CHAPTER I

CHARLES REX

BY ETHEL M. DELL

AUTHOR OF THE TOP OF THE WORLD, THE LAMP IN THE DESERT, THE HUNDREDTH

CHANCE, Etc.

1922

I Dedicate This Book To G. T. S. In Remembrance of A Winter Day

"When half-gods go, the gods arrive."

R. W. Emerson

Not with the clash of trumpets

And clangour of gates thrown wide,

As when the eager crowds press round

To see the half-gods ride;

But like a bird at even

Silently winging home,

A message came from the darkness

To say that the gods had come.

And the half-gods scoffed in the temple

Which custom had bid them hold--

Sin and Success and Pleasure

And the hideous Image of Gold.

Who and what are these strangers?

Bid them worship before the shrine

Where we, the gods of the new world,

Sit o'er the cards and wine!

So they derided the strangers--

Those gods whom the old folk call

Courage and Honour and Faithfulness

And Love which is greater than all.

But when the night was over

And the new day pierced within,

The half-gods were gone from the temple,

And the gods had entered in.

CONTENTS

PART I

I. Ennui

II. Adieu

III. The Gift

IV. Toby

V. Discipline

VI. The Abyss

VII. Larpent's Daughter

PART II

I. Jake Bolton

II. Maud Bolton

III. Bunny

IV. Saltash

V. The Visitor

VI. How to Manage Men

VII. The Promise

VIII. The Ally

IX. The Idol

X. Resolutions

XI. The Butterfly

XII. The Ogre's Castle

XIII. The End of the Game

PART III

I. The Virtuous Hero

II. The Compact

III. L'oiseau bleu

IV. The Trap

V. The Confidence

VI. The Sacred Fire

VII. Surrender

VIII. The Magician's Wand

IX. The Warning

X. The Mystery

XI. Suspicion

XII. The Ally

XIII. The Truth

XIV. The Last Card

PART IV

I. The Winning Post

II. The Villain Scores

III. A Wife Is Different

IV. The Idol of Paris

V. The Dance of Death

VI. The New Lover

VII. The Refugee

VIII. The Turning-point

IX. Larpent

X. In the Name of Love

XI. The Gift of the Gods

CHARLES REX

PART I

CHAPTER I

ENNUI

"I shall go to sea to-morrow," said Saltash, with sudden decision. "I'm

tired of this place, Larpent,--fed up on repletion."

"Then by all means let us go, my lord!" said Larpent, with the faint

glimmer of a smile behind his beard, which was the only expression of

humour he ever permitted himself.

"Believe you're fed up too," said Saltash, flashing a critical look upon

him.

Captain Larpent said nothing, deeming speech unnecessary. All time spent

ashore was wasted in his opinion.

Saltash turned and surveyed the sky-line over the yacht's rail with

obvious discontent on his ugly face. His eyes were odd, one black, one

grey, giving a curiously unstable appearance to a countenance which

otherwise might have claimed to possess some strength. His brows were

black and deeply marked. He had a trick of moving them in conjunction

with his thoughts so that his face was seldom in absolute repose. It was

said that there was a strain of royal blood in Saltash, and in the days

before he had succeeded to the title when he had been merely Charles

Burchester, he had borne the nickname of "the merry monarch." Certain

wild deeds in a youth that had not been beyond reproach had seemed to

warrant this, but of later years a friend had bestowed a more gracious

title upon him, and to all who could claim intimacy with him he had

become "Charles Rex." The name fitted him like a garment. A certain

arrogance, a certain royalty of bearing, both utterly unconscious and

wholly unfeigned, characterized him. Whatever he did, and his actions

were often far from praiseworthy, this careless distinction of mien

always marked him. He received an almost involuntary respect where he

went.

Captain Larpent who commanded his yacht _The Night Moth_--most morose and

unresponsive of men--paid him the homage of absolute acquiescence.

Whatever his private opinions might be, he never expressed them unless

invited to do so by his employer. He never criticized by word or look.

Saltash was wont to say that if he decided to turn pirate he believed

that Larpent would continue at his post without the smallest change of

front. To raise a protest of any sort would have been absolutely foreign

to his nature. He was made to go straight ahead, to do his duty without

question and with perfect self-reliance.

On the present occasion, having cruised from port to port in the

Mediterranean for nearly six weeks, it was certainly no ill news to him

to hear that Saltash had at last had enough. The weather was perfect, too

perfect for a man of his bull-dog instincts. He was thoroughly tired of

the endless spring sunshine and of the chattering, fashionable crowds

that Saltash was wont to assemble on the yacht. He was waiting with an

iron patience for the word that should send them forth over the great

Atlantic rollers, with the ocean spray bursting over their bows and the

sting of the ocean wind in their faces. That was the sort of life that

appealed to him. He had no use for civilization; the froth of society had

no attraction for him. He preferred a deeper draught.

Saltash was thoroughly cosmopolitan in his tastes; he liked amusement,

but he abhorred boredom. He declared that for him it was the root of all

evil. He was never really wicked unless he was bored. And then--_que

voulez-vous_? He did not guide the star of destiny.

"Yes," he said, after a thoughtful silence, "we will certainly put to sea

to-morrow--unless--" he turned his head and threw a merry grin at his

companion--"unless Fortune has any tricks up her sleeve for me, for I am

going ashore for one more fling to-night."

Larpent smoked on immovably, his blue-grey eyes staring out to the vivid

sky-line, his sunburnt face quite imperturbable.

"We shall be ready to start as soon as you come aboard, my lord," he

said.

"Good!" said Saltash lightly. "I may be late, or--more probably--very

early. Leave the gangway for me! I'll let you know when I'm aboard."

He got up as if he moved on springs and leaned against the rail, looking

down quizzically at the man who sat stolidly smoking in the deck-chair.

No two people could have formed a stronger contrast--the yacht's captain,

fair-bearded, with the features of a Viking--the yacht's owner, dark,

alert, with a certain French finesse about him that gave a strange charm

to a personality that otherwise might have been merely fantastic.

Suddenly he laughed. "Do you know, Larpent, I often think to myself what

odd tricks Fate plays? You for instance--you, the captain of a private

yacht when you ought to be roving the high seas in a Flying Dutchman! You

probably were a few generations ago."

"Ah!" Larpent said, through a cloud of smoke. "Life isn't what it was."

"It's an infernal fraud, most of it," said Saltash. "Always promising and

seldom fulfilling!"

"No good expecting too much," said Larpent.

"True!" said Saltash. "On the other hand it isn't always wise to be too

easily satisfied." His look became suddenly speculative. "Have you ever

been in love, Larpent?"

The big man in the deck-chair made a sharp movement and spilt some

cigar-ash on his coat. He sat up deliberately and brushed it off. Saltash

watched him with mischievous eyes.

"Well?" he said.

Larpent leaned back again, puffing forth a thick cloud of smoke. "Once,"

he said briefly.

"Only once?" gibed Saltash. "Man alive! Why, I've had the disease scores

of times, and you are half a generation older than I am!"

"I know," Larpent's eyes dwelt unblinking upon the sparkling blue of the

water beyond the rail. "You've had it so often that you take it lightly."

Saltash laughed. "You apparently took it like the plague."

"I didn't die of it," said Larpent grimly.

"Perhaps the lady did!" suggested Saltash.

"No. She didn't die either." Larpent's eyes came slowly upwards to the

mocking eyes above them. "For all I know she may be living now," he said.

Saltash's grin became a grimace. "Oh, heavens, Larpent! And you've had

indigestion ever since? How long ago is it? Twenty years?"

"About that," said Larpent.

"Heavens!" said Saltash again. "I should like to see the woman who could

hold me after twenty years!"

"So should I," said Larpent dryly.

Saltash snapped his fingers. "She doesn't exist, my good fellow! But if

she did--by Jove, what a world it would be!"

Larpent grunted sardonically. "It wouldn't be large enough to hold you,

my lord."

Saltash stretched his arms wide. "Well, I'm going ashore to-night. Who

knows what the gods may send? Wish me luck!"

Larpent surveyed the restless figure with a sort of stony humour. "I wish

you a safe return," he said.

Saltash laughed and went away along the deck with a monkey-like spring

that was curiously characteristic of him. There was nothing of the

sailor's steady poise about him.

The little Italian town that clung to the slopes that rose so steeply

from the sea shone among its terraced gardens like a many-coloured jewel

in the burning sunset. The dome of its Casino gleamed opalescent in its

centre--a place for wonder--a place for dreams. Yet Saltash's expression

as he landed on the quay was one of whimsical discontent. He had come

nearly a fortnight ago to be amused, but somehow the old pleasures had

lost their relish and he was only bored.

"I'm getting old," he said to himself with a grimace of disgust.

But he was not old. He was barely six-and-thirty. He had had the world at

his feet too long, that was all.

There was to be a water-side _fête_ that night at Valrosa, and the

promenade and bandstand were wreathed with flowers and fairy-lights. It

was getting late in the season, and it would probably be the last.

Saltash surveyed the preparations with very perfunctory interest as he

sauntered up to the hotel next to the Casino where he proposed to dine.

A few people he knew were staying there, and he looked forward to a more

or less social evening. At least he could count on a welcome and a rubber

of bridge if he felt so inclined. Or there was the Casino itself if the

gambling mood should take him. But he did not feel much like gambling. He

wanted something new. None of the old stale amusements appealed to him

tonight. He was feeling very ancient and rather dilapidated.

He went up the steps under the cypress-trees that led from terrace to

terrace, pausing at each landing-place to look out over the wonderful

sea that was changing every moment with the changing glow of the sunset.

Yes, it was certainly a place for dreams. Even old Larpent felt the

charm--Larpent who had fallen in love twenty years ago for the first and

last time!

An irrepressible chuckle escaped him. Funny old Larpent! The wine of the

gods had evidently been too strong a brew for him. It was obvious that he

had no desire to repeat the dose.

At his last halting-place he stood longer to drink in the beauty of the

evening before entering the hotel. The sea had the pearly tint shot with

rose of the inside of an oyster-shell. The sky-line was receding, fading

into an immense calm. The shadows were beginning to gather. The sun had

dipped out of sight.

The tinkle of a lute rose from one of the hidden gardens below him. He

stood and listened with sentimental eyes and quizzically twitching mouth.

Everything in this wonder-world was ultra-sweet to-night. And yet--and

yet--

Suddenly another sound broke through the stillness, and in a moment he

had sprung to alertness. It was a cry--a sharp, wrung cry from the garden

close to him, the garden of the hotel, and instantly following it a flood

of angry speech in a man's voice and the sound of blows.

"Damnation!" said Saltash, and sprang for a narrow wooden door in the

stone wall a few yards higher up.

It opened to his imperious hand, and he found himself in a dark little

shrubbery behind an arbour that looked out to the sea. It was in this

arbour that the scuffle was taking place, and in a second he had forced

his way through the intervening shrubs and was at the entrance.

"Damnation!" he burst forth again furiously. "What are you doing? Leave

that boy alone!"

A man in evening-dress was gripping a fair-haired lad, who wore the

hotel-livery, by the back of his neck and raining merciless blows upon

his uncovered head. He turned, sharply straightening himself, at

Saltash's tempestuous entrance, and revealed to the newcomer the

deeply-suffused countenance of the hotel-manager.

Their recognition was mutual. He flung the boy into a corner and faced

his patron, breathing hard, his black eyes still fiercely gleaming.

"Ah! It is milord!" he said, in jerky English, and bowed punctiliously

though he was still shaking with rage. "What can I do for you, milord?"

"What the devil is the matter?" said Saltash, sweeping aside all

ceremony. "What are you hammering that unfortunate boy for? Can't you

find a man your own size to hammer?"

The Italian flung a fierce glance over his shoulder at his crouching

victim. "He is worthless!" he declared. "I give him a trial--_bueno_, but

he is worthless. Milord will pardon me, he is--English. And the English

are--no good for work--no good at all."

"Oh, rotten to the core!" agreed Saltash, with a humorous lift of the

brows. "But you needn't murder him for that, Antonio. It's his

misfortune--not his fault."

"Milord, I have not murdered him," the manager protested with nervous

vehemence. "I have only punished him. I have not hurt him. I have done

him good."

"Oh!" said Saltash, and looked down at the small, trembling figure in the

corner. "It's medicine, is it? But a bit strong for a child of that size.

I should try a milder dose next time."

Antonio laughed harshly. "The next time, milord, I shall take

him--so--and wring his neck!" His laugh became a snarl as he turned. "Get

up now, you--you son of a pig, and go back to your work!"

"Easy! Easy!" said Saltash, with a smile. "We don't talk to the English

like that, Antonio,--not even the smallest and weakest of them. Let's

have a look at this specimen--with your permission!" He bent over the

huddled figure. "Hold up your head, boy! Let me see you!"

There was no movement to obey, and he laid a hand upon the quivering

shoulder and felt it shrink away convulsively.

"I believe you've damaged him," he said, bending lower. "Here, Tommy!

Hold up your head! Don't be afraid! It's a friend."

But the narrow figure only sank down a little lower under his hand.

"His name is Toby," said Antonio with acidity. "A dog's name, milord, and

it fits him well. He is what you would call a lazy hound."

Saltash paid not the slightest attention to him. He was bending low, his

dark face in shadow.

"Don't be afraid!" he said again. "No one is going to hurt you. Come

along! Let's look at you!"

His hold tightened upon the shrinking form. He began to lift it up.

And then suddenly there came a sharp struggle between his hands as

lacking in science as the fight of a wild animal for freedom, and as

effectual. With a gasping effort the boy wrenched himself free and was

gone. He went like a streak of lightning, and the two men were left

facing one another.

"What a slippery little devil!" commented Saltash.

"Yes," said Antonio vindictively, "a devil indeed, milord! And I will

have no more of him. I will have no more. I hope he will starve!"

"How awfully nice of you, Antonio!" said Saltash lightly. "Being the end

of the season, he probably will."

Antonio smacked his red lips with relish. "Ah, probably! Probably!" he

said.

CHAPTER II

ADIEU

It was growing late and the _fête_ was in full swing when Saltash

sauntered down again under the cypress-trees to the water's edge. The sea

was breaking with a murmurous splashing; it was a night for dreams.

In the flower-decked bandstand an orchestra of stringed instruments was

playing very softly--fairy-music that seemed to fill the world with magic

to the brim. It was like a drug to the senses, alluring, intoxicating,

maddeningly sweet.

Saltash wandered along with his face to the water on which a myriad

coloured lights rocked and swam. And still his features wore that

monkeyish look of unrest, of discontent and quizzical irony oddly

mingled. He felt the lure, but it was not strong enough. Its influence

had lost its potency.

He need not have been alone. He had left the hotel with friends, but he

had drifted away from them in the crowd. One of them--a girl--had sought

somewhat palpably to keep him near her, and he had responded with some

show of ardour for a time, and then something about her had struck a note

of discord within him and the glamour had faded.

"Little fool!" he murmured to himself. "She'd give me her heart to break

if I'd have it."

And then he laughed in sheer ridicule of his own jaded senses. He

recognized the indifference of satiety. An easy conquest no longer

attracted him.

He began to stroll towards the quay, loitering here and there as if to

give to Fates a chance to keep him if they would. Yes, Sheila Melrose was

a little idiot. Why couldn't she realize that she was but one of the

hundreds with whom he flirted day by day? She was nothing to him but a

pastime--a toy to amuse his wayward mood. He had outgrown his earlier

propensity to break his toys when he had done with them. The sight of a

broken toy revolted him now.

He was impatiently aware that the girl was watching him from the midst of

the shifting crowd. What did she expect, he asked himself irritably? She

knew him. She knew his reputation. Did she imagine herself the sort of

woman to hold a man of his stamp for more than the passing moment? Save

for his title and estates, was he worth the holding?

A group of laughing Italian girls with kerchiefs on their heads

surrounded him suddenly and he became the centre of a shower--a storm--of

_confetti_. His mood changed in a second. He would show her what to

expect! Without an instant's pause he turned upon his assailants, caught

the one nearest to him, snatching her off her feet; and, gripping her

without mercy, he kissed her fierily and shamelessly till she gasped with

delicious fright; then dropped her and seized another.

The girls of Valrosa spoke of the ugly Englishman with bated breath and

shining eyes long after Saltash had gone his unheeding way, for the blood

was hot in his veins before the game was over. If the magic had been slow

to work, its spell was all the more compelling when it gripped him.

Characteristically, he tossed aside all considerations beyond the

gratification of the moment's desire. The sinking fire of youth blazed up

afresh. He would get the utmost out of this last night of revelry.

Wherever he went, a spirit of wild daring, of fevered gaiety, surrounded

him. He was no longer alone, whichever way he turned. Once in his mad

progress he met Sheila Melrose face to face, and she drew back from him

in open disgust. He laughed at her maliciously, mockingly, as his royal

forefather might have laughed long ago, and passed on with the throng.

Hours later, when the _fête_ was over and the shore quite silent under

the stars, he came alone along the quay, moving with his own peculiar

arrogance of bearing, a cigarette between his lips, a deep gleam in his

eyes. It had been an amusing night after all.

Crossing the gangway to his yacht--_The Night Moth_--that rocked softly

on the glimmering ripples, he paused for a moment and turned his face as

if in farewell towards the little town that lay sleeping among its

cypress-trees. So standing, he heard again the tinkle of a lute from some

hidden garden of delight. It was as if the magic were still calling to

him, luring him, reaching out white arms to hold him. He made a brief bow

towards the sound.

"_Adieu_, most exquisite and most wicked!" he said. "I return--no more!"

The cigarette fell from his lips into the dark water and there came a

faint sound like the hiss of a serpent in the stillness. He laughed as he

heard it, and pursued his way aboard the yacht.

He found a young sailor, evidently posted to await his coming, snoring in

a corner, and shook him awake.

The man blundered up with a confused apology, and Saltash laughed at him

derisively.

"Wasting the magic hours in sleep, Parker? Well, I suppose dreams are

better than nothing. Were they--good dreams?"

"I don't know, my lord," said Parker, grinning foolishly.

Saltash clapped him on the shoulder and turned away. "Well, I'm ready for

the open sea now," he said. "We'll leave our dreams behind."

He was always on easy terms with his sailors who worshipped him to a man.

He whistled a careless air as he went below. The magic of Valrosa had

loosed its hold, and he was thinking of the wide ocean and buffeting

waves that awaited him. He turned on the lights of the saloon and stopped

there for another cigarette and a drink, first walking to and fro,

finally flinging himself on a crimson velvet settee and surrendering

himself luxuriously to a repose for which he had not felt the need until

that moment.

So lying, he heard the stir and tramp of feet above him, the voices of

men, the lifting of the gangway; and presently the yacht began to throb

as though suddenly endowed with life. He felt the heave of the sea as she

left her moorings, and the rush of water pouring past her keel as she

drew away from the quay.

He stretched himself with lazy enjoyment. It was good to come and go as

he listed, good to have no ties to bind him. He supposed he would always

be a wanderer on the face of the earth, and after all wandering suited

him best. True, there were occasions on which the thought of home allured

him. The idea of marriage with some woman who loved him would spring like

a beacon out of the night in moments of depression. Other men found a

permanent abiding-place and were content therewith; why not he? But he

only played with the notion. It did not seriously attract him. He was not

a marrying man, and, as he had said to Larpent, the woman did not exist

who could hold him. The bare thought of Sheila Melrose sent a mocking

smile to his lips. Did she think--did she really think--that she

possessed the necessary qualifications to capture a man of his

experience? He dismissed her with a snap of the fingers. Sheila had

practically everything in life to learn, and he did not propose to be her

teacher.

His cigarette was finished and he got up. The yacht was speeding like a

winged thing on her way. There was never any fuss of departure when

Larpent was in command. He stood for a few seconds in indecision,

contemplating going up on to the bridge for a word with his captain and a

glance round. But some fantastic scruple deterred him. He had made his

farewell. He did not wish to see Valrosa again. He turned instead and

went to his cabin.

All the appointments of the yacht were of the most luxurious order. She

possessed every imaginable contrivance for the comfort of those who

voyaged in her. Her state-cabins were a miracle of elegance and ease.

Saltash never took a valet when he went for a voyage. The steward

attended to his clothes, and he waited on himself. He liked as much space

as he could get both on deck and below.

He pushed open the door of his cabin and felt for the switch of the

electric light. But he did not press it when he found it. Something made

him change his mind. The faint light of stars upon rippling water came

to him through the open porthole, and he shut himself in and stepped

forward to the couch beneath it to look forth.

But as he moved, another influence caught him, and he stopped short.

"Is anyone here?" he said.

Through the wash of the water he thought he heard a light movement, and

he felt a presence as of some small animal in the space before him.

Swiftly he stepped back and in a moment his hand was on the switch. The

light flashed on, and in a moment he stood staring--at a fair-haired,

white-faced lad in a brown livery with brass buttons who stood staring

back at him with wide, scared eyes.

CHAPTER III

THE GIFT

Saltash was the first to recover himself; he was seldom disconcerted,

never for long.

"Hullo!" he said, with a quizzical twist of the eyebrows. "You, is it?

And what have you come for?"

The intruder lowered his gaze abruptly, flushing to the roots of his fair

hair. "I came," he said, in a very low voice, "to--to ask you something."

"Then you've come some distance to do it," said Saltash lightly, "for I

never turn back. Perhaps that was your idea, was it?"

"No--no!" With a vehement shake of the head he made answer. "I didn't

think you would start so soon. I thought--I would be able to ask you

first."

"Oh, indeed!" said Saltash. And then unexpectedly he laid a hand upon one

narrow shoulder and turned the downcast face upwards. "Ah! I thought he'd

marked you, the swine! What was he drubbing you for? Tell me that!"

A great purple bruise just above one eye testified to the severity of the

drubbing; the small, boyish countenance quivered sensitively under his

look. With sudden impulse two trembling hands closed tightly upon his

arm.

"Well?" said Saltash.

"Oh, please, sir--please, my lord, I mean--" with great earnestness the

words came--"let me stay with you! I'll earn my keep somehow, and I

shan't take up much room!"

"Oh, that's the idea, is it?" said Saltash.

"Yes--yes!" The boy's eyes implored him,--blue eyes with short black

lashes that imparted an oddly childish look to a face that was otherwise

thin and sharp with anxiety. "I can do anything. I don't want to live

on charity. I can work. I'd love to work--for you."

"You're a rum little devil, aren't you?" said Saltash.

"I'm honest, sir! Really I'm honest!" Desperately the bony hands clung.

"You won't be sorry if you take me. I swear you'll never be sorry!"

"What about you?" said Saltash. He was looking down into the upraised

face with a semi-quizzical compassion in his own. "Think you'd never be

sorry either?"

A sudden smile gleamed across the drawn face. "Of course I shouldn't!

You're English."

"Ah!" said Saltash, with a faintly wry expression. "Not necessarily white

on that account, my friend, so don't run away with that idea, I beg! I'm

quite capable of giving you a worse drubbing than the good Antonio, for

instance, if you qualified for it. I can be a terrifically wild beast

upon occasion. Look here, you imp! Are you starved or what? Do you want

something to eat?"

The wiry fingers tightened on his arm. "No, sir--no, my lord--not really.

I often don't eat. I'm used to it."

"But why the devil not?" demanded Saltash. "Didn't they feed you over

there?"

"Yes--oh, yes. But I didn't want it. I was--too miserable." The blue eyes

blinked rapidly under his look as if half-afraid of him.

"You little ass!" said Saltash in a voice that somehow reassured. "Sit

down there! Curl up if you like, and don't move till I come back!"

He indicated the sofa, and quite gently but with decision freed his arm

from the nervously gripping hands.

"You won't send me back?" the boy urged with quivering supplication.

"No, I won't do that," said Saltash as he went away.

He swore once or twice with considerable energy ere he returned, cursing

the absent Antonio in language that would have outmatched the Italian's

own. Then, having relieved his feelings, he abruptly laughed to himself

and pursued his errand with business-like briskness.

Returning, he found his _protégé_ in a small heap on the sofa, with his

head deep in the cushion as though he sought escape from the light. Again

the feeling of harbouring some small animal in pain came to him, and he

frowned. The mute misery of that huddled form held a more poignant appeal

than any words.

"Look here,--Toby!" he said. "I've brought you something to eat, and when

you've had it you'd better get a sleep. You can tell me all about it--if

you want to--in the morning."

The boy started upright at his coming. He looked at Saltash in his quick,

startled way. It was almost as if he expected a kick at any moment. Then

he looked at the tray he carried and suddenly his face crumpled; he hid

it in his hands.

"Oh, dash it!" said Saltash. "Let's have a little sense!"

He set down the tray and flicked the fair head admonishingly, with his

thumb, still frowning. "Come! Be a sport!" he said.

After a brief pause with a tremendous effort the boy pulled himself

together and sat up, but he did not raise his eyes to Saltash again. He

kept them fixed upon his hands which were tightly clasped in front of

him.

"I'll do--whatever you tell me," he said, in a low voice. "No one has

ever been so--decent to me before."

"Have one of those rolls!" said Saltash practically. "You'll talk better

with something inside you."

He seated himself on the edge of his bunk and lit another cigarette, his

attitude one of royal indifference, but his odd eyes flashing to and fro

with a monkey-like shrewdness that missed nothing of his desolate

companion's forlorn state.

"You've been doing this starvation business for some time, haven't you?"

he asked presently. "No wonder you didn't feel like work."

The boy's pinched face smiled, a small wistful smile. "I can work," he

said. "I can do anything--women's work as well as men's. I can cook and

clean boots and knives and sew on buttons and iron trousers and wash

shirts and wait on tables and make beds and sweep and--"

"For heaven's sake, stop!" said Saltash. "You make me giddy. Tell me the

things you can't do instead! It would take less time."

Toby considered for a few moments. "I can't drive cars," he said at

length. "But I can clean 'em, and I'd love to learn."

Saltash laughed. "That's the sole exception, is it? You seem to have

picked up a good deal in a short time. Did they teach you all that over

there?"

Toby shook his head. "I've knocked about a good lot," he said.

"And know everything evidently," said Saltash. "What made you think of

coming on board this yacht?"

The boy's eyes gave him a shining look. "Because she belongs to you," he

said.

"Oh!" Saltash puffed at his cigarette for a few seconds. "You'd made up

your mind to throw in your fortunes with mine, had you?"

Toby nodded. "I wanted to--if you'd have me."

"Seems I haven't much choice," remarked Saltash. "And what are you going

to do when you're tired of me? Fling yourself at someone else's head, I

suppose?"

Again he saw the hot colour flood the thin face, but the boyish eyes did

not flinch from his. "No, I shan't do that," said Toby, after brief

reflection. "I'll just go right under next time."

"Oh, will you?" said Saltash. "And so remain--a blot on my escutcheon for

all time. Well now, look here! You say you're honest?"

"Yes, sir," said Toby with breathless assurance, and sprang up and stood

before him with the words, as though challenging criticism.

Saltash poked at him with his foot, as he sat. "Make me a promise?" he

asked casually.

"Anything you wish, my lord," said Toby promptly.

Saltash grinned at him. "Be careful! I see you are of a rash and

impulsive disposition, and I like my slaves to have a little discretion.

The promise I want is that whatever happens to you,--however much I kick

you or bash you or generally ill-use you--you'll never jump overboard or

do anything silly of that kind. Is it done?"

Toby was standing before him, facing him with straight, candid eyes. He

did not seem surprised at the suggestion so coolly made. Saltash noted

that it certainly did not shock him.

"All right, sir," he said, after a moment.

"It's a promise, is it?" said Saltash.

Toby nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good!" said Saltash. He stretched out a hand and took him by one skinny

arm. "Better now?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord." Toby's eyes smiling into

his.

"Very well. I'll keep you," Saltash said. "Did anyone see you come

aboard?"

"No, my lord."

"Then you came with me, see? I brought you--if anyone wants to know."

"Very good, my lord. Thank you, my lord."

Saltash made a humorous grimace. "You can call me 'sir' if you like," he

said. "It makes no difference."

"Thank you, sir," said Toby with a responsive grin.

"And your name is Toby, is it? Toby what?"

"Toby Wright, sir." Very promptly the answer came.

