Something drew her, she knew not what. _The gate marked "Private"

laid upon her, she moved towards that roughly-fashioned shrine.

Reaching the steps, she paused again. This was where the peasants

knelt to pray. Did they go empty away, she wondered? She wished

again, passionately, that she were as one of them. At least they had

a measure of faith. A sudden agony caught at her heart. Why had she

lost hers? In the old days, kneeling by Aunt Bobby's side, no

troublous questionings had ever arisen within her. In a fashion

Bobby's faith had seemed to suffice for them both. She had been so

sure that Bobby's pure spirit was safely anchored in reality. But

now all that was gone, since Bobby had cheated her. She was left

stranded and alone in a world of unimaginable desolation, a world in

which only evil flourished.

Yet still she stood before the Shrine of Suffering, waiting--waiting

for a sign.

She never knew afterwards how it happened. There was no visible

influence at work. No voice or touch or vision came to her. But

after a space of which she had no reckoning, she suddenly found

herself kneeling on the stone. The pitcher was pushed aside, the

roses were fallen from it, and she was bowed forward, weeping, her

two hands clutching desperately at the base of the Cross.

Words--words which Aunt Bobby had tenderly taught her long ago--fell

piteously from her lips. She did not know why she uttered them.

"Nothing in my hand I bring,

Simply to Thy Cross I cling...."

The Cross! The Cross! This was what it meant then to be made

perfect through suffering. Kneeling there in utter helplessness, it

came to her as by a great flash of illumination.

And something else came to her also--something that she had never

known before--was it an actual Presence by her side?--or a still

small Voice that spoke within?

She knew not. Only--when It was past--she lifted her face in

wonderment and knew that the ground whereon she knelt was holy.

Later she picked up the fallen roses and replaced them in their

jar,--smelt them--kissed them--and softly went away.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MIRROR

That afternoon, sitting under the awning that sheltered the _façade_

of a dream hotel, looking forth upon a dream sea of purest, deepest

blue, Rosemary made a suggestion which frankly astounded her

companion.

"I think," she said, "I should like to go into a convent."

"Gracious Heaven!" said Dick Dynamo, and after that said no more

while his cigarette lasted.

Then, having with capable brown fingers removed the end from the

holder, he tossed it away, and spoke.

"You can't do that," he said.

"Why not?" said Rosemary.

He gave her an odd look. "You haven't done anything to deserve it,"

he said.

Her brow contracted a little. "One isn't obliged to be wicked

first," she said. "It's for the people who are tired and want to

hide as well."

"Does that describe your case?" he asked.

She nodded thoughtfully. "I want to learn to be good," she said.

"You haven't learnt to be anything else yet," he pointed out.

"I'm afraid one doesn't want much teaching in that way," said

Rosemary with a sigh.

"You're very young," said Dick Dynamo.

Thereafter he was silent for a space, watching her as was his wont, a

certain shrewd amusement in his eyes.

He spoke at last, but more to himself than to her. "No, I'm not

going to let you bury yourself in a convent. You're too good for

that. I think I know what your trouble is." He addressed her now

definitely. "You're homesick."

She did not contradict him. The very word "home" seemed to bring her

heart into her throat. Aunt Bobby--Little Staple--all that she had

once held so lightly--rose in a flash before her. All that had once

been hers and would never be hers again!

What could he know about it--this man with the iron-grey hair and

cynical, worn features? He had travelled the world for years for his

own amusement. What could the word mean to him?

"Whatever I am," she said, speaking with difficulty as he seemed to

expect some sort of answer to his challenge, "it's no good talking

about it, because I can't go back."

He smiled at that in a way she did not understand. There were many

things she did not understand about him. "You can certainly go back

if you want to," he said.

She felt herself turn scarlet. "Oh no, I couldn't--I couldn't!" she

said.

"Why not?" he questioned lazily. "Do you think I should prevent you?"

"No--no!" She began to stammer in desperate confusion. "You

are--much too kind--to--to want to keep me--against my will. It's

only--what everyone would be saying--and--and--" Bobby's name was on

her lips, but she could not utter it; she plunged into quivering

silence.

He did not seem to notice her agitation; she had noticed before that

he was strangely blind at times. "What would everyone be saying?" he

asked.

Rosemary uttered a half-choked sound of distress. "You must--know,"

she faltered.

"My dear child," he said, "I merely wanted to find out if you did.

You mean that everyone within a radius of ten miles or so of your old

home is suffering from pious shock because you are travelling in my

company unchaperoned. Is that it?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Do you think they know?" he proceeded.

"They would know--if I went back," she said.

"Not unless you told them," he argued. "It's a very unlikely story,

after all. I rather doubt if they'd believe it if you did."

"They'd probably believe--something worse," said Rosemary, with

burning cheeks.

"They probably would," he agreed. "It's an uncharitable world, isn't

it? But that being the case, why worry? Surely you are happier

where you are!"

"I know I ought to be," said Rosemary, "but--but--" with a great

effort she brought out the words--"it isn't only oneself that counts,

is it? If--if--I went into a convent, I could write to them then,

and say I was safe."

"You can write to them now and say the same, if you so wish," he

remarked somewhat dryly.

"Oh no, I couldn't," she said again. "I couldn't!"

He took out his cigarette-case, and she felt with relief that his

look was no longer upon her. "It would be strictly true," he said.

"I couldn't," she repeated.

He began to smoke again thoughtfully.

"I wonder," he said presently, "excluding the convent idea of course,

what you would most like to do."

"I think I ought to work for my living," said Rosemary. She spoke in

a low voice but with more assurance than before. His manner gave her

a measure of confidence. "You see, I always have worked. I'm used

to it."

He threw her a brief glance. "Yes? What sort of work?" he said.

She hesitated. It was difficult to make him see life as she had

always seen it hitherto.

"One was always busy on the farm, you know," she said.

"Who ran the farm?" asked Dick Dynamo.

It was the first time he had betrayed any interest in her past

existence. She felt as if a definite command had been laid upon her

to lift the curtain and show him the world in which she had moved up

to the time of her amazing flight with him.

