CHAPTER I

Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

THE ODDS

_And Other Stories_

By ETHEL M. DELL

Author of "Rosa Mundi," "The Bars of Iron," "The Keeper of the Door,"

"The Knave of Diamonds," "The Obstacle Race," "The Rocks of Valpré,"

"The Way of an Eagle," etc.

1922

CONTENTS

The Odds

Without Prejudice

Her Own Free Will

The Consolation Prize

Her Freedom

Death's Property

The Sacrifice

Other Books By Ethel M. Dell

* * * * *

The Odds

"If he comes my way, I'll shoot him!" said Dot Burton, her blue eyes

gleaming in her boyish, tanned face. "I'm not such a bad shot, am I,

Jack?"

"Not so bad," said Jack, kindly. "But don't shoot at sight, or p'r'aps

you'll shoot a policeman--which might be awkward for us both!"

"As if I should be such an idiot as that!" protested Dot. "I wasn't born

yesterday, anyhow."

"No?" said Jack. "Somehow you look as if you were."

"Don't you be a donkey, Jack!" said his young sister, with an impudent

snap of the fingers under his nose. "Being ten years older than I am

doesn't qualify you for that superior pose. You're only a man, you know,

after all."

"Buckskin Bill is only a man, but he's a pretty tough proposition," said

Burton, with a frown.

She smoothed the frown away with caressing fingers. "I know. That's why

I'd like to shoot him. But he's sure to be caught now, isn't he? They've

got him in a trap. He'll never wriggle through with Fletcher Hill to

outwit him. You said yourself that with him on the job the odds were dead

against him."

"Oh, I know. So they are. But he's such a wily devil. Well, I'd better be

going." Jack Burton arose with the deliberate movements of a heavy man.

"I'm sick of this business, Dot. If it weren't for you, I believe I'd

chuck it all and go into business in a town."

"Oh, darling! How silly!" protested Dot. "What a good thing I came out

when I did! Things seem to be at a rather low ebb with you. But cheer up!

What's a few head of cattle when all's said and done? When once this

rascal is laid by the heels, you'll make up quicker than you know. Of

course you will. Don't let yourself get downhearted! What is the good?"

He smiled a little. There was something heartening in the girl's slim

activity of pose apart from her words. She looked indomitable. He pulled

her to him and kissed her.

"Well, take care of yourself, Dot! You won't be frightened? You needn't

be. He won't come your way. Hill has sworn solemnly to keep an extra

guard in this direction. He may call around himself before the day is

over. It wouldn't surprise me. Don't shoot him if he does! At least,

give him a feed first!"

"Oh, really, Jack!" the girl protested. "I shall be cross with you before

long. You'd better go quick before it comes on."

She put her arms around his neck and gave him a tight hug. Her sunburnt

face was pressed to his. "Now, you won't do anything silly?" she urged

him, softly. "I don't like parting with you in this mood. I wish I were

coming too."

"Rubbish! Rubbish!" he said. "You stay at home, little shepherdess, and

look after the lambs! I won't be late back. Mind you are civil to

Fletcher Hill if he turns up! He'll be a magistrate one of these days if

he plays his cards well."

"If he catches the biggest cattle-thief in Australia?" suggested Dot,

screwing her face into a very boyish grimace. "I wouldn't care to get

promotion for that job, if I were a man. But I'll be vastly polite to him

if he turns up. You've never seen me doing the pretty, have you? But I

can--awfully well--when I try."

Her brother laughed. "Oh, don't be too pretty, my child! It's a dangerous

game. Good-bye! Don't go far away!"

"My dear man! As if I should have time!" ejaculated Dot.

She gave him another squeeze and let him go.

There were a great many things to be done that day, things which a mere

ignorant male would never have dreamt of. There was bread to be baked, an

evening meal to be prepared, countless household duties waiting to be

done, and work enough in Jack's wardrobe alone to keep an ordinary woman

busy for a week. Poor Jack! He was not a great hand at needlework. She

had been shocked at the state in which she had found him. But she had not

shirked her responsibilities. And more than ever was she glad now that

she had come to him. For he needed her in a moral sense as well. She was

too much of a "new chum" to help him in any very active sense outside the

homestead at present. But he needed a good deal of moral backing just at

that moment. She had come to him straight from England, and full of

enthusiasm. He had hewn his own way and begun to enjoy prosperity. But

she had arrived to find that prosperity temporarily checked. A gang of

cattle-thieves were making serious depredations among his stock.

The police were hot on the trail, and it was believed that the gang had

been split up, but so far no notable captures had been made. Buckskin

Bill, the leader, was still at large, and while this remained the case

there could be no security for any one. Every farmer in the district was

keen on the chase, expecting to fall a victim.

And--there was no doubt about it--Buckskin Bill was in a very tight

corner. Inspector Hill had the matter in hand, and he was not a man to

be lightly baffled. Jack regarded him with wholehearted admiration. But

somehow Dot, the new arrival, felt curiously prejudiced against him. She

wanted Buckskin Bill to be caught, but she could not help hoping that

this astute Inspector of Police would not be his captor. She was sure

from Jack's description that she would not like the man, and as she went

about her work she earnestly hoped that he would not come her way, at

least in her brother's absence.

She was busy indoors during the whole of the morning. As midday

approached the heat became intense. Jack usually returned for a meal at

noon, but she was not expecting him that day. He had joined the chase,

and had taken with him every available man. She might have felt lonely

if she had not been so engrossed. As it was, she hummed cheerily to

herself as she went to and fro. There were so many things to think about,

and it was such an interesting world in which she found herself.

In the early afternoon she went out to feed a few motherless lambs that

her brother had placed in her charge. She stood in the shelter of a great

barn with the little things clustering around her, while Robin, the old

black hound, lay watching and snapping at the flies. Miles and miles of

pasture stretched around her, broken here and there by thick scrub and

occasional groups of blue gum trees.

The hot glare of the afternoon sun made the eyes ache, and she was glad

when her task was over. When she stood up at length she was feeling a

little giddy, and she leaned for a moment against the barn wall to steady

herself. A rank growth of grass grew all about her feet, and as she stood

there gazing rather dizzily downwards she saw a ripple pass along it

close to the building.

Any but a "new chum" would have known the meaning of that small

disturbance, for there was no breath of air to cause it. Any but a "new

chum," being quite defenceless, would have beaten instant and swift

retreat.

But Dot Burton in her inexperience had no thought of evil. She was only

curious. She forgot her weariness, and bent down to watch the moving

grass.

At the same moment Robin suddenly raised his head and looked keenly in

the direction of the farm, with a growl. The girl barely heard him, so

interested was she. She even stooped and parted the tall grass with her

hands when unexpectedly it ceased to move.

The next instant she started back with a wild cry of horror. For it was

as if the grass itself had suddenly come to malignant life under her

hands. A shape--long, thin, vividly green--rose up before her, and swayed

with an angry hiss.

Her cry seemed to galvanize Robin into action, for he sprang up fiercely

barking, but his attention was not directed towards her. He leapt instead

towards the house, yelling resentment as he went. And in a flash the

green evil struck at the bare brown arm!

Dot shrieked again, shrieked like a demented creature, and in a moment,

with hands flung wide, she was fleeing across the sun-baked yard.

She reached the open door immediately behind Robin, and sprang in

headlong. Robin had ceased to bark, and was fawning at the feet of a man

who had evidently just entered. He was bent down over the dog, fondling

him with one hand. In the other something bright gleamed, and as he

straightened himself the girl saw that it was a revolver; but she was too

agitated to take much note of the fact.

She burst in upon him in breathless, horrified distress. "I've been

bitten!" she cried to him. "Bitten by a snake!"

"Where?" he said.

He had her by the arm in a second and was pushing up the loose holland

sleeve. Later she marvelled at his promptitude, his instant intuition.

At the moment she was too terrified, too near collapse, to notice any of

these things.

He pushed her down upon a chair and knelt beside her. She found herself

staring down at a shock of straw-coloured hair, while the owner of it

sucked and sucked with an almost brutal force at a place in the crook of

her arm that felt as if a red-hot needle had been plunged into it. She

could feel the drawing of his teeth against her flesh. It was a sensation

almost more horrible than the actual snake-bite had been.

Twice he turned his head and spat into the hearth, and she saw that his

face was smooth and young, the colour of sun-baked brick.

At last he looked up at her with the most extraordinarily blue eyes she

had ever seen, and said, with a kindly twinkle in them, "I don't think

you'll die this time, missis."

She looked from him to her arm. The bite showed no more than the sting of

a nettle, but around it was the deep impress of his teeth. Certainly he

had done his task thoroughly.

The kettle was singing over the fire. He got to his feet and patted Robin

on the head. "Let's wash it," he said. "Is there a basin handy?"

Dot sat in her chair, feeling rather weak. He fetched a bowl and set it

on a chair by her side. He poured water into it from the kettle.

She looked up at him rather apprehensively. "I needn't scald it, need I?"

He smiled down at her in instant reassurance, a vivid smile that warmed

her fear-chilled heart. His teeth were white and regular, like the teeth

of a young wild animal.

"There's some cold water somewhere, isn't there?" he said.

She told him where to find it, and he cooled the steaming water to a

temperature that she could endure without flinching. Then he made her

rest her arm in it.

"That'll comfort it," he said. "Now, have you got any spirits in the

house?"

"I don't drink spirits," she said quickly.

He smiled again. "No? But you must this time--just to complete the cure.

Tell me where to find them!"

His smile was certainly magnetic, for she told him without further

protest.

When he brought the spirits, she looked at him for the first time with

active interest.

"I suppose you are Inspector Hill," she said.

He was pouring whisky into a glass. He gave her a sidelong glance. "Now

that's a very clever guess," he said. "What put you on to that?"

She smiled, mainly because he had meant her to smile. "I've been half

expecting you all day," she said.

He looked down at her more fully as he finished his task. "That's very

interesting," he said. "Who told you to expect me?"

"My brother--Jack Burton," she explained.

"Oh! Jack Burton is your brother, is he?" He contemplated her

thoughtfully for a second or two. "Well, I seem to have turned up

at the right moment," he said.

"Yes." She leaned forward with flushed face upraised. "And I haven't said

'Thank you' yet. I'm so grateful to you. I can't tell you how grateful."

"Don't!" he said. "Don't! Drink this instead! Drink to the lucky chance

that sent me your way! I'm proud to have been of use to you."

She took the glass unwillingly. "I'm sure I shall hate it."

"It's the best antidote to snake-poison out," he said. "I swear it won't

upset you. If it makes you sleepy, well, you're in the right place and

safe enough."

She liked his utterance of the last words. They had a genuine ring. "But,

if I drink, so must you!" she said. "And eat, too! Jack said I was to

give you a meal if you came."

He smiled again, a large, humorous smile. "That's the kindest thing Jack

Burton has ever done," he said, with warm approval. "I'll join you with

pleasure, missis. This man-trapping business is hungry work for all of

us."

Dot frowned a little. It did not please her to be reminded of his

mission. Her former prejudice began to revive within her, his kindness

notwithstanding.

"I don't like the thought of it myself," she told him abruptly. "But, of

course, I'm only a 'new chum.'"

"What?" he said, pausing in the act of pouring himself out a drink. "That

sounds as if you want that scoundrel Bill to get away."

She coloured in some confusion under his look. How could she expect to

make a policeman understand? "No--no!" she said, with vehemence. "I'm not

quite so soft as that. I'd shoot him myself if he came my way. But I hate

to think of a dozen men all on the track of one. It really isn't fair."

He laughed, but without superiority. "And yet you'd swell the odds? Do

you call that fair?"

Dot paused to collect her arguments. It seemed that possibly even this

machine of justice carried a small fragment of sympathy in his soul.

Certainly he was not the judicial automaton she had expected him to be.

"It's like this," she said. "I'd shoot him if he came my way because

he has done us a lot of mischief, and I want to stop it. But I'd

do it squarely. I wouldn't do it when he wasn't looking. And I

wouldn't--ever--make it my profession to hunt down criminals and even

employ black men to help. I think that's hateful. I couldn't live that

way. I'd be above it."

"I see." He lifted his glass to her in a silent toast, and drank a deep

draught. "Then if you chanced to know where he was, I take it you'd just

settle him yourself, if you could. But you wouldn't in any case give him

away to the police. Is that your point of view?"

"It isn't unreasonable, is it?" she said, with a touch of eagerness. "I

mean, if you weren't what you are, wouldn't you do the same?"

"I don't know," he said, smiling at her whimsically. "You see, being what

I am handicaps me rather. I haven't much time for working out nice

problems."

Dot leaned back again. He had disappointed her. But she could not neglect

her duty on that account. She took her arm out of the water and dried it.

Then she arose.

"How does it feel?" he said.

"Oh, only a little stiff," she answered, turning away. "Now I am going to

get you something to eat. Sit down, won't you?"

Her tone was distant, but he did not seem to notice any change. He

thanked her and sat down, facing the open door. Robin sat pressed against

his knee. It was evident that the dog entertained no doubts regarding the

visitor. Having passed him as respectable, he accepted him without

reserve.

This fact presently occurred to Dot as she waited upon her visitor, and,

since it was not her nature to prolong an uncomfortable situation, she

broke the silence to comment upon it.

"He doesn't take to everyone at sight," she said.

"No?" She saw again that frank, disarming smile. "You see, missis, I know

the ways of animals, and a very useful sort of knowledge I've found it."

"I wonder why you call me missis," she said. "I'm Jack's sister, not his

wife."

He looked up at her. "But you're the boss of the establishment, I take

it?"

She smiled also half against her will. "I'm rather new at present. But no

doubt I shall learn."

"And then you'll go and boss some one else?" he suggested.

She coloured a little. "No. I shall stick to Jack," she said, with

decision.

"Lucky Jack!" he said. "But you're quite right. There's no one good

enough for you around here. We're a low breed mostly."

"I didn't mean that!" she protested, in quick distress. "I never thought

that!"

"I know," he said. "I know. But you've sort of felt it all the same. Me,

for instance!" His intensely blue eyes challenged her suddenly. "Haven't

you said to yourself, 'That man may be up to local standard, but he's

made of shocking crude material'? Straight now! Haven't you?"

She hesitated, her face burning under his direct look. "Do you--do you

really want to know what I think?" she said.

"I do." There was something uncompromising in the brief rejoinder, yet

somehow she did not find him formidable.

She answered him without difficulty in spite of her embarrassment. "I

think, then, that it isn't you yourself at all that I feel like that

about. It's just your profession."

"Ah!" He began to smile again. "Once live down that, and I might be

possible. Is that it?"

She nodded, still flushed, yet curiously not uneasy. "Something like

that. Why can't you be a farmer like Jack?"

"I wish I were," he said, unexpectedly.

"Why?" The word slipped out almost in spite of her, but she felt she must

have an answer.

He answered her with his eyes full on her. "Because I'd like to lead the

sort of life you would approve of," he said. "I've a notion it would be

worth while."

She turned aside from his look. "It's only a matter of opinion, of

course," she said.

"Is it?" he said. He turned his attention to the meal before him, and ate

rapidly for a few moments while he considered the matter. At length:

"Yes," he said. "I suppose you're right. Anyhow, you don't feel drawn

that way. You won't feel a bit pleased if Buckskin Bill gets caught by

the police this journey after this?"

Dot shook her head. "I don't think a man ought to be tracked down like a

wild beast," she said, resolutely.

The blue eyes that watched her kindled a little. He finished what was on

his plate and pushed it from him.

"I'm greatly obliged to you," he said, "for your hospitality. I needed

it--badly enough. You'll thank Jack for me, won't you? I must be going

now. But there's just one thing I'd like to say to you first."

He got up and stood before her. It was impossible not to admire his

splendid height and breadth of chest. He could have lifted her easily

with one hand. And yet, strangely, though she felt his power he did not

make her aware of her own weakness.

She looked up at him. "Yes? What is it?"

"Just this, Miss Burton," he said, and somehow he lingered over the name

in a fashion that made it sound musical in her ears. "I'd like to strike

a bargain with you--because you've made a sort of impression on me. I'm

not meaning any impertinence. You know that?"

"Go on!" she whispered, almost inaudibly.

He went on, bending slightly towards her. "The odds are dead against

Buckskin Bill escaping, but--he may escape. If he does, will you--the

next time I come to see you--treat me--without prejudice?"

He also was almost whispering as he uttered the last words.

She drew a sharp breath and looked at him. "You--you--are going to let

him go?" she said, incredulously.

He did not answer. His eyes were drawing hers with a magnetism she could

not resist. And they thrilled her--they thrilled her!

"The odds are dead against him," he said again, after a moment. "Is it--a

bargain?"

Her heart gave a queer little jerk within her. She stood motionless for

a space. Then, with a little quivering smile, she very, very slowly gave

him her hand.

He took it into his great brown one, and though his touch was wholly

gentle she felt the force of the man throbbing behind it, and it seemed

to surge all around and within her.

He stood for a second as if irresolute or uncertain how to treat her.

Then, with a wordless sound that needed no interpretation, he pushed

back the sleeve from the place whence he had sucked the poison. It showed

only a little red now. He bent very low until his lips pressed it again.

Then for one burning moment they neither moved nor breathed.

The next thing that Dot realized was the passing of his great figure

through the doorway out of her sight. She saw him don his slouch hat as

he went.

* * * * *

She cleared the table again and sat down to her work. But somehow all

energy had gone from her. A great lassitude hung upon her. Perhaps it was

caused by the heat, or possibly by the whisky he had made her drink.

There was no resisting it. It pressed her down like a physical weight.

She gave herself up to it at last, and leaning back in her chair like a

tired child she slept.

Robin lay at her feet. The afternoon crawled away. Like the enchanted

princess of old, she reclined in a slumber so deep that life itself

seemed to be suspended.

The sun began to slant towards the west, and the pastures took on a

golden look. The lambs gambolled together with shrill bleatings. But

Dot Burton slept on in her chair, a faint smile on her face of innocence.

Though she could not have been dreaming in so deep a repose, her last

thought ere she slept must have held happiness. Her serenity lay like a

tender veil upon her.

It was drawing towards evening when Robin suddenly raised his head again

with a deep growl. There came the sound of footsteps through the open

door. The girl stirred and slowly awoke.

She stretched up her arms with a sleepy movement, and then, as voices

reached her, roused herself completely and got to her feet.

Her brother and another man--a tall, lantern-jawed stranger--were on the

point of entering.

Jack led the way. "Halloa, Dot!" he said. "Have you seen anything of our

man? He's broken cover in this direction in spite of us. You haven't shot

him by any chance, I suppose?"

Dot looked from him to the man behind him.

"Inspector Hill," said Jack. "Eh? What's the matter?"

"Nothing--nothing!" said Dot. Yet she had gone back a step as if she had

been struck. She held out her hand to the policeman. "How do you do?

I--I--am very pleased to meet you. So you haven't caught him after all?"

Inspector Hill was looking at her keenly. He wore a sardonic expression,

as of one who knows that he has been outwitted. "I have not, madam,"

he said. "Neither, I presume, have you?"

She shook her head, looking him straight in the face. "No, I haven't.

I am afraid I have been asleep. Are you sure he passed this way?"

Her eyes were clear and candid as the eyes of a boy. Inspector Hill

turned his own away.

"Yes. Quite sure," he said, with brevity.

"He's a slippery devil," declared Jack Burton. "Sit down, man! My sister

is a 'new chum.' She probably wouldn't have known him from a man on the

farm if she'd seen him. In fact, if you'd turned up here by yourself she

might have shot you--on suspicion."

"I probably should," said Dot, coldly.

She did not like Inspector Hill, and her manner plainly said so.

At her brother's behest she set food before them, for they were hot and

jaded after their fruitless day; but she left the duties of host entirely

to him, and as soon as possible she went away with Robin to feed the

lambs.

A wonderful glow lay upon the grasslands. It was as if she moved through

a magic atmosphere upon which some enchantment had been laid. Since that

wonderful sleep of hers all things seemed to have changed. Had it all

been a dream? she asked herself. Then, shuddering, she turned up her

sleeve to find that small red patch upon her arm.

She found it. It tingled to her touch. Yet she continued to finger it

with a curious feeling that was almost awe. She thought it must be the

memory of his kiss that made it throb so hard.

Some one came softly up behind her. An arm encircled her. She turned with

the day-dream still in her eyes and saw her brother.

She pulled down her sleeve quickly, for though his face was kind, he

seemed to look at her oddly, almost with suspicion.

"Had a quiet day?" he questioned, gently.

She leaned against his shoulder, feeling small and rather uncomfortable.

"I--I was very busy all the morning," she said, evasively.

"And in the afternoon?" he said.

She nestled to him with a little coaxing movement. "In the afternoon,"

she told him softly, "I went to sleep."

"Yes?" he said.

"That's all," said Dot, lifting her face to kiss him.

He took her chin and held it while he looked long and searchingly into

her eyes.

"Dot!" he said.

She made a little gesture of protest, but he held her still.

"Dot, tell me what has been happening!" he said.

She had begun to tremble. "I'll tell you," she said, "when Inspector Hill

has gone."

"Tell me now!" he said.

But she shook her head with tightly compressed lips.

"You have seen the man!" he said.

Dot remained silent.

His face grew grim. "Dot! Shall I tell you what Hill said to me just

now?"

"If you like," whispered Dot.

"He said, 'She has seen the man, and he has squared her. It's a way he

has with the women. You'll find she won't give him away.'"

That stung, as it was meant to sting. She flinched under it. "I hate

Inspector Hill!" she said, with vehemence.

He smiled a little. "I don't suppose that fact would upset him much. A

good many people don't exactly love him. But look here, Dot! You're not

a fool. At least, I hope not. You can't seriously wish to shield a thief.

Only this morning you were going to shoot him!"

"Ah!" she said. And then suddenly she pulled up her sleeve and showed him

the mark upon her arm. "But he has saved my life since then," she said.

"What?" said Jack. He caught her arm and looked at it. "You've had a

snake-bite!" he said.

"Yes, Jack."

His eyes went back to her face. "Why didn't you tell me before? What kind

of snake was it?"

She told him, shuddering. "A horrible green thing--green as the grass. I

think it had some black marking on its back. I'm not sure. I didn't stop

to see. I--oh, Jack!" She broke off in swift consternation. "There is a

dead lamb!"

"Ah!" said Jack, and strode across to the barn where it lay, stark and

lifeless in the shade in which it had taken refuge from the afternoon

heat.

"Oh, Jack!" cried Dot, in distress. "What can have happened to it?

Not--not that hateful snake?"

"Not much doubt as to that," said Jack, grimly. "No, don't look too

close! It's not a pretty sight. And don't cry, child! What's the good?"

He drew her away, his arm around her, holding her closely, comforting

her. "It might have been you," he said.

She lifted her wet face from his shoulder. "It was--it would have

been--but for--"

"All right," he interrupted. "Don't say any more!"

* * * * *

He left her to recover herself and went back to Fletcher Hill,

sardonically awaiting him.

"On a wrong scent this time," he said. "She's lost one of the lambs from

snake-bite, and it's upset her. She's a 'new chum,' you know."

"I know," said Inspector Hill.

Jack Burton leaned upon the table and looked him in the eyes. "My sister

is not a detective," he said, warningly. "Buckskin Bill has been one too

many for us this time. The odds were dead against him, but he's slipped

through. And I've a pretty firm notion he won't come back."

"So have I," said Inspector Hill, unmoved.

"And a blasted good job too!" said Jack Burton, forcibly.

A gleam of humour crossed the Inspector's face. He pulled out his pipe

with a gesture that made for peace.

"If I were in your place," he said, "I daresay I'd say the same."

* * * * *

Without Prejudice

CHAPTER I

SILLY SENTIMENT

"It's time I set about making my own living," said Dot Burton.

She spoke resolutely, and her face was resolute also; its young lines

were for the moment almost grim. She stood in the doorway of the stable,

watching her brother rub down the animal he had just been riding. Behind

her the rays of the Australian sun smote almost level, making of her fair

hair a dazzling aureole of gold. The lashes of her blue eyes were tipped

with gold also, but the brows above them were delicately dark. They were

slightly drawn just then, as if she were considering a problem of

considerable difficulty.

