But the end comes sooner than Norah has planned.
Fate will not be mocked and defied, but demands quick retribution.
Even now, while the lovers are wandering idly along the moorland
paths and opening their hearts in the first effulgence of their
new-found happiness, grim Fate is stalking them over the heather-clad
hills and is coming quickly towards the girl who has dared to defy
him.
And with cruel irony, Fate chooses for Norah's undoing three
instruments which should be the last in the world to bring harm to
her--a dog she has petted, a man she has befriended, and a child she
has loved.
The dog comes first. He is just a mongrel spaniel, a brown thing
with silky ears and most beseechful eyes and a more than human memory
for a friend. Oh, that memory! It means the death of love to Norah!
Over the ridge of the rough ground the dog appears, ranging from side
to side and nosing about in the coarse growth as a spaniel will.
Then he stops, seeing the couple beneath, and raises his brown head
for a glance at them.
One glance is enough. With a short excited yelp of recognition he
comes tumbling down the slope and rushes towards Norah, flattening
himself to the ground at her feet, wriggling and dragging his silky
body forward in an ecstasy of delight, and all the time flogging the
earth with a thudding tail.
"Why, Mopsey, Mopsey!" cries the girl, stooping quietly to pat him.
And then she draws back quickly, biting her lip, knowing that she has
betrayed herself.
"Hallo," says Stapleton, astonished, "why, the dog seems to know you!"
Is there any escape from this trap in which Norah has allowed herself
to be caught unawares? Yes, perhaps with luck. It means _lying_,
but Norah realises that she must not stick at telling more
untruths--if Netta is to be saved.
"And you know him, too," Stapleton adds; "where have you seen him
before?"
"Most dogs like me," she answered; "I always make friends with them
at once. And this one reminded me of one I used to have at home, two
or three years ago. He was called Mopsey, and was so much like this
dear thing that for the moment I really half thought it was my old
Mopsey come to life again!"
Lies! Lies! They fall awkwardly from the girl's lips, and she hates
herself for telling them. She is not accustomed to speaking the
thing that is not true--_was_ not accustomed, rather, till forced
into it by the mad career upon which she was persuaded to embark.
And now it is not easy to step back into the old paths of honour and
truth. A hateful necessity holds her in its grip. For her own sake
alone she would scorn to take refuge in this lying subterfuge, even
though her brief hour of love is at stake and she finds herself
standing at bay, faced by the hounds of Fate. But Netta's safety is
another matter, and one which unrelentingly demands that she shall
pile falsehood upon falsehood.
Even so, with her assumed hardihood, Norah is not able to bring a
tone of conviction into her words; they ring false, as false as they
are.
Nor does this escape her companion's notice. Stapleton darts a quick
glance at her, almost doubting her for a fraction of a second. Then
he feels thoroughly ashamed for daring to doubt her and is more than
annoyed with himself for having done so. After all, why on earth
should any doubt creep into the occasion? It is not such a very
strange coincidence, to come across a dog resembling one you have
owned in former days, is it?
Now he is all for making honourable amends for his momentary distrust.
"There is nothing very wonderful, Norah, dear," says he, "in all dogs
loving you. _They_ know--they have an instinct for recognising
people who are genuine and good. You never find a dog making friends
with a mean person, a coward, a liar."
Oh! Oh! Inwardly Norah cowers and shrinks beneath this stinging
blow, but outwardly she has to keep a bold face and maintain at least
the appearance of frankness.
"What was your own Mopsey like?" pursues the girl's lover. "Spaniels
are always so intelligent; was yours?"
Norah takes refuge in stooping to fondle the dog at her feet, in
order to hide her face while she proceeds to invent the life history
of an entirely imaginary dog.
"Intelligent?" she laughs, "why, Mopsey was the cleverest dog that
ever lived! He knew as much as most humans, and a good deal more
than some! He could do anything but speak. Even from a puppy he
seemed to understand everything I said to him. For instance, I only
had to say 'Mopsey, go upstairs and fetch my handkerchief, I left it
on the bed,' and he would go at once and bring it. But that was
nothing; once, I was going out to play tennis and when I had gone
about half a mile from the house I discovered that the shoes I was
carrying were not my own but Netta's, so I whistled to Mopsey and
told him to take them back quickly and bring me my own shoes. You
will hardly believe it when I tell you that within a quarter of an
hour he was with me again, bringing the right pair of shoes in his
mouth! I don't suppose there ever was quite such a clever dog as my
dear old Mopsey!"
No, probably there never was!
Perhaps, in her artistic effort to portray the intelligent creature
of her imagination, Norah has a little overdrawn the picture: yet
Stapleton, blinded with love and devotion, does not see it, and only
murmurs admiringly:
"You must have been awfully----"
Exactly how Stapleton intended to conclude his sentence is never
known, for he breaks it off in the middle, being interrupted by a
voice which comes ringing across the heather, the voice of some man
as yet unseen, concealed by the turfy hillocks.
"_Mopsey, Mopsey! Good dog, come here then, where are you? Mopsey!_"
The dog has pricked up his silken ears at the first sound of the
voice. He turns his head, and then for a moment pretends not to have
heard, yielding to the pleasurable lure of Norah's caressing hands.
Only for a moment, though. As the cry is repeated, coming nearer
this time, the dog's instinct of duty proves stronger than the rival
attraction, and he bounds off up the bank in a floundering run to
seek his master.
_His master!_ Norah gasps as she realises how much greater her
danger is than she had fondly imagined. How could she be fool
enough, she asks herself, to imagine that Mopsey's master could be
very far away from Mopsey?
So now the game is up! All hope is lost, and her ingenious
fabrications have been of no avail. She might have known it!
Resigning herself to her fate, she turns and looks upwards to find,
as she expected, Stapleton looking down upon her in troubled
wonderment.
There is something more than wonder in his handsome face, shadowed
now by a look of severity, almost of anger. He is frowning, and a
glance of accusation shines from his eyes:
"Why, Norah----" he begins; but proceeds no further. Once more he is
interrupted.
Over the top of the bank appear two men in bluejackets' rig, stalwart
young able seamen their faces glowing with the healthy buffetings of
the North Sea wind and spray. At least one of them possesses this
appearance to a marked degree; he has evidently spent a long sojourn
up in the Northern Mists. His companion rather lacks that jolly
weather-beaten look, though he too is fresh-coloured and healthy; and
it is at his heels that the dog Mopsey walks--though he breaks away
again at sighting Norah, and comes lolloping up to her again.
The two bluejackets check their stride on seeing an officer before
them, and are about to turn respectfully aside and seek another path
when Mopsey's master turns his eyes upon the girl at the officer's
side--recognises her!
Then, with a leap and a run through the thick scrubby growth of furze
and heather, he comes to her with outstretched hand and a smile of
astonishment and welcome.
"Why, Miss," he exclaims, "who ever would have thought of seeing you
here! I thought you were going to Ireland!"
Stapleton stands apart in silence, looking from one to the other, and
not knowing what to make of it all. He thinks he had better watch,
and listen; possibly the mystery will explain itself.
It does. He has not long to wait.
"How did you get here, Miss?" continues the sailor; "only last week,
when you were staying at our house in Glasgow, you said you were
going to your cousin's home in Ireland for six months--how is it that
I find you here? Is your--is Miss Netta with you?"
Norah, for one brief moment, has thought wildly of brazening it out
and denying that she has ever met this man; of saying that he must be
mistaking her for someone else of his acquaintance. But she
perceives that this course of action would avail her not at all. It
is only too obvious that the man has really recognised her; besides,
he has openly mentioned Netta's name. There is no escaping from such
a trap as this!