She complied with an effort, but as she proceeded she was surprised

to find the task less difficult than she had thought. She knew that

he was listening intently. "Aunt Bobby ran it," she said, and, once

uttered, her lips no longer faltered at the name. "She has done it

for years. Grandpa was alive at first, then he died and we still

went on at Little Staple, she and Aunt Matilda and I."

"Is your Aunt Matilda married?" he put in.

"No, oh no, she never married," said Rosemary, "but she must have

been thinking of it once, for that bride's dress I wore was made for

her. But she never did anything on the farm. She was too delicate,

and besides, she never wanted to. Aunt Bobby did all the work. I

used to help a little, not much; but I had my lessons to do."

"Who taught you?" he said.

"Aunt Bobby." Rosemary's voice quivered a little; the vision of Aunt

Bobby's sweet flushed face bent over her ironing while she sat on the

window-seat and repeated her French poetry rose before her. "She

made me work very hard at them. But she worked much harder herself.

She never rested."

"Was the farm a success?" he asked.

Rosemary was a little vague. "The pigs were, I think," she said. "I

don't know much about the rest. Oh yes, the eggs were too. And she

used to make butter. But there was never any money to spare. I

suppose it all went in rent."

"Oh, she didn't own the farm then?" His voice had a casual ring, yet

she knew that he was interested.

"Oh no. That belonged to Silas Hickory." The old jealous resentment

sounded in the words, and her companion turned his head and surveyed

her. "He was always in and out. I think he helped quite a lot over

the pigs and things. But I didn't like him much."

"Thought he came too often, eh?" he suggested with lazy humour.

She felt the colour rising again. "He was just a common farmer," she

protested.

"Oh, was he?" said Dick Dynamo. "And she was partial to him, I

gather?"

Rosemary winced. Somehow it seemed to her as if the half-malicious

satire had been levelled at herself. "She was always

very--neighbourly to him," she said, and shrank again involuntarily

at the sound of his laugh.

"Well, why aren't they married, then?" he said.

The question seemed to pierce her. She got up quickly. Her face was

crimson. "You've no right to say that," she said. "Of course she

would never marry him! You don't understand--nothing will ever make

you believe--that--that, whatever may have happened when she was

young--she has really been waiting for you--ever since."

His dark eyes came direct to hers. He did not stir in his seat, nor

did the cruel smile leave his face. "And you believe that?" he said.

"You?"

She flinched again, but she answered him bravely. "Yes, I do. There

are lots of things I don't understand. But I know that is true.

I--have seen it."

"Seen what?" he said.

She told him, feeling that she spoke to a mask. "I've seen it--in

her eyes. She didn't often speak of you. Only once--or twice--when

I asked. But she wore your ring always, night and day, on her right

hand. I asked her once--when we were alone--if you were ever coming

back. She said--she said--" suddenly Rosemary began to sob, she

scarcely knew why, save that the memory of Aunt Bobby and all her

loving ways had become too poignant to be borne--"she said, 'If God

wills, darling.' And then--she sighed,--as if she hadn't much hope

left."

She ceased to speak and with a tremendous effort choked back her

emotion. The man in the chair by her side said nothing whatever. He

lay back with a perfectly inscrutable expression on his dark scarred

face, watching the sparkling horizon, almost as if unaware of her.

After a time, becoming more sure of herself, she began to observe him

covertly and saw that his cigarette was out. For a space she sat

motionless, and then oddly a sense of trespass came upon her, and she

rose.

He spoke immediately, an arresting quality in his voice. "Don't go,

Rosemary! I want you."

She sat down again, and he resumed his silence, the quenched

cigarette still between his lips.

At last, with a curious abruptness, he spoke. "I can't reconcile

what you have told me with what actually happened before you were

born. There's a hitch somewhere. Did she think I shouldn't regard

that letter she wrote as conclusive?"

"I never heard about a letter," said Rosemary.

He flashed her a keen look. His dark eyes had a strange deep glow in

them. "You are so like her," he said. "Yet so unlike. Do you

always tell the truth?"

She started at the question, but it was not uttered as an insult, and

the next instant she realized it. He waited for her answer as if

much hung upon it.

"Yes, I do," she said with simplicity.

He took the cigarette from his mouth and flung it away. "Now I'll

tell you something," he said, "something you haven't dreamed of.

I've called myself Graves for convenience sake for a good many years.

But my real name is Thorgrave--Richard Thorgrave, and I have just

come into the Ravencombe title and estates."

"Good gracious!" said Rosemary, startled.

He went on, ignoring her. "It means nothing whatever to me--dust and

ashes. I have no relations left, except a cousin--Silas Hickory, the

rustic farmer you have just mentioned--who is next of kin,--my heir

in short."

"Silas--Hickory!" gasped Rosemary.

He confirmed the statement grimly. "Yes, Silas Hickory, through a

_mésalliance_ on his mother's part. I've never met the fellow, but I

suppose it's up to me to keep the family pride from being vested in

the type of person you describe as 'a common farmer,' and for that

reason I shall have to marry and get another heir." His eyes were

upon her, holding her with an almost fierce dominance. "No woman who

has played me false once--" he spoke between his teeth as though he

clipped off the words one by one--"is ever given another opportunity.

I shall never see your--Aunt Bobby again. But you--I'm sorry for

you. You're only a child. Anyhow, I haven't let you down, haven't

betrayed your trust in me, have I? I've been thinking a good deal

all this time. You're so like her that I didn't know at first if I

could stand it. But I've come to see you lately with different eyes.

You don't remind me of her at every turn as you did. You're getting

a personality of your own. So now--I'm willing to marry you, if

you're willing to be married to me. And I'll look after you and be a

good husband to you--as long as you stick to me."

His hand came out to her with the words and held her own. He looked

at her with eyes from which all hardness had vanished.

"I'll be kind to you, child," he said. "You needn't be afraid."

"Oh stop!" said Rosemary. She had turned very pale, and she met his

look with a kind of desperation. She spoke quickly, her voice sharp

with distress. "Don't you see that's one of the reasons why I

thought I would go into a convent? I don't want to be married. And

even if I did, I couldn't possibly marry you. It wouldn't be right.