Saltash's eyes scrutinized him with half derisive amusement. "I hope it's

a good fit," he remarked. "Well, look here, Toby, you must go to bed. Did

you bring any luggage on board?"

"No, sir. 'Fraid not, sir. Very sorry, sir. I came away in a hurry,"

explained Toby rather nervously.

"And stole the hotel livery," said Saltash.

"No, sir. Borrowed it," said Toby.

"Ho! You're going to pay for it, are you?" questioned Saltash.

"Yes, sir, some day. First money I get, sir. Don't want to have anything

belonging to that damn' Italian cur," said Toby, with much emphasis.

"Naughty! Naughty!" said Saltash, pinching his arm. "Well, come along,

and I'll show you where you can sleep. There's a small cabin out of my

dressing-room you can have for the present. I haven't got my valet on

board."

"Very good, sir, thank you. What time shall I call you, sir?" said Toby

brightly.

"You needn't call me," said Saltash. "You can just lie quiet and take

care of that black eye of yours. I'll let you know when I want you."

"Very good, sir," said Toby, looking crestfallen.

Saltash stood up. "And you'll do as you're told--see?--always! That's

understood, is it?"

Toby smiled again, eagerly, gratefully. "Yes, sir. Always, sir!" he said

promptly. "Shall I take off your boots before I go, sir?"

"No. Look after yourself for the present!" said Saltash. "And don't get

up to mischief! There's a strict captain in command of this boat, so

you'd better mind how you go."

The boy looked up at him with eyes of twinkling comprehension. He had

plainly forgotten the despair that had so nearly overwhelmed him.

"Oh, I'll be very good, sir," he promised. "I won't get you into trouble

anyhow, sir."

"You--imp!" said Saltash, pulling his ear. "Think I'll put up with your

impudence, do you? You'll play that game once too often if you're not

careful."

Toby hastened to adjust his features to a becoming expression of gravity.

"I won't, sir. No, I won't. I'll be a good servant to you--the best

you've ever had. I'll never forget your goodness to me, and I'll pay back

somehow--that I will, sir."

His boyish voice suddenly throbbed with emotion, and he stopped. Again

for a moment he had the forlorn look of a small animal astray from its

own.

Saltash patted his shoulder kindly. "All right. That'll do. Don't be

tragic about it! Come along to your burrow and have a good square sleep!"

He led him away without further words, and Toby went, gratefully and

submissively.

A few minutes later Saltash came back with a smile on his ugly face,

half-quizzical, and half-compassionate.

"Rum little devil!" he commented again as he began to undress. "So the

gods had a gift for me after all! Wonder what I shall do with it!"

And then abruptly the smile became a mocking grimace that banished all

the kindliness from his face. He snapped his fingers and laughed as he

had laughed a little earlier when his cigarette had fallen into the water

with a sound like the hiss of a serpent.

"I--wonder!" he said again.

CHAPTER IV

TOBY

It was contrary to Captain Larpent's habit to show surprise at any time,

whatever the caprices of his patron, but he did look at Saltash somewhat

harder than usual when the latter informed him in his breezy fashion of

the unexpected addition to the yacht's company. He also frowned a little

and smoothed his beard as though momentarily puzzled.

"You won't want to be bothered with him," he said after brief reflection.

"Better let him sleep in the forecastle."

"Not for the present," said Saltash. "I am going to train him, and I'll

keep him under my own eye. The little beggar has had a pretty rough time

of it to judge by appearances. I've a fancy for looking after him

myself."

"What are you going to make of him?" asked Larpent.

Saltash laughed carelessly, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "I'll

tell you that when I can show you the finished article. I'm keeping him

below for the present. He's got a prize-fighter's eye which is not

exactly an ornament. Like to have a look at him? You're ship's doctor."

Larpent shrugged his shoulders. "P'raps I'd better. I'm not over-keen on

sudden importations. You never know what they may bring aboard with

them."

Saltash's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Better inoculate the whole crew at

once! He's more like a stray spaniel than anything else."

"A King Charles!" suggested Larpent, with the flicker of an eyelid.

"Well, my lord, let's have a look at your latest find!"

They went below, Saltash whistling a careless air. He was usually in high

spirits when not suffering from boredom.

Someone else was whistling in the vicinity of his cabin, but it was not

from the valet's cabin that the cheery sounds proceeded. They found him

in the bathroom with an oily rag, rubbing up the taps.

He desisted immediately at their entrance and stood smartly at attention.

His eye was badly swollen and discoloured, he looked wretchedly ill, but

he managed to smile at Saltash, who took him by the shoulder and made

him face the light.

"What are you doing in here, you--scaramouch? Didn't I tell you to lie

still? Here he is, Larpent! What do you think of him? A poor sort of

specimen, eh?"

"What's his name?" said Larpent.

"Toby Barnes, sir," supplied the boy promptly.

"And there's nothing under the sun he can't do except drive cars," put in

Saltash, "and obey orders."

Toby winced a little. "I'm sorry, sir. Only wanted to be useful, sir.

I'll go back to bed if you say so."

"What do you say, Captain?" said Saltash.

Larpent bent and looked closely at the injured eye. "The sooner the

better," he said after a brief examination. "Stay in bed for a week, and

then I'll look at you again!"

"Oh, not a week!" exclaimed Toby, aghast, and then clapped a hand to his

mouth and was silent.

But his look implored Saltash who laughed and pinched the shoulder under

his hand. "All right. We'll see how you get on. If we meet any weather

you'll probably be only too thankful to stay there."

Toby smiled somewhat woefully, and said nothing.

Larpent stood up. "I'll fetch some stuff to dress it with. Better have it

bandaged. Pretty painful, isn't it?"

"No, sir," lied Toby valiantly. "Don't feel it at all."

But he shrank with a quick gasp of pain when Larpent unexpectedly touched

the injury.

"Don't hurt the child!" said Saltash sharply.

Larpent smiled his faint, sardonic smile, and turned away.

Toby laid his cheek with a winning, boyish gesture against the hand that

held him. "Don't make me go to bed, sir!" he pleaded. "I'll be miserable

in bed."

Saltash looked down at him with eyebrows comically working. "It is rather

a hole--that cabin of yours," he conceded. "You can lie on the couch in

my stateroom if you like. Don't get up to mischief, that's all! I'm

responsible for you, remember."

Toby thanked him humbly, swearing obedience and good behaviour. The

couch in Saltash's cabin was immediately under a porthole, and the fresh

sea-air blew straight in. He stretched his meagre person upon it with

a sigh of contentment, and Saltash smiled down upon him. "That's right.

You'll do there. Let's see! What did you say your name was?"

"Toby, sir."

"Toby Barnes or Toby Wright?" said Saltash.

The boy started, turned very red, then very white, opened his mouth to

speak, shut it tightly, and said nothing.

Saltash took out his cigarette-case and opened it with great

leisureliness. The smile still played about his ugly features as he chose

a cigarette. Finally he snapped the lid and looked down again at his

_protégé_.

"Or Toby nothing?" he said.

Toby's eyes came up to his, though the effort to raise them drew his face

painfully.

"Whatever you like, my lord," he said faintly. "I'll answer to anything."

Saltash's own face was curiously softened. He looked down at Toby for

some seconds in silence, idly tapping the cigarette he held against the

case. Then: "How old are you?" he asked suddenly.

"Sixteen, sir." Toby's eyes with their dumb pleading were still anxiously

raised to his.

Saltash bent abruptly and put his hand very lightly over them. "All

right. Don't hurt yourself!" he said kindly. "You're young enough to

chuck the past and start again."

Toby's claw-like hands came up and closed upon his wrist. "Wish I could,

sir," he whispered with lips that quivered. "Haven't had much of a

chance--so far, sir."

"All right," Saltash said again. "It's up to you. I shan't interfere.

Don't expect too much of me; that's all I ask! I'm not considered exactly

a suitable companion for young things like you."

He drew his hand away and lighted his cigarette. Toby turned his face

into the cushion and lay very still.

Larpent, returning, wondered what his patron had been saying to make the

boy's eyes wet with tears, but betrayed no curiosity on the subject.

"Are you going to let him stay in here?" he asked, as he bound a

lotion-soaked pad over the damaged eye.

"For the present," said Saltash. "Any objection?"

"Not the smallest." Larpent's tone was absolutely noncommittal. "Make him

lie quiet, that's all!"

"He'll do that," said Saltash with confidence.

"Good!" said Larpent. "We're in for a blow before we reach Gib or I'm

much mistaken."

"Do us all good," said Saltash with satisfaction.

Larpent looked grim and said no more.

"Frightened?" asked Saltash of Toby when he was gone.

Toby chuckled at the thought. "Not a bit, sir."

"Good sailor by any chance?" questioned Saltash.

"No, sir; rotten, sir." Quite undaunted came the reply.

"Well, shut your eyes and go to sleep!" commanded Saltash, and spread a

rug over the small, curled-up figure.

Toby murmured his thanks and relaxed with a big sigh of content.

Some hours later, when the blow that Larpent had prophesied had arrived

in earnest and the yacht was pitching on a wild sea in the light of a

lurid sunset, Saltash came below to change.

He was met by Toby, ghastly of face but still desperately smiling, who

sprang from his couch to wait upon him, and collapsed at his feet.

"Little ass!" said Saltash, barely preventing himself from tumbling over

him headlong.

He lifted the light, trembling figure and put it down again upon the

couch. Then he poured out a dose of brandy and water and, holding the

boy's head on his arm while the yacht lifted and tossed, compelled him to

drink it.

"Now you lie quiet!" he commanded. "Don't stir an eyelid till I give you

leave!"

The porthole was shut, and the atmosphere close and stuffy. Toby put

forth an appealing hand and clung to his protector's sleeve.

"Mayn't I come on deck, sir?" he murmured anxiously. "Please, sir!"

"No," said Saltash.

Toby said no more, but his fingers fastened like a bird's claw on the

man's arm, and he shivered.

"You're frightened!" said Saltash.

"No, sir! No, sir!" he protested.

"Yes, you are. You needn't bother to lie to me. I always know." Saltash's

voice held an odd note of comradeship. "Beastly sensation, isn't it? Have

some more brandy!"

Then, as Toby refused, he sat down abruptly on the edge of the couch and

thrust an arm out to him. Toby crept to him then like a nervous dog and

trembled against his side.

"Little ass!" said Saltash again. "Been lying here sweating with terror,

have you? There's nothing whatever to sweat about. She's as safe as

houses."

"Yes, sir. I know, sir," whispered Toby apologetically.

Saltash's arm surrounded him with a comforting closeness. "You miserable

little shrimp!" he said. "How's the head?"

"Better, sir. Thank you, sir," muttered Toby.

"Why not tell the truth for once and say it hurts like hell?" suggested

Saltash.

Toby was silent.

"Do you know what I'm going to do with you?" said Saltash.

"No, sir." Toby stirred uneasily.

The vessel pitched to a sudden slant and Saltash braced himself,

protecting the fair head from a blow against the woodwork behind him.

"I'm going to put you to bed in my bunk here," he said. "You've got to

have a decent night's rest. Did Murray look you out any spare slops? I

told him to."

"Oh, yes, sir. Thank you, sir. But I couldn't sleep in your bunk,

sir,--please, sir--indeed, sir!" Toby, still held by the sheltering arm,

waxed incoherent, almost tearful.

Saltash pulled him up short. "You'll do as I tell you--now and always,"

he said, with royal finality. "You've put yourself in my hands, and

you'll have to put up with the consequences. Got that?"

"Yes, sir," said Toby meekly.

"Then don't forget it!" said Saltash.

Toby subsided without further protest. Perhaps the brandy helped to make

him quiescent, or perhaps it was only the realization of his utter

weakness and dependence; but from that moment he was as submissive as if

he had been indeed the small captive animal to which his new owner had

likened him. At Saltash's behest and with his help, he presently crept

back to his own cabin to divest himself of his hotel-livery and don the

very roomy suit of pajamas that Murray the steward had served out to him.

Then, barefooted, stumbling, and shivering, he returned to where Saltash

leaned smoking in the narrow dressing-room, awaiting him.

Saltash's dark face wore a certain look of grimness. He bent without

words and lifted the shrinking figure in his arms.

Ten seconds later Toby sank down in a berth as luxurious as any ever

carried by private yacht.

He was still shivering though a grateful warmth came about him as Saltash

tucked him in. He tried to murmur thanks, but ended with a quivering chin

and silence.

"Go to sleep, you little ass!" commanded Saltash.

And so at last Toby slept, the deep, unstirring sleep of exhaustion,

utterly unconscious of his surroundings, unaware of the man who came in

and out watching that unchanging repose, sublimely oblivious of all

observation, sunk in a slumber so remote that it might have been the last

long rest of all.

Saltash spent the night on the velvet couch under the closed porthole,

dozing occasionally and always awakening with a jerk as the roll of the

vessel threatened to pitch him on to the floor of the cabin. It was not a

comfortable means of resting but he endured it in commendable silence

with now and then a grimace which said more than words.

And the little waif that the gods had flung to him slept in his bunk all

through the long hours as peacefully as an effigy upon a tomb.

CHAPTER V

DISCIPLINE

The storm spent itself before they reached Gibraltar, and Toby emerged

smiling from his captivity below. He still wore the brown and gold

hotel-livery as there was nothing else on board to fit him, but from

Gibraltar a small packet of notes was dispatched to Antonio by Saltash in

settlement of the loan.

"Now I've bought you--body and soul," he said to Toby, whose shining look

showed naught but satisfaction at the announcement.

The vivid colours of his injured eye had faded to a uniform dull yellow,

and he no longer wore a bandage. When they put to sea again he was no

longer an invalid. He followed Saltash wherever he went, attended

scrupulously to his comfort, and when not needed was content to sit

curled up like a dog close to him, dumb in his devotion but always ready

to serve him.

Saltash treated him with a careless generosity that veiled a good deal of

consideration. He never questioned him with regard to his past, taking

him for granted in a fashion that set Toby completely at ease. No one

else had much to do with him. Larpent ignored him, and Murray the steward

regarded him with a deep suspicion that did not make for intimacy.

And Toby was happy. Day after day his cheery whistle arose over his work

while he polished Saltash's boots and brushed his clothes, or swept and

dusted the state-cabin in which he slept. He himself had returned to his

own small den that led out of Saltash's dressing-room, but the

intervening doors were kept open by Saltash's command. They were always

within hail of each other.

They went into perfect summer weather, and for a blissful week they

voyaged through blue seas with a cloudless sky overhead. Toby's white

skin began to tan. The sharp lines went out of his face. His laugh was

frequent and wholly care-free. He even developed a certain impudence in

his attitude towards his master to which Saltash extended the same

tolerance that he might have shown for the frolics of a favourite dog. He

accepted Toby's services, but he never treated him wholly as a servant.

It was an odd companionship which only the isolated life they led during

those few days could have developed along those particular lines. When

Saltash was bored he amused himself with his protege, teaching him

picquet and chess, and finding in him an apt and eager pupil. There was a

good deal of the gambler's spirit in Toby, and Saltash idly fostered it

because it gave him sport. He laughed at his opponent's keenness,

supplied stakes for the game, even good-naturedly let himself be beaten.

And then one day he detected Toby cheating. It was an end that he might

have foreseen. He had encouraged the fever, he had practically sown the

seeds; but, strangely, he was amazed, more disconcerted than he had been

for years by the consequences. For it was not his way to disturb himself

over anything. His principles were easy to laxness. But that Toby--the

urchin he had sheltered and nursed like a sick puppy--should have done

this thing somehow cut clean through his complacence.

"I'm going to give you a licking for that," he said, black brows drawn to

a stern line. "You can go below and wait for it."

Toby went like an arrow, and Saltash spent the next half-hour pacing the

deck, cursing himself, the youngster, and the insane and ridiculous Fate

that had linked them together.

Then he went below to administer judicial corporal punishment to a human

being for the first time in his life. As he himself whimsically expressed

it, he had received ample correction during his own chequered career; but

he had never been in a position to correct anyone else.

He found Toby waiting for him in his shirt-sleeves, rather white but

quite composed, his riding-switch all ready to his hand.

"Ever been flogged before?" he asked him curtly as he picked it up.

"No, sir," said Toby, with downcast eyes.

"Why not?" There was a gibing note in Saltash's voice. "Never qualified

before?"

Toby shot him a swift and nervous glance that was like a flash of blue

flame. "No, sir. Never been caught before," he said.

Saltash's eyes flickered humour, but he steeled himself. "Well, you're

caught this time--fairly caught. I may not be a specially fit person to

punish you for it, but you won't be let off on that account."

"Go ahead, sir!" said Toby, with his hands twisted into a bony knot in

front of him.

And Saltash went ahead. His heart was not in the business, and as he

smote the narrow bent back it cried shame on him. Toby made no sound, but

at the third stroke he winced, and Saltash with a terrific oath in French

hurled his switch violently at the opposite wall.

"There! Don't do it again!" he said, and swung him round to face him.

"Sorry? What?"

Then he saw that Toby was crying, and abruptly let him go, striding out

through the dining-saloon and up the companion-way, swearing strange

oaths in varied languages as he went.

He was openly rude to Larpent when the latter sauntered up for a word

with him a little later, but Larpent, knowing him, merely hunched his

shoulders as his custom was and sauntered away again.

When Saltash went down to dress for dinner, he found his clothes laid out

as usual, but no Toby in attendance. His first impulse was to look for

him, but he checked it and dressed in solitude. This thing must be

conducted in the approved judicial manner at all costs.

Larpent was stolidly awaiting him in the saloon, and they sat down

together. Usually Toby stood behind his master's chair, and the vacant

place oppressed Saltash. He talked jerkily, with uneasy intervals of

silence.

Larpent talked not at all beyond the demands of ordinary courtesy. He ate

well, drank sparingly, and when not listening to Saltash's somewhat

spasmodic conversation appeared immersed in thought. When the meal was

over, he refused coffee, and rose to go on deck.

Then, abruptly, Saltash stayed him. "Larpent, wait a minute--unless

you're in a hurry! Have a cigar with me!"

Larpent paused, looking across at the dark, restless face with the air of

a man making a minute calculation. "Shall we smoke on deck, my lord?" he

said at length.

Saltash sprang up as though he moved on wires. "Yes, all right. Get the

cigars, Murray!" he commanded the steward; and to Larpent as the man went

to obey, "That's decent of you. Thought you were going to refuse. I was

damned offensive a while back. Accept my apologies! Fact is--I'm fed up

with this show. Sorry if I disappoint you, but I'm going home."

"You never disappoint me, my lord," said Larpent, with his enigmatical

smile.

Saltash gave him a keen look and uttered a laugh that was also not

without its edge. "I like you, Larpent," he said. "You always tell the

truth. Well, let's go! We shan't make Jamaica this trip, but it doesn't

matter. In any case, it's a shame to miss the spring in England."

"Or the Spring Meetings?" suggested Larpent, as he chose his cigar.

"Quite so," said Saltash, almost with relief. "My old trainer--the man

who bought my racing-stud--always looks for me about now. You ought to

meet him by the way. He is another speaker of cruel truths."

He thrust a hand through his captain's arm as they left the saloon, and

they went on deck together. Though Larpent never made any sign of

resentment, yet was Saltash never wholly at his ease when he knew that he

had taxed his forbearance until he had made amends. He took the trouble

to make himself unusually agreeable as they settled down to their smoke.

It was a night of glorious stars, the sea one vast stretch of silver

ripples, through which the yacht ran smoothly, leaving a wide white trail

behind her. Saltash lay in a deck-chair with his face to the sky, but his

attitude was utterly lacking in the solid repose that characterized his

companion. He smoked his cigar badly, with impatient pulls. When it was

half gone, he suddenly swore and flung it overboard.

"Larpent," he said, breaking a silence, "if you were a damned

rotter--like me--what should you do with yourself?"

Larpent turned his head and quietly surveyed him. "I shouldn't run a home

for waifs and strays," he said deliberately.

Saltash made a sharp movement. "Then I suppose you'd leave 'em in the

gutter to starve," he said, with suppressed vehemence.

"No, I shouldn't. I'd pay someone else--someone who wasn't what you

called yourself just now--to look after 'em." Larpent's voice was

eminently practical if somewhat devoid of sympathy. "Gutter-snipes are

damned quick to pick up--things they ought not," he observed dryly.

Saltash stirred uncomfortably in his chair as though something pricked

him. "Think I'm a contaminating influence?" he said.

Larpent shrugged his shoulders. "It's not for me to say. All diseases are

not catching--any more than they are incurable."

"Ho!" Saltash laughed suddenly and rather bitterly. "Are you

suggesting--a cure?"

Larpent turned his head back again and puffed a cloud of smoke upwards.

"There's a cure for most things," he observed.

"Can the Ethiopian change his skin?" gibed Saltash.

Larpent was silent for a space. Then: "A painful process no doubt!" he

said. "But more wonderful things have happened."

"Pshaw!" said Saltash.

Nevertheless when Larpent rose a little later and bade him good-night, he

reached up a couple of fingers in careless comradeship.

"Good-night, old fellow! Thanks for putting up with me! Sure you don't

want to kick me?"

"Not when you're kicking yourself," said Larpent with a grim hint of

humour.

He took the extended fingers and received a wiry handclasp that caused

him faint surprise. But then, he reflected as he went away, he had always

known Saltash to be a queer devil, oddly balanced, curiously impulsive,

strangely irresponsible, possessing through all a charm which seldom

failed to hold its own. He realized by instinct that Saltash was

wrestling with himself that night, but, though he knew him better than

did many, he would not have staked anything on the result. There were two

selves in Saltash and, in Larpent's opinion, one was as strong as the

other.

It was nearly an hour later that Saltash, prowling to and fro in the

starlight, became suddenly aware of a figure, small and slight, with

gleaming brass buttons, standing behind his vacant chair. He turned

sharply to look at it, some inexplicable emotion twitching his dark face.

Then abruptly he moved towards it, stood for a second as one in doubt,

then turned and sat down in silence.

But as he settled himself he stretched forth an arm with a snap of the

fingers, and in a flash Toby was kneeling by his side. The arm closed

around him like a spring, and Toby uttered a low, tense sob and hid his

face.

Thereafter for a while there was no sound beside the throb of engines and

wash of water. Saltash sat absolutely motionless with eyes half-closed.

Save for the vitality of his hold, he might have been on the verge of

slumber. And Toby, crouched with his head in his hands, was as a carven

image, neither stirring nor seeming to breathe.

The man moved at length, flicking his eyes open as though some unseen

force had prodded him into action. He spoke with a brevity that might

have denoted some sternness but for the close grip of his arm.

"Have you been sulking all this time?"

Toby started at his voice and burrowed a little deeper. "No, sir."

"Well, why didn't you come before?" said Saltash.

"I was--afraid," whispered Toby piteously.

"Afraid! Why on earth?" Saltash's hand suddenly found and fondled

the fair head. His speech was no longer curt, but gentle, with a

half-quizzical tenderness. "Aren't you rather an ass, boy? What was

there to be afraid of?"

Toby could not tell him. He only, after a moment, slipped down in a

sitting position by Saltash's side and rested with more assurance against

the encircling arm.

"Come! I didn't hurt you much," said Saltash.

"No, sir. You didn't hurt me--at all." Toby stammered a little.

"You--you--you meant--not to hurt me, didn't you?"

"I must hit harder next time evidently," observed Saltash, with a squeeze

of the narrow shoulders.

"No, sir--no, sir! There shan't be--a next time!" Toby assured him with

nervous vehemence. "I only did it just to see--just to see--I'll never do

it again, sir."

"Just to see what?" asked Saltash curiously.

But again Toby could not explain himself, and he did not press him.

"Well, you didn't do it at all well," he remarked. "I shouldn't certainly

make a profession of it if I were you. It's plainly not your _métier_."

He paused, but with the air of having something more to say. Toby waited

silently.

It came with a jerk and a grimace, as if some inner force compelled. "I

can't talk pi-jaw--on this subject or any other. You see--I'm a rotter

myself."

"You, sir!" Toby lifted his head suddenly and stared at him with eyes

that blazed passionately blue in the starlight. "Don't believe it!" he

said. "It isn't true."

Saltash grinned a little. His face had the dreary look of something lost

that a monkey's sometimes wears. "You needn't believe it, son, if you

don't want to," he said. "But it's true all the same. That's why I gave

you that licking, see? Just to emphasize the difference between us."

"It isn't true!" Toby asserted again almost fiercely. "I'd kill anyone

else that said so."

"Oh, you needn't do that!" said Saltash, with kindly derision. "Thanks

all the same, my turkey-cock! If I ever need your protection I'll be sure

to ask for it." He flicked the young face with his finger. "But you're

not to follow my example, mind. You've got to run straight. You're young

enough to make it worth while, and--I'll see you have a chance."

"But you'll keep me with you, sir," said Toby swiftly. "You'll keep

me--always--with you!"

"Ah!" Saltash's brows twisted oddly for a second. He seemed to ponder the

matter. "I can't say off-hand what I'm going to do with you," he said.

"You're--a bit of a problem, you know, Toby."

"Yes, sir. I know. I know." Toby's voice was quick with agitation. "But

you won't send me away from you! Promise you won't send me away!"

"Can't promise anything," said Saltash. "Look here! I think there's been

enough of this. You'd better go to bed."

But Toby was clinging fast to his hand. He spoke between quivering lips.

"Please, sir, you said you'd bought me body and soul. You can't mean to

chuck me away--after that! Please, sir, I'll do anything--anything under

the sun--for you. And you--you can kick me--do anything to me--and I'll

never say a word. I'm just yours--for as long as I live. Please,

sir--please, sir--don't send me away! I--I'd rather die than that."

He laid his head suddenly down upon the hand he held so tenaciously and

began to sob, fighting desperately to stifle all sound.

Saltash sat for a few moments in utter silence and immobility. Then,

abruptly, in a tense whisper, he spoke:

"Toby, you little fool, stop it--stop it, do you hear?--and go below!"

The words held a queer urgency. He raised himself as he uttered them,

seeking to free his hand though with all gentleness from the clinging

clasp.

"Get up, boy!" he said. "Get up and go to bed! What? Oh, don't cry! Pull

yourself together! Toby, do you hear?"

Toby lifted a white, strained face. His eyes looked enormous in the dim

light. "Yes, sir. All right, sir," he jerked out, and stumbled trembling

to his feet. "I know I'm a fool, sir. I'm sorry. I can't help it. No one

was ever decent to me--till you came. I--shall just go under now, sir."

"Oh, stop it!" Saltash spoke almost violently. "Can't you see--that's

just what I want to prevent? You don't want to go to the devil, I

suppose?"

Toby made a passionate gesture that was curiously unboylike. "I'd go to

hell and stay there for ever--if you were there!" he said.

"Good God!" said Saltash.

He got up in his sudden fashion and moved away, went to the rail and

stood there for a space with his face to the rippling sheen of water.

Finally he turned and looked at the silent figure waiting beside his

chair, and a very strange smile came over his dark features. He came

back, not without a certain arrogance, and tapped Toby on the shoulder.

"All right," he said. "Stay with me and be damned if you want to! I

daresay it would come to the same thing in the end."

Toby drew himself together with a swift movement. "That means you'll keep

me, sir?"

His eyes, alight and eager, looked up to Saltash with something that was

not far removed from adoration in their shining earnestness.

The strange smile still hovered about Saltash's face; a smile in which

cynicism and some vagrant, half-stifled emotion were oddly mingled.

"Yes, I'll keep you," he said, and paused, looking at him oddly.

Toby's eyes, very wide open, intensely bright, looked straight back. "For

good, sir?" he said anxiously.

And Saltash laughed, a brief, mocking laugh. "For better, for worse, my

Toby!" he said. "Now--go!"

He smote him a light friendly blow on the shoulder and flung round on his

heel.

Toby went, very swiftly, without looking back.

CHAPTER VI

THE ABYSS

They sighted the English shore a few days later on an evening of mist and

rain. The sea was grey and dim, the atmosphere cold and inhospitable.

"Just like England!" said Saltash. "She never gushes over her prodigals."

He was dining alone in the saloon with Toby behind his chair, Larpent

being absent on the bridge.

"Don't you like England, sir?" said Toby.

"I adore her," said Saltash with his most hideous grimace. "But I don't

go to her for amusement."

