:

"Are you two still saying good-bye?"

Trenby rose reluctantly.

"No. We were just making arrangements about Nan's coming to the Hall to meet my mother. We've fixed it all up, so I must be off now."

It was with a curious sense of freedom regained that Nan watched the lights of Roger's car speed down the drive.

At least she was her own mistress again till Tuesday!

* * * * * *

Although Nan had conferred the brevet rank of aunt upon Eliza McBain, the latter was in reality only the sister of an uncle by marriage and no blood relation—a dispensation for which, at not infrequent intervals of Nan's career, Mrs. McBain had been led to thank the Almighty effusively. Born and reared in the uncompromising tenets of Scotch Presbyterianism, her attitude towards Nan was one of rigid disapproval—a disapproval that warred somewhat pathetically against the affection with which the girl's essential lovableness inspired her. For there was no gainsaying the charm of the Davenant women! But Eliza still remembered very clearly the sense of shocked dismay which, years ago, had overwhelmed her righteous soul on learning that her only brother, Andrew McDermot, had become engaged to one of the beautiful Davenant sisters.

In those days the insane extravagances and lawlessness of the Davenant family had become proverbial. There had been only three of them left to carry on the wild tradition—Timothy, Nan's father, who feared neither man nor devil, but could wile a bird off a tree or a woman's heart from her keeping, and his two sisters, whose beauty had broken more hearts than their kindness could ever mend. And not one of the three had escaped the temperamental heritage which Angele de Varincourt had grafted on to a parent stem of dare-devil, reckless English growth.

The McDermots of Tarn, on the other hand, traced their descent in a direct line from one of the unbending old Scotch Covenanters of 1638, and it had always been a source of vague bewilderment to Eliza that a race sprang from so staunchly Puritan a stock should have been juggled by that inimitable trickster, Fate, into allying itself with a family in whose veins ran the hot French blood of the Varincourts.

Perhaps old Dame Nature in her garnered wisdom could have explained the riddle. Certain it was that no sooner had Andrew McDermot set eyes upon Gabrielle Davenant—sister to that Annabel whom Lord St. John had loved and married—than straightway the visions of his youth, in which he had pictured some staid and modest-seeming Scotswoman as his helpmeet, were swept away by an overwhelming Celtic passion of love and romance of which he had not dreamed that he could be possessed.

It was a meeting of extremes, and since Gabrielle had drooped and pined in the bleak northern castle where the lairds of Tarn had dwelt from time immemorial, McDermot laid even his ancestral home upon love's altar and, coming south, had bought Trevarthen Wood, a tree-girt, sheltered house no great distance from Mallow, though further inland.

But the change was made too late to accomplish its purpose of renewing Gabrielle's enfeebled health. Almost imperceptibly, with slow and kindly footsteps, Death had drawn daily nearer, until at last, quite happily and like a little child that is tired of playing and only wants to rest, Gabrielle slipped out of the world and her place knew her no more.

After his wife's death, McDermot had returned to his old home in Scotland and had reassumed his duties there as laird of the district, and when, later on, Death struck again, this time leaving his sister Eliza a widow in none too affluent circumstances, he had presented her with his Cornish home, glad to be rid of a place so haunted by poignant memories.

In such wise had Mrs. McBain and Sandy come to dwell in Cornwall, and since this, their third summer there, had brought his adored Nan Davenant once more to Mallow Court on a lengthy visit, Sandy's cup of joy was filled to the brim.

Mrs. McBain regarded her offspring from much the same standpoint as does a hen the brood of enterprising ducklings which, owing to some stratagem on the part of the powers that be, have hatched out from the eggs upon which she has been conscientiously sitting in the fond belief that they were those of her own species.

Sandy was a source of perpetual surprise to his mother, and of not inconsiderable anxiety. How she and the late Duncan McBain of entirely prosaic memory had contrived to produce more or less of a musical genius by way of offspring she had never been able to fathom. Neither parent had ever shown the slightest tendency in that direction, and it is very certain that had such a development manifested itself, they would have speedily set to work to correct it, regarding music—other than hymnal—as a lure of Satan.

They had indeed done their best for Sandy himself in that respect, negativing firmly his desire for proper musical tuition, with the result that now, at twenty years of age, he was a musician spoilt through lack of training. Most of his pocket-money in early days had been expended upon surreptitious violin lessons, and he had frequently practised for hours out of doors in the woods, at a distance from the house which secured the parental ear from outrage.