It wouldn't be straight. You--you ought to marry Aunt Bobby."

Something in his dark face warned her, and she stopped abruptly. The

hand that held hers had tightened until its grasp was acutely

painful, but she did not flinch, although in that moment she feared

him as she had never feared anyone in her life before. For in his

eyes was something unfathomable, something that made her think of a

soul in torture. His silence appalled her, yet she dreaded to hear

him speak, and when he did so at last her heart was beating so

violently that she could scarcely hear the words.

"Why have you said this to me?" It was an absolutely quiet question,

wholly free from any menace of wrath, but it might have been dead

lips that uttered it. The hand that gripped hers was like cold steel.

She found herself compelled to answer him, compelled to express the

naked truth as she saw it. Her voice sounded odd and strained even

to herself, but the words came without hesitation or faltering.

"Because you love her."

That was all. Just a plain and simple statement of fact! Nothing

had ever before sounded so crude, even brutal, to her ears, but she

had no choice but to utter it. It was as if, at his behest, she had

held up a mirror to his soul to show him the stark reality that dwelt

there. He had demanded it of her, but none the less did she expect

some crushing retribution for what she had done. In that moment she

saw him as a man who had suffered beyond the limit of human

endurance, and it seemed as if human control must fail. But seconds

passed and there came no violent outburst; only that deadly

quiet--only that fixed and mask-like regard!

It continued until her own control began to waver, and finally she

could bear it no longer. She stirred the hand he held, and the next

instant to her surprise she found it free. His own hand fell, and he

lay back in his chair as if he had forgotten her presence. She could

not interpret his attitude, but it seemed almost one of exhaustion.

For a brief space she continued to sit by his side irresolute; then,

summoning her courage, she got up and slipped away.

He did not so much as turn his head to mark her going.

CHAPTER IX

"I WILL ARISE..."

Again, but less poignantly now, that sense of desolation came upon

Rosemary as she walked between the orange-trees in the hotel-garden.

The anguish of soul that had possessed her that morning was over.

That had passed while she had knelt upon the steps of the wayside

Cross, and though complete peace was not yet hers, a certain sense of

security had reached her there and still remained. She knew, quite

inexplicably yet beyond question, that some decision would presently

come to her--a right decision upon which she would be given strength

to act. The amazing revelation regarding himself that her companion

had made had not greatly affected her. In the old days it would have

stirred her to the depths, but so much had happened of late, and she

had known--somehow she had always known--that he was some species of

prince in disguise. The discovery that she herself had made

concerning him went deeper, and now she realized that it was not such

a great discovery after all. She had been more or less aware of it

from the beginning. From the moment of her recognition of him, she

had regarded him as belonging to Aunt Bobby, and--she faced it

now--it was in part that outlook which had induced her in the first

overwhelming revulsion of feeling to give herself into his keeping.

It had been an action of mad, unreasoning impulse made in a moment

when all the values of life had changed for her. In her wild desire

to escape at all costs she had not stopped to ask herself whither

that desperate step might lead. That it had not so far led to

complete shipwreck was due to no effort of hers. It was the

half-cynical, half-compassionate chivalry of her companion that had

been her salvation. Whether through kindness or indifference, he had

given her time to realize the headlong rashness of her action, and to

repent it if she so desired. It came to her as she walked that he

had been astoundingly generous to her. Was it his love for Aunt

Bobby that had made him so?

Again her thoughts returned to the beloved being who had been all the

world to her, and for the first time she tried to bring them into

some sort of order. There was much that she could not know, scarcely

even surmise, but it seemed to her, after a brief review of her own

fantastic situation, that if by some means Aunt Bobby had in the long

ago been betrayed into taking a false step she was possibly not

solely to blame. The bare thought of blaming her renewed the old

pain, but she faced it with greater courage now and with less

bitterness. Allowing for that one terrible fall for which there was

no means of accounting, with what bravery and loyalty she had borne

her burden since! Did she--Rosemary--owe her nothing for that? The

lifelong deception was harder to condone, but it had been conceived

for her own sake; that she clearly saw. And what was she, who had

just acted with such wholesale disregard of consequences, such utter

lack of consideration for others, to stand up in judgment? A strange

humility had begun to awake in Rosemary. She saw herself in a new

light, and by that light she now saw the deeds of others. Certainly

she was in no position to condemn.

Wandering on in the sunshine, with glimpses here and there of a sea

so vividly blue that it seemed as if it could not be real, she came

slowly to the deeper understanding that she sought. So far she had

only thought of herself. She realized the fact with shame. In her

wild dash for freedom, nothing else had mattered. She had suffered

cruelly, but by her action she had caused far greater suffering to

Aunt Bobby. This she knew beyond question, and her sense of shame

increased. Aunt Bobby, the beloved, who had done

everything,--sacrificed everything--for her! What agonies had she

endured as a consequence of this! Rosemary's hands clenched. It was

harder in that moment to think of Aunt Bobby's pain than her own, but

she found herself compelled to think. And this, though she knew it

not, was the first definite upward step she had ever taken.

Self-reproach followed swiftly and overwhelmingly, and presently she

was stumbling blindly among the rocks on the shore of that incredibly

blue sea, heedless of direction, conscious only of the one lacerating

thought that Aunt Bobby--her beloved, her darling--had suffered and

was still suffering through her.

Later, feeling physically exhausted and mentally bewildered, she sat

on one of those dark rocks and gazed before her in a kind of maze of

despair. What was she to do?

Later still--how much later she did not know--words which were

somehow familiar to her began to repeat themselves over and over in

her brain. It was like an inner voice, that would not be denied. "I

will arise--I will arise--and go to my father--and say unto him,

'Father, I have sinned--I have sinned'" ... And then again, more

insistently still: "I will arise--I will arise."

Then at last she knew that the message for which she had been

subconsciously waiting ever since the morning had come to her, and

she must obey. It was the one thing that she had said she could not

do--the one thing that made her shrink with a scorching sense of

shame; but it had been laid upon her, and she would not turn aside.