Toby came forward to fill his glass with liqueur. "Too strait-laced,

sir?" he suggested with the suspicion of a smile.

Saltash nodded with a sidelong glance at the young face bent over the

decanter. "Too limited in many ways, my Toby," he said. "But at the same

time useful in certain emergencies. A stern mother perhaps, but a wise

one on the whole. You, for instance--she will be the making of you."

A slight tremor went through Toby. He set down the decanter and stepped

back. "Of me, sir?" he said.

Saltash nodded again. He was fingering the stem of his glass, his

queer eyes dancing a little. "We've got to make a respectable citizen

of you--somehow," he said.

"Do you think that matters, sir?" said Toby.

Saltash raised his glass. "You won't always be a boy of sixteen, you

know, Toby," he said lightly. "We've got to think of the future--whether

we want to or not."

"I don't see why, sir," said Toby.

"You see, you're young," said Saltash, and drank with the air of one who

drinks a toast.

Suddenly he turned in his chair, the glass still in his hand.

"Our last night on board!" he said, with a royal gesture of invitation.

"You shall drink with me."

Toby's face flushed burningly. He hung back. "Not--not--from your glass,

sir!" he said. "Not--liqueur!"

"Why not? Afraid?" mocked Saltash.

Toby was silent. His hand closed involuntarily upon the back of his

master's chair. The flush died out of his face.

Saltash sat and looked at him for a few seconds, still with that dancing

gleam in his eyes. Then abruptly he moved, rose with one knee upon the

chair, lifted the glass to Toby's lips.

"Afraid?" he said again, speaking softly as one speaks to a frightened

child.

Toby raised a hand that sought to take the glass but closed instead

nervously upon Saltash's wrist. He drank in response to Saltash's

unspoken insistence, looking straight at him the while.

Then oddly he smiled. "No, not afraid, sir," he said. "Only--lest I might

not bring you luck."

"Oh, don't fret yourself on that account!" said Saltash. "I'm not used to

any luck."

Toby's eyes widened. "I thought you had--everything, sir," he said.

Saltash laughed and set down the empty glass. "_Au contraire, mon cher_,"

he said. "I am no richer than you are. Like Tantalus, I can never quench

my thirst. Like many a better man than I, I see the stars, but I never

reach them."

"Does anybody?" said Toby in the tone of one not expecting an answer.

Saltash laughed briefly, enigmatically. "I believe some people soar. But

they generally come down hard in the end. Whereas those who always crawl

on the earth haven't far to fall. Now look here, Toby, you and I have got

to have a talk."

"Yes, sir," said Toby, blinking rather rapidly.

Saltash was watching him with a faint smile in his eyes, half-derisive

and half-tender. "What are you going to be, Toby?" he said. "It all turns

on that."

Toby's hand still gripped the back of his chair. He stood up very

straight, facing him. "That is for you to decide, sir," he said.

"Is it?" said Saltash, and again his eyes gleamed a little. "Is it for me

to decide?"

"Yes, sir. For you alone." There was no flinching in Toby's look now. His

eyes were wide and very steady.

Saltash's mouth twitched as if he repressed some passing emotion. "You

mean--just that?" he asked, after a moment.

"Just that, sir," said Toby, with a slight quickening of the breath. "I

mean I am--at your disposal alone."

Saltash took him suddenly by the shoulder and looked at him closely.

"Toby!" he said. "Aren't you making--rather a fool of yourself?"

"No, sir!" Swiftly, with unexpected vehemence, Toby made answer. "I'm

doing--the only thing possible. But if you--if you--if you--"

"Well?" Saltash said. "If I what?"

"If you want to get rid of me--at any time," Toby said, commanding

himself with fierce effort, "I'll go, sir--I'll go!"

"And where to?" Saltash's eyes were no longer derisive; they held

something that very few had ever seen there.

Toby made a quick gesture of the hands, and dropped them flat at his

sides. "I'll get rid of myself--then, sir," he said, with sudden chill

pride. "That won't be very difficult. And I'll do it--so that you won't

even know."

Saltash stood up abruptly. "Toby, you are quite unique!" he said. "Superb

too in your funny little way. Your only excuse is that you're young. Does

it never occur to you that you've attached yourself to the wrong person?"

"No, sir," breathed Toby.

"You're not afraid to stake all you've got on a bad card?" pursued

Saltash, still curiously watching him.

"No, sir," he said again; and added with his faint, unboyish smile, "I

haven't much to lose anyway."

Saltash's hand tightened upon him. He was smiling also, but the gleam in

his eyes had turned to leaping, fitful flame. "Well," he said slowly, "I

have never yet refused--a gift from the gods."

And there he stopped, for suddenly, drowning all speech, there arose a

din that seemed to set the whole world rocking; and in a moment there

came a frightful shock that pitched them both headlong to the floor.

Saltash fell as a monkey falls, catching at one thing after another to

save himself, landing eventually on his knees in pitch darkness with one

hand still gripped upon Toby's thin young arm. But Toby had struck his

head against a locker and had gone down stunned and helpless.

The din of a siren above them filled the world with hideous clamour as

Saltash recovered himself. "Damn them!" he ejaculated savagely. "Do they

want to deafen us as well as send us to perdition?"

Then very suddenly it stopped, leaving a void that was instantly filled

with lesser sounds. There arose a confusion of voices, of running feet, a

hubbub of escaping steam, and a great rush of water.

Saltash dragged himself up in the darkness, sought to drag Toby also,

found him a dead weight, stooped and lifted him with wiry strength.

He trod among broken glass and plates as he straightened himself. The

noise above them was increasing. He flung the limp form over his shoulder

and began desperately to claw his way up a steep slant towards the

saloon-door and the companion-way. Sound and instinct guided him, for the

darkness was complete. But he was not the man to die like a trapped

animal while the most slender way of escape remained. Hampered as he was,

he made for the open with set teeth and terrible foreign oaths of which

he was utterly unconscious.

Whether that fierce struggle for freedom could ever have ended in success

single-handed, however, was a point which he was not destined to decide,

for after a space of desperate effort which no time could measure, there

suddenly shone the gleam of an electric torch in front of him, and he saw

the opening but a few feet away.

"Saltash!" cried a voice, piercing the outer din, "Saltash!"

"Here!" yelled back Saltash, still fighting for foothold and finding it

against the leg of the table, "That you, Larpent? How long have we got?"

"Seconds only!" said Larpent briefly. "Give me the child!"

"No! Just give me a hand, that's all! Hang on tight! It'll be a pull."

Saltash flung himself forward again, his free hand outstretched, slipped

and nearly fell on his face, then was caught by a vice-like grip that

drew him upward with grim strength. In a moment he was braced against the

frame of the door, almost standing on it, the saloon gaping below him--a

black pit of destruction. Larpent's torch showed the companion stairs

practically perpendicular above them.

"Go on!" said Larpent. "Better give me the child. It's you that matters."

"Get out, damn you!" said Saltash, and actually grinned as he began to

climb with his burden still hanging upon his shoulder.

Larpent came behind him, holding his torch to light the way. They climbed

up into a pandemonium indescribable, a wild torrent of sound.

There was light here that shone in a great flare through billows of fog,

showing the monster form of a great vessel towering above them with only

a few yards of mist-wreathed water between. The deck on which they stood

sloped upwards at an acute angle, and still from below there came the

clamour of escaping steam accompanied by a spasmodic throbbing that was

like the futile beating of giant wings against Titanic bars.

A knot of men were struggling to lower a boat by the ghostly glare that

lit the night about them, clambering and slipping against the rails,

while a voice from beyond the fog-curtain yelled through a megaphone

unintelligible commands.

All these things were registered upon Saltash's brain, his quick

perception leaping from point to point with a mental agility that was

wholly outside all conscious volition on his part. He was driven by

circumstance as a bird is driven by storm, and he went before it

undismayed, missing no chance of refuge.

A life-buoy hanging beside the hatch caught his eye as he glanced swiftly

around and in a second he pounced upon it. Toby slipped from his shoulder

as he bent, and slipping awoke. But he only lay and stared with dazed

eyes at the man frantically unlashing the rope, as one who looked on from

afar.

Then Larpent was with them again. He dragged Toby to his feet, and in a

flash Saltash turned, the life-buoy on his arm.

"What the devil are you doing?"

Larpent pointed. "They've got the boat free. Go--while you can!"

But Saltash barely glanced across. He put the life-buoy over Toby's head

and shoulders, and began to wind the rope around him. It did not need a

glance to know that the boat would never get away.

At his action Toby gasped, and sudden understanding awoke in his eyes. He

dragged one arm free, and made as if he would cling to Saltash.

"Keep me with you, sir!" he cried out wildly. "Don't make me go alone!"

Saltash gripped the clutching hand, dropping the end of rope. It trailed

down, and Larpent caught it, flung it round Saltash's body, and knotted

it while he was lifting Toby over the rail.

Then for a second Saltash hung, one hand still gripping Toby's, the other

holding to the rail of his sinking yacht, the two of them poised side by

side above the abyss.

"You'll save yourself, Larpent!" he cried. "I shall want you."

And with that he turned suddenly to his shivering companion and

actually smiled into the terrified eyes. "Come on, Toby!" he said. "We

go--together!"

He flung his leg over with the words, and leapt straight downwards.

Toby's shriek sounded through the tumult as they went into the grey

depths.

CHAPTER VII

LARPENT'S DAUGHTER

The sinking of _The Night Moth_ after being in collision with the liner,

_Corfe Castle_, bound for Brazil, was an event of sufficient importance

to be given a leading place in the newspapers of the following day. Lord

Saltash was well-known as a private yachtsman, and the first account

which reported him amongst the drowned was received with widespread

regret throughout that circle in which he was a familiar figure. Then at

a later hour came its contradiction, and his friends smiled and remarked

that he had the facility of an eel for getting out of tight corners, and

that they would never believe him dead till they had been to his funeral.

Long before the publication of the second report, Saltash was seated in

the captain's cabin on board the _Corfe Castle_, with a strong brandy and

soda before him, giving a brief and vigorous account of himself and his

company. Yes, he was Charles Burchester, Viscount Saltash, owner of the

private yacht, _The Night Moth_. He was returning from Valrosa alone with

his captain and his crew. They had been cruising in the Atlantic with the

idea of going south, but he had recently changed his mind and decided

to go home. He had not expected such damnable luck as to be run down in

home waters, but he supposed that Fate was against him. He only asked now

to be put ashore as soon as possible, being for the moment heartily sick

of sea-travel. This with his most rueful grimace which Captain Beaumont

of the _Corfe Castle_ received with gravely official sympathy.

"Well, I hope you don't blame us for your bad luck," he said. "We might

have been sunk ourselves."

"I never blame anyone but the devil for that," said Saltash generously.

"And as you managed to pick us all up I am glad on the whole that you

weren't."

And then he turned sharply at a knock on the door behind him to see a

lean, lank man enter who peered at him curiously through screwed-up eyes

as though he had never seen anything like him before.

Captain Beaumont introduced him. "This is Dr. Hurst. He has come to

report. Well, doctor? I hope you bring good news."

Dr. Hurst came forward to the table, still looking very attentively at

Saltash.

The latter's odd eyes challenged him with royal self-assurance. "Well?

What is the news?" he questioned. "Fished for a sprat and caught a

whale--or is it t'other way round?"

The doctor cleared his throat and turned to the captain. "Yes, my report

is good on the whole," he said. "None of the men are seriously injured,

thanks to your prompt rescue measures. Captain Larpent is still

unconscious; he is suffering from concussion. But I believe he will

recover. And--and--" he hesitated, looking again at Saltash--"the--the

person whose life you saved--"

Saltash leaned back in his chair, grinning mischievously. "To be sure!

The person--whose life I saved! What of that person, Dr. Hurst?"

"Had you a passenger?" interrupted the captain. "I understood you saved a

cabin-boy."

"Pray continue!" he said lightly. "What of the cabin-boy? None the worse,

I hope?"

The doctor's lank figure drew together with a stiff movement of distaste.

"I see," he said, "that you are aware of a certain fact which I must

admit has given me a somewhat unpleasant surprise."

Saltash turned abruptly to the captain. "You ask me if I had a

passenger," he said, speaking briefly, with a hint of hauteur. "Before

you also begin to be unpleasantly surprised, let me explain that I had a

child on board who did not belong to the ship's company."

"A child?" Captain Beaumont looked at him in astonishment. "I thought--I

understood--Do you mean the boy?"

"Not a boy, no,--a girl!" Saltash's voice was suddenly very suave; he was

smiling still, but there was something rather formidable about his smile.

"A young girl, Captain Beaumont, but amply protected, I assure you. It

was our last night on board. She was masquerading in the state-cabin in a

page's livery when you struck us. But for Larpent we should have been

trapped there like rats when the yacht went down. He came and hauled us

out, and we saved the child between us." He turned again to the doctor,

his teeth gleaming fox-like between his smiling lips. "Really, I am sorry

to disappoint you," he said. "But the truth is seldom as highly-coloured

as our unpleasant imaginings. The child is--Larpent's daughter." He rose

with the words, still suavely smiling. "And now, if she is well enough, I

am going to ask you to take me to her. It will be better for her to hear

about her father from me than from a stranger."

Though courteously uttered, his words contained a distinct command. The

doctor looked at him with the hostility born of discomfiture, but he

raised no protest. Somehow Saltash was invincible at that moment.

"Certainly you can see her if you wish," he said stiffly. "In fact, she

has been asking for you."

"Ah!" said Saltash, and turned with ceremony to the captain. "Have I your

permission to go, sir?"

"Of course--of course!" the captain said. "I shall hope to see you again

later, Lord Saltash."

"Thank you," said Saltash, and relaxed into his sudden grin. "I should

have thought you would be glad to get rid of me before my bad luck

spreads any further."

The _Corfe Castle_, herself slightly damaged, was putting back to

Southampton to land the victims of the disaster, and to obtain some

necessary repairs. The weather was thickening, and progress was slow, but

they expected to arrive before mid-day. Saltash, carelessly sauntering in

the doctor's wake, found himself the object of considerable interest on

the part of those passengers who were already up in the murk of the early

morning. He was stopped by several to receive congratulations upon his

escape, but he refused to be detained for long. He had business below, he

said, and the doctor was waiting. And so at last he came to a cabin at

the end of a long passage, at the door of which a kind-faced stewardess

met them and exchanged a few words with his guide.

"Can I go in?" said Saltash, growing impatient.

The woman looked at him with wonder and compassion in her eyes. "The poor

little thing is very upset," she said. "She lies and trembles, and has

hardly spoken at all except to ask for you."

"Well, let me in!" said Saltash, suddenly imperious. "I've got something

to tell her."

He had his way, for there was something about him that compelled just

then. He entered the cabin as a king might enter the apartment of a

slave, and he shut the door with decision upon those without.

Then for a second--just for a second--he hesitated. "Toby!" he said.

A meagre form sprang upright in the bunk at the sound of his voice. Two

bare, skinny arms reached out to him. Then with a single stride Saltash

was beside the bunk and was holding tightly to him a small, whimpering

creature that hid its face very deeply against his breast and clutched at

him piteously whenever he sought to raise it.

Saltash bent his dark head over the fair one and spoke very gently, yet

with authority. "It's all right, child. I know. I've known all along!

Don't fret yourself! There's no need. I've got you under my protection.

You're safe."

"You--know!" whispered the muffled voice--Toby's voice, but strangely

devoid of Toby's confidence. "What must you--think?"

"I!" Saltash laughed a little. "I never think. I give

everyone--always--the benefit of the doubt; which is considerably more

than anyone ever gives me."

"And--you saved my life!" gasped Toby "Why did you? Why did you?"

"I wanted it," said Saltash promptly. "Now listen a moment! We've done

with this show. It's played out. We'll ring up on another. You've got to

change your name again. I'm telling everyone you're Larpent's daughter."

That brought the fair head upwards very swiftly. The blue eyes with their

short black lashes looked straight up to his. "But--but--Captain

Larpent--"

"Oh, never mind Larpent! I'll square him." Saltash's look flashed over

the pale, tear-stained face. His hold, though close, no longer compelled.

"Leave it all to me! Don't you fret! I'll square Larpent. I'll square

everybody. You lie low till they put us ashore! After that--do you think

you can--trust me?"

He spoke with comically twisted eyebrows and a smile half-kindly and

half-quizzical. And the forlorn little creature in his arms turned with a

swooping, passionate movement, caught one of his hands and pressed it to

quivering lips.

"I'll live--or die--for your sake!" the trembling voice told him. "I'm

just--yours."

Saltash stopped abruptly and laid his face for a moment against the

shorn, golden head. Just for that moment a hint of emotion showed in his

strange eyes, but it was gone instantly.

He raised himself again with a grimace of self-ridicule. "Well, look

here! Don't forget to play the game! Larpent--your daddy--is knocked out,

remember. He is unconscious for the present, but the doctor chap seems to

think he'll be all right. A nasty suspicious person that doctor, so watch

out! And let me see! What is Toby short for? I'd better know."

"Antoinette," whispered the lips that still caressed his hand.

"Antoinette!" Saltash's hand closed softly upon the pointed chin, softly

lifted it. "I think _Mignonette_ would suit you better," he said, in his

quick, caressing way. "It's time I chose a name for you, _ma chère_. I

shall call you that."

"Or just Nonette of Nowhere," breathed the red lips, piteously smiling.

"That would suit me--best of all."

"No--no!" said Saltash, and gently relinquished his hold. "Don't forget

that you are a favourite of the gods! That counts for something, my Toby.

They don't take up with everybody."

"They haven't done much for me so far," said Toby, suddenly rebellious.

"Hush!" said Saltash, with semi-comic warning. "You are too young to say

that."

"I am--older than you think, sir," said Toby, colouring painfully and

turning from his look.

"No, you're not!" Swiftly, with a certain arrogance, Saltash made answer.

"I know--how old you are, child. It is written in your eyes. They have

always told me--all I need to know." Then, very tenderly, as Toby's hands

covered them from his look: "_Mais, Mignonette_, they have never told me

anything that you could wish me not to know."

He slipped his arm again about the slender shoulders and pressed them

closely for a moment. Then he stood up and turned to go.

He was smiling as he passed out--the smile of the gambler who knows that

he holds a winning card.

PART II

CHAPTER I

JAKE BOLTON

It was a week after the sinking of _The Night Moth_ that Saltash, very

immaculately dressed, with field-glasses slung over his shoulder, made

his first appearance since the disaster at a meeting on the Graydown

Race-course, a few miles from his ancient castle of Burchester. He was

looking very well pleased with himself and certainly none the worse for

the adventure as he sauntered among his friends, of whom a good many were

present. His ugly face and wiry figure were well-known at Graydown, and

he seemed sure of his welcome wherever he went.

There had been a time years before when he had kept his own stud, and

racing had been his hobby. It had not held him for long. He was not the

man to pursue any one object for any length of time. With characteristic

volatility he had thrown up this amusement to follow others, but he had

never wholly abandoned his interest in the stud which had once been his.

It was owned by one, Jake Bolton, a man of rugged exterior whose

integrity had become a proverb on the Turf. This man was Saltash's

erstwhile trainer, and a very curious bond existed between them. Utterly

unlike in every respect, the one as subtle as the other was simple, yet

the two men were friends. How it had come about neither of them quite

knew. When Saltash had been his employer, Jake Bolton had distrusted and

despised him, but by some means this attitude of his had become very

materially modified. He greeted Saltash now with the hand of friendship

which Saltash on his part was always ready to accept with a baffling

smile that was not wholly without irony. He was wont to say that any man

could make an enemy of him, but no man could keep him as such. Perhaps it

was that very volatility of his which made anything of the nature of

prolonged enmity an impossibility. He possessed also that maddening sense

of humour that laughs at deadly things. A good many people had tried to

take him seriously and had failed. He was never serious. As he used to

say with his mocking laugh, life was difficult enough without

complications of that sort. All he ever asked of it was a certain mead

of enjoyment. It was utterly unreasonable to expect anything else.

Happiness! What was it. A bursting bubble, no more. No lasting joy had

ever come his way, and he was fain to believe that such a thing did not

exist outside the covers of a book.

Jake Bolton could have told him otherwise, but he and Saltash never spoke

of abstract things. Saltash might have seen the deep content in the man's

eyes, but if he had, he would probably have scoffed at it. In any case

there was certainly no denying that he and Bolton had been cast in

different moulds, and that which gave life-long satisfaction to the

latter would have held the former for possibly but a very brief period.

As a woman friend who knew him well had once said of him, Charles Rex was

too rapid a traveller to gather much upon the way. For though keen for

pleasure, he was too restless for its enjoyment when attained. But even

that friend had not fathomed all the possibilities of that strange

personality. Perhaps there was only one woman in the world who would ever

do that.

It was a showery spring day, and the turf of the race-course shone with a

fresh greenness. Saltash strolled through the paddock to find Jake

Bolton, whistling a careless air as he went. Several stable-boys saluted

him as he passed, and finally a man he knew, Sam Vickers, Bolton's

right-hand man, came up and accosted him.

"Are you looking for Mr. Bolton, my lord? He's round by the boxes with

Sir Bernard Brian. We've got our best two-year-old round there--Prince

Charlie his name is. He's by the old Hundredth Chance and Queen of the

Earth. Your lordship ought to see him. He is a royalty and no mistake;

tame as a dog too, and that knowing--well, there, you'd hardly believe

it, but we have to talk in French sometimes so as he shan't know what we

say!"

Saltash chuckled. "You must let me hear you, Sam. All right. I'll go

round. Ah! Here is Sir Bernard! Hullo, Bunny, my boy! You, is it? Where's

the boss?"

A black-haired, black-eyed lad of about three-and-twenty, handsome,

spare, and very upright, had come suddenly round the corner of a

building. He greeted Saltash with enthusiasm.

"Why, Charlie! I'm awfully pleased to see you! We all thought you were

done for. How are you, I say? It was rotten luck for you to lose the poor

old _Night Moth_ like that. Hope she was decently insured. And you're

none the worse?"

"Not a mite!" laughed Saltash. "How are you? As skimpy a bag of bones as

ever?"

"Oh, dash it! I've grown!" protested Bunny. "I'm as tall as you are

anyway."

"Oh, you're long enough," chaffed Saltash. "But you're too damn slim! I

should think Maud could get you through her wedding-ring if she tried."

"Shut up!" growled Bunny who was somewhat sensitive on the point of

physical shortcomings. "I'm well enough, so what does it matter? Are you

coming round to see Maud when this show is over?"

"Depends," grinned Saltash.

"What's it depend on?" Bunny linked an arm in his and drew him forward;

they were friends of many years' standing.

Saltash looked at him with his odd eyes that always seemed to be

speculating like a monkey's, as to how far his next jump would carry him.

"Depends upon Jake of course. Your good brother-in-law doesn't always

invite the wolf into the fold, _mon cher_."

"As if you needed an invitation!" ejaculated Bunny impatiently. "Well, I

invite you anyway. I know Maud will be awfully disappointed if you don't

come and tell her all about your adventure. We were talking about you

only this morning."

"Really!" said Saltash. "Would it be rude to ask what you were saying?"

Bunny's thin face flushed. "You're welcome to know so far as I'm

concerned," he said bluntly. "I always stick up for you, Charlie."

"Do you? _Mais vraiment!_" protested Saltash. "I am touched beyond words.

And what says Brother Jake to that?"

"Oh, Jake says I'm an ass, but he's quite decent about you,

Charlie,--rather fond of you in fact. Don't run away with that idea!"

begged Bunny, turning still redder. "Only people jaw a lot about you, you

know. No one ever can be content to mind their own business."

"He'd be a fool who was," said Saltash. "There's no such thing as

independent action in this world. We all hang to each other like swarming

bees. So you've been sticking up for me, have you? And what says Sister

Maud?"

Bunny broke into a sudden laugh. "Oh, she's decided to reserve judgment.

You'll have to come and see her. You really must. And the kids too--four

of 'em now. The eldest is a darling."

"Eileen! Oh, I know Eileen," said Saltash. "I was actually allowed to

have her to tea once at the Castle. I am not supposed to have such a

venomous effect upon quite small girls as upon young men of two or three

and twenty."

"Oh, shut up!" Bunny growled again. "There's Jake, look! Come and speak

to him!"

There was nothing ornamental about Jake Bolton. Short, thick-set,

powerful as a bull and with something of a bull's unswerving contempt for

all obstacles in his path, with red-brown eyes that were absolutely level

in their regard and mercilessly keen, such was the man who had married

Maud Brian eight years before, practically in the teeth of Saltash who

had wooed her in her girlhood. There was no feud between them. Their

enmity was long since dead and buried. Saltash could be intolerably

malicious and even vindictive when the mood took him, but his moods never

lasted. And as for Bolton, since he had won and still possessed his

heart's desire, he could afford to be generous.

His greeting was generous now, but it was not wholly without reserve. He

gave Saltash a square hand-grip before he uttered a word.

Then: "Glad you're safe and sound, my lord," he said, in a voice that was

curiously soft and deliberate.

"That's uncommon kind of you, Jake," laughed Saltash, with his royal air

of graciousness. "I share the sentiment. I know you would all have been

heart-broken if I hadn't turned up again. How is Maud?"

"Very well--if she doesn't work too hard. I have to keep her in order in

that respect," said Jake Bolton with a sudden smile that swept all the

somewhat dominant lines from his face.

Saltash grinned in sympathy. "You always were a bully, but I'll bet she

gets her own way all the same. So you've got a boy at last! Hope it's a

good one!"

"He'd better be, hadn't he, Jake?" struck in Bunny. "The imp is six

months old now and goes for a canter on The Hundredth Chance every day

when I'm at home. You actually haven't seen him yet, Charlie? What a

rotter you were to be away all the winter!"

"Well, I'm home now anyway," said Saltash, with a comical glance at Jake.

"Am I to be allowed to call and view the latest acquisition?"

Jake was looking straight at him. "Are you--alone at the Castle, my

lord?" he asked after a moment.

Saltash began to laugh. "Of course I'm alone! What did you expect? Ah, I

see!" His glance flashed to Bunny. "Yes, I am quite alone--most

conspicuously and virtuously unaccompanied. Come and see for yourself!

Search the Castle from turret-chamber to dungeon! You will find nothing

but the most monastic emptiness. I've turned into a hermit. Haven't they

made that discovery yet? My recent deliverance from what I must admit was

a decidedly awkward predicament in the Channel has sobered me to such an

extent that on my life I begin to doubt if I shall ever be anything but a

dull dog again. Yes, that's the truth, Jake. You can take it or leave it.

But I'm coming to see Maud in any case. When is my presence least likely

to cause you inconvenience?"

"Oh, damn it, Jake!" broke in Bunny with sudden heat. "You know Maud said

you were to ask him to dine if he turned up."

"You shut up, my son!" commanded Jake with absolute serenity. "It's not

any business of yours anyway. We'll send you to bed before dinner if you

aren't mighty careful."

Bunny laughed at the threat, but his sallow boyish face coloured

sensitively notwithstanding.

Saltash laughed also. "Oh, you needn't do that, Jake. I'm as harmless as

any sucking dove, I assure you. You'll have to put up with me now. When

shall I come?"

"Come tonight!" said Jake with quiet decision. "Eight o'clock if that

suits you. Afraid I must go now. Bunny, take his lordship to see Prince

Charlie!"

He lifted a hand in salute and turned away--a man of no pretensions

either social or intellectual, yet who knew how to hold his own with high

and low alike.

"Keeps you in order still, does he?" gibed Saltash, as he watched him go.

"You're getting too old to be on a leading-string, _mon cher_."

Bunny frowned at the careless words. "You don't know him. He's not that

sort of ass. We're pals, Jake and I, and I'm proud of it."

"Of course you are!" said Saltash comfortably. "Didn't I tell you long

ago that he was a gentleman? It's the way he's made. Hewn out of raw

material, but the real thing and no mistake. You must never quarrel with

him on my account, Bunny, my lad. It would be very poor economy on your

part."

"I shan't do that," said Bunny. "But he's got to do you justice. Maud

says the same."

Saltash laughed aloud. "But, my dear chap, nobody ever does that! I don't

myself!"

Bunny looked at him with affection. "You always have tried to make

yourself out a worse rotter than you really are, haven't you, Charlie?