Since her husband's death, however, Eliza, chiding herself the while for her weakness, had yielded to a pulsing young enthusiasm that would not be denied, and music of a secular nature was permitted at Trevarthen—unchecked though disapproved.

Thus it came about that on the afternoon of Nan's visit Sandy was to be found zealously absorbed in the composition of a triumphal march. The blare of trumpets, the swinging tramp of marching men and the thunderous roll of drums—this last occurring very low down in the bass—were combining to fill the room with joyful noise when there came a light tap at the open French window and Nan herself stood poised on the threshold.

"Hullo, Sandy, what's that you're playing?"

Sandy sprang off the music stool, beaming with delight, and, seizing her by both arms, drew her rapturously into the room.

"You're the very person I want," he exclaimed without further greeting. "It's a march, and I don't know whether I like this modulation into D minor or not. Listen."

Nan obeyed, gave her opinion, and finally subsided rather listlessly into a low arm-chair.

"Give me a cigarette, Sandy. It's an awfully tiring walk here. Is Aunt Eliza in? I hope she is, because I want some tea."

"She is. But I'd give you tea if she wasn't."

"And set the whole of St. Wennys gossiping! It wouldn't be proper, boy."

"Oh, yes, it would. I count as a kind of cousin, you know."

"All the same, Mrs. Petherick at the lodge would confide the information that we'd had tea alone together to Miss Penwarne at the Post Office, and in half an hour the entire village would be all agog to know when the subsequent elopement was likely to occur."

Sandy grinned. He had proposed to Nan several times already, only to be good-naturedly turned down.

"I'd supply a date with pleasure."

Nan shook her head at him.

"A man may not marry his grandmother."

He struck a match and held it while she lit her cigarette. Then, blowing out the flame, he enquired:

"Does that apply when she's only three years his senior?"

"Oh, Sandy, I'm aeons older than you. A woman always is. Besides"—her words hurrying a little—"I'm engaged already."

"Engaged?"

He dropped the dead match he was still holding and stared out of the window a moment. Then, squaring his shoulders, he said quietly:

"Who's the lucky beggar?"

"Roger Trenby."

Sandy's lips pursed themselves to whistle, but he checked himself in time and no sound escaped. Turning to Nan, he spoke with a gravity that sat strangely on him.

"Old girl, I hope you'll be very happy—the happiest woman in the world." But there was a look of dissatisfaction in his eyes which had nothing whatever to do with his own disappointment. He had known all along that he had really no chance with her.

"But we're pals, Nan—pals, just the same?" he went on.

She slipped her hand into his.

"Pals—always, Sandy," she replied.

"Thank you," he said simply. "And remember, Nan"—the boyish voice took on a note of earnestness—"if you're ever in need of a pal—-I'm here, mind."

Nan was conscious of a sudden sharp pain—like the stab of a nerve. The memory of just such another pledge swept over her: "I think I should always know if you were in trouble—and I should come." Only it had been uttered by a different voice—the quiet, drawling voice of Peter Mallory.

"Thank you, Sandy dear. I won't forget."

There was a faint weariness in her tones, despite the smile which accompanied them. Sandy's nice green eyes surveyed her critically, noting the slight hollowing of the outline of her cheek and the little tired droop of her lips as the smile faded.

"I tell you what it is," he said, "you're fagged out, tramping over here in all this heat. I'll ring and tell them to hurry up tea."

But before he could reach the bell a servant entered, bringing in the tea paraphernalia. Sandy turned abruptly to the piano, thrumming out a few desultory minor chords which probably gave his perturbed young soul a certain amount of relief, while Nan sat gazing with a half-maternal, half-humorous tenderness at the head of flaming red hair which had earned him his sobriquet.

"Weel, so ye've come to see me at last—or is it Sandy that you're calling on?"

The door had opened to admit Mrs. McBain—a tall, gaunt woman with iron-grey hair and shrewd, observant eyes that glinted with the grey flash of steel.

Nan jumped up at her entrance.

"Oh, Aunt Eliza? How are you? I should have been over to see you before, but there always seems to be something or other going on at Mallow."

"I don't doubt it—in yon house of Belial," retorted Mrs. McBain, presenting a chaste cheek to Nan's salute. The young red lips pressed against the hard-featured face curved into a smile. Nan was no whit in awe of her aunt's bitter tongue, and it was probably for this very reason that Mrs. McBain could not help liking her. Most sharp-spoken people appreciate someone who is not afraid to stand up to them, and Nan and Mrs. McBain had crossed swords in many a wordy battle.