Whatever the cost, the decision was made and she would not flinch.

She got upon her feet and lifted her face to the sky that had begun

to turn golden towards the west.

"I will do it," she said, and her voice was clear and steadfast. "I

will go back."

The relief of having made that decision was greater than anything she

had ever known. She felt as if a light had suddenly shone in the

darkness, pointing the way, and though it was uphill and difficult

she knew that the strength she needed for the journey would be given.

How it was to be accomplished she knew not, but the will to

accomplish was hers.

And so she turned her face once more towards the orange garden above

the shore to seek her companion and to tell him of the decision she

had made. He would probably be angry, but she faced the possibility

without a falter. Whatever he did or said, she would not be deterred.

She found that she had wandered much further than she had realized,

and already the chill of sunset was in the air. The sea lay like an

immense opal, still and silent, under a sky that was changing from

blue to purest primrose. The sun was sinking rapidly towards the

horizon. The shore looked deeply black.

She quickened her steps. It would be dark before she reached the

hotel. She had not been out alone so late before during their

travels. She was not nervous, but the thought of Dick Dynamo, as she

still called him to herself, agitated her somewhat. She did not want

to upset him unnecessarily; for he had shown her more than once that

he could be formidable.

The way back seemed endless, the curve of the shore interminable.

She wondered what had induced her to come so far. But it was only

the beginning of a much longer journey, and she would not suffer

herself to be discouraged. She had already begun to return.

The sun dipped lower, finally sank. A cold wind swept up from the

west and the whole world turned ashen. The change smote upon

Rosemary's heart almost like a curse. She had the sudden scared

feeling of a lost child. What if return were made impossible for

her? What if she were condemned to wander forever in a world from

which all the sunshine had been withdrawn? Then, away in the

distance ahead of her, a star began to shine, and she took courage

again. Whatever the difficulties ahead of her, she would meet them

bravely. She would not be cast down.

The gloom became darkness as she finally drew near to the steps that

led up from the shore to the hotel-garden. She broke into a run over

the last few yards. It seemed to her that she was leaving an

inexpressible dreariness behind. She stumbled as she ran, for the

ground was rough and stony. The wind was wailing eerily along the

beach.

She reached the steps with relief, began to spring up them; then

suddenly stopped midway, standing with caught breath and wildly

throbbing heart. There at the gate above her, dimly discernible,

stood a figure.

It was not Dick Dynamo; of that she was practically certain. Yet the

impression that it was someone who was awaiting her penetrated deeply

into her consciousness. But if not Dick Dynamo,--and the vague

outline looked too thick-set, altogether too heavily built to be

his--if not he, who could it be?

She could not tell, but in those moments a positive panic of doubt

went through her and she was near to turning in unreasoning terror

and fleeing back along the beach by the way she had come. She

thought later that it was only the desolate sighing of the wind and

the moaning of the sea that deterred her. But many seconds passed

before she nerved herself to continue the ascent to the top of the

steps.

She accomplished it at length, slowly, as if her limbs obeyed her

with difficulty, mounting step by step until she reached the last.

And still the figure above her stood quite motionless, waiting for

her.

She accosted it at last because the silence was unbearable, almost

uncanny.

"Are you wanting anything?" she said. "Are you waiting for me?"

She spoke in English intuitively. Some inner prompting told her that

it could be no Italian standing there, impervious to that icy mistral.

And at once a voice replied in English--a calm, deliberate voice that

sent all the blood to her heart in a rush.

"Yes, I was waiting for you," it said, "but I've done now. I'm going

to take you home."

"Good gracious!" gasped Rosemary, and nearly fell backwards in her

astonishment. "It's The Old Bean!"

A big hand came out and grasped her, pulling her safely through the

gate. "Yes, it's me," said The Old Bean superfluously and somewhat

grimly. "And now we'll go back."

CHAPTER X

THE ESCORT

She stood before him speechlessly. His hand had fallen from her arm.

The gate swung to with a clang, and they remained facing one another

while the wind swept the shore below them and an incongruous scent of

roses wafted down from the garden above.

It was so like The Old Bean, she thought later, not to ask her what

she was doing in that strange place, merely to announce his intention

of taking her back. It dawned on her as she stood there, that he

probably meant to carry out that intention with her consent or

without it, so uncompromising was his attitude. His face she could

not see with any distinctness, and she reflected with some relief

that he could not see hers either. He was not an imaginative person,

and she hoped that he had not fully realized her discomfiture. She

made a determined effort to cover it.

"How clever of you to find me!" she said.

"It was rather," said The Old Bean. "I've had a considerable hunt."

"And you've only just got here?" she said.

"No," said The Old Bean. "I got here yesterday."

That surprised her, though she tried not to be surprised. "Where are

you staying?" she asked.

"I'm putting up at this place," he said, with a nod towards the hotel

that was now giving forth points of light in the darkness.

"You spent last night here?" she questioned.

"Yes," said The Old Bean.

"But why didn't we meet before?" she asked, puzzled.

"I kept out of your way," he explained.

"Why?" she asked.

"I wanted to find out something," said The Old Bean.

Somehow that pierced her; she felt herself tingle all over. "What

did you want to find out?" she demanded.

He did not answer, and she found his silence unbearable.

"I suppose you wanted to know if I'm still respectable or not!" she

flung at him, standing fiercely upright as one braced for attack.

"No," said The Old Bean quietly. "I just wanted to know if you were

married yet."

She caught her breath; it was like a stab through the heart. "I'm

not then!" she declared with a kind of fiery vehemence that seemed to

consume herself. "So now you know!"

"Thank you," said The Old Bean courteously. "I am glad to know."

"Why?" she stormed, finding his calm acceptance of the situation

intolerable. "Why are you glad? What business is it of yours--or

anyone's?"

She was quivering from head to foot as she asked the question. All

the agony of shame that she had suffered in anticipation of her

return to the old life and the old familiar faces was not equal to

this. The intensity of it was such that she almost wanted to scream,

though she did not expect him to understand, even wildly hoped that

he could not. It was more endurable that he should deem her basely

ungrateful than suspect the fiery torture that he had somehow managed

to inflict.

