But in spite of her vulgarity she was jealous of her. "You don't care for her any longer, Robin?"

"Now?—oh no—not for a long time—I don't think I ever did really. I can't think how I was ever such a fool."

"She still threatens Breach of Promise," said Garrett, whose mind was slowly working as to the best means of proving his practical utility. "That's the point, of course. That the letters are there and that we have got to get them back. What kind of letters were they? Did you actually give her hopes?"

Robin blushed. "Yes, I'm afraid I did—as well as I can remember, and judging by her answers. I said the usual sort of things——" He paused. It was best, he felt, to leave it vague.

But Clare had scarcely arrived at the danger of it yet—the danger to the House. Her present thought was of Robin; that she must alter her feelings about him, take him from his pedestal—a Trojan who could make love to any kind of girl!

"I can't think of it now," she said; "it's confusing. We must see what's to be done. We'll talk about it some other time. It's hard to see just at present."

Garrett looked puzzled. "It's a bit of a mess," he said. "But we'll see——" and left the room with an air of importance.

Robin turned to go, and then walked over to his aunt, and put his hand on her sleeve.

"Don't think me such a rotter," he said. "I am awfully sorry—it's about you that I care most—but I've learnt a lesson; I'll never do anything like that again."

She smiled up at him, and took his hand in hers.

"Why, old boy, no. Of course I was a little surprised. But I don't mind very much if you care for me in the same way. That's all I have, Robin—your caring; and I don't think it matters very much what you do, if I still have that."

"Of course you have," he said, and bent down and kissed her. Then he left the room.



CHAPTER IX

"I'm worse to-day," said Sir Jeremy, looking at Harry, "and I'll be off under a month."

He seemed rather pathetic—the brave look had gone from his eyes, and his face and hands were more shrivelled than ever. He gave the impression of cowering in bed as though wishing to avoid a blow. Harry was with him continually now, and the old man was never happy if his son was not there. He rambled at times and fancied himself back in his youth again. Harry had found his father's room a refuge from the family, and he sat, hour after hour, watching the old man asleep, thinking of his own succession and puzzling over the hopeless tangle that seemed to surround him. How to get out of it! He had no longer any thought of turning his back; he had gone too far for that, and they would think it cowardice, but things couldn't remain as they were. What would come out of it?

He had, as Robin had said, changed. The effect of the explosion had been to reveal in him qualities whose very existence he had formerly never expected. He even found, strangely enough, a kind of joy in the affair. It was like playing a game. He had made, he felt, the right move and was in the stronger position. In earlier days he had never been able to quarrel with any one. Whenever such a thing had happened, he had been the first to make overtures; he hated the idea of an enemy, his happiness depended on his friends, and sometimes now, when he saw his own people's hostility, he was near surrender. But the memory of his sister's words had held him firm, and now he was beginning to feel in tune with the situation.

He watched Robin furtively at times and wondered how he was taking it all. Sometimes he fancied that he caught glances that pointed to Robin's own desire to see how he was taking it. Once they had passed on the stairs, and for a moment they had both paused as though they would speak. It had been all Harry could do to restrain himself from flinging his arms on to his son's shoulders and shaking him for a fool and then forcing him into surrender, but he had held himself back, and they had passed on without a word.

After all, what children they all were! That's what it came to—children playing a game that they did not understand!

"I wish it would end," said Sir Jeremy; "I'm getting damned sick of it. Why can't he take you out straight away, and be done with it? Do you know, Harry, my boy, I think I'm frightened. It's lying here thinking of it. I never had much imagination—it isn't a Trojan habit, but it grows on one. I fancy—well, what's the use o' talking?" and he sank back into his pillows again.

The room was dark save for the leaping light of the fire. It was almost time to dress for dinner, but Harry sat there, forgetting time and place in the unchanging question, How would it all work out?

"By Gad, it's Tom! Hullo, old man, I was just thinking of you. Comin' round to Horrocks' to-night for a game? Supper at Galiani's—but it's damned cold. I don't know where that sun's got to. I've been wandering up and down the street all day and I can't find the place. I've forgotten the number—I can't remember whether it was 23 or 33, and I keep getting into that passage. There I am again! Bring a light, old man—it's so dark. What's that? Who's there? Can't you answer? Darn you, come out, you——" He sat up in bed, quivering all over. Harry put his hand on his arm.

"It's all right, father," he said. "No one's here—only myself."

"Ugh! I was dreaming—" he answered, lying down again. "Let's have some light—not that electric glare. Candles!"

Harry was sitting in the corner by the bed away from the fire. He was about to rise and move the candles into a clump on the mantelpiece when there was a tap on the door and some one came in. It was Robin.

"Grandfather, are you awake? Aunt Clare told me to look in on my way up to dress and see if you wanted anything?"

The firelight was on his face. He looked very young as he stood there by the bed. His face was flushed in the light of the fire. Harry's heart beat furiously, but he made no movement and said no word.

Robin bent over the bed to catch his grandfather's answer, and he saw his father.

"I beg your pardon." he stammered. "I didn't know——" He waited for a moment as though he were going to say something, or expected his father to speak. Then he turned and left the room.

"Let's have the candles," said Sir Jeremy, as though he had not noticed the interruption, and Harry lit them.

The old man sank off to sleep again, and Harry fell back into his own gloomy thoughts once more. They were always meeting like that, and on each occasion there was need for the same severe self-control. He had to remind himself continually of their treatment of him, of Robin's coldness and reserve. At times he cursed himself for a fool, and then again it seemed the only way out of the labyrinth.

His love for his son had changed its character. He had no longer that desire for equality of which he had made, at first, so much. No, the two generations could never see in line; he must not expect that. But he thought of Robin as a boy—as a boy who had made blunders and would make others again, and would at last turn to his father as the only person who could help him. He had fancied once or twice that he had already begun to turn.

Well, he would be there if Robin wanted him. He had decided to speak to Mary about it. Her clear common-sense point of view seemed to drive, like the sun, through the mists of his obscurity; she always saw straight through things—never round them—and her practical mind arrived at a quicker solution than was possible for his rather romantic, quixotic sentiment.

"You are too fond of discerning pleasant motives," she had once said to him. "I daresay they are all right, but it takes such a time to see them."

He had not seen her since the outbreak, and he was rather anxious as to her opinion; but the main thing was to be with her. Since last Sunday he had been, he confessed to himself, absurd. He had behaved more in the manner of a boy of nineteen than a middle-aged widower of forty-five. He had been suddenly afraid of the Bethels—going to tea had seemed such an obvious advance on his part that he had shrunk from it, and he had even avoided Bethel lest that gentleman should imagine that he was on the edge of a proposal for his daughter's hand. He thought that all the world must know of it, and he blushed like a girl at the thought of its being laid bare for Pendragon to laugh and gibe it. It was so precious, so wonderful, that he kept it, like a rich piece of jewellery, deep in a secret drawer, over which he watched delightedly, almost humorously, secure in the delicious knowledge that he alone had the key. He wandered out at night, like a foolish schoolboy, to watch the lamp in her room—that dull circle of golden light against the blind seemed to draw him with it into the intimacy and security of her room.

On one of his solitary afternoon walks he suddenly came upon her. He had gone, as he so often did, over the moor to the Four Stones; he chose that place partly because of the Stones themselves and partly because of the wonderful view. It seemed to him that the whole heart of Cornwall—its mystery, its eternal sameness, its rejection of everything that was modern and ephemeral, the pathos of old deserted altars and past gods searching for their old-time worshippers—was centred there.

The Stones themselves stood on the hill, against the sky, gaunt, grey, menacing, a landmark for all the country-side. The moor ran here into a valley between two lines of hill, a cup bounded on three sides by the hills and on the fourth by the sea. In the spring it flamed, a bowl of fire, with the gorse; now it stood grim and naked to all the winds, blue in the distant hills, a deep red to the right, where the plough had been, brown and grey on the moor itself running down to the sea.

It was full of deserted things, as is ever the way with the true Cornwall. On the hill were the Stones sharp against the sky-line; lower down, in a bend of the valley, stood the ruins of a mine, the shaft and chimney, desolately solitary, looking like the pillars of some ancient temple that had been fashioned by uncouth worshippers. In the valley itself stood the stones of what was once a chapel—built, perhaps, for the men of the desolate mine, inhabited now by rabbits and birds, its windows spaces where the winds that swept the moor could play their eternal, restless games.

On a day of clouds there was no colour on the moor, but when the sun was out great bands of light swept its surface, playing on the Stones and changing them to marble, striking colour from the mine and filling the chapel with gold. But the sun did not reach that valley on many days when the rest of the world was alight—it was as if it respected the loneliness of its monuments and the pathos of them.

Harry sat on the side of the hill, below the Stones, and watched the sea. At times a mist came and hid it; on sunny days, when the sky was intensely blue, there hung a dazzling haze like a golden veil and he could only tell that the sea was there by the sudden gleam of tiny white horses, flashing for a moment on the mirror of blue and shining through the haze; sometimes a gull swerved through the air above his head as though a wave had lost its bounds and, for sheer joy of the beautiful day, had flung itself tossing and wheeling into the air.