"Are you applying the name of Belial to poor old Barry?" enquired Sandy with interest. "I don't consider he's half earned it."

"Barry Seymour's a puir weak fule and canna rule his ain hoose," came the curt answer.

Mrs. McBain habitually spoke as excellent English as only a Scotswoman can, but it pleased her on occasion to assume the Doric—much as a duchess may her tiara.

"Barry's a dear," protested Nan, "and he doesn't need to play at being master in his own house."

"I'm willing to believe you. That red-headed body is mistress and master too."

Sandy grinned.

"I consider that remark eminently personal. The hue of one's hair is a misfortune, not a fault," he submitted teasingly. "In Kitty you must at least allow that the red takes a more pleasing form than it does with me."

Mrs. McBain sniffed.

"You'll be tellin' me next that her hair's the colour God made it," she observed indignantly.

Sandy and Nan broke into laughter.

"Well, mine is, anyway," said the former. "It would never have been this colour if I'd had a say in the matter."

Eliza surveyed her offspring with disfavour.

"It's an ill thing, Sandy McBain, to question the ways of the Almighty who made you."

"I don't. It's you who seem far more disposed to disparage the completed article than I." He beamed at her seraphically.

Eliza's thin lips relaxed into an unwilling smile. Sandy was as equally the joy of her heart as he was the flagellation of her conscience.

"Well, I'll own you're the first of the McBains to go daft over music."

She handed a cup of tea to Nan as she spoke. Then asked;

"And how's your uncle, St. John?"

"He's at Mallow, too. We all are—Penelope and Uncle David, and Ralph Fenton—"

"And who may Mr. Fenton be? I've never met him—have I, Sandy?"

"No. He's a well-known singer Kitty's recently admitted into the fold."

"Do you mean he earns his living by singing at concerts?"

"Yes. And a jolly good living, too."

A shadow fell across Sandy's pleasant freckled face. It was a matter of unavailing regret to him that owing to his parents' prejudice against music and musicians he had been debarred from earning a living in like manner with his long, capable fingers. Eliza saw the shadow, and her brows contracted in a slight frown. Vaguely she was beginning to realise some small part of the suffering which the parental restriction had imposed upon her son—the perpetual irritation of a thwarted longing which it had entailed. But she had not yet advanced sufficiently along the widening road of thought to grasp the pitiful, irreparable waste it had involved of a talent bordering on genius.

She pursed her lips obstinately together.

"There'll come no blessing with money that's earned by mere pleasuring," she averred.

"If you only knew what hard work it means to be a successful musician, Aunt Eliza, you'd be less drastic in your criticism," interposed Nan, with warmth.

Eliza's shrewd eyes twinkled.

"You work hard, don't you, my dear?" she observed drily.

Nan laughed, colouring a little.

"Perhaps I should work harder if Uncle David didn't spoil me so. You know he's increased my allowance lately?"

Eliza snorted indignantly.

"I always kent he was mair fulish than maist o' his sex."

"It's rather an endearing kind of foolishness," remarked Sandy.

His mother eyed him sharply.

"We're not put into the world to be endearing," she retorted, "but to do our duty."

"It might be possible to combine both," suggested Sandy.

"Well, you're not the one to do it," she answered grimly. "And what's Penelope doing?" she continued, turning to Nan. "She's more sense than the rest of ye put together, for all she's so daft about music."

"Penelope," said Sandy solemnly, "is preparing to enter upon the duties and privileges of matrimony."

"What may you mean by that?"

Sandy stirred his tea while Eliza waited impatiently for his answer.

"She's certainly 'walking out,'" he maintained.

"And that's by no means the shortest road to matrimony," snapped Eliza. "My cook's been walking out with the village carpenter ever since she came to St. Wennys, but she's no nearer a wedding ring than she was twelve months ago."

"I think," observed Sandy gravely, "that greater success will attend Penelope's perambulations. Kitty was so cock-a-hoop over it that she couldn't refrain from 'phoning the good news on Sunday morning. I meant to tell you when you came back from church, but clean forgot."

"And who's the man?"

"Penelope's young man? Oh, Ralph Fenton, the fellow who makes 'pleasuring' pay so uncommonly well. He's been occupying an ignominious position at the wheels of Penelope's chariot ever since they both came to Mallow. I think Kitty Seymour would make a matrimonial agent par excellence—young men and maidens introduced under the most favourable circumstances and no fee when suited!"—Sandy flourished his arms expressively.

"And if she could find a good, sensible lassie to tak' ye in hand, Sandy McBain, I'd no be grudgin' a fee."