Jack Burton was frankly frowning over his task. It was quite evident that

his sister's announcement was not a welcome one.

She continued after a moment, as he did not respond in words: "I am sure

I could make a living, Jack. I'm not the 'new chum' I used to be, thanks

to you. You've taught me a whole heap of things."

Jack glanced up for a second. "Aren't you happy here?" he said.

She eluded the question. "You've been awfully good to me, dear old boy.

But really, you know, I think you've got burdens enough without me. In

any case, it isn't fair that I should add to them."

Jack grunted. "It isn't fair that you should do more than half the work

on the place and not be paid for it, you mean. You're quite right, it

isn't."

"No, I don't mean that, Jack." Quite decidedly she contradicted him. "I

don't mind work. I like to have my time filled. I love being useful. It

isn't that at all. But all the same, you and Adela are quite complete

without me. Before you were married it was different. I was necessary to

you then. But I'm not now. And so--"

"Has Adela been saying that to you?"

Jack Burton straightened himself abruptly. His expression was almost

fierce.

Dot laughed at sight of it. "No, Jack, no! Don't be so jumpy! Of course

she hasn't. As if she would! She hasn't said a thing. But I know how she

feels, and I should feel exactly the same in her place. Now do be

sensible! You must see my point. I'm getting on, you know, Jack. I'm

twenty-five. Just fancy! You've sheltered me quite long enough--too long,

really. You must--you really must--let me go."

He was looking at her squarely. "I can't prevent your going," he said,

gruffly. "But it won't be with my consent--ever--or my approval. You'll

go against my will--dead against it."

"Jack--darling!" She went to him impulsively and took him by the

shoulders. "Now that isn't reasonable of you. It really isn't. You've

got to take that back."

He looked at her moodily. "I shan't take it back. I can't. I am dead

against your going. I know this country. It's not a place for lone women.

And you're not much more than a child, whatever you may say. It's rough,

I tell you. And you"--he looked down upon her slender fairness--"you

weren't made for rough things."

"Please don't be silly, Jack!" she broke in. "I'm quite as strong as the

average woman and, I hope, as capable. I'm grown up, you silly man! I'm

old--older than you are in some ways, even though you have been in the

world ten years longer. Can't you see I want to stretch my wings?"

"Want to leave me?" he said, and put his arms suddenly about her. She

nestled to him on the instant, lifting her face to kiss him.

"No, darling, no! Never in life! But--you must see--you must see"--her

eyes filled with tears unexpectedly, and she laid her head upon his

shoulder to hide them--"that I can't--live on you--for ever. It isn't

fair--to you--or to Adela--or to--to--anyone else who might turn up."

"Ah!" he said. "Or to you either. We've no right to make a slave of you.

I know that. Perhaps Adela hasn't altogether realized it."

"I've nothing--whatever--against Adela," Dot told him, rather shakily.

"She has never been--other than kind. No, it is what I feel myself. I

am not necessary to you or to Adela, and--in a way--I'm glad of it. I

like to know you two are happy. I'm not a bit jealous, Jack, not a bit.

It's just as it should be. But you'll have to let me go, dear. It's time

I went. It's right that I should go. You mustn't try to hold me back."

But Jack's arms had tightened about her. "I hate the thought of it," he

said. "Give it up! Give it up, old girl--for my sake!"

She shook her head silently in his embrace.

He went on with less assurance. "If you wanted to get married it would

be a different thing. I would never stand in the way of your marrying a

decent man. If you must go, why don't you do that?"

She laughed rather tremulously. "You think every good woman ought to

marry, don't you, Jack?"

"When there's a good man waiting for her, why not?" said Jack.

She lifted her head and looked at him. "I'm not going to marry Fletcher

Hill, Jack," she said, with firmness.

Jack made a slight movement of impatience. "I never could see your

objection to the man," he said.

She laughed again, drawing herself back from him. "But, Jack darling, a

woman doesn't marry a man just because he's not objectionable, does she?

I always said I wouldn't marry him, didn't I?"

"You might do a lot worse," said Jack.

"Of course I might--heaps worse. But that isn't the point. I think he's

quite a good sort--in his own sardonic way. And he is a great friend of

yours, too, isn't he? That fact would count vastly in his favour if I

thought of marrying at all. But, you see--I don't."

"I call that uncommon hard on Fletcher," observed Jack.

She opened her blue eyes very wide. "My dear man, why?"

"After waiting for you all this time," he explained, suffering his arms

to fall away from her.

She still gazed at him in astonishment. "Jack! But I never asked him to

wait!"

He turned from her with a shrug of the shoulders. "No, but I did."

"You did? Jack, what can you mean?"

Jack stooped to feel one of his animal's hocks. He spoke without looking

at her. "It's been my great wish--all this time. I've been deuced anxious

about you often. Australia isn't the place for unprotected girls--at

least, not out in the wilds. I've seen--more than enough of that. And

you're no wiser than the rest. You lost your head once--over a rotter.

You might again. Who knows?"

"Oh, really, Jack!" The girl's face flushed very deeply. She turned it

aside instinctively, though he was not looking at her. But the colour

died as quickly as it came, leaving her white and quivering.

She stood mutely struggling for self-control while Jack continued. "I

know Fletcher. I know he's sound. He's a man who always gets what he

wants. He wouldn't be a magistrate now if he didn't. And when I saw he

wanted you, I made up my mind he should have you if I could possibly work

it. I gave him my word I'd help him, and I begged him to wait a bit, to

give you time to get over that other affair. He's been waiting--ever

since."

Dot's hands clenched slowly. She spoke with a great effort. "Then he'd

better stop waiting--at once, Jack, and marry someone else."

"He won't do that," said Jack. He stood up again abruptly and faced round

upon her. "Look here, dear! Why can't you give in and marry him? He's

such a good sort if you only get to know him well. You've always kept him

at arm's length, haven't you? Well, let him come a bit nearer! You'll

soon like him well enough to marry him. He'd make you happy, Dot. Take my

word for it!"

She met his look bravely, though the distress still lingered in her eyes.

"But, dear old Jack," she said, "no woman can possibly love at will."

"It would come afterwards," Jack said, with conviction. "I know it would.

He's such a good chap. You've never done him justice. See, Dot girl!

You're not happy. I know that. You want to stretch your wings, you say.

Well, there's only one way of doing it, for you can't go out into the

world--this world--alone. At least, you'll break my heart if you do. He's

the only fellow anywhere near worthy of you. And he's been so awfully

patient. Do give him his chance!"

He put his arm round her shoulders again, holding her very tenderly.

She yielded herself to him with a suppressed sob. "I'm sure it would be

wrong, Jack," she said.

"Not a bit wrong!" Jack maintained, stoutly. "What have you been waiting

for all this time? A myth, an illusion, that can never come true! You've

no right to spoil your own life and someone else's as well for such a

reason as that. I call that wrong--if you like."

She hid her face against him with a piteous gesture. "He--said he would

come back, Jack."

Jack frowned over her bowed head even while he softly stroked it. "And if

he had--do you think I would ever have let you go to him? A cattle thief,

Dot! An outlaw!"

She clung to him trembling. "He saved my life--at the risk of his own,"

she whispered, almost inarticulately.

"Oh, I know--I know. He was that sort--brave enough, but a hopeless

rotter." Jack's voice held a curious mixture of tenderness and contempt.

"Women always fall in love with that sort of fellow," he said. "Heaven

knows why. But you'd no right to lose your heart to him, little 'un. You

knew--you always knew--he wasn't the man for you."

She clung to him in silence for a space, then lifted her face. "All

right, Jack," she said.

He looked at her closely for a moment. "Come! It's only silly sentiment,"

he urged. "You can't feel bad about it after all this time. Why, child,

it's five years!"

She laughed rather shakily. "I am a big fool, aren't I, Jack?

Yet--somehow--do you know--I thought he meant to come back."

"Not he!" declared Jack. "Catch Buckskin Bill putting his head back into

the noose when once he had got away! He's not quite so simple as that, my

dear. He probably cleared out of Australia for good as soon as he got the

chance. And a good thing, too!" he added, with emphasis. "He'd done

mischief enough."

She raised her lips to his. "Thank you for not laughing at me, Jack," she

said. "Don't--ever--tell Adela, will you? I'm sure she would."

He smiled a little. "Yes, I think she would. She'd say you were old

enough to know better."

Dot nodded. "And very sensible, too. I am."

He patted her shoulder. "Good girl! Then that chapter is closed.

And--you're going to give poor Fletcher his chance?"

She drew a sharp breath. "Oh, I don't know. I can't promise that.

Don't--don't hustle me, Jack!"

He gave her a hard squeeze and let her go. "There, she shan't be teased

by her horrid bully of a brother! She's going to play the game off her

own bat, and I wish her luck with all my heart."

He turned to the job of feeding his horse, and Dot, after a few

inconsequent remarks, sauntered away in the direction of the barn,

"to be alone with herself," as she put it.

CHAPTER II

NUMBER THREE

Adela Burton was laying the cloth for supper, and looking somewhat

severe over the process. She was usually cheerful at that hour of the

day, for it brought her husband back from his work and, thanks to Dot's

ministrations, the evening was free from toil. It was seldom, indeed,

that Adela bestirred herself to lay the cloth for any meal, for she

maintained that it was better for a girl like Dot to have plenty to do at

all times, and she herself preferred her needlework, at which she was an

adept.

No one could have called her an idle woman, but she was eminently a

selfish one. She followed her own bent, quite regardless of the desires

and inclinations of anyone else. She was the hub of her world from her

own point of view, and she was wholly incapable of recognizing any other.

Most people realized this and, as is the way of humanity, took her at her

own valuation, making allowances for her undoubted egotism. For she was

comely and had a taking manner, never troubling herself unless her own

personal convenience were threatened. She laughed a good deal, though her

sense of humour was none of the finest, and she was far too practical to

possess any imagination. In short, as she herself expressed it, she was

sensible; and, being so, she had small sympathy with her sister-in-law's

foolish sentimentalities, which she considered wholly out of place in the

everyday life at the farm.

Not that Dot ever dreamed of confiding in her. She sheltered herself

invariably behind a reserve so delicate as to be almost imperceptible to

the elder woman's blunter susceptibilities. But she could not always hide

the fineness of her inner feelings, and there were times when the two

clashed in consequence. The occasions were rare, but Adela had come to

know by experience that when they occurred, opposition on her part was of

no avail. Dot was bound to have her way when her soul was stirred to

battle for it, as on the day when she had refused to let Robin, the dog,

be chained up when not on duty with the sheep. Adela had objected to his

presence in the house, and Dot had firmly insisted upon it on the score

that Robin had always been an inmate as the companion and protector of

her lonely hours.

Adela had disputed the point with some energy, but she had been

vanquished, and now, when Dot asserted herself, she seldom met with

opposition from her sister-in-law. It was practically impossible that

they should ever be fond of one another. They had nothing in common. Yet

it was very seldom that Jack saw any signs of strain between them. They

dwelt together without antagonism and without intimacy.

Nevertheless, Dot's announcement of her desire to go out into the world

and hew a way for herself came as no surprise to him. He knew that she

was restless and far from happy, knew that his marriage had unsettled

her, albeit in a fashion he had not fathomed till their talk together.

His young sister was very dear to him. She had been thrown upon his care

years before when the death of their parents had left her dependent upon

him. It had always been his wish to have her with him. His love for her

was of a deep, almost maternal nature, and he hated the thought of

parting with her. He had hoped that the companionship of Adela would have

been a joy to her, and he was intensely disappointed that it had proved

otherwise. His anxiety for her welfare had always been uppermost with

him, and it hurt him somewhat when Adela laughed at his hopes and fears

regarding the girl. It was the only point upon which his wife and he

lacked sympathy.

Entering by way of the kitchen premises on that evening of his talk

with Dot, he was surprised to find Adela fulfilling what had come to

be regarded as Dot's duties. He looked around him questioningly as she

emerged from the larder carrying a dish in one hand and a jug of milk

in the other.

"Where's the little 'un?" he said.

It was his recognized pet name for Dot, but for some reason Adela had

never approved of it. She frowned now at its utterance.

"Do you mean Dot? Oh, mooning about somewhere, I suppose. And leaving

other people to do the work."

Jack promptly relieved her of her burden and set himself to help her with

her task.

Adela was not ill-tempered as a rule. She smiled at him. "Good man, Jack!

No one can say you're an idler, anyway. I've got rather a nice supper for

you. I shouldn't wonder if Fletcher Hill turns up to share it. I hear he

is on circuit at Trelevan."

"I heard it, too," said Jack. "He's practically sure to come."

"He's very persistent," said Adela. "Do you think he will ever win out?"

Jack nodded slowly. "I've never known him fail yet in anything he set his

mind to--at least, only once. And that was a fluke."

"What sort of a fluke?" questioned Adela, who was frankly curious.

"When Buckskin Bill slipped through his fingers." Jack spoke

thoughtfully. "That's the only time I ever knew him fail, and I'm not

sure that it wasn't intentional then."

"Intentional!" Adela opened her eyes.

Jack smiled a little. "I don't say it was so. I only say it was

possible. But never mind that! It's an old story, and the man got away,

anyhow--disappeared, dropped out. Possibly he's dead. I hope he is. He

did mischief enough in a short time."

"He set the whole district humming, didn't he?" said Adela. "They say all

the women fell in love with him at sight. I wish I'd seen him."

Jack broke into a laugh. "You'd certainly have fallen a victim!"

She tossed her head. "I'm sure I shouldn't. I prefer respectable men.

Shall we lay an extra plate in case Mr. Hill turns up?"

"No," said Jack. "Let him come unexpectedly!"

She gave him a shrewd look. "You think Dot will like that best?"

He nodded again. "Be careful! She's coming. Here's Robin!"

Robin came in, wagging his tail and smiling, and behind him came Dot. She

moved slowly, as if dispirited. Jack's quick eyes instantly detected the

fact that she had been shedding tears.

"You're too late, little 'un," he said, with kindly cheeriness. "The work

is all done."

She looked from him to Adela. "I'm sorry I'm late," she said. "I'm afraid

I forgot about supper."

"Oh, you're in love!" joked Adela. "You'll forget to come in at all one

of these days."

The girl gave her a swift look, but said nothing, passing through with

a weary step on her way to her own room.

Robin followed her closely, as one in her confidence; and Jack laid a

quiet hand on his wife's arm.

"Don't laugh at her!" he said.

She stared at him. "Good gracious, Jack! What's the matter? I didn't mean

anything."

"I know you didn't. But this thing is serious. If Fletcher Hill comes

to-night, I believe she'll have him--that is, if she's let alone. But she

won't if you twit her with it. It's touch and go."

Jack spoke with great earnestness. It was evident that the matter was one

upon which he felt very strongly, and Adela shrugged a tolerant shoulder

and yielded to his persuasion.

"I'll be as solemn as a judge," she promised. "The affair certainly has

hung fire considerably. It would be a good thing to get it settled. But

Fletcher Hill! Well, he wouldn't be my choice!"

"He's a fine man," asserted Jack.

"Oh, I've no doubt. But he's an animal with a nasty bite, or I am much

mistaken. However, let Dot marry him by all means if she feels that way!

It's certainly high time she married somebody."

She turned aside to put the teapot on the hob, humming inconsequently,

and the subject dropped.

Jack went to his room to wash, and in a few minutes more they gathered

round the supper-table with careless talk of the doings of the day.

It had always been Dot's favourite time, the supper-hour. In the old days

before Jack's marriage she had looked forward to it throughout the day.

The companionship of this beloved brother of hers had been the chief joy

of her life.

But things were different now. It was her part to serve the meal, to

clear the table, and to wash the dishes Jack and Adela were complete

without her. Though they always welcomed her when the work was done, she

knew that her society was wholly unessential, and she often prolonged her

labours in the scullery that she might not intrude too soon upon them.

She was no longer necessary to anyone--except to Robin the faithful,

who followed her as her shadow. She had become Number Three, and she was

lonely--she was lonely!

CHAPTER III

FLETCHER HILL

There came a sound of hoofs thudding over the pastures. Robin lifted his

eyebrows and cocked his ears with a growl.

Dot barely glanced up from the saucepan she was cleaning; her lips

tightened a little, that was all.

The hoofs drew rapidly nearer, dropping from a canter to a quick trot

that ended in a clattering walk on the stones of the yard. Through the

open window Dot heard the heavy thud of a man's feet as he jumped to the

ground.

Then came Jack's voice upraised in greeting. "Hallo, Fletcher! Come in,

man! Come in! Delighted to see you."

The voice that spoke in answer was short and clipped. Somehow it had an

official sound. "Hallo, Jack! Good evening, Mrs. Burton! What! Alone?"

Jack laughed. "Dot's in the kitchen. Hi! little 'un! Bring some drinks!"

Robin was on his feet, uttering low, jerky barks. Dot put aside her

saucepan and began to wash her hands. She did not hasten to obey Jack's

call, but when she turned to collect glasses on a tray she was trembling

and her breath came quickly, as if from violent exercise.

Nevertheless she did not hesitate, but went straight through to the

little parlour, carrying her tray with the jingling glasses upon it.

Fletcher Hill was facing her as she entered, a tall man, tough and

muscular, with black hair that was tinged with grey, and a long stubborn

jaw that gave him an indomitable look. His lips were thin and very firm,

with a sardonic twist that imparted a faintly supercilious expression.

His eyes were dark, deep-set, and shrewd. He was a magistrate of some

repute in the district, a position which he had attained by sheer

unswerving hard work in the police force, in which for years he had

been known as "Bloodhound Hill." A man of rigid ideas and stern justice,

he had forced his way to the front, respected by all, but genuinely liked

by only a very few.

Jack Burton had regarded him as a friend for years, but even Jack could

not claim a very close intimacy with him. He merely understood the man's

silences better than most. His words were very rarely of a confidential

order.

He was emphatically not a man to attract any girl very readily, and Dot's

attitude towards him had always been of a strictly impersonal nature. In

fact, Jack himself did not know whether she really liked him or not. Yet

had he set his heart upon seeing her safely married to him. There was no

other man of his acquaintance to whom he would willingly have entrusted

her. For Dot was very precious in his eyes. But to his mind Fletcher Hill

was worthy of her, and he believed that she would be as safe in his care

as in his own.

That Fletcher Hill had long cherished the silent ambition of winning her

was a fact well known to him. Only once had they ever spoken on the

subject, and then the words had been few and briefly uttered. But to

Jack, who had taken the initiative in the matter, they had been more than

sufficient to testify to the man's earnestness of purpose. From that day

he had been heart and soul on Fletcher's side.

He wished he could have given him a hint that evening as he looked up to

see the girl standing in the doorway; for Dot was so cold, so aloof in

her welcome. He did not see what Hill saw at the first glance--that she

was quivering from head to foot with nervous agitation.

She set down her tray and gave her hand to the visitor. "Doesn't Rupert

want a drink?" she said.

Rupert was his horse, and his most dearly prized possession. Hill's rare

smile showed for a moment at the question.

"Let him cool down a bit first," he said. "I am afraid I've ridden him

rather hard."

She gave him a fleeting glance. "You have come from Trelevan?"

"Yes. I got there this afternoon. We left Wallacetown early this

morning."

"Rode all the way?" questioned Jack.

"Yes, every inch. I wanted to see the Fortescue Gold Mine."

"Ah! There's a rough crowd there," said Jack. "They say all the uncaught

criminals find their way to the Fortescue Gold Mine."

"Yes," said Hill.

"Is it true?" asked Adela, curiously.

"I am not in a position to say, madam." Hill's voice sounded sardonic.

"That means he doesn't know," explained Jack. "Look here, man! If you've

ridden all the way from Wallacetown to-day you can't go back to Trelevan

to-night. Your animal must be absolutely used up--if you are not."

"Oh, I think not. We are both tougher than that." Hill turned towards

him. "Don't mix it too strong, Jack! I hardly ever touch it except under

your roof."

"I am indeed honoured," laughed Jack. "But if you're going to spend the

night you'll be able to sleep it off before you face your orderly in the

morning."

"Do stay!" said Adela, hastening to follow up her husband's suggestion.

"We should all like it. I hope you will."

Hill bowed towards her with stiff ceremony. "You are very kind, madam.

But I don't like to give trouble, and I am expected back."

"By whom?" questioned Jack. "No one that counts, I'll swear. Your orderly

won't break his heart if you take a night out. He'll probably do the same

himself. And no one else will know. We'll let you leave as early as you

like in the morning, but not before. Come, that's settled, isn't it? Go

and get Rupert a shake-down, little 'un, and give him a decent feed with

plenty of corn in it! No, let her, man; let her! She likes doing it, eh,

Dot girl?"

"Yes, I like it," Dot said, and hurriedly disappeared before Hill could

intervene.

Jack turned to his wife. "Now, missis! Go and make ready upstairs! It's

only a little room, Fletcher, but it's snug. That's the way," as his wife

followed Dot's example. "Now--quick, man! I want a word with you."

"Obviously," said the magistrate, dryly. "You needn't say it, thanks all

the same. I'll leave that drink till--afterwards."

He straightened his tall figure with an instinctive bracing of the

shoulders, and turned to the door.

Jack watched him go with a smile that was not untinged with anxiety, and

lifted his glass as the door closed.

"You've got the cards, old feller," he said. "May you play 'em well!"

Fletcher Hill stepped forth into the moonlit night and stood still. It

had been a swift maneuvre on Jack's part, and it might have disconcerted

a younger man and driven him into ill-considered action. But it was not

this man's nature to act upon impulse. His caution was well known. It had

been his safeguard in many a difficulty. It stood him in good stead now.

So for a space he remained, looking out over the widespread grasslands,

his grim face oddly softened and made human. He was no longer an

official, but a man, with feelings rendered all the keener for the

habitual restraint with which he masked them.

He moved forward at length through the magic moonlight, guided by the

sound of trampling hoofs in the building where Jack's horse was stabled.

He reached the doorway, treading softly, and looked in.

Dot was in a stall with his mount Rupert--a powerful grey, beside which

she looked even lighter and daintier than usual. The animal was nibbling

carelessly at her arm while she filled the manger with hay. She was

talking to him softly, and did not perceive Hill's presence. Robin, who

sat waiting near the entrance, merely pricked his ears at his approach.

Some minutes passed. Fletcher stood like a sentinel against the doorpost.

He might have been part of it for his immobility. The girl within

continued to talk to the horse while she provided for his comfort, low

words unintelligible to the silent watcher, till, as she finished her

task, she suddenly threw her arms about the animal's neck and leaned her

head against it.

"Oh, Rupert," she said, and there was a throb of passion in her words, "I

wish--I wish you and I could go right away into the wilderness together

and never--never come back!"

Rupert turned his head and actually licked her hair. He was a horse of

understanding.

She uttered a little sobbing laugh and tenderly kissed his nose. "You're

a dear, sympathetic boy! Who taught you to be, I wonder? Not your master,

I'm sure! He's nothing but a steel machine all through!"

And then she turned to leave the stable and came upon Fletcher Hill,

mutely awaiting her.

CHAPTER IV

THE COAT OF MAIL

She gave a great start at sight of him, then quickly drew herself

together.

"You have come to see if Rupert is all right for the night?" she said.

"Go in and have a look at him."

But Fletcher made no movement to enter. He faced her with a certain

rigidity. "No. I came to see you--alone."

She made a sharp movement that was almost a gesture of protest. Then she

turned and drew the door softly shut behind her. Robin came and pressed

close to her, as if he divined that she stood in need of some support.

With her back to the closed door and the moonlight in her eyes, she

stood before Fletcher Hill.

"What do you want to say to me?" she said.

He bent slightly towards her. "It is not a specially easy thing, Miss

Burton," he said, "when I am more than half convinced that it is

something you would rather not hear."

She met his look with unflinching steadiness. "I think life is made up of

that sort of thing," she said. "It's like a great puzzle that never fits.

I've been saying--unwelcome things--to-day, too."

She smiled, but her lips were quivering. The man's hands slowly clenched.

"That means you're unhappy," he said.

She nodded. "I've been telling Jack that I must get away--go and earn my

own living somewhere. He won't hear of it."

"I can understand that," said Fletcher Hill. "I wouldn't--in his place."

She kept her eyes steadfastly raised to his. "Do you know what Jack wants

me to do?" she said.

