He came to her side, stooped over her, and took her hand. Her fingers closed weakly about his.

"Send her to bed!" she whispered. "She is tired. You come instead!"

He bent and kissed her forehead with a tenderness that made her cling more closely. "Shall I do instead?" he asked her gently.

She offered him her lips though she was panting a little. "Yes, I want you. Make Juliet—go to bed!"

He turned to Juliet, his wife's hand still in his. All the hard lines were smoothed out of his face. There was something even pathetic about his smile.

"Will you go to bed, Juliet," he said in that new gentle voice of his, "and leave me in charge?"

She got up. "I will lie down in the conservatory," she said.

"No—no!" He put his free hand on her arm with a touch of his customary imperiousness. "That won't do. You're to go to bed properly—and sleep till you can't sleep any longer. Yes, that's an order, see?" He smiled again at her, his sudden transforming smile. "Be a good child and do as I tell you! Cox is within call. We'll certainly fetch you if we find we can't do without you."

Juliet's eyes went to Vera.

"Yes, she wants to get rid of you too," said the squire. "We're pining to be alone. No, we won't talk. We won't do anything we ought not, eh, Vera, my dear? Nurse will be getting up in another hour so we shan't have it to ourselves for long."

He had his way. He could be quite irresistible when he chose. Juliet found herself yielding without misgiving, though till then he had only been allowed at Vera's bedside for a few minutes at a time. Vera was certainly very much better that day, and she read in her eyes the desire to meet her husband's wishes. She paused to give him one or two directions regarding medicine, and then went quietly to the door of the conservatory.

Columbus sprang to greet her with a joy that convulsed him from head to tail, and she gathered him up in her arms and took him with her, passing back through the library in time to see the squire lay his face down upon the slender hand he held and kiss it.

In the great hall outside she found Saltash loitering. He came at once to meet her, and had taken Columbus from her before she realized his intention.

"He is too heavy for you, ma cherie," he said, with his quizzing smile. "Lend him to me for this afternoon! He's getting disgracefully fat. I'll take him for a walk."

Relieved of Columbus' weight, she became suddenly and overpoweringly aware of a dwindling of her strength. She said no word, but her face must have betrayed her, for the next thing she knew was Saltash's arm like a coiled spring about her, impelling her towards the grand staircase.

"I'll take you to your room, Juliette," he said. "You might miss the way by yourself. You're awfully tired, aren't you?"

It was absurd, but a curious desire to weep possessed her.

"Yes, I know," said Saltash, with his semi-comic tenderness. "Don't mind me! I knew you'd come to it sooner or later. You're not used to playing the sister of mercy are you, ma mie, though it becomes you—vastly well."

"Don't, Charles!" she murmured faintly.

"My dear, I mean no harm," he protested, firmly leading her upwards. "I am only—the friend in need."

She took him at his word though half against her will. He guided her up the branching staircase to the gallery above, bringing her finally to a tall oak door at the further end.

"Here is your chamber of sleep, Juliette! Now will you make me a promise?"

She left his supporting arm with an effort. "Well, what is it?"

"That you will go to bed in the proper and correct way and sleep till further notice," he said. "You can't go for ever, believe me. And you need it."

He was looking at her with a softness of persuasion that sat so oddly on his mischievous monkey-face that in spite of herself, with quivering lips, she smiled.

"You're very good, Charles Rex," she said. "I wonder how much longer you will manage to keep it up."

He bowed low. "Just as long as I have your exemplary example before me," he said. "Who knows? We may both fling our caps over the windmill before we have done."

She shook her head, made as if she would enter the room, but paused. "You will take care of Columbus?" she said.

"Every care," he promised. "If I fail to bring him back to you intact you will never see my face again."

She had opened the door behind her, but still she paused. "Charles!"

Her voice held an unutterable appeal. A grin of sheer derision gleamed for a second in his eyes and vanished. "They ring up from the Court every day, Juliette. Presumably he gets the news by that channel. He has not troubled to obtain it in any other way."

"How could he?" Juliet said, but her face was paler than before; it had a grey look. "He is busy with his work all day long. What time has he for—other things?"

"Exactly, ma cherie! One would not expect it of him. Duty first—pleasure afterwards, is doubtless his motto. Very worthy—and very appropriate, for one of his profession. Unquestionably, it will become yours also—in time."

A faint, sad smile crossed Juliet's face. She made no response, and in a moment Saltash bent and swept up Columbus under his arm.

"Adieu, sister of mercy!" he said lightly. "I leave you to your dreams."

He went away along the gallery, and she entered the room and shut herself in.

For a second or two she stood quite motionless in the great luxurious apartment. Then slowly she went forward to the wide-flung window, and stood there, gazing blankly forth over the distant fir-clad park. He had said that he would see her again. It seemed so long ago. And all through this difficult time of strain and anxiety he had done nothing—nothing. She did not realize until that moment how much she had counted upon the memory of those last words of his.

Ah well! Perhaps—as Charles Rex hinted—it was better. Better to end it all thus, that midsummer madness of theirs that had already endured too long! They had lived such widely sundered lives. How could they ever have hoped ultimately to bridge the gulf between?

Charles was right. His shrewd perception realized that dwelling as they did in separate spheres they were bound to be fundamentally strangers to one another. Surely Dick himself had foreseen it long since down on that golden shore when first he had sought to dissuade her from going to the Court!

Her heart contracted at the memory. How sweet those early days had been! But the roses had faded, the nightingales had ceased to sing. It was all over now—all over. The dream was shattered, and she was weary unto death.



CHAPTER VII

THE SACRIFICE

"I expect it's one of them abscies again," said Mrs. Rickett sympathetically. "Have you been to the doctor about it, my dear?"

Robin, sitting heaped in the wooden arm-chair in her kitchen, looked at her with a smouldering glow in his eyes. "Don't like doctors," he muttered.

Mrs. Rickett sighed and went on with her ironing. "No more do I, Robin. But we can't always do without 'em. Have you told your brother now?"

Robin, sullenly rocking himself to and fro, made no reply for several seconds. Then very suddenly: "He asked me if I'd got a headache and I told him No," he flung out defiantly. "What's the good of bothering him? He can't do anything."

"The doctor might, you know," Mrs. Rickett ventured again, with a glance through the window at Freddy who had been sent out to amuse himself and was staggering with much perseverance in the wake of an elusive chicken. "It's wonderful what they can do now-a-days to make things better."

"Don't want to be better," growled Robin.

She turned and looked at him in astonishment. "You didn't ought to say that, my dear," she said.

Again he raised his heavy eyes to hers and something she saw in them—something she was quite at a loss to define—went straight to her heart.

"Robin, my dear, what's the matter?" she said. "Is there something that's troubling you?"

Again Robin was silent for a space. His eyes fell dully to the ground between his feet. At last, in a tone of muttered challenge, he spoke. "Don't want it to get better. Want it to end."

"Sakes alive!" said Mrs. Rickett, shocked. "You don't know what you're saying."

He did not contradict her or lift his eyes again, merely sat there like a hunched baboon, his head on his chest, his monstrous body slowly rocking.

There followed a lengthy silence. Mrs. Rickett ironed and folded, ironed and folded, with a practised hand, still keeping an eye on the small chicken-chaser outside.

After several minutes, however, the boy's utter dejection of attitude moved her to attempt to divert his thoughts. "I wonder when our young lady will be coming to see us again," she said.

Robin uttered a queer sound in his throat; it was almost like the moan of an animal in pain. He said nothing.

She gave him an uneasy glance, but still kind-heartedly she persevered in her effort to lift him out of his depression. "She was always very friendly-like," she said. "You liked her, didn't you Robin?"

Robin shifted his position with a sharp movement as though he winced at some sudden dart of pain. "What should make her come back?" he said. "She'll stay away now she's gone."

"Oh, I expect we shall be seeing her again some day," said Mrs. Rickett, "when poor Mrs. Fielding is a bit stronger. She's busy now, but she'll come back, you'll see."

Again almost violently Robin moved in his chair. "She won't!" he flung out in a fierce undertone. "Tell you she won't!"

"How can you possibly know?" reasoned Mrs. Rickett.

"I do know," he said doggedly. "She won't come back,—anyhow not till—" his utterance trailed off into an unintelligible murmur in his throat and he became silent.

Mrs. Rickett shook out a small damp garment, and spread it upon the table with care. "I don't see how anyone is to say as she won't come back," she said. "Of course I know she's a lady born, but that don't prevent her making friends among humbler folk. She's talked of this place more than once as if she'd like to settle here."

"She won't then!" growled Robin. "She'll never do that, not while—." Again he became inarticulate, muttering deeply in his throat like an animal goaded to savagery.

Mrs. Rickett turned from her ironing to regard him. She had never found Robin hard to understand before, but there was something about him to-day which was wholly beyond her comprehension. He was like some wild creature that had received a cruel wound. Dumb resentment and fiery suffering seemed to mingle in his half uttered sentences. As he sat there, huddled forward with his hands pathetically clenched she thought she had never seen a more piteous sight.

"Lor', Robin, my dear!" she said. "What ever makes you know such a lot? Why shouldn't she come back then? Tell me that!"