I always tell Jake so."

"No, it's not my doing," said Saltash lightly. "That's the rest of the

world, _mon ami_. They like their pictures highly coloured. So--_pourquoi

pas_?"

He snapped his fingers and laughed, and they passed on together with

careless jesting and friendly chaff. Saltash had always been kind to

young Bernard Brian. The boy had been a helpless cripple in his

childhood, and he had developed a keen appreciation for all kindness

during those days which nothing could now efface. Whatever Saltash's

morals, he was a friend, and as such Bunny never failed to treat him.

They spent the rest of the afternoon together in and out of the

enclosure, and when amidst wild enthusiasm Prince Charlie won his

maiden race, the two were waiting side by side to congratulate Jake

as he led the victor in. Saltash departed soon afterwards and motored

back to Burchester Castle to dress. And then Bunny, half-laughing,

half-apologetic, turned to his brother-in-law.

"I can't help being decent to Charlie, Jake. I don't care a damn what

they say."

Jake gave him a straight look from under his rough red brows. "I'm not

blaming you," he said.

CHAPTER II

MAUD BOLTON

Someone was singing a baby lullaby very softly in the beautiful room with

the bay window that looked straight over the rolling down. It was a very

sweet voice that sang, and sometimes the low notes were a little

tremulous as though some tender emotion thrilled through the song. The

singer was lying back in a rocking-chair close to the bay-window with her

baby in her arms.

Beyond the long, undulating slope there stretched a silver line of sea

that gleamed with a still radiance in the light of the dying day. And

Maud Bolton, who once had been that proud and desolate girl Maud Brian,

gazed out upon it with happy, dreaming eyes. It had been a hot spring day

and she was tired, but it was a pleasant weariness, and the little body

that nestled on her breast brought sheer rapture to her woman's heart. It

was the baby boy for whom for years she had longed in vain.

There came a slight sound at an open door behind her that led to another

room. She turned her head with a quick smile.

"Jake!"

He came, treading softly, and stood beside her. The failing light on his

rugged face showed it strangely softened, almost transformed.

He stooped after a moment and kissed her. "Why isn't the little 'un in

bed?" he said, with his eyes on the sleeping baby-face.

The smile still lingered about her lips. "I thought he and I would both

of us have a little treat tonight. Do you know he is six months old

today?"

Jake's square fingers caressed the baby's placid forehead. "Yes, I know,"

he said.

Maud uttered a faint sigh. "And so--according to the law of the Medes and

Persians--he is not going to sleep with his mother any longer. He is to

be banished to the nursery. But I thought I would put him to sleep

first."

Jake's look came to her face. "There's no law that I know of," he said in

his slow way. "Keep him in here if you want to!"

She lifted her eyes to his--beautiful eyes, deeply violet. "Thank you,

Jake. But it's all settled, and he won't mind."

"He doesn't matter so much," said Jake.

She smiled and laid her cheek against his arm. "No, it's all right. Nurse

understands him. I won't have him again unless he's ill. I should have to

then."

"Of course," said Jake. He bent down. "Let me have him! I'll take him to

the nursery."

"Ah, don't wake him!" she said.

Jake's arms encompassed the little bundle and lifted it from her. The

baby made a small noise that sounded like a protest, but he did not open

his eyes.

"Don't you come!" said Jake. "I'll fix him."

And with light tread he bore his son away. Maud looked after him with a

touch of wistfulness, but she did not move, and in a few minutes he came

back to her, knelt beside her, and gathered her strongly into his arms.

"My girl!" he said softly. "My own girl!"

She clasped him round the neck, laying her head against him without

words.

"Tired?" he said.

"No--no--not really! Too happy to complain anyway." She spoke in a

whisper as if unwilling to break her silence.

"You want more help," he said.

She lifted her face and kissed his neck. "No, Jake dear. I don't want the

children taken out of my hands entirely. Whatever should I do without

them?"

"Look after me for a change," suggested Jake.

She laughed a muffled laugh with her lips raised to his. "Do I neglect

you, Jake?"

"No," he said. "You're the best wife a man ever had. I believe I'm first

with you--even now."

"Always--always first," she whispered against the lips that pressed her

own.

He held her very closely to him for a space in silence. He had loved her

with a fiery worship from the first moment of their meeting, but the

wealth of her answering love still filled his soul with wonder. Over and

over again he would tell himself that he was not her sort, but when he

held her thus throbbing against his heart, he knew beyond all questioning

that they were one.

"You haven't told me a single thing about today's meeting," she murmured

presently.

Jake began to smile. "On my soul I had forgotten all about it. Prince

Charlie has gained his first laurels. He won by two and a half lengths."

"Oh, Jake, how splendid! How proud you must be! I'm tremendously glad.

And what about Charlie? Was he there to see his namesake carry all before

him?"

"Saltash, do you mean? Yes, he was there." Jake's tone was somewhat dry.

Maud drew back a little to look at him. "I hope you asked him to dine,"

she said.

"Oh yes," said Jake, with a touch of grimness. "Bunny saw to that on your

behalf. He considers--and with reason--that you have a right to ask

whoever you like to your own house."

"Jake!" Maud suddenly sat upright, her eyes burning like stars. "If Bunny

said that--"

"He didn't," said Jake.

"Or hinted it even--it was perfectly hateful of him! I shall go and tell

him so!"

Maud made as if she would release herself from his hold, but he

restrained her.

"No--no, my girl! You keep calm! I can hold my own with Bunny, and he

didn't mean any harm. I asked Saltash all right, and he's coming."

"Against your will," said Maud.

"No. Against my judgment, maybe. Not against my will. I've no objection

to entertaining him if you wish it. You and I don't quarrel over trifles

like Saltash."

Jake's tone was humorously tender. He patted her flushed cheek in a

conciliatory fashion. She turned very swiftly and kissed his hand.

"Thank you, Jake--darling. But--you are master in this house, remember.

No one enters it without your consent."

"Not even Saltash?" smiled Jake.

"Not even--Bunny!" said Maud, still breathing resentment.

He took her gently by the shoulder. "Look here, my girl! I won't have you

say a word to the boy about this, see? I didn't know you'd flare up like

that or I shouldn't have spoken. He didn't mean it that way. If he had,

I'd have punched his head. And after all," his eyes smiled suddenly into

hers, "I do live on my wife's bounty, don't I? Wouldn't I be driving cows

on the other side of the Atlantic without it?"

"No," Maud said. "You'd be owning your own ranch by this time,

and--and--and generally licking creation, Jake, as only you know how."

"Oh, shucks!" said Jake softly, and kissed her again upon the lips. "I'd

sooner be here anyway. Well, Saltash is coming, so we've got to make the

best of it. I shouldn't care a cuss if it weren't for young Bunny. But

he's always been keener on his lordship's company than I've thought

advisable."

"Oh, Jake," she said, colouring a little, "I don't believe Charlie would

do him any harm."

"Not intentionally perhaps," said Jake. "I've no ill feeling for him,

heaven knows, but I can't say I think his society likely to have a very

improving effect upon anyone."

"I don't think you quite understand him," Maud said thoughtfully.

Whereat Jake laughed so suddenly that she looked at him with raised

brows. He got to his feet, still laughing.

"Very likely not. We've had a good many misunderstandings, he and I, from

the day I cowhided him for a scoundrel to the day I nearly shot him for a

blackguard."

"Oh, but that was all so long ago," Maud said quickly. "He wasn't much

more than a boy in those days. He has grown a lot since then."

Jake grunted. "Which way, think you? Well, I must dress. He may be here

before we're ready for him."

He turned to go back to his own room, but Maud stayed him for a moment.

"Jake," she said almost wistfully, "you know--with all his faults--he

always had--possibilities."

"I know," Jake said, looking down at her. "He's made the most of 'em

too."

Her face quivered. "Don't," she said. "It--isn't it rather ungenerous to

condemn a man unheard?"

Jake made a faint sound of contempt or scepticism, but no reply in words.

She drew herself up out of her chair by his arm. "Jake, I want you to do

something for me."

"Well?" said Jake uncompromisingly.

She met his look unswervingly. "Let me be a friend to him tonight! Let me

be alone with him and find out--if he will tell me--whether there is any

truth in this rumour that there was a woman on board the yacht."

"And when you've found out?" said Jake.

She made a little gesture of appeal. "Will you leave that to me? I have

sometimes felt that I might be--a help to him if ever there came an

opportunity. Jake, you don't mind my trying to help him? I have a feeling

that I understand him better than most people do."

"I think it's a wasted sentiment," Jake said. "But--do what seems good to

you, my girl! I shan't interfere."

"And you won't be vexed?" she pleaded.

He smiled his sudden, illumining smile. "No, I reckon you'll never vex me

any that way again," he said.

She went close to him. "Indeed--no, Jake! But--don't you understand? I

hate to go against your wishes--your prejudices--in anything."

He put out a hand to her. "You needn't be afraid of that either," he

said. "If you do it--it's right."

She clasped the strong hand tightly in both her own. "That's the best

thing you've ever said to me," she said. "Are you quite sure you mean

it?"

"Sure," said Jake, and pulled her to him to kiss her once again.

CHAPTER III

BUNNY

When Saltash arrived that evening he found Bunny and Jake sauntering

together in the sunset glow along the gravelled terrace in front of the

house. He shot towards them in his car with that characteristic

suddenness of his, swerving and coming to a stand before the porch with

the confident ease of an alighting bird. And here, seated in the porch

and screened by white clematis, he found Maud.

She rose to greet him, her eyes alight with pleasure. "Oh, Charlie," she

said, "I have wanted to shake hands with you ever since I heard of your

escape."

He bent and kissed the hand she gave him. "Gracious as ever!" he

commented lightly. "Had you begun to wear mourning for me, I wonder? It

was a very cold bath, I assure you. We didn't enjoy it, any of us."

"I am sure you didn't." Her eyes still dwelt upon the dark face with its

half-mocking smile with a species of maternal tenderness. "And you lost

your yacht too! That was desperately unlucky."

He made a comic grimace. "I am past the age for crying over spilt milk,

Maud of the Roses." He uttered his old name for her with daring

assurance. "I have had worse losses than that in my time."

"And still you smile," she said.

He bowed. "A smile can conceal so much." He turned to his host as he came

up behind him. "Well, Jake, I've taken you at your word, you see, and

intruded into your virtuous household. How are Eileen and Molly and Betty

and--last but not least--the son and heir?"

Maud laughed softly. "Well done, Charlie! How clever of you to remember

them all!"

"Oh yes, I am quite clever," said Saltash, as again his hand met Jake's.

"Too clever sometimes. I needn't ask if all goes well with you, Jake.

Your prosperity is obvious, but don't wax fat on it. Bunny now--he's as

lean as a giraffe. Can't you do something to him? He looks as if he'd

melt into thin air at a touch."

"Oh, don't be an ass!" protested Bunny. "I'm as strong as a horse anyway.

Jake, tell him not to be an ass!"

"No good, I'm afraid," said Jake, with his sudden smile. "Come inside, my

lord! The children are all flourishing, but in bed at the present moment.

The baby--"

"Oh, I must see the baby!" declared Saltash, turning back to Maud.

She laid a hand on his arm. "I will take you to see him after dinner."

"Will you?" He smiled into her eyes. "I shall like that. But I shall

probably want to shoot Jake when I come down again. Think it's safe?"

She smiled back at him with confidence. "Yes, I think so. Anyhow, I'm not

afraid."

"Come and feed!" said Jake.

They sat down in the pretty oak-panelled dining-room with its windows

opening upon the terrace and the long dim line of down. Saltash talked

freely of Valrosa, of his subsequent voyaging, of the wreck of _The Night

Moth_, but no word did he utter of the gift that had been flung to him on

that night of stars in the Mediterranean. He was always completely at his

ease in Jake's household, but it was not his way to touch at any time in

Maud's presence upon any matter that could not be openly discussed before

her. Their intimacy was not without its reservations.

Maud in her quiet happiness detected no hint of restraint in his manner.

But he had always been elusive, often subtle. She did not look for

candour from Charles Rex--unless she asked for it.

Watching him on that spring evening in the soft glow of the candles,

marking the restless play of feature, the agile readiness of his wit, she

asked herself, not for the first time, what manner of soul he had behind

the mask. Somehow she did not wholly believe in that entity which so

often looked jibing forth. Though she could ascribe no reason for it, she

had a strong suspicion that the real self that was Saltash was of a

different fibre altogether--a thing that had often suffered violence it

might be, but nevertheless possessed of that gift of the resurrection

which no violence can destroy.

"Why are you dissecting me tonight?" he asked her once and laughed and

changed the subject before she could reply.

When dinner was over and she rose, he sprang to open the door for her

with that royal _bonhomie_ of his which somehow gave him the right to

enter where others waited for permission.

"Take Bunny with you!" he murmured. "I want to talk to Jake."

She lifted her eyes with a flash of surprise. He bent towards her.

"And afterwards to you, Queen Rose. I shall not forget to claim my

privileges in that respect."

She laughed a little, but she obeyed his behest as a matter of course.

"Come for a turn in the garden with me, Bunny!" she said. "I've hardly

seen you today."

The boy got up, passing Jake with a careless slap on the shoulder that

testified to the excellent good fellowship that existed between them.

Saltash turned back into the room, and threw himself down by his host.

"That's right," he said as the door closed upon the brother and sister.

"Now we can talk."

Jake pushed a box of cigars to him. His keen eyes took Saltash in with

the attention of the man accustomed to probe beneath the surface. There

were not many who could hide from Jake Bolton anything he desired to

know.

Saltash flicked an eyelid under his direct scrutiny as he chose his

cigar. He was never more baffling than in his moments of candour.

"There are several things I've come to consult you about, Jake," he said

easily, as Jake leaned across with a match.

"I'm listening," said Jake.

Saltash sent him a quizzical glance as his cigar kindled. "Prepared to

turn me down at all points?" he suggested.

Jake's mouth relaxed a little. "Prepared to listen anyway," he said.

"It's to do with young Bunny, I take it."

Saltash leaned back in his chair with a laugh. "Very smart of you! Bunny

certainly is my first proposition. What are you going to do with him?"

Jake also leaned back, and smoked for several seconds in silence. Saltash

watched him with semi-comic curiosity.

"Something of a problem, eh?" he said, after a pause.

Jake's eyes came to him and remained upon him with steady insistence.

"He's not going to turn into a fancy-dress loafer, my lord," he said at

length in his soft, deliberate voice. "I'll see to that anyway."

"Don't be nasty, Jake!" protested Saltash with a smile. "I'm not

proposing to adopt him. But I can give him employment, if that's what

he's wanting. What do you want to make of him?"

Jake's steady look remained upon him. "Just an honest man, I reckon," he

said.

"Ah! Quite so!" Open mockery gleamed back at him from Saltash's

half-closed eyes. "All contaminating influences to be kept away. Is that

it?"

Jake was silent.

Saltash sent a cloud of smoke upwards before he spoke again. Then: "I

agree with you, Jake," he said. "We mustn't spoil the boy. He shan't

learn any naughty ways from me. Come! That's a promise. And I'm not such

a blackguard as I used to be."

"Sure?" said Jake.

Again Saltash's smile flashed across at him. "Quite sure, my worthy

philosopher," he made light reply. "I don't set up for a model of virtue

of course, but at least--now-a-days--I never take what I can't pay for."

"That so?" said Jake. He considered the matter for a few moments, then

slowly took the cigar from between his lips and spoke. "It's certainly

true; Bunny is a problem. He's not strong; and though he's got grit, he

hasn't got what I call punching power. He's been ordered an out-door

life, and he wants to join me in running the stud. I could do with him of

course, but I've a strong feeling against it, anyway till he's older.

It's not the right atmosphere for him, and it doesn't bring him in

contact with the right people. He ought to be in the Army, but he wasn't

strong enough. It's a big grievance with him for there's nothing

radically wrong; just weak tendencies that he may outgrow if he leads a

healthy life and doesn't strain himself. We're just marking time at

present, so if you have anything to suggest--well, I've no doubt he'll be

something more than grateful."

"And you?" questioned Saltash, with a grimace at the ceiling.

"I too," said Jake, "if it's for the boy's good."

"You needn't hold a pistol at my head," protested Saltash. "I shan't put

him in the way of any short cuts to the devil. All I have to offer him is

the post of bailiff at Burchester Castle, as old Bishop has got beyond

his job. I can't turn the old beggar out, but I want a young man to take

the burden off his shoulders. Do you think that sort of thing would be

beneath Bunny's dignity, or likely to upset his morals?"

"He'd probably jump at the chance," said Jake.

"Which is more than his worthy brother-in-law does on his behalf,"

grinned Saltash.

"No," Jake's steady eyes met the gibe unfaltering. "I know it's a chance

that doesn't come every day, and I know you mean well by him. I shan't

put any hindrance in the way."

"Then it's done," said Saltash. "Bunny's fate is sealed."

"I hope not." Jake still gravely watched him, but not as if he sought for

anything in the baffling, mobile countenance. "What do you want him for

anyway?"

Saltash flicked the ash from his cigar. "Perhaps I'm turning

philanthropist, Jake. Do you know the symptoms? I've been anxious about

myself several times lately."

"Come on rather suddenly, hasn't it?" suggested Jake.

Saltash nodded. "It's old age, I fancy. Anyhow I've a notion for doing

Bunny a good turn. The boy can have play as well as work. He can join the

polo-club at Fairharbour. I'll introduce him."

"And where will he live?" asked Jake.

"With the old Bishops of course. He'll be safe enough with them and

within reach of you and Maud at the same time. It's time you eased the

leading string a bit, you know. He'll start kicking if you don't."

"I don't think so," said Jake. "He goes his own way already quite as much

as is good for him. I don't need to hold him in very tight either. He's

not the bolting sort."

"You mean you've trained him well," laughed Saltash. "I congratulate you.

You've a genius for that sort of thing, Jake. The boy will probably

answer to your lightest touch and never even know he does it."

"What was the other thing you wanted to say to me?" said Jake.

"Oh that!" Saltash's eyes fell suddenly to his empty wine glass. He

fingered the stem of it for a few seconds with a curiously irresolute

air. "Do you know I think I'll put it to Maud first!" he said at length,

with a smile that was faintly shamefaced.

"It'll come to the same thing," said Jake.

Saltash's eyes flashed upwards. He met Jake's look almost with defiance.

"Doubtless you are master in your own house, Jake," he said. "Far be it

from me to question it."

"I didn't mean that," said Jake. "What I meant was," the red-brown eyes

began to smile, "that Maud and I are friends--and we generally want the

same thing."

Saltash nodded. "Not so bad after eight years," he said.

"No. It's pretty great," said Jake. "You'd think we were an ill-matched

pair, wouldn't you? But we've learnt to plough as straight a furrow as

anyone."

"No, I don't think you ill-matched," said Saltash unexpectedly. "You've

always been about the same height and breadth, my friend. I saw that a

long time ago. The luckiest day that ever dawned for Maud was the one on

which you cut me out."

"Think so?" said Jake. "Well, it wasn't a very lucky one for you, I'm

afraid."

"I got over it," said Saltash lightly. "I'm too great a rotter, you know,

Jake, to take things much to heart. I've loved heaps of women since--even

some good ones. But they never take me seriously; so I presume I shall

continue to rot."

"Thought you'd turned sober," suggested Jake.

Again Saltash's look dwelt upon the ruby drain in his wine-glass. For a

moment the restlessness of his face deepened to something very nearly

approaching melancholy.

"I'm tired, Jake," he said abruptly. "I've run through the whole gamut of

amusements, and I'm bored to the soul. I want to do a good turn to

somebody--just for a change--to see what it feels like. Perhaps--who

knows--it may take the taste of rottenness out of my mouth. You fellows

who lead a decent, orderly life don't know what it is when the wine turns

to vinegar and all the sweets of life to gall."

"Sounds pretty damnable," said Jake.

Saltash grimaced like a weary monkey. "It's dust and ashes, my good Jake.

But we won't discuss it. Let's come to business! You know Larpent--my

captain--quite one of the best?"

Jake nodded. "I've met him--yes."

Saltash flung himself back in his chair smoking rapidly. "He was damaged

when the yacht went down. He's in a nursing home in town, getting better.

He's got a daughter--a girl called Antoinette. She's been at school in

France, and Larpent was bringing her home in the yacht when we went down.

She's nineteen--a jolly little thing--half French. Larpent doesn't know

what to do with her. He has no people. She--quite properly--wants to

earn her own living. But she's too young yet to fight the world.

Larpent's a rover, he'll never settle on land. She's never had any home

life, poor kid. And she wants it. You'll say it's like my damned cheek to

come to you, but on my life you and Maud are the only people I can think

of. There's my old friend Lady Jo--Mrs. Green as she prefers to be

called--but she isn't very strong just now. I can't bother her. Besides

she hasn't got a home like yours. She's up in town."

The jerky utterance came to an end. Saltash turned his head towards Jake,

watching him half furtively through the smoke.

There followed a silence of some duration. Jake's brows were slightly

drawn. He spoke at last, slowly and softly as his manner was. "Are you

suggesting that--Captain Larpent's daughter--should come to us?"

"She'd be useful enough," said Saltash in his quick, vehement way. "She'd

help Maud with the children. There's nothing she wouldn't do. It would be

a kindness on your part, and you wouldn't regret it. She's a taking

little thing. I'd like you to have her for a month, and if you don't want

to keep her after that--well--shunt her back on to Larpent. He'll be well

by that time. If he isn't--I'll look after her till he is."

"Who's looking after her now?" said Jake. "Where is she?"

Saltash pushed back his chair with a movement of impatience. "Did you

think I'd bring her to Burchester for all the county to blab about? She's

under my protection--and she's safe." He spoke with a certain fierceness,

and in a moment was pacing the room, his face arrogantly lifted. "I know

very well the sort of story that's going round, but if you're a white man

you'll help me to give it the lie. I know I'm a blackguard, Jake,--never

pretended to be anything else. But I hope I'm a gentleman as well--at

least where women are concerned. That child is none the worse in mind or

body for being thrown on my hands. You've got to believe that."

"All right," said Jake.

Saltash paced jerkily on, his hands behind him. "I want you to have her

because you're straight, and she'll come to no harm with you. You never

even parley with the devil, do you, Jake? Remember that time--it's ten

years ago, more--when a man tried to tempt you to tamper with one of your

horses and you horsewhipped him for his baseness."

"I prefer not to remember it, my lord," said Jake.

Saltash stopped suddenly by his chair and gripped his shoulder with a

wiry hand. "I've liked you ever since," he said. "Look here, Jake! I'm

not tempting you to do anything wrong now. I'm asking you to do something

that doesn't appeal to you; but if you do it, it'll be one of the most

decent actions of your life. That child is quite alone just now--except

for me. Will you take her--like a good chap--till something else safe

turns up?"

Jake sat slowly forward. "I'll have to talk it over with Maud," he said.

Saltash's grip shifted impatiently. "You know very well what Maud will

say. Don't be an ass about it! Say No--if you mean to say No--at once!"

There came the quiet tread of approaching feet on the gravelled terrace

and the sound of low voices talking together. Jake lifted his head. His

face was grim. He looked Saltash straight in the eyes.

"You've told me the plain truth about her. You swear it?"

Saltash's swarthy countenance was in shadow, but those strange eyes of

his gleamed oddly, with the sort of fitful shining that comes from a coat

of mail in an uncertain light. They did not flinch from Jake's straight

regard, neither did they wholly meet it.

"Is my oath really more valuable than my word, Jake?" he said, with a wry

twist of the lips. "Most people don't find it so."

Jake stood up, a figure square and forceful. For a moment he faced

Saltash with a level scrutiny that--possibly--pierced the coat of mail.

Then abruptly he smiled. "I will take your word, my lord," he said.

"And the child?" said Saltash.

Jake nodded. "The child too--if Maud agrees."

"Thanks," said Saltash, and smiled back at Jake--the smile that gave his

ugly face so great a charm. "I am obliged to you, Jake. I think Maud will

agree."

"Shall we go to her?" said Jake.

CHAPTER IV

SALTASH

They joined the two on the terrace, and presently they were all laughing

together at Saltash's drolleries. He knew how to bring effervescence to

the very quietest waters. They sat for a space on a seat in the soft

spring starlight, while below them on the down there thrilled the

unspeakable music of nightingales singing far and near. Then after a

while Jake strolled away for his nightly inspection of the stables,

taking Bunny with him, and Saltash and Maud were left alone.

He moved close to her at once, his arm stretched behind her along the

back of the seat. At their feet lay an old red setter, Chops, who had

belonged to Jake before his marriage and had devoted himself to Maud ever

since.

"By Jove, this is peaceful!" said Saltash, and stopped to caress the old

dog with a gentle hand. "Do you know, Maud, it's a good thing you never

married me if this sort of thing makes you happy."

She smiled her quiet, contented smile. "I think it is a good thing too,

Charlie. It certainly would never have satisfied you."

"Nothing does," he declared restlessly. "I'm a wanderer on the face of

the earth, and I don't pick up much as I go along. I'm getting old, you

know. Life isn't what it was."

Maud was silent for a few moments, the starlight in her eyes. "I

sometimes wonder," she said at length, "if you have ever really lived

yet."

He laughed on a mocking note. "My dear girl, I--who have done

everything!"

She shook her head. "No, not everything, Charlie."

"Everything that's bad," he suggested recklessly.

She put out a hand to him that went into his quick hold and lay there

with perfect confidence. "I don't think you're really old," she said. "I

think you're just beginning to grow up. No, don't laugh! I am quite

serious. You are just beginning to discriminate between the things that

are worth while and those that are not."

"Is anything worth while?" said Saltash.

"Yes, yes. Heaps of things. But not the things you care for,--not just

the wild pleasures of life. Charlie, I'm not good at expressing things,

and I'm afraid--just a little--of trespassing, even though we are such

old friends."

Her voice had a wistful note. He carried her hand to his lips. "_Ma belle

reine_, is it possible? You?"

Her fingers closed upon his. "I hate you to be world-tired and lonely.

But I would rather have you that than feeding on husks."

"I'm not doing that at the present moment," he said. "I'm living like a

beastly hermit--except that I cut my nails and brush my hair

occasionally. You've heard about the woman on the yacht, of course?"

Her silence answered him, and he laughed again.

"A lie, _chère reine_! There was no woman."

"Oh, Charlie!" she said impulsively. "Forgive me for believing it!"

He made a royal gesture. "I forgive you. Moreover, the lie was

not without foundation. There was a child on board of the female

species,--very small and badly frightened. We saved her between us,

Larpent and I. She belongs to Larpent--not to me."

"You mean she is his daughter?" questioned Maud.

"That is exactly what I mean. Dull explanation, isn't it? Larpent was

badly damaged. He is undergoing repairs in a nursing home, and the

child--well, I've got to look after the child. _Figurez-vous, ma chère!_

I--a protector of infants! _Un peu comique, n'est-ce pas?_"

"Ah!" Maud said, with compassion. "The poor little thing must come to us.

I will take care of her. When will you bring her?"

"You think her present plight is not to be endured for another moment?"

laughed Saltash. "_Bien!_ I will send her to you tomorrow."

"Ah! I don't mean she is not in safe keeping," protested Maud. "How old

is she? Older than Eileen?"

"A little older than that," said Saltash. "She's nineteen."

"Oh!" said Maud.

"Perhaps you do mean it now!" gibed Saltash, getting up in his sudden

fashion.

Maud rose also, facing him in the starlight. "No, Charlie I don't!

Because I know that the big things are in you and always have been, I

would trust you--with my most precious possession."

He laughed again. "But when I gave it back to you, you would look all

round it to make sure it hadn't been broken and stuck together again,

wouldn't you, Maud of the Roses?"

"No," she said. "I wouldn't. I know--Charles Rex--better than that."

He made her a sweeping bow. "Most fair and gracious lady, do not forget

that my crest is a fox's head and the motto thereupon, '_Sans vertu_!'"

She smiled, looking at him with steadfast eyes. "I will give you another

motto, Charlie," she said. "Those we love--we trust."

He made an abrupt movement. It was almost a protest. "For how long? Do

you really love me, Maud of the Roses?"