And then, to her utter amazement he broke in upon her turmoil with a

quiet remark that completely altered the trend of her thoughts.

"If you ask me," he said, "I should say it isn't anyone's business

but mine. But you may think otherwise. I daresay you will."

He said the last sentence as one making a concession to a recognized

weakness which would in the end be overcome. She remembered that in

earlier days she had observed a tendency in him to this method of

treating difficulties. It had amused her then. It did not amuse her

now.

"How can you possibly pretend it is your business?" she said, aware

too late that in saying it she exposed a vulnerable point. "You are

only a friend after all."

"Yes, exactly that," said The Old Bean, and with the words he drove

his lance straight into the weak spot before she could attempt to

cover it. "I am a friend. There's no pretense about that anyway.

I'm glad you admit it."

"It doesn't mean anything," said Rosemary hastily.

"It does to me," said The Old Bean, with absolute simplicity. "And

that's why I've come to take you home."

"Oh!" said Rosemary, and after a moment's rapid thought: "But I was

coming in any case. I mean, I'd decided to go back."

He accepted the statement in his usual direct way. Being sincere

himself, he seemed to take it for granted that he would meet with

sincerity in others. "That's so much the better," he said, and again

she had a feeling that his own decision upon that point had been made

before he had acquainted himself with hers. "And the sooner the

better, I should say. When can you start?"

That took her by surprise afresh. It did not seem to go quite

naturally with the general leisureliness of his attitude. He had

waited twenty-four hours before announcing himself, and now he was

apparently prepared for instant action. She had never credited The

Old Bean with a vast amount of energy, and for some reason she felt

inclined to resent this revelation of it.

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "I've got to talk to--to Dick first."

"I'll talk to him," said The Old Bean, "while you're getting ready."

"You!" said Rosemary, still further startled though hardly knowing

wherefore. "I don't suppose he'd listen to you."

"Oh yes, he would," said The Old Bean. "He'd have to."

She stood and stared at him in the darkness. Then she shivered. "Do

you know who he is?" she said.

"Yes, I know," said The Old Bean. "I found that out before I left

England. Shall we go in and find him? You're cold."

He made a move as if to walk up the path, but Rosemary stood still.

Her two hands were pressed tightly against her breast.

"Suppose he won't listen to you!" she said in a low voice. "Suppose

he won't let me go with you!"

"Isn't that rather absurd?" asked The Old Bean in mild surprise.

She shook her head vehemently. "No, it isn't absurd. I can't go

without his consent--after all he has done for me."

"I will get his consent," said The Old Bean patiently.

"You!" she said again, a ring of desperation in her voice. "You

don't know what you're up against."

"It's you who don't know that," said The Old Bean unexpectedly, and

with the words suddenly, amazingly, he took her by the shoulders and

held her. "You talk about not being able to get away from that

loafer up there," he said. "What about me? Think you can get away

from me?"

It was as if a thunderbolt had fallen at her feet. Rosemary gave a

gasp and shut her eyes. It was the most astounding thing that had

ever happened to her. A short time before she would have said that

nothing could ever surprise her again, and now once more the whole

world seemed toppling around her. She made a feeble effort to set

her hands against the broad chest and hold herself from him--an

effort that was instantly and compellingly defeated.

"Don't hurt me, Old Bean!" she begged weakly, as his arms crushed her

to him. "Don't hurt me!"

"Hurt you!" he said, and in his voice was a deep quiver that seemed

to set her whole body vibrating. "I'll kill you if you ever try to

play this game again. But no one else shall ever touch a hair of

your precious head. That I swear! Now kiss me!"

But she hid her face low on his breast, in shamed avoidance, hearing

the firm beat of his heart, and strangely thankful for the warmth of

his sheltering arms. "What must you think of me?" she whispered

inarticulately.

His hand was feeling for her face. There was something quite

indomitable about The Old Bean that night. He strode over every

obstacle. "I'll tell you when you've kissed me," he said.

Again feebly she sought to resist him, but he would not be resisted.

He had his way, and lifting her face to his he kissed her over and

over again until, strangely, her shame slipped from her. Her arms

went round his neck and she kissed him in return....

"Though I don't know why I should!" she whispered a little later.

"Old Bean, what made you--do it?"

"What made me?" he said. "You made me, of course. Do you think

you're going to belong to any other man but me? Just listen to me,

Rosemary! I've tracked you all this way because I want you, and I

mean to have you. We'll be married out here as soon as ever I can

fix it up, and we'll be married again when we get back to England

just to make sure."

"Oh!" said Rosemary, and drew a long breath. "That would

satisfy--everybody."

"So long as it satisfies you, that's all that matters," he told her

bluntly. "I'm not out to please the rest of the world. They can all

jolly well take a back seat, and Ravencombe with 'em. It's you--and

only you--that matters."

Rosemary gave a gasp. There was substantial comfort in this; but

something within her--something which had developed only during that

day of suffering--made her begin to withdraw from his sheltering arms.

"That's all very well, Old Bean," she said. "And I'm very, very

grateful to you, because goodness only knows why you should want to

marry me. But I know of a very big reason why you shouldn't. It's

the reason that made me run away from Bode, and has kept me away all

this time."

"I thought you said you were going back," said The Old Bean, firmly

frustrating her effort to release herself.

"I know--I was." Rosemary's voice trembled a little. "But only

because I realized I ought to, and--and--because I wanted--I so

wanted--Aunt Bobby."

"Well, I shan't keep you away from her," said The Old Bean. "In

fact, it'll be easier for you--tons easier--if you go back with me."

"Oh, but that isn't what I mean," said Rosemary. "It's something

quite different--something I don't know how to tell you. You've been

thinking all this time that I ran away just for an adventure--a lark.

But it wasn't, Old Bean; it really wasn't! It was because of

something I heard--something about myself." Her voice became choked;

she paused to master her distress.

"I say, don't cry!" said The Old Bean, drawing her closer.

"I'm not!" whispered Rosemary resolutely. "But I've got to tell

you--now. You'd better let me go, Old Bean, before--before it's too

late."