But to-day was a day of wind and rapidly sailing clouds, and myriads of white horses curved and tossed and vanished over the shifting colours of the sea; there were wonderful shadows of dark blue and purple and green of such depth that they seemed unfathomable.

Suddenly he saw Mary coming towards him. A scarf—green like the green of the sea—was tied round her hat and under her chin and floated behind her. Her dress was blown against her body, and she walked as though she loved the battling with the wind. Her face was flushed with the struggle, and she had come up to him before she saw that he was there.

"Now, that's luck," she said, laughing, as she sat down beside him; "I've been wanting to see you ever since yesterday afternoon, but you seemed to have hidden yourself. It doesn't sound a very long time, does it? But I've something to tell you—rather important."

"What?" He looked at her and suddenly laughed. "What a splendid place for us to meet—its solitude is almost unreal."

"As to solitude," she said calmly, pointing down the valley. "There's Tracy Corridor; it will be all over the Club to-night—he's been watching us for some time"; a long thin youth, his head turned in their direction, had passed down the footpath towards its ruined chapel, and was rapidly vanishing in the direction of Pendragon.

"Well—let them," said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Not a bit," she answered lightly. "They've discussed the Bethel family so frequently and with such vigour that a little more or less makes no difference whatsoever. Pendragon taboo! we won't dishonour the sea by such a discussion in its sacred presence."

"What do you want to tell me?" he asked, watching delightedly the colour of her face, the stray curls that the wind dragged from discipline and played games with, the curve of her wrist as her hand lay idly in her lap.

"Oh, it'll keep," she said quickly. "Never mind just yet. Tell me about yourself—what's happened?"

"How did you know that anything had?" he asked.

"Oh, one can tell," she answered. "Besides, I have felt sure that it would, things couldn't go on just as they were——" she paused a moment and then added seriously, "I hope you don't mind my asking? It seems a little impertinent—but that was part of the compact, wasn't it?"

"Why, of course," he said.

"Because, you know," she went on, "it's really rather absurd. I'm only twenty-six, and you're—oh! I don't know how old!—anyhow an elderly widower with a grown-up son; but I'm every bit as old as you are, really. And I'm sure I shall give you lots of good advice, because you've no idea what a truly practical person I am. Only sometimes lately I've wondered whether you've been a little surprised at my—our flinging ourselves into your arms as we have done. It's like father—he always goes the whole way in the first minute; but it isn't, or at any rate it oughtn't to be, like me!"

"You are," he said quietly, "the best friend I have in the world. How much that means to me I will tell you one day."

"That's right," she said gaily, settling herself down with her hands folded behind her head. "Now for the situation. I'm all attention."

"Well," he answered, "the situation is simple enough—it's the next move that's puzzling me. There was, four days ago, an explosion—it was after breakfast—a family council—and I was in a minority of one. I was accused of a good many things—going down to the Cove, paying no attention to the Miss Ponsonbys, and so on. They attacked me as I thought unfairly, and I lost control—on the whole, I am sure, wisely. I wasn't very rude, but I said quite plainly that I should go my own way in the future and would be dictated to by no one. At any rate they understand that."

"And now?"

"Ah, now—well—it's as you would expect. We are quite polite but hostile. Robin and I don't speak. The new game—Father and Son; or how to cut your nearest relations with expedition and security." He laughed bitterly.

"Oh, I should like to shake him!" she cried, sitting up and flinging her arms wide, as though she were saluting the sea. "He doesn't know, he doesn't understand! Neither himself nor any one else. Oh, I will talk to him some day! But, do you know," she said, turning round to him, "it's been largely your fault from the beginning."

"Oh, I know," he answered. "If I had only seen then what I see now. But how could I? How could I tell? But I always have been that kind of man, all my days—finding out things when it's too late and wanting to mend things that are hopelessly broken. And then I have always been impulsive and enthusiastic about people. When I meet them first, I mean, I like them and credit them with all the virtues, and then, of course, there is an awakening. Oh, you don't know," he said, with a little laugh, "how enthusiastic I was when I first came back."

"Yes, I do," she answered; "that was one of the reasons I took to you."

"But it isn't right," he said, shaking his head. "I've always been like that. It's been the same with my friendships. I've rated them too highly. I've expected everything and then cried like a child because I've been disappointed. I can see now not only the folly of it, but the weakness. It is, I suppose, a mistake, caring too much for other people, one loses one's self-respect."

"Yes," she said, staring out to sea, "it's quite true—one does. The world's too hard; it doesn't give one credit for fine feelings—it takes a short cut and thinks one a fool."

"But the worst of it is," he went on ruefully, "that I never feel any older. I have those enthusiasms and that romance in the same way now at forty-five—just as I did at nineteen. I never could bear quarrelling with anybody. I used to go and apologise even when it wasn't my fault—so that, you see, the present situation is difficult."

"Ah, but you must keep your end up," she broke in quickly. "It's the only way—don't give in. Robin is just like that. He is self-centred, all shams now, and when he sees that you are taken in by them, just as he is himself, he despises you. But when he sees you laugh at them or cut them down, then he respects you. I'm the only person, I think, that knows him really here. The others haven't grasped him at all."

"My father grows worse every day," Harry went on, as though pursuing his own train of thought. "He can't last much longer, and when he goes I shall miss him terribly. We have understood each other during this fortnight as we never did in all those early years. Sometimes I funk it utterly—following him with all of them against me."

"Why, no," she cried. "It's splendid. You are in power. They can do nothing, and Robin will come round when he sees how you face it out. Why, I expect that he's coming already. I've faced things out here all these years, and you dare to say that you can't stand a few months of it."

"What have you faced?" he asked. "Tell me exactly. I want to know all about you; you've never told me very much, and it's only fair that I should know."

"Yes," she said gravely, "it is—well, you shall!—at least a part of it. A woman always keeps a little back," she said, looking at him with a smile. "As soon as she ceases to be a puzzle she ceases to interest."

She turned and watched the sea. Then, after a moment's pause, she said:

"What do you want to know? I can only give you bits of things—when, for instance, I ran away from my nurse, aged five, was picked up by an applewoman with a green umbrella who introduced me to three old ladies with black pipes and moustaches—I was found in a coal cellar. Then we lived in Bloomsbury—a little house looking out on to a little green park—all in miniature it seems on looking back. I don't think that I was a very good child, but they didn't look after me very much. Mother was always out, and father in business. Fancy," she said, laughing, "father in business! We were happy then, I think, all of us. Then came the terrible time when father ran away."

"Ah, yes," Harry said, "he told me."

"Poor mother! it was quite dreadful; I was only eight then, and I didn't understand. But she sat up all night waiting for him. She was persuaded that he was killed, and she was very ill. You see he had never left any word as to where he was. And then he suddenly turned up again, and ate an enormous breakfast, as though nothing had happened. I don't think he realised a bit that she had worried.

"It was so like him, the naked selfishness of it and the utter unresponsibility, as of a child.

"Then I went to school—in Bloomsbury somewhere. It was a Miss Pinker, and she was interested in me. Poor thing, her school failed afterwards. I don't know quite why, but she never could manage, and I don't think parents ever paid her. I had great ideas of myself then; I thought that I would be great, an actress or a novelist, but I got rid of all that soon enough. I was happy; we had friends, and luxuries were rare enough to make them valuable. Then—we came down here—this sea, this town, this moor—Oh! how I hate them!"

Her hands were clenched and her face was white. "It isn't fair; they have taken everything from me—leisure, brain, friends. I have had to slave ever since I came here to make both ends meet. Ah! you never knew that, did you? But father has never done a stroke of work since he has been here, and mother has never been the same since that night when he ran away; so I've had it all—and it has been scrape, scrape, scrape all the time. You don't know the tyranny of butter and eggs and vegetables, the perpetual struggle to turn twice two into five, the unending worry about keeping up appearances—although, for us, it mattered precious little, people never came to see if appearances were kept.

"They called at first; I think they meant to be kind, but father was sometimes rude and never seemed to know whether he had met a person before or no. Then he was idle, they thought, and they disliked him for that. We gave some little parties, but they failed miserably, and at last people always refused. And, really, it was rather a good thing, because we hadn't got the money. I suppose I'm a bad manager; at any rate, whatever it is, things have been getting worse and worse, and one day soon there'll be an explosion, and that will be the end. We're up to our eyes in debt. I try to talk to father about it, but he waves it away with his hand. They have, neither of them, the least idea of money. You see, father doesn't need very much himself, except for buying books. He had ten pounds last week—housekeeping money to be given to me; he saw an edition of something that he wanted, and the money was gone. We've been living on cabbages ever since. That's the kind of thing that's always happening. I wanted to talk to him about things this morning, but he said that he had an important engagement. Now he's out on the moor somewhere flying his kite——"

She was leaning forward, her chin on her hand, staring out to sea.