She gave him both her hands without drawing any nearer. Her eyes were

shining as stars that shine through mist. "Yes, I love you, Charlie," she

said, "so much that I can't go on being happy till I know that you are

too."

He bent very low, so that his dark face was wholly hidden from her. "I've

never been--really happy--since the day I lost you," he said.

Her hands clasped his very tightly. There was a brief silence

before--with a touch of shyness--she spoke again. "You have never

been--really happy--all your life. You don't know the meaning of the

word--yet."

"Don't I?" He stood up, still holding her hands. "I thought I'd sampled

everything."

"No," she said. "No. There is--one thing left."

"What is that?" he said.

She stood again in silence, looking at him. Then, slowly, "You have never

yet touched the joy of loving someone better--far better--than you love

yourself," she said. "I think that is the greatest joy that God can

send."

He bent towards her with a certain eagerness. "Maud, I could have loved

you like that--once."

She shook her head and her smile was sad. "No, my dear, believe me! I

couldn't have inspired it in you. I was too selfish myself in those days.

Some other woman will teach you that now."

"I wonder," said Charles Rex, half-mocking and half-touched.

She slipped her hand through his arm, turning from the subject with a

faint sigh. "Well, come and see the baby! He's very lovely."

"From your point of view or Jake's?" questioned Saltash.

She laughed. "From mine of course. He is going to be just like Jake."

"Heavens above! I pity you!" ejaculated Saltash. "You'll never cope with

two of 'em! They'll crush you flat."

She drew him from the terrace into the quiet house. "Don't be absurd,

Charlie! This boy of ours is to be the prop of our old age."

He went with her jesting, but when they entered the silent nursery in

which the two youngest children lay sleeping, his trifling ceased and he

trod with reverence.

They stood together in the dim light beside the baby's cot, and Saltash

looked down upon the flushed baby face with a faintly rueful smile upon

his own.

"There is something in being married and done for after all," he said.

Over the old baby, Betty, now two years old, he stooped and lightly

touched the fair silken hair, but he did not kiss her though the child

was sleeping deeply.

Later he went alone into the adjoining room where slept the two elder

children, Eileen aged five, and Molly who was not yet four. Maud did not

follow him, and presently he came back, treading softly, the flickering

night-light throwing odd shadows on his ugly face, and they left the room

together.

In the passage he turned to her abruptly. "Then I may send that child to

you tomorrow?" he said.

"Why not bring her?" said Maud smiling.

He shook his head. "No. I'll come over one day--on Sunday perhaps--and

see you all again. I won't--handicap her--by bringing her."

She understood him, and gave him her hand, but the fervour with which he

received and kissed it surprised her into drawing it away more quickly

than she had intended.

He laughed at the action. "I am only saluting motherhood," he explained.

But she shook her head and passed on. There were moments when even she

who knew him so well was not wholly sure of him.

They descended again and Saltash turned towards the drawing-room.

"Let's have some music!" he said, and dropped down before Maud's piano.

"You are tired, _ma chère_. You shall listen."

He began to play an old French _chanson_ that once they had sung

together, and Maud leaned back on a deep settee near him and dreamily

surrendered herself to its charm.

Charlie's touch had always been a sheer delight to her. It held her now

with the old sweet spell. His spirit spoke to hers with an intimacy which

ordinary converse had never attained. It was by his music that he first

had spoken to her soul. In music they were always in complete accord.

She was half-asleep in her corner with the old dog lying at her feet when

Jake and Bunny came in, and Saltash very swiftly, with muffled chords,

brought his performance to an end.

He sprang to his feet. "I've been making love to your wife, Jake," he

said, "and she has been heroically but quite ineffectually trying to keep

me at a distance. I'd better go before I'm kicked out, eh?"

"Don't go on my account!" said Jake.

Saltash's brows twitched comically. "Generous as ever! But I'm a rotten

villain, Jake. I never could keep it up, and your virtuous presence is

the last straw. Good-bye--and many thanks!"

He held Maud's hand in his right and stretched his left to Jake with a

smile half whimsical and half derisive.

"There's nothing like banking on the hundredth chance," he said. "I shall

try it myself one of these days."

"Say!" said Jake in his soft drawl. "I wish you luck!"

Saltash laughed and turned away, to be instantly seized upon by Bunny.

"I say you are a good chap! The boss has been telling me. You're going to

put me up to a job."

"If you'll take it," said Saltash.

Bunny thrust a hand through his arm and squeezed it impulsively. "I'll

take anything from you, Charlie. Hope I shall be man enough for you,

that's all."

"Oh, you're man enough," said Saltash kindly. "Just the sort I want. Look

here, I can't stop now. But I'll come over on Sunday and talk things

over--if Jake permits."

"Any day," said Jake.

Saltash nodded. "Good. I'll ring you up tomorrow, Maud. You're sure you

mean tomorrow?"

"Quite sure," she said with a smile.

He swept her a bow and went out with Bunny.

Maud turned instantly to her husband. "Jake, I've got something to tell

you--to consult you about."

He stopped her with that smile of his that was so good to see. "Oh, I

guess not. You've fixed it all up without my help. But his lordship for

once had the diplomacy to ask me first."

"Oh, did he?" She looked confused for a moment. "Jake, you don't mind, do

you? I did the only thing possible."

He put his arm around her and led her to the door. "I'll tell whether I

mind a week from now. You're looking worn out, my girl. You go to bed!"

She leaned against him. "Jake, I'm--horribly sorry for Charlie."

"Wasted sentiment!" said Jake.

"No, it isn't--it isn't--because he is just beginning--to be sorry for

himself. Jake, it haunts me."

"Well, you're not to lie awake over it," said Jake unsympathetically.

"I shall know if you do, and I shall keep you in bed tomorrow. Got that?"

He looked at her with determination glittering in his eyes.

"You're very horrid," she said.

"Yes, I know. Somebody's got to be. It's a world of contrasts, and we

can't all be kings and queens. Go to bed now! I'll say good night to

Bunny for you."

But Maud lingered still. "What is Charlie going to do for him?"

Jake led her with firmness into the hall. "It's the Agency. He's going to

help old Bishop. I think the life will be good for him--if there isn't

too much Saltash about it."

"Oh, how good of Charlie!" Maud said.

"Yes, he means well this time." Jake's arm impelled her up the shallow

stairs. "Hope he'll keep it up, but it won't surprise me any if he

doesn't. He's never been a stayer, and he's not the sort to begin now."

"You really don't understand him," Maud said.

"Maybe not," Jake's tone was faintly grim. It indicated that he had no

intention of arguing the matter further.

Maud abandoned it and they mounted the stairs together in silence. At the

door of her room she turned without words and put her arms around his

neck.

He held her closely still supporting her. "Shall I come and put you to

bed, my girl?"

She answered him softly. "No, darling, no! Don't be late yourself, that's

all! And--Jake--thank you for all your goodness to me!"

"Oh, shucks--shucks!" he said.

She raised her hands, holding the bronze head between them, gazing

straight into the free, dominant eyes with all her soul laid open to

their look. "There is no one like you in all the world," she said. "You

are greater than kings."

"That's just your way of putting it," said Jake. "You're not exactly an

impartial judge, I reckon. Barring the fact that I'm your mate, I'm a

very ordinary sinner. Moreover, Saltash tells me I'm getting fat."

"How dare he?" said Maud.

He laughed in her indignant face. "Now I'm getting my own back! There!

Don't get excited! No doubt he meant well! And I certainly ride heavier

than I did. Shall you love me when I'm fat, Maud?"

She drew the laughing, sunburnt face to hers. "Don't be--absurd!" she

said.

Her lips met his and were caught in a long, long kiss.

"Guess you're just as moon-struck as I am," said Jake softly.

And, "I guess I am," she whispered back.

CHAPTER V

THE VISITOR

Jake carried out his threat the following day, and Maud remained in bed.

A violent headache deprived her of the power to protest, and she lay in

her darkened room too battered to think, while with characteristic

decision he assumed the direction of the household, provoking unwilling

admiration from Mrs. Lovelace, the housekeeper, who was somewhat given to

disparage men as "poor things who never did a hand's turn for 'emselves

if they could get the women to do it for 'em."

He took up a breakfast tray himself to his wife's room, sternly removing

his two small daughters Molly and Betty, whom he found tussling like

kittens on her bed, and installing Eileen the eldest, who crept down like

a bright-eyed mouse from the big chair by the pillow at his coming, as

her mother's keeper. Eileen was his darling; a shy child, gentle but

curiously determined, protective in her attitude towards Maud, reserved

towards himself. Jake was wont to say with a laugh that he was by no

means sure that his eldest daughter approved of him, but he knew in his

heart that her love for him was the strongest force in her small being.

Bunny was wont to be impatient with her because she was afraid of the

horses, with the result that she would never go near them in his company,

but she would follow her father wherever he went among them without a

question. It was very rarely that she confided in him, but she always

liked to hold his hand.

She stood beside him now in silence while he waited upon Maud, and

presently, while Maud drank the strong tea he had brought her, her small

hand found its way into his. He looked down at her, squeezing it kindly.

"We must take care of the mother today, little 'un. She's been working

too hard."

"I'll take care of her, Daddy," said Eileen.

"And keep out Molly and Betty," pursued Jake.

"Yes, Daddy, I'll do that."

Maud smiled from her pillows. "My little policeman!" she said.

"I believe she'd keep her daddy out too if she thought it advisable,"

laughed Jake.

Eileen's fingers tightened about his, but she did not contradict him.

Only the violet eyes so like her mother's looked up at him very

pleadingly, and he stooped in a moment and kissed her.

"All right. Daddy understands."

And Eileen smiled a shy, pleased smile without words.

The sound of the telephone-bell in the hall made Maud start with a swift

contradiction of the brows.

"That's probably Charlie, Jake, I ought to answer him."

"Don't you worry yourself!" said Jake, turning to the door. "I'll answer

him myself."

He was gone before she could say anything further, moving without haste

but with a decision there was no gainsaying, and Maud heaved a sigh and

relaxed against her pillows. It was certainly a relief to leave it to

him.

He returned a few minutes later, faintly smiling, sat down by her side

and drew Eileen between his knees.

"Well," he said. "I guess it's all fixed up. We're going to give you a

nursery governess, Innocence. I hope you'll treat her with respect."

"Oh, but, Jake--" protested Maud.

He turned to her. "Yes, she's going to make herself useful. I don't

believe in anyone living in idleness. We'll begin as we mean to go

on, and she's got to help. I told his lordship so. If she doesn't

suit,--well, I guess she'll go back where she came from. I told him that

too."

"What did he say?" questioned Maud.

"He agreed of course." Jake's tone was ironical. "Said she was nothing

but a child herself. He was very emphatic on that point."

"Don't you believe him?" asked Maud with a hint of sharpness.

"Not as a rule," said Jake. "Mostly never--when he's emphatic. However,

time will prove. She will be here to lunch, and I've told Bunny to meet

her with the dog-cart."

"Are we going to have lessons?" asked Eileen.

He looked into the soft eyes and the irony went out of his smile. "I

don't know if I can bear to have you taught anything, Innocence," he

said. "You're just right as you are."

It was his own especial name for her and he always uttered it with

tenderness. Eileen smiled up at him, and pressed against his knee.

"I would like to learn some lessons, Daddy," she said. "I'm sure I'm big

enough, and I'm growing too."

"Maybe you are," said Jake. "But don't grow too fast, little 'un! Don't

get so big that you look down on your poor old daddy!"

"She'll never do that!" said Maud quickly. "No child of mine will ever do

that, Jake."

He smiled at her whimsically. "Oh, I guess I'll hold my own among 'em

whatever they do. Now you go to sleep, my girl, and put all worries out

of your head! I must be moving, but I'll look in presently to see how

you are. So long!"

He bent and laid his cheek for a moment against her hand, then turned and

softly left her.

Maud watched the door close behind him, then spoke to the child beside

her. "Eileen darling, always remember that your daddy is the best and

dearest man who ever lived!"

"Yes, Mummy, I know," said Eileen, with earnest shining eyes.

Jake went out to the stables and immersed himself in the day's work. He

had always been a busy man, and time passed swiftly with him. He and his

right-hand man, Sam Vickers, had brought the stud to a pitch of

perfection that had earned for his animals a high place in the opinion of

the racing community. He had, moreover, a reputation for straightness so

unimpeachable that it had become almost a proverb up and down the

country. Men said of Jake Bolton that his honour was such that it could

stand by itself. Certainly no one ever questioned it.

One of his horses was running at Graydown that afternoon, and at the end

of the morning he returned to the house for a hasty lunch before leaving

for the race-course. All memory of Saltash's _protégé_ had left him, but

it returned to his mind as he saw the extra place laid at the table. He

looked at his watch and realized that she ought to have arrived half an

hour before. Bunny was also absent, presumably waiting for her.

He paid Maud a brief visit before departing, and found her better. She

was half dressed and lying on a couch in her room. He extracted a promise

from her that she would not go down before tea, though she demurred

somewhat on the score of the expected visitor.

"Leave her to Bunny!" said Jake. "He's quite capable of looking after her

for an hour or two."

"I think Bunny meant to go to the races," she said.

Jake frowned. "Well, he can't for once. Don't you fret now! She'll be all

right."

"Well, tell them to bring her straight up to see me when she arrives!"

Maud begged him. "I shan't be asleep, and really I am much better."

"All right," he conceded. "I'll do that."

He went out and there fell the deep shining peace of a spring afternoon.

Somewhere in the distance a cuckoo was calling softly, monotonously,

seductively. A thrush was warbling in the terraced garden, and from her

window Maud could see old Chops the setter curled up in a warm corner

asleep. The children were all out on the downs, and the house was very

quiet.

Her thoughts turned dreamily to Saltash. What a pity he did not find some

nice girl to marry! Her faith in him, often shaken and as often renewed,

had somehow taken deeper root since their talk of the night before.

Charlie was beginning to tire of his riotous living. He was beginning to

want the better things. But in his present mood she saw a danger. He had

come to a critical point in his career, and he would either go up or

down. There would be no middle course with him. Knowing him as she did,

she realized that a very little pressure would incline him either way.

She felt as if his very life hung in the balance. It depended so

vitally--upon whence the pressure came.

"If only some decent woman would fall in love with him!" she sighed, and

then found herself smiling wistfully at the thought that Saltash's heart

would not be an easy thing to capture. He was far too accustomed to

adulation, wherever he went. "Besides, he's such a flirt," she reflected.

"One never knows whether he is in earnest till the mischief is done."

The cuckoo's soft persistence began somehow to seem like a penance. "When

he has said it just like that four hundred and fifty times he'll be

absolved and allowed to change his tune," was her thought. "I wonder if

poor Charles Rex has said the same thing as often as that, and if that is

why he is tired."

A mist began to rise in her brain, making vague the cuckoo's call,

blurring even the clear sweet notes of the thrush. A delicious drowsiness

crept over her. She gave herself to it with conscious delight. It was so

exquisite to feel the grim band that had bound her brow with such cruel

tightness relax at last and fall away. Very blissfully she drifted into

slumber.

It was nearly two hours later that she became somewhat suddenly aware of

feet sauntering under her window and young voices talking together.

"Hullo!" said one abruptly, it was Bunny's speaking with careless

friendliness. "Stand still a minute! There's an immense green caterpillar

waving to me from your hat-brim."

A voice that was like a boy's, dear, bell-like, made instant response.

"Oh hell! Do take it off!"

Maud started wide awake with involuntary shrinking.

There came a chuckle from Bunny and, after a pause and the eloquent

crunch of a heel on the gravel, his voice on a note of laughter. "I

didn't say it!"

"Great Scott!" ejaculated the clear boyish tones. "Do you mean you're

shocked?"

"Not at all," said Bunny courteously.

"Well then, what does it matter who said it?" demanded the other.

"It doesn't matter," said Bunny, still suppressing merriment. "Except

that it isn't said in this house."

"Oh damn!" said the newcomer disconsolately. "Then I shall soon be sent

back in disgrace."

"Cheer up!" said Bunny. "We don't convict on a first offence as a rule in

this country."

"But I shall never remember!" groaned the other, and for the first time

the words held a note that was not wholly boyish, it sounded wistful,

even rather piteous. "People's ways are all so different. It's rather

infernal--trying to please everybody, you know, Bunny."

"Never mind!" said Bunny, in a brotherly tone. "I'll kick you every time

I see it coming if you like."

"Will you really? That would be jolly decent of you." The wistfulness

vanished in a laugh that was quick and musical, wholly spontaneous.

"You bet I will!" said Bunny.

"Right O! Mind you do! Now get out of the way and see me jump that rose

tree!"

There followed the light scamper of feet, and Maud raised herself swiftly

and leaned forth in time to see an athletic little figure in navy blue

wearing a jaunty Panama hat, skim like a bird over a sweeping Dorothy

Perkins just coming into bloom and alight on one leg with the perfect

poise of a winged Mercury on the other side.

CHAPTER VI

HOW TO MANAGE MEN

Bunny's lanky form followed and also cleared the rose-tree with

infinitely less grace, and again the girl laughed, her wide blue eyes

alight with mirth.

"What an antic! I thought you were going to pull up the rose bush with

your heels! What are you doing that for?"

Bunny's hands were on her shoulders. He was plainly enjoying himself

thoroughly. "I'm feeling for the wings," he explained. "I'll swear you

never jumped it. Where do you keep 'em?"

She drew herself away from his touch. "No, I haven't got any. They don't

grow on people like me. Don't let's stay here! I feel as if we're being

watched."

It was then that Maud spoke from her window in her quiet gentle voice

that yet held a certain authority.

"Bunny, bring our visitor up to see me!"

Both Bunny and his companion started and looked up, and Maud saw the

girl's face fully for the first time--a nervous little face with haunting

wide blue eyes made more intense by the short thick black lashes that

surrounded them, eyes that seemed to plead for kindness. There was charm

about the pointed chin and a good deal of sweetness about the moulding of

the mouth. But it was the eyes that held Maud's attention. They were the

eyes of a creature who has known the wild agony of fear and is not easily

reassured. Yet the face was the face of a child.

She leaned out a little further on her sill and addressed the stranger.

"Come up and speak to me!" she said very kindly. "Bunny will show you the

way."

A shy flickering smile answered her. She cast a questioning look at

Bunny.

"Yes, that's Maud--my sister," said Bunny. "Come along! This way!"

They entered the house by a French window, and Maud drew back into her

room. What was there in that childish face that appealed so tremendously

to her womanhood--wholly banishing her first involuntary sense of recoil?

She could not have said, she was only conscious of the woman in her

throbbing with a deep compassion. She stood and waited for the child's

coming with a strangely poignant expectation.

She heard Bunny's voice talking cheerily on the stairs, but his words

provoked no response. She went to the door and opened it.

Bunny was leading the way; in fact his companion seemed to be lagging

very considerably in the rear.

Maud moved out into the passage, and Bunny stood to one side with a

courteous gesture. "Mademoiselle Antoinette Larpent!" he announced.

The small figure in blue drew itself together with a certain bravado and

came forward.

Maud held out her hands. "My dear child," she said, "I expected you long

ago."

The hands she clasped were very small and cold. They did not cling to her

as she had half expected. The blue eyes flashed her a single nervous

glance and fell.

"I'm sorry I'm late, madam," said the visitor in a low, punctilious

voice.

Maud felt amused and chilled in the same moment. "Come and sit down!" she

said. "We will have some tea upstairs. Bunny, go and order it, will you?"

"With pleasure," said Bunny. "And may I return?"

She smiled at him as she passed an arm about the girl's narrow shoulders.

"Yes, you can come back when it's ready. Come in here, dear! You will

like to take off your things. How long have you been here?"

"Only five minutes," came the murmured answer; she thought it had a

deprecating sound.

"You must be tired," she said kindly. "You came from town? How is it you

are so late? Did you miss your train?"

"No, madam." Very nervously came the reply. The contrast between this and

the boyish freedom of manner on the terrace a few seconds before would

have been ludicrous if it had not been somehow pathetic.

She passed on, too considerate to press for details. "Take off your hat

and coat, won't you? When we have had some tea I will take you to your

room."

She was pleased to see that Charlie's _protégé_ was garbed with extreme

simplicity. Her fair hair, which had been closely shorn, was beginning to

curl at the ends. She liked the delicate contrasting line of the black

brows above the deep blue of the eyes. She noticed that the veins on the

white temples showed with great distinctness.

"Sit down!" she said. "And now you must tell me what to call you. Your

name is Antoinette, isn't it?"

"I'm generally called Toby," said the visitor in a very shy voice. "But

you will call me--what you like."

"Would you like me to call you Toby?" Maud asked.

"Yes, please," said Toby with unexpected briskness.

Maud smiled. "Very well, my dear. Then that is settled. We are not going

to be strangers, you and I. I expect you know that Lord Saltash and I are

great friends--though I have never met your father."

Toby's pale young face flushed suddenly. She was silent for a moment.

Then: "Lord Saltash has been very good to me," she said in her shy voice.

"He--saved me from drowning. Wasn't it--wasn't it nice of him to--take

the trouble?"

"Quite nice of him," Maud agreed. "You must have been very frightened,

weren't you?"

Toby suppressed a shudder. "I was rather. And the water was dreadfully

cold. I thought we should never come up again. It was like--it was

like--" She stopped herself. "He said I was never to talk about it--or

think about it--so I won't, if you don't mind."

"Tell me about your father!" said Maud sympathetically.

For the second time the blue eyes flashed towards her. "Oh, he is still

ill in a nursing home and not allowed to see anyone." There was a hint of

recklessness in her voice. "They say he'll get well again, but--I don't

know."

"You are anxious about him," Maud said.

"No, I'm not." Recklessness became something akin to defiance. "I don't

like him much. He's so surly."

"My dear!" said Maud, momentarily disconcerted.

"Well, it's no good pretending I do when I don't, is it?" said Toby, and

suddenly smiled at her with winning gracelessness. "It isn't my fault

We're not friends--never have been. Why," she made a little gesture of

the hands, "we hardly know each other. I'd never been on _The Night Moth_

before."

"And you'll never go again," commented Bunny, entering at the moment,

"Maud, do you know I took--Miss Larpent--" he turned deliberately to Toby

who snapped her fingers in airy acknowledgment--"to see the races instead

of coming straight back--according to the boss's instructions."

"Oh! So that's where you've been!" said Maud.

"Exactly so." Bunny pulled up a chair and disposed his long legs astride

it. "We saw several events, and made a bit. Then Forest Fire let us down

badly and we lost the lot. After that we went into the paddock to cool

ourselves and met the boss, who at once--somewhat rudely--ordered us

home. I have an impression he's feeling waxy with me for some reason,"

Bunny ended, stroking his chin reflectively. "Daresay I shall get over

it, however."

"What a pity you went!" said Maud.

"Not at all," said Bunny. "We enjoyed it. It's fun doing naughty things

sometimes, isn't it,--er--Miss Larpent?"

"Don't be an ass!" said Toby tersely.

Maud raised her brows, but Bunny grinned with delight. "Thank you Toby! I

take the hint. There shall be no more ceremony between us. Ah! There come

the children along the path by the summerhouse!" he sprang to the window

and sent forth a yell, turning back almost instantly to say, "Sorry,

Maud! I'm afraid I forgot your head. How is it?"

He did not wait for her reply, but leaned out again immediately to

address the advancing children with noisy gayety.

Toby looked up at Maud, hesitated, and rose. "Let us go and have tea with

the children!" she said. "It will be quieter for you."

Maud put out a gentle hand to her. "No, dear. You stay with me. Bunny may

if he likes!"

This time Toby's fingers closed tightly upon her own. "Sure?" said Toby.

"Quite sure," said Maud, smiling at her.

Toby turned sharply and pinched Bunny's elbow as he leaned from the

window. He drew himself in and stared at her.

"You're making too much noise," she told him curtly. "You go and racket

downstairs!"

Bunny's eyes widened for a second in indignant amazement, then abruptly

he threw up his chin and laughed. "I like you!" he declared. "You're the

cockiest thing in girls I've ever seen!"

Toby pulled at his elbow like a small, persistent dog. "Go on!" she

commanded. "Go down to them! Mrs. Bolton and I want to have our tea

alone. I'll come and play with you presently--if you're good."

It was spoken wholly without coquetry, much as an elder brother might

speak to a younger. It was plain that she meant to have her way, though

Maud, who knew that there was a very strong mixture of stubbornness in

Bunny, wondered much if she would get it. Amusement, however, kept the

upper hand with him. Toby's treatment evidently appealed strongly to his

sense of humour. Perhaps her determination also made its impression upon

him, for after a little more chaff on his part and brisk insistence on

hers he departed, laughing, to join the children.

Toby saw him to the door and returned calm and triumphant.

"Well done!" said Maud. "You know how to deal with spoilt children

evidently."

Toby looked at her sharply as she sat down, almost as if she expected a

double meaning to the words.

"Do you mean men?" she said, and for an instant her childish face wore a

look of contempt. "Oh, anyone can manage men--given a fair chance.

There's not much cleverness needed for that."

She spoke with the decision of one who knew, and in spite of the

difference of years between them Maud could not question her confidence.

She had a curious feeling that--either by experience or intuition--this

girl knew more than she.

She made no comment therefore, and after a moment Toby spoke her last

word on the subject with characteristic brevity.

"There's only one rule to follow with men--that is, if you want any peace

at all. Make up your mind and stick to it! If they don't like it, let 'em

go to--" She checked suddenly, and coloured deeply under Maud's eyes--"I

mean, let 'em do the other thing," she ended, on a note that somehow

seemed to ask for pardon.

"I see," said Maud gently, in a tone that conveyed it.

Toby threw her a little smile, half-grateful and half-mischievous; and

curiously in that moment a bond was formed between them which was

destined to endure.

CHAPTER VII

THE PROMISE

There was undoubtedly a frown on Jake's usually serene countenance when

he walked up the great stable-yard a little later that evening and came

upon Bunny lounging in a doorway with his hands in his pockets talking to

one of the men.

"Look here, young feller, I want a word with you," he said, with his

customary directness, and laid a somewhat peremptory hand upon the boy's

shoulder.

Bunny, with a cigarette between his lips, turned and laughed at him

without a hint of discomfiture. "All right, boss. I'll come," he said,

and linked his arm in Jake's with boyish friendliness.

He was half-a-head taller than Jake, but the look of power that was so

apparent in the older man was wholly absent in him. He moved his long

limbs with a loose swing that lacked energy though it seemed to denote a

certain restlessness.

"Wonder what you'll do without me here when I go to Charlie," he

remarked, as Jake did not immediately speak.

"I should say the sooner you go the better," said Jake rather brutally,

"if I were only sure you were going to the right place."

"Have a smoke!" said Bunny with unruffled amiability, proffering his

case.

Jake pushed it from him with a curt sound of dissatisfaction.

"All right. Don't!" said Bunny, with instant haughtiness, and returned it

to his pocket.

He would have withdrawn his hand from his brother-in-law's arm, but Jake

retained it there forcibly, steering for his own private office at the

end of the stable-yard.

Bunny submitted, but his face grew ominously dark as they passed in

silence between the long rows of loose-boxes in the soft spring twilight.

As they neared Jake's room he drew himself together with the action of a

man who braces his muscles for a sudden strain, and in a moment he was

older, less defiant, more dignified.

"That's better," Jake said, making him enter first. "There are times, Sir

Bernard Brian, when I want to lick you, as you never--unfortunately--were

licked in your early youth. Other times--like the present--when the breed

gets the better of me, and I can only stand outside--and admire."

"Oh, don't be a blithering idiot, Jake!" said Bunny in hot discomfiture.

Jake's hand grasped his shoulder. "Sit down, and bring yourself to my

level for a minute! Maybe I am a blithering idiot, maybe I'm not. But I

could take you by the heels and dip you in the horse-pond round the

corner if I felt that way. So you'd better keep as civil as possible. It

won't make a mite of difference to me, but it may to you."

Bunny sat down, breathing hard. His cigarette fell to the ground and he

stooped for it, but Jake, still holding his shoulder, stooped also,

picked it up and flung it straight out of the window.

"You smoke too many of 'em," he said, as he did it.

"Damn you!" said Bunny in a voice of concentrated fury.

He would have sprung to his feet, but Jake's hands were upon him like

iron clamps and kept him seated.