He shook his shaggy head, but more in protest than refusal.

Mrs. Rickett bent down over him, her kindly red face full of the most motherly concern.

"What's troubling you, Robin?" she said. "You aren't—fretting for her, are you?"

He threw her one of his wild, furtive looks, and again in his eyes she caught a glimpse of something that deeply moved her. She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Is that it, lad? Are you wanting her? Ah, don't fret then—don't fret! She'll surely come back—some day."

The boy's face quivered. He looked down at his clenched hands, and at length jerkily, laboriously, he spoke, giving difficult and bitter utterance to the trouble that gnawed at his heart.

"It's—Dicky that wants her. But she won't come—she won't come—while I'm here." A sudden hard shiver went through him, he drew his breath through his set teeth, with a desperate sound. "No woman would," he said with hard despair.

And then abruptly, as if with speech his misery had become unendurable, he blundered to his feet with outflung arms, making the only outcry against fate that his poor stunted brain had ever accomplished. "It isn't fair!" he wailed. "It isn't right! I'm going to God—to tell Him so!"

He turned with the words, the impulse of the stricken creature urging him, and ignoring the remonstrance which Mrs. Rickett had barely begun he made headlong for the door, dragged it open, and was gone.

He went past his little playmate in the yard, shambling blindly for the open, deaf to the baby's cry of welcome, insensible to everything but the bitter burden of his pain. He slammed the gate behind him and set off at a lumbering run down the glaring road.

The evening sun smote full in his face as he went; but it might have been midnight, for he neither saw nor felt. Instinct alone guided him—the instinct of the wild creature, hunted by disaster, wounded to the heart, that must be alone with its agony and its fruitless strife against fate.

He went up the cliff-path, but he did not follow it far. Something drew him down the narrow cleft that led to the spot where first he had seen her lying on the shingle dreaming with her head upon her arm. He turned off the path to the place where he had crouched among the gorse-bushes and flung stones to scare her away, and stood there panting and gazing.

The memory of her, the gracious charm, the quick sympathy, went through him, pierced him. He caught his breath as though he listened for the beloved sound of her voice. She had not been really angry with him for the wantonness of those stones. She had been very ready with her forgiveness, her kindly offer of friendship. She had never been other than kind to him ever since. She had awakened in him the deepest, most humble gratitude and devotion. She had even once or twice shielded him from Dicky's never unjust wrath. And he had come to love her second only to Dicky who must for ever hold the foremost place in his heart.

He had come to love her—and he stood between her and happiness. He did not reason the matter. He had small reasoning power. He recognized that Jack's brain was superior to his, and Jack had made known to him this monstrous thing. True, Dicky had denied it, but somehow that denial had not been so convincing as Jack's statement had been. The corrosive poison had already done its work, and there was no antidote. He knew that Dicky loved Juliet, knew it from his own lips. "The woman I love—the woman I love—" How often had the low-spoken words recurred to his memory! And Dicky was not happy. He had watched him narrowly ever since that night. Dicky was not really hopeful for the winning of his heart's desire. He had said there were many obstacles. What they were, Robin could but vaguely conjecture—save one! And that one stood out in the darkness of his soul, clear as a cross against the falling night. Dicky had no chance of winning any woman so long as he—the village idiot—the hideous abortion—stood in his way. That was the truth as he saw it—the bitter, unavoidable truth. O God, it wasn't fair—it wasn't fair!

The evening shadows were lengthening. The waves splashed softly against the fallen rocks forty to fifty feet below. They seemed to be calling to him. It was almost like a summons from far away—almost like a bugle-call heard in the mists of sleep. Somehow they soothed him, lessening the poignancy of his anguish, checking his wild rebellion, making him aware of a strangely comforting peace.

As if God had spoken and stilled his inarticulate protest, the futile agony of his striving died down. He began to be conscious vaguely that somewhere within his reach there lay a way of escape. He stared out over the silver-blue of the sea with strained and throbbing vision. The sun had gone down behind High Shale, and the quiet shadows stretched towards him. He had the feeling of a hunted man who has found sanctuary. Again, more calmly, his tired brain considered the problem that had driven him forth in such bitterness of soul.

There was Dicky—Dicky who loved him—whom he worshipped. Yes, certainly Dicky loved him. He had never questioned that. He was the only person in the world who had ever wanted him. But a deeper love, a deeper want, had entered Dicky's life with the coming of Juliet. He wanted her with a great heart-longing that Robin but dimly comprehended but of which he was keenly conscious, made wise by the sympathy that linked them. He knew—and this without any bitterness—that Dicky wanted Juliet as he had never wanted him. It was an overmastering yearning in Dicky's soul, and somehow—by some means—some sacrifice—it must be satisfied. Even Dicky, it seemed, would have to sacrifice something; for he could not have them both.

Yes, something would have to be sacrificed. Somehow this obstacle must be cleared out of Dicky's path. Juliet could not come to Dicky while he was there. He did not ask himself why this should be, but accepted it as fact. He then was the main obstacle to Dicky's happiness, to the fulfilment of his great desire. Then he must go. But whither? And leave Dicky—and leave Dicky!

Again for a spell the anguish woke within him, but it did not possess him so overwhelmingly as before. He had begun to seek for a way out, and though it was hard to find, the very act of seeking brought him comfort. His own misery no longer occupied the forefront of his poor groping brain.

He sat for a long, long time up there on the cliff while the shadows lengthened and the day slowly died, turning the matter over and over while the flame of sacrifice gradually kindled in the darkness of his soul.

It was probably the growth of many hours of not too coherent meditation—the solution of that problem; but it came upon him very suddenly at the last, almost like the swift wheeling of a flashlight over the calm night sea.

He had heard the church clock strike in the distance, and was turning to leave when that first vision of Juliet swooped back upon him—Juliet in her light linen dress springing up the path towards him. He saw her as she had stood there, leaving the path behind her, poised like a young goddess against the dazzling blue of the spring sky. Her face had been stern at first, but all the sternness had gone into an amazing kindness of compassion when her look had lighted upon him. She had not shrunk from him as shrank so many. And then—and then—he remembered the sudden fear, the sharp anxiety, that had succeeded that first look of pity.

He had been standing on the brink of the cliff as he had stood many a time before—as he stood now. That cliff had been the tragedy of his ruined life. And yet he loved it, had never known any fear of it. But she had been afraid for his sake. He had seen the fear leap into her eyes. And the memory of it came to him now as a revelation. He had found the way of escape at last!

The sea was crooning behind him over the half-buried rocks. He stood again on the brink with his poor worn face turned to the sky. He had come to the end of his reasoning. The tired brain had ceased to grapple with the cruel problem that had so tortured it. He knew now what he would do to help Dicky. And somehow the doing did not seem hard to him, somehow he did not feel afraid.

One step back and the cliff fell away behind him. Yet for a space he went neither forward nor back. It was as though he waited for a word of command, some signal for release. The first star was gleaming very far away like a lamp lighted in a distant city. His eyes found it and dwelt upon it with a wistful wonder. He had always loved the stars.

He was not angry or troubled any more. All resentment, all turmoil, had died out of his heart for ever. That strange peace had closed about him again, and the falling night held no terrors. Rather it seemed to spread wings of comfort above him. And always the crooning of the sea was like a voice that softly called him.

It came very suddenly at the last—the sign for which he waited. Someone had begun to mount the cliff-path, and—though he was out of sight—he heard a low, summoning whistle in the darkness. It was Dicky's whistle. He knew it well. Dicky was coming to look for him.

For a second every pulse—every nerve—leaped to answer that call. For a second he stood tense while that surging power within him sprang upwards, and in sheer amazing fire of sacrifice consumed the earthly impulse.

Then it was over. His arms went wide to the night. Without a cry, without a tremor, he flung himself backwards over the grassy edge.

The crooning sea and the overhanging cliff muffled the sound of his fall. And no one heard or saw—save God Who seeth all.



CHAPTER VIII

THE MESSAGE

From the day that Juliet relinquished her perpetual vigil, the improvement in Vera Fielding was almost uninterrupted. She recovered her strength very slowly, but her progress was marked by a happy certainty that none who saw her could question. She still leaned upon Juliet, but it was her husband alone who could call that deep content into her eyes which was gradually finding a permanent abiding-place in her heart. The nearness of death had done for them what no circumstance of life had ever accomplished. They had drawn very close together in its shadow, and as they gradually left it behind the tie still held them in a bond that had become sacred to them both. It was as if they had never really known each other till now.

All Vera's arrogance had vanished in her husband's presence, just as his curt imperiousness had given place to the winning dominance which he knew so well how to wield. "You'll do it for me," was one of his pet phrases, and he seldom uttered it in vain. She gave him the joyful sacrifice of love newly-awakened.

"I wonder if we shall go on like this when I'm well again," she said to him on an evening of rose-coloured dusk in early August when he was sitting by her side with her long thin hand in his.

"Like what?" said Edward Fielding.

She smiled at him from her pillow. "Well, spoiling each other in this way. Will you never be overbearing and dictatorial? Shall I never be furious and hateful to you again?"

"I hope not," he said. "In fact, I think not."