"It takes the beans out of life, doesn't it?" she said, laughing. "You must think me rather a poor thing for complaining like this, only it does some good sometimes to get rid of it, and really at times I'm frightened when I think of the end, the disgrace. If we are proclaimed bankrupts it will kill mother. Father, of course, will soon get over it."

"I say—I'm so sorry." Harry scarcely knew what to say. She was not asking for sympathy; he saw precisely her position—that she was too proud to ask for his help, but that she must speak. No, sympathy was not what she wanted. He suddenly hated Bethel—the selfishness of it, the hopeless egotism. It was, Harry decided, the fools and not the villains who spoilt life.

"I want you to do me a favour," he said. "I want you to promise me that, before the end actually comes, if it is going to come, you will ask me to help you. I won't offer to do anything now—I will stand aside until you want me; but you won't be proud if it comes to the worst, will you? Do you promise? You see," he added, trying to laugh lightly, "we are chums."

"Yes," she answered quietly, "I promise. Here's my hand on it."

As he took her hand in his it was all he could do to hold himself back. A great wave of passion seized him, his body trembled from head to foot, and he grew very white. He was crying, "I love you, I love you, I love you," but he kept the words from his lips—he would not speak yet.

"Thank you," was all that he said, and he stood up to hide his agitation.

For a little they did not speak. They both felt that, in that moment, they had touched on things that were too sacred for speech; he seemed so strong, so splendid in her eyes, as he stood there, facing the sea, that she was suddenly afraid.

"Let us go back," she said. They turned down the crooked path towards the ruined chapel.

"What was the news that you had for me?" he asked suddenly.

"Why, of course," she answered; "I meant to have told you before." Then, more gravely, "It's about Robin——"

"About Robin?"

"Yes. I don't know really whether I ought to tell you, because, after all, it's only chatter and mother never gets stories right—she manages to twist them into the most amazing shapes."

"No. Tell me," he insisted.

"Well—there's a person whom mother knows—Mrs. Feverel. Odious to my mind, but mother sees something of her."

"A lady?"

"No—by no means; a gloomy, forbidding person who would like to get a footing here if she could, and is discontented because people won't know her. You see," she added, "we can only know the people that other people don't know. This Mrs. Feverel has a daughter—rather a pretty girl, about eighteen—I should think she might be rather nice. I am a little sorry for her—there isn't a father.

"Well—these people have, in some way, entangled Robin. I don't quite know the right side of it, but mother was having tea with Mrs. Feverel yesterday afternoon and that good woman hinted a great deal at the power that she now had over your family. For some time she was mysterious, but at last she unburdened herself.

"Apparently, Master Robin had been making advances to the girl in the summer, and now wants to back out of it. He had, I gather, written letters, and it was to these that Mrs. Feverel was referring——"

Harry drew a long breath. "I'm damned," he said.

"Oh, of course, I don't know," she went on; "you see, it may have been garbled. Mrs. Feverel is, I should think, just the person to hint suspicions for which there's no ground at all. Only it won't do if she's going to whisper to every one in Pendragon—I thought you ought to be warned——"

Harry was thinking hard. "The young fool," he said. "But it's just what I've been wanting. This is just where I can come in. I knew something has been worrying him lately. I could see it. I believe he's been in two minds as to telling me—only he's been too proud. But, of course, he will have to tell some one. A youngster like that is no match for a girl and her mother of the class these people seem to be. He will confide in his aunt—" He stopped and burst into uncontrollable laughter. "Oh! The humour of it—don't you see? They'll be terrified—it will threaten the honour of the House. They will all go running round to get the letters back; that girl will have a good time—and that, of course, is just where I come in."

"I don't see," said Mary.

"Why, it's just what I've been watching for. Harry Trojan arrives—Harry Trojan is no good—Harry Trojan is despised—but suddenly he holds the key to the situation. Presto! The family on their knees——"

Mary looked at him in astonishment. It was, she thought, unlike him to exult like this over the misfortunes of his sister; she was a little disappointed. "It is really rather serious," she said, "for your sister, I mean. You know what Pendragon is. If they once get wind of the affair there will be a great deal of talk."

"Ah, yes!" he said gravely. "You mustn't think me a brute for laughing like that. But I'm thinking of Robin. If you knew how I cared for the boy—what this means. Why, it brings him to my feet—if I carry the thing out properly." Then quickly, "You don't think they've got back the letters already?"

"They haven't had time—unless they've gone to-day. Besides, the girl's not likely to give them up easily. But, of course, I don't really know if that's how the case lies—mother's account was very confused. Only I am certain that Mrs. Feverel thinks she has a pull somewhere; and she said something about letters."

"I will go at once," Harry said, walking quickly. "I can never be grateful enough to you. Where do they live?"

"10 Seaview Terrace," she answered. "A little dingy street past the church and Breadwater Place—it faces the sea."

"And the girl—what is she like?"

"I've only seen her about twice. I should say tall, thin, dark—rather wonderful eyes in a very pale face; dresses rather well in an aesthetic kind of way."

He said very little more, and she did not interrupt his thoughts. She was surprised to find that she was a little jealous of Robin, the interest in her own affairs had been very sweet to her, the remembrance of it now sent the blood to her cheeks, but this news seemed to have driven his thought for her entirely out of his head.

Suddenly, at the bend of the little lane leading up to the town, they came upon her father, flying a huge blue kite. The kite soared above his head; he watched it, his body bent back, his arm straining at the cord. He saw them and pulled it in.

"Hullo! Trojan, how are you? You ought to do this. It's the most splendid fun—you've no idea. This wind is glorious. I shan't be home till dark, Mary——" and they left him, laughing like a boy. She gave him further directions as to the house, and they parted. She felt a little lonely as she watched him hurrying down the street. He seemed to have forgotten her completely. "Mary Bethel, you're a selfish pig," she said, as she climbed the stairs to her room. "Of course, he cares more about his son—why not?" But nevertheless she sighed, and then went down to make tea for her mother, who was tired and on the verge of tears.



CHAPTER X

As he passed through the town all his thoughts were of his splendid fortune. This was the very thing for which he had been hoping, the key to all his difficulties.

The dusk was creeping down the streets. A silver star hung over the roofs silhouetted black against the faint blue of the night sky. The lamps seemed to wage war with the departing daylight; the after-glow of the setting sun fluttered valiantly for a little, and then, yielding its place to the stronger golden circles stretching like hanging moons down the street, vanished.

The shops were closing. Worthley's Hosiery was putting up the shutters and a boy stood in the doorway, yawning; there had been a sale and the shop was tired. Midgett's Bookshop at the corner of the High Street was still open and an old man with spectacles and a flowing beard stood poring over the odd-lot box at 2d. a volume by the door.

The young man who advised ladies as to the purchase of six-shilling novels waited impatiently. He had hoped to be off by six to-night. He had an appointment at seven—and now this old man.... "We close at six, sir," he said. But the old gentleman did not hear. He bent lower and lower until his beard almost swept the pavement. Harry passed on.

All these things passed like shadows before Harry; he noticed them, but they fitted into the pattern of his thoughts, forming a frame round his great central idea—that at last he had his chance.

There was no fear in his mind that he would not get the letters. There was, of course, the chance that Clare had been before him, but then, as Mary had said, she had scarcely had time, and it was not likely that the girl would give them up easily. It was just possible, too, that the whole affair was a mistake, that Mrs. Feverel had merely boasted for the sake of impressing old Mrs. Bethel, that there was little or nothing behind it, but that was unlikely.

He had formed no definite decision as to the method of his attack; he must wait and see how the land lay. A great deal depended on the presence of the mother—the girl, too, might be so many different things; he was not even certain of her age. If there was nothing in it, he would look a fool, but he must risk that. A wild idea came into his head that he might, perhaps, find Clare there—that would be amusing. He imagined them bidding for the letters, and that brought him to the point that money would be necessary—well, he was ready to pay a good deal, for it was Robin for whom he was bidding.

He found the street without any difficulty. Its dinginess was obvious, and now, with a little wind whistling round its corners and whirling eddies of dust in the road, its three lamps at long distances down the street, the monotonous beat of the sea beyond the walls, it was depressing and sad.

It reminded him of the street in Auckland where he had heard the strange voice; it was just such another moment now—the silence bred expectancy and the sea was menacing.

"I shall get the shivers if I don't move," he said, and rang the bell.

The slatternly servant that he had expected to see answered the bell, and the tap-tap of her down-at-heels slippers sounded along the passage as she departed to see if Mrs. Feverel would see him.

He waited in the draughty hall; it was so dark that coats and hats loomed, ghostly shapes, by the farther wall. A door opened, there was sound of voices—a moment's pause, then the door closed and the maid appeared at the head of the stairs.

"The missis says you can come up," she said ungraciously.

She eyed him curiously as he passed her, and scented drama in the set of his shoulders and the twitch of his fingers.

"A military!" she concluded, and tap-tapped down again into the kitchen.

A low fire was burning in the grate and the blind napped against the window. The draught blew the everlastings on the mantelpiece together with a little dry, dusty sound like the rustle of a breeze in dried twigs.