He spoke, his voice soft, unhurried, even humorous. "I'm only a beastly

groom, you know, Bunny. You don't expect good manners from me, do you?"

Bunny shrank a little, as if something in the words pierced him. Jake's

eyes, very bright but wholly free from anger looked straight into his.

For some reason he ceased to strain against the compelling hands and sat

passive.

There followed a somewhat tense silence before he said, "Well, go on! I

knew you wanted to row me about something. What's it all about?"

His voice was sullen but his attitude was no longer hostile. He looked

ashamed.

Jake sat down suddenly on the edge of the writing-table. "Say, Bunny!" he

said gently. "Do you know you're the only man in the world that can send

me to perdition and not have his teeth knocked down his throat for his

officiousness?"

Bunny looked up at him, and in a moment, like the flash of sunshine from

behind a cloud, he was smiling. "Oh, get out, Jake. I suppose you're

going to wipe the floor with me now. I didn't mean it and I'm sorry.

Let's get on from there!"

His hand gripped Jake's hard. There was something very winning about him

at the moment, something that appealed strongly to the older man though

he did not instantly reply. He kept the boy's hand in his for a moment,

and his eyes were very kindly as he looked into the thin young face.

"Guess you know I'm pretty fond of you, my son," he said at length, "but

I don't figure to let you go to the devil unhindered on that account."

Bunny whistled. "Who's going? Oh, don't be an ass, Jake, will you?"

"No, I won't," said Jake, "at least not the soft variety. Reckon I've

been too soft with you, Bunny, as long as I've known you."

Bunny stirred restlessly in his chair. "Think so?" he said. "Well, it's a

good fault, old chap. I can't stand bullying from anyone--makes me see

red at once."

"I know," Jake said. "I've never bullied you anyway. But I'm on the

war-path now, and you've got to take your physic whether you like it or

not. Say, Bunny, how much money did you drop at the races this

afternoon?"

"What's that to you?" said Bunny.

Jake's face hardened a little. "Well, I expected that," he said. "Afraid

to tell me, eh?"

"Not in the least afraid," said Bunny. "I dispute your right to know,

that's all."

"I see." Jake regarded him with a very direct scrutiny. "I'm to be kept

in my place, is that it?"

Bunny coloured. "That's the fourth time you've called me a bounder since

we came in. What do you mean by it, Jake?"

"What do I mean?" Jake spoke rather sadly. "Well, maybe that's just what

I do mean, Bunny. You're beginning to bound."

"Rot!" said Bunny, though he coloured more deeply than before. "You know

there isn't another fellow anywhere that I respect as I respect you.

But--dash it, Jake!--you must let me grow."

"I want you to," said Jake. "But for the Lord's sake, grow straight!" He

reached out and took Bunny by the shoulder. "I'm going to ask a big thing

of you, sonny, but I guess I shall know by the way you take it how much

your respect for me is worth."

"What is it?" said Bunny.

"Just this." Jake leaned forward; there was speculation in his look. "I

want you to chuck racing--altogether--for a year. There!"

"Chuck racing!" Bunny sat up very straight. "Jake! Why on earth should

I?"

Jake's hand closed upon him. He was smiling a little but there was

something relentless behind his smile. "Oh, just to please me," he said.

"That's all."

Bunny stared at him. "Chuck racing!" he said again. "Jake, you're mad!"

"No, I guess not," said Jake imperturbably. "I'm not arguing any against

racing. Played straight, it's the best game in the world. I'm just asking

a personal favour of you. There's nothing to be hurt about in that."

There was an ominous gleam in Bunny's eyes. He looked as if he were on

the verge of open rebellion, but with his last words Jake's steady arm

suddenly went round his shoulders and gave him a hard, brotherly squeeze.

"Don't do it if you're going to hate me for it!" he said. "Reckon I can't

afford that. I knew it was a gamble when I started. If I can't win, I'll

back out right now."

"Jake!" Quick feeling sounded in Bunny's voice. He turned sharply, and

for an instant his cheek was against the kindly hand with the old boyish

gesture of affection. Then he looked Jake full in the eyes and laughed.

"Jake, I say, don't be a beast! You know I'll do anything under the sun

to please you."

"You'll do this?" said Jake.

"Tell me why first!" said Bunny.

"Because I want to know if you've got the grit for one thing. And for

another--that girl who has just come here is a gambler to the backbone,

and I won't have her encouraged."

"How on earth do you know that?" said Bunny. "Did Charlie tell you?"

"No." Jake's voice was grim. "You don't suppose I'd take his word for

anything, do you? I saw it in her face this afternoon. I know that

gambling fever, and she--well, I'm inclined to think she's had it in one

form or another all her life."

"She's quite a nice kid," said Bunny condescendingly.

Jake smiled, but the firmness remained. "She's not your sort, Sir Bernard

Brian," he remarked. "And I rather guess she could teach you more than

you could teach her."

"What do you mean?" said Bunny.

Jake turned aside to shut the window in preparation for departure. "Well,

sonny," he said in a marked drawl, "I guess I mean just that. If you

aren't sharp enough to draw your own conclusions, that's none of my

business." He turned round and looked at Bunny with absolute directness.

"And that other proposition of mine,--did I understand you to fall in

with it?"

"Chuck racing for a year, you mean?" Bunny got up. His face was still

red, but it showed no resentment. "It's rather much, isn't it, Jake?"

"Too much?" questioned Jake.

Bunny hesitated. "Well, a year! Make it three months!" he said coaxingly.

Jake came to him, square and resolute. "I'll make it six months, Bunny,"

he said, "if you can tell me you didn't drop more than fifty pounds this

afternoon."

Bunny turned crimson. "This afternoon was an exception," he said hastily.

"I thought so," said Jake dryly.

"But--damn it!--it's rather a heavy penalty to pay," protested Bunny. He

thrust out an impulsive hand. "I say, let me off, old feller! I won't do

it again."

Jake's fingers closed and held. He said nothing, merely waited.

And very suddenly--after his own headlong fashion--Bunny made

unconditional surrender. "Oh, get out, you beastly groom!" he said, and

wrung Jake's hand with all the force he could muster. "All right! It's

done!"

Jake made an odd movement as of tension relaxed though none had been

apparent in his bearing. He struck Bunny on the shoulder the blow of a

friend.

"That's the biggest thing you've ever done for me, pard," he said with a

smile. "Reckon I shan't forget it. Take it out of me next time!"

"You bet I will!" said Bunny.

He linked his arm through Jake's and gripped it hard. His eyes were

shining as they passed out together into the gathering dusk. He had made

a considerable sacrifice, but Jake had the gift of making him realize

that it was worth while.

CHAPTER VIII

THE ALLY

A squeal of childish laughter echoed down the long passage that led from

the nurseries, followed by a shuffling sound along the floor.

"Hold tight!" cried a voice, a gay, boyish voice, "I'm going to gallop!"

There followed a tremendous scrambling along the corridor and shrieks of

delight from three excited children. Jake, who had just mounted the

stairs, paused in his progress; but in a moment there came a dramatic

sound indicative of collapse, and immediately there arose cries of

dismay. He turned an intervening corner and came upon the newly-arrived

guest quite prone upon the floor with his three little girls scuffling in

delighted agitation over her inert body.

He hesitated to interrupt the game, but in an instant Betty the youngest

had spied him and uttered a shrill cry of welcome. The heap upon the

floor swiftly resolved itself into four separate beings, and the newcomer

sprang up with the litheness of a squirrel and met him with a free grace

that was not without a suggestion of defiance.

He held out his hand to her. He understood the defiance and replied to it

with characteristic directness.

"Guess you thought me a rough sort of animal when we met in the paddock

this afternoon," he said. "I'm sorry. It was Bunny I was up against--not

you."

"Not me?" said Toby, her wide eyes lifted quite openly to his. "Sure?"

He pinched the slim young hand without ceremony. Somehow she took him by

storm--this girl with the open brow and curiously pathetic face. "Well,

not so much you," he said. "Bunny knows that gambling on a big scale is

against the law for children of his age."

"Oh, I see," said Toby. She smiled and slipped her hand free. "Well, I'm

years older than he is, so that doesn't apply to me. Bunny wasn't doing

any gambling either."

"I gathered that," said Jake.

She stopped and lifted Molly the second child, partially veiling her own

face with the little girl's soft curls. "Then you are up against me," she

said.

"No, I'm not," Jake's voice held a queer, compassionate note. "We won't

quarrel till we know each other better anyway. I see you're pretty

intimate with the youngsters already."

"Oh, that's easy, isn't it?" said Toby. "Babies always take you at your

face value. They are never prejudiced beforehand. There's never any

handicap of that sort with babies."

Betty was clamouring at her knees. She bent and lifted her also, bracing

her slight form to a double burden of which Jake instantly relieved her,

gathering both children into his own strong arms.

"You're not to do that ever again," he said, with the authority of the

man accustomed to obedience. "Understand?"

"Why not?" said Toby.

He turned to carry the two babies to the nursery. "Because I say it," he

said briefly.

"Oh, but that's no reason," said Toby, with light assurance.

Eileen at her side looked up in shocked amazement. "Not if Daddy says

so?" she questioned.

Toby stooped and swung her up to her shoulder. "You little featherweight!

Daddy's only a man!" she said.

"Quite true," said Jake deliberately. "The sort of man who means what he

says--always, and sees that he gets it."

"What a frightful undertaking!" laughed Toby. "Then if you told me to go

to blazes you'd see that I went?"

There was a pause. Eileen's little hands locked themselves nervously

under Toby's chin. Perhaps she was aware of a certain electricity in the

atmosphere. She was plainly not at her ease.

Jake's voice sounded, very quiet and distinct, from the nursery door as

he entered. "I reckon that's just one of the things I've learnt not to

say."

"Oh glory!" said Toby, "There goes the odd trick!"

It was several minutes later, after a wild final romp that they left

the room together. There was certainly no ceremony left between them.

They came out as comrades, laughing at the same joke, their brief

passage-at-arms apparently forgotten.

Toby, however, reverted to it very suddenly as they walked along the

passage. "Mr. Bolton, I'm sorry I got Bunny into hot water this

afternoon. It was all my fault. And I'm sorry I said blazes in front of

the babies just now. You'll have to kick me when I do these things, and

then I'll remember."

Jake paused and looked at her. "Say! Are you a boy or a girl?" he said.

She smiled, a faintly dubious smile, but her reply was prompt. "Mostly

boy, sir. That's what makes it so difficult."

He put his hand on her shoulder. "Look here! Call me Jake, see? Are you

keen on horses?"

Toby's eyes shone. "Like mad," she said.

"I'll see you ride tomorrow," said Jake.

Toby whooped with delight. "But I'll have to borrow some breeches from

someone. You don't want me to ride in a skirt do you?"

"Not specially," said Jake. "What do you generally ride in?"

"Tights," said Toby, and then suddenly clapped her hand to her mouth in

dismay. "There! Now I've done it! You won't tell--you'll never tell, will

you? Promise!"

"Sure!" said Jake. He was smiling a little, but there was compassion in

his eyes.

And Toby's hand came out to him in sudden confidence. "I like you," she

said. "You're a friend."

Jake's grasp was strong and kindly. "I guess I shan't let you down," he

said.

Toby nodded. "You've been a cow-boy, haven't you? I knew that directly I

saw you."

"I've been a good many things," said Jake.

She nodded again. "And always the right sort. I wish--" She broke off

abruptly.

"What?" said Jake.

"Oh, nothing," said Toby, with a rather wistful little laugh.

"Let's have it!" said Jake.

Her hand lay in his, and this time she left it there. Her blue eyes met

his courageously. "Only that I'd met you before," she said.

"Before when?" said Jake. "Before you met Saltash?"

"Oh no!" Very swiftly, she answered him. "Oh no! Lord Saltash is among

the kings. I'd have been dead by now but for him!" Her eyes kindled as

with a sudden glowing memory, she flushed like an eager child. "You know

him?" she said. "Isn't he--isn't he--fine?"

She spoke with reverence, even with a certain awe. The man's face changed

a little, hardening almost imperceptibly.

"Guess he's no great hero of mine," he said. "But maybe he has his

points."

"He has!" Toby assured him with fervor. "You don't know him like I do.

He's a--he's a masterpiece."

"That so?" said Jake.

Perhaps Toby felt a lack of sympathy in his tone; she quitted the subject

abruptly. "No, that wasn't what I meant. I only wish I'd met you long

ago--years and years ago--when you were a cow-boy."

"You were a babe in arms then," said Jake.

She shook her head, quaintly smiling. "I wasn't ever that. I think I must

have been born old--began at the wrong end somehow. Some people do, you

know."

"I know," said Jake. "When that happens, there's only one thing to be

done."

"What?" queried Toby.

His eyes were watching her intently, but there was nothing alarming in

their scrutiny. He made reply with absolute gentleness. "Begin again."

"Ah!" A little sound that was more than a sigh escaped her, and then

quite suddenly her other hand came out to him; she lifted a quivering

face. "You going to help me?" she said.

The action touched him. He took her by the shoulders as he might have

taken a boy. "I'll help you," he said.

"You'll be good to me?" Her voice was quivering also, it had a sound of

tears.

"Sure!" said Jake, laconic and forceful.

"Keep me straight and pull me up when I go wrong?" pursued Toby

tremulously.

"Yes, I'll do that," he said.

"And you won't--you won't--you won't--talk to anybody about me?" she

pleaded.

"No," said Jake briefly.

"Not to Lord Saltash? Not to anyone?"

"No," he said again, a hint of sternness in the curt word.

Toby gulped down her distress, was silent for a moment or two, then

suddenly smiled upon him--a sunny inconsequent smile. "Guess I've got you

on my side now," she said with satisfaction. "You're nice and solid, Mr.

Jake Bolton. When you've been picked up from the very bottom of the sea,

it's good to have someone big and safe to hold on to."

"That so?" said Jake.

"Yes, I know now why Lord Saltash sent me here--just because you're

big--and safe."

"Oh, quite safe," said Jake with his sudden smile.

It came to him--as it had come to Saltash--that there was something

piteously like a small animal, storm-driven and seeking refuge, about

her. Even in her merriest moments she seemed to plead for kindness.

He patted her shoulder reassuringly as he let her go. "I'll look after

you," he said, "if you play the game."

"What game?" said Toby unexpectedly.

He looked her squarely in the eyes. "The only game worth playing," he

said. "The straight game."

"Oh, I see," said Toby with much meekness. "Not cheat, you mean? Lord

Saltash doesn't allow cheating either."

"Good land!" said Jake in open astonishment.

"You don't know him," said Toby again with conviction.

And Jake laughed, good-humoured but sceptical. "Maybe I've something to

learn yet," he said tolerantly. "But it's my impression that for sheer

mischief and double-dealing he could knock spots off any other human

being on this earth."

"Oh, if that's all you know about him," said Toby, "you've never even met

him--never once."

"Have you?" questioned Jake abruptly.

She coloured up to the soft fair hair that clustered about her

blue-veined temples, and turned from him with an odd little indrawn

breath. "Yes!" she said. "Yes!"--paused an instant as if about to say

more; then again in a whisper, "Yes!" she said, and went lightly away as

if the subject were too sacred for further discussion.

"Good land!" said Jake again, and departed to his own room in grim

amazement.

Saltash the sinner was well known to him and by no means uncongenial; but

Saltash the saint, not only beloved, but reverenced and enshrined as

such, as something beyond his comprehension! How on earth had he managed

to achieve his sainthood?

CHAPTER IX

THE IDOL

"Well?" said Saltash with quizzical interest. "Where is she? And how is

she getting on?"

It was the Sunday afternoon of his promised visit, a day soft with spring

showers and fleeting sunshine. Maud sat in a basket-chair on the verandah

and regarded him with puzzled eyes. She passed his questions by.

"Charlie," she said, "where does she come from?"

He raised his shoulders expressively. "Where do all women come from--and

why, _chère reine_? It would be such a peaceful planet without them."

He was in a baffling mood, and she knew better than to pursue the subject

under those conditions. She abandoned her effort with a sigh.

"She is not a woman; she is a child, very charming but utterly

irresponsible. She is in the training field just now with Jake and Bunny.

She is a positive delight to Jake. She can do anything with the horses."

"But not such a delight to you?" suggested Saltash shrewdly.

Maud hesitated momentarily. "I love her of course," she said then.

"But--though I have tried to make her feel at ease--I think she is a

little afraid of me--afraid anyhow to be quite natural in my presence."

"But are we any of us that?" protested Saltash. "Are we not all on our

best behaviour in the audience-chamber?"

Maud sighed again. "They are all great pals," she said irrelevantly. "She

and Bunny are terribly reckless. I hope they won't break their necks

before they have done."

"Or their hearts?" suggested Saltash, looking mischievous.

She smiled. "I don't think there is much danger of that, anyhow at

present. She is a positive child, Charlie,--as young as Eileen in many

ways, or perhaps younger. Shall we walk down to the field and look at

them?"

"Your servant, madam!" said Saltash readily.

He was on his feet in an instant, and she realized that he had been

chafing to go since the moment of his arrival.

"You take a great interest in her," she remarked, as they walked along

the terrace.

He made his most appalling grimace. "I have never had an infant to look

after before," he said "And--I have to make my report to Larpent."

"Ah! How is he?" questioned Maud.

He shot her a swift glance. "Is the child anxious?"

"Not in the least. I don't believe she ever thinks about him. She told me

on the first day that she hardly knows him."

Saltash laughed. "How honest of her! Well, he's getting better, but he

won't be well yet. May I leave her in your charge, a while longer?"

"Of course!" Maud said warmly. "I love to have her, and she is a great

help to me too. The children simply worship her, and she is splendid with

them. I believe Eileen will very soon get over her dread of riding."

"Toby can ride?" asked Saltash.

"Oh yes, like a cow-boy. She is amazingly fearless, and never minds a

tumble in the least. She can do the most extraordinary things exactly

like a boy. I am always afraid of her coming to grief, but she never

does."

"Funny little beggar!" said Saltash.

"I am quite sure of one thing," pursued Maud. "She never learnt these

things at any school. She tells me she has been to a good many."

"I believe that's true," said Saltash. "I imagine she is fairly quick to

pick up anything, but I haven't known her myself for long."

"She must have picked up a good deal on _The Night Moth_," observed Maud

unexpectedly.

He glanced at her again. "Why do you say that? She was under my

protection--and Larpent's--on _The Night Moth_."

"I know. She idolizes you," Maud smiled at him somewhat dubiously. "But

she must have mixed fairly freely with the crew to have picked up the

really amazing language she sometimes uses."

Saltash's brows worked whimsically. "Some of us have a gift that way," he

remarked. "Your worthy Jake, for instance--"

"Oh, Jake is a reformed character," she interrupted. "He hardly ever lets

himself go now-a-days. And he won't allow it from Bunny. But Toby--Toby

never seems to know the good from the bad."

"Has Jake taken her in hand?" asked Saltash with a chuckle.

"Oh yes. He checks her at every turn. I must say she takes it very

sweetly, even offered to take her meals in her room yesterday when he was

rather down on her. It absolutely disarmed Jake of course. What could he

say?"

"Yes, she's a disarming monkey certainly," agreed Saltash. "But I never

was great on the management and discipline of children. So she knocks

under to the great Jake, does she?"

"Oh, not entirely." Maud laughed a little. "Only this morning they had a

battle. I don't know how it is going to end yet. But--she can be very

firm."

"She never tried any battles with me," said Saltash, with some

complacence.

"No. But then your sense of duty is more elastic than Jake's. You

never--probably--asked her to do anything she didn't want to do."

"Can't remember," said Saltash. "What did Jake want?"

Maud's smile lingered. "You'll laugh of course. But Jake is quite right,

whatever you do. He wanted her to go to church with little Eileen and me

this morning. She's only a child, you know, and he naturally took it for

granted that she was going. We both did. But just at the last moment she

absolutely refused, told him quite frankly that she was--an atheist."

Saltash's laugh had a sound half-mocking, half-exultant. "What said the

worthy Jake to that? Stop! I know what he said. He said. 'You can call

yourself by any fool name you please, but you've got to go to Church

like a respectable citizen if I say so.' Wasn't that it?"

"Something like it," Maud admitted. "How did you know?"

"Oh, I know Jake," said Saltash dryly. "And what happened then? She

refused?"

"Yes, she refused. She was frightened, but she refused. She looked as if

she were going to run away, but in the end Jake went off with her to the

stables saying they would go to-night. They were quite friends when I saw

them again, but she had been crying, poor little thing. I wish I could

help her, but somehow I can't get near enough. Jake seems to understand

her best."

"Wonder if she will give in?" said Saltash.

They were passing through a shrubbery that led to the training-field, and

there came the quick thud of hoofs galloping on short turf as they

approached.

"I don't think there is much doubt about that," Maud said.

Saltash laughed again mockingly. "Oh, we all know Jake is invincible,

virtuous rectitude incarnate. But you can't hammer a girl into submission

like a boy and I rather fancy that Toby is not wholly ignorant of the art

of getting her own way."

"Jake never hammered Bunny," Maud said quietly, "But he manages him

notwithstanding."

They rounded a curve and came upon the gate that led into the field. The

galloping hoofs were close to them. As they reached the corner two riders

flashed past at full speed. One of them--Bunny--lay on his horse's neck,

yelling wild encouragement to his mount. The other,--a slight, childish

figure--was kneeling on the saddle like a small, crouching creature,

perfectly poised and wholly unafraid. As the horse that carried her

dropped to a canter on the hill, she got to her feet with absolute ease,

and stood, arms out and swaying to the animal's motion, till, as they

rounded another curve, she dropped to the saddle again, and passed from

sight, following in Bunny's tracks.

"Quite a pretty exhibition!" remarked Saltash. "Where is Jake?"

Jake himself appeared at the moment riding soberly, mounted on his

favourite horse, The Hundredth Chance. He greeted Saltash with a smile

and jumped to the ground to join them at the gate.

"They'll be round again directly. Just riding off their spirits," he

explained in his easy drawl. "You motored over, my lord?"

Saltash nodded with a touch of impatience. He was watching with restless

eyes for the reappearance of the girl on horseback. She had not seen him

at the gate, yet somehow his arrogance rebelled at the fact that she

had passed him by.

Jake stood with The Hundredth Chance nuzzling against him. He did not

trouble himself to make conversation; that was not his way. He also

waited for the reappearance of the riders.

They came, riding side by side and jesting with careless _camaraderie_.

Toby's face was delicately flushed. The fair head had no covering. She

was dressed and looked exactly like a boy.

At sight of Saltash standing by the gate her whole attitude changed. She

uttered a queer sound, half-whoop, half-sob, and flung herself out of the

saddle. In a moment she had reached him, was hanging to his arm in mute

greeting, everything else in the world forgotten. It was pathetically

like the re-union of a lost dog to its master.

Saltash's ugly face softened miraculously at her action. The jest died on

his lips. "Why, Nonette!" he said. "Nonette!"

She strangled another sob. Her face was burning, quivering, appealing, no

longer the face of a boy. "I thought you'd forgotten to come," she said.

"What? Was I expected to lunch?" said Saltash. "Ah! Was that why you

wouldn't go to church?"

Toby looked up, desperately smiling. "It may have been--partly. But I

never do go. Do you?"

"Not often," said Saltash. "I might if I stayed here. There's no knowing.

You'll be pleased to hear your daddy is better. He's coming down to the

Castle to convalesce. And when he's done that, I'm going to have a

party--a coming-out party--for you."

"For me!" Toby gasped, staring at him with scared blue eyes. "I hope you

won't, sir," she said.

He laughed back at her, his brows working mischievously. "_Mais pourquoi

pas, mignonne?_ You are old enough. Maud will come and be hostess, won't

you, Maud? You shall have Jake too for a watch-dog, if you want him.

After that, you shall be presented at Court, when you've learnt to

curtsey prettily instead of turning somersaults. You must let your hair

grow, Nonette, and leave off wearing breeks. You've got to be a credit to

me."

"Oh, damn!" said Toby in dismay. "I mean--oh, bother!"

"Yes, it's a good thing you mean only that, isn't it?" laughed Saltash.

"If you go on wearing those masculine things much longer, you'll have

Jake punching your head for little slips of that kind. He's getting

mighty particular, I'm told."

"Not afraid of Jake!" said Toby, casting a swift look at her host.

Jake was lighting his pipe. His face wore a faint smile. He was holding

Toby's animal as well as his own. "Aren't you going to ride again?" he

said.

"No," said Toby.

"Oh, come on!" Bunny pushed his horse forward without dismounting. "Glad

to see you, Charlie, but we must have one more gallop. Come on, Toby! Be

a sport!"

But Toby, still holding Saltash's sleeve, would not so much as look at

him. "Not coming," she said tersely.

Saltash laughed. Bunny coloured suddenly and hotly. "Oh, all right!" he

said, and, wheeling his horse, rode away.

"Now you've hurt his little feelings," observed Saltash.

"Who cares?" said Toby, and nestled closer, till with his sudden reckless

grin he thrust an arm about her shoulders.

"I'll tell you what it is, Nonette. You're getting spoilt all round.

Something will have to be done. Shall I take her away, Jake?"

"And bring me back when I'm good?" put in Toby eagerly.

He laughed and pinched her ear. "I shall want to keep you myself--when

you're good. I haven't yet found anyone to sew on buttons like you do.

No, _ma chère_, you'll have to stay and be caned for your sins. Jake is

a better schoolmaster than I am, being so eminently virtuous himself. I

hope you do cane her, Jake. I'm sure she needs it."

"No," Jake said, preparing to mount again. "I haven't tried that at

present."

Toby watched him a little wistfully as he moved away, leading her horse.

"I am trying to be good," she said. "He knows that."

"Yes, she's trying hard," Maud said very kindly. "Jake and I are going to

be proud of her some day."

Saltash's brows twisted humorously. "I wonder," he said. And then again

lightly he laughed. "Don't get too good, Nonette! I can't rise to it."

She turned swiftly, looking up into the derisive face above her with open

adoration in her own. "You!" she said. "You!"

"Well, what about me?" he said.

She coloured very deeply. "Nothing, sir, nothing! Only--you're so great!"

He flicked her cheek, grimacing hideously. "Is that your pretty way of

telling me I'm the biggest rotter you ever met?"

"Oh, no!" said Toby quickly and earnestly. "Oh no! I think you are--a

king. If--if anyone could make me believe in God, you could."

She spoke with a sincerity that held a hint of passion. The grimace

flicked out of Saltash's face like a picture from a screen. For a moment

he had the blank look of a man who has been hit, he knows not where. Then

with lightning swiftness, his eyes went to Maud. "You hear that?" he

said, almost on a note of challenge. "Why don't you laugh?"

She met his look with absolute steadfastness. There was a certain pity in

her own. "Because," she said with great gentleness, "I believe that it is

true."

In the silence that followed she waited for his own laugh of mockery and

did not hear it. The odd eyes comprehended her, and passed her by, fell

abruptly to Toby and dwelt upon her with a whimsical tenderness.

"I always said you were a little ass, didn't I, Toby?" he said.

And Toby turned with an apologetic murmur and softly kissed his hand.

CHAPTER X

RESOLUTIONS

Toby went to church that Sunday evening with great propriety, Saltash

having departed, taking Bunny with him to spend the evening at

Burchester. Her behaviour was a model of decorum throughout, but

returning she begged Jake for a cigarette as a reward of virtue.

"It'll keep me good for hours," she assured him.

And Jake, who yearned for a smoke himself, could not find it in his heart

to refuse.

"Don't overdo it, that's all!" he said. "Young Bunny is always at it, and

it's very bad for him."

"Oh, I've got heaps more sense than Bunny," said Toby, with lofty

assurance.

She smoked the cigarette with delicate appreciation though Jake's tobacco

was by no means suited to a feminine palate, and they returned at peace

with all the world.

Maud, who had been watching for them somewhat anxiously, saw with relief

that her fears were groundless. Toby's serene countenance told her that

all was well. No, she had not hated it so very badly after all. It was

nothing to make a fuss about anyhow. She would go again if Jake liked.

She seemed in fact mildly amused by the idea that he could be so easily

pleased, and asked him later with her chin in the air if there were any

other odd jobs he would like her to perform.