He spoke very gravely. She stirred, and in a moment her other hand came out to him also. He clasped it closely. Her eyes were shining softly in the dusk.

"You are—so good to me, Edward—my darling," she said.

His head was bent over her hands. "Don't!" he muttered huskily.

Her fingers closed on his. "Edward, will you tell me something?" she whispered.

"I don't know," he said.

"Yes, but I want you to. I'd rather hear it from you. The doctors don't think I shall ever be fit for much again, do they?"

She spoke steadily, with a certain insistence. He looked up at her sharply, with something of a glare in his eyes.

"You're not going to die—whatever they say!" he declared in a fierce undertone.

"No—no, of course not!" She spoke soothingly, still smiling at him, for that barely checked ferocity of his sent rapture through her soul. "Do you suppose I'd be such an idiot as to go and die just when I'm beginning to enjoy life? I'm not the puny heroine of a lachrymose novel. I hope I've got more sense. No, dear, what I really meant was—was—am I ever going to be strong enough—woman enough—to give you—what you want so much?"

"Vera—my dear!" He leaned swiftly to her, his arm pillowed her head. "Do you suppose—do you really suppose—I'd let you jeopardize your sweet life—after this—after this?"

He was holding her closely to him, and though a little spasm of breathlessness went through her she gave herself to him with a pulsing gladness that thrilled her whole being. It was the happiest moment she had ever known.

"Oh, Edward," she said, "do you—do you really feel like that?"

His cheek was against her forehead. He did not speak for a few seconds. Then, with something of an effort, "Yes," he said. "It's like that with me now, my dear. I've been through—a good deal—these last days. Now I've got you back—please God, I'll keep you!"

She pressed her face against him. "Ah, but Edward, you know you've always wanted—"

"Oh, damn my wants!" he broke in impatiently. "I don't want anything but you now."

She raised her lips to kiss his neck. "That's the loveliest thing you ever said to me, darling," she said, with a throb in her voice. "I love being an invalid—with you to spoil me. But—if you'll promise—promise—promise—to love me quite as much—if I get well, I will get well—really well—for your sake."

Again she was panting. He felt it as he held her, and after a moment or two very tenderly he laid her back.

"God bless you, my dear!" he said. "You needn't be afraid. I've learnt my lesson, and I shan't forget it."

"The lesson of love!" she murmured, holding his hand against her thumping heart.

"Yes. Juliet began the teaching. A wonderful girl that. She seems to know everything. I wonder where she learnt it."

"She is wonderful," Vera agreed thoughtfully. "I sometimes think she has had a hard life. She says so little about herself."

"She has moved among a fairly rapid lot," observed the squire. "Lord Saltash is intimate enough to call her by her Christian name."

"Does he ever talk about her?" asked Vera, interested.

"Not much," said the squire.

"You think he is fond of her at all?"

"I don't know. He doesn't see much of her. I haven't quite got his measure yet. He isn't the sort of man I thought he was anyway."

"Then it wasn't true about Lady Joanna Farringmore?" questioned Vera.

Fielding hesitated. "I don't know," he said again. "I have a suspicion that that report was not entirely unfounded. But however that may be, she isn't with him now."

"You don't think she is—on board the yacht?" suggested Vera.

"No, I don't. The yacht is being done up for a voyage. A beautiful boat from all accounts. He is very proud of her. I am to go over her with him one of these days, when she's ready—which will be soon."

Vera uttered a short sigh. "I wish we'd get a yacht, Edward," she said.

"Do you? Why?" He was looking at her attentively, a smile in his eyes.

She coloured faintly. "I don't know. It's just a fancy, I suppose—a sick fancy. But I believe I could get well much quicker if I went for a voyage like that."

"You'd be bored to death," said Fielding.

She looked at him through sudden tears. "Bored! With you!" she said.

He patted her cheek gently. "Wouldn't you be bored? Quite sure? Suppose we were to borrow that yacht, do you think you'd really like it?"

Her eyes shone through the tears. "Of course I should love it!" she said. "Is there—is there any chance of such a thing?"

"Every chance," said Fielding. "Saltash most kindly placed her, with the captain and crew, at my disposal only last night."

"Oh, Edward! How tremendously kind!" She looked at him with an eagerness that seemed to transform her. "But—but would you like it too? Wouldn't you—wouldn't you feel it was an awful waste of time?"

"Waste of time! With you!" smiled Fielding.

She lifted his hand with a shy movement and put it to her lips. "Edward—darling, you get dearer every day," she murmured. "What makes you so good to me?"

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I happen to have found out—quite by accident—that I love you, my dear," he said.

She smiled at him. "What a happy accident! Then we are really going for that voyage together? What about—Juliet?"

"Don't you want Juliet?" he said.

"Yes, if she would come. But I have a feeling—I don't know why—that she will not be with us very long. I should be sorry to part with her for we owe her so much. But—somehow she doesn't quite fit, does she? She would be much more suitable as—Lady Saltash for instance."

Fielding laughed. "Saltash isn't the only fish in the sea," he remarked.

"You are thinking of—Mr. Green?" she questioned, with slight hesitation before the name. "You know, Edward—" she broke off.

"Well, my dear?" he said.

She turned to him impulsively. "I'm sorry I've not been nicer about that young man. I'm going to try and like him better, just to please you. But, Edward, you wouldn't want Juliet to marry—that sort of man? You don't, do you?"

Fielding had stiffened almost imperceptibly. "It doesn't much matter what I want," he said, after a moment. "It doesn't rest with me. Neither Dick nor Juliet are likely to consult my feelings in the matter."

"I don't want her to throw herself away—like that," said Vera.

"I don't think you need be afraid," he said. "Juliet knows very well what she is about. And Dick—well Dick's fool enough to sacrifice the heart out of his body for the sake of that half-witted boy."

"How odd of him!" Vera said. "What a pity Robin ever lived to grow up!"

"He's been the ruin of Dick's life," the squire said forcibly. "He's thrown away every chance he ever had on account of Robin. He doesn't fit—if you like. He's absolutely out of his sphere and knows it. But he'll never change it while that boy lives. That's the infernal part of it. Nothing will move him." He stopped himself suddenly. "I mustn't excite you, my dear, and this is a subject upon which I feel very strongly. I can't expect you to sympathize because—" he smiled whimsically—"well, mainly because you don't understand. We had better talk of something else."

Vera was looking at him with a slight frown between her eyes. "I didn't mean to be—unsympathetic," she said, a faint quiver in her voice.

"Of course not! Of course not!" Hastily he sought to make amends. "I don't know how we got on the subject. You must forgive me, my dear. I believe I hear Juliet in the conservatory. We won't discuss this before her."

He would have risen, but she detained him. "Edward, just a moment! I want to ask you something."

"Well?" Reluctantly he paused.

"I—only want to know," she spoke with some effort, "what there is about—Mr. Green that—that makes you so fond of him."

"Oh, that!" He stood hesitating. But there were certainly footsteps in the conservatory; he heard them with relief. "I'll tell you some other time, my dear," he said gently. "Here comes Juliet to turn me out!"

He turned to the window as she entered and greeted her with a smile. Vera was still clinging to his hand.

"May I come in?" said Juliet, stopping on the threshold.

"Yes, of course, come in!" Vera said. "We have been talking about you, Juliet. Will you come for a voyage with us in Lord Saltash's yacht?"

Juliet came slowly forward. Her face was pale. She was holding a letter in her hand. She looked from one to the other for a second or two in silence.

"Are you sure," she said, in her low quiet voice, "that you wouldn't rather go alone?"

"Not unless you would rather not come," said the squire.

"Thank you," she said. "May I—think about it?"

The squire was looking at her attentively. "What is the matter?" he said suddenly.

She met his look steadily, though he felt it to be with an effort. Then quietly she turned to Vera.

"I have just had a letter," she said, "from a friend who is in trouble. Do you think you can spare me—for a little while?"

Vera stretched a hand to her. "My dear Juliet, I am so sorry. Of course you shall go. What is it? What has happened?"

Juliet came to her, took and held the hand. "You are very kind," she said. "But I don't want you to be troubled too. There is no need. You are sure you will be all right without me?"

"You will come back to me?" Vera said.

"I will certainly come back," Juliet made steadfast answer, "even if I can't stay. But now that you are able to sit up, you will need me less. You will take care of her, Mr. Fielding?" looking up at him.

He nodded. "You may be sure of that—the utmost care. When must you go?"

He was still looking at her closely; his eyes deeply searching.

Juliet hesitated. "Do you think—to-night?" she said.

"Certainly. Then you will want a car. Have you told Lord Saltash?" He turned to the door.

"No, I have only just heard. I believe he has gone to town." Juliet gently laid down the hand she was holding. "I will come back," she said again, and followed him.

He drew the door closed behind them. They faced each other in the dimness of the hall. The squire's mouth was twitching uncontrollably. "Now, Juliet!" His voice had a ring of sternness; he put his hand on her shoulder, gripping unconsciously. "For heaven's sake—" he said—"out with it! It isn't—Dick?"

"No—Robin!" she said.

"Ah!" He drew a deep breath and straightened himself, his other hand over his eyes. Then in a moment he was looking at her again. His grip relaxed. "Forgive me!" he said. "Did I hurt you?"