Mrs. Feverel sat bending over the fire, and he thought as he saw her that it would need a very great fire indeed to put any warmth into her. Her black hair, parted in the middle, was bound back tightly over her head and confined by a net.

She shook hands with him solemnly, and then waited as though she expected an explanation.

Harry smiled. "I'm afraid, Mrs. Feverel," he said, "that you may think this extraordinary. I can only offer as apology your acquaintance with my son."

"Ah yes—Mr. Robert Trojan."

Her mouth closed with a snap and she waited, with her hands folded on her lap, for him to say something further.

"You knew him, I think, at Cambridge in the summer?"

"Yes, my daughter and I were there in the summer."

Harry paused. It would be harder than he expected, and where was the daughter?

"Cambridge is very pleasant in the summer?" he asked, his resolution weakening rapidly before her impassivity.

"My daughter and I found it so. But, of course, it depends——"

It depended, he reflected, on such people as his son—boys whom they could cheat at their ease. He had no doubt at all now that the mother was an adventuress of the common, melodrama type. He suspected the girl of being the same. It made things in some ways much simpler, because money would, probably, settle everything; there would be no question of fine feelings. He knew exactly how to deal with such women, he had known them in New Zealand; but he was amused as he contemplated Clare's certain failure—such a woman was entirely outside her experience.

He came to the point at once.

"My being here is easily explained. I learn, Mrs. Feverel, that my son formed an attachment for your daughter during last summer. He wrote some letters now in your daughter's possession. His family are naturally anxious that those letters should be returned. I have come to see what can be done about the matter." He paused—but she said nothing, and remained motionless by the fire.

"Perhaps," he said slowly, "you would prefer, Mrs. Feverel, to name a possible price yourself?"

Afterwards, on looking back, he felt that his expectations had been perfectly justified; she had, up to that point, given him every reason to take the line that he adopted. She had listened to the first part of his speech without remark; she must, he reflected afterwards, have known what was coming, yet she had given no sign that she heard.

And so the change in her was startling and took him utterly by surprise.

She looked up at him from her chair, and the thin ghost of a smile that crept round the corners of her mouth, faced him for a moment, and then vanished suddenly, was the strangest thing that he had ever seen.

"Don't you think, Mr. Trojan, that that is a little insulting?"

It made him feel utterly ashamed. In her own house, in her drawing-room, he had offered her money.

"I beg your pardon," he stammered.

"Yes," she answered slowly. "You had rather misconceived the situation."

Harry felt that her silences were the most eloquent that he had ever known. He began to be very frightened, and, for the first time, conceived the possibility of not securing the letters at all. The thought that his hopes might be dashed to the ground, that he might be no nearer his goal at the end of the interview than before, sharpened his wits. It was to be a deal in subtlety rather than the obvious thing that he had expected—well, he would play it to the end.

"I beg your pardon," he said again. "I have been extremely rude. I am only recently returned from abroad, and my knowledge of the whole affair is necessarily very limited. I came here with a very vague idea both as to yourself and your intentions. In drawing the conclusions that I did I have done both you and your daughter a grave injustice, for which I humbly apologise. I may say that, before coming here, I had had no interview with my son. I am, therefore, quite ignorant as regards facts."

He did not feel that his apology had done much good. He felt that she had accepted both his insult and apology quite calmly, as though she had regarded them inevitably.

"The facts," she said, looking down again at the fire, "are quite simple. My daughter and your son became acquainted at Cambridge in May last. They saw a great deal of each other during the next few months. At the end of that time they were engaged. Mr. Robert Trojan gave us to understand that he was about to acquaint his family with the fact. They corresponded continually during the summer—letters, I believe, of the kind common to young people in love. Mr. Robert Trojan spoke continually of the marriage and suggested dates. We then came down here, and, soon after our arrival, I perceived a change in your son's attitude. He came to see us very rarely, and at last ceased his visits altogether. My daughter was naturally extremely upset, and there were several rather painful interviews. He then wrote returning her letters and demanding the return of his own. This she definitely refused. Those are the facts, Mr. Trojan."

She had spoken without any emotion, and evidently expected that he should do the same.

"I have come," he said, "on behalf of my son to demand the return of those letters."

"Demand?"

"Naturally. Letters, Mrs. Feverel, of that kind are dangerous things to leave about."

"Yes?" She smiled. "Dangerous for whom? I think you forget a little, Mr. Trojan, in your anxiety for your son's welfare, my daughter's side of the question. She naturally treasures what represents to her the happiest months of her existence. You must remember that your son's conduct—shall I call it desertion?—was a terrible blow. She loved him, Mr. Trojan, with all her heart. Is it not right that he should suffer a little as well?"

"I refuse to believe," he answered sharply, "that this is all a matter of sentiment. I regret extremely that my son should have behaved in such a cowardly and dastardly manner—it has hurt and surprised me more than I can say—but, were that all, it were surely better to bury the whole affair as soon as may be. I cannot believe that you are keeping the letters with no intention of making public use of them."

"Ah," said Mrs. Feverel, "I wonder."

"Hadn't we better come to a clear understanding, Mrs. Feverel?" he asked. "We are neither of us children, and this beating about the bush serves no purpose whatever. If you refuse to return the letters, I have at least the right to ask what you mean to do with them."

"Here is my daughter," she answered, "she shall speak for herself."

He turned round at the sound of the opening door, and watched her as she came in. She was very much as he had imagined—thin and tall, walking straight from the hips, giving a little the impression that she was standing on her toes. Her eyes seemed amazingly dark in the whiteness of her face. She seemed a little older than he had expected—perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six.

She looked at him sharply as she entered and then came forward to her mother. He could see that she was agitated—her breath came quickly, and her hands folded and unfolded as though she were tearing something to pieces.

"This," said Mrs. Feverel, "is my daughter, Mr. Trojan. My dear, Mr. Henry Trojan."

She bowed and sat down opposite her mother. He thought she looked rather pathetic as she faced him; here was no adventuress, no schemer. He began to feel that his son had behaved brutally, outrageously.

Mrs. Feverel rose. "I will leave you, my dear. Mr. Trojan will tell you for what he has come."

She moved slowly from the room and Harry drew a breath of relief at her absence. There was a moment's pause. "I hope you will forgive me, Miss Feverel," he said gently. "I'm afraid that both your mother and yourself must regard this as impertinent, but, at the same time, I think you will understand."

She seemed to have regained her composure. "It is about Robin, I suppose?"

"Yes. Could you tell me exactly what the relations between you were?"

"We were engaged," she answered simply, "last summer at Cambridge. He broke off the engagement."

"Yes—but I understand that you intend to keep his letters?"

"That is quite true."

"I have come to ask you to restore them."

"I am sorry. I am afraid that it is a waste of time. I shall not go back on my word."

He could not understand what her game was—he was not sure that she had a game at all; she seemed very helpless, and, at the same time, he felt that there was strength behind her answers. He was at a loss; his experience was of no value to him at all.

"I am going to beg you to alter your decision. I am pleading with you in a matter that is of the utmost importance to me. Robin is my only son. He has behaved abominably, and you can understand that it has been rather a blow to me to return after twenty years' absence and find him engaged in such an affair. But he is very young, and—pardon me—so are you. I am an older man and my experience of the world is greater than yours; believe me when I say that you will regret persistence in your refusal most bitterly in later years. It seems to me a crisis—a crisis, perhaps, for all of us. Take an older man's word for it; there is only one possible course for you to adopt."

"Really, Mr. Trojan," she said, laughing, "you are intensely serious. Last week I thought that my heart was broken; but now—well, it takes a lot to break a heart. I am sure that you will be glad to hear that my appetite has returned. As to the letters—why, think how pleasant it will be for me to sentimentalise over them in my old age! Surely, that is sufficient motive."

She was trying to speak lightly, but her lip quivered.

"You are running a serious risk, Miss Feverel," he answered gravely. "Your intention is, I imagine, to punish Robin. I can assure you that in a few years' time he will be punished enough. He scarcely realises as yet what he has done. That knowledge will come to him later."

"Poor Robin!" she said. "Yes, he ought to feel rather a worm now; he has written me several very agitated letters. But really I cannot help it. The affair is over—done with. I regard the letters as my personal property. I cannot see that it is any one else's business at all."

"Of course it is our business," he answered seriously. "Those letters must be destroyed. I do not accuse you of any deliberate malicious intentions, but there is, as far as I can see, only one motive in your keeping them. I have not seen them, but from what I have heard I gather that they contain definite promise of marriage. Your case is a strong one."

"Yes," she laughed. "Poor Robin's enthusiasm led him to some very violent expressions of affection. But, Mr. Trojan, revenge is sweet. Every woman, I think, likes it, and I am no exception to my sex. Aren't you a little unfair in claiming all the pleasure and none of the pain?"

"No," he answered firmly. "I am not. It is as much for your own sake as for his that I am making my claim. You cannot see things in fair proportion now; you will bitterly regret the step you contemplate taking."