But when Maud presently went to the piano, she came and sat on a low

chair near her and listened in absolute stillness while she played. They

were alone, and Maud played on and on, almost forgetful of her silent

companion, suffering her fingers to wander in unison with her thoughts.

All her life music had been her great joy and solace. She was not a

brilliant musician as was Saltash, but she had the gift of so steeping

herself in music that she could at times thereby express that which

otherwise would have been unutterable--the hidden emotions of her soul.

Nearly an hour had passed thus before she remembered the silent little

figure behind her, and then it was with a swift sense of compunction that

she took her hands from the keys and turned.

"Toby dear, how boring this must be for you! Are you asleep? Why, child,

what is it?"

With a start she saw that Toby's fair head was bowed upon her arms in an

attitude of the most hopeless, the most bitter, despair.

She made a convulsive movement at the sound of Maud's voice, and in a

moment lifted a white, strained face. "I am just a little tired, that's

all," she said in a voice that quivered in spite of her. "Please go on

playing! I like it."

Maud got up with quiet decision and went to her, but Toby was on her feet

before she reached her. She stood with that look of a small, frightened

animal so characteristic of her, her two hands nervously locked together.

Maud took her gently by the arm. "Shall we sit down and talk?" she said.

Toby yielded as it were involuntarily to the quiet touch. In her plain

white blouse with the sailor collar she looked a mere child--a piteous,

shy child.

Maud drew her down upon the sofa. All the mother in her went out to the

forlorn little creature, yet for the moment she hesitated, as one afraid

to strike a wrong note.

Toby was trembling a little and that fact decided her. She put a

comforting arm about her.

"Do you know I am wondering how to make you happy?" she said.

Toby choked back a sob. "You are very kind, and I am stupid--stupid. I

will try to be happy. I will really."

Maud began to draw her gently nearer, but Toby surprised her by a sudden

passionate movement and slipped down on to the floor, hiding her face

against her.

"I'm not fit--to speak to you!" she said in a vehement, strangled

whisper. "I'm so bad--so bad. And I do--so--want to be good."

"My dear, dear child!" Maud said very tenderly.

Toby fought with herself for a space, her thin arms tightly clasping

Maud's knees. At last, forcing back her distress she lifted her head.

"I'm so dreadfully sorry. Don't let it upset you! Don't--tell Jake!"

"You are quite safe with me, dear," Maud assured her. "But can't I help

you?"

She knew even as she asked the question that Toby was not prepared to

give her full confidence, and her own reserve shrank from asking for it.

Toby looked up at her with quivering lips. "Oh, you are good!" she said.

"I want to be good--like you. But--I don't feel as if I ever shall be."

Maud laid a very gentle hand upon the blue-veined forehead. "I think

goodness is only comparative at the best of times, dear," she said. "I

don't feel that I am specially good. If I seem so to you, it is probably

because my life holds very few temptations to be anything else."

"Ah!" Toby said, with a quick sigh. "And do you think people ought to be

made to suffer for--for things they can't help?"

Maud shook her head. "I am afraid it often happens, dear."

"And yet you believe in God," Toby said.

"Yes, I believe in God." With quiet reverence Maud made answer. "And I am

quite sure, Toby--quite, quite sure--that He never holds people

responsible for the things they can't help."

"Then why--" began Toby restlessly.

Maud interrupted her. "No, no. Don't ask why! The world is as God made

it. 'We are His workmanship.' Let Him do with us as He will!"

Toby's hands clenched. A frown that was curiously unchildlike drew the

wide forehead. "Are we to be quite passive then? Just--slaves?"

"No," Maud said. "Servants--not slaves. There is a big difference. And

every one of us--every one of us--has God's work to do in the world."

"And you think that bad people,--like me--can do anything?" said Toby.

Maud smiled a little. "Toby dear, I am quite sure that your work is

waiting for you."

"Don't know where I'm going to begin," said Toby, with another sigh.

"My dear, you have begun." Maud's hand smoothed the fair hair. "Do you

think I don't know how hard you try?"

Toby's eyes filled with quick tears. "But is it any good trying? Shall I

ever get away from--from--" She broke off with a nervous, upward glance.

"Shall I ever do more than begin?" she substituted rather piteously.

"My dear, yes." Very quietly, with absolute decision, Maud made answer.

"You are young--too young to be hampered by anything that is past. You

have your life before you, and--to a very great extent--you can make of

it what you will. There is no need--believe me, there is no need--to look

back. There is only time enough for the present. Just keep on trying!

Make the very best you can of it! And you will find the future will come

out all right."

"Will it?" said Toby rather dubiously.

Maud bent and kissed her. "Certainly it will, dear. Never doubt it! It

may not be the future we plan for ourselves, but it will be the very best

possible if we keep on doing our best with the present."

"Thank you," Toby murmured gratefully. "And you really think--you do

really think--the past doesn't matter?"

Maud was silent for a few moments. The thought of Saltash was in her

mind, his jesting evasions, his air of careless proprietorship. What was

the thing in this child's past that she desired so earnestly to put away?

She wondered if she ought to ask, but she could not.

A slight terror ran through the small, supplicating figure at her knee,

and quick pity banished doubt. "I think it is entirely in our own hands,

dear," she said gently. "The past can always be left behind if we work

hard enough."

"Oh, thank you," Toby said again, and gathering Maud's hands

impulsively into her own she kissed them. "I'm going to work very hard,"

she said. "You'll help me, I know. I've got to--to leave off turning

somersaults--and learn to--curtsey."

She sent a shy smile into Maud's face, and almost in spite of herself

Maud answered it. There was something oddly appealing, irresistibly

attractive, about the child. She was so young and ardent, yet so

pathetically anxious to please.

"Of course I will help you," she said. "I will always help you, my dear."

And Toby, emboldened, thrust warm arms about her neck, and held her

close.

CHAPTER XI

THE BUTTERFLY

The perfect rose of a June sunset was slanting through the fir-woods of

Burchester Park, making the red trunks glow. At the end of a long grass

ride the new moon dipped to the west, a silver boat uptilted in a green

transparent sea. A very great stillness lay upon all things--the eventide

quiet of a summer day.

The dull thudding of a horse's hoofs along the ride scarcely seemed to

break that magic silence. A frightened rabbit scurrying to cover made no

sound at all. Somewhere a long way off a cuckoo was calling, tenderly,

persistently. Somewhere near at hand a blackbird was warbling to his

mate. But it all went into the enchanted silence, blending with the hush

of the coming night. The man who rode the horse was conscious only of the

peace of his surroundings. He doffed his cap to the moon in mock

reverence, and carried it in his hand.

He came to the end of the ride and checked his animal on the brow of a

steep descent. The park lay below him wrapped in mystery. On another

slope a full mile away stood the Castle, ancient battlemented, starkly

splendid, one westward-facing window burning as with fire. He sat

motionless for a space, gazing across at it, his face a curious mask of

conjecture and regret.

Finally, with great suddenness, he lifted his hand and smote his horse

sharply on the flank. In a moment he was being precipitated at a headlong

gallop down the hill. He went like the wind, and the enchanted wood

was left behind.

Riding up the further slope to the Castle a few minutes later, he was

hailed from behind and reined in to look back. A long-legged figure

detached itself from a clump of trees that shadowed the bailiff's house

and came racing in pursuit.

"Hi! Charlie! Don't be in such a deuce of a hurry! I'm going your way."

Saltash waited, not too patiently. "My good chap, you're dressed and I'm

not! I shall be late for my guests."

"What's it matter?" scoffed Bunny breathlessly, reaching his side. "Maud

and Jake don't count, and Toby is only a kid. I don't suppose she's ever

been out to dine before."

"She's old enough to begin," remarked Saltash, pushing on at a walk.

"Well, she is beginning," said Bunny, with a grin as he strode beside

him. "You haven't seen her for some weeks, have you? You'll see a

difference, and so will her father."

"How?" said Saltash briefly.

Bunny's grin became more pronounced. "Oh, it's chiefly clothes. Maud is

rather clever in that line, you know. I haven't seen a great deal of her

lately. She's generally scampering round on horseback with Jake. But

once or twice--with Maud--I've seen her look quite demure. She's really

getting almost good-looking," he added dispassionately.

Saltash flung a swift look downwards. "Don't you approve?"

Bunny shrugged his shoulders. "I don't see enough of her to care either

way. She's still a kid, you know,--quite a kid."

Saltash dropped the subject abruptly. "You're liking your job all right?"

"Rather!" Bunny made instant and enthusiastic reply. "It's just the sort

of thing I was made for. Old Bishop's a brick. We're getting quite fond

of one another."

"Sort of life you enjoy?" questioned Saltash.

"Oh, rather! I've always thought I'd like to manage a big estate. Wish

I'd got one of my own."

"All right. I'll adopt you," laughed Saltash. "You shall be the son of my

old age."

"Oh, don't be an ass!" protested Bunny. "Why on earth don't you get

married?"

Saltash's brows twisted wryly. "Afraid I've lived too long, _mon cher_.

If I had married your sister in the long ago, things might have been

vastly different. As it is, I see no prospect of changing my state. Think

it matters?"

"Well, it's rather a shame to let a good name die out," maintained Bunny.

"And of course it's rot to talk like that about Maud. You can't pretend

to have stayed in love with her all these years. There must have been

heaps of others since then."

"No, I'm not pretending," said Saltash. "As you say, there have

been--heaps of others." He made an odd gesture towards the western sky

behind him. "There are always--heaps of stars, Bunny; but there's never

more than one moon."

"Rot!" said Bunny.

"It is, isn't it?" said Saltash, and laughed with brief derision. "Well,

I must get on. You can do the receiving if I'm late. Tell them I've been

in town and only got back at mid-day! You needn't bother about Larpent.

I'll see to him."

He flicked his horse's neck and was off with the words.

Bunny, striding after, watched him ride swiftly up the slope till the

fir-trees of the avenue hid him from view.

"Queer fish!" he murmured to himself. "Very queer fish!"

He entered the Castle a little later by the great stone hall and found it

lighted from end to end as if in preparation for a reception. He had

known the place for years, but it always struck him afresh with its

magnificence. It looked like a palace of kings. There were some beautiful

pieces of statuary both in marble and bronze, and upon each of these a

shaded light shone.

At the end of the hall a wide oak staircase that branched mid-way led to

an oak gallery that ran round three sides of the hall, and where it

divided a high door stood open, showing a lighted room beyond. Bunny left

his coat with the silent-stepping butler and went straight up the

shallow stairs.

He entered the stately apartment at the top expecting to find it empty.

It was the drawing-room--a vast and lofty chamber with satin-covered

walls, superbly furnished with old French furniture in royal blue velvet

and gilt. There was a further room beyond, but Bunny did not pursue his

way thither, for a man in evening-dress turned suddenly from one of the

great southward-facing windows and moved to meet him.

He was a gaunt man with a trim beard and the eyes of the sea-farer, and

he walked with a slight roll as if accustomed to pitching decks.

"Sir Bernard Brian?" he said.

Bunny held out his hand. "You're Captain Larpent, of course. I wonder

we've never met before. I've heard of you often enough. Sorry you had

such bad luck with _The Night Moth."_

"Oh, damnable luck!" said the sailor gloomily.

"Still you came out of it alive," said Bunny consolingly. "And your

daughter too. Things might have been worse."

Larpent grunted. "Think so?"

"She does anyway," said Bunny, with a grin.

Larpent grunted again. "Shipboard is not the place for a girl," he

remarked.

"Toby seems more at home on horseback than anywhere else," said Bunny.

Larpent gave him a keen look. "Oh, she still goes by that name, does

she?" he said.

"What do you call her?" said Bunny.

Larpent snapped his fingers curtly.

"Does she come for that?" asked Bunny.

"Usually," said Larpent.

"Then she's more docile than I thought she was," commented Bunny.

Larpent said nothing. He propped himself against the high mantelpiece and

stared morosely out before him to the pine-clad slopes of the park.

"How you must hate being ashore!" said Bunny.

"Why do you say that?" Larpent scarcely removed his moody gaze.

"You look as if you did." There was a hint of chaff in Bunny's voice. He

surveyed the gaunt man with humorous interest, seated on one of the gilt

chairs with his hands clasped round his knee. "I suppose Saltash will buy

another yacht, won't he?"

Larpent's eyes came definitely down to him, grimly contemptuous. "Do you

also suppose that would be the same thing?" he said.

Bunny flushed a little, but he accepted the rebuff with a good grace. "I

don't know, sir. You see, I've never been the captain of a yacht."

Larpent's hard visage relaxed a little. He resumed his contemplation of

the distant pine-woods in silence.

Bunny got up whistling and began to stroll about the room. He was never

still for long. He was not very familiar with the state reception-rooms

of Burchester Castle and he found plenty to interest him.

Several minutes passed, and he had almost forgotten the silent man who

leaned against the fire-place, when suddenly Larpent came out of his

melancholy reverie and spoke.

"How long has the child been with these Boltons?"

Bunny paused at the further end of the room. "Let's see! It must be some

time now--practically ever since the wreck. It must be about six weeks.

Yes; she came just before I left to take on this job--the week of the

Graydown Meetings." Bunny's eyes kindled at the memory. "We had some

sport the day she came, I remember; quite a little flutter. In fact we

soared so high that I thought we were going to create a sensation, and

then"--Bunny whistled dramatically--"down we came with a rush, and I was

broke!" He began to laugh. "It's rather a shame to tell you, isn't it?

But you won't give me away? We've never done it since."

"I shan't give anyone away," said Larpent grimly.

"Good! You're a sport, I can see."

The genuine appreciation in Bunny's voice brought an icy glimmer of

amusement to the elder man's eyes, but he made no verbal comment.

Again a silence fell, and Bunny came strolling back, a smile on his

handsome boyish face.

"Fine place this," he remarked presently. "It's a pity Saltash is here so

little. He only comes about three times a year, and then only for a

couple of nights at a time. There's heaps of game in the woods and no one

to shoot it."

"He probably knows his own business best," remarked Larpent.

"Oh, probably. But the place is wasted on him for all that." Bunny spoke

with a frown. "Why on earth he doesn't marry and settle down I can't

think. Can't you persuade him to?"

"No," said Larpent quite definitely.

Bunny glanced at him. "I don't know why not. I know he's considered to

have gone the pace a bit, but after all he's no worse than a hundred

others. Why the devil shouldn't he marry?"

Larpent shrugged his shoulders. "Don't ask me!" he said.

"Well, he ought to," maintained Bunny. "If you have any influence with

him, you ought to persuade him to."

"I haven't," said Larpent.

Bunny flung away impatiently. "It's a confounded shame--a gorgeous family

place like this and no one but servants to live in it!"

"It is, isn't it?" gibed Saltash, unexpectedly entering from the further

door. "Large enough for fifty wives, eh, Bunny? Well, as I said before,

you get married and I'll adopt you. It'll save me a lot of trouble.

You're so keen on recommending the marriage medicine to other people. Try

it yourself, and see how you like it!"

He walked straight down the long room with the words, passing both

Larpent and Bunny on his way, pausing by neither. "I like to hear you two

discussing my case," he jested. "You, Bunny, who have never had the great

disease, and Larpent who has never got over it!"

He approached the open door that led out upon the great staircase, the

jest still on his lips and the laughter in his eyes. He reached it and

stretched out both hands with a fine gesture of greeting.

"Welcome to my poor hovel!" he said. "Madam, I kneel at your feet."

A clear high laugh answered him from below, and both of his companions

turned sharply at the sound.

A figure in white, girlish, fresh as the morning, sprang suddenly into

view. Her eager face had the delicate flush of a wild rose. The hair

clustered about her temples in tender ringlets of gold. Her eyes, blue

and shining, gave her the look of a child just awakened from happy

sleep--a child that expects to be lifted up and kissed.

"By--Jove!" murmured Bunny under his breath, staring openly. "By--Jove!"

And these words failed him. He had never been so astounded in his life.

This girl--this funny little Toby with the sharp features and pointed

chin, the girl-urchin with whom he had chaffed and played--was actually a

beauty, and till that amazing moment he had not realized the fact.

As he went forward to greet her, he saw that Larpent was staring also,

and he chuckled inwardly at the sight. Decidedly it must be a worse shock

for Larpent than it was for himself, he reflected. For at least he had

seen her in the chrysalis stage, though most certainly he had never

expected this wonderful butterfly to emerge.

Maud, of course, was the witch who had worked the marvellous

transformation, Maud with her tender mother-wisdom that divined so much.

He looked at her now, and wondered as he met her smile if she fully

realized what she had done.

Across the wonder came Saltash's quizzing voice--"_Mais, Nonette,

Nonette_, you are a vision for the gods!"

And a curious hot pang that was like a physical stab went through Bunny.

How dared Charlie use that caressing tone to her--as though she were a

mere ordinary woman to be trifled with and cajoled? He had never

disapproved of Saltash before, but for that moment he almost hated him.

She was too young, too sweet, too--different--to be treated thus.

And then he was standing close to her, and Saltash, laughing, pushed him

forward. "Do you know this fellow, _ma chère_?"

The wide blue eyes came up to his with a pleased smile of comradeship.

"Why, it's Bunny!" the clear voice said. "I'm so glad you're here too--in

this ogre's castle."

Her hand gave his a little confiding squeeze, and Bunny's fingers gripped

in answer. He realized suddenly that she was nervous, and all the ready

chivalry of his nature rose up to protect her. For a moment or two he

kept her hand close in his own.

Then Saltash airily took it from him. "Come!" he said lightly. "Here is

someone else you ought to know!"

He wheeled her round with the words. She came face to face with Larpent.

There was an instant of dead silence, then Toby uttered a little

quivering laugh.

"Hullo--Captain!" she said

"Hullo!" said Larpent, paused a moment, then abruptly took her by the

chin, and, stooping, touched the wide brow with his lips. "All right?" he

asked gruffly.

Toby gave a little gasp; she seemed to be trembling. But in a second she

laughed again, with more assurance. "Yes, all right, captain," she said.

"I--I--I'm glad to see you again. You all right too?"

Bunny, looking on, made the abrupt discovery that Larpent also was

embarrassed. It was Saltash who answered for him, covering the moment's

awkwardness with the innate ease of manner which never seemed to desert

him.

"Of course he's all right. Don't you worry about him! We're going to buy

him another boat as soon as the insurance Company have done talking.

Maud, this is my captain, the finest yachtsman you've ever met and my

very good friend."

He threw his merry, dare-devil glance at Larpent as he made the

introduction, and turned immediately to Jake.

"You two ought to get on all right. He disapproves of me almost as

strongly as you do, and--like you--he endures me, he knows not

wherefore!"

Jake's red-brown eyes held a smile that made his rugged face look kindly

as he made reply. "Maybe we both have the sense to spot a winner when we

see one, my lord."

Saltash's brows went up derisively. "And maybe you'll both lose good

money on the gamble before you've done."

"I think not," said Jake, in his steady drawl. "I've known many a worse

starter than you get home on the straight."

Saltash laughed aloud, and Toby turned with flushed cheeks and lifted

eyes, alight and ardent, to her hero's face.

Saltash's glance flashed round to her, the monkeyish grin still about his

mouth, and from her to Bunny who stood behind. He did not speak for a

moment. Then: "No; you've never known a worse starter, Jake," he said;

"and if I do get home on the straight it will be thanks to you."

Very curiously from that moment Bunny found his brief resentment dead.

CHAPTER XII

THE OGRE'S CASTLE

"Let's go out into the garden!" said Bunny urgently.

Dinner was over, and Maud and Saltash were at the piano at the far end of

the great room. Jake and Larpent were smoking in silent companionship at

a comfortable distance. Toby, who had been very quiet the whole evening,

sat silently apart in a low chair with her hands clasped about her knees.

Bunny alone was restless.

She lifted her eyes to him as he prowled near her, and they held a hint

of mischief. At his murmured words she rose.

"You'd like to?" he questioned.

She nodded. "Of course; love it. You know the way. You lead!"

Bunny needed no second bidding. He went straight to the tall door and

held it open for her. Toby, very slim and girlish in her white raiment,

cocked her chin and walked out in state. But the moment they were alone

she turned upon him a face brimful of laughter.

"Oh, now we can enjoy ourselves! I've been feeling so proper all the

evening. Quick! Where shall we go?"

"Into the garden," said Bunny. "Or wait! Come up on to the battlements!

It's ripping up there."

She thrust her hand eagerly into his. "I shall love that. Which way do we

go?"

"Through the music-room," said Bunny.

He caught and held her hand. They ran up one of the wide stairways that

branched north and south to the Gallery. Saltash's music followed them

from the drawing-room as they went. He was playing a haunting Spanish

love-song, and Toby shivered and quickened her pace.

They reached another oak door which Bunny opened, drawing her impetuously

forward. "This is Charlie's own particular sanctum. Rather a ripping

place, isn't it? He's got a secret den that leads somewhere out of it,

but no one knows how to get in."

He led her over a polished oak floor into a long, almost empty apartment

with turreted windows at each end, and a grand piano near one of them

that shone darkly in the shaded lamplight. Underfoot were Persian rugs,

exquisite of tint and rich of texture. Two or three deep divans completed

the furniture of the room giving it a look of Eastern magnificence that

strangely lured the senses.

"Rather like a harem I always think," said Bunny, pausing to look round.

"There's an Arabian Nights sort of flavour about it that rather gets hold

of one. Why? You're shivering! Surely you're not cold!"

"No, I'm not cold," said Toby. "But I don't like this place. It's creepy.

Let's go!"

But Bunny lingered. "What's the matter with it? It's luxurious enough.

I've always rather liked coming in here."

Toby made a small but vehement gesture of protest. "Then you like horrid

things," she said. "There's no air in here;--only--only--scent."

Bunny sniffed. "Well, it's quite subtle anyhow; not enough to upset

anybody. Rather a seductive perfume, what?"

She surprised him by stamping in sudden fury upon the bare floor.

"It's beastly! It's hateful! How can you like it? It--it--it's bad!

It's--damnable!"

Bunny stared at her. "Well, Charlie designed it anyway. It's the one

corner in the whole Castle that is individually his. What on earth is

there that you don't like about it?"

"Everything--everything!" declared Toby passionately. "I don't want to

stay here another minute. Show me the way out!"

She spoke with such imperiousness that Bunny judged it best to comply. He

showed her a door in the eastern wall that was draped by a heavy red

curtain.

"You can get up on to the ramparts that way. But wait a minute while I

find the switch! What are you running away from? There isn't a bogey-man

anywhere."

Toby drew in her breath sharply with a nervous glance over her shoulder.

"I think it's a dreadful place," she said. "I want to get out into the

air."

Bunny opened the door, and a dark passage gaped before them. "This looks

much more eerie," he observed, feeling about for a switch. "Do you really

like this better?"

"Much better," said Toby, going boldly into the darkness.

"Don't believe there is a switch," said Bunny, striking a match. "No,

there isn't! How beastly medieval! Look here! Wait while I go and get an

electric torch!"

"No, no! Let's feel our way! I'm sure we can," urged Toby. "Come on!

It'll be fun. Shut the door!"

The spirit of adventure seized upon Bunny. He let the door swing closed

and caught her hand again.

Toby's delighted chuckle told him that she had fully recovered her

equilibrium. Her fingers twined closely about his own.

"Now we shall have some fun!" she said.

They went forward together for a few yards in total darkness. Then, from

somewhere high above them a faint light filtered through.

"That's on the stairs," said Bunny. "One of those window-slits through

which in the old hospitable days all comers were potted at. Look out how

you go!"

The words were scarcely uttered when they both kicked against the lowest

stair and blundered forward. A squeal of laughter came from Toby. Bunny

said "Damn!" with much heartiness and then laughed also.

"I knew it would be fun," said Toby. "Are you hurt?"

He raised her with a strong young arm. "No, I'm all right. Are you?"

"Yes. I'm loving it. What happens next? Do the stairs wind round and

round till we get to the top?"

"Yes. There are about six hundred of 'em. Feel equal to it?"

"Equal to anything," said Toby promptly. "Let me go first!"

"Why don't I go and get a light?" said Bunny.

"Because you're not to. Because it's heaps more fun without. Besides,

there's lots of light up there. Now then? Are you ready? Come on! Let's

go!"

Indomitable resolution sounded in Toby's voice. She drew herself free

from Bunny's hold, and began to mount.

"You know it's haunted, don't you?" said Bunny cheerily. "A beautiful

lady was once captured and imprisoned in this turret in the dear old days

when everyone did those things. She had to choose between throwing

herself from the battlements and marrying her wicked captor--an ancestor

of Charlie's, by the way. She did the latter and then died of a broken

heart. They always did, you know. Her poor little ghost has wandered up

and down this stair ever since."

"Idiot!" said Toby tersely.

"Who?" said Bunny. "And why?"

"The woman. Why didn't she throw herself over? It would have been much

easier."

"Perhaps she didn't find it so," said Bunny. "And she'd doubtless have

done the haunting stunt even if she had."

"Well, then, why didn't she marry the brute and--and--give him hell?"

said Toby tensely.

Bunny uttered a shout of laughter that echoed and re-echoed up and down

the winding stair.

"Is that what you would have done?"

"I'd have done one or the other," said Toby.

"By Jove, how bloodthirsty you sound!" ejaculated Bunny. "Are you in

earnest by any chance?"

"Yes, I am in earnest." There was a note of bitter challenge in Toby's

reply. "If a woman hasn't the spunk to defend herself, she's better

dead."

"I agree with you there," said Bunny with decision. "But I don't know how

you come to know it."

"Oh, I know a lot of things," said Toby's voice in the darkness, and this

time it sounded oddly cold and desolate as if the stone walls around them

had somehow deadened it.

He put out a hand and touched her, for she seemed in some fashion to have

withdrawn from him, to have become remote as the echoes about them.

"There are heaps of things you don't know anyway," he said. "You're only

a kid after all."

"Think so?" said Toby.

She evaded his hand, flitting up before him towards that grim slit in the

wall through which the dim half-light of the summer night vaguely

entered. Her light figure became visible to him as she reached it. There

came to him a swift memory of the butterfly-beauty that had so astounded

him earlier in the evening.

"No, I don't," he said. "You're past that stage. What on earth has Maud

been doing to you? Do you know when you first came into the drawing-room

tonight I hardly knew you?"

Toby's light laugh came back to him. She was like a white butterfly

flitting before him in the twilight. "I wondered what you'd say. I've

given up jumping rosebushes, and I'm learning to be respectable. It's

rather fun sometimes. Maud is very good to me--and I love Jake, don't

you?"

"Yes, he's a brick; always was," said Bunny enthusiastically. "I'd back

him every time. But, I say. Don't get too respectable, will you? Somehow

it doesn't suit you."

Again he heard her laugh in the darkness--a quick, rather breathless

laugh. "I don't think I'll ever be that," she said. "Do you?"

"I don't know," said Bunny. "But you looked scared to death when you came

in--as if you were mounted on a horse that was much too high for you. I

believe you were afraid of that old daddy of yours."

"I am rather," said Toby. "You see, I don't know him very well. And I'm

not sure he likes me."

"Of course he likes you," said Bunny.

"Why? I don't know why he should."

"Everyone does," said Bunny, with assurance.

"Don't be silly!" said Toby.

They were past the slit in the wall, and were winding upwards now towards

another. Bunny postponed argument, finding he needed all his breath for

the climb. The steps had become narrower and more steeply spiral than

before. His companion mounted so swiftly that he found it difficult to

keep close to her. The ascent seemed endless.

Again they passed a window-slit, and Bunny suddenly awoke to the fact

that the flying figure in front was trying to out-distance him. It came

to him in a flash of intuition. She was daring him, she was fooling him.

Some imp of mischief had entered into her. She was luring him to pursuit;

and like the whirling of a torch in a dark place, the knowledge first

dazzled, and then drew him. All his pulses beat in a swift crescendo.

There was a considerable mixture of Irish deviltry in Bunny Brian's

veins, and anything in the nature of a challenge fired him. He uttered a

wild whoop that filled the eerie place with fearful echoes, and gave

chase.

It was the maddest race he had ever run. Toby fled before him like the

wind, up and up, round and round the winding stair, fleet-footed, almost

as though on wings, leaving him behind. He followed, fiercely determined,

putting forth his utmost strength, sometimes stumbling on the uneven

stairs, yet always leaping onward, urged to wilder effort by the

butterfly elusiveness of his quarry. Once he actually had her within his

reach, and then he stumbled and she was gone. He heard her maddening

laughter as she fled.