"There's only one thing on earth would make me do that," he said with

decision.

"What's that?" she asked faintly.

He answered her with some force. "Being quite sure that you yourself

personally wanted it. If you can't tell me that--and I'm pretty sure

you can't--you needn't tell me anything else."

That moved her; she clasped the arm that she had sought to slacken.

"Old Bean, you are a brick!" she said shakily. "But I'm going to

tell you all the same, because I couldn't let you marry me without

knowing. It wouldn't be right. It's just this--just this. I'm not

what you think I am--what I always used to think I was myself.

I'm--I'm one of those dreadful creatures that are born when they

ought not to be. I don't know who my father was. My mother--my

mother--" she broke off; it was useless to struggle any longer---"I

can't say it!" she sobbed. "You'll have to understand without."

"Oh, poor little darling!" said The Old Bean, and held her

passionately close. "Stop crying! Stop crying, I tell you! I don't

care a twopenny damn! What on earth does it matter when you know I

love you? Who was the brute that told you?"

She clung to him. "Dick--Lord Ravencombe," she whispered. "He knows

it must have been so, because he says there never was a brother. And

he's very bitter about it, because, you see, he--he loved her."

"Loved who?" questioned The Old Bean, bewildered.

"Her--Aunt Bobby--long ago." Rosemary poured the words rapidly into

his ear. The relief of having a confidant was indescribable. "She

sent him away. He didn't know why. But he loves her still, and he

ought to go back to her. I've told him so. Perhaps he will."

"He can go to blazes for all I care," said The Old Bean. "He'd no

right to tell you that. He's a skunk."

"Oh no, he isn't!" she protested. "Truly he isn't! He didn't really

mean to tell me. It just came out. And then I--I was so

shocked--and idiotic--that I begged him to take me away there and

then."

"Oh, I see," said The Old Bean, somewhat mollified. "You didn't

really care for him then?"

"Oh no, never, really," Rosemary assured him. "I did let him kiss

me--just at the first--the night of the Ball. But never since! He's

never wanted to since, Old Bean."

"He's got more decency than I gave him credit for," remarked The Old

Bean, kissing her himself as one who had the right. "Well, that's

all settled then, isn't it? We're going to be married straight away."

"If--if you're sure it doesn't make any difference," said Rosemary

tremulously.

"It does make a difference," he asserted. "It makes me all the

keener to have you and protect you. No one will dare to say a word

against you when you are my wife."

Her arm slipped round his neck again. "What'll you do if they do?"

she said.

"Do!" said The Old Bean, blood-thirstily. "I'll murder them!"

She laid her cheek to his with a great sigh. "Oh, it is jolly of you

to say that!" she said.

CHAPTER XI

THE VICTOR

The glare of light from the hotel lounge dazzled Rosemary as she

entered. She paused on the mat just within the great swing-door,

looking around her. The warmth of the place after the chill without

was almost overpowering. It gave her a curious sensation of

insecurity, as if the old allurement from which she had so narrowly

escaped were weaving its net afresh about her feet. She cast an

instinctive glance over her shoulder, caught a glimpse of The Old

Bean's towsled red head and was reassured. This solid supporter of

hers was made of stouter stuff than dreams. There was no danger of

his vanishing into thin air.

He saw the glance and replied to it in an audible undertone. "Carry

on! There he is--over in that corner. You lead--I'll follow!" She

turned her dazzled eyes in the direction he indicated, and, her

vision clearing, she saw the dark, refined face of her

travelling-companion bent over a paper. He was evidently not in the

least perturbed regarding her absence, and her relief at the

discovery was not unmixed with indignation. There seemed to be

something almost studied in his complete indifference. It was more

in response to The Old Bean's request than her own impulse that she

made her way towards him.

There were but few people present as the tea-hour was over. Dick

Dynamo had pushed his own tray on one side and was smoking a

cigarette as he read. He looked up, however, before she reached him,

and she saw in a moment by the mocking light in his eyes that her

entrance had not been unobserved by him.

She felt herself turn scarlet as she stood before him. It was with

immense effort that she spoke.

"I'm sorry I'm late. I--met a friend."

"Pray don't apologize!" said Dick Dynamo. "I concluded that there

was some good reason for your absence." His eyes went beyond her and

spent perhaps two seconds in summing up The Old Bean. Then he said:

"Have you had any tea?"

The question did not convey that the matter was one of the faintest

interest to him, but it had to be answered. Rosemary began to reply

in the negative, but The Old Bean gently assumed the responsibility

himself.

"No, we haven't. But we're just going to. You've had yours, I see,

so it's no good asking you to join us."

Dick Dynamo's eyes kindled a little in response to this, but his

voice remained quite suave as he said, "Thanks, no. But it will give

me great pleasure to look on. I didn't quite catch your name, I'm

afraid."

"It wasn't mentioned," said The Old Bean. "My name is Ross--Donald

Ross. Sit down, Rosemary, while I get hold of a waiter!"

"Don't trouble!" said Dick Dynamo, and struck a bell on his own

table. "My name is Graves--Richard Graves, at the present moment, as

possibly Rosemary may have mentioned. Did she explain that we are

travelling together?"

"I didn't need to be told that," said The Old Bean stolidly. "I've

been following you for the past three weeks."

Dick Dynamo's black brows went up. "Indeed!" he said. "It has taken

you some time to come up with us."

"Yes, I know," said The Old Bean. "It's been rather like following a

streak of lightning." He drew forward a chair for Rosemary with the

words, and pressed her quietly into it.

Dick Dynamo's laugh had a ring of derision. "I followed my mood," he

said. "I had an idea that there was someone behind us. That is

really why I pulled up."

The Old Bean seated himself close to Rosemary. His freckled face

looked more square than usual. His green eyes were unfailingly

direct. There was nothing in the least subtle about him, but he

looked a solid mass of determination.

Rosemary sat forward in her chair with her head bent. She was

evidently feeling her position acutely. She made no attempt to

intervene in any way. The flush of embarrassment had passed, leaving

her very pale.