"Well, I am sure," she replied, "it is very good of you to think of me like that. I am deeply touched—you seem to take quite a fatherly interest." She lay back in her chair and watched him with eyes half closed.

He was beginning to believe that it was no pose after all, and his anger rose.

"Come, Miss Feverel," he said, "let's have done with playing—let us come to terms. It is a matter of vital importance that I should receive the letters. I am ready to go some lengths to obtain them. What are your terms?"

She flushed a little.

"Isn't that a little rude, Mr. Trojan?" she said. "It is of course the melodramatic attitude. It was not long ago that I saw a play in which letters figured. Pistols were fired, and the heroine wore red plush. Is that to be our style now? I am sorry that I cannot oblige you. There are no pistols, but I will tell you frankly that it is no question of terms. I refuse, under any circumstances whatever, to return the letters."

"That is your absolute decision?"

"My absolute decision."

He got up and stood, for a moment, by her chair.

"My dear," he said, "you do not know what you are doing. You are disappointed, you are insulted—you think that you will have your revenge at all costs. You do not know now, but you will discover later, that it has been no revenge at all. It will be the most regretted action of your life. You have a great chance; you are going to throw it away. I am sorry, because you are not, I think, at all that sort of girl." He paused a moment. "Well, there is no more to be said. I am sorry as much for your sake as my own. Good-bye."

He moved to the door. The disappointment was almost more than he could bear. He did not know how strong his hopes had been; and now he must return with things as they were before, with the added knowledge that his son had behaved like a cad, and that the world would soon know.

"Good-bye," he said again and turned round towards her.

She rose from her chair and tried to smile. She said something that he could not catch, and then, suddenly, to his intense astonishment, she flung herself back into her chair again, hid her face in her hands, and burst into uncontrollable tears. He stood irresolute, and then came back and waited by the fireplace. He thought it was the most desolate thing that he had ever known—the flapping of the blind against the window, the dry rustling of the leaves on the mantel-piece, only accentuated the sound of her sobbing. He let her cry and then, at last—"I am a brute," he said. "I am sorry—I will go away."

"No." She sat up and began to dry her eyes with her handkerchief. "Don't go—it was absurd of me to give way like that; I thought that I had got over all that, but one is so silly—one never can tell——"

He sat down again and waited.

"You see," she went on, "I had liked you, always, from the first moment that I saw you. You were different from the others—quite different—and after Robin had behaved—as he did—I distrusted every one. I thought they were all like that, except you. You do not know what people have done to us here. We have had no friends; they have all despised us, especially your family. And Robin said—well, lots of things that hurt. That I was not good enough and that his aunt would not like me. And then, of course, when I saw that, if I kept the letters, I could make them all unhappy—why, of course, I kept them. It was natural, wasn't it? But I didn't want to hurt you—I felt that all the time; and when I saw you here when I came in, I was afraid, because I hardly knew what to do. I thought I would show you that I wasn't weak and foolish as you thought me—the kind of girl that Robin could throw over so easily without thinking twice about it—and so I meant to hold out. There—and now, of course, you think me hateful."

He sat down by her and took her hand. "It's all rather ridiculous, isn't it?" he said. "I'm old enough to be your father, but I'm just where you are, really. We've all been learning this last fortnight—you and Robin, and I—and all learning the same thing. It's been a case," he hesitated for a word, "of calf-love, for all three of us. Don't regret Robin; he's not worth it. Why, you are worth twenty of him, and he'll know that later on. I'm afraid that sounds patronising," he added, laughing. "But I'm humble really. Never mind the letters. You shall do what you like with them and I will trust you. You are not," he repeated, "that sort of girl. Why, dash it!" he suddenly added, "Robin doesn't know what he has lost."

"Ah!" she said, blushing, "it wouldn't have done. I can see that now—but I can see so many things that I couldn't see before. I wish I had known a man like you—then I might have learnt earlier; but I had nobody, nobody at all, and I nearly made a mess of things. But it isn't too late!"

"Too late! Why, no!" he answered. "I'm only beginning now, and I'm forty-five. I, too, have learned a lot in this fortnight."

She looked at him anxiously for a moment. "They don't like you, do they? Robin and the others?"

"No," he answered; "I don't think they do."

"I know," she said quickly; "I heard from Robin, and I'm sorry. You must have had a bad time. But why, if they have been like that, do you want the letters? They have treated us both in the same way."

"Why, yes," he answered. "Only Robin is my son. That, you see, is my great affair. I care for him more than for anything in the world, and if I had the letters——"

"Why, of course," she cried, "I see—it gives you the pull. Why, how blind I've been! It's splendid!" She sprang up, and went to a small writing-desk by the window; she unlocked a drawer and returned with a small packet in her hand. "There," she said, "there they are. They are not many, are they, for such a big fuss? But I think that I meant you to have them all the time—from the first moment that I saw you. I had hoped that you would ask for them——"

He took the letters, held them in his hand for a moment, and then slipped them into his pocket.

"Thank you," he said, "I shall not forget."

"Nor I," she answered. "We are, I suppose, ships that pass in the night. We have just shared for a moment an experience, and it has changed both of us a little. But sometimes remember me, will you? Perhaps you would write?"

"Why, of course," he answered, "I shall want to know how things turn out. What will you do?"

"I don't know. We will go away from here, of course. Go back to London, I expect—and I will get some work. There are lots of things to do, and I shall be happy."

"I hope," he said, "that the real thing is just beginning for both of us."

She stood by the window looking out into the street. "It makes things different if you believe in me," she said. "It will give one courage. I had begun to think that there was no one in the world who cared."

"Be plucky," he said. "Work's the only thing. It is because we've both been idle here that we're worried. Don't think any more of Robin. He isn't good enough for you yet; he'll learn, like the rest of us; but he'll have to go through something first. You'll find a better man."

"Poor Robin," she said. "Be kind to him!"

He took her hand for a moment, smiled, and was gone. She watched him from the window.

He looked back at her and smiled again. Then he passed the corner of the street.

"So that's the end!" She turned back from the window. "Now for a beginning!"



CHAPTER XI

Garrett Trojan had considered the matter for two days and had come to no conclusion. His manner of considering anything was peculiar. He loved procrastination and coloured future events with such beautiful radiancy that, when they actually came, the shock of finding them only drab was so terrible that he avoided them altogether. He was, however, saved from any lasting pain and disappointment because he had been given, from early childhood, that splendid gift of discovering himself to be the continual hero of a continual play. It was not only that he could make no move in life at all without being its hero—that, of course, was pleasant enough; but that it was always a fresh discovery was truly the amazing thing. He was able to wake up, as it were, and discover afresh, every day of his life, what a hero he was; this was never monotonous, never wearisome. He played the game anew from day to day—and the best part of the game was not knowing that it was a game at all.

It must be admitted that he only maintained the illusion by keeping somewhat apart from his fellow-men—too frequent contact must have destroyed his dreams. But his aloofness was termed preserving his individuality, and in the well-curtained library, in carpet-slippers and a smoking-jacket, he built his own monument with infinite care before an imaginary crowd in an imaginary city of dreams.

There were times, of course, when he was a little uneasy. He had heard men titter at the Club: Clare had, occasionally, spoken plain words as to his true position in the House, and he had even, at times, doubts as to the permanent value of the book on which he was engaged. During these awful moments he gazed through the rent curtain into a valley of dead men's bones ruled by a dreary god who had no knowledge of Garrett Trojan and cared very little for the fortunes of the Trojan House.

But a diligent application to the storehouses of his memory produced testimonials dragged, for the most part, from reluctant adherents which served to prove that Garrett Trojan was a great man and the head of a great family.

He would, however, like some definite act to prove conclusively that he was head. He had, at times, the unhappy suspicion that an outsider, regarding the matter superficially, might be led to conclude that Clare held command. He found that if he interfered at all in family matters this suspicion was immediately strengthened, and so he confined himself to his room and watered diligently the somewhat stinted crop of Illusions.

Nevertheless he felt the necessity of some prominent action that would still for ever his suspicions of incompetence, and would afford him a sure foundation on which to build his palace of self-complacency and personal appreciation. During his latter years he had regarded himself as his father's probable successor. Harry had seemed a very long way off in New Zealand, and became, eventually, an improbable myth, for Garrett had that happy quality bestowed on the ostrich of sticking his head into the sand of imagination and boastfully concluding that facts were not there. Harry was a fact, but by continuously asserting that New Zealand was a long way off and that Harry would never come back, Harry's existence became a very pleasant fairy-story, like nautical tales of the sea-serpent and the Bewitching Mermaid. They might be there, and it was very pleasant to listen to stories about them, but they had no real bearing on life as he knew it.

Harry's return had, of course, shattered this bubble, and Garrett had had to yield all hopes of eventual succession. He had, on the whole, borne it very well, and had come to the conclusion that succeeding his father would have entailed the performance of many wearisome duties; but that future being denied him, it was more than ever necessary to seize some opportunity of personal distinction.