"No good, mother of mine. I lost my heart to Nan here too long ago, and now"—with a lightness of tone that effectually concealed his feelings—"not to be outdone by Penny, she herself has gone and got engaged. So I shall live and die alone."

"And what like is the man ye've chosen?" demanded Eliza, turning to Nan. "Not another of these music-daft creatures, I hope?"

"I think you'll quite approve, Aunt Eliza," answered Nan with a becoming meekness. "I'm engaged to marry Roger Trenby."

"Well, I hope ye'll be happier than maist o' the married folks I ken. Eh!"—with a chuckle—"but Roger's picked a stick for his own back!"

Nan smiled.

"Do you think I'll be so bad to live with, then?"

"'Tisn't so much that you'll be bad with intent. But you're that Varincourt woman's own great-grand-daughter. Not that ye can help it, and I'm no blamin' ye for it. But 'tis wild blood!"

Nan rose, laughing, and kissed her aunt.

"After such a snub as that, I think I'd better take myself off. It's really time I started, as I'm walking."

"Let me run you back in the car," suggested Sandy eagerly.

"No, thanks. I'm taking the short cut home through the woods."

Sandy accompanied her down the drive. At the gates he stopped abruptly.

"Nan," he said quietly. "Is it quite O.K. about your engagement? You'll be really happy with Trenby?"

Nan paused a moment. Then she spoke, very quietly and with a touch of cynicism quite foreign to the fresh, sweet outlook upon life which had been hers before she had ever met Maryon Rooke.

"I don't suppose I should be really happy with anyone, Sandy. I want too much. . . . But it's quite O.K. and you needn't worry."

With a parting nod she started off along the ribbon of road which wound its way past the gates of Trevarthen Wood, and then, dipping into the valley, climbed the hill beyond and lost itself in the broad highway of light which shimmered from the western sky. Presently she turned aside from the road and, scrambling through a gap in a stone wall, plunged into the cool shadows of the woods. A heavy rain had fallen during the night, soaking the thirsty earth, and the growing green things were all responsively alive and vivid once again, while the clean, pleasant smell of damp soil came fragrantly to her nostrils.

Though she tramped manfully along, Nan found her progress far from swift, for the surface of the ground was sticky and sodden after the rain. Her boots made soft little sucking sounds at every step. Nor was she quite sure of her road back to Mallow by way of the woods. She had been instructed that somewhere there ran a tiny river which she must cross by means of a footbridge, and then ascend the hill on the opposite side. "And after that," Barry had told her, "you can't lose yourself if you try."

But prior to that it seemed a very probable contingency, and she was beginning to weary of plodding over the boggy land, alternately slapped by outstanding branches or—when a little puff of wind raced overhead—drenched by a shower of garnered raindrops from some tree which seemed to shake itself in the breeze just as a dog may shake himself after a plunge in the sea, and with apparently the same intention of wetting you as much as possible in the process.

At last from somewhere below came the sound of running water, and Nan bent her steps hopefully in its direction. A few minutes' further walking brought her to the head of a deep-bosomed coombe, and the mere sight of it was almost reward enough for the difficulties of the journey. A verdant cleft, it slanted down between the hills, the trees on either side giving slow, reluctant place to big boulders, moss-bestrewn and grey, while athwart the tall brown trunks which crowned it, golden spears, sped by the westering sun, tremulously pierced the summer dusts.

Nan made her way down the coombe's steep side with feet that slipped and slid on the wet, shelving banks of mossy grass. But at length she reached the level of the water and here her progress became more sure. Further on, she knew, must be the footbridge which Barry had described—probably beyond the sharp curve which lay just ahead of her. She rounded the bend, then stopped abruptly, startled at seeing the figure of a man standing by the bank of the river. He had his back towards her and seemed engrossed in his thoughts. Almost instantly, however, as though subconsciously aware of her approach, he turned.

Nan stood quite still as he came towards her, limping a little. She felt that if she moved she must surely stumble and fall. The beating of her heart thundered in her ears and for a moment the river, and the steep sides of the coombe, and the figure of Peter Mallory himself all seemed to grow dim and vague as though seen through a thick mist.

"Nan!"

The dear, familiar voice, with an ineffable tenderness in its slow drawl, reached her even through the thrumming beat of her heart.

"Peter—oh, Peter—"

Her voice failed her, and the next moment they were shaking hands conventionally just as though they were two quite ordinary people with whom love had nothing to do.

"I didn't know you were coming to-day," she said, making a fierce effort to regain composure.