She gave him a faint smile. "It doesn't matter. You understand, don't you? I must go—to Dick."

He nodded. "Yes—yes! Is the boy—dead?"

"No. It was a fall over the cliff. It happened last night. They didn't find him for hours. He is going fast. Jack brought me this." She glanced down at the letter in her hand.

He made a half-gesture to take it, checking himself sharply. "I beg your pardon, Juliet, I hardly know what I'm doing. It's from Dick, is it?"

Very quietly she gave it to him. "You may read it. You have a right to know," she said.

He gave her an odd look. "May I? Are you sure?"

"Read it!" she said.

He opened it. His fingers were trembling. She stood at his shoulder and read it with him. The words were few, containing the bald statement, but no summons.

The squire read them, breathing heavily. Suddenly he thrust his arm round Juliet and held her fast.

"Juliet! You'll be good to my boy—good to Dick?"

Her eyes met his. "That is why I am going to him," she said. She took the note and folded it, standing within the circle of his arm.

"I'd go to him myself—if I could," Fielding went on unevenly. "He'll feel this—damnably. He was simply devoted to that unfortunate boy."

"I know," said Juliet.

Again he put his hand to his eyes. "I've been a beast about Robin. Ask him to forgive me, Juliet! Tell him I'm awfully sorry, that I'll come as soon as I can get away. And if there's anything he wants—anything under the sun—he's to have it. See? Make him understand!"

"He will understand," Juliet said quietly.

He looked at her again. "Don't let him fret, Juliet!" he said urgently. "You'll comfort him, won't you? I know I'm always rating him, but he's such a good chap. You—you love him, don't you?"

"Yes," she said.

"God bless you for that!" he said earnestly. "I can't tell you what he is to me—can't explain. But—but—"

"I—understand," she said.

"What?" He stared at her for a moment. "What—do you understand?"

"I know what he is to you," she said gently. "I have known—for a long time. Never mind how! Nobody told me. It just came to me one day."

"Ah!" Impulsively he broke in. "You see everything. I'm afraid of you, Juliet. But look here! You won't—you won't—make him suffer—for my sins?"

Her hand pressed his arm. "What am I?" she said. "Have I any right to judge anyone? Besides—oh, besides—do you think I could possibly go to him if I did not feel that nothing on earth matters now—except our love?"

She spoke with deep emotion. She was quivering from head to foot. He bent very low to kiss the hand upon his arm.

"And you will have your reward," he said huskily. "Don't forget—it's the only thing in life that really counts! There's nothing else—nothing else."

Juliet stood quite still looking down at the bent grey head. "I wonder," she said slowly, "I wonder—if Dick—in his heart—thinks the same!"



CHAPTER IX

THE ANSWER

The August dusk had deepened into night when the open car from the Court pulled up at the schoolhouse gate. The school had closed for the summer holidays a day or two before. No lights shone in either building.

"Do you mind going in alone?" whispered Jack. "I can't show here. But I'll wait inside the park-gates to take you back."

"You needn't wait," Juliet said. "I shall spend the night at the Court—unless I am wanted here."

She descended with the words. She had never liked Jack Green, and she was thankful that the rapid journey was over. She heard him shoot up the drive as she went up the schoolhouse path.

In the dark little porch she hesitated. The silence was intense. Then, as she stood in uncertainty, from across the bare playground there came a call.

"Juliet!"

She turned swiftly. He was standing in the dark doorway of the school. The vague light of the rising moon gleamed deathly on his face. He did not move to meet her.

She went to him, reached out hands to him that he did not take, and clasped him by the shoulders. "Oh, you poor boy!"

His arms held her close for a moment or two, then they relaxed.

"I don't know why I sent for you," he said.

"You didn't send for me, Dick," she made gentle answer. "But I think you wanted me all the same."

He groaned. "Wanted you! I've—craved for you. You told the squire?"

"Yes. He said—"

He broke in upon her with fierce bitterness. "He was pleased of course! I knew he would be. That's why I couldn't send the message to him. It had to be you."

"Dick! Dick! He wasn't pleased! You don't know what you're saying. He was most terribly sorry." She put her arm through his with a very tender gesture. "Won't you take me inside and tell me all about it?" she said.

He gave a hard shudder. "I don't know if I can, Juliet. It's been—so awful. He suffered—so infernally. The doctor didn't want to give him morphia—said it would hasten the end." He stamped in a sort of impotent frenzy. "I stood over him and made him. It was just what I wanted to do. It was—it was—beyond endurance."

"Oh, my dear!" she said.

He put his hands over his face. "Juliet,—it was—hell!" he said brokenly. "When I wrote that note to you—I thought the worst was over. But it wasn't—it wasn't! He was past speaking—but his eyes—they kept imploring me to let him go.—O God, I'd given my soul to help him! And I could do—nothing—except see him die!"

Again a convulsive shudder caught him. Juliet's arms went around him. She held his head against her breast.

"It's over now," she whispered. "Thank God for that!"

He leaned upon her for a space. "Yes, it's over. At least he died in peace," he said, and drew a hard, quivering breath. Then he stood up again. "Juliet, I'm so sorry. Come inside! I'll light the lamp. I couldn't stand that empty house—with only my boy's dead body in it. Mrs. Rickett has been there, but she's gone now." He turned and pushed open the door. "Wait a minute while I light up!"

She did not wait, but followed him closely, and stood beside him while he lighted a lamp on the wall. He turned from doing so and smiled at her, and she saw that though his face was ghastly, he was his own master again.

"How did you get here?" he said. "Who took the note? The doctor promised to get it delivered."

"Jack brought it," she said. "I came back with him."

"Jack!" His brows drew together suddenly. She saw his black eyes gleam. For a moment he said nothing further. Then: "If—Jack comes anywhere near me to-night, I shall kill him!" he said very quietly.

"Dick!" she said in amazement.

There was a certain awful intentness in his look. "I hold him responsible for this," he said.

She gazed at him, assailed by a swift wonder as to his sanity.

In a second he saw the doubt and replied to it, still with that deadly quietness that seemed to her more terrible than violence. "I know what I am saying. He is—directly responsible. My boy died for my sake, because he believed what Jack told him—that no woman would ever consent to marry me while he lived."

"Oh, Dick! You don't mean—he did it—on purpose!" Juliet's voice was quick with pain. "Dick, surely—surely—it wasn't that! You are making a mistake!"

"No. It is no mistake," he said, with sombre conviction. "I know it. Mrs. Rickett knows it too. It's been preying on his mind ever since. He hasn't been well. He's suffered with his head a good deal lately. He—" He stopped himself. "There's no need to distress you over this. Thank you for coming. I didn't really expect you. Is he—is Jack—waiting to take you back?"

"No," said Juliet quietly.

His brows went up. "You are sleeping at the Court? I'll take you there."

"I'm not going yet, Dick," she said gently, "unless you turn me out."

His face quivered unexpectedly. He turned from her. "There's—nothing to wait for," he said.

But Juliet stood motionless. Her eyes went down the long bare room with its empty forms and ink-splashed desks. She thought it the most desolate place she had ever seen.

After an interval of blank silence Dick spoke again. "Don't you stay! I'm not myself to-night. I can't—think. It was awfully good of you to come. But don't—stay!"

"Dick!" she said.

At sound of her voice he turned. His eyes looked at her out of such a depth of misery as pierced her to the heart. She saw his hands clench against his sides. "O my God!" he said under his breath.

"Dick!" she said again very earnestly. "Don't send me away! Let me help you!"

"You can't," he said. "You've been too good to me—already."

"You wouldn't say that to me if I were—your wife," she said.

He flinched sharply. "Juliet! Don't torture me! I've had—as much as I can stand to-night."

She held out her hand to him with a gesture superbly simple. "My dear, I will marry you to-morrow if you will have me," she said.

He stood for a long second staring at her. Then she saw his face change and harden. The ascetic look that she had noticed long ago came over it like a mask.

"No!" he said. "No!"

Again he turned from her. He went away up the long room, the bare boards echoing to the tramp of his feet with a dull and hopeless sound. He came to a stand before the writing-table at the further end, and from there he spoke to her, his words brief, as it were edged with steel.

"Can you imagine how Cain felt when he said that his punishment was greater than he could bear? That's how I feel to-night. I am like Cain. Whatever I touch is cursed."

The words startled her. Again for a second she wondered if the suffering through which he had passed had affected his brain. But she felt no fear. She kept her purpose before her, clear and steadfast as a beacon shining in the dark.

"You are not like Cain," she said. "And even if you were, do you think I should love you any the less?"

He made a desperate gesture. "Would you love me if I were a murderer?" he said.

"I love you—whatever you are," she made unfaltering reply.

He turned upon her, almost like an animal at bay. "I am—a murderer, Juliet!" he said, a terrible fire in his eyes.

In spite of herself she flinched, so awful was his look. "Dick, what do you mean?"

He flung out a hand as if to keep her from him though she had not moved. "I will tell you what I mean, and then—you will go. On the night Robin was born,—I killed his father!"

"Dick!" she said.