The discussion as to the destruction of the Cove had seemed to offer him every chance of attaining a prominent position. The matter had grown in importance every day. Pendragon had divided into two separate and sharply-distinguished camps, one standing valiantly by its standard of picturesque tradition and its hatred of modern noise and materialism, the other asserting loudly its love of utility and progress, derisively pointing the finger of scorn at old-world Conservatism run mad and an incredible affection for defective drainage. Garrett had flung himself heart and soul (as he said) into the latter of these parties, and, feeling that this was a chance of distinction that fortune was not likely to offer him again in the near future, appeared frequently at discussions and even on one occasion in the Town Hall spoke.

But he was surprised and disappointed; he found that he had nothing to say, the truth being that he was much more interested in Garrett than in the Cove, and that his audience had come to listen to the second of these two subjects rather than the first. He found himself shelved; he was most politely told that he was not wanted, and he retired into his carpet-slippers again after one of those terrible quarters of an hour when he peeped past the curtain and saw a miserable, naked puppet shivering in a grey world, and that puppet was Garrett Trojan.

Then suddenly a second opportunity presented itself. Robin's trouble was unexpectedly reassuring. This, he told himself, was the very thing. If he could only prove to the world that he had dealt successfully with practical matters in a practical way, he need never worry again. Let him deal with this affair promptly and resourcefully, as a man of the world and a true Trojan, and his position was assured. He must obtain the letters and at once. He spent several pleasant hours picturing the scene in which he returned the letters to Robin. He knew precisely the moment, the room, the audience that he would choose—he had decided on the words that he would speak, but he was not sure yet as to how he would obtain the letters.

He thought over it for three days and came to no conclusion. It ought not to be difficult; the girl was probably one of those common adventuresses of whom one heard so often. He had never actually met one—they did not suit carpet-slippers—but one knew how to deal with them. It was merely a matter of tact and savoir-faire.

Yes, it would be fun when he flourished the letters in the face of the family; how amazed Clare would be and how it would please Robin!—and then he suddenly awoke to the fact that time was getting on, and that he had done nothing. And, after all, there were only two possible lines of action—to write or to seek a personal interview. Of these he infinitely preferred the first. He need not leave his room, he could direct operations from his arm-chair, and he could preserve that courtesy and decorum that truly befitted a Trojan. But he had grave fears that the letter would not be accepted; Robin's had been scorned and his own might suffer the same fate—no, he was afraid that it must be a personal interview.

He had come to this conclusion reluctantly, and now he hesitated to act on it; she might be violent, and he felt that he could not deal with melodrama. But the thought of ultimate victory supported him. The delicious surprise of it, the gratitude, the security of his authority from all attack for the rest of his days! Ah yes, it was worth it.

He dressed carefully in a suit of delicate grey, wearing, as he did on all public occasions, an eyeglass. He took some time over his preparations and drank a whisky and soda before starting; he had secured the address from Robin, without, he flattered himself, any discovery as to the reason of his request. 10 Seaview Terrace! Ah yes, he knew where that was—a gloomy back street, quite a fitting place for such an affair.

He was still uncertain as to the plan of campaign, but he could not conceive it credible that any young woman in any part of the British Empire would stand up long against a Trojan—it would, he felt certain, prove easy.

He noticed with pleasure the attention paid to him by the down-at-heels servant—it was good augury for the success of the interview. He lowered his voice to a deep bass whilst asking for Miss Feverel, and he fixed his eyeglass at a more strikingly impressive angle. He looked at women from four points of view, and he had, as it were, a sliding scale of manners on which he might mark delicately his perception of their position. There was firstly the Countess, or Titled Nobility. Here his manner was slightly deferential, and at the same time a little familiar—proof of his own good breeding.

Secondly, there was the Trojan, or the lady of Assured Position. Here he was quite familiar, and at the same time just a little patronising—proof of his sense of Trojan superiority.

Thirdly, there was the Governess, or Poor Gentility Position. To members of this class he was affably kind, conveying his sense of their merits and sympathy with their struggle against poverty, but nevertheless marking quite plainly the gulf fixed between him and them.

Fourthly, there were the Impossibles, or the Rest—ranging from the wives of successful Brewers to that class known as Unfortunate. Here there was no alteration in his manner; he was stern, and short, and stiff with all of them, and the reason of their existence was one of the unsolved problems that had always puzzled him. This woman would, of course, belong to this latter class—he drew himself up haughtily as he entered the drawing-room.

Dahlia Feverel was alone, seated working in the window. Life was beginning to offer attractions to her again. The thought of work was pleasing; she had decided to train as a nurse, and she began to see Robin in a clear, true light; she was even beginning to admit that he had been right, that their marriage would have been a great mistake. The announcement of Garrett Trojan took her by surprise—she gathered her work together and rose, her brain refusing to act consecutively. He wanted, of course, the letters—well, she had not got them.... It promised to be rather amusing.

And he on his side was surprised. He had expected a woman with frizzled hair and a dress of violent colours; he saw a slender, pale girl in black, and she looked rather more of a lady than he had supposed. He was, in spite of himself, confused. He began hurriedly—

"I am Mr. Garrett Trojan—I dare say you have heard of me from my nephew—Robin—Robert—with whom, I believe, you are acquainted, Miss—ah—Feverel. I have come on his behalf to request the return of some letters that he wrote to you during the summer."

He drew a breath and paused. Well, that was all right anyhow, and quite sufficiently business-like.

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Trojan?" she said, smiling at him. "It is good of you to have taken so much trouble simply about a few letters—and you really might have written, mightn't you, and saved yourself a personal visit?"

He refused to sit down and drew himself up. "Now I warn you, Miss Feverel," he said, "that this is no laughing matter. You are doing a very foolish thing in keeping the letters—very foolish—ah! um! You must, of course, see that—exceedingly foolish!"

He came to a pause. It was really rather difficult to know what to say next.

"Ah, Mr. Trojan," she answered, "you must leave me to judge about the foolishness of it. After all, they are my letters."

"Pure waste of time," he answered, his voice getting a little shrill. "After all, there can be no question about it. We must have the letters—we are ready to go to some lengths to obtain them—even—ah, um—money——"

"Now, Mr. Trojan," she said quickly, "you are scarcely polite. But I am sure that you will see no reason for prolonging this interview when I say that, under no circumstances whatever, can I return the letters. That is my unchanging decision."

He had no words; he stared at her, dumb with astonishment. This open defiance was the very last thing that he had expected. Then, at last—

"You refuse?" he said with a little gasp.

"Yes," she answered lightly, "and I cannot see anything very astonishing in my refusal. They are my property, and it is nobody else's business at all."

"But it is," he almost screamed. "Business! Why, I should think it was! Do you think we want to have a scandal throughout the kingdom? Do you imagine that it would be pleasant for us to have our name in all the papers—our name that has never known disgrace since the days of William the Conqueror? You can have," he added solemnly, "very little idea of the value of a name if you imagine that we are going to tolerate its abuse in this fashion. Dear me, no!"

He was growing quite red at the thought of his possible failure. The things in the room annoyed him—the everlasting rustling on the mantelpiece—a staring photograph of Mr. Feverel, deceased, that seemed to follow him, protestingly, round and round the room—a corner of a dusty grey road seen dimly through dirty window-panes; why did people live in such a place—or, rather, why did such people live at all?—and to think that it was people like that who dared to threaten Trojan honour! How could Robin have been such a fool!

So, feeling that the situation was so absurd that argument was out of place, he began to bluster—

"Come now, Miss Feverel—this won't do, you know! it won't really. It's too absurd—quite ridiculous. Why, you forget altogether who the Trojans are! Why, we've been years and years—hundreds of years! You can't intend to oppose institutions of that kind! Why—it's impossible—you don't realise what you're doing. Dear me, no! Why, the whole thing's fantastic—" and then rather lamely, "You'll be sorry, you know."

She had been listening to him with amusement. It was pleasant to have the family on its knees like this after its treatment of her. He was saying, too, very many of the things that his brother had said, but how different it was!

"You know, Mr. Trojan," she said, "that I can't help feeling that you are making rather a lot of it. After all, I haven't said that I'm going to do anything with the letters, have I?—simply keep them, and that, I think, I am quite entitled to do. And really my mind won't change about that—I cannot give them to you."

"Cannot!" he retorted eagerly. "Why, it's easy enough. You know, Miss Feverel, it won't do to play with me. I'm a man of the world and fencing won't do, you know—not a bit of it. When I say I mean to have the letters, I mean to have them, and—ah, um—that's all about it. It won't do to fence, you know," he said again.

"But I'm not fencing, Mr. Trojan, I'm saying quite plainly what is perfectly true, that I cannot let you have the letters—nothing that you can say will change my mind."

And he really didn't know what to say. He didn't want to have a scene—he shrunk timidly from violence of any kind; but he really must secure the letters. How they would laugh at the Club! Why, he could hear the guffaws of all Pendragon! London would be one enormous scream of laughter!—all Europe would be amused! and to his excited fancy Asia and Africa seemed to join the chorus! A Trojan and a common girl in a breach of promise case! A Trojan!