Dick Dynamo glanced towards her. "You have been a long way," he

remarked.

She shook her head, not lifting her eyes. "No, not very far, only

along the shore."

"Perhaps a little further than you anticipated," he suggested.

She made a quick gesture of negation. The Old Bean leaned forward,

almost with a screening movement.

He was on the verge of speaking when she looked up sharply. "Tell

him we're engaged!" she said.

The Old Bean turned ponderously to the other man. "We're engaged,"

he said.

Dick Dynamo's smile was instant; it had something of an acrobatic

quality. "Oh, not without my consent, I think," he said.

"Your consent?" repeated The Old Bean. "Has that--excuse

me--anything to do with it?"

"I should say--everything--morally," said Dick Dynamo. "But that by

the way! Won't you have your tea first?"

"I don't know," said The Old Bean. "I think I'd sooner talk first if

it's all the same to you. Rosemary may be your guest, but I don't

see that that involves any moral obligation to ask your consent to

our getting married. I've always meant to marry her for as long as

I've known her, and I've known her for considerably longer than you

have."

"It looks as if her intentions and yours have not always been

identical," observed Dick Dynamo, flicking the ash from his

cigarette. "It's the first I've heard of them anyway."

His eyes were upon Rosemary as he spoke with the old appraising look

that she had come to know so well. She met them with a kind of

desperation. "You're only joking," she said, in a low voice. "It

doesn't really matter two pins to you what I do."

His smile at once included her in its mockery. "I hope I take a more

serious view of my responsibilities than that," he said.

"Your responsibilities!" said The Old Bean, a sudden throb in his

voice that seemed to indicate that there was more beneath his

composure than he had so far permitted to appear. "That's a point I

should rather like to discuss with you."

Dick Dynamo's attention was at once transferred to him. "You shall,

my good fellow," he said kindly, "but I recommend that the discussion

should be held in a more private place than this. And meantime, here

is your tea, so don't let me interrupt you!"

He leaned back in his chair again and resumed the study of his paper,

leaving his two companions completely to their own devices. The

result of this proceeding was that they sat as culprits in a guilty

silence while the waiter clattered the tea-cups in front of Rosemary

and finally withdrew.

The Old Bean was the first to move. Laboriously and with furrowed

brow, he dragged his chair round until his back was completely turned

upon Dick Dynamo; then with a steady hand he drew the tray to him and

began to pour out the tea.

Rosemary started, as one coming out of a dream. "Shan't I do that?"

she said.

"No, darling," said The Old Bean quietly and with great distinctness.

"I'll see to everything. You're tired."

The opportunity to serve her seemed to restore his confidence. He

ate and drank and saw that she did the same without the smallest sign

that he was aware of the man who sat reading the paper behind him.

And Rosemary also, re-acting to his influence, gradually recovered

her equilibrium, so that at the end of the meal they were talking

together in low tones almost as if they had been alone.

"You had better go and get a rest," said The Old Bean when she had

finished, and nodded reassuringly when she looked up with quick

interrogation in her eyes.

She rose without demur, and he rose also and walked with her across

the nearly deserted lounge to the stairs. "Don't get wind up!" he

said when they were out of earshot. "I've got you all right and I'm

going to keep you. Mephistopheles himself couldn't alter that."

She smiled though somewhat wanly. "Don't have a row with him, Old

Bean!" she said.

"Good gracious, no!" said The Old Bean with a smile.

He watched her up the stairs, then turned with square intention and

walked back to the corner he had just left. Dick Dynamo was still

deep in his paper. He pulled a chair to his side and sat down.

"I want to talk to you," he said.

The elder man looked up, and over his dark thin features there passed

an odd expression, as if for a moment he saw something more than the

honest, freckled countenance before him.

"Talk away!" he said.

The Old Bean proceeded without further preamble. "You don't

altogether understand the situation," he said. "Perhaps I don't

either. But I know all I need to know. I've followed Rosemary out

here to take her home."

"Oh, indeed!" said Dick Dynamo. He glanced around him with the

words, and seeing one or two people still lingering in the vicinity,

he got up. "Perhaps we shall dispose of this matter more quickly in

private," he said.

"Wherever you like," said The Old Bean.

Dick Dynamo led the way to the lift and they ascended together. On

the top floor he took the lead again, and they finally entered a room

that looked out over the bay now all spangled with lights.

The Old Bean shut the door behind him and moved forward. There was

another door in the room at which he glanced.

Dick Dynamo smiled a little, showing his teeth. "There is a curtain

on the other side," he said. "You won't be overheard unless you

raise your voice."

"Rosemary's room?" asked The Old Bean bluntly.

"Exactly. Rosemary's room." Very blandly came the reply. "I am

taking good care of her, you see."

The Old Bean heard the gibe in the words and flushed a little, but he

kept himself in hand. "I'm glad you've been decent to her," he said.

"I don't see how anyone could be anything else myself. She's such a

kid. I haven't yet fathomed why you brought her here."

"It was by her own wish," said Dick Dynamo.

"Yes, she told me that." The Old Bean paused a moment; then: "She's

told me everything," he said, "that is, everything she knows."

"Then I hope you are satisfied," said Dick Dynamo.

"I am on some points," said The Old Bean. "Not on all. Why don't

you want me to marry her?"

The question was characteristically direct, but it held no challenge.

He spoke merely as one seeking information. Dick Dynamo, leaning

against the bed-rail, regarded him wholly without animosity. He even

after a moment took out his cigarette-case and offered it to him.

"No, thanks," said The Old Bean. "I prefer a pipe later. Do you

mind answering me?"

"You're rather young, aren't you?" said Dick Dynamo, helping himself.

"I am twenty-two," said The Old Bean.

The other nodded. "So I should have said. I shouldn't do it if I

were you."

The Old Bean showed no sign of exasperation. "Different things suit

different people," he said. "But I doubt if I should come to you for

advice in any case. The whole point is that I am going to marry

Rosemary at the earliest possible moment. You may try to prevent it,

though I don't see why you should. But you won't succeed, so it's a

pity to waste your time."