He went on rapidly. "I was a boy at the time, but I had a man's purpose. My mother was dying. They sent me to fetch him. I loathed the man. So did she. He was at The Three Tuns—drinking. I hung about till he came out. He was blind drunk, and the night was dark. He took the wrong path that led to the cliff, and I let him go. In the morning they found him on the rocks, dead. I might have saved him. I didn't. I went back to my mother, and stayed with her—till she died."

"Oh Dick—my dear!" she said.

He stood stiffly facing her. "I never repented. I'd do the same again now—or worse, to such a man as that. He was a brute beast. But—I suppose God doesn't allow these things. Anyway, I've been punished—pretty heavily. I got fond of the boy. He was the only thing left to care for. He took the place of everything else. And now—because of a damnable lie—" Something seemed to rise in his throat, he paused, struggling with himself, finally went on jerkily, with difficulty. "One more thing—you'd better know. It'll help you to—forget me. The man I killed was not my own father—except in name. My mother refused to marry the man she loved because she thought it would injure his career—his people threatened to disown him. She gave herself instead to—the scoundrel whose name I bear—just to set him free."

Again he stopped. Juliet had moved. She was coming up the long room to him, not quickly, but with purpose. He stood, still facing her, his breathing short and hard.

Quietly, with that regal bearing that was so supremely her own, she drew near. And her eyes were shining with a light that made her beautiful. She reached him and stood before him.

"Dick," she said, "I am not like your mother. I've been fighting against it, but it's too strong for me. I have got to marry—the man I love."

He made an impotent gesture, and she saw that he was trembling.

She stood a moment, then reached out, took his arms, and drew them gently round her. "Are you still trying to send me away?" she said. "Because—it's stronger than both of us, Dick—and I'm not going—I'm not going!"

He looked into the shining, steadfast eyes, and suddenly the desperate strain was over. His resistance snapped. "God forgive me!" he said under his breath, and caught her passionately close.

There was that in his hold—perhaps because of the fulness of her surrender—that had never been before,—something flaming, something fiercely electric, in his swift acceptance of her. As he clasped her, she felt the wild throbbing of his heart like the pulsing force of a racing engine. He kissed her, and in his kiss there was more than the lover's adoration. It held the demand and mastery of matehood. By it he claimed and sealed her for his own.

When his hold relaxed, she made no effort to withdraw herself. She leaned against him gasping a little, but her eyes—with the glory yet shining in them—were still raised to his.

"So that's settled, is it?" she said, with a quivering smile. "You are quite sure, Dick?"

His hands were clasped behind her. His look had a certain burning quality as if he challenged all the world for her possession.

"What am I to say to you, Juliet?" he said, his words low, deeply vibrant. "I can't deny—my other self—can I?"

"I don't know," she said. "You were very near it, weren't you? I thought you had—all these weeks."

"Ah!" His brows contracted. "Will you forgive me, Juliet? I've had—an infernal time."

"Yes. I know," she said gently.

"No, dear, you don't know. How could you? Your life hasn't been one perpetual struggle against overwhelming odds like mine." He paused. "Look here, darling! I'm rather a fool to-night. I can't explain things. But you've been very wonderful to me. You've lighted a torch in the dark. I kept away because—it didn't seem fair to you to do anything else. You were back in your own inner circle, and I was miles outside. And you never wanted to be bound. When I saw you with—Lord Saltash—I knew why."

"My dear!" she said. "You didn't imagine I was in love with Saltash surely!"

"No—no!" he said. "I knew you weren't. And yet—somehow—I felt you were nearer to his world than mine. I realized it more and more as the days went on. And my boy was ill—I couldn't leave him. Juliet—" a hint of entreaty crept into his voice—"I can't explain. But somehow here on my own ground it's—different. I feel you belong to me here. I know I can win and hold you. But there—there—you are—leagues and leagues above me—far out of reach."

"Oh, Dick!" she said. "I thought you had more sense! Don't you realize—yet—that your world is the world I want to be in? I want to forget that other world—just to blot it out of my life—if only you will make that possible."

"If I will!" he said, with a deep breath. And then suddenly he took her face between his hands, looking closely into her eyes. "Don't you care about—all the horrible things I've told you?" he said. "Does it make no difference at all to you?"

She was still smiling—a tremendous smile. "It doesn't seem much like it, does it?" she said. "I'm not such a saint myself, Dick. Moreover, I knew about—some things—before I came."

"What things?" he said.

She made a very winning gesture towards him. "Don't think me a Paul Pry, dear! But I couldn't help knowing—ages ago—what made the squire—so fond of you."

"Juliet!" He gazed at her. "How on earth did you find out?"

She coloured deeply under his look. "You—are rather alike—in some ways," she said. "It was partly that and partly being—well, rather interested in you, I suppose. And Mrs. Rickett told me as much of your family history as she knew before I ever met you. So, you see, I didn't have much to fill in."

"And still it makes no difference?" he said.

She shook her head. "None whatever. I'm just glad for your sake that the man you hated so was not your father. But I think you go rather far, Dick, when you say you killed him."

The hard onyx glitter shone again in his eyes. "No, it was not an exaggeration," he said. "I was a murderer that night. I meant him to go to his death. When he was dead I was glad. He had tortured the only being I loved on earth. I believed he was my father for quite a long time after—till the squire came home, and I told him the whole story. Then—in an impulsive moment—he told me the truth. He cared about my mother's death—cared badly. They would have been married by that time if her husband hadn't turned up again. It was two lives spoilt."

"And what about yours?" she said.

"Mine!" He smiled rather bitterly. "Well, I've never expected much of life. I've stuck to my independence and been satisfied with that. He'd have bossed my destiny if I'd have let him. But I wouldn't. I was cussed on that point, though if it hadn't been for Robin, I shouldn't have bothered. I stayed on here for the boy's sake. He wouldn't have been happy anywhere else. Well," he uttered a weary sigh, "that chapter's closed."

She pressed his arm. "Dick, we might never have met but for that."

"Oh, we might have met," he said. "But—you'd probably have detested me—under any other circumstances."

She smiled at him with a touch of wistfulness. "And you me, Dick. Neither of us would have looked below the surface if we'd met in the general hurly-burly. We shouldn't have had time. So we have a good deal to be thankful for, haven't we?"

He drew her to him again. The desperate misery had passed from his face, but he looked worn out. "What on earth should I do without you?" he said.

"I don't know, dear," she answered tenderly. "I hope you are not going to try any longer, are you?"

His lips were near her own. "Juliet, will you stay—within reach—till after the funeral?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"And then—then—will you—marry me?" His whisper was even lower than hers. The man's whole being pulsed in the words.

Her arms went round his neck. "I will, dearest."

His breath came quickly. "And if—if—later—you come upon some things that hurt you—things you don't understand—will you remember how I've been handicapped—and—forgive me?"

Her eyes looked straight up to his. They held a shadowy smile. "Dick,—I was just going—to say that—to you!"

He pressed her to his heart. "Ah, my Juliet!" he said. "Could anything matter to us—anything on earth—except our love?"

In the deep silence her lips answered his. There was no further need for words.



PART IV



CHAPTER I

THE FREE GIFT

"I'm not quite sure that I call this fair play," said Saltash with a comical twist of the eyebrows. "I didn't expect all these developments in so short a time."

"There are no further rules to this game," said Juliet, squeezing Columbus around his sturdy shoulders as he sat on the bench beside her. "Whoever wins—or loses—no one has any right to complain."

She spoke without agitation, but her face was flushed, and there was something about the clasp of her arm that made Columbus look up with earnest affection.

"If that's so," said Saltash, "I can withdraw my protection without compunction."

She smiled. "No doubt you can, most puissant Rex! But it really wouldn't answer your purpose. You've nothing to gain by treachery to a friend, and it would give you a horrid taste afterwards."

He made a face at her. "That's your point of view. And what am I to say when I meet Muff and all the rest of the clan again?"

She gave a slight shrug. "Do you think it matters? They are much too busy chasing after their own affairs to give me a second thought. If I were Lady Jo, they might be interested—for half-an-hour—not a minute longer."

Saltash made a mocking sound. "I know one person whose interest would last a bit longer than that—if you were Lady Jo."

"Indeed?" said Juliet.

"Yes—indeed, ma Juliette! I met him the other day at the Club before I went North, and it may interest you to know that he is determined to find her—and marry her—or perish in the attempt."

"It doesn't interest me in the least," said Juliet.

"No? Hard-hearted as ever!" Saltash's grin was one of sheer mischief. "Well, he seemed to share the popular belief that I know where the elusive Lady Jo is to be found. I really can't think what I've done to deserve such a reputation. I was put through a pretty stiff cross-examination, I can tell you."

"I have no doubt you were more than equal to it," said Juliet.

Saltash broke into a laugh. "It was such a skilful fencing-match that I imagine we left off much as we began. But I don't flatter myself that I am cleared of suspicion. In fact it wouldn't surprise me at all to find I was being shadowed—not for the first time in my disreputable career."

"I wonder when you will marry and turn respectable," said Juliet.

He made an appalling grimace. "Follow your pious example? May heaven forbid!"

She looked at him, faintly smiling. "Wait till the real thing comes to you, Charles Rex! You won't feel so superior then."

"Do you know how old I am?" said Saltash.