"I say," he stammered, "you don't know how serious it is. People will laugh, you know, if you bring the case on. Of course it was silly of him—Robin, I mean. I can't conceive myself how he ever came to do such a thing. Boys will be boys, and you're rather pretty, my dear. But, bless me, if we were to take all these little things seriously, why, where would some of us be?" He paused, and hinted impressively at a hideous past. "You are attractive, you know." He looked at her in his most flattering manner—"Quite a nice girl, only you shouldn't take it seriously—really you shouldn't."

This manner of speech was a great deal more offensive than the other, and Dahlia got up, her cheeks flushed—

"That is enough, Mr. Trojan. I think this had better come to an end. I can only repeat what I have said already, that I cannot give you the letters—and, indeed, if I had ever intended to do so, your last speech, at least, would have changed my mind—I am sorry that I cannot oblige you, but there is really nothing further to be said."

He tried to stammer something; he faced her for a moment and endeavoured to be indignant, and then, to his own intense astonishment, found that he was walking down the stairs with the drawing-room door closed behind him. How amazing!—but he had done his best, and, if he had failed, why, after all, no other man could have succeeded any better. And she really was rather bewitching—he had not expected anything quite like that. What had he expected? He did not know, but he thought of his softly-carpeted, nicely-cushioned room with pleasurable anticipation. He would fling himself into his book when he got back ... he had several rather neat ideas.... He noticed, with pleasure, that the young man standing by the door of Mead's Groceries touched his hat very respectfully, and Twitchett, his tailor, bowed. Come, come! There were a few people left who had some sense of Trojan supremacy. It wasn't such a bad world! He would have tea in his room—not with Clare—and crumpets—yes, he liked crumpets.

Dahlia went back to her work with a sigh. What, she wondered, would be the next move? It had not been quite so amusing as she had expected, but it had been a little more exciting. For she had a curious feeling in it all, that she was fighting Harry Trojan's battles. These were the people that had insulted him just as they had insulted her, and now they would have to pay for it, they would have to go to him as they had gone to her and crawl on their knees. But what a funny situation! That she should play the son for the father, and that she should be able to look at her own love affair so calmly! Poor Robin—he had taught her a great deal, and now it was time for him to learn his own lesson. For her the episode was closed and she was looking forward to the future. She would work and win her way and have done with sentiment. Friendship was the right thing—the thing that the world was meant for—but Love—Ah! that wounded so much more than it blessed!

But she was to have further experiences—the Trojan family had not done with her yet. Garrett had been absent barely more than half an hour when the servant again appeared at the door with, "Miss Trojan, Miss Dahlia, would like to see yer and is waiting in the 'all." Her hand twitching at her apron and mouth gaping with astonishment testified to her curiosity. For weeks the house had been unvisited and now, in a single day—!

"Show her up, Annie!"

She was a little agitated; Garrett had been simple enough and even rather amusing, but Clare Trojan was quite another thing. She was, Dahlia knew, the head of the family and a woman of the world. But Dahlia clenched her teeth; it was this person who was responsible for the whole affair—for the father's unhappiness, for the son's disloyalty. It was she who had been, as it were, behind Robin's halting speeches concerning inequality and one's duty to the family. Here was the head of the House, and Dahlia held the cards.

But Clare was very calm and collected as she entered the room. She had decided that a personal interview was necessary, but had rather regretted that it could not be conducted by letter. But still if you had to deal with that kind of person you must put up with their methods, and having once made up her mind about a thing she never turned back.

She hated the young person more bitterly than she had ever hated any one, and she would have heard of her death with no shadow of pity but rather a great rejoicing. In the first place, the woman had come between Clare and Robin; secondly, she threatened the good name of the family; thirdly, she was forcing Clare to do several things that she very much disliked doing. For all these reasons the young person was too bad to live—but she had no intention of being uncivil. Although this was her first experience of diplomacy, she had very definite ideas as to how such things ought to be conducted, and civility would hide a multitude of subtleties. Clare meant to be very subtle, very kind, and, once the letters were in her hand, very unrelenting.

She was wearing a very handsome dress of grey silk with a large picture hat with grey feathers: she entered the room with a rustle, and the sweep of the skirts spoke of infinite condescension.

"Miss Feverel, I believe—" she held out her hand—"I am afraid this is a most unceremonious hour for a call, and if I have interrupted you in your work, pray go on. I wouldn't for the world. What a day, hasn't it been? I always think that these sort of grey depressing days are so much worse than the downright pouring ones, don't you? You are always expecting, you know, and then nothing ever comes."

Dahlia looked rather nervous in the window, and on her face there fluttered a rather uncertain smile.

"Yes," she said, a little timidly; "but I think that most of the days here are grey."

"Ah, you find that, do you? Well, now, that's strange, because I must say that I haven't found that my own experience—and Cornwall, you know, is said to be the land of colour—the English Riviera some, rather prettily, call it—and St. Ives, you know, along the coast is quite a place for painters because of the colour that they get there."

Dahlia said "Yes," and there was a pause. Then Clare made her plunge.

"You must wonder a little, Miss Feverel, what I have come about. I really must apologise again about the hour. But I won't keep you more than a moment; and it is all quite a trivial matter—so trivial that I am ashamed to disturb you about it. I would have written, but I happened to be passing and—so—I came in."

"Yes?" said Dahlia.

"Well, it's about some letters. Perhaps you have forgotten that my nephew, Robert Trojan, wrote to you last summer. He tells me that you met last summer at Cambridge and became rather well acquainted, and that after that he wrote to you for several months. He tells me that he wrote to you asking you to return his letters, and that you, doubtless through forgetfulness, failed to reply. He is naturally a little nervous about writing to you again, and so I thought that—as I was passing—I would just come and see you about the matter. But I am really ashamed to bother you about anything so trivial."

"No," answered Dahlia, "I didn't forget—I wrote—answered Robin's letter."

"Ah! you did? Then he must have misunderstood you. He certainly gave me to understand——"

"Yes, I wrote to Robin saying that I was sorry—but I intended to keep the letters."

Clare paused and looked at her sharply. This was the kind of thing that she had expected; of course the young person would bluff and stand out for a tall price, which must, if necessary, be paid to her.

"But, Miss Feverel, surely"—she smiled deprecatingly—"that can't be your definite answer to him. Poor Robin!—surely he is entitled to letters that he himself has written."

"Might I ask, Miss Trojan, why you are anxious that they should be returned?"

"Oh, merely a whim—nothing of any importance. But Robin feels, as I am sure you must, that the whole episode—pleasant enough at the time, no doubt—is over, and he feels that it would be more completely closed if the letters were destroyed."

"Ah! but there we differ!" said Dahlia sharply. "That's just what I don't feel about it. I value those letters, Miss Trojan, highly."

Now what, thought Clare, exactly was she? Number One, the intriguing adventuress? Number Two, the outraged woman? Number Three, the helpless girl clinging to her one support? Now, of Numbers One and Two Clare had had no experience. Such persons had never come her way, and indeed of Number Three she could know very little; so she escaped from generalities and fixed her mind on the actual girl in front of her. This was most certainly no intriguing adventuress. Clare had quite definite ideas about that class of person; but she very possibly was the outraged female. At any rate, she would act on that conclusion.

"My dear young lady," she said softly, "you must not think that I do not sympathise. I do indeed, from the bottom of my heart. Robin has behaved abominably, and any possible reparation we, as a family, will gladly pay. I think, however, that you are a little hard on him. He was young, so were you; and it is very easy for us—we women especially—to mistake the reality of our affection. Robin at any rate made a mistake and saw it—and frankly told you so. It was wrong—very; but I cannot help feeling—forgive me if I speak rather plainly—that it would be equally wrong on your part if you were to indulge any feeling of revenge."

"There is not," said Dahlia, "any question of revenge."

"Ah," said Clare brightly, "you will let me have the letters, then?"

"I cannot," Dahlia answered gravely. "Really, Miss Trojan, I'm afraid that we can gain nothing by further discussion. I have looked at the matter from every point of view, and I'm afraid that I can come to no other decision."

Clare stared in front of her. What was to be her next move? Like Garrett, she had been brought to a standstill by Dahlia's direct refusal. Viewing the matter indefinitely, from the security of her own room, it had seemed to her that the girl would be certain to give way at the very mention of the Trojan name. She would face Robin—yes, that was natural enough, because, after all, he was only a boy and had no knowledge of the world and the proper treatment of such a case—but when it came to the head of the family with all the influence of the family behind her, then instant submission seemed inevitable.

Clare was forced to realise that instant submission was very far away indeed, and that the girl sitting quietly in the window showed little sign of yielding. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and her voice was a little sharper.

"It seems then, Miss Feverel, that it is a question of terms. But why did you not say so before? I would have told you at once that we are willing to pay a very considerable sum for the return of the letters."

Dahlia's face flushed, and after a moment's pause she rose from her chair and walked towards Clare.

"Miss Trojan," she said quietly, "I have no intention of taking money for them—or, indeed, of taking anything."