The ascent seemed endless. His heart was pumping, but he would not

slacken. She should never triumph over him, this mocking imp, this

butterfly-girl, who from the first had held him with a fascination he

could not fathom. He would make her pay for her audacity. He would teach

her that he was more than a mere butt for her drollery. He would show

her--

A door suddenly banged high above him. He realized that she had reached

the top of the turret and burst out upon the ramparts. A very curious

sensation went through him. It was almost a feeling of fear. She was such

a wild little creature, and her mood was at its maddest. The chill of the

place seemed to wrap him round. He felt as if icy fingers had clutched

his heart.

It was all a joke of course--only a joke! But jokes sometimes ended

disastrously, and Toby--Toby was not an ordinary person. She was either a

featherbrain or a genius. He did not know which. Perhaps there was no

very clear dividing line between the two. She was certainly

extraordinary. He wished he had not accepted her challenge. If he had

refused to follow, she would soon have abandoned her absurd flight

through the darkness.

It was absurd. They had both been absurd to come to this eerie place

without a light. Somehow her disappearance, the clanging of that door,

had sobered him very effectually. He cursed himself for a fool as he

groped his way upwards. The game had gone too far. He ought to have

foreseen.

And then suddenly he blundered into an iron-clamped door and swore again.

Yes, this thing was beyond a joke.

The door resisted him, and he wrestled with it furiously as though it had

been a living thing obstructing his passage.

He had begun to think that she must have bolted it on the outside when

abruptly it yielded to his very forcible persuasion, and he stumbled

headlong forth into the open starlight. He was out upon the ramparts, and

dim wooded park-lands stretched away to the sea before his dazzled eyes.

The first thing that struck him was the emptiness of the place. It seemed

to catch him by the throat. There was something terrible about it.

Behind him the door clanged, and the sound seemed the only sound in all

that wonderful June night. It had a fateful effect in the silence--like

the tolling of a bell. Something echoed to it in his own heart, and he

knew that he was afraid.

Desperately he flung his fear aside and moved forward to the parapet. The

wall was thick, but between the battlements it was only the height of his

knee. Below was depth--sheer depth--stark emptiness.

He looked over and saw the stone terrace dimly lit by the stars far below

him. The gardens were a blur of darkness out of which he vaguely

discerned the glimmer of the lake among its trees.

His heart was beating suffocatingly; he struggled to subdue his panting

breath. She was somewhere close to him of course--of course. But the

zest of the chase had left him. He felt dizzy, frightened, sick. He

tried to raise his voice to call her, and then realized with a start of

self-ridicule that it had failed him. He leaned against the parapet and

resolutely pulled himself together.

Then he went forward and found himself in a stone passage, actually on

the castle wall, between two parapets; the one on his left towering above

the inner portion of the castle with its odd, uneven roofs of stone, the

one on his right still sheer above the terrace--a drop of a hundred feet

or more.

The emptiness and the silence seemed to strike at him with a nebulous

hostility as he went. He had a vague sense of intrusion, of being in a

forbidden place. The blood was no longer hot in his veins. He even

shivered in the warmth of the summer night as he followed the winding

walk between the battlements.

But he was his own master now, and as he moved forward through the

glimmering starlight he called to her:

"Toby! Toby, I say! Come out! I'm not playing."

He felt as if the silence mocked him, and again that icy construction

about the heart made him catch his breath. He put up a hand to his brow

and found it wet.

"Toby!" he cried again, and this time he did not attempt to keep the

urgency out of his voice. "The game's up. Come back!"

She did not answer him, neither did she come; but he had a strong

conviction that she heard. A throb of anger went through him. He strode

forward with decision. He knew that the battlement walk ended on the

north side of the Castle in a blank wall, built centuries before as a

final defence from an invading enemy. Only by scaling this wall could the

eastern portion be approached. He would find her here. She could not

possibly escape. Something of confidence came back to him as he

remembered this. She could not elude him much longer.

He quickened his stride. His face was grim. She had carried the thing too

far, and he would let her know it. He rounded the curve of the castle

wall. He must be close to her now. And then suddenly he stopped dead.

For he heard her mocking laughter, and it came from behind him, from the

turret through which he had gained the ramparts.

He wheeled round with something like violence and began to retrace his

steps. He had never been so baffled before, and he was angry,--hotly

angry.

He rounded the curve once more, and approached the turret. His eyes were

accustomed to the dim half-light, but still he could not see her. Fuming,

he went back the whole distance along the ramparts till he came to the

iron-clamped door that had banged behind him. He put forth an impatient

hand to open it, for it was obvious that she must have eluded him by

hiding behind it, and now she was probably on the stair. And then, very

suddenly, from far behind him, in the direction of the northern wall, he

heard her laugh again.

He swung about in a fury, almost too incensed to be amazed. She had the

wings of a Mercury, it was evident; but he would catch her--he would

catch her now, or perish in the attempt. Once more he traversed the stony

promenade between the double line of battlements, searching each

embrasure as he went.

All the way back to the wall on the north side he pursued his way with

fierce intention, inwardly raging, outwardly calm. He reached the

obstructing wall, and found nothing. The emptiness came all about him

again. The ghostly quiet of the place clung like a tangible veil. She had

evaded him again. He was powerless.

But at that point his wrath suddenly burst into flame, the hotter and the

fiercer for its long restraint. He wheeled in his tracks with furious

finality and abandoned his quest.

His intention was to go straight down by the way he had come and leave

her to play her will-o'-the-wisp game in solitude. It would soon pall

upon her, he was assured; but in any case he would no longer dance to her

piping. She had fooled him to the verge of frenzy.

Again he rounded the curve of the wall and came to the door of the

turret. A great bastion of stone rose beside this, and as he reached it a

small white figure darted forward from its shadow with dainty, butterfly

movements, pulled at the heavy oak door and held it open with an

elaborate gesture for him to pass.

It was a piece of exquisite daring, and with an older man it would have

taken effect. Saltash would have laughed his quizzing, cynical laugh and

accepted his defeat with royal grace. But Bunny was young and vehement

of impulse, and the flame of his anger still scorched his soul with a

heat intolerable. She had baffled him, astounded him, humiliated him, and

his was not a nature to endure such treatment tamely.

He hung on his stride for a single moment, then hotly he turned and

snatched her into his arms.

CHAPTER XIII

THE END OF THE GAME

She cried out sharply as he caught her, and then she struggled and fought

like a mad creature for freedom. But Bunny held her fast. He had been

hard pressed, and now that the strain was over, all the pent passion of

that long stress had escaped beyond control. He held her,--at first as a

boy might hold a comrade who had provoked him to exasperation; then, as

desperately she resisted him, a new element suddenly rushed like fire

through his veins, and he realized burningly, overwhelmingly, that for

the first time in his life he held a woman in his arms.

It came to him like a blinding revelation, and forth-with it seemed to

him that he stepped into a new world. She had tried him too far, had

thrown him off his balance. He was unfit for this further and infinitely

greater provocation. His senses swam. The touch of her intoxicated him as

though he had drunk a potent draught from some goblet of the gods. He

heard himself laugh passionately at her puny effort to resist him and the

next moment she was at his mercy. He was pressing fevered kisses upon her

gasping, quivering lips.

But she fought against him still. Though he kissed her, she would have

none of it. She struck at him, battering him frantically with her hands,

stamping wildly with her feet, till he literally swung her off the

ground, holding her slender body against his breast.

"You little madcap!" he said, with his hot lips against her throat. "How

dare you? Do you think I'd let you go--now?"

The quick passion of his voice or the fiery possession of his hold

arrested her. She suddenly ceased to battle with him, and stiffened in

his grasp as if turned to stone.

"Let me go!" she said tensely.

"I will not," said Bunny.

He was mad with the fever of youth; he held her with a fierce exultation.

There could be no returning now, nor did he wish to return.

"You little wild butterfly!" he said, and kissed the throbbing white

throat again. "I've caught you now and you can't escape."

"You've--had your revenge," Toby flung back gaspingly. "You--you--you're

a skunk if you take any more."

Oddly that sobered him as any protest more feminine would have failed to

do. He set her on her feet, but he held her still.

"I haven't done with you," he said, with a certain doggedness.

"Oh, I know that," she returned very bitterly. "You're like all the men.

You can't play fair. Men don't know how."

That stung him. "Fair or unfair, you've done all the playing so far," he

said. "If you thought I was such a tame fool as to put up with it--well,

that's not my fault."

"No, it's never your fault," said Toby. She made a little vehement

movement to extricate herself, but finding him obdurate, abandoned

the attempt. "You're not a fool, Bunny Brian. You're a beast and a

coward,--there!"

"Be careful!" warned Bunny, his dark eyes gleaming ominously.

But she uttered a laugh of high defiance. "Oh, I'm not afraid of you.

You're not full-grown yet. You're ashamed of yourself already."

He coloured deeply at the taunt, but he maintained his hold upon her.

"All right," he said. "Say I did it all! It doesn't matter how you put

it. The fact remains."

"What fact?" said Toby swiftly.

He clasped her a little closer. "Well,--do you think I'm going to let you

go--after this?"

She caught her breath sharply. "What do you mean? I--I--I don't know what

you mean!"

There was quick agitation in her voice. Again she sought to free herself,

and again he frustrated her. But the violence had gone out of his hold.

There was even a touch of dignity about him as he made reply.

"I mean, you little wild butterfly, that now I've got you, I'm going to

keep you. You'll have to marry me and make the best of me."

"Marry you!" said Toby as one incredulous.

"Yes. What's the matter with the idea? Don't you want to?" Bunny's

good-looking young face came close to hers. He was laughing, but there

was a half-coaxing note in his voice as well.

Toby was silent for a moment. Then: "You're mad!" she said tersely.

"I'm not!" said Bunny. "I'm perfectly serious. Don't you understand that

when this kind of thing gets hold of you, there's no getting away from

it? We can't possibly go back to where we were before--behave as if

nothing had happened. You wouldn't want to, would you?"

There was a hint of pleading in his tone now. Toby made a curious little

gesture that seemed to express a measure of reassurance. But, "I don't

know," she said somewhat dubiously.

"You aren't angry, are you?" said Bunny softly.

She hesitated. "I was."

"Yes, but not now--when you've begun to realize what a jolly thing life

together would be. It isn't as if we'd never met before. We're pals

already."

"Yes; we're pals," said Toby, but still her voice was dubious.

"I say, be a sport!" the boy urged suddenly. "You said you weren't afraid

of me. Don't chuck the best thing in life for want of a little ordinary

courage!"

"What is--the best thing in life?" said Toby.

His hold grew close again, but it remained gentle. "You marry me," he

said, "and I'll show you!"

There was something sublime rather than ridiculous in his assurance. Toby

caught her breath again as if about to laugh, and then quite suddenly,

wholly unexpectedly, she began to cry.

"You poor little darling!" said Bunny.

She leaned her head upon his shoulder, fighting great sobs that

threatened to overwhelm her. It was not often that Toby cried, and this

was no mere child's distress. Indeed there was about it something that

filled her companion with a curious kind of awe. He held her closely

and comfortingly, but for some reason he could not speak to her, could

not even attempt to seek the cause of her trouble. As his sister had done

before him, though almost unconsciously, he sensed a barrier that he

might not pass.

Toby regained her self-command at last, stood for a space in silence, her

face still hidden, then abruptly raised it and uttered a little quivering

laugh.

"You great big silly!" she said. "I'm not going to marry you, so there!

Now let me go!"

Her tone and action put him instantly at his ease. This was the Toby he

knew.

"Yes, you are going to marry me. And I shan't let you go," he said. "So

there!"

She looked him straight in the face. "No, Bunny!" she said, with a little

catch in her breath. "You're a dear to think of it, but it won't do."

"Why not?" demanded Bunny.

She hesitated.

He squeezed her shoulders. "Tell me why not!"

"I don't want to tell you," said Toby.

"You've got to," he said with decision.

In the dimness his eyes looked into hers. A little shiver went through

Toby. "I don't want to," she said again.

"Go on!" commanded Bunny, autocratically.

She turned suddenly and set her hands against his breast. "Well then,

because I'm years and years older than you are--"

"Rot!" interjected Bunny.

"And--I'm not good enough for you!" finished Toby rather tremulously.

"Rats!" said Bunny.

"No, it isn't rats." She contradicted him rather piteously. "You've

turned a silly game into deadly earnest, and you shouldn't--you

shouldn't. I wouldn't have done it if I'd known. It's such a

mistake--it's always such a great mistake--to do that. You say we

can't go back to where we were before, but we can--we can. Let's

try--anyway!"

"We can't," said Bunny with decision. "And there's no reason why we

should. Look here! You don't want to marry anyone else, do you?"

"I don't want to marry at all," said Toby.

He laughed at that. "Darling, of course you'll marry. Come! You might as

well have me first as last. You won't get any other fellow to suit you

half as well. What? Say you'll have me! Come, you've got to. You don't

hate me, do you?"

Again the pleading note was in his voice. She responded to it almost

involuntarily. Her hands slipped upwards to his shoulders.

"But--I'm not good enough," she said again, catching back a sob.

His arms enfolded her, closely and tenderly. "Oh, skip that!" he said. "I

won't listen."

"You--you--you're very silly," murmured Toby, with her head against his

neck.

"No. I'm not. I'm very sensible. Look here, we're engaged now, aren't

we?" said Bunny.

"No--no--we're not!" Her voice came muffled against his coat. "You're not

to think of such a thing for ages and ages and ages."

"Oh, rot!" he said again with impatience. "I hate a waiting

game--especially when there's nothing to wait for. You're not going

to give me the go-by now."

His face was close to her again. She put her hand against his chin and

softly pushed it away. "Bunny!" she said.

"Well, dear?" He stood, not yielding, but suffering her check.

"Bunny!" she said again, speaking with obvious effort. "I've got to say

something. You must listen--just for a minute. Jake,--Jake won't want you

to be engaged to me."

"What?" Bunny started a little, as one who suddenly remembers a thing

forgotten. "Jake!" Then hotly. "What the devil has it got to do with

Jake?"

"Stop!" said Toby. "Jake's quite right. He knows. He--he's older than you

are. You--you--you'd better ask him."

"Ask Jake!" Bunny's wrath exploded. "I'm my own master. I can marry whom

I like. What on earth should I ask Jake for?"

Toby uttered a little sigh. "You needn't if you don't want to. But if

you're wise, you will. He understands. You wouldn't. You see, I've been

to a lot of different schools, Bunny--foreign ones--and I've learnt a

heap of--rather funny things. That's why I'm so much older than you are.

That's why I don't want to get married--as most girls do. I never ought

to marry. I know too much."

"But you'll marry me?" he said swiftly.

"I don't know," she said. "Not anyway yet. If--if you can stick to me for

six months--I--p'raps I'll think about it. But I think you'll come to

your senses long before then, Bunny." A desolate little note of humour

sounded in her voice. "And if you do, you'll be so glad not to have to

throw me over."

"You're talking rot," he interposed.

"No, I'm not. I'm talking sense--ordinary common sense. I wouldn't get

engaged to any man on the strength of what happened to-night. You hadn't

even thought of me in that way when we came up here."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Bunny. "Anyway, the mischief is done now.

And you needn't be afraid I shall throw you over because--" an unexpected

throb came into his voice--"I know now I've simply got to have you."

Toby sighed again. "But if--if I'm not worth waiting for, I'm not worth

having," she said.

"But why wait?" argued Bunny.

"For a hundred reasons. You're not really in love with me for one thing."

Toby spoke with conviction.

"Yes, I am." Stubbornly he contradicted her.

"No, you're not. Listen, Bunny! Love isn't just a passion-flower that

blooms in a single night and then fades. You're too young really to

understand, but I know--I know. Love is more like a vine. It takes a

long while to ripen and come to perfection, and it has a lot to go

through first."

Again a sense of strangeness came to Bunny. Surely this was a grown woman

speaking! This was not the wild little creature he knew. But--perhaps it

was from perversity--her warning only served to strengthen his

determination.

"You can go on arguing till midnight," he said, "you won't convince me.

But look here, if you don't want anyone to know, we'll keep it to

ourselves for a little while. Will that satisfy you? We'll meet and have

some jolly times together in private. Will that make you any happier?"

"We shan't be engaged?" questioned Toby.

"Not if you'll kiss me without," said Bunny generously.

"Oh, I don't mind kissing you--" she lifted her lips at once, "if it

doesn't mean anything."

He stooped swiftly and met them with his own. His kiss was close and

lingering, it held tenderness; and in a moment her arms crept round his

neck and she clung to him as she returned it. He felt a sob run through

her slight frame as he held her though she shed no tears and made no

sound, and he was stirred to a deeper chivalry than he had ever known

before.

"It does mean one thing, darling," he said softly. "It means that we love

each other, doesn't it?"

She did not answer him for a moment; then: "It may mean that,"

she whispered back. "I don't know--very much about--love. No one

ever--really--loved me before."

"I love you," he said. "I love you."

"Thank you," she murmured.

He held her still. "You'll never run away from me again? Promise!"

She shook her head promptly with a faint echo of the elfin laughter that

had so maddened him a little earlier. "No, I won't promise. But I'll show

you where I was hiding if you like. Shall I?"

"All right. Show me!" he said.

She freed herself from him with a little spring, and turned to the stone

buttress against which he had found her. He followed her closely, half

afraid of losing her again, but she did not attempt to elude him.

"See!" she said, with a funny little chuckle. "I found this ledge."

The ledge she indicated was on a level with the parapet and not more than

six inches wide. It ran square with the buttress, which on the outer side

dropped sheer to the terrace.

Bunny looked and turned sick. "You never went along there!" he said.

She laughed again. "Yes, I did. It's quite easy if you slide your feet.

I'll show you."

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" He grabbed her fiercely. "What in

heaven's name were you thinking of? How did you learn to do these

things?"

She did not answer him. "I wanted to tease you," she said lightly. "And I

did it too, didn't I? I pretended I was Andromeda when I got round the

corner, but no Perseus came to save me. Only an angry dragon ramped

about behind."

Bunny stared at her as if he thought her bewitched. "But you were over by

that north wall once. I'll swear you were over there."

"Oh, don't swear!" she said demurely. "It's so wrong. I wasn't there

really. I only sent my voice that way to frighten you."

"Good heavens!" gasped Bunny.

She laughed again with gay _insouciance_. "Haven't I given you a splendid

evening's entertainment? Well, it's all over now, and the curtain's down.

Let's go!"

She turned with her hand in his and led him back to the turret-door.

Reaching it, he sought to detain her. "You'll never do it again?

Promise--promise!"

"I won't promise anything," she said lightly.

"Ah, but you must!" he insisted. "Toby, you might have killed yourself."

Her laugh suddenly had a mocking sound. "Oh, no! I shall never kill

myself on Lord Saltash's premises," she said.

"Why do you say that?" questioned Bunny.

"Because--_que voulez-vous_?--he would want me neither dead nor alive,"

she made reckless answer.

"A good thing too!" declared Bunny stoutly.

The echoes of Toby's laughter as she went down the chill, dark stairway

had an eerie quality that sent an odd shiver through his heart. Somehow

it made him think of the unquiet spirit that was said to haunt the

place--a spirit that wandered alone--always alone--in the utter

desolation.

PART III

CHAPTER I

THE VIRTUOUS HERO

"How long is this absurd farce to go on?" said Larpent.

"Aren't you enjoying yourself?" grinned Saltash.

Larpent looked sardonic.

Saltash took up the whisky decanter. "My worthy buccaneer, you don't know

when you're lucky. If I had a reputation like yours--" He broke off,

still grinning. "Well, it's no use crying over spilt milk, is it? Let's

spill some whisky instead! Say when!"

Larpent watched him, frowning. "Thanks! That's enough. I should like an

answer to my question if you've no objection. How long is this practical

joke going to last?"

Saltash turned and looked upon him with a calculating eye. "I really

don't know what's troubling you," he remarked. "You've got everything in

your favour. I'd change places with you with all the pleasure in the

world if circumstances permitted."

"That isn't the point, is it?" said Larpent.

"No? What is the point?" Saltash turned again to the whisky decanter.

"Well, you've got me into a damn' hole, and I want to know how you're

going to get me out again." Larpent's voice was gruff and surly; he

stared into his tumbler without drinking.

Saltash chuckled to himself with mischievous amusement. "My dear chap, I

can't get you out. That's just it. I want you to stay there."

Larpent muttered deeply and inarticulately, and began to drink.

Saltash turned round, glass in hand, and sat down on the edge of the

high, cushioned fender. "I really don't think you are greatly to be

pitied," he remarked lightly. "The child will soon be married and off

your hands."

"Oh, that's the idea, is it?" said Larpent. "Who's going to marry her?

Young Brian?"

"Don't you approve?" said Saltash.

"I don't think it'll come off," said Larpent with decision.

"Why not?" An odd light flickered in the younger man's eyes for an

instant. "Are you going to refuse your consent?"

"I?" Larpent shrugged his shoulders. "Are you going to give yours?"

Saltash made an elaborate gesture. "I shall bestow my blessing with both

hands."

Larpent looked at him fixedly for a few seconds. "You're a very wonderful

man, my lord," he remarked drily at length.

Saltash laughed. "Have you only just discovered that?"

Larpent drained his tumbler gravely and put it down. "All the same, I

don't believe it will come off," he said.

Saltash moved impatiently. "You always were an unbeliever. But anyone can

see they were made for each other. Of course it will come off."

"You want it to come off?" asked Larpent.

"It is my intention that it shall," said Saltash royally.

"You're playing providence in the girl's interest. Is that it?" Again

Larpent's eyes, shrewd and far-seeing, were fixed upon him. They held a

glint of humour. "It's a tricky job, my lord. You'll wish you hadn't

before you've done."

"Think so?" said Saltash.

"If you haven't begun to already," said Larpent.

Saltash looked down at him with a comical twist of the eyebrows. "You're

very analytical to-night. What's the matter?"

"Nothing," said Larpent bluntly. "Except that you're making a mistake."

"Indeed?" For a moment Saltash's look was haughty; then he began to smile

again. "I see you're burning to give your advice," he said tolerantly.

"Fire away, if it does you any good!"

Larpent's eyes, very steady under their fair, bushy brows, were still

unwaveringly upon him. "No, I don't presume to give you advice," he said.

"But I'll tell you something which you may or may not know. That young

woman you have so kindly bestowed upon me as a daughter worships the

ground you tread on, and--that being the case--she isn't very likely to

make a dazzling success of it if she marries young Bernard Brian."

He ceased to speak, and simultaneously Saltash jerked himself to his feet

with a short French oath that sounded like the snarl of an angry animal.

He went across to the windows that were thrown wide to the summer night

and stood before one of them with his head flung back in the attitude of

one who challenges the universe.

Larpent lay back in his chair with the air of a man who has said his say.

He did not even glance towards his companion, and there followed a

considerable pause before either of them spoke again.

Abruptly at length Saltash wheeled.

"Larpent!" There was something of a whip-lash quality about his voice;

it seemed to cut the silence. "Why the devil do you tell me this? Can't

you see that it's the very thing I'm guarding against? Young Bunny is

the best remedy she could take for a disease of that kind. And after

all,--she's only a child."

"Do you say that for your own benefit or for mine?" said Larpent, without

turning his head.

"What do you mean?" Savagely Saltash flung the question, but the man in

the chair remained unmoved.

"You know quite well what I mean," he said. "You know that it isn't

true."

"What isn't true?" Saltash came swiftly back across the room, moving as

if goaded. He took his tumbler from the mantel-piece and drank the

contents almost at a gulp. "Go on!" he said, with his back to Larpent.

"May as well finish now you've begun. What isn't true?"

Larpent lounged in his chair and watched him, absolutely unmoved.

"When a thing is actually in existence--an accomplished fact--it's rather

futile to talk of guarding against it," he said, in his brief,

unsympathetic voice. "You've been extraordinarily generous to the imp,

and it isn't surprising that she should be extraordinarily grateful. She

wouldn't be human if she weren't. But when it comes to handing her on to

another fellow--well, she may consent, but it won't be because she wants

to, but because it's the only thing left. She knows well enough by this

time that what she really wants is out of her reach."

Again Saltash made a fierce movement, but he did not turn or speak.

Larpent took out his pipe and began to fill it. "You've been too good a

friend to her," he went on somewhat grimly, "and you're not made of the

right stuff for that sort of thing. I'm sorry for the kid because she's a

bit of a pagan too, and it's hard to have to embrace respectability

whether you want to or not."

"Oh, damn!" Saltash exclaimed, suddenly and violently. "What more could

any man have done? What the devil are you driving at?"

He turned upon Larpent almost menacingly, and found the steady eyes,

still with that icy glint of humour in them, unflinchingly awaiting his

challenge.

"You want to get married," the sailor said imperturbably. "Why in the

name of all the stars of destiny don't you marry her? She may not have

the blue blood in her veins, but blood isn't everything, and you've got

enough for two. And it's my opinion you'd find her considerably easier to

please than some--less strict in her views too, which is always an

advantage to a man of your varying moods."

Saltash's laugh had a curious jarring sound as of something broken. "Oh,

you think that would be a suitable arrangement, do you? And how long do

you think I should stick to her? How long would it be before she ran

away?"

"I never speculate so far as you are concerned," said Larpent, shaking

the tobacco back into his pouch with care.

"You think it wouldn't matter, perhaps?" gibed Saltash. "My royal house

is so inured to scandal that no one would expect anything else?"

"I don't think she is the sort to run away," said Larpent quietly. "And

I'm pretty sure of one thing. You could hold her if you tried."

"An ideal arrangement!" sneered Saltash. "And I should then settle down

to a godly, righteous, and sober life, I suppose? Is that the idea?"

"You said it," observed Larpent, pushing his pipe into his mouth.

Saltash lodged one foot on the high fender, and stared at it. The sneer

died out of his face and the old look, half mischievous, half melancholy,

took its pace. "I haven't--seriously--contemplated marriage for eight

years," he said, his mouth twitching a little as with a smile suppressed.

"Not since the day I tried to steal Maud Brian away from Jake--and

failed--rather signally. I don't think I've ever done anything quite so

low down since."

Larpent lighted his pipe with grave attention. "A good thing for you both

that you did fail!" he observed.

"Think so?" Saltash glanced at him. "Why?"

"She isn't the woman for you." Larpent spoke with the absolute conviction

of one who knows. "She has too many ideals. Now this sprat you caught at

Valrosa--has none."

"Not so sure of that," said Saltash.

"Well, no illusions anyway." There was a hint of compassion in Larpent's

voice. "It wasn't because she trusted you that she put herself under your

protection. She didn't trust you. She simply chucked herself at you with

her eyes open. Like Jonah's whale, you were the only shelter within

reach. I'd wager a substantial sum that she's never had any illusions

about you. But if you held up your little finger she'd come to you. She's

your property, and it isn't in her to do anything else, let her down as

often as you will."

Saltash made an excruciating grimace. "My good fellow, spare me!

That's just where the shoe pinches. I've broken faith with her already.

But--damnation!--what else could I do? I didn't choose the part of

virtuous hero. It was thrust upon me. The gods are making sport of me. I

am lost in a labyrinth of virtue, and horribly--most horribly--sick of

it. I nearly broke through once, but the wreck pulled me up, and when I

recovered from that, I was more hopelessly lost than before."

"So you are not enjoying it either!" remarked Larpent, with the glimmer

of a smile. "But you don't seem to have let her down very far."

Saltash brought his foot down with a bang. "I swore I'd keep her with me.

I meant--oh, God knows what I meant to do. I didn't do it anyway. I broke

my oath and I made her go, and she never uttered a word of reproach--not

one word! Do you think I'll let her ruin herself by marrying me after

that? Like Jonah's whale I've managed to throw her up on to dry land, and

if she gets swamped again, it won't be my fault."

He began to laugh again suddenly and cynically--the bitter laugh of a man

who hides his soul; and Larpent leaned back in his chair again, as if he

recognized that the discussion was over.

"I don't suppose anyone will blame you for it," he said.

"No one will have the chance," said Saltash.