"Thirty-five," said Juliet idly.

Again his brows went up. "How on earth do you know these things off-hand?"

Her grey eyes were quizzical. "You are quite young enough yet to be happy—if only the right woman turns up."

He leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head, and contemplated her with a criticism that lasted several seconds. His dark face wore its funny, monkeyish look of regret, half-wistful and half-feigned.

"I wish—" he said suddenly—"I wish I'd come down here when you first began to rusticate."

"Why?" said Juliet, with her level eyes upon him.

He laughed and sprang abruptly to his feet. "Quien sabe? I might have turned rustic too—pious also, my Juliette! Think of it! Life isn't fair to me. Why am I condemned always to ride the desert alone?"

"Mainly because you ride too hard," said Juliet. "None but you can keep up the pace. Ah!" She turned her head quickly, and the swift colour flooded her face.

"Ah!" mocked Saltash softly, watching her. "Is it Romeo's step that I hear?"

Columbus wagged his tail in welcome as Dick Green came round the corner of the Ricketts' cottage and walked down under the apple-trees to join them. He greeted Saltash with the quiet self-assurance of a man who treads his own ground. There was no hint of hostility in his bearing.

"I've been expecting you," he said coolly.

"Have you?" said Saltash, a gleam of malicious humour in his eyes. "I thought there was something of the conquering hero about you. I have come—naturally—to congratulate you on your conquest."

"Thank you," said Dick, and seated himself on the bench beside Juliet and Columbus. "That is very magnanimous of you."

"It is," agreed Saltash. "But if I had known what was in the wind I might have carried it still further and offered you Burchester Castle for the honeymoon."

"How kind of you!" said Juliet. "But we prefer cottages to castles, don't we, Dick? We might have had the Court. The squire very kindly suggested it. But we like this best—till our own house is in order."

"Still rusticating!" commented Saltash. "I should have thought your passion for that would have been satisfied by this time. I seem to have got out of touch with you all during my stay in Scotland. I never meant to go there this year, but I got lured away by Muff and his crowd. Mighty poor sport on the whole. I've often wished myself back. But I pictured you far away on the Night Moth with Mr. and Mrs. Fielding, and myself bored to extinction in my empty castle. And so I hung on. I certainly never expected you to get married in my absence, ma Juliette. That was the unkindest cut of all. Why didn't you write and tell me?"

"I didn't even know where you were," said Juliet. "You disappeared without warning. We expected you back at any time."

"Bad excuses every one of 'em!" said Saltash. "You know you wanted to get it over before I came back. Very rash of you both, but it's your funeral, not mine. Is this all the honeymoon you're going to have?"

Juliet laughed a little. "Well, my dear Rex, it doesn't much matter where you are so long as you are happy. We spend a good deal of our time on the sea and in it. We also go motoring in the squire's little car. And we superintend the decorating of our house. At the same time Dick is within reach of the miners who are being rather tiresome, so every one—except the miners—is satisfied."

"Oh, those infernal miners!" said Saltash, and looked at Dick. "How long do you think you are going to keep them in hand?"

"I can't say," said Dick somewhat briefly. "I don't advise Lord Wilchester or any of his people to come down here till something has been done to settle them."

Saltash laughed. "Oh, Muff won't come near. You needn't be afraid of that. He's deer-stalking in the Highlands. He's a great believer in leaving things to settle themselves."

"Is he?" said Dick grimly. "Well, they may do that in a fashion he won't care for before he's much older."

"Are you organizing a strike?" suggested Saltash, a wicked gleam of humour in his eyes.

Dick's eyes flashed in answer. "I am not!" he said. "But—I'm damned if they haven't some reason for striking—if he cares as little as that!"

"How often do you tell 'em so?" said Saltash.

Juliet's hand slipped quietly from Columbus's head to Dick's arm. "May I have a cigarette, please?" she said.

He turned to her immediately and his fire died down. He offered her his cigarette-case in silence.

Juliet took one, faintly smiling. "Do you know," she said to Saltash, "it was Dick's cigarettes that first attracted me to him? When I landed on this desert island, I had only three left. He came to the rescue—most nobly, and has kept me supplied ever since. I don't know where he gets them from, but they are the best I ever tasted."

"He probably smuggles 'em," said Saltash, offering her a match.

"No, I don't," said Dick, rather shortly. "I get them from a man in town. A fellow I once met—Ivor Yardley, the K. C.—first introduced me to them. I get them through his secretary who has some sort of interest in the trade."

A sudden silence fell. Juliet's cigarette remained poised in the act of kindling, but no smoke came from her lips. She had the look of one who listens with almost painful intentness.

The flame of the lighted match licked Saltash's fingers, and he dropped it. "Pardon my clumsiness! Let's try again! So you know Yardley, do you?" He flung the words at Dick. "Quite the coming man in his profession. Rather a brute in some ways, cold-blooded as a fish and wily as a serpent, but interesting—distinctly interesting. When did you meet him?"

"Early this year. I consulted him on a matter of business. I have no private acquaintance with him." Dick was looking straight at Saltash with a certain hardness of contempt in his face. "You evidently are on terms of intimacy with him."

"Oh, quite!" said Saltash readily. "He knows me—almost as well as you do. And I know him—even better. I was saying to Juliette just now that I believe he shares the general impression that I have got Lady Jo Farringmore somewhere up my sleeve. She did the rabbit trick, you know, a week or two before the wedding, and because I was to have been the best man I somehow got the blame. Wonder if he'd have blamed you if you'd been there!"

Dick stiffened. "I think not," he said.

"Not disreputable enough?" laughed Saltash.

"Not nearly," said Juliet, coming out of her silence. "Dick has rather strong opinions on this subject, Charles, so please don't be flippant about it! Will you give me another match?"

He held one for her, his eyebrows cocked at a comical angle, open derision in the odd eyes beneath them. Then, her cigarette kindled, he sprang up in his abrupt fashion.

"I'm going. Thanks for putting up with me for so long. I had to come and see you, Juliette. You are one of the very few capable of appreciating me at my full value."

"I hope you will come again," she said.

He bowed low over her hand. "If I can ever serve you in any way," he said, "I hope you will give me the privilege. Farewell, most estimable Romeo! You may yet live to greet me as a friend."

He was gone with the words with the suddenness of a monkey swinging off a bough, leaving behind him a silence so marked that the fall of an unripe apple from the tree immediately above them caused Columbus to start and jump from his perch to investigate.

Then Juliet, very quiet of mien and level of brow, got up and went to Dick who had risen at the departure of the visitor. She put her hand through his arm and held it closely.

"You are not to be unkind to my friends, Richard," she said. "It is the one thing I can't allow."

He looked at her with some sternness, but his free hand closed at once upon hers. "I hate to think of you on terms of intimacy with that bounder," he said.

She smiled a little. "I know you do. But you are prejudiced. I can't give up an old friend—even for you, Dick."

He squeezed her hand. "Have you got many friends like that, Juliet?"

She flushed. "No. He is the only one I have, and—"

"And?" he said, as she stopped.

She laid her cheek with a very loving gesture against his shoulder. "Ah, don't throw stones!" she pleaded gently. "There are so few of us without sin."

His arm was about her in a moment, all his hardness vanished. "My own girl!" he said.

She held his hand in both her own. "Do you know—sometimes—I lie awake at night and wonder—and wonder—whether you would have thought of me—if you had known me in the old days?"

"Is that it?" he said very tenderly. "And you thought I was sleeping like a hog and didn't know?"

She laughed rather tremulously, her face turned from him. "It isn't always possible to bury the past, is it, however hard we try? I hope you'll make allowances for that, Dick, if ever I shock your sense of propriety."

"I shall make allowances," he said, "because you are the one and only woman I worship—or have ever worshipped—and I can't see you in any other light."

"How dear of you, Dicky!" she murmured. "And how rash!"

"Am I such an unutterable prig?" he said. "I feel myself that I have got extra fastidious since knowing you."

She laughed at that, and after a moment turned with impulsive sweetness and put her cigarette between his lips. "You're not a prig, darling. You are just an honourable and upright gentleman whom I am very proud to belong to and with whom I always feel I have got to be on my best behaviour. What have you been doing all this time? I should have come to look for you if Saltash hadn't turned up."

Dick's brows were slightly drawn. "I've been talking to Jack," he said.

"Jack!" She opened her eyes. "Dick! I hope you haven't been quarrelling!"

He smiled at her anxious face, though somewhat grimly. "My dear, I don't quarrel with people like Jack. I came upon him at the school. I don't know why he was hanging round there. He certainly didn't mean me to catch him. But as I did so, I took the opportunity for a straight talk—with the result that he leaves this place to-morrow—for good."

"My dear Dick! What will the squire say?"

"I can manage the squire," said Dick briefly.

She smiled and passed on. "And Jack? What will he do?"

"I don't know and I don't care. He's the sort of animal to land on his feet whichever way he falls. Anyhow, he's going, and I never want to speak or hear of him again." Dick's thin lips came together in a hard, compelling line.

"Are you never going to forgive him?" said Juliet.