"Yes." Hill spoke briefly, almost sternly. "He wants you to marry me."

She nodded again. "Yes."

He held out his hand to her abruptly. "I want it, too," he said.

She made no movement towards him. "That is what you came to say?" she

asked.

"Yes," said Hill.

He waited a moment; then, as she did not take his hand, bent with a

certain mastery and took one of hers.

"I've wanted it for years," he said.

"Ah!" A little sound like a sob came with the words. She made as if she

would withdraw her hand, but in the end--because he held it closely--she

suffered him to keep it. She spoke with an effort. "I--think you ought to

understand that--that--it is not my wish to marry at all. If--if Jack had

stayed single, I--should have been content to live on here for always."

"Yes, I know," said Hill. "I saw that."

She went on tremulously. "I've always felt--that a woman ought to be able

to manage alone. It's very kind of you to want to marry me. But--but

I--I think I'm getting too old."

"Is that the only obstacle?" asked Hill.

She tried to laugh, but it ended in a sound of tears. She turned her face

quickly aside. "I can't tell you--of any other," she said, with

difficulty, "except--except--"

"Except that you don't like me much?" he suggested dryly. "Well, that

doesn't surprise me."

"Oh, I didn't say that!" She choked back her tears and turned back to

him. "Let's walk a little way together, shall we? I--I'll try and

explain--just how I feel about things."

He moved at once to comply. They walked side by side over the

close-cropped grass. Dot would have slipped her hand free, but still

he kept it.

They had traversed some yards before she spoke again, and then her voice

was low and studiously even.

"I can't pretend to you that there has never been anyone else. It

wouldn't be right. You probably wouldn't believe me if I did."

"Oh, I gathered that a long time ago," Hill said.

"Yes, of course you did. You always see everything, don't you? It's your

specialty."

"I don't go about with my eyes shut, certainly," said Hill.

"I'm glad of that," Dot said. "I would rather you knew about it.

Only"--her voice quivered again--"I don't know how to tell you."

"You are sure you would rather I knew?" he said.

"Yes." She spoke with decision. "You've got to know if--if--" She broke

off.

"If we are going to be married?" he suggested.

"Yes," whispered Dot.

Hill walked a few paces in silence. Then, unexpectedly, he drew the

nervous little hand he held through his arm. "Well, you needn't tell

me any more," he said. "I know the rest."

She started and stood still. There was quick fear in the look she threw

him. "You mean Jack told you--"

"No, I don't," said Hill. "Jack has never yet told me anything I couldn't

have told him ages before. I knew from the beginning. It was the fellow

they called Buckskin Bill, wasn't it?"

She quivered from head to foot and was silent.

Hill went on ruthlessly. "First, by a stroke of luck, he saved you from

death by snake-bite. He always had the luck on his side, that chap. I

should have caught him but for that. I'd got him--I'd got him in the

hollow of my hand. But you"--for the first time there was a streak of

tenderness in his speech--"you were a new chum then--you held me up.

Remember how you covered his retreat when we came up? Did you really

think I didn't know?"

She uttered a sobbing laugh. "I was very frightened, too. I always was

scared at the law."

Hill nodded. He also was grimly smiling.

"But you dared it. You'd have dared anything for him that day. He always

got the women on his side."

She winced a little.

"It's true," he asserted. "I know what happened--as well as if I'd seen

it. He made love to you in a very gallant, courteous fashion. I never

saw Buckskin Bill, but I believe he was always courteous when he had

time. And he promised to come back, didn't he--when he'd given up being

a thief and a swindler and had turned his hand to an honest trade? All

that--for your sake!... Yes, I thought so. But, my dear child, do you

really imagine he meant it--after all these years?"

She looked at him with a piteous little smile. "He--he'd be worth

having--if he did, wouldn't he?" she said.

"I wonder," said Hill.

He waited for a few moments, then laid his hand upon her shoulder with

a touch that seemed to her as heavy as the hand of the law.

"I can't help thinking," he said, "that you'd find a plain man like

myself more satisfactory to live with. It's for you to decide. Only--it

seems a pity to waste your life waiting for someone who will never come."

She could not contradict him. The argument was too obvious. She longed to

put that steady hand away from her, but she felt physically incapable of

doing so. An odd powerlessness possessed her. She was as one caught in a

trap.

Yet after a second or two she mustered strength to ask a question to

which she had long desired an answer. "Did you ever hear any more of

him?"

"Not for certain. I believe he left the country, but I don't know.

Anyway, he found this district too hot to hold him, for he never broke

cover in this direction again. I should have had him if he had."

Fletcher Hill spoke with a grim assurance. He was holding her before him,

one hand on her shoulder, the other grasping hers. Abruptly he bent

towards her.

"Come!" he said. "It's going to be 'Yes,' isn't it?"

She looked up at him with troubled eyes. Suddenly she shivered as

if an icy blast had caught her. "Oh, I'm frightened!" she said. "I'm

frightened!"

"Nonsense!" said Hill.

He drew her gently to him and held her. She was shaking from head to

foot. She began to sob, hopelessly, like a lost child.

"Don't!" he said. "Don't! It's all right. I'll take care of you. I'll

make you happy. I swear to God I'll make you happy!"

It was forcibly spoken, and it showed her more of the man's inner nature

than she had ever seen before. Almost in spite of herself she was

touched. She leaned against him, fighting her weakness.

"It isn't--fair to you," she murmured at last.

"That's my affair," said Hill.

She kept her face hidden from him, and he did not seek to raise it; but

there was undoubted possession in the holding of his arms.

After a moment or two she spoke again. "What will you do if--if you find

you're not--happy with me?"

"I'll take my chance of that," said Fletcher Hill. He added, under his

breath, "I'll be good to you--in any case."

That moved her. She lifted her face impulsively. "You--you are much nicer

than I thought you were," she said.

He bent to her. "It isn't very difficult to be that," he said, with a

somewhat sardonic touch of humour. "I haven't a very high standard to

beat, have I?"

It was not very lover-like. Perhaps, he feared to show her too much of

his soul just then, lest he seem to be claiming more than she was

prepared to offer. Perhaps that reserve of his which clothed him like

a coat of mail was more than even he could break through. But so it was

that then--just then, when the desire of his heart was actually within

his grasp, he contented himself with taking a very little. He kissed her,

indeed, though it was but a brief caress--over before her quivering lips

could make return; nor did he seek to deter her as she withdrew herself

from his arms.

She stood a moment, looking small and very forlorn. Then she turned to

retrace her steps.

"Shall we go back?" she said.

He went back with her in silence till they reached the gate that led into

the yard. Then for a second he grasped her arm, detaining her.

"It is--'Yes?'" he questioned.

She bent her head in acquiescence, not looking at him. "Yes," she said,

in a whisper.

And Fletcher let her go.

CHAPTER V

THE LOST ROMANCE

Jack looked in vain for any sign of elation on his friend's face when he

entered. He read nothing but grim determination. Dot's demeanour also

was scarcely reassuring. She seemed afraid to lift her eyes.

"Isn't it nearly bed-time?" she murmured to Adela as she passed.

Adela looked at her with frank curiosity. There were no fine shades of

feeling about Adela. She always went straight to the point--unless

restrained by Jack.

"Oh, it's quite early yet," she said, wholly missing the appeal in the

girl's low-spoken words. "What have you two been doing? Moonshining?"

Fletcher looked as contemptuous as his immobile countenance would allow,

and sat down by his untouched drink without a word.

But it took more than a look to repress Adela. She laughed aloud. "Does

that mean I am to draw my own conclusions, Mr. Hill? Would you like me to

tell you what they are?"

"Not for my amusement," said Hill, dryly. "Where did you get this whisky

from, Jack? I hope it's a legal brand."

"I hope it is," agreed Jack. "I don't know its origin. I got it through

Harley. You know him? The manager of the Fortescue Gold Mine."

"Yes, I know him," said Hill. "He is retiring, and another fellow is

taking his place."

"Retiring, is he? I thought he was the only person who could manage that

crowd." Jack spoke with surprise.

Hill took out his pipe and began to fill it. "He's got beyond it. Too

much running with the hare and hunting with the hounds. They need a

younger man with more decision and resource--someone who can handle them

without being afraid."

"Have they got such a man?" questioned Jack.

"They believe they have." Hill spoke thoughtfully. "He's a man from the

West, who has done some tough work in the desert, but brought back more

in the way of experience than gold. He's been working in the Fortescue

Mine now for six months, a foreman for the past three. Harley tells me

the men will follow him like sheep. But for myself, I'm not so sure of

him."

"Not sure of him? What are you afraid of? Whisky-running?" asked Jack,

with a twinkle.

There was no answering gleam of humour on Hill's face. "I never trust

any man until I know him," he said. "He may be sound, or he may be a

scoundrel. He's got to prove himself."

"You take a fatherly interest in that mine," observed Jack.

"I have a reason," said Fletcher Hill, briefly.

"Ah! Ever met Fortescue himself?"

"Once or twice," said Hill.

"Pretty badly hated, isn't he?" said Jack.

"By the blackguards, yes." Hill spoke with characteristic grimness. "He's

none the worse for that."

"All the better, I should say," remarked Adela. "But what is he like? Is

he an old man?"

"About my age," said Hill.

"I wish you'd give us an introduction to him," she said, with animation.

"I've always wanted to see that mine. You'd like to, too, wouldn't you,

Dot?"

Dot started a little. She had been sitting quite silent in the

background.

"I expect it would be quite interesting," she said, as Hill looked

towards her. "But perhaps it wouldn't be very easy to manage it."

"I could arrange it if you cared to go," said Hill.

"Could you? How kind of you! But it would mean spending the night at

Trelevan, wouldn't it? I--I think we are too busy for that." Dot glanced

at her brother in some uncertainty.

"Oh, it could be managed," said Jack, kindly. "Why not? You don't get

much fun in life. If you want to see the mine, and Hill can arrange it,

it shall be done."

"Thank you," said Dot.

Adela turned towards her. "My dear, do work up a little enthusiasm!

You've sat like a mute ever since you came in. What's the matter?"

Dot was on her feet in a moment. This sort of baiting, good-natured

though it was, was more than she could bear. "I've one or two jobs left

in the kitchen," she said. "I'll go and attend to them--if no one minds."

She was gone with the words, Adela's ringing laugh pursuing her as she

closed the door. She barely paused in the kitchen, but fled to her own

room. She could not--no, she could not--face the laughter and

congratulations that night.

She flung herself down upon her bed and lay there trembling like a

terrified creature caught in a trap. Her brain was a whirl of bewildering

emotions. She knew not which way to turn to escape the turmoil, or even

if she were glad or sorry for the step she had taken. She wondered if

Hill would tell Jack and Adela the moment her back was turned, and

dreaded to hear the sound of her sister-in-law's footsteps outside her

door.

But no one came, and after a time she grew calmer. After all, though in

the end she had made her decision somewhat suddenly, it had not been an

unconsidered one. Though she could not pretend to love Fletcher Hill, she

had a sincere respect for him. He was solid, and she knew that her future

would be safe in his hands. The past was past, and every day took her

farther from it. Yet very deep down in her soul there still lurked the

memory of that past. In the daytime she could put it from her, stifle

it, crowd it out with a multitude of tasks; but at night in her dreams

that memory would not always be denied. In her dreams the old vision

returned--tender, mocking, elusive--a sunburnt face with eyes of vivid

blue that looked into hers, smiling and confident with that confidence

that is only possible between spirits that are akin. She would feel again

the pressure of a man's lips on the hollow of her arm--that spot which

still bore the tiny mark which once had been a snake-bite. He had come to

her in her hour of need, and though he was a fugitive from justice, she

would never forget his goodness, his readiness to serve her, his

chivalry. And while in her waking hours she chid herself for her

sentimentality, yet even so, she had not been able to force herself to

cast her brief romance away.

Ah, well, she had done it now. The way was closed behind her. There could

be no return. It was all so long ago. She had been little more than a

child then, and now she was growing old. The time had come to face the

realities of life, to put away the dreams. She believed that Fletcher

Hill was a good man, and he had been very patient. She quivered a little

at the thought of that patience of his. There was a cast-iron quality

about it, a forcefulness, that made her wonder. Had she ever really met

the man who dwelt within that coat of mail? Could there be some terrible

revelation in store for her? Would she some day find that she had given

herself to a being utterly alien to her in thought and impulse? He had

shown her so little--so very little--of his soul.

Did he really love her, she wondered? Or had he merely determined to win

her because it had been so hard a task? He was a man who revelled in

overcoming difficulties, in asserting his grim mastery in the face of

heavy odds. He was never deterred by circumstances, never turned back

from any purpose upon the accomplishment of which he had set his mind.

His subordinates were afraid to tell him of failure. She had heard it

said that Bloodhound Hill could be a savage animal when roused.

There came a low sound at her door, the soft turning of the handle,

Jack's voice whispered through the gloom.

"Are you asleep, little 'un?"

She started up on the bed. "Oh, Jack, come in, dear! Come in!"

He came to her, put his arms about her, and held her close. "Fletcher's

been telling me," he whispered into her ear. "Adela's gone to bed. It's

quite all right, little 'un, is it? You're not--sorry?"

She caught the anxiety in the words as she clung to him. "I--don't think

so," she whispered back. "Only I--I'm rather frightened, Jack."

"There's no need, darling," said Jack, and kissed her very tenderly.

"He's a good fellow--the best of fellows. He's sworn to me to make you

happy."

She was trembling a little in his hold. "He--doesn't want to marry me

yet, does he?" she asked, nervously.

He put a very gentle hand upon her head. "Don't funk the last fence, old

girl!" he said, softly. "You'll like being married."

"Ah!" She was breathing quickly. "I am not so sure. And there's no

getting back, is there, Jack? Oh, please, do ask him to wait a little

while! I'm sure he will. He is very kind."

"He has waited five years already," Jack pointed out. "Don't you think

that's almost long enough, dear?"

She put a hand to her throat, feeling as if there were some constriction

there. "He has been speaking to you about it! He wants you to--to

persuade me--to--to make me--"

"No, dear, no!" Jack spoke very gravely. "He wants you to please

yourself. It is I who think that a long delay would be a mistake. Can't

you be brave, Dot? Take what the gods send--and be thankful?"

She tried to laugh. "I'm an awful idiot, Jack. Yes, I will--I will be

brave. After all, it isn't as if--as if I were really sacrificing

anything, is it? And you're sure he's a good man, aren't you? You are

sure he will never let me down?"

"I am quite sure," Jack said, firmly. "He is a fine man, Dot, and he will

always set your happiness before his own."

She breathed a short sigh. "Thank you, Jack, I feel better. You're

wonderfully good to me, dear old boy. Tell him--tell him I'll marry him

as soon as ever I can get ready! I must get a few things together first,

mustn't I?"

Jack laughed a little. "You look very nice in what you've got."

"Oh, don't be silly!" she said. "If I'm going to live at

Wallacetown--Wallacetown, mind you, the smartest place this side of

Sydney--I must be respectably clothed. I shall have to go to Trelevan,

and see what I can find."

"You and Adela had better have a week off," said Jack, "and go while

Fletcher is busy there. You'll see something of him in the evenings

then."

"What about you?" she said, squeezing his arm.

"Oh, I shall be all right. I'm expecting Lawley in from the ranges. He'll

help me. I've got to learn to do without you, eh, little 'un?" He held

her to him again.

She clasped his neck. "It's your own doing, Jack; but I know it's for my

good. You must let me come and help you sometimes--just for a holiday."

Her voice trembled.

He kissed her again with great tenderness. "You'll come just whenever you

feel like it, my dear," he said. "And God bless you!"

CHAPTER VI

THE WAY TO HAPPINESS

On account of its comparative proximity to the gold mine, Trelevan,

though of no great size, was a busy place. Dot had stayed at the hotel

there with her brother on one or two occasions, but it was usually noisy

and crowded, and, unlike Adela, she found little to amuse her in the type

of men who thronged it. Fletcher Hill always stayed there when he came to

Trelevan. The police court was close by, and it suited his purpose; but

he mixed very little with his fellow-guests and was generally regarded as

unapproachable--a mere judicial machine with whom very few troubled to

make acquaintance.

Fletcher Hill in the rôle of a squire of dames was a situation that

vastly tickled Adela's sense of humour. As she told Jack, it was going to

be the funniest joke of her life.

Neither Hill nor his grave young fiancée seemed aware of any cause for

mirth, but with Adela that was neither here nor there. She and Dot never

had anything in common, and as for Fletcher Hill, he was the driest stick

of a man she had ever met. But she was not going to be bored on that

account. To give Adela her due, boredom was a malady from which she very

rarely suffered.

She was in the best of spirits on the evening of their arrival at

Trelevan. The rooms that Fletcher Hill had managed to secure for them led

out of each other, and the smaller of them, Dot's looked out over the

busiest part of the town. As Adela pointed out, this was an advantage of

little value at night, and it could be shared in the daytime.

Dot said nothing. She was used to her sister-in-law's cheerful egotism,

and Adela had never hesitated to invade her privacy if she felt so

inclined. Her chief consolation was that Adela was a very sound sleeper,

so that there was small chance of having her solitude disturbed at night.

She herself was not sleeping so well as usual just then. A great

restlessness was upon her, and often she would pace to and fro like a

caged thing for half the night. She was not actively unhappy, but a great

weight seemed to oppress her--a sense of foreboding that was sometimes

more than she could bear.

Fletcher Hill's calm countenance as he welcomed them upon their arrival

reassured her somewhat. He was so perfectly self-controlled and steady in

his demeanour. The very grasp of his hand conveyed confidence. She felt

as if he did her good.

They dined together in the common dining-room, but at a separate table

in a corner. There were many coming and going, and Adela was frankly

interested in them all. As she said, it was so seldom that she had the

chance of studying the human species in such variety. When the meal was

over she good-naturedly settled herself in a secluded corner and

commanded them to leave her.

"There's something in the shape of a glass-house at the back," she said.

"I don't know if it can be called a conservatory. But anyhow I should

think you might find a seat and solitude there, and that, I conclude, is

what you most want. Anyhow, don't bother about me! I can amuse myself

here for any length of time."

They took her at her word, though neither of them seemed in any hurry to

depart. Dot lingered because the prospect of a _tête-à-tête_ in a strange

place, where she could not easily make her escape if she desired to do

so, embarrassed her. And Hill waited, as his custom was, with a grim

patience that somehow only served to increase her reluctance to be alone

with him.

"Run along! It's getting late," Adela said at last. "Carry her off, Mr.

Hill! You'll never get her to make the first move."

There was some significance in words and smile. Dot stiffened and turned

sharply away.

Hill followed her, and outside the room she waited for him.

"Do you know the way?" she asked, without looking at him.

He took her by the arm, and again she had a wayward thought of the

hand of the law. She knew now what it felt like to be marshalled by

a policeman. She almost uttered a remark to that effect, but, glancing

up at him, decided that it would be out of place. For the man's harsh

features were so sternly set that she wondered if Adela's careless talk

had aroused his anger.

She said nothing, therefore, and he led her to the retreat her

sister-in-law had mentioned in unbroken silence. It was certainly not a

very artistic corner. A few straggling plants in pots decorated it, but

they looked neglected and shabby. Yet the thought went through her, it

might have been a bower of delight had they been in the closer accord of

lovers who desire naught but each other.

The place was deserted, lighted only by a high window that looked into a

billiard-room. The window was closed, but the rattle of the balls and

careless voices of the players came through the silence. A dusty bench

was let into the wall below it.

"Do you like this place?" asked Fletcher Hill.

She glanced around her with a little nervous laugh. "It's as good as any

other, isn't it?"

His hand still held her arm. He bent slightly, looking into her face.

"I've been wanting to talk to you," he said.

"Have you?" She tried to meet his look, but failed. "What about?" she

said, almost in a whisper.

He bent lower. "Dot, are you afraid of me?" he said.

That brought her eyes to his face with a jerk. "I--I--no--of course not!"

she stammered, in confusion.

"Quite sure?" he said.

She collected herself with an effort. "Quite," she told him with

decision, and met his gaze with something of a challenge in her own.

But he disconcerted her the next moment. She felt again the man's grim

mastery behind the iron of his patience. "I want to talk to you," he

said, "about our marriage."

"Ah!" It was scarcely more than a sharp intake of the breath, and as it

escaped again Dot turned white to the lips. His close scrutiny became

suddenly more than she could bear, and she turned sharply from him.

He kept his hand upon her arm, but he made no further effort to restrain

her, merely waiting mutely for her to speak.

In the room behind them there came the smart knocking of the balls, and

a voice cried, "By Jove, he's fluked again! It's the devil's own luck!"

Dot flinched a little. The careless voice jarred upon her. Her nerves

were all on edge. Fletcher Hill's hand was like a steel trap, cold and

firm and merciless. She longed to wrench herself free from it, yet felt

too paralysed to move.

And still he waited, not urging her, yet by his very silence making her

aware of a compulsion she could not hope to resist for long.

She turned to him at last in desperation. "What--have you to suggest?"

she asked.

"I?" he said. "I shall be ready at the end of the week--if that will suit

you."

She gazed at him blankly. "The end of the week! But of course not--of

course not! You are joking!"

"No, I am serious," Fletcher said. "Sit down a minute and let me

explain!"

Then, as she hesitated, he very gently put her down upon the seat under

the closed window, and stood before her, blocking her in.

"I have been wanting this opportunity of talking to you," he said,

"without Jack chipping in. He's a good fellow, and I know he is on my

side. But I have a fancy for scoring off my own bat. Listen, Dot! I am

not suggesting anything very preposterous. You have promised to marry me.

Haven't you?"

"Yes," she whispered, breathlessly. "Yes."

"Yes," he repeated. "And the longer you have to think about it, the more

scared you will get. My dear child, what is the point of spinning it out

in this fashion? You are going through agonies of mind--for nothing. If

I gave you back your freedom, you wouldn't be any happier, would you?"

She was silent.

"Would you?" he said again, and laid his hand upon her shoulder.

"I--don't think so," she said, faintly.

He took up her words again with magisterial emphasis. "You don't think

so. Well, there is every reason to suppose you wouldn't. You weren't

happy before, were you?"

She gripped her courage with immense effort. "I haven't been

happy--since," she said.

He accepted the statement without an instant's discomfiture. "I know you

haven't. I realized that the moment I saw you. You have been suffering

the tortures of the damned because you're in a positive hell of

indecision. Oh, I know all about it." His hand moved a little upon her

shoulder; it almost seemed to caress her. "I haven't studied human nature

all these years for nothing. I know you're in a perfect fever of doubt,

and it'll go on till you're married. What's the good of it? Why torture

yourself like this when the way to happiness lies straight before you?

Are you hoping against hope that something may yet turn up to prevent our

marriage? Would you be happy if it did? Answer me!"

But she shrank from answering, sitting with her hands clasped tightly

before her and her eyes downcast like a prisoner awaiting sentence.

"I don't know--what I want," she told him, miserably. "I feel--as

if--whatever I do--will be wrong."

"That's just it," said Fletcher Hill, as if that were the very admission

he had been waiting for. And then he did what for him was a very curious

thing. He went down upon one knee on the dusty floor, bringing his face

on a level with hers, clasping her tense hands between his own. "You

don't trust yourself, and you won't trust me," he said. "Isn't that it?

Or something like it?"

The official air had dropped from him like a garment. She looked at him

doubtfully, almost as if she suspected him of trying to trick her. Then,

reassured by something in the harsh countenance which his voice and words

utterly failed to express, she leaned impulsively forward with a swift

movement of surrender and laid her head against his shoulder.

"I'll do--whatever you wish," she said, in muffled tones. "I will trust

you! I do trust you!"

He put his arm around her, for she was trembling, and held her so for a

space in silence.

The voice in the billiard-room took up the tale. "That fellow's luck is

positively prodigious. He can't help scoring--whatever he does. He'd dig

gold out of an ash heap."

Someone laughed, and there came again the clash of the billiard-balls,

followed in a second by a shout of applause.

The noise subsided, and Fletcher spoke. "My job here will be over in a

week. Jack can manage to join us at the end of it. Your sister-in-law is

already here. Why not finish up by getting married and returning to

Wallacetown with me?"