"I wired Kitty on the train. Hasn't she had the telegram?"

"Yes, I expect so. Only I've been out all afternoon, so knew nothing about it. And now I've lost my way!"

"Lost your way?"

"Yes. I expected to find a footbridge round the corner."

"It's round the next one. I sent the car on with my kit, and thought I'd walk up from the station. So we're both making for the same bridge. It's only about two minutes' walk from here."

They strolled on side by side, Peter rather silent, and each of them vibrantly conscious of the other's nearness. Suddenly Mallory pulled up and a quick exclamation broke from him as he pointed ahead.

"We're done! The bridge is gone!"

Nan's eyes followed the direction of his hand. Here the river ran more swiftly, and swollen by last nights storm of wind and rain, it had swept away the frail old footbridge which spanned it. Only a few decayed sticks and rotten wooden stumps remained of what had once been known as the Lovers' Bridge—the trysting place of who shall say how many lovers in the days of its wooden prime?

Somehow a tinge of melancholy seemed to hang about the few scraps of wreckage. How many times the little bridge must have tempted men and maidens to linger of a summer evening, dreaming the big dreams of youth—visions which the spreading wings of Time bear away into the Land of Lost Desires. Perhaps some kind hand garners them—those tender, wonderful, courageous dreams of our wise youth and keeps them safely for us against the Day of Reckoning, so that they may weight the scales a little in our favour.

Peter stood looking down at the scattered fragments of the bridge with an odd kind of gravity in his eyes. It seemed a piece of trenchant symbolism that the Lovers' Bridge should break when he and Nan essayed to cross it. There was a slight, whimsical smile, which held something of pain, on his lips when he turned to her again.

"I shall have to carry you across," he said.

She shook her head.

"No, thanks. You might drop me. I can wade over."

"It's too deep for you to do that. I won't let you drop."

But Nan still hesitated. She was caught by sudden panic. She felt that she couldn't let Peter—Peter, of all men in the world—carry her in his arms!

"It isn't so deep higher up, is it?" she suggested. "I could wade there."

"No, it's not so deep, but the river bed is very stony. You'd cut your feet to pieces."

"Then I suppose you'll have to carry me," she agreed at last, with obvious reluctance.

"I promise I won't drop you," he assured her quietly.

He gathered her up into his arms, and as he lifted her the rough tweed of his coat brushed her cheek. Then, holding her very carefully, he stepped down from the bank into the stream and began to make his way across.

Nan had no fear that he might let her fall. The arms that held her felt pliant and strong as steel, and their clasp about her filled her with a strange, new ecstasy that thrilled her from head to foot. It frightened her.

"Am I awfully heavy?" she asked, nervously anxious to introduce some element of commonplace.

And Peter, looking down at the delicately angled face which lay against his shoulder, drew his breath hard.

"No," he answered briefly. "You're not heavy."

There was that in his gaze which brought the warm colour into her face. Her lids fell swiftly, veiling her eyes, and she turned her face quickly towards his shoulder. All that remained visible was the edge of the little turban hat she wore and, below this, a dusky sweep of hair against her white skin.

He went on in silence, conscious in every fibre of his being of the supple body gathered so close against his own, of the young, sweet, clean-cut curve of her cheek, and of the warmth of her hair against his shoulder. He jerked his head aside, his mouth set grimly, and crossed quickly to the other bank of the river.

As he let her slip to the ground, steadying her with his arms about her, he bent swiftly and for an instant his lips just brushed her hair. Nan scarcely felt the touch of his kiss, it fell so lightly, but she sensed it through every nerve of her. Standing in the twilight, shaken and clutching wildly after her self-control, she knew that if he touched her again or took her in his arms, she would yield helplessly—gladly!

Peter knew it, too, knew that the merest thread of courage and self-respect kept them apart. His arms strained at his sides. Forcing his voice to an impersonal, level tone, he said practically:

"It's getting late. Come on, little pal, we must make up time, or they'll be sending out a search party for us from Mallow."

It was late in the evening before Nan and Peter found themselves alone together again. Everyone was standing about in the big hall exchanging good nights and last snippets of talk before taking their several ways to bed. Peter drew Nan a little to one side.

"Nan, is it true that you're engaged to Trenby?" he asked.

"Quite true." She had to force the answer to her lips. Mallory's face was rather stern.

"Why didn't you tell me this afternoon?"

"I—I couldn't, Peter," she said, under her breath. "I couldn't."

His face still wore that white, unsmiling look. But he drew Nan's shaking hands between his own and held them very gently as he put his next question.