His eyes had a stony glitter. "It's hardly a matter for forgiveness," he said. "When anyone has done you an irreparable injury the only thing left is to try and forget it and the person responsible for it as quickly as possible. I don't thirst for his blood or anything of that kind. I simply want to be rid of him—and to wipe all memory of him out of my life."

"Do you always want to do that with the people who injure you?" said Juliet.

He looked at her, caught by something in her tone. "Yes, I think so. Why?"

"Oh, never mind why!" she said, with a faint laugh that sounded oddly passionate. "I just want to find out what sort of man you are, that's all."

She would have turned away from him with the words, but he held her with a certain dominance. "No, Juliet! Wait! Tell me—isn't it reasonable to want to get free of anyone who wrongs you—to shake him off, kick him off if necessary,—anyway, to have done with him?"

"I haven't said it was unreasonable," she said, but she was trembling as she spoke and her face was averted.

"Look at me!" he said. "What? Am I such a monster as all that? Juliet,—my dear, don't be silly! What are you afraid of? Surely not of me!"

She turned her face to him with a quivering smile. "No! I won't be silly, Dick," she said. "I'll try to take you as I find you and—make the best of you. But, to be quite honest, I am rather afraid of the hard side of you. It is so very uncompromising. If I ever come up against it—I believe I shall run away!"

"Not you!" he said, trying to look into the soft, down-cast eyes. "Or if you do you'll come back again by the next train to see how I am bearing up. I've got you, Juliet!" He lifted her hand, displaying it exultantly, closely clasped in his. "And what I have—I hold!"

"How clever of you!" said Juliet, and with a swift lithe movement freed herself.

His arms went round her in a flash. "I'll make you pay for that!" he vowed. "How dare you, Juliet? How dare you?"

She resisted him for a second, or two, holding him from her, half-mocking, half in earnest. Then, as his hold tightened, encompassing her, she submitted with a low laugh, yielding herself afresh to him under the old apple-tree, in full and throbbing surrender to his love.

But when at last his hold relaxed, when he had made her pay, she took his hand and pressed a deep, deep kiss into his palm. "That is—a free gift, Dicky," she said. "And it is worth more than all the having and holding in the world."



CHAPTER II

FRIENDSHIP

It was on a misty evening of autumn that Vera Fielding entered her husband's house once more like a bride returning from her wedding-trip. There was something of the petted air of a bride about her as she came in on the squire's arm throwing her greetings right and left to the assembled servants, and certainly there was in her eyes more of the shining happiness of a bride than they had ever held before. Her face was flushed with a pretty eagerness, and the petulant lines about her mouth were far less apparent than of old. Her laugh had a gay spontaneous ring, and though her voice still had a slightly arrogant inflection it was not without softer notes when she addressed the squire.

"I feel as if we had been away for years and years," she said to him, as they stood together before the blazing fire in the drawing-room. "Isn't it strange, Edward? Only three months in reality, and such a difference!"

He was lifting the heavy coat from her shoulders, but she turned with it impulsively and caught him round the neck.

"My dear!" he said, and clasped her coat and all.

"It is going to last, isn't it?" she said, her breath coming quickly. "You promised—you promised—to love me just as much if I got well!"

He kissed her with reassuring tenderness. "Yes, my girl, yes! It's going to last all right. We're going to make a happy home of it, you and I."

She clung to him for a few seconds, then broke away with a little laugh. "You'll have to hunt this winter, Edward. You're getting stout."

"And shoot too," said the squire. "There promises to be plenty of birds. We'd better have a party if you feel up to it."

She looked at him with kindling eyes. "I'm up to anything. I should love it. Do you think Lord Saltash would come?"

"We must certainly ask him," said, the squire. "But you're not to work too hard, mind! That's an order. Let people look after themselves!"

"I'll get Juliet to come and help me," she said. "She must have lots of spare time. By the way, they'll be here to dine in another hour. I must go and dress."

"Have some tea first!" he said. "They won't mind waiting."

She slipped her hand through his arm. "Come and have it upstairs! It really is late. We'll have a cosy time together afterwards—when they're gone."

He smiled upon her indulgently. They had grown very near to one another during their cruise in the Night Moth. To him also their home-coming held something of bridal gladness. He had never seen her so glowing with happiness before. The love that shone in her eyes whenever they met his own stirred him to the depths. He had never deemed her capable of such affection in the old days. It had changed his whole world.

They went upstairs together closely linked. They entered Vera's room from which she imperiously dismissed her maid. They sat down on the couch beside the fire.

"Do you remember that awful day when we quarrelled about Dick Green?" said Vera suddenly.

He kept her hand in his. "Don't!" he said. "Don't remind me of it!"

Her laugh had in it a thrill that was like a caress. "Wasn't I a pig, Edward? And weren't you a tyrant? I haven't seen you in one of your royal rages since. I always rather admired them, you know."

"I know you hated me," he said, "and I'm not surprised."

She made a face at him. "Silly! I didn't. I thought you the finest monster I had ever seen. So you were—quite magnificent." She put up a hand and stroked his iron-grey hair. "Well, we shan't quarrel about young Green any more," she said.

"I wonder," said the squire, not looking at her.

"I don't." She spoke with confidence. "I'm going to be tremendously nice to him—not for Juliet's sake—for yours."

"Thank you, my dear," he said, with an odd humility of utterance that came strangely from him. "I shall appreciate your kindness. As you know—I am very fond of Dick."

"You were going to tell me why once," she said.

He took her hand and held it for a moment. "I will tell you to-night," he said.

The maid came in again with a tea-tray, and they had no further intimate talk. The squire became restless and walked about the room while he drank his cup. When he had finished, he went away to his own, and Vera was left to dress.

Her maid was still putting the final touches when there came a low knock at the door. She turned sharply from her mirror.

"Is that you, Juliet? Come in! Come in!"

Quietly the door opened, and Juliet entered.

"My dear!" said Vera, and met her impulsively in the middle of the room.

"I had to come up," Juliet said. "I hope you don't mind, but neither Dick nor I can manage to feel like ordinary guests in this house."

She was smiling as she spoke. The white scarf was thrown back from her hair. The gracious womanliness of her struck Vera afresh with its charm.

She held her and looked at her. "My dear Juliet, it does me good to see you. How is Dick? And how is Columbus?"

"They are both downstairs," Juliet said, "and one is working too hard and the other not hard enough. I had to bring dear Christopher. You don't mind?"

"Of course not, my dear. I would have sent him a special invitation if I had thought. Come and take off your coat! We got in rather late or I should have been downstairs to receive you."

"Tell me how you are!" Juliet said. "I don't believe I have ever seen you looking so well."

"I haven't felt so well for years," Vera declared. "But I have promised Edward all the same to go up to town and see his pet doctor and make sure that the cure is complete. Personally I am quite sure. But Edward is such a dear old fusser. He won't be satisfied with appearances."

She laughed on an indulgent note, and Juliet smiled in sympathy.

"Well, you've given him good cause for that, haven't you? And you enjoyed the cruise? I am so glad you had good weather."

"It was gorgeous," said Vera. "I must write and tell Lord Saltash. He has given me the time of my life. Have you seen anything of him by the way?"

"Only once," said Juliet. "He came over to congratulate us. But that is some time ago. He may be at the other end of the world by this time."

"No, I think not," Vera said. "I believe he is in England. Was he—at all upset by your marriage, Juliet?"

Juliet laughed a little. "Oh, not in the least. He keeps his heart in a very air-tight compartment I assure you. I have never had the faintest glimpse of it."

"But you are fond of him," said Vera shrewdly.

"Oh yes, quite fond of him," Juliet's eyes had a kindly softness. "I have never yet met the woman who wasn't fond of Charles Rex," she said.

"Does—your husband like him?" asked Vera.

Juliet shook her head quizzically. "No. Husbands don't as a rule."

"Something of a poacher?" questioned Vera.

"Oh, not really. Not since he grew up. I believe he was very giddy in his youth, and then a girl he really cared for disappointed him. So the story runs. I can't vouch for the truth of it, or even whether he ever seriously cared for her. But he has certainly never been in earnest since."

"What about Lady Joanna Farringmore?" said Vera suddenly.

Juliet was standing before the fire. She bent slightly, the warm glow softly tinging her white neck. "I should have thought that old fable might have died a natural death by this time," she said.

Vera gave her a sharp look. There was not actual distaste in Juliet's tone, yet in some fashion it conveyed the impression that the subject was one which she had no desire to discuss.

Vera abandoned it forthwith. "Suppose we go downstairs," she said.

They went down to find Dick and Columbus patiently waiting in the hall. Vera's greeting was brief but not lacking in warmth. The thought of Juliet married to the schoolmaster had ceased to provoke her indignation. She even admitted to herself that in different surroundings Dick might have proved himself to possess a certain attraction. She believed he was clever in an intellectual sense, and she believed it was by this quality that he had captivated Juliet. The fiery force of the man, his almost fierce enthusiasms, she had never even seen.

But she was immediately aware of a subtle and secret link between the two as they all met together in the genial glow of the fire. Dick's eyes that flashed for a second to Juliet and instantly left her, told her very clearly that no words were needed to establish communion between them. They were in close sympathy.