"I should have to go back to the farm and get the rest of my things,"

said Dot.

"You could do that afterwards," he said, "when I am away on business. I

shan't be able to take you with me everywhere. Some of the places I have

to go to would be too rough for you. But I shall be at Wallacetown for

some weeks after this job. You have never seen my house there. I took it

over from the last Superintendent. I think you'll like it. I got it for

that reason."

She started a little. "But you didn't know then--How long ago was it?"

"Three years," said Fletcher Hill. "I've been getting it ready for you

ever since."

She looked up at him. "You--took a good deal for granted, didn't you?"

she said.

Fletcher was smiling, dryly humorous. "I knew my own mind, anyway," he

said.

"And you've never had--any doubts?" questioned Dot.

"Not one," said Fletcher Hill.

She laid her hand on his arm with a shy gesture. "I hope you won't be

dreadfully disappointed in me," she said.

He bent towards her, and for a moment she felt as if his keen eyes

pierced her. "I don't think that is very likely," he said, and kissed her

with the words.

She did not shrink from his kiss, but she did not return it; nor did he

linger as if expecting any return.

He was on his feet the next moment, and she wondered with a little sense

of chill if he were really satisfied.

CHAPTER VII

THE CONQUEROR

They found Adela awaiting them in her corner, but chafing for a change.

"I want you to take us to the billiard-room," she said to Fletcher.

"There's a great match on. I've heard a lot of men talking about it.

And I adore watching billiards. I'm sure we shan't be in the way. I'll

promise not to talk, and Dot is as quiet as a mouse."

Fletcher considered the point. "I believe it's a fairly respectable

crowd," he said, looking at Dot. "But you're tired."

"Oh, no," she said at once. "I don't feel a bit sleepy. Let us go in by

all means if you think no one will mind! I like watching billiards, too."

"It's a man called Warden," said Adela. "That's the new manager of the

Fortescue Gold Mine, isn't it? They say he has the most marvelous luck.

He is playing the old manager--Harley, and giving him fifty points.

There's some pretty warm betting going on, I can tell you. Do let us go

and have a look at them! They've got the girl from the bar to mark for

them, so we shan't be the only women there."

She was evidently on fire for this new excitement, and Fletcher Hill,

seeing that Dot meant what she said, led the way without further

discussion. He paused outside the billiard-room door, which stood ajar;

for a tense silence reigned. But it was broken in a moment by the sharp

clash of the balls and a perfect howl of enthusiasm from the spectators.

"Oh, it's over!" exclaimed Adela. "What a pity! Never mind! Let's go in!

Perhaps they'll play again."

The barmaid came flying out to fetch drinks as they entered. The

atmosphere of the room was thick with smoke. A babel of voices filled it.

Men who had been sitting round the walls were grouped about the table. In

the midst of them stood the victor in his shirt-sleeves, conspicuous in

the crowd by reason of his great height--a splendid figure of manhood

with a careless freedom of bearing that was in its way superb.

He was turned away from the door at their entrance, and Dot saw only

a massive head of straw-coloured hair above a neck that was burnt

brick-red. Then, laughing at some joke, he wheeled round again to the

table; and she saw his face....

It was the face of a Viking, deeply sunburnt, vividly alive. A fair

moustache covered his upper lip, and below it the teeth gleamed, white

and regular like the teeth of an animal in the wilderness. He had that

indescribable look of morning-time, of youth at its best, which only

springs in the wild. His eyes were intensely blue. They gazed straight

across at her with startling directness.

And suddenly Dot's heart gave a great jerk, and stood still. It was not

the first time that those eyes had looked into hers.

The moment passed. He bent himself over the table, poised for a stroke,

which she saw him execute a second later with a delicacy that thrilled

her strangely. Full well did she remember the deftness and the steadiness

of those brown hands. Had they not held her up, sustained her, in the

greatest crisis of her life?

Her heart throbbed on again with hard, uneven strokes. She was straining

her ears for the sound of his voice--that voice that had once spoken to

her quivering soul, pleading with her that she would at their next

meeting treat him--without prejudice. The memory thrilled through her.

This was the man for whose coming she had waited so long!

He had straightened himself again, and was coming round the table to

follow up his stroke. Fletcher Hill spoke at her shoulder.

"Sit down!" he said. "There is room here."

There was a small space on the corner of the raised settee that ran along

the side of the room. Dot and Adela sat down together. Hill stood beside

them, looking over the faces of the men present, with keen eyes that

missed nothing.

Dot sat palpitating, her hands clasped before her, seeing only the great

figure that leaned over the table for another stroke. Would he look at

her again? Would he remember her? Would he speak?

Fascinated, she watched him. He executed his stroke, again with that

steady confidence, that self-detachment, that seemed to set him apart

from all other men. He was standing close to her now, and the nearness of

his presence thrilled her. She tingled from head to foot, as if under the

power of an electric battery.

His late opponent stood facing her on the other side of the table, a

grey-haired man with crafty eyes that seemed to look in all directions at

the same time. She took an instinctive dislike to him. He wore a furtive

air.

Warden stood up again, moving with that free swing of his as of one born

to conquer. He turned deliberately and faced them.

"Good evening, Mr. Hill!" he said. "I'm standing drinks all round. I hope

you will join us."

It was frankly spoken, and Hill's instant refusal sounded unnecessarily

curt in Dot's ears.

"No, thanks. I am with ladies," he said. "I suppose the play is over?"

Warden glanced across the table. "Unless Harley wants his revenge," he

said.

The grey-haired man uttered a laugh that was like the bark of a vicious

dog. "I'll have that another day," he said. "It won't spoil by keeping.

You are a player yourself, Mr. Hill. Why don't you take him on?"

"Oh, do!" burst forth Adela. "I should love to see a good game. You ask

him to, Dot! He'll do it for you."

But Dot sat silent, her fingers straining against each other, her eyes

fixed straight before her, seeing yet unseeing, as one beneath a spell.

There was a momentary pause. The room was full of the harsh babel of

men's voices. The drinks were being distributed.

Suddenly a voice spoke out above the rest. "Here's to the new manager!

Good luck to him! Bill Warden, here's to you! Success and plenty of it!"

Instantly the hubbub increased a hundredfold. Bill Warden swung round

laughing to face the clamour, and the tension went out of Dot. She

drooped forward with a weary gesture. As in a dream she heard the

laughter and the shouting. It seemed to sweep around her in great billows

of sound. But she was too tired to notice, too tired to care. He did not

know her. She was sure of that now. He had forgotten. The memory that

had affected her so poignantly had slipped like a dim cloud below his

horizon. The glory had departed, and life was grey and cold.

"You are tired," said Fletcher's voice beside her. "Would you like to

go?"

She looked up at him. His eyes were searching hers, and swiftly she

realized that this discovery that she had made must be kept a secret. If

Hill began to suspect, he would very quickly ferret out the truth, and

the man would be ruined. She knew Hill's stern justice. He would act

instantly and without mercy if he knew the truth.

She braced herself with a great effort to baffle him. "No, oh, no!" she

said. "I am really not tired. Do play! I should love to see you play."

He looked sardonic. "Love to see me beaten!" he said.

She put out a quick hand. "Of course not! You will beat him easily. You

are always on the top. Do try!"

He smiled a little, and turned from her. She saw him approach Warden and

tap him on the shoulder.

Warden wheeled sharply, so sharply that the drink he held splashed over

the edge of the glass. The excitement in the room was dying down. She

watched the two men with an odd breathlessness, and in a moment she

realized that everyone else present was watching them also.

Then they both turned towards her, and through a great singing that

suddenly arose in her ears she heard Adela whisper excitedly, "My dear,

he is actually going to introduce that amazing person to us!"

She sat up with a stiff movement, feeling cold, inanimate, strangely

impotent, and in a moment he was standing before her with Fletcher, and

she heard the latter introduce her as his "affianced wife."

Mutely she gave him her hand. It was Adela who filled in the gap, eager

for entertainment, and the next moment Warden had turned to her, and was

talking in his careless, leisurely fashion. The ordeal was past, her

pulses quieted down again. Yet she realized that he had not addressed a

single word to her, and the conviction came upon her that not thus would

he have treated one who was a total stranger to him.

Because of Fletcher, who remained beside her, she forced herself to join

in the conversation, seconding Adela's urgent request that the two men

would play.

Warden laughed and looked at Fletcher. "Do you care to take me on, sir?"

he said.

From the other side of the table, Harley uttered his barking laugh. "Now

is your chance, Mr. Hill! Down him once and for all, and give us the

pleasure of seeing how it's done!"

There was venom in the words. They were a revelation to Dot, the almost

silent looker-on. It was as if a flashlight had given her a sudden

glimpse of this man's soul, showing her bitter enmity--a black and cruel

hatred--an implacable yearning for revenge. She felt as if she had looked

down into the seething heart of a volcano.

Then she heard Hill's voice. "I am quite willing to play," he said.

A buzz of interest went through the room. The prospective match plainly

excited Warden's many admirers. They drew together, and she heard some

low-voiced betting begin.

But this was instantly checked by Fletcher. "I'm not doing it for a

gamble," he said, curtly. "Please keep your money in your pockets, or

the match is off!"

They looked at him with lowering glances, but they submitted. It was

evident to Dot that they all stood in considerable awe of him--all save

Warden, who chalked Hill's cue with supreme self-assurance, and then

lighted a cigarette without the smallest hint of embarrassment.

The match began, and though the gambling had been checked a breathless

interest prevailed. Fletcher Hill's play was not well known at Trelevan,

but at the very outset it was evident to the most casual observer that he

was a skilled player. He spoke scarcely at all, and his face was masklike

in its composure, but Dot, watching, knew with that intuition which of

late had begun to grow upon her that he was grimly set upon obtaining

the victory. The knowledge thrilled her with a strange excitement. She

knew that he was in a fashion desirous of proving himself in her eyes,

that he had entered into the contest solely for her.

As for Warden, she believed he was playing entirely to please himself.

He took an artistic interest in every stroke, but the ultimate issue of

the game did not seem to enter into his calculation. He played like a

sportsman, sometimes rashly, often brilliantly, but never selfishly. It

was impossible to watch him with indifference. Even his failures were

sensational. As Adela had said of him, he was amazing.

Hill's play was absolutely steady. It lacked the vitality of the younger

man's, but it had about it a clockwork species of regularity that Dot

found curiously pleasing to watch. She had not thought that her interest

could be so deeply aroused; before the game was half through she was as

deeply absorbed as anyone present.

It did not take her long to realize that public sympathy was entirely on

Warden's side, and it was that fact more than any other that disposed her

in Fletcher's favour. She saw that he had a hard fight before him, for

Warden led almost from the beginning, though with all his brilliancy he

never drew very far ahead. Fletcher kept a steady pace behind him, and

she knew he would not be easily beaten.

Once he came and stood beside her after a very creditable break, and she

slipped a shy hand into his for a few seconds. His fingers closed upon it

in that slow, inevitable way of his, but he neither spoke nor looked at

her, and she had a feeling that his attention never for an instant

wandered from the job in hand. She admired him for his concentration,

yet would she have been less than woman had she not felt slighted by it.

He might have given her one look!

Adela was full of enthusiasm for his opponent, and that also caused her

a vague sense of irritation. She was beginning to feel as if the evening

would never come to an end.

The scoring was by no means slow, however, and the general interest

increased almost to fever pitch as the finish came in sight. Hill's

steady progress in the wake of his opponent seemed at length to

disconcert the latter. He began to play wildly, to attempt impossible

things. His supporters remonstrated without result. He seemed to have

flung away his judgment.

Hill's score mounted till it reached and passed his. They were within

twenty points of the end when Warden suddenly missed an easy stroke. A

noisy groan broke from the onlookers, at which he shrugged his shoulders

and laughed. But Hill turned upon him with a stern reproof.

"You're playing the fool, Warden," he said. "Pull up!"

He spoke with curt command, and the man he addressed looked at him for a

second with raised brows, as if he would take offence. But in a moment he

laughed again.

"You haven't beaten me yet, sir," he said.

"No," said Hill. "And I don't value--an easy victory."

There followed a tense silence while he resumed his play. Steadily his

score mounted, and it seemed to Dot that there was hostility in the very

atmosphere. She wondered what would happen if he scored the hundred

before his opponent had another chance. She hoped he would not do so,

and yet she did not want to see him beaten.

He did not, but he left off with only three points to make. Then Warden

began to score. Stroke after stroke he executed with flawless accuracy

and with scarcely a pause, moving to and fro about the table without

lifting his eyes from the balls. His play was swift and unswerving, his

score mounted rapidly.

Dot watched him spellbound, not breathing. Hill stood near her, also

closely watching, with brows slightly drawn. Suddenly something impelled

her to look beyond the man at the table, and in the shadow on the farther

side of the room she again saw Harley's face, grey, withered-looking,

with sunken eyes that glared forth wolfishly. He was glancing ceaselessly

from Hill to Warden and from Warden to Hill, and the malice of his glance

shocked her inexpressibly. She had never before seen murderous hate so

stamped upon any countenance.

Instinctively she shrank from the sight, and in that moment Warden's eyes

were lifted for a second from the table. Magnetically hers flashed to

meet them. It was instantaneous, inevitable as the sudden flare of

lightning across a dark sky.

He stooped again to play, but in that moment something had gone out of

him. The stroke he attempted was an easy one; but he missed it

hopelessly.

He straightened himself up with a sharp gesture and looked at Hill. "I am

sorry," he said.

Hill said nothing whatever. Their scores were exactly even. With

machine-like precision he took his turn, utterly ignoring the grumbling

criticisms of his adversary's play that were being freely expressed

around the room. With the utmost steadiness he made his stroke, scoring

two points. Then there fell a tremendous silence. The choice of two

strokes now lay before him. One was to pocket his adversary's ball; the

other a long shot which required considerable skill. He chose the second

without hesitation, hung a moment or two, made his stroke--and failed.

A howl of delight went up from the watchers, their hot partisanship of

Warden amounting almost to open animosity against his opponent. In the

midst of the noise Hill, perfectly calm, contemptuously indifferent,

touched Warden again upon the shoulder, and spoke to him.

Warden said nothing in reply, but he went to his ball with a hint of

savagery, bent, and almost without aiming sent it at terrific speed up

the table. It struck first the red, then the white, pocketed the former,

and whizzed therefrom into the opposite pocket.

A yell of delight went up. It was a brilliant stroke of which any player

might have been proud. But Warden flung down his cue with a gesture of

disgust.

"Damnation!" he said, and turned to put on his coat.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MEETING

The two girls left the billiard-room, shepherded by Fletcher, almost

before the tumult had subsided. It seemed to Dot that he was anxious

about something and desirous to get them away. But Adela was full of

excited comments and refused to be hurried, stopping outside to question

Hill upon a dozen points regarding the game while he stood stiffly

responding, waiting to say good-night.

Dot leaned upon the stair-rail, waiting for her, and eventually Fletcher

drew Adela's attention to the fact.

Adela laughed. "Oh, that's just her way, my dear Fletcher. Some women

were born to wait. Dot does it better than anyone I know."

It was at that moment that Warden came quietly up the passage from the

billiard-room, moving with the lightness of well-knit muscles, and

checked himself at sight of Fletcher.

"I should like a word with you--when you have time," he said.

Adela swooped upon him with effusion. "Mr. Warden! Your play is simply

astounding. Allow me to congratulate you!"

"Please don't!" said Warden. "I played atrociously."

She laughed at him archly. "That's just your modesty. You're plainly a

champion. Now, when are you going to let Mr. Hill show us that wonderful

mine? We are dying to see it, aren't we, Dot?"

"The mine!" Warden turned sharply to Hill. "You're not going to take

anyone over that--surely! Not in person--anyhow! What, sir?" He looked

hard at Hill, who said nothing. "Then you must be mad!"

"He isn't obliged to go in person," smiled Adela. "I am sure you are big

enough to take care of us single-handed. Dot and I are not in the least

nervous. Will you take us alone if we promise not to tease the animals?"

Warden's eyes flashed a sudden glance upwards to the girl who still stood

silently leaning upon the rail. It was almost like an appeal.

As if involuntarily she spoke. "What is the danger?"

Hill turned to her. "There is no danger," he said, curtly. "If you wish

to go, I will take you to-morrow."

Warden made a brief gesture as of one who submits to the inevitable, and

turned away.

Fletcher held out his hand to Adela with finality. "Good-night," he said.

"Are you really going to take us to-morrow?" she said.

"Yes," said Fletcher.

She beamed upon him. "What time shall we be ready?"

He did not refer to Dot. "At five o'clock," he said. "I shall be busy at

the court all day. I will come and fetch you."

He shook hands with Dot, and his face softened. "Good-night," he said.

"Go to bed quickly! You're very tired."

She gave him a fleeting smile, and turned to go. She was tired to the

soul.

Adela caught her by the arm as they ascended the stairs. "You little

quiet mouse, what's the matter? Aren't you enjoying the adventure?"

Dot's face was sombre. "I think I am too tired to enjoy anything

to-night," she said.

"Tired! And no work to do! Why, what has come to you?" Adela surveyed her

with laughing criticism.

"Let's go to bed!" said Dot. "I'll tell you when we get there."

Something in tone or words stirred Adela. She refrained from further

bantering and gave her mind to speedy preparations for bed.

Then, as at last they were about to separate, she put a warm arm about

the girl and held her close. "What is it? Aren't you happy?" she said.

A great sob went through Dot. Her trouble was more than she could bear.

She clung to Adela with unaccustomed closeness.

"I've promised to marry Fletcher at the end of the week--instead of going

back with you to the farm."

"I thought that was what he was after," said Adela. "But--don't you want

to?"

"No," whispered Dot, trembling.

"Well, why don't you tell him so--tell him he's got to wait? Shall I

tell him for you, you poor little thing?" Adela's voice was full of

compassion.

But Dot was instant in her refusal. "No, oh, no! Don't tell him! I--I

couldn't give him--any particular reason for waiting. I shall feel

better--I'm sure I shall feel better--when it's over."

"I expect you will," said Adela. "But I don't like your being miserable.

I say, Dot--" she clasped the quivering form closer, with a sudden rare

flash of intuition--"there isn't--anyone else you like better, is there?"

But at that Dot started as if she had been stung, and drew herself

swiftly away. "Oh, no!" she said, vehemently. "No--no--no!"

"Then I shouldn't worry," said Adela, sensibly. "It's nothing but

nerves."

She kissed her and went to her own room, where she speedily slept. But

Dot lay wide-eyed, unresting, while the hours crawled by, seeing only

the vivid blue eyes that had looked into hers, and thrilled her--and

thrilled her with their magic.

In the morning she arose early, urged by a fevered restlessness that

drove her with relentless force. Dressing, she discovered the loss of a

little heart-shaped brooch, Jack's gift, which she always wore.

Adela, still lying in bed, assured her that she had seen it in her dress

the previous evening while at dinner. "It probably came out in that

little conservatory place when Fletcher was embracing you," she said.

"Not very likely, I think," said Dot, flushing.

Nevertheless, since she valued it, she finished dressing in haste and

departed to search for it.

There was no one about with the exception of a man who was cleaning up

the billiard-room and assured her that her property was not there. So

she passed on along the passage to the shabby little glass-house whither

she and Fletcher had retreated on the previous evening.

She expected to find the place deserted, and was surprised by a whiff of

tobacco-smoke as she entered. The next moment sharply she drew back; for

a man's figure rose up from the seat under the billiard-room window on

which she had rested the previous evening. His great frame seemed to fill

the place. Dot turned to flee.

But on the instant he spoke, checking her. "Don't go for a moment! I know

what you're looking for. It's that little heart of yours. I've got it

here."

She paused almost in spite of herself. His voice was pitched very low. He

spoke to her as if he were speaking to a frightened child. And he smiled

at her with the words--a frank and kindly smile.

"You--you found it!" she stammered.

"Yes, I found it, Miss Burton." He lingered over the name half

unconsciously, and a poignant stab of memory went through her. So had he

uttered it on that day so long, so long ago! "I knew it was yours. I was

trying to bring myself to give it to Mr. Hill."

"How did you know it was mine?" She almost whispered the words, yet she

drew nearer to him, drawn irresistibly--drawn as a needle to the magnet.

He answered her also under his breath. "I--remembered."

She felt as if a wave of fire had swept over her. She swayed a little,

throbbing from head to foot.

"I have rather a good memory," he said, as she found no words. "You're

not--vexed with me on that account, I hope?"

An odd touch of wistfulness in his voice brought her eyes up to his face.

She fought for speech and answered him.

"Of course not! Why should I? It--is a very long time ago, isn't it?"

"Centuries," said Warden, and smiled again upon her reassuringly. "But I

never forgot you and your little farm and the old dog. Have you still got

him?"

She nodded, her eyes lowered, a choked feeling as of tears in her throat.

"He'd remember me," said Warden, with confidence. "He was a friend. Do

you know that was one of the most hairbreadth escapes of my life? If

Fletcher Hill had caught me, he wouldn't have shown much mercy--any more

than he would now," he added, with a half-laugh. "He's a terrific man for

justice."

"Surely you're safe--now!" Dot said, quickly.

"If you don't give me away," said Warden.

"I!" She started, almost winced. "There's no danger of that," she said,

in a low voice.

"Thank you," he said. "I've gone fairly straight ever since. It hasn't

been a very paying game. I tried my luck in the West, but it was right

out. So I thought I'd come back here, and that was the turning-point.

They took me on at the Fortescue Mine. It's a fiendish place, but I

rather like it. I'm sub-manager there at present--till Harley goes."

"Ah!" She looked up at him again. "He is a dangerous man. He hates you,

doesn't he?"

"Quite possibly," said Warden, with a smile. "That mine is rather an

abode of hate all round. But we'll clean it out one of these days, and

make a decent place of it."

"I hope you will succeed," she said, very earnestly.

"Thank you," he said again.

He was looking at her speculatively, as if there were something about her

that he found hard to understand. Her agitation had subsided, leaving her

with a piteous, forlorn look--the look of the wayfarer who is almost too

tired to go any farther.

There fell a brief silence between them, then with a little smile she

spoke.

"Are you going to give me back my brooch?"

He put his hand in his pocket. "I was nearly keeping it for good and

all," he said, as he brought it out.

She took it from him and pinned it in her dress without words. Then,

shyly, she proffered her hand. "Thank you. Good-bye!"

He drew a short hard breath as he took it into his own. For a second or

two he stood so, absolutely motionless, his great hand grasping hers.

Then, very suddenly, he stooped to her, looking into her eyes.

"Good-bye, little new chum!" he said, softly. "It was--decent of you to

treat me--without prejudice."

The words pierced her. A great tremor went through her. For an instant

the pain was almost intolerable.

"Oh, spare me that!" she said, quickly and passionately, and drew her

hand away.

The next moment she was running blindly through the passage, scarcely

knowing which way she went, intent only upon escape.

A man at the foot of the stairs stood aside for her, and she fled past

him without a glance. He turned and watched her with keen, alert eyes

till she was out of sight. Then, without haste, he took his way in the

direction whence she had come.

But he did not go beyond the threshold of the little dusty conservatory,

for something he saw within made him draw swiftly back.

When Fletcher Hill went to the court that day, he was grimmer, colder,

more unapproachable even than was his wont. He had to deal with one or

two minor cases from the gold mine, and the treatment he meted out was

of as severe an order as circumstances would permit.

CHAPTER IX

THE MINE

The Fortescue Gold Mine was five miles away from Trelevan, in the heart

of wild, barren country, through which the sound of its great crushing

machines whirred perpetually like the droning of an immense beehive.

The place was strewn with scattered huts belonging to such of the workers

as did not live at Trelevan, and a yellow stream ran foaming through the

valley, crossed here and there by primitive wooden bridges.

The desolation of the whole scene, save for that running stream, produced

the effect of a world burnt out. The hills of shale might have been vast

heaps of ashes. It was a waste place of terrible unfruitfulness. And yet,

not very far below the surface, the precious metal lay buried in the

rock--the secret of the centuries which man at last had wrenched from its

hiding-place.