"I'm sure," broke in Clare, flushing slightly, "I had no intention of——"

"Ah—no, I know," went on Dahlia. "But it is not, I assure you, a case for melodrama—but a very plain, simple little affair that is happening everywhere all the time. You say that you cannot understand why I should wish to keep the letters. Let me try and explain, and also let me try and urge on you that it is really no good at all trying to change my mind. It is now several days since I had my last talk with Robin, and I have, of course, thought a good deal about it—it is scarcely likely that half-an-hour's conversation with you will change a determination that I have arrived at after ten days' hard thinking. And surely it is not hard to understand. Six months ago I was happy and inexperienced. I had never been in love, and, indeed, I had no idea of its meaning. Then your nephew came: he made love to me, and I loved him in return."

She paused for a moment. Clare looked sympathetic. Then Dahlia continued: "He meant no harm, no doubt, and perhaps for the time he was quite serious in what he said. He was, as you say, very young. But it was a game to him—it was everything to me. I treasured his letters, I thought of them day and night. I—but, of course, you know the kind of thing that a girl goes through when she is in love for the first time. Then I came here and went through some bad weeks whilst he was making up his mind to tell me that he loved me no longer. Of course, I saw well enough what was happening—and I knew why it was—it was the family at his back."

A murmur from Clare. "I assure you, Miss Feverel."

"Oh yes, Miss Trojan, you don't suppose that I cared for you very much during those weeks. I suffered a little, too, and it changed me from a girl into a woman—rather too quickly to be altogether healthy, perhaps. And then he came and told me in so many words. I thought at first that it had broken my heart; a girl does, you know, when it happens the first time, but you needn't be afraid—my heart's all right—and I wouldn't marry Robin now if he begged me to. But it had hurt, all of it, and perhaps one's pride had suffered most of all—and so, of course, I kept the letters. It was the one way that I could hurt you. I'm frank, am I not?—but every woman would do the same. You see you are so very proud, you Trojans!

"It is not only that you thank God that you are not as other men, but you are so bent on making the rest of us call out 'Miserable sinner!' very loudly and humbly. And we don't believe it. Why should we? Everybody has their own little bits o' things that they treasure, and they don't like being told that they're of no value at all. Why, Miss Trojan, I'm quite a proud person really—you'd be surprised if you knew."

She laughed, and then sat down on the sofa opposite Clare, with her chin resting on her hand.

"So you see, Miss Trojan, it's natural, after all, that I kept the letters."

Clare had listened to the last part of her speech in silence, her lips firmly closed, her hands folded on her lap. As she listened to her she knew that it was quite hopeless, that nothing that she could ever say would change the young person's mind. She was horribly disappointed, of course, and it would be terrible to be forced to return to Robin, and tell him that she had failed: for the first time she would have to confess failure—but really she could not humble herself any longer: she was not sure that, even now, she had not unbent a little more than was necessary. If the young person refused to consider the question of terms there was no more to be said—and how dare she talk about the Trojans in that way?

"Really, Miss Feverel, I scarcely think that it is necessary for us to enter into a discussion of that kind, is it? I daresay you have every reason for personal pride—but really that is scarcely my affair, is it? If no offer of money can tempt you—well, really, there the matter must rest, mustn't it? Of course I am sorry, but you know your own mind. But that you should think yourself insulted by such an offer is, it seems to me, a little absurd. It is quite obvious what you mean to do with them."

Dahlia smiled.

"Is it?" she said. "That is very clever of you, Miss Trojan. I am sorry that you should have so much trouble for such a little result."

"There is no more to be said," answered Clare, moving to the door. "Good morning," and she was gone.

"Oh dear," said Dahlia, as she went back to the window, "how unpleasant she is. Poor Robin! What a time he will have!"

For her the pathos was over, but for them—well—it had not begun.



CHAPTER XII

The question of the Cove was greatly agitating the mind of Pendragon. Meetings had been held, a scheme had been drawn up, and it would appear that the thing was settled. It had been conclusively proved that two rows of lodging-houses where the Cove now stood would be an excellent thing. The town was over-crowded—it must spread out in some direction, and the Cove-end was practically the only possible place for spreading.

The fishery had been declining year by year, and it was hinted at the Club that it would be rather a good thing if it declined until it vanished altogether; the Cove was in no sense of the word useful, and by its lack of suitable drainage and defective protection from weather, it was really something of a scandal,—it formed, as Mr. Grayseed, pork butcher and mayor of the town, pointed out, the most striking contrast with the upward development so marked in Pendragon of late years. He called the Cove an "eyesore" and nearly proclaimed it an "anomaly"—but was restrained by the presence of his wife, a nervous woman who followed her husband with difficulty in his successful career, and checked his language when the length of his words threatened their accuracy.

The town might be said to be at one on these points, and there was no very obvious reason why the destruction of the Cove should not be proceeded with—but, still, nothing was done. It was said by a few that the Cove was picturesque and undoubtedly attracted strangers by the reason of its dirty, crooked streets and bulging doorways—an odd taste, they admitted, but nevertheless undoubted and of commercial importance. On posters Pendragon was described as "the picturesque abode of old-time manners and customs," and Baedeker had a word about "charming old-time byways and an old Inn, the haunt, in earlier times, of smugglers and freebooters." Now this was undoubtedly valuable, and it would be rather a pity were it swept away altogether. Perhaps you might keep the Inn—it might even be made into a Museum for relics of old Pendragon—bits of Cornish crosses, stones, some quaint drawings of the old town, now in the possession of Mr. Quilter, the lawyer.

The matter was much discussed at the Club, and there was no doubt as to the feeling of the majority; let the Cove go—let them replace it with a smart row of red-brick villas, each with its neat strip of garden and handsome wooden paling.

Harry had learnt to listen in silence. He knew, for one thing, that no one would pay very much attention if he did speak, and then, of late, he had been flung very much into himself and his reserve had grown from day to day. People did not want to listen to him—well, he would not trouble them. He felt, too, as Newsome had once said to him, that he belonged properly to "down-along," and he knew that he was out of touch with the whole of that modern movement that was going on around him. But sometimes, as he listened, his cheeks burned when they talked of the Cove, and he longed to jump up and plead its defence; but he knew that it would be worse than useless and he held himself in—but they didn't know, they didn't know. It enraged him most when they spoke of it as some lifeless, abstract thing, some old rubbish-heap that offended their sight, and then he thought of its beauties, of the golden sand and the huddling red and grey cottages clustering over the sea as though for protection. You might fancy that the waves slapped them on the back for good-fellowship when they dashed up against the walls, or kissed them for love when they ran in golden ripples and softly lapped the stones.

On the second night after his visit to Dahlia Feverel, Harry went down, after dinner, to the Cove. He found those evening hours, before going to bed, intolerable at the House. The others departed to their several rooms and he was suffered to go to his, but the loneliness and dreariness made reading impossible and his thoughts drove him out. He had lately been often at the Inn, for this was the hour when it was full, and he could sit in a corner and listen without being forced to take any part himself. To-night a pedlar and a girl—apparently his daughter—were entertaining the company, and even the melancholy sailor with one eye seemed to share the feeling of gaiety and chuckled solemnly at long intervals. It was a scene full of colour; the lamps in the window shone golden through the haze of smoke on to the black beams of the ceiling, the dust-red brick of the walls and floor, and the cavernous depths of the great fireplace. Sitting cross-legged on the table in the centre of the room was the pedlar, a little, dark, beetle-browed man, and at his side were his wares, his pack flung open, and cloths of green and gold and blue and red flung pell-mell at his side. Leaning against the table, her hands on her hips, was the girl, dark like her father, tall and flat-chested, with a mass of black hair flung back from her forehead. No one knew from what place they had come nor whither they intended to go—such a visit was rare enough in these days of trains—and the little man's reticence was attacked again and again, but ever unsuccessfully. There were perhaps twenty sailors in the room, and they sat or stood by the fireplace watching and listening.

Harry slipped in and took his place by Newsome in the corner.

"I will sing," said the girl.

She stood away from the table and flung up her head—she looked straight into the fire and swayed her body to the time of her tune. Her voice was low, so that men bent forward in order that they might hear, and the tune was almost a monotone, her voice rising and falling like the beating of the sea, with the character of her words. She sang of a Cornish pirate, Coppinger, "Cruel Coppinger," and of his deeds by land and sea, of his daring and his cleverness and his brutality, and the terror that he inspired, and at last of his pursuit by the king's cutter and his utter vanishing "no man knew where." But gradually as her song advanced Coppinger was forgotten and her theme became the sea—she spoke like one possessed, and her voice rose and fell like the wind—all Time and Place were lost. Harry felt that he was unbounded by tradition of birth or breeding, and he knew that he was absolutely as one of these others with him in the room—that he felt that call of those old gods just as they did. The girl ceased and the room was silent. Through the walls came the sound of the sea—in the fire was the crackling of the coals, and down the great chimney came a little whistle of the wind. "A mighty fine pome 'tis fur sure," said the white-bearded sailor solemnly, "and mostly wonderful true." He sighed. "They'm changed times," he said.