She gave Dick a warmer welcome than she had ever extended to him before, and found in the instant response of his smile some reason for wonder at her previous dislike. Perhaps contact with Juliet had helped to banish the satire to which in the old days she had so strongly objected. Or perhaps—but this possibility did not occur to her—he sensed a cordiality in the atmosphere which had never been present before.

When the squire came down they were all chatting amicably round the fire, and he smiled swift approval upon his wife ere he turned to greet his guests.

"Hullo, Dick!" he said, as their hands met. "Still running the same old show?"

"For the present, sir," said Dick.

They had not met since the occasion of Dick's and Juliet's marriage when the squire had come over immediately before the sailing of the Night Moth to be present, and to give her away. He had been very kind to them both during the brief hour that he had spent with them, and the memory of it still lingered warmly in Juliet's heart. She had grown very fond of the squire.

There were no awkward moments during that dinner which was more like a family gathering than Juliet had thought possible. The change in Vera amazed her. She was like a traveller who after long and weary journeying in shady places had come suddenly into bright sunshine. And she was younger, more ardent, more alive, than Juliet had ever seen her.

The same change was visible, though not so noticeable, in the squire. He too had come into the sun, but he trod more warily as one who—though content with the present—was by no means certain that the fair weather would last. His manner to his wife displayed a charming blend of tenderness and self-restraint; yet in some fashion he held his own with her, and once, meeting Juliet's eyes, he smiled in a way that reminded her of the day on which she had dared to give him advice as to the best means of securing happiness.

Dick was apparently in good spirits that night, and he was plainly at his ease. Having taken his cue from his hostess, he devoted himself in a large measure to her entertainment, and all went smoothly between them. When she and Juliet left the table she gave him a smiling invitation to come and play to them.

"I haven't brought the old banjo," he said, "but I'll make my wife sing. She is going to help me this winter at the Club concerts."

"Brave Juliet!" said Vera, as she went out. "I wouldn't face that crowd of roughs for a king's ransom."

"She has nothing to be afraid of," said Dick with quick confidence. "I wouldn't let her do it if there were any danger."

"They seem to be in an ugly mood just now," said the squire.

"Yes, I know." Dick turned back to him, closing the door. "But, taken the right way, they are still manageable. There is just a chance that we may keep them in hand if that fellow Ivor Yardley can be induced to see reason. The rest of the Wilchester crew don't care a damn, but he has more brains. I'm counting on him."

"How are you going to get hold of him?" questioned Fielding.

"I suppose I must go up to town some week-end. I haven't told Juliet yet. Unlike the average woman, she seems to have a holy hatred of London and all its ways. So I presume she will stay behind."

"Perhaps we could get him down here," suggested the squire.

Dick gave him a swift look. "I've thought of that," he said.

"Well?" said Fielding.

Dick hesitated for a moment. "I'm not sure that I want him," he said. "He and Saltash are friends for one thing. And there are besides—various reasons."

"You don't like Saltash?" said the squire.

Dick laughed a little. "I don't hate him—though I feel as if I ought to. He's a queer fish. I don't trust him."

"You're jealous!" said Fielding.

Dick nodded. "Very likely. He has an uncanny attraction for women. I wanted to kick him the last time we met."

"And what did Juliet say?"

"Oh, Juliet read me a lecture and told me I wasn't to. But I think the less we see of each other the better—if I am to keep on my best behaviour, that is."

"It's a good thing someone can manage you," remarked Fielding. "Juliet is a wonderful peacemaker. But even she couldn't keep you from coming to loggerheads with Jack apparently. What was that fight about?"

Dirk's brows contracted. "It wasn't a fight, sir," he said shortly. "I've never fought Jack in my life. He did an infernal thing, and I made him quit, that's all."

"What did he do?" asked the squire. Then as Dick made a gesture of refusal: "Damn it, man, he was in my employment anyway! I've a right to know why he cleared out."

Dick pushed back his chair abruptly and rose. He turned his back on the squire while he poked the blazing logs with his foot. Then: "Yes, you've a perfect right to know," he said, speaking jerkily, his head bent. "And of course I always meant to tell you. It won't appeal to you in the least. But Juliet understands—at least in part. He was responsible for—my boy's death. That's why I made him go."

It was the first time that he had voluntarily spoken of Robin since the day that he and Juliet had followed him to his grave. He brought out the words now with tremendous effort, and having spoken he ceased to kick at the fire and became absolutely still.

The squire sat at the table, staring at him. For some seconds the silence continued, then irritably he broke it.

"Well? Go on, man! That isn't the whole of the story. What do you mean by—responsible? He didn't shove him over the cliff, I suppose?"

"No," Dick said. "He didn't do that. I almost wish he had. It would have been somehow—more endurable."

Again he became silent, and suddenly to the squire sitting frowning at the table there came a flash of intuition that told him he could not continue. He got up sharply, went to Dick, still frowning, and laid an impulsive arm across his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, my lad," he said.

Dick made a slight movement as if the caress were not wholly welcome, but after a moment he reached up and grasped the squire's hand.

"It hit me pretty hard," he said in a low voice, not lifting his hand. "Juliet just made it bearable. I shall get over it, of course. But—I never want to see Jack again."

Again for a space he stopped, then with a sudden fierce impatience jerked on.

"You may remember saying to me once—no; a hundred times over—that I should never get anywhere so long as I kept my boy with me—never find success—or happiness—never marry—all that sort of rot. It was rot. I always knew it was. I've proved it. She would have come to me in any case. And as for success—it doesn't depend on things of that sort. I've proved that too. But he—Jack—got hold of the same infernal parrot-cry. Oh, I'm sorry, sir," he glanced upwards for a second with working lips. "I can't dress this up in polite language. Jack said to my boy Robin what you had said to me. And he—believed it—and so—made an end."

He drew his breath hard between his teeth and straightened himself, putting Fielding's arm quietly from his.

"Good God!" said Fielding. "But the boy was mad! He never was normal. You can't say—"

"Oh, no, sir." With grim bitterness Dick interrupted. "He just took the shortest way out, that's all. He wasn't mad."

"Committed suicide!" ejaculated the squire.

Dick's hands were clenched. "Do you call it that," he said, "when a man lays down his life for his friends?"

He turned away with the words as if he could endure no more, and walked to the end of the room.

Fielding stood and watched him dumbly, more moved than he cared to show. At length, as Dick remained standing before a bookcase in heavy silence, he spoke, his tone an odd mixture of peremptoriness and persuasion.

"Dick!"

Dick jerked his head without turning or speaking.

"Are you blaming me for this?" the squire asked.

Dick turned. His face was pale, his eyes fiercely bright. "You, sir! Do you think I'd have sat at your table if I did?"

"I don't know," the squire said sombrely. "You're fond of telling me I have no claim on you, but I have—for all that. There is a bond between us that you can't get away from, however hard you try. You think I can't understand your feelings in this matter, that I'm too sordid in my views to realize how hard you've been hit. You think I'm only pleased to know that you're free from your burden, at last, eh, Dick, and that your trouble doesn't count with me? Think I've never had any of my own perhaps?"

He spoke with a half-smile, but there was that in his voice that made Dick come swiftly back to him down the long room; nor did he pause when he reached him. His hand went through the squire's arm and gripped it hard.

"I'm—awfully sorry, sir," he said. "If you understand—you'll forgive me."

"I do understand, Dick," the squire said with great kindness. "I know I've been hard on you about that poor boy. I'm infernally sorry for the whole wretched business. But—as you say—you'll get over it. You've got Juliet."

"Yes, thank God!" Dick said. "I don't know how I should endure life without her. She's all I have."

The squire's face contracted a little. "No one else, Dick?" he said.

Dick glanced up. "And you, sir," he amended with a smile. "I'm afraid I'm rather apt to take you for granted. I suppose that's the bond you spoke of. I haven't—you know I haven't—the least desire to get away from it."

"Thank you," Fielding said, and stifled a sigh. "Life has been pretty damnable to us both, Dick. We might have been—we ought to have been—much more to each other."

"There's no tie more enduring than friendship," said Dick quickly. "You and I are friends—always will be."

Fielding's eyes had a misty look. "The best of friends, Dick lad," he said. "But will—friendship—give me the right to offer you help without putting up your pride? I don't want to order your life for you, but you can't go on with this village domini business much longer. You were made for better things."

"Oh, that!" Dick said, and laughed. "Yes, I'm going to chuck that—but not just at once. Listen, sir! I have a reason. I'll tell you what it is, but not now, not yet. As to accepting help from you, I'd do that to-morrow if I needed it, but I don't. I've no pride left where you are concerned. You're much too good to me and I'm much too grateful. Is that quite clear?"

He gave the squire a straight and very friendly look, then wheeled round swiftly at the opening of the door.

They were standing side by side as Vera threw it impatiently wide. She stood a second on the threshold staring at them. Then: "Are you never coming in?" she said. "I thought—I thought—" she stammered suddenly and turned white. "Edward!" she said, and went back a step as if something had frightened her.

Dick instantly went forward to her. "Yes, Mrs. Fielding. We're coming now," he said. "Awfully sorry to have kept you waiting. We've had things to talk about, but we've just about done. You're coming, aren't you, sir? Take my arm, I say! You look tired."