The story went that Fortescue, the owner of the mine, had made his

discovery by a mere accident in this place known as the Barren Valley,

and had kept it to himself for years thereafter because he lacked the

means to exploit it. But later he had returned with the necessary capital

at his back, had staked his claim, and turned the place of desolation

into an abode of roaring activity. The men he employed were for the most

part drawn from the dregs--sheep-stealers, cattle-thieves, smugglers,

many of them ex-convicts--a fierce, unruly lot, hating all law and order,

yet submitting for the sake of that same precious yellow dust that they

ground from the foundation stones of the world.

Personally, Fortescue was known but to the very few, but his methods were

known to all. He paid them generously, but he ruled them with a rigid

discipline that knew no relaxation. It was murmured that Fletcher

Hill--the hated police-magistrate--was at his back, for he never failed

to visit the mine when his duty took him in that direction, and there was

something of military precision in its management which was strongly

reminiscent of his forbidding personality. It was Fletcher Hill who meted

out punishment to the transgressors who were brought before him at the

police-court at Trelevan, and his treatment was usually swift and

unsparing. No prisoner ever expected mercy from him.

He was hated at the mine with a fierce hatred, in which Fortescue had

but a very minor share. It was recognized that Fortescue's methods were

of a decent order, though his lack of personal interest was resented,

and also his friendship with Fletcher Hill, which some even declared to

be a partnership. The only point in his favour was the fact that Bill

Warden knew the man and never failed to stand up for him. For some reason

Warden possessed an enormous influence over the men. His elevation

to the sub-managership had been highly popular, and his projected

promotion to the post of manager, now filled by Harley, gave them immense

satisfaction. He had the instincts of a sportsman and knew how to handle

them, and a personality, that was certainly magnetic, did the rest.

Harley had a certain following, but the general feeling towards him

was one of contempt. Most men recognized that he was nothing but a

self-seeker, and there were few who trusted him. He did his best to

achieve popularity, but his efforts were too obvious. Bill Warden's

breezy indifference held an infinitely greater appeal in the eyes

of the crowd.

Harley's resignation was of his own choosing. He declared himself in need

of a rest, and no one attempted to persuade him otherwise. His day was

over, and Warden's succession to the post seemed an inevitable sequence.

As Hill sardonically remarked, there was no other competitor for the

chieftainship of that band of cutthroats.

For some reason he had postponed his departure till after Hill's official

visit to Trelevan. He and Warden shared the largest house in the miners'

colony in Barren Valley. It was close to the mine at the end of the

valley, and part of it was used as the manager's office. It overlooked

the yellow torrent and the black wall of mountain beyond--a savage

prospect that might have been hewn from the crater of a dead volcano.

A rough track led to it, winding some twenty feet above the stream, and

up this track Fletcher Hill drove the two visitors on the evening of the

day succeeding their arrival at Trelevan.

There was a deadness of atmosphere between those rocky walls that struck

chill even to Adela's inconsequent soul. "What a ghastly place!" she

commented. "I should think Ezekiel's valley of dry bones must have been

something like this."

Harley met them at the door of his office with a smile in his crafty

eyes. "Warden is waiting for you in the mine," he said to Fletcher. "His

lambs have been a bit restless this afternoon. He has set his heart on a

full-dress parade, but I don't know if it will come off."

Fletcher's black brows drew together. "What do you mean by that?" he

demanded.

Harley shrugged his shoulders with a laugh. "You wait and see!"

The entrance to the mine yawned like an immense cavern in the rock. The

roaring screech of the machines issuing from it made an inferno of sound

from which, involuntarily, Dot shrank.

She looked at Hill appealingly as they drew near. He turned instantly to

Harley.

"Go ahead, will you, and tell them to stop work? We can't hear ourselves

speak in this."

"I'll come with you, Mr. Harley," said Adela, promptly. "I want to see

the machines going."

Harley paused for a moment. "You know your way, Mr. Hill?" he said.

Hill nodded with a hint of impatience. "Yes, yes. I was here only the

other day."

"Very good," said Harley. "But don't forget to turn to the right when you

get down the steps. The other way is too steep for ladies."

He was gone with the words and Adela with him, openly delighted to have

escaped from her solemn escort, and ready for any adventure that might

present itself.

Dot looked after her for a moment, and then back at Hill. "She'll be all

right, won't she?" she asked.

"Of course she will!" said Hill.

"Then shall we wait a minute till the noise stops?" she suggested.

Hill paused, though not very willingly. "There is nothing to be nervous

about," he said.

She glanced at the cavernous opening with a little shudder. "I think it

is a dreadful place," she said.

She saw him faintly smile. "I thought it didn't appeal much to you," he

said.

She shivered. "Do you like it? But of course you do. You are interested

in it. Isn't that grinding noise terrible? It makes me want to run away

and hide."

Hill drew her to a large flat rock on the edge of the path. "Sit down,"

he said.

She did so, and he took up his stand beside her, one foot lodged upon the

stone. In the silence that followed she was aware of his eyes upon her,

intently watching her face. She gripped her hands hard around her knees,

enduring his scrutiny with a fast-throbbing heart. She expected some

curt, soul-searching question at the end of it. But none came. Instead,

the noise that reverberated through the valley suddenly ceased, and there

fell an intense stillness.

That racked her beyond bearing. She looked up at him at last with a

desperate courage and met his eyes. "What is it?" she questioned. "Why

do you--why do you look at me--like that?"

He made a brief gesture, as if refusing a challenge, and stood up. "Shall

we go?" he said.

She got up also, but her knees were trembling, and in a moment his hand

came out and closed with that official grip upon her elbow. He led her

to the mine entrance guiding her over the rough ground in utter silence.

They left the daylight behind them, passing almost immediately into

semi-darkness. Some rough steps hewn in the rock led down into a black

void before them.

"Are there no lights anywhere?" said Dot.

"Yes. There'll be a lamp round the corner. Straight on down!" said

Fletcher.

But for his presence she would hardly have dared it, so great was the

horror that this place had inspired within her. But to wait alone with

him in that terrible empty valley was even less endurable. She went down

the long, steep stair without further protest.

They reached the foot at length, and a dim light shone ahead of them. The

atmosphere was vault-like and penetratingly damp. The passage divided

almost immediately, and a narrow track led off between black walls of

stone to the right, where in the distance another lamp shone.

Fletcher turned towards this, but very suddenly Dot clasped his arm. "Oh,

don't let us go that way!" she begged. "Please don't let us go that way!"

Hill paused in response to her urgent insistence. "What's the matter with

you, Dot?" he said.

She clung to him desperately, still holding him back. "I don't know--I

don't know! But don't go that way! I have a horrible feeling--Ah!" The

deafening report of a revolver-shot rang out suddenly close to them.

Hill turned with a sound in his throat like the growl of an angry animal,

and in a moment he had thrust Dot back against the protecting corner of

the wall.

"You are not hurt?" she gasped.

"No; I am not." His words fell clipped and stern, though spoken scarcely

above a whisper. "Don't speak! Get back up the steps--as quickly as you

can!"

The command was so definite, so peremptory, that she had no thought of

disobeying. But as she moved there came to her the sound of running feet.

Hill stayed her with a gesture. She saw something gleam in his hand as he

did so, and realized that he was not defenceless.

Her heart seemed to spring into her throat. She stood tense.

Nearer came the feet and nearer. The suspense of waiting was torture. She

thought it would never end. Then suddenly, just as she looked to see a

man spring from the opening of that narrow passage, they stopped.

A voice spoke. "All right! Don't shoot!" it said, and a great

throb of amazement went through her. That voice--careless, debonair,

half-laughing--awoke deep echoes in her heart.

A moment later Warden came calmly round the corner, his great figure

looming gigantic in that confined space.

He held out his hand. "I'm sorry you've had a fright. I fired that shot.

It was a signal to the men to line up for inspection."

He spoke with the utmost frankness, yet it came to Dot with an intuition

she could not doubt that Hill did not believe him. He returned the

revolver to his pocket, but he kept a hold upon it, and he made no

movement to take the hand Warden offered.

"We came to inspect the mine, not the men," he said, shortly. "Go back

and tell them to clear out!"

Dot, mutely watching, saw Warden's brows go up. He had barely glanced at

her. "Oh, all right, sir," he said, easily. "They've hardly left off work

yet. I'll let 'em know in good time. But first I've got something to show

you. Come this way!"

He turned towards the main passage, but in a second, sharp and short,

Fletcher's voice arrested him.

"Warden!"

He swung on his heel. "Well, sir?"

"You will do as I said--immediately!" The words might have been uttered

by a machine, so precise, so cold, so metallic were they.

Warden stood quite motionless, facing him, and it seemed to Dot that

his eyes had become two blue flames, giving out light. The pause that

followed was so instinct with conflict that she thought it must end in

some terrible outburst of violence.

Then, to her amazement, Warden smiled--his candid, pleasant smile.

"Certainly, if you make a point of it," he said. "Perhaps you will walk

up with me. The strong-room is on our way, and while you are looking at

the latest specimens I will carry out your orders."

He turned back with the words, and led the way towards the distant lamp

that glimmered in the wall.

Stiffly Hill turned to the girl beside him. "Would you rather go back and

wait for me?" he said.

"Oh, no!" she said, instantly. "No; I am coming too."

He said no more, but grimly stalked in the wake of Warden.

The latter moved quickly till he reached the place where the lamp was

lodged in a niche in the wall. Here he stopped, stooped, and fitted a key

into a narrow door that had been let into the stone. It opened outwards,

and he drew aside, waiting for Hill.

"I will go and dismiss the men," he said. "May I leave you in charge till

I come back? They will not come this way."

Hill paused on the threshold. The lamp cast a dim light into the place,

which was close and gloomy as a prison.

"There are two steps down," said Warden. "One of them is badly broken,

but it's worth your while to go in and have a look at our latest finds.

You had better go first, sir. Be careful!"

He turned to depart with the words, still ignoring Dot. She was close to

Hill, and something impelled her to lay a restraining hand on his

shoulder as he took the first step down.

What followed happened with such stunning swiftness that her memory of

it ever afterwards was a confused jumble of impressions, like the wild

course of a nightmare.

She heard Warden swing round again in his tracks, but before she could

turn he had caught her and flung her backwards over his arm. With his

other hand simultaneously he dealt Hill a blow in the back that sent him

blundering down into the darkness, and then, with lightning rapidity, he

banged the door upon his captive. The lock sprang with the impact, but he

was not content with this. Still holding her, he dragged at a rough

handle above his head and by main strength forced down an iron shutter

over the locked door.

Then, breathing hard and speaking no word, he lifted her till she hung

across his shoulder, and started to run. She had not uttered a sound, so

stunned with amazement was she, so bereft of even the power to think. Her

position was one of utter helplessness. He held her with one arm as

easily as if she had been a baby. And she knew that in his free hand he

carried his revolver.

In her bewilderment she had not the faintest idea as to the direction he

took. She only knew that he ran like a hunted rat down many passages,

turning now this way, now that, till at last he plunged down an unseen

stairway and the sound of gurgling water reached her ears.

He slackened his pace then, and at last stood still. He did not alter his

hold upon her, however, but stood listening intently for many seconds.

She hung impotent across his shoulder, feeling still too paralyzed to

move.

He turned his head at last and spoke to her. "Have I terrified the senses

out of you, little new chum?" he whispered, softly.

That awoke her from her passivity. She made her first effort for freedom.

He drew her down into his arms and held her close.

"Right down," she said, insistently.

But he held her still. "If I let you go, you'll wander maybe, and get

lost," he said.

His action surprised her, but yet that instinctive trust with which he

had inspired her long ago remained, refusing to be shaken.

"Put me right down!" she said again. "And tell me why you did it!"

He set her on her feet, but he still held her. "Can't you guess?" he

said.

"No!" she said. "No!"

She spoke a little wildly. Was it the first doubt that ran shadow--like

across her brain, leaving her so strangely cold? She wished it had not

been so dark, that she might see his face. "Tell me!" she said again.

But he did not tell her. "Don't be afraid!" was all he said in answer.

"You are--safe enough."

"But--but--Fletcher?" she questioned, desperately. "What of him?"

"He's safe too--for the present." There was something of grimness in his

reply. "He doesn't matter so much. He's been asking for trouble all

along--but he had no right--no right whatever--to bring you into it.

It's you that matters."

A curious, vibrant quality had crept into his voice, and an answering

tremor went through her; but she controlled it swiftly.

"And Adela," she said. "She was with Mr. Harley. What has become of her?"

"He will take care of her for his own sake. Leave her to him!" Warden

spoke with a hint of disdain. "She'll get nothing worse than a fright,"

he said, "possibly not even that--if he gets her to the manager's house

in time."

"In time!" she echoed. "In time for what? What is going to happen? What

do you mean?"

His hold tightened upon her. "Well," he said, "there's going to be a row.

But I'm boss of this show, and I reckon I can deal with it. Only--I'll

have you safe first, little new chum. I'm not taking any chances where

you are concerned."

She gasped a little. The steady assurance of his voice stirred her

strangely.

She tried to release herself from his hold. "I don't like this place,"

she said. "Let me go back to Mr. Hill."

"That's just what I can't do." He bent suddenly down to her. "Won't you

trust me?" he said. "I didn't fail you last time, did I?"

She thrilled in answer to those words. It was as if thereby he had flung

down all barriers between them. She stood for a moment in indecision,

then impulsively she turned and grasped his arms.

"I trust you--absolutely," she told him, tremulously. "But--but--though

I know you don't like him--promise me--you won't let--Fletcher be hurt!"

He, too, was silent for a moment before responding. She fancied that he

flinched a little at her words. Then: "All right, I promise," he said.

"Then I will go--wherever you like," she said, bravely, and put her hand

into his.

He took it into a strong grasp. "That's like you," he said, with

simplicity.

CHAPTER X

THE GREATER LOVE

Through a labyrinth of many passages he led her, over ground that was

often rough and slimy with that sound of running water in their ears,

sometimes near, sometimes distant, but never wholly absent. Now and then

a gleam of light would come from some distant crevice, and Dot would

catch a glimpse of the rocky corridor through which they moved--catch a

glimpse also of her companion walking with his free stride beside her,

though occasionally he had to stoop when the roof was low. He did not

look at her, seldom spoke to her, but the grasp of his hand held her up

and kept all fear at bay. Somehow fear in this man's presence seemed

impossible.

A long time passed, and she was sure that they had traversed a

considerable distance before, very far ahead of them at the end

of a steep upward slope, she discerned a patch of sky.

"Is that where we are going?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

She gazed before her, puzzled. "But where are we? Are we still in the

mine?"

"No. This is the smugglers' warren." She caught a hint of humour in his

voice. "The stream flows underground all through here--and very useful we

have found it."

She gave a great start at his words. "You--you are not a smuggler!" she

said.

He drew her on. "I am a good many things," he said, easily, "and the king

of this rat-run amongst them. There's no one knows it as well as I do."

Her heart sank. "You said--you said yesterday--you had lived straight!"

she said, in a low voice.

"Did I? But what does it matter to you how I live?" With a touch of

recklessness he put the question. "If Fletcher Hill managed to put the

official seal on me, what would it matter to you--now?"

There was almost a note of anger in his voice, yet his hand still held

hers in the same close, reassuring grasp. She could not be afraid.

"It would matter," she said at last.

"I wonder why?" said Bill Warden.

"Because--we are friends," she said.

He made a sharp sound as of dissent, but he did not openly contradict

her. They were nearing the opening, and the ground was rough and broken.

She stumbled once or twice, and each time he held her up. Finally they

came to a flight of steps that were little more than notches cut steeply

in the rock.

"I shall have to carry you here," he said.

Dot looked upwards with sharp dismay. The rocky wall rose twenty feet

above her, the rough-hewn steps slanting along its face. For the first

time her heart misgave her.

"What a dreadful place!" she said.

"It's the only way out," said Warden, "unless we tramp underground nearly

half-way to Wallacetown!"

"Can't we go back?" she said, nervously.

"What! Afraid?" He gave her hand a sudden squeeze.

She looked at him and caught the blue fire of his eyes as he bent towards

her. Something moved her, she knew not what. She surrendered herself to

him without a word.

Once more she hung upon his shoulder, clinging desperately, while he made

that perilous ascent. He went up with amazing agility, as if he were

entirely unencumbered. She felt the strength of his great frame beneath

her, and marvelled. Again the magnetic force of the man possessed her,

stilling all fear. She shut her eyes dizzily, but she was not afraid.

When she looked up again they were in the open. He had set her on her

feet, and she stood on the rugged side of a mountain where no vestige of

a path or any habitation showed in any direction. For the first time he

had relinquished all hold upon her, and stood apart, almost as if he

would turn and leave her.

The brief twilight was upon them. It was as if dark wings were folding

them round. A small chill wind was wandering to and fro. She shivered

involuntarily. It sounded like the whispering of an evil spirit. The fear

she had kept at bay for so long laid clammy hands upon her.

Instinctively she turned to the man for protection. "How shall we get

away?" she said.

He moved sharply, so sharply that for a single moment she thought that

something had angered him. And then--all in one single blinding

instant--she realized that which no words could utter. For he caught her

swiftly to him, lifting her off her feet, and very suddenly he covered

her face and neck and throat with hot, devouring kisses--kisses that

electrified her--kisses that seemed to scorch and blister--yet to fill

her with a pulsing rapture that was almost too great to endure.

She tried to hide her face from him, but she could not; to protest, but

his lips stopped the words upon her own. She was powerless--and very

deep down within her there leaped a wild thing that rejoiced--that

exulted--in her powerlessness.

The fierce storm spent itself. There came a pause during which she

lay palpitating against his breast while his cheek pressed hers in a

stillness that was in a fashion more compelling than even those burning

kisses had been.

He spoke to her at last, and his voice was deep and tender, throbbing

with that which was beyond utterance.

"You love me, little new chum," he said.

There was no question in his words. She quivered, and made no answer.

That headlong outburst of passion had overwhelmed her utterly. She was

as drift upon the tide.

He drew a great heaving breath, and clasped her closer. His words fell

hot upon her face. "You are mine! Why shouldn't I keep you? Fate has

given you to me. I'd be a fool to let you go again."

But something--some inner impulse that had been stunned to impotence by

his violence--stirred within her at his words and awoke. Yet it was

scarcely of her own volition that she answered him. "I am--not--yours."

Very faintly the words came from her trembling lips, but the utterance of

them gave her new strength. She moved at last in his hold. She turned her

face away from him.

"What do you mean?" He spoke in a fierce whisper, but--she felt it

instinctively--there was less of assurance in his hold. It was that that

added to her strength, but she offered no active resistance, realizing

wherein lay his weakness--and her own.

"I mean," she said, and though it still trembled beyond her control, her

voice gathered confidence with the words, "that by taking me--by keeping

me--you are taking--keeping--what is not your own."

"Love gives me the right," he asserted, swiftly--"your love--and mine."

But the clearer vision had come to her. She shook her head against his

shoulder. "No--no! That is wrong. That is not--the greater love."

"What do you mean by--the greater love?" He was holding her still

closely, but no longer with that fierce possession.

She answered him with a steadiness that surprised herself: "I mean the

only love that is worth having--the love that lasts."

He caught up the words passionately. "And hasn't my love lasted? Have I

ever thought of any other woman since the day I met you? Haven't I been

fighting against odds ever since to be able to come to you an honest

man--and worthy of your love?"

"Oh, I know--I know!" she said, and there was a sound of heartbreak in

her voice. "But--the odds have been too heavy. I thought you had

forgotten--long ago."

"Forgotten!" he said.

"Yes." With a sob she answered him. "Men do forget--nearly all of them.

Fletcher Hill didn't. He kept on waiting, and--and--they said it wasn't

fair--to spoil a man's life for a dream--that could never come true.

So--I gave in at last. I am--promised to him."

"Against your will?" His arms tightened upon her again. "Tell me, little

new chum! Was it against your will?"

"No! Oh, no!" She whispered the words through tears. "I gave

in--willingly. I thought it was better than--an empty life."

"Ah!" The word fell like a groan. "And that's what you're going to

condemn me to, is it?"

She turned in his arms, summoning her strength. "We've got to play the

game," she said. "I've got to keep my word--whatever it costs. And

you--you are going to keep yours."

"My word?" he questioned, swiftly.

"Yes." She lifted her head. "If--if you really care about being

honest--if your love is worth--anything at all--that is the only way.

You promised--you promised--to save him."

"Save him for you?" he said.

"Yes--save him for me." She did not know how she uttered the words, but

somehow they were spoken.

They went into a silence that wrung her soul, and it cost her every atom

of her strength not to recall them.

Bill Warden stood quite motionless for many pulsing seconds, then--very,

very slowly--at length his hold began to slacken.

In the end he set her on her feet--and she was free. "All right, little

new chum!" he said, and she heard a new note in his voice--a note that

waked in her a wild impulse to spring back into his arms and cling to

him--and cling to him. "I'll do it--for you--if it kills me--just to show

you--little girl--just to show you--what my love for you is really

worth."

He stood a moment, facing her; then his hands clenched and he turned

away.

"Let's go down the hill!" he said. "I'll see you in safety first."

CHAPTER XI

WITHOUT CONDITIONS

In the midst of a darkness that could be felt Fletcher Hill stood,

grimly motionless, waiting. He knew that strong-room, had likened it

to a condemned cell every time he had entered it, and with bitter humour

he told himself that he had put his own neck into the noose with a

vengeance this time.

Not often--if ever--before had he made the fatal mistake of trusting one

who was untrustworthy. He would not have dreamed of trusting Harley, for

instance. But for some reason he had chosen to repose his confidence in

Warden, and now it seemed that he was to pay the price of his rashness.

It was that fact that galled him far more than the danger with which he

was confronted. That he, Fletcher Hill--the Bloodhound--ever wary and

keen of scent, should have failed to detect a _ruse_ so transparent--this

inflicted a wound that his pride found it hard to sustain. Through his

lack of caution he had forfeited his own freedom, if not his life, and

exposed Dot to a risk from the thought of which even his iron nerve

shrank. He told himself repeatedly, with almost fierce emphasis, that Dot

would be safe, that Warden could not be such a hound as to fail her; but

deep within him there lurked a doubt which he would have given all he had

to be able to silence. The fact remained that through his negligence she

had been left unprotected in an hour of great danger.

Within the narrow walls of his prison there was no sound save the

occasional drip of water that oozed through the damp rock. He might have

been penned in a vault, and the darkness that pressed upon him seemed to

crush the senses, making difficult coherent thought. There was nothing

to be done but to wait, and that waiting was the worst ordeal that

Fletcher Hill had ever been called upon to face.

A long time passed--how long he had no means of gauging. He stood like

a sentinel, weapon in hand, staring into the awful darkness, struggling

against its oppression, fighting to keep his brain alert and ready for

any emergency. He thought he was prepared for anything, but that time

of waiting tried his endurance to the utmost, and when at length a sound

other than that irregular drip of water came through the deathly

stillness he started with a violence that sent a smile of self-contempt

to his lips.

It was a wholly unexpected sound--just the ordinary tones of a man's

voice speaking to him through the darkness where he had believed that

there was nothing but a blank wall.

"Mr. Hill, where are you?" it said. "I have come to get you out."

Hill's hand tightened upon his revolver. He was not to be taken unawares

a second time. He stood in absolute silence, waiting.

There was a brief pause, then again came the voice. "There's not much

point in shooting me. You'll probably starve if you do. So watch out!

I'm going to show a light."

Hill still stood without stirring a muscle. His back was to the door. He

faced the direction of the voice.

Suddenly, like the glare from an explosion, a light flashed in his eyes,

blinding him after the utter dark. He flinched from it in spite of

himself, but the next moment he was his own master again, erect and

stern, contemptuously unafraid.

"Don't shoot!" said Bill Warden, with a gleam of his teeth, "or maybe

you'll shoot a friend!"

He was standing empty-handed save for the torch he carried, his great

figure upright against the wall, facing Hill with speculation in his

eyes.

Hill lowered his revolver. "I doubt it," he said, grimly.

"Ah! You don't know me yet, do you?" said Warden, a faintly jeering note

in his voice.

"Yes," said Hill, deliberately. "I think I know you--pretty well--now."

"I wonder," said Warden.

He moved slowly forward, throwing the light before him as he did so. The

place had been blasted out of the rock, and here and there the stone

shone smooth as marble where the charge had gone. Rough shelves had been

hewn in the walls, leaving divisions between, and on some of these were

stored bags of the precious metal that had been ground out of the ore.