"Quite sure of that?" said Dick Dynamo, blowing his cigarette-smoke

thoughtfully upwards.

"I am quite sure," said The Old Bean.

"You're wrong then," said Dick Dynamo. "I can stop you with the

greatest ease. I think you forget that. Rosemary is a minor."

"That can be got over," said The Old Bean.

"Not without my consent," said Dick Dynamo.

"Your consent!" Again The Old Bean repeated the words as if he were

not quite sure that he heard aright. "But what has it to do with

you? You don't want to marry her yourself, I suppose?"

Dick Dynamo's eyes came to his with a gleam that was like the flash

of steel. "Why should you suppose that, I wonder?" he said in a

voice that was very level.

The Old Bean replied with his customary simplicity. "You're not in

love with her for one thing and she wouldn't have you for another."

"Has she told you so?" asked Dick Dynamo.

"No, she didn't need to. You see, she's accepted me." With complete

assurance The Old Bean made reply. He was playing his strong suit

now and he had no fear of being routed. "You may of course manage to

postpone our marriage but you won't prevent it in the end--just

because of that. I shall take her straight back to her people. I

have told her so, and it is her own wish. I am not afraid of their

refusing their permission."

"I see," said Dick Dynamo. His eyes went back to his

cigarette-smoke, and he was silent for a space. At length: "Then

I--having brought her thus far under my more or less capable

guardianship--am to have no further say in the matter?" he said.

"I don't know why you should want any," said The Old Bean.

"You know very little," said Dick Dynamo. "But I will tell you this.

Having put my mind to the plough, I don't as a rule look back.

Rosemary will not marry you--or any other man--until she has gone

back to her people and got their consent. That's final."

"Then in heaven's name let's take her back!" said The Old Bean.

"Us!" Dick Dynamo's look returned to him, but it was brief and

scathing. "Strange to say, I am not proposing to include you in my

party," he said.

"No," said The Old Bean quietly. "But you can't prevent me coming

too."

"I don't advise you to do that." The words came with a clean-cut

brevity, like the drawing of a rapier. Dick Dynamo no longer leaned

against the bed-rail. He was on his feet, poised as it were for

action like a practised fencer.

But The Old Bean with his hands in his pockets remained completely

quiescent. "I'm sorry," he said. "But I'm not taking your advice.

Wherever Rosemary goes--I go."

"You think I shall allow that?" said Dick Dynamo.

"I think you can't prevent it," said The Old Bean.

Dick Dynamo smiled again and the scar down the side of his face

became a deep furrow reaching to the temple. "I believe I can

convince you on that point anyhow," he said, and suddenly his right

hand went into his pocket.

It was a lightning movement, and one which The Old Bean could

scarcely have frustrated had he been forewarned. He found himself

looking straight at the shining muzzle of a small automatic held with

absolute steadiness within a yard of his face.

Taken wholly by surprise, he could not check an instinctive gesture

of recoil, but it was only momentary. The next instant he was his

own master. "Hullo!" he said. "What's that for?" and dug his hands

still deeper into his pockets.

Dick Dynamo answered him in an undertone. He spoke between his

teeth, and his thin lips scarcely moved with the words; they remained

set in that terrible smile that seemed to stretch up to his temple.

"It's for you if you get in my way," he said.

The Old Bean's green eyes faxed him unwaveringly. "I suppose they

allow that sort of thing in this country," he said. "But I haven't

given you much reason for shooting me at present."

"That depends on how you look at it," said Dick Dynamo. "I don't

mean to be hampered by you, that's all. So the sooner you quit, the

better."

But The Old Bean remained stationary. "If you think," he said, "that

I'm like one of those Dago chaps in Mexico to be frightened away by

the sight of a gun, you're damn' well mistaken. I haven't spent

three weeks hunting for Rosemary to be put off by that kind of thing

now I've found her. So--as I've no intention of quitting, you may as

well shoot at once."

He spoke, as he had spoken throughout, with complete moderation.

There was in The Old Bean, wary Scot though he might be, a strain of

that high daring that had borne his ancestors through many a wild

foray. But as he faced Dick Dynamo, there was nothing about him to

suggest that he was literally gambling with his life as the stake.

If the man before him were sane, the odds were in his favour. But

there was something--a species of devilish derision--in the eyes that

met his that made him very doubtful on that point. He realized in

that most critical moment that Dick Dynamo was capable of madness.

And then very abruptly the tension ended, and he knew that he had

won. The murderous little weapon was plunged back into the pocket

from which it had been taken, and a sinewy hand came forth and

grasped his shoulder.

"You young fool!" said Dick Dynamo. "You love her so much that you'd

die for her, eh?"

"Not for choice," said The Old Bean, still almost phlegmatic in his

self-control. "I didn't expect you to murder me, and I'd sooner live

for her. You see, as I think I've mentioned before, I'm going to

marry her."

Dick Dynamo broke into a half-grudging laugh. "Well, you can have

her," he said. "She turned me down only this afternoon. Did she

tell you that?"

"No," said The Old Bean with simplicity. "She wouldn't, you know.

All she said was--after accepting me--that she couldn't marry me

without your consent, because you had been good to her."

"Ah!" said Dick Dynamo. "I told you you couldn't have her without

it, didn't I? You won't get her to run away with you. I promise you

that."

"I'm not the sort that runs away," protested The Old Bean. "I can't

see any necessity. If you think there will be any difficulty about

our getting married without her aunt's consent, I'll wire to her at

once."

"You're a persevering lad, aren't you?" said Dick Dynamo.

"I know what I want, if that's what you mean," said The Old Bean.

"And see that you get it, eh?" Something besides derision sounded in

the words. "Well, it's your own show. But if she lets you down,

don't blame me!"

The Old Bean looked at him and for the first time addressed him with

respect. "I shouldn't blame anyone except myself, sir, if that

happened," he said. "It'll be up to me to see it doesn't."

Dick Dynamo's hand loosed its grasp and struck him a friendly blow.

"By gad, I hope you'll succeed!" he said. "You deserve to. There's

Something drew her, she knew not what. As though a Hand had been