There was no sign anywhere of any entrance save the iron-bound door

behind Hill.

Straight in front of him Warden stopped. They stood face to face.

"Well?" Warden said. "What do you know of me?"

Hill's eyes were as steel. He stood stiff as a soldier on parade. He

answered curtly, without a hint of emotion. "I know enough to get you

arrested when this--farce--is over."

"Oh, you call this a farce, do you?" Bill Warden's words came slowly from

lips that strangely smiled. "And when does--the fun begin?"

Hill's harsh face was thrown into strong relief by the flare of the

torch. It was as flint confronting the other man. "Do you really imagine

that I regard this sort of Forty Thieves business seriously?" he said.

"I imagine it is pretty serious so far as you are concerned," said

Warden. "You're in about the tightest hole you've ever been in in your

life. And it's up to me to get you out--or to leave you. Do you

understand that?"

"Oh, quite," said Fletcher Hill, sardonically. "But--let me tell you

at the outset--you won't find me specially easy to bargain with on that

count--Mr. Buckskin Bill."

Bill Warden threw up his head with a gesture of open defiance. "I'm not

doing any--bargaining," he said. "And as to arresting me--afterwards--you

can do as you please. But now--just now--you are in my power, and you're

going to play my game. Got that?"

"I can see myself doing it," said Fletcher Hill.

"Yes, you will do it." A sudden deep note of savagery sounded in Warden's

voice. "Not to save your own skin, Mr. Fletcher Hill, but for the sake

of--something more valuable than that--something more precious even than

your cussed pride. You'll do it for the sake of the girl you're going to

marry. And you'll do it--now."

"Shall I?" said Fletcher Hill.

Bill Warden's hand suddenly came forth and gripped him by the shoulder.

"Damn you!" he said. "Do you think I want to save your life?"

The words were low, spoken with a concentrated passion more terrible than

open violence. He looked closely into Hill's eyes, and his own were

flaming like the eyes of a baited animal.

Hill looked straight back at him without the stirring of an eyelid. "Take

your hand off me!" he said.

It was the word of the superior officer. Warden's hand fell as it were

mechanically. There followed a tense silence.

Warden made a sharp movement. "I did it to save your life," he said.

"You'd have died like a dog within ten seconds if I hadn't turned you

back."

A curious expression crossed Hill's strong countenance. It was almost a

smile of understanding. "I am--indebted to you--boss," he said, and with

the words very calmly he took his revolver by the muzzle and held it out.

"I surrender to you--without conditions."

Bill Warden gave a sharp start of surprise. For an instant he hesitated,

then in silence he took the weapon and dropped it into his pocket. A

moment longer he looked Fletcher Hill straight in the eyes, then swung

upon his heel.

"We'll get out of this infernal hole straight away," he said, and,

stooping, gripped his fingers upon a ridge of stone that ran close to the

floor. The stone swung inward under his grasp, leaving a dark aperture

gaping at his feet. Bill glanced backwards at his prisoner.

The smile still hovered in the latter's eye. "After you, Mr. Buckskin

Bill!" he said, ceremoniously.

And in silence Bill led the way.

CHAPTER XII

THE BOSS OF BARREN VALLEY

"Oh, my dear!" gasped Adela. "I've had the most terrifying adventure.

I thought I should never see you again. The men are all on strike, and

they've sworn to kill Fletcher Hill, only no one knows where he is. What

became of him? Has he got away?"

"I don't know," Dot said.

She sank into the nearest chair in the ill-lighted manager's office, and

leaned her white face in her hand.

"Perhaps he has been murdered already," said Adela. "Mr. Harley is

very anxious about him. He can't hold them. And--Dot--just think of

it!--Warden--the man we saw yesterday, the sub-manager--is at their head.

I saw him myself. He had a revolver in his hand. You were with Fletcher

Hill. You must know what became of him!"

"No, I don't know," said Dot. "We--parted--a long time ago."

"How odd you are!" said Adela. "Why, what is the matter? Are you going to

faint?" She went to the girl and bent over her, frightened by her look.

"What is the matter, Dot? What has happened to you? You haven't been

hurt?"

"I am--all right," Dot said, with an effort. "Did Mr. Harley bring you

here?"

"Yes. And you? How did you get here?"

"He--brought me most of the way--Mr. Warden," Dot said. "He has gone now

to save--Fletcher Hill."

"To shoot him, more likely," said Adela. "He has posted sentinels all

round the mine to catch him. I wonder if we are safe here! Mr. Harley

said it was a safe place. But I wonder. Shall we make a bolt for it, Dot?

Shall we? Shall we?"

"I shall stay here," Dot answered.

Adela was not even listening. "We are only two defenceless women, and

there isn't a man to look after us. What shall we do if--Ah! Heavens!

What is that?"

A fearful sound had cut short her speculations--a fiendish yelling as of

a pack of wolves leaping upon their prey. Dot sat up swiftly. Adela

cowered in a corner.

The terrible noise continued, appalling in its violence. It swept like

a wave towards the building, drowning the roar of the stream below. The

girl at the table rose and went to the closed door. She gripped a

revolver in her right hand. With her left she reached for the latch.

"Don't open it!" gasped Adela.

But Dot paid no heed. She lifted the latch and flung wide the door. Her

slim figure stood outlined against the lamp-light behind her. Before her

in a white glare of moonlight lay the vault-like entrance of the mine at

the head of Barren Valley, and surging along the black, scarred side of

the hill there came a yelling crowd of miners. They were making straight

for the open door, but at the sight of the girl standing there they

checked momentarily and the shouting died down.

She faced the foremost of them without a tremor. "What is it?" she

demanded, in a clear, ringing voice. "What are you wanting?"

A man with the shaggy face of a baboon answered her. "You've got that

blasted policeman in there. You stick up that gun of yours and let us

pass! We've got guns of our own, so that won't help."

She confronted him with scorn. "Do you imagine I'm afraid of you and your

guns? There's no one here except another woman. Are you out to fight

women to-night?"

"That's a lie!" he made prompt response. "You've got Fletcher Hill in

there, or I'm a nigger. You let us pass!"

But still she blocked the way, her revolver pointing straight at him.

"Fletcher Hill is not here. And you won't come in unless Mr. Warden says

so. He is not here either at present. But he is coming. And I will shoot

any man who tries to force his way in first."

"Damnation!" growled the shaggy-faced one and wheeled upon his comrades.

"What do you say to that, boys? Going to let a woman run this show?"

A chorus of curses answered him, but still no one raised a revolver

against the slender figure that opposed them. Only, after a moment, a cur

in the background picked up a stone and flung it. It struck the doorpost,

narrowly missing her shoulder. Dot did not flinch, but immediately, with

tightened lips, she raised the revolver and fired over their heads.

A furious outburst followed the explosion, and in an instant a dozen

revolvers were levelled at her. But in that same instant there came a

sound like the roar of a lion from behind the building, and with it

Warden's great figure leapt out into the moonlight.

"You damned ruffians!" he yelled. "You devils! What are you doing?"

His anger was in a fashion superb. It dwarfed the anger of the crowd.

They gave way before him like a herd of beasts. He sprang in front of

the girl, raging like a man possessed.

"You gang of murderers! You hounds! You dirty swine! Get back, do you

hear? I'm the boss of this show, and what I say goes, or, if it doesn't,

I'll know the reason why. Benson--you dog! What's the meaning of this? Do

you think I'll have under me any coward that will badger a woman?"

The man he addressed looked at him with a cowed expression on his hairy

face. "I never wanted to interfere with her," he growled. "But she's

protecting that damned policeman. It's her own fault for getting in our

way."

"You're wrong then!" flashed back Warden. "Fletcher Hill is under my

protection, not hers. He has surrendered to me as my prisoner."

"You've, got him?" shouted a score of voices.

"Yes, I've got him." Rapidly Warden made answer. "But I'm not going to

hand him over to you to be murdered out of hand. If I'm boss of Barren

Valley, I'll be boss. So if any of you are dissatisfied you'll have to

reckon with me first. Fletcher Hill is my prisoner, and I'll see to it

that he has a fair trial. Got that?"

A low murmur went round. The magnetism of the man was making itself felt.

He had that electric force which sways the multitude against all reason.

Single-handed, he gripped them with colossal assurance. They shrank from

the flame of his wrath like beaten dogs.

"And before we deal with him," he went on, "there's someone else to be

reckoned with. And that's Harley. Does anyone know where Harley is?"

"What do you want with Harley?" asked Benson, glad of this diversion.

"Oh, just to tell him what I think of him, and then--to kick him out!"

With curt contempt Warden threw his answer. "He's a traitor and a

skunk--smuggles spirits one minute and goes to the police to sell his

chums the next; then back to his chums again to sell the police. I know.

I've been watching him for some time, the cur. He'd shoot me if he

dared."

"He'd better!" yelled a huge miner in the middle of the crowd.

Warden laughed. "That you, Nixon? Come over here! I've got something to

tell you--and the other boys. It's the story of this blasted mine." He

turned suddenly to the girl who still stood behind him in the lighted

doorway. "Miss Burton, I'd like you to hear it too. Shut the door and

stand by me!"

Her shining eyes were on his face. She obeyed him mutely, with a

submission as unquestioning as that of the rough crowd in front of them.

Very gently he took the revolver from her, drew one out of his own pocket

also, and handed both to the big man called Nixon who had come to his

side.

"You look after these!" he said.

"One is my property. The other belongs to Fletcher Hill--who is my

prisoner. Now, boys, you're armed. I'm not. You won't shoot the lady, I

know. And for myself I'll take my chance."

"Guess you won't be any the worse for that," grinned Nixon, at his elbow.

Warden's smile gleamed for an instant in answer, but he passed swiftly

on. "Did you ever hear of a cattle-thief called Buckskin Bill? He

flourished in these parts some five years ago. There was no mine in

Barren Valley then. It was just--a smugglers' stronghold."

Some of the men in front of him stirred uneasily. "What's this to do with

Fletcher Hill?" asked one.

"I'll tell you," said Warden. "Buckskin Bill, the cattle-thief, was in a

tight corner, and he took refuge in Barren Valley. He found the

smugglers' _cache_--and he found something else that the smugglers didn't

know of. He found--gold. It's a queer thing, boys, but he'd decided--for

private reasons--to give up the cattle-lifting just two days before. The

police were hot after him, but they didn't catch him and the smugglers

didn't catch him either. He dodged 'em all, and when he left he said to

himself, 'I'll be the boss of Barren Valley when I come back.' After that

he went West and starved a bit in the Australian desert till the cattle

episode had had time to blow over. Then--it's nearly two years ago

now--he came back. The first person he ran into was--Fletcher Hill,

the policeman."

He paused with that dramatic instinct which was surely part-secret of his

fascination. He had caught the full attention of the crowd, and held them

spellbound.

In a moment he went on. "That gave him an idea. Hill, of course, was

after other game by that time and didn't spot him. Hill was a magistrate

and a civil power at Wallacetown. So Bill went to him, knowing he was

straight, anyway, and told him about the gold in Barren Valley,

explaining, bold as brass, that he couldn't run the show himself for lack

of money. Boys, it was a rank speculation, but Hill was a sport. He

caught on. He came to Barren Valley, and they tinkered round together,

and they found gold. That same night they came upon the smugglers,

too--only escaped running into them by a miracle. Hill didn't say much.

He's not a talker. But after they got back to Wallacetown he made an

offer to Buckskin Bill which struck him as being a very sporting

proposition for a policeman. He said, 'If you care to take on Barren

Valley and make an honest concern of it, I'll get the grant and do the

backing. The labour is there,' he said, 'but it's got to be honest labour

or I won't touch it.' It was a sporting offer, boys, and, of course, Bill

jumped. And so a contract was drawn up which had to be signed. And

'What's your name?' said Fletcher Hill." Warden suddenly began to laugh.

"On my oath, he didn't know what to say, so he just caught at the first

honest-sounding name he could think of. 'Fortescue,' he said. Hill didn't

ask a single question. 'Then that mine shall be called the Fortescue Gold

Mine,' he said. 'And you'll work it and make an honest man's job of it.'

It was a pretty big undertaking, but it sort of appealed to Buckskin

Bill, and he took it on. The only real bad mistake he made was when he

trusted Harley. Except for that, the thing worked--and worked well.

The smuggling trade isn't what it was, eh, boys? That's because

Fortescue--and Fletcher Hill--are using up the labour for the mine. And

you may hate 'em like hell, but you can't get away from the fact that

this mine is run fair and decent, and there isn't a man here who doesn't

stand a good chance of making his fortune if he plays a straight game.

It's been a chance to make good for every one of us, and it's thanks to

Fletcher Hill--because he hasn't asked questions--because he's just taken

us on trust--and I'm hanged if he doesn't deserve something better than a

bullet through his brain, even if he is a magistrate and a policeman and

a man of honour. Have you got that, boys? Then chew it over and swallow

it! And when you've done that, I'll tell you something more."

"Oh, let's have it all, boss, now you're at it!" broke in Nixon. "We

shan't have hysterics now. We're past that stage."

Warden turned with a lightning movement and laid his hand upon the girl

beside him. "Gentlemen," he said, "it's Fletcher Hill--and not Buckskin

Bill--who's the boss of this valley. And he's a good boss--he's a

sportsman--he's a maker of men. And this lady is going to be his wife.

You're going to stand by her, boys. You aren't going to make a widow of

her before she's married. You aren't going to let a skunk like Harley

make skunks of you all. You're sportsmen, too--better sportsmen than that

stands for--better sportsmen, maybe, than I am myself. What, boys? It's

your turn to speak now."

"Wait a bit!" said Nixon. "You haven't quite finished yet, boss."

"No, that's true." Warden paused an instant, then abruptly went forward a

pace and stood alone before the crowd. "I've taken a good many chances in

my life," he said. "But now I'm taking the biggest of 'em all. Boys, I'm

a damned impostor. I've tricked you all, and it's up to you to stick me

against a wall and shoot me as I deserve, if you feel that way. For I'm

Buckskin Bill--I'm Fortescue--and I'm several kinds of a fool to think I

could ever carry it through. Now you know!"

With defiant recklessness he flung the words. They were more of a

challenge than a confession. And having spoken them he moved straight

forward with the moonlight on his face till he stood practically among

the rough crowd.

They opened out to receive him, almost as if at a word of command. And

Buckskin Bill, with his head high and his blue eyes flaming, went

straight into them with the gait of a conqueror.

Suddenly, with a passionate gesture, he stopped, flinging up his empty

right hand. "Well, boys, well? What's the verdict? I'm in your hands."

And a great hoarse roar of enthusiasm went up as they closed around him

that was like the bursting asunder of mighty flood-gates. They surged

about him. They lifted him on their shoulders. They yelled like maniacs

and fired their revolvers in the air. It was the wildest outbreak that

Barren Valley had ever heard, and to the girl who watched it, it was the

most marvellous revelation of a man's magnetism that she had ever beheld.

Alone he had faced and conquered a multitude.

It pierced her strangely, that fierce enthusiasm, stirring her as

personal danger had failed to stir. She turned with the tears running

down her face and found Fletcher Hill standing unnoticed behind her,

silently looking on.

"Oh, isn't he great? Isn't he great?" she said.

He took her arm and led her within. His touch was kind, but wholly

without warmth. "There's not much doubt as to who is the boss of Barren

Valley," he said.

And with the words he smiled--a smile that was sadder than her tears.

CHAPTER XIII

THE OFFICIAL SEAL

That life could possibly return to a normal course after that amazing

night would have seemed to Dot preposterous but for the extremely

practical attitude adopted by Fletcher Hill. But when she saw him again

on the day after their safe return to Trelevan there was nothing in his

demeanour to remind her of the stress through which they had passed. He

was, as ever, perfectly calm and self-contained, and wholly

uncommunicative. Adela sought in vain to satisfy her curiosity as to the

happenings in Barren Valley which her courage had not permitted her to

witness for herself. Fletcher Hill was as a closed book, and on some

points Dot was equally reticent. By no persuasion could Adela induce her

to speak of Bill Warden. She turned the subject whenever it approached

him, professing an ignorance which Adela found excessively provoking.

They saw nothing of him during the remainder of the week, and very

little of Fletcher Hill, who went to and fro upon his business with a

machine-like precision that seemed to pervade his every action. He made

no attempt to be alone with Dot, and she, with a shyness almost

overwhelming, thankfully accepted his forbearance. The day they had fixed

upon for their marriage was rapidly approaching, but she had almost

ceased to contemplate it, for somehow it seemed to her that it could

never dawn. Something must happen first! Surely something was about to

happen! And from day to day she lived for the sight of Bill Warden's

great figure and the sound of his steady voice. Anything, she felt, would

be bearable if only she could see him once again. But she looked for him

in vain.

When her brother joined them at the end of the week a dullness of despair

had come upon her. Again she saw herself trapped and helpless, lacking

even the spirit to attempt escape. She greeted Jack almost abstractedly,

and he observed her throughout the evening with anxiety in his eyes. When

it was over he drew her aside for a moment as she was bidding him

good-night.

"What's the matter, little 'un? What's wrong?" he whispered, with his arm

about her.

She clung to him for an instant with a closeness that was passionate.

But, "It's nothing, Jack," she whispered back. "It's nothing."

Then Fletcher Hill came up to them, and they separated. Adela and Dot

went up to bed, and the two men were left alone.

* * * * *

So at length the great day dawned, and nothing had happened. The only

news that had reached them was a remark overheard by Adela in the

dining-room, to the effect that Harley had thrown up his post and gone.

Dot dressed for her wedding with a dazed sense of unreality. Her attire

was of the simplest. She wore a hat instead of a veil. It was to be a

quiet ceremony in the early morning, for neither she nor Hill desired any

unnecessary parade. When she descended the stairs with Adela, Jack was

the only person awaiting her in the hall.

He looked at her searchingly as she came down to him, then without a word

he took her in his arms and kissed her white face. She saw that he was

moved, and wondered within herself at her own utter lack of emotion. Ever

since she had lain against Bill Warden's breast, the wild sweet rapture

of his hold had seemed to paralyze in her all other feeling. She knew

only the longing for his presence, the utter emptiness of a world that

held him not.

She drove to the church with her hand in Jack's, Adela talking

incessantly the whole way while they two sat in silence. It was a bare

building in the heart of the town, but its bareness did not convey any

chill to her. She was already too numbly cold for that.

She went up the aisle between Jack and Adela, because the latter

good-naturedly remarked that she might as well have as much support as

she could get. But before they reached the altar-steps Fletcher Hill came

to meet them, and Adela dropped behind.

He also looked for a moment closely into Dot's face, then very quietly he

took her cold hand from Jack and drew it through his arm. She glanced at

him with a momentary nervousness as Jack also fell behind.

Then some unknown force drew her as the magnet draws the needle, and she

looked towards the altar. A man was standing by the steps awaiting her.

She saw the free carriage of the great shoulders, the deep fire of the

blue eyes. And suddenly her heart gave a wild throb that was anguish, and

stood still.

Fletcher Hill's arm went round her. He held her for a second closely to

him--more closely than he had ever held her before. But--it came to her

later--he did not utter a single word. He only drew her on.

And so she came to Bill Warden waiting before the altar. They met--and

all the rest was blotted out.

She went through that service in a breathless wonderment, an amazement

that yet was strangely free from distress. For Bill Warden's hand clasped

hers throughout, save when Fletcher Hill took it from him for a moment to

give her away.

When it was over, and they knelt together in the streaming sunshine of

the morning, she felt as if they two were alone in an inner sanctuary

that was filled with the Love of God. Later, those sacred moments were

the holiest memory of her life....

Then a strong arm lifted and held her. She turned from the holy place

with a faint sigh of regret, turned to meet Fletcher Hill's eyes looking

at her with that in them which she was never to forget.

His voice was the first to break through the wonder-spell that bound her.

"Do you think you will ever manage to forgive me?" he said.

She turned swiftly from the arm that encircled her, and impulsively

she put her hands upon his shoulders, offering him her lips. "Oh, I

don't--know--what--to say," she said, brokenly.

He bent and gravely kissed her. "My dear, there is nothing to be said so

far as I am concerned," he said. "If you are happy, I am satisfied."

It was briefly spoken, but it went straight to her heart. She clung to

him for a moment without words, and that was all the thanks she ever

offered him. For there was nothing to be said.

* * * * *

Very late on the evening of that wonderful day she sat with Bill Warden

on the edge of a rock overlooking a fertile valley of many waters in the

Blue Mountains, and heard, with her hand in his the amazing story of the

past few days, which had seemed to her so curiously dream-like.

"I fought hard against marrying you," Bill told her, with the smile she

had remembered for so long. "But he had me at every turn--simply rolled

me out and wiped the ground with me. Said he'd clap me into prison if I

didn't, and when I said 'All right' to that, he turned on me like a tiger

and asked if I wanted to break your heart. Oh, he made me feel a

ten-times swab, I can tell you. And when I said I didn't want you to

marry an uncaught criminal, he just looked me over and said, 'You've sown

your wild oats. As your partner, I am sponsor for your respectability.' I

knew what that meant, knew he'd stand by me through thick and thin,

whatever turned up. It was the official seal with a vengeance, for what

Fletcher Hill says goes in these parts. But it went against the grain,

little new chum. It made me sick with myself. I hated playing his game

against himself. It was the vilest thing I ever did. I couldn't have done

it--except for you."

The little hand that held his tightened. She leaned her cheek against his

shoulder. "Shall I tell you something?" she whispered. "I couldn't have

done it either--except for--you."

His arm clasped her. "I'm such a poor sort of creature, darling," he said

"I'll work for you--live for you--die for you. But I shall never be

worthy of you."

She lifted her face to his in the gathering darkness. "Dear love," she

said, "do you remember how--once--you asked me to treat you--without

prejudice? But I never have--and I don't believe I ever shall. Fletcher

Hill is right to trust you. He is a judge of men. But I--I am only the

woman who loves you, and--somehow--whichever way I take you--I'm always

prejudiced--in your favour."

The low words ended against his lips. He kissed her closely,

passionately. "My little chum," he said, "I will be worthy--I will be

worthy--so help me God!"

He was near to tears as he uttered his oath; but presently, when he

turned back her sleeve to kiss the place where first his lips had

lingered, they laughed together--the tender laughter of lovers in the

happy morning-time of life.

* * * * *

Her Own Free Will

CHAPTER I

"Well, it's all over now, for better, for worse, as they say. And I hope

very much as it won't be for worse."

A loud sniff expressive of grave misgiving succeeded the remark. The

speaker--one of a knot of village women--edged herself a little further

forward to look up the long strip of red baize that stretched from the

church porch to the lych gate near which she stood. The two cracked bells

were doing their best to noise abroad the importance of the event that

had just taken place, which was nothing less than the marriage of Colonel

Everard's daughter to Piet Cradock, the man of millions. Of the latter's

very existence none of the villagers had heard till a certain day, but a

few weeks before, when he had suddenly appeared at the Hall as the

accepted suitor of Nan Everard, whom everyone loved.

She was only twenty, prettiest, gayest, wildest, of the whole wild tribe.

Three sons and eight daughters had the Colonel--a handsome, unruly

family, each one of them as lavish, as extravagant, and as undeniably

attractive as he was himself.

His wife had been dead for years. They lived on the verge of bankruptcy,

had done so as long as most of them could remember; but it was only of

late that matters had begun to look really serious for them. It was

rumoured that the Hall was already mortgaged beyond its value, and it was

common knowledge that the Colonel's debts were accumulating with alarming

rapidity. This marriage, so it was openly surmised, had been arranged in

haste for the sole purpose of easing the strain.

For that Nan Everard cared in the smallest degree for the solemn,

thick-set son of a Boer mother, to whom she had given herself, no one

ever deemed possible for an instant. But he was rich, fabulously rich,

and that fact counterbalanced many drawbacks. Piet Cradock owned a large

share in a diamond mine in the South African Republic, and he was a

person of considerable importance in his native land in consequence. He

had visited England on business, but his time there had been limited to

a bare six weeks. This fact had necessitated a brief wooing and a speedy

marriage.

He had met the girl of his choice by a mere accident. He had chanced to

be seated on her right hand at a formal dinner-party in town. Very little

had passed between them then, but later, through the medium of his host,

he had sought her out, and called upon her. Within a week he had asked

her to be his wife. And Nan Everard, impulsive, dazzled by the prospect

of unbounded wealth, and feverishly eager to ease the family burden, had

accepted him.

He was obliged to sail for South Africa within three weeks of his

proposal, and preparations for the marriage had therefore to be hurried

forward with all speed. They were to leave for Plymouth immediately after

the ceremony, and to sail on the following day.

So at breathless speed events had raced, and no one knew exactly what

was the state of Nan's mind even up to the morning of her wedding-day.

Perhaps she scarcely knew herself, so madly had she been whirled along in

the vortex to which she had committed herself. But possibly during the

ceremony some vague realisation of what she was doing came upon her, for

she made her vows with a face as white as death, and in a voice that

never once rose above a whisper.

But when she came at last down the church-yard path upon her husband's

arm, she was laughing merrily enough. Some enthusiast had flung a shower

of rice over his uncovered head, to his obvious discomfiture.

He did not laugh with her. His smooth, heavy-jawed face was absolutely

unresponsive. He was fifteen years her senior, and he looked it to the

full. The hair grew far back upon his head, and it had a sprinkling of

grey. His height was unremarkable, but he had immensely powerful

shoulders, and a bull-like breadth of chest, that imparted a certain

air of arrogance to his gait. His black brows met shaggily over eyes of

sombre brown. Undeniably a formidable personage, this!

Nan, glancing at him as she entered the carriage, harboured for a

moment the startled reflection that if he had a beard nothing could

have restrained her just then from screaming and running away. But,

fortunately for her quaking dignity, his face, with the exception of

those menacing eyebrows, and the lashes that shaded his gloomy eyes, was

wholly free from hair.

Driving away from the church with its two clanging bells, she made a

resolute effort to shake off the scared feeling that had so possessed her

when she had stood at the altar with this man. If she had made a mistake,

and even now she was not absolutely certain that she had--it was

impossible in that turmoil of conflicting emotions to say--but

if she had, it was past remedy, and she must face the consequences

without shrinking. She had a conviction that he would domineer over her

without mercy if she displayed any fear.

So, bravely hiding her sinking heart, she laughed and chatted for the

benefit of her taciturn bridegroom with the gayest inconsequence during

the brief drive to her home.

He scarcely replied. He seemed to have something on his mind also. And

Nan breathed a little sigh of relief when they reached their destination,

and he gravely handed her out.

A litter of telegrams on a table in the old-fashioned hall caught the

girl's attention directly she entered. She pounced upon them with eager

zest.

"Ah, here's one from Jerry Lister. I knew he would be sure to remember.

He's the dearest boy in the world. He would have been here, but for some

horrid examination that kept him at Oxford."

She opened the message impetuously, and began to read it; but suddenly,

finding her husband at her side, she desisted, crumpling it in her hand

with decidedly heightened colour.

"Oh, he's quite ridiculous. Let us open some of the others."

She thrust a sheaf into his hand, and busied herself with the remainder.

He did not attempt to open any of them, but stood silently watching her

glowing face as she opened one after another and tossed them down.

Suddenly she raised her eyes, and met his look fully, with a certain

pride.

"Is anything the matter?"

He pointed quite calmly to the scrap of paper she held crumpled in her

hand.

"Are you not going to read that?" he asked, in slow, rather careful

English.

Her colour deepened; it rose to her forehead in a burning wave.

"Presently," she returned briefly.

His eyes held hers with a curious insistence.

"You need not be afraid," he said very quietly; "I shall not try to look

over."

Nan stared at him, too amazed for speech. The hot blood ebbed from

her face as swiftly as it had risen, leaving her as white as the

orange-blossoms in her hair.

At length suddenly, with a passionate gesture, she thrust out her hand to

him with the ball of paper on her palm.

"Pray take it and read it," she said, her voice quivering with anger,

"since it interests you so much."

He made no movement to comply.

"I do not wish to read it, Anne," he said gravely.

Her lip curled. It was the first time he had ever called her by her

Christian name, and there was something exceedingly formal in the way he

uttered it now. Moreover, no one ever called her anything but Nan. For

some reason she was hotly indignant at this unfamiliar mode of address.

It increased her anger against him tenfold.

"Take it and read it!" she reiterated, with stubborn persistence. "I wish

you to do so!"

The first carriage-load of guests was approaching the house as she spoke.

Cradock paused for a single instant as if irresolute, then, without more

ado, he took her at her word. He smoothed the paper out without the

smallest change of countenance, and read it, while she stood quivering

with impotent fury by his side. It was a long telegram, and it took some

seconds to read; but he did not look up till he had mastered it.

"Good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye," so ran the message--"It is no

red-letter day for me, but I wish you joy with all my heart. Spare a

thought now and then for the good old times and the boy you left behind

you.--Your loving Jerry."

Amid a buzz of congratulation, Piet Cradock handed the missive back to

his bride with a simple "Thank you!" that revealed nothing whatever of

what was in his mind.

She took it, without looking at him, with nervous promptitude, and the

incident passed.

The guests were many, and Nan's attention was very fully occupied. No

casual observer, seeing her smiling face, would have suspected the

turmoil of doubt that underlay her serenity.

Only Mona, her favourite sister, had the smallest inkling of it, but even

Mona was not in Nan's confidence just then. No intimate word of any sort

passed between them up in the old bedroom that they had shared all their

lives during the fleeting half-hour that Nan spent preparing for her

journey. They could neither of them bear to speak of the coming

separation, and that embodied everything.

The only allusion that Nan made to it was as she passed out of the room

with her arm round her sister's shoulders, and whispered:

"Don't sleep by yourself to-night, darling. Make Lucy join you."

They descended the stairs, holding closely to each other. Old Colonel

Everard, very red and tearful, met them at the foot, and folded Nan

tightly in his arms, murmuring inarticulate words of blessing.

Nan emerged from his embrace pale but quite tearless.

"Au revoir, dad!" she said, in her sprightliest tone. "You will be having

me back like a bad half-penny before you can turn round."

Still laughing, she went from one to another of her family with words of

careless farewell, and finally rah the gauntlet of her well-wishers to

the waiting carriage, into which she dived without ceremony to avoid the

hail of rice that pursued her.

Her husband followed her closely, and they were off almost before he took

his seat beside her.

"Thank goodness, that's over!" said Nan, with fervour. "I'll never marry

again if I live to be a hundred! I am sure being buried must be much more

fun, and not nearly so ignominious."

She leaned forward with the words, and was on the point of letting down

the window, when there was a sudden, deafening report close to them. The

carriage jerked and swerved violently, and in an instant it was being

whirled down the drive at the top speed of two terrified horses.

Instinctively Nan turned to the man beside her.

"It's the boys!" she exclaimed. "They said they should fire a salute!

But--but--"

She broke off, amazed to find his arms gripping her tightly, forcing her

back in her seat, holding her pressed to him with a strength that took

her breath away.

It all came--a multitude of impressions--crowded into a few brief

seconds; yet every racing detail was engraved with awful distinctness

upon the girl's mind, never to be forgotten.

She struggled wildly in that suffocating hold, struggled fruitlessly to

lift her face from her husband's shoulder into which it was ruthlessly

pressed, and only ceased to struggle when the end of that terrible flight

came with a jolt and a jar and a final, sickening crash that flung her

headlong into a dreadful gulf of emptiness into which no light or echo of

sound could even vaguely penetrate.

CHAPTER II

Nan opened her eyes in her own sunny bedroom, and gazed wonderingly about

her, dimly conscious of something wrong.

The doctor, whom she had known from her earliest infancy, was bending

over her, and she smiled her recognition of him, though with a dawning

uneasiness. Vague shapes were floating in her brain that troubled and

perplexed her.

"What happened?" she murmured uneasily.

He laid his hand upon her forehead.

"Nothing much," he told her gently. "Lie still like a good girl and go to

sleep. There is nothing whatever for you to worry about. You'll be better

in the morning."

But the shapes were obstinate, and would not be expelled. They were,

moreover, beginning to take definite form.

"Wasn't there an accident?" she said restlessly. "I wish you would tell

me."

"Well, I will," the doctor answered, "if you will keep quiet and not vex

yourself. There was a bit of an accident. The carriage was overturned.

But no one was hurt but you, and you will soon be yourself again if you

do as you're told."

"But how am I hurt?" questioned Nan, moving her head on the pillow with a

dizzy feeling of weakness. "Ah!" with a sudden frown of pain. "It--it's

my arm."

"Yes," the doctor said. "It's your arm. It went through the carriage

window. I have had to strap it up pretty tightly. You will try to put up

with it, and on no account must it be moved."

She looked at him with startled eyes.

"Is it very badly cut, then?"

"Yes, a fragment of glass pierced the main artery. But I have checked the

bleeding--it was a providential thing that I was at hand to do it--and

if you keep absolutely still, it won't burst out again. I am telling you

this because it is necessary for you to know what a serious matter it is.

Any exertion might bring it on again, and then I can't say what would

happen. You have lost a good deal of blood as it is, and you can't afford

to lose any more. But if you behave like a sensible girl, and lie quiet

for a few days, you will soon be none the worse for the adventure."

"For a few days!" Nan's eyes widened. "Then--then I shan't be able to go

with--with--" She faltered, and broke off.

He answered her with very kindly sympathy.

"Poor little woman! It's hard lines, but I am afraid there is no help for

it. You will have to postpone your honeymoon for a little while."

"Have you--have you--told--him?" Nan whispered anxiously.

"Yes, he knows all about it," the doctor said. "You shall see him

presently. But I want you to rest now. You have had a nasty shock, and

I should like you to sleep it off. Just drink this, and shut your eyes."

Nan obeyed him meekly. She was feeling very weak and tired. And, after a

little, she fell asleep, blissfully unconscious of the fact that her

husband was seated close to her on the other side of the bed, silent and

watchful, and immobile as a statue.

She did not wake till late on the following morning, and then it was to

find her sister Mona only in attendance.

"Have you been up all night?" was Nan's first query.

Mona hesitated.

"Well, not exactly. I lay down part of the time."

"Why in the world didn't you go to bed?" questioned Nan.

"I couldn't, dear. Piet was here."

"Who?" said Nan sharply; then, colouring vividly, "All night, Mona? How

could you let him?"

"I couldn't help it!" said Mona. "He wouldn't go."

"What nonsense! He's gone now, I suppose?" Nan spoke irritably. The

tightness of the doctor's bandages was causing her considerable pain.

"Oh, yes, he went some time ago," Mona assured her. "But he is sure to

come back presently, and say good-bye."

"Say good-bye!" Nan echoed the words slowly, a dawning brightness in her

eyes. "Is he--is he really going, then?" she whispered.

"He says he must go--whatever happens. It was a solemn promise, and he

can't break it. I don't understand, of course, but he is wanted at

Kimberley to avert some crisis connected with the mines."

"Then--he will have to start soon?" said Nan.

"Yes. But he won't leave till the last minute. He has chartered a special

to take him to Plymouth."

"He knows I can't go?" said Nan quickly.

"Oh, yes; the doctor told him that last night."

"What did he say? Was he angry?"

"He looked furious. But he didn't say anything, even in Dutch. I think

his feelings were beyond words," said Mona, with a little smile.

Nan asked no more, but when the doctor saw her a little later, he was

dissatisfied with her appearance, and scolded her for working herself

into a fever.

"There's no sense in fretting about it," he said. "The thing is done, and

can't be altered. I have no doubt your husband will be back again in a

few weeks to fetch you, and we will have you quite well again by then."

But Nan only shivered in response, as though she found this assurance

the reverse of comforting. The shock of the accident, succeeding the

incessant strain of the past few weeks, had completely broken down her

nerve, and no amount of reasoning could calm her.

When a message came from her husband an hour later, asking if she would

see him, she answered in the affirmative, but the bare prospect of the

interview threw her into a ferment of agitation.

She lay panting on her pillows like a frightened child when at length he

entered.

He came in very softly, but every pulse in her body leapt at his

approach. She could not utter a word in greeting.

He stood a moment in silence, looking down at her, then, stooping, he

took her free hand into his own.

"Are you better?" he asked, his deep voice hushed as if he were in

church.

She could not answer him for the fast beating of her heart. He waited a

little, then sat down by the bed, his great hand still holding her little

trembling one in a steady grasp.

"The doctor tells me," he said, "that it would not be safe for you to

travel at present, so I cannot of course, think of allowing you to do

so."

Nan's eyes opened very wide at this. It was an entirely novel idea that

this man should take upon himself to direct her movements. She drew a

deep breath, and found her voice.

"I should certainly not dream of attempting such a thing without the

doctor's permission."

His grave face did not alter. His eyes looked directly into hers and

it seemed to Nan for the first time that they held something of a

domineering expression.

She turned her head away with a quick frown. She also made a slight,

ineffectual effort to free her hand. But he did not appear to notice

either gesture.

"Yes," he said, in his slow way, "it is out of the question, and so I

have asked your father to take care of you for me until my return--for,

unfortunately, I cannot postpone my own departure."

Nan's lips quivered. She was beginning to feel hysterical. With an effort

she controlled herself.

"How long shall you be away?" she asked.

"It is impossible for me to say. Everything depends upon the state of

affairs at the mines. But you may be quite sure, Anne"--a deeper note

crept into his voice--"that my absence will be as short as I can possibly

make it."

She turned her head towards him again.

"You needn't hurry for my sake," she said abruptly. "I shall be perfectly

happy here."

"I am glad to hear it," he answered gravely. "I have made full provision

for you. The interest upon the settlement I have made upon you will be

paid to you monthly. Should you find it insufficient, you will, of

course, let me know. I could cable you some more if necessary."

A great blush rose in Nan's face at his words, spreading upwards to her

hair.

"Oh," she stammered, "I--I--indeed, I shan't want any money! Please

don't--"

"It is your own," he interposed quietly, "and as such I beg that you will

regard it, and spend it exactly as you like. Should you require more, as

I have said, I shall be pleased to send it to you."

He uttered the last sentence as if it ended the matter, and Nan found

herself unable to say more. To have expressed any gratitude would have

been an absolute impossibility at that moment.

She lay, therefore, in quivering silence until he spoke again.

"It is time for me to be going. I hope the injury to your arm will

progress quite satisfactorily. You will not be able to write to me

yourself at present, but your sister Mona has promised to let me hear

of you by every mail. Dr. Barnard will also write."

He paused. But Nan said nothing whatever. She was wondering, with a fiery

embarrassment, what form his farewell would take.

After a brief silence he rose.

"Good-bye, then!" he said.

He bent low over her, looking closely into her unwilling face. And

then--it was the merest touch--for the fraction of a second his lips were

on her forehead.

"Good-bye!" he said again, under his breath, and in another moment she

heard his soft tread as he went away.

Her heart was throbbing madly; she felt as if it were leaping up and down

within her. For a space she lay listening, every nerve upon the stretch.

Then at last there came to her the sound of voices raised in farewell,

the crunch of wheels below her window, the loud banging of a door. And

with a gasp she turned her face into her pillow, and wept for sheer

relief.

He had come and gone like an evil dream, and she was left safe in her

father's house.

CHAPTER III

Three weeks after her wedding, Nan Cradock awoke to the amazing discovery

that she was a rich woman; how rich it took her some time to realise, and

when it did dawn upon her she was startled, almost dismayed.

Her recovery from the only illness she had ever known was marvellously

rapid, and with her return to health her spirits rose to their accustomed

giddy height. There was little in her surroundings to remind her of the

fact that she was married, always excepting the unwonted presence of

these same riches which she speedily began to scatter with a lavish hand.

Her life slipped very easily back into its accustomed groove, save that

the pinch of poverty was conspicuously absent. The first day of every

month brought her a full purse, and for a long time the charm of this

novelty went far towards quieting the undeniable sense of uneasiness that

accompanied it.

It was only when the novelty began to wear away that the burdened feeling

began to oppress her unduly. No one suspected it, not even Mona, who

adhered rigorously to her promise, and wrote her weekly report of her

sister's health to her absent brother-in-law long after Nan was fully

capable of performing this duty for herself. Mona had always been

considered the least feather-brained of the family, and she certainly

fulfilled her trust with absolute integrity.

Piet Cradock's epistles were not quite so frequent, and invariably of the

briefest. They were exceedingly formal at all times, and Nan's heart

never warmed at the sight of his handwriting. It was thick and strong,

like himself, and she always regarded it with a little secret sense of

aversion.

Nevertheless, as time passed, and he made no mention of return, her dread

of the future subsided gradually into the back of her mind. It had never

been her habit to look forward very far, and she was still little more

than a child. Gradually the fact of her marriage began to grow shadowy

and unreal, till at length she almost managed to shut it out of her

consideration altogether. She had accepted the man upon impulse, dazzled

by the glitter of his wealth. To find that he had drifted out of her

life, and that the wealth remained, was the most blissful state of

affairs that she could have desired.

Slowly spring merged into summer, and more and more did it seem to Nan

that the past was nothing but a dream. She returned to her customary

pursuits with all her old zest, rising early in the mornings to follow

the otter-hounds, tramping for miles, and returning ravenous to

breakfast; or, again, spending hours in the saddle, and only returning

at her own sweet will. Colonel Everard's household was one of absolute

freedom. No one ever questioned the doings of anyone else. From the

earliest they had one and all been accustomed to go their own way. And

Nan was the freest and most independent of them all.

It was on a splendid morning in July that as she splashed along the

marshy edge of a stream in hot pursuit of one of the biggest otters she

had ever seen, a well-known voice accosted her by name.

"Hullo, Nan! I wondered if you would turn up when they told me you were

still at home."

Nan whisked round, up to her ankles in mud.

"Hullo, Jerry, it's you, is it?" was her unceremonious reply. "Pleased to

see you, my boy. But don't talk to me now. I can't think of anything but

business."

She was off with the words, not waiting to shake hands. But Jerry Lister

was not in the least discouraged by this treatment. He was accustomed to

Nan and all her ways.

He pounded after her along the bank and joined her as a matter of course.

A straight, good-looking youth was Jerry, as wild and headstrong as Nan

herself. He was the grand-nephew of old Squire Grimshaw, Colonel

Everard's special crony, and he and Nan had been chums from their

childhood. He was only a year older than she, and in many respects he was

her junior. "I say, you are all right again?" was his first question,

when the otter allowed them a little breathing-space. "I was awfully

sorry to hear about your accident, you know, but awfully glad, too, in a

way. By Jove, I don't think I could have spent the Long here, with you in

South Africa! What ever possessed you to go and marry a Boer, Nan?"

"Don't be an idiot!" said Nan sharply. "He isn't anything of the sort."

Jerry accepted the correction with a boyish grimace.

"I'm coming to call on you to-morrow, Mrs. Cradock," he announced.

Nan coloured angrily.

"You needn't trouble yourself," she returned. "I don't receive callers."

But Jerry was not to be shaken off. He linked an affectionate arm in

hers.

"All right, Nan old girl, don't be waxy," he pleaded. "Come on the lake

with me this afternoon instead. I'll bring some prog if you will, and

we'll have one of our old red-letter days. Is it a promise?"

She hesitated, still half inclined to be ungracious.

"Well," she said at length, moved in spite of herself by his persuasive

attitude, "I will come to please you, on one condition."

"Good!" ejaculated Jerry. "It's done, whatever it is."

"Don't be absurd!" she protested, trying to be stern and failing somewhat

ignominiously. "I will come only if you will promise not to talk about

anything that you see I don't like."

"Bless your heart," said Jerry, lifting her fingertips to his lips, "I

won't utter a syllable, good or bad, without your express permission.

You'll come, then?"

"Yes, I'll come," she said, allowing the smile that would not be

suppressed. "But if you don't make it very nice, I shall never come

again."

"All right," said Jerry cheerily. "I'll bring my banjo. You always like

that. Come early, like a saint. I'll be at the boat-house at eleven."

He was; and Nan was not long after. The lake stretched for about a mile

in the squire's park, and many were the happy hours that they had spent

upon it.

It was a day of perfect summer, and they drifted through it in sublime

enjoyment. Jerry soon discovered that the girl's marriage and anything

remotely connected with it were subjects to be avoided, and as he had no

great wish himself to investigate in that direction he found small

difficulty in confining himself to more familiar ground. Without effort

they resumed the old friendly intercourse that the girl's rash step had

threatened to cut short, and long before the end of the afternoon they

were as intimate as they had ever been.

"You mustn't go in yet," insisted Jerry, when a distant clock struck

seven. "Wait another couple of hours. There's plenty of food left. And

the moonrise will be grand to-night."

Nan did not need much persuading. She had always loved the lake, and

Jerry's society was generally congenial. He had, moreover, been taking

special pains to please her, and she was quite willing to be pleased.

She consented, therefore, and Jerry punted her across to her favourite

nook for supper. She thoroughly enjoyed the repast, Jerry's ideas of

what a picnic-basket should contain being of a decidedly lavish order.

The meal over, he took up his banjo and waxed sentimental. Nan lay among

her cushions and listened in sympathetic silence. Undeniably Jerry knew

how to make music, and he also knew when to stop--a priceless gift in

Nan's estimation.

When the moon rose at last out of the summer haze, he had laid his

instrument aside and was lying with his head on his arms and his

face to the rising glory. They watched it dumbly in the silence of

goodfellowship, till at last it topped the willows and shone in a broad,

silver streak across the lake right up to the prow of the boat.

After a long time Jerry turned his dark head.

"I say, Nan!" he said, almost in a whisper.

"Yes?" she murmured back, her eyes still full of the splendour. The boy

raised himself a little.

"Do you remember that day ever so long ago when we played at being

sweethearts on this very identical spot?" he asked her softly.

She turned her eyes to his with a doubtful, questioning look.

"We weren't in earnest, Jerry," she reminded him.

He jerked one shoulder with a sharp, impatient gesture, highly

characteristic of him.

"I know we weren't. I shan't dream of being in earnest in that way for

another ten--perhaps twenty--years. But there's no harm in making

believe, is there, just now and then? I liked that game awfully, and

so did you. You know you did."

Nan did not attempt to deny it. She sat up instead with her hands clasped

round her knees and laughed like an elf.

Her wedding-ring caught the moonlight, and the boy leaned forward with a

frown.

"Take that thing off, won't you, just for to-night? I hate to think you're

married. You're not, you know. We're in fairyland, and married people

never go there. The fairies will turn you out if they see it."

Very gently he inserted one finger between her clasped ones and began to

draw the emblem off.

Nan made no resistance whatever. She only sat and laughed. She was in her

gayest, most inconsequent mood. Some magic of the moonlight was in her

veins that night.

"There!" said Jerry triumphantly. "Now you are safe. Jove! Did you hear

that water-sprite gurgling under the boat? It must be ripping to be a

water-sprite. Can't you see them, Nan, whisking about down there in

couples along the stones? Give me your hand, and we'll dive under and

join them."

But Nan's enthusiasm would not stretch to this. She fully understood his

mood, but she would only sit in the moonlight and laugh, till presently

Jerry, infected by her merriment, began to laugh too, and spun the ring

he had filched from her high into the moonlight.

How it happened neither of them could ever afterwards say; but just at

that critical moment when the ring was glittering in mid-air, some

wayward current, or it might have been the water-sprite Jerry had just

detected, lapped the water smartly against the punt and bumped it against

the bank. Jerry exclaimed and nearly overbalanced backwards; Nan made a

hasty grab at her falling property, but her hand only collided with his,

making a similar grab at the same moment, and between them they sent the

ring spinning far out into the moonlit ripples.

It disappeared before their dazzled eyes into that magic bar of light,

and the girl and the boy turned and gazed at one another in speechless

consternation.

Nan was the first to recover. She drew a deep breath, and burst into a

merry peal of laughter.

"My dear boy, for pity's sake don't look like that! I never saw anything

so absolutely tragic in my life. Why, what does it matter? I can buy

another. I can buy fifty if I want them."

Thus reassured, Jerry began to laugh too, but not with Nan's abandonment.

The incident had had a sobering effect upon him.

"But I'm awfully sorry," he protested. "All my fault. You must let me

make it good."

This suggestion added to Nan's mirth. "Oh, I couldn't really. I should

feel as if I was married to you, and I shouldn't like that at all. Now

you needn't look cross, for you know you wouldn't either. No, don't be

silly, Jerry. It doesn't matter the least little bit in the world."

"But, I say, won't the absent one be savage?" suggested Jerry.

Nan tossed her head. "I'm sure I don't know. Anyhow it doesn't matter."

"Do you really mean that?" he persisted. "Don't you really care?"

Nan threw herself back in the boat with her face to the stars.

"Why, of course not," she declared, with regal indifference. "How can you

be so absurd?"

And in face of such sublime recklessness, he was obliged to be convinced.

CHAPTER IV

Nan's picnic on the lake was not concluded much before ten o'clock.

She ran home through the moonlight, bareheaded, whistling as carelessly

as a boy. Night and day were the same thing to her in the place in

which she had lived all her life. There was not one of the village folk

whom she did not know, not one for whom the doings of the wild Everards

did not provide food for discussion. For Nan undoubtedly was an Everard

still, her grand wedding notwithstanding. No one ever dreamed of applying

any other title to her than the familiar "Miss Nan" that she had borne

from her babyhood. There was, in fact, a general feeling that the unknown

husband of Miss Nan was scarcely worthy of the high honour that had been

bestowed upon him. His desertion of her on the very day succeeding the

wedding had been freely criticised, and in many quarters condemned out of

hand. No one knew the exact circumstances of the case, but all were

agreed in pronouncing Miss Nan's husband a defaulter.

That Miss Nan herself was very far from fretting over the situation was

abundantly evident, but this fact did not in any way tend to justify the

offender, of whom it was beginning to be opined round the bars of the

village inns that he was "one o' them queer sort of cusses that it was

best for women to steer clear of."

Naturally these interesting shreds of gossip never reached Nan's ears.

She was, as she had ever been, supremely free from self-consciousness

of any description, and it never occurred to her that the situation in

which she was placed was sufficiently peculiar to cause comment. The

Everards had ever been a law unto themselves, and it was inconceivable

that anyone should attempt to apply to them the conventional rules by

which other people chose to let their lives be governed. Of course they

were different from the rest of the world. It had been an accepted fact

as long as she could remember, and it certainly had never troubled her,

nor was it ever likely to do so.

She was sublimely unconscious of all criticism as she ran down the

village street that night, nodding carelessly to any that she met, and

finally turned lightly in at her father's gates, walking with elastic

tread under the great arching beech trees that blotted the moonlight from

her path.

The front door stood hospitably open, and she entered to find her father

stretched in his favourite chair, smoking.

He greeted her with his usual gruff indulgence.

"Hallo, you mad-cap! I was just wondering whether I would scour the

country for you, or leave the door open and go to bed. I think it was

going to be the last, though, to be sure, it would have served you right

if I had locked you out. Had any dinner?"

"No, darling, supper--any amount of it." Nan dropped a kiss upon his bald

head in passing. "I've been with Jerry," she said, "on the lake the whole

day long. We watched the moon rise. It was so romantic."

The Colonel grunted.

"More rheumatic than romantic I should have thought. Better have a glass

of grog."

Nan screwed up her bright face with a laugh.

"Heaven forbid, dad! And on a night like this. Oh, bother! Is that a

letter for me?"

Colonel Everard was pointing to an envelope on the mantelpiece. She

crossed the hall without eagerness, and picked it up.

"I've had one, too," said the Colonel, after a brief pause, speaking with

a jerk as if the words insisted upon being uttered in spite of him.

"You!" Nan paused with one finger already inserted in the flap. "What

for?"

Her father was staring steadily at the end of his cigar, or he might have

seen a hint of panic in her dark eyes.

"You will see for yourself," he said, still in that uncomfortable, jerky

style. "He seems to think--Well, I must say it sounds reasonable enough

since he can't get back at present; but you will see for yourself."

A little tremor went through Nan as she opened the letter. With frowning

brows she perused it.

It did not take long to read. The thick, upright writing was almost

arrogantly distinct, recalling the writer with startling vividness.

He had written with his accustomed brevity, but there was much more than

usual in his letter. He saw no prospect, so he told her, of being able

to leave the country for some time to come. Affairs were unsettled, and

likely to remain so. At the same time, there was no reason, now that her

health was restored, that she should not join him, and he was writing to

ask her father to take her out to him. He would meet them at Cape Town,

and if the Colonel cared to do so he would be very pleased if he would

spend a few months with them.

The plan was expressed concisely but with absolute kindness. Nevertheless

there was about the letter a certain tone of mastery which gave Nan very

clearly to understand that the writer thereof did not expect to be

disappointed. It was emphatically the letter of a husband to his wife,

not of a lover to his beloved.

She looked up from it with a very blank face.

"My dear dad!" she ejaculated. "What can he be thinking of?"

Colonel Everard smiled somewhat ruefully.

"You, apparently," he said, with an effort to speak lightly. "What shall

we say to him--eh, Nan? You'll like to go on the spree with your old dad

to take care of you."

"Spree!" exclaimed Nan. And again in a lower key, with a still finer

disdain: "Spree! Well"--tearing the letter across impulsively, with the

action of a passionate child--"you can go on the spree if you like, dad,

but I'm going to stay at home. I'm not going to run after him to the ends

of the earth if he is my husband. It wasn't in the bargain, and I won't

do it!"

She stamped like a little fury, scattering fragments of the torn letter

in all directions.

Her father attempted a feeble remonstrance, but she overrode him

instantly.

"I won't listen to you, dad!" she declared fiercely. "I tell you I won't

do it! The man isn't living who shall order me to do this or that as if I

were his slave. You can write and tell him so if you like. When I married

him, he gave me to understand that we should only be out there for a few

months at most, and then we were to settle in England. You see what a

different story he tells now. But I won't be treated in that way. I won't

be inveigled out there, and made to wait on his royal pleasure. He chose

to go without me. I wasn't important enough to keep him in England, and

now it's my turn. He isn't important enough to drag me out there. No, be

quiet, daddy! I tell you I won't go! I won't go, I swear it!"

"My dear child," protested the Colonel, making himself heard at length in

her pause for breath. "No one wants you to go anywhere or do anything

against your will. Piet Cradock isn't so unreasonable as that, if he is a

Dutchman. Now don't distress yourself. There isn't the smallest necessity

for that. I thought it just possible that you might like the idea as I

was to be with you. But as you don't--well, there's an end of it. We will

say no more."

Nan's arm was around his neck as he ended, her cheek against his

forehead.

"Dear, dear daddy, don't think I'm cross with you. You're just the

sweetest old darling in the world, and I'd go to Kamschatka with you

gladly--in fact, anywhere--anywhere--except South Africa. Can't we go

somewhere together, just you and I? Let's go to Jamaica. I'm sure I can

afford it."

"No, no, no!" protested the Colonel. "Get away with you, you baggage!

What are you thinking of? Miss the cubbing season? Not I. And not you

either, if I know you. There! Run along to bed, and take my blessing with

you. I'll send a line to Piet, if you like, and tell him you don't object

to waiting for him a bit longer under your old father's roof. Come, be

off with you! I'm going to lock up."

He hoisted himself out of his chair with the words, looked at her fondly

for a moment, took her pretty face between his hands, and kissed her

twice.

"She's the worst pickle of the lot," he declared softly.

He did not add that she was also his darling of them all, but this was a

perfectly open secret between them, and had been such as long as Nan

could remember. She laughed up at him with tender impudence in

recognition of the fact.

CHAPTER V

The letter from Piet Cradock was not again referred to by either Nan or

her father. The latter answered it in his own way after the lapse of a

few weeks. He was of a peaceable, easy-going nature himself, and he did

not anticipate any trouble with Nan's husband. After all, the child's

reluctance to leave her home was perfectly natural. He, for his part, had

never fully understood the attraction which his son-in-law had exercised

upon her. He had been glad enough to have his favourite daughter provided

for, but the actual parting with her had been a serious trouble to him,

the most serious he had known for years, and he had been very far from

desiring to quarrel with the Fate that had restored her to him.

He was comfortably convinced that Piet would understand all this.

Moreover, the fellow was clearly very busy. All his energies seemed to be

fully occupied. He would have but little time to spare for his wife, even

if he had her at his side. No, on the whole, the Colonel was of opinion

that Nan's decision was a wise one, and it seemed to him that, upon

reflection, his son-in-law could scarcely fail to agree with him.

Something of this he expressed in his letter when he eventually roused

himself to reply to Piet's invitation, and therewith he dismissed all

further thought upon the subject from his mind. His darling had pleased

herself all her life, and naturally she would continue to do so.

His letter went into silence, but there was nothing surprising in this

fact. Piet was, of course, too busy to have any leisure for private

affairs. The whole matter slid into the past with the utmost ease. No

doubt he would come home some day, but very possibly not for years, and

the Colonel was quite content with this vague prospect.

As for Nan, she flicked the matter from her with the utmost nonchalance.

Since her father had undertaken to explain things, she did not even

trouble herself to write an answer to her husband's letter. That letter

had, in fact, very deeply wounded her pride. It had been a command, and

Nan was not accustomed to such treatment. Never, in all her unruly life,

had she yielded obedience to any. No discipline had ever tamed her. She

had been free, free as air, and she had not the vaguest intention of

submitting herself to the authority of anyone. The bare idea was

unthinkably repugnant to her, foreign to her whole nature.

So, with a fierce disgust, she cast from her all memory of that brief

message that had come to her from the man who called himself her husband,

who had actually dared to treat her as one having the right to control

her actions. She could be a thousand times more arrogant than he when

occasion served, and she had not the faintest intention of allowing

herself to be fettered by any man's tyranny.

Swiftly the days of that splendid summer flew by. She scarcely knew how

she spent them, but she was always in the open air, and almost invariably

with Jerry. She missed him considerably when he returned to Oxford, but

the hunting season was at hand, and soon engrossed all her thoughts. Old

Squire Grimshaw was the master, and Nan and her father followed his

hounds three days in every week. People had long since come to acquiesce

in the absence of Nan's husband. Many of them had almost forgotten that

the girl was married, since Nan herself so persistently ignored the fact.

Gossip upon the subject had died down for lack of nourishment. And Nan

pursued her reckless way untrammelled as of yore.

The week before Christmas saw Jerry once more at the Hall. He was as

ardent a follower of the hounds as was Nan, and many were the breakneck

gallops in which they indulged before a spell of frost put an end to this

giddy pastime. Christmas came and went, leaving the lake frozen to a

thickness of several inches, leaving Nan and the ever-faithful Jerry

cutting figures of extraordinary elaboration on the ice.

The Hunt Ball had been fixed to take place on the sixth of January, and,

in preparation for this event, Nan and some of her sisters were busily

engaged beforehand in decking the Town Hall of the neighbourhood with

evergreens and bunting. Jerry's assistance in this matter was, of course,

invaluable, and when the important day arrived, he and Nan spent the

whole afternoon in sliding about the floor to improve the surface.

So absorbing was this occupation that the passage of time was quite

unnoticed by either of them till Nan at length discovered to her dismay

that she had missed the train by which she had meant to return.

To walk back meant a trudge of five miles. To drive was out of the

question, for all the carriages in the place had been requisitioned.

"What in the world shall I do?" she cried. "If I walk back, I shall never

have time to dress. Oh, why haven't I got a motor?"

Jerry slapped his leg with a yell of triumph.

"My dear girl, you have! The very thing! I'll be your motor and chauffeur

rolled into one. My bicycle is here. Come along, and I'll take you home

on the step."

The idea was worthy of them both. Nan fell in with it with a gay chuckle.

It was not the first time that she had indulged in this species of

gymnastics with Jerry's co-operation, though, to be sure, some years had

elapsed since the last occasion on which she had performed the feat.

She had not, however, forgotten her ancient prowess, and Jerry was

delighted with his passenger. Poised on one foot, and holding firmly to

his shoulders, Nan sailed down the High Street in the full glare of the

lamps. It was not a dignified mode of progression, but it was very far

from being ungraceful.

She wore a little white fur cap on her dark hair, and her pretty face

laughed beneath it like the face of a merry child. The danger of her

position was a consideration that never occurred to her. She was in her

wildest mood, and enjoying herself to the utmost.

The warning hoot of a motor behind her dismayed her not at all.

"Hurry up, Jerry! Don't let them pass!" she urged.

And Jerry put his whole heart into his pedalling and bore her at the top

of his speed.

It was an exciting race, but ending, as such races are bound to end, in

the triumph of the motor. The great machine overtook them steadily,

surely. For three seconds they were abreast, and Nan hammered her

cavalier on the back with her muff in a fever of impatience. Then the

motor glided ahead, leaving only the fumes of its petrol to exasperate

the already heated Nan.

"Beasts!" she ejaculated tersely, while Jerry became so limp with

laughter, that he nearly ceased pedalling altogether.

No further adventure befell them during the five-mile journey. The roads

were in excellent condition, and the moon was high and frostily bright.

"It's been lovely," Nan declared, as they turned in at her father's

gates. "And you're a brick, Jerry!"

"How many waltzes shall I get for it?" was Jerry's prompt rejoinder.

The girl's gay laugh rang silvery through the frosty air. Jerry had been

asking the question at intervals all the afternoon.

"I'll give you all the extras," she laughed as she sprang lightly to the

ground.

Jerry did not even dismount. His time also was limited.

"Yes?" he called over his shoulder, as he wheeled round and began to ride

away. "And?"

"And as many more as I can spare," cried Nan, and with a wave of her hand

turned to enter the house.

The laugh was still on her lips as she mounted the steps. The hall-door

stood open, and her father's voice hailed her from within.

"Hallo, Nan, you scapegrace! What mad-cap trick will you be up to next,

I wonder?"

There was a decided note of uneasiness behind the banter of his tone

which her quick ear instantly detected. She looked up sharply and in a

second, as if at a touch of magic, the laughter all died out of her face.

A man was standing in the glow of the lamp-light slightly behind her

father, a man of medium height and immense breadth, with a clean-shaven,

heavy-browed face, and sombre eyes that watched her silently.

CHAPTER VI

Nan was ever quick in all her ways, and it was very seldom that she was

disconcerted. Between the moment of her reaching the top step and that

in which she entered the hall, she flashed from laughing childhood to

haughty womanhood. The dignity with which she offered her hand to her

husband was in its way superb.

"An unexpected pleasure!" was her icy comment.

He took the hand, looking closely into her eyes. He made no attempt to

draw her nearer, and Nan remained at arm's-length. Yet something in his

scrutiny affected her, for a shiver went through her, proudly though she

met it.

"It is cold," she said, by way of explanation. "It is freezing hard, and

we came all the way by road."

"Yes," he said, in his deep, slow voice. "I saw you."

"You saw me?" Nan's eyebrows went up; she was furiously conscious that

she blushed.

"I passed you in a motor," he explained.

"Oh!" She withdrew her hand, and turned to the fire with a little laugh,

raging inwardly at the fate that had betrayed her.

Standing by the hearth, she pulled off her gloves, and spread her hands

to the blaze. It was a mere pretence, for she was hot all over by that

time, hot and quivering and fiercely resentful. There was another feeling

also behind her resentment, a feeling which she would not own, that made

her heart thump oddly, as it had thumped only once before in her

life--when this man had touched her face with his lips.

"Well," she said, standing up after a few minutes, "I must go and dress,

and so must you, dad. We are going to the Hunt Ball to-night," she added,

with a brief glance in her husband's direction.

He made no reply of any sort. His eyes were fixed upon her left hand.

After a moment she became aware of this, and slipped it carelessly into

her pocket. Whistling softly, she turned to go.

At the foot of the stairs she heard her father's voice, and paused.

"You had better come, too," he was saying to his son-in-law.

Nan wheeled sharply, almost as if she would protest, but she checked her

words unspoken.

Quietly Piet Cradock was making reply:

"Thank you, Colonel. I think I had better."

Across the hall Nan met his gaze still unwaveringly fixed upon her, and

she returned it with the utmost defiance of which she was capable. Did

he actually fancy that she could be coerced into joining him, she asked

herself--she who had always been free as the air? Well, he would soon

discover his mistake. She would begin to teach him from that moment.

With her head still held high, she turned and mounted the stairs.

Mona was waiting for her in much disturbance of spirit.

"He arrived early this afternoon," was her report. "We were all so

astonished. He has come for you, Nan, and he says he must start back next

week without fail. Isn't it short notice? I wish he had written to say he

was coming. He sat and talked to dad all the afternoon. And then, as you

didn't come, he started off in his motor to find you. He must have gone

to the station first, or he would have met you sooner."

To all this Nan listened with a set face, while she raced through her

dressing. She made no comment whatever. The only signs that she heard

lay in her tense expression and unsteady fingers.

They did not descend till the last minute, just as the carriage

containing the Colonel and three more of his daughters was driving away.

Piet was standing like a massive statue in the hall. As the two girls

came down, he moved forward.

"I have kept the motor for you," he said.

Mona thanked him. Nan did not utter a word. She would not touch the hand

that would have helped her in, and she kept her lips firmly closed

throughout the drive.

When she entered the ballroom at length her husband was by her side, but

neither by word nor look did she acknowledge his presence there.

Jerry spied her instantly, and came towards her. She went quickly to meet

him.

"For goodness' sake," she whispered urgently, "help me to get away from

that man!"

"Of course," said Jerry, promptly leading her away in the opposite

direction till the crowd swallowed them. "Who the dickens is he?"

She looked at him with a small, piteous smile.

"His name is Piet Cradock," she said.

"Great Scotland!" ejaculated Jerry; and added fiercely: "What the devil

has he come back for? What does he want?"

Nan threw back her head with a sudden wild laugh.

"Guess!" she cried.

But Jerry knew without guessing, and swore savagely under his breath.

"But you won't go with him--not yet, anyhow?" he urged. "He can't hurry

you off without consulting your convenience. You won't submit to that?"

An imp of mischief had begun to dance in Nan's eyes.

"I am told he has to sail next week," she said. "But I think it possible

that by that time he won't be quite so anxious to take me with him. Time

alone will prove. How many waltzes did you ask for?"

"As many as I can get, of course," said Jerry, taking instant advantage

of this generous invitation.

She laughed recklessly, and gave him her card.

"Take them then, my dear boy. I am ready to dance all night long."

She laughed again still more recklessly when he handed her card back to

her.

"You are very daring!" she remarked.

He looked momentarily disconcerted.

"You don't mind, do you?"

"I mind? It's what I meant you to do," she answered lightly. "Shall I say

you are very daring on my behalf?"

Jerry flushed a deep red.

"I would do anything under the sun for you, Nan," he said, in a low

voice.

Whereat she laughed again--a gay, sweet laugh, and left him.

CHAPTER VII

Piet Cradock spent nearly the whole of that long evening leaning against

a doorpost watching his wife dancing with Jerry Lister. They were the

best-matched couple in the room, and, as a good many remarked, they

seemed to know it.

Through every dance Nan laughed and talked with a feverish gaiety,

conscious of that long, long gaze that never varied. She felt almost

hysterical under it at last. It made her desperate--so desperate that she

finally quitted the ballroom altogether in Jerry's company, and remained

invisible till people were beginning to take their departure.

That feeling at the back of her mind had grown to a definite sensation

that she could not longer ignore or trample into insignificance. She was

horribly afraid of that silent man with his gloomy, inscrutable eyes. His

look frightened, almost terrified her. She felt like a trapped creature

that lies quaking in the grass, listening to the coming footsteps of its

captor.

In a vague way Jerry was aware of her inquietude, and when they rose at

length to leave their secluded corner, he turned and spoke with a certain

blunt chivalry that did him credit.

"I say, Nan, if things get unbearable, you'll promise to let me know?

I'll do anything to help you, you know--anything under the sun."

And Nan squeezed his arm tightly in acknowledgment, though she made no

verbal answer.

Amid a crowd of departing dancers they came face to face with Piet. He

was standing in an attitude of immense patience near the door. Very

quietly he addressed her.

"Colonel Everard and your sisters have gone. The motor is waiting to take

you when you are ready."

She started back sharply. Her nerves were on edge, and the news was a

shock. Her hand was still on Jerry's arm. Impulsively she turned to

him.

"I haven't had nearly enough yet," she declared. "Come along, Jerry!

Let's dance to the bitter end!"

Jerry took her at her word on the instant, and began to thread the way

back to the ballroom. But before they reached it a quiet hand fastened

upon his shoulder, detaining him.

"Pardon me," said Piet Cradock, "but my wife has had more than enough

already, and I am going to take her home!"

Jerry stopped, struck silent for the moment by sheer astonishment.

Without further words Piet proceeded to transfer Nan's hand from the

boy's arm to his own. He did it with absolute gentleness, but with a

resolution that admitted of no resistance--at least Nan attempted none.

But the action infuriated Jerry, and in the flurry of the moment he

completely lost his head.

"What the devil do you mean?" he demanded loudly.

An abrupt silence fell upon the buzzing throng about them. Through it,

with unfaltering composure, fell Piet Cradock's reply.

"I mean exactly what I have said. If you have any objection to raise, I

am ready to deal with it, either now or later--as you shall choose."

The words were hardly uttered when Nan did an extraordinary thing. She

lifted a perfectly colourless face with a ghastly smile upon it, and held

out her free hand to Jerry.

"All right, Jerry," she said. "I think I'll go after all. I am rather

tired. Good-night, dear boy! Pleasant dreams! Now, Piet"--she turned

that quivering smile upon her husband, and it was the bravest thing she

had ever done--"don't keep me waiting. Go and get your coat, and be quick

about it; or I shall certainly be ready first."

He turned away at once, and the incident was over, since by this

unexpected move Nan had managed to convey to her too ardent champion

that she desired it to be so.

He departed sullenly to the refreshment-room, mystified but obedient and

she dived hurriedly into the cloakroom in search of her property.

She found Piet waiting for her when she came out, and she passed forth

with him to the waiting motor with a laugh and a jest for the benefit of

the onlookers.

But the moment the door closed upon them she fell into silence, drawn

back from him as far as possible, her cold hands clenched tight under her

cloak.

He did not attempt to speak to her during the quarter of an hour's drive,

sitting mutely beside her in statuesque stillness; and it was she who,

when he handed her out, broke the silence.

"I have something to say to you."

He bent before her stiffly.

"I am at your service."

There was something in his words that sounded ironical to her, something

that sent the blood to her face in a burning wave. She turned in silence

and ascended the steps in front of him.

She found the door unlocked, but the hall was empty, and lighted only by

the great flames that spouted up from the log-fire on the open hearth.

Clearly the rest of the family had retired, and a sudden, sharp suspicion

flashed through Nan that her husband had deliberately laid his plans for

this private interview with her.

It set her heart pounding again within her, but she braced herself to

treat him with a high hand. He must not, he should not, assume the

mastery over her.

Silently she waited as he shut and bolted the great door, and then

quietly crossed the shadowy hall to join her.

She had dropped her cloak from her shoulders, and the firelight played

ruddily over her dress of shimmering white, revealing her slim young

beauty in every delicate detail. Very pale, but erect and at least

outwardly calm, she faced him.

"What I have to say to you," she said, "will make you very angry; but

I hope you will have the patience to listen to me, because it must be

said."

He did not answer. He merely stooped and stirred the fire to a higher

blaze, then turned and looked at her with those ever-watching eyes of

his.

Nan's hands were clenched unconsciously. She was making the greatest

effort of her life.

"It has come to this," she said, forcing herself with all her quivering

strength to speak quietly. "I do not wish to be your wife. I have

realized for some time that my marriage was a mistake, and I thought

it possible, I hoped with all my heart, that you would see it, too. I

suppose, by your coming back in this way, that you have not yet done so?"

He was standing very quietly before her with his hands behind him.

Notwithstanding her wild misgiving, she could not see that he was in any

way angered by her words. He seemed to observe her with a grave interest.

That was all.

A tremor of passion went through her. His passivity was not to be borne.

In some curious fashion it hurt her. She felt as though she were beating

and bruising herself against bars of iron.

"Surely," she said, and her voice shook in spite of her utmost effort to

control it--"surely you must see that you are asking of me more than I

can possibly give. I own that I am--nominally--your wife, but I realize

now that I can never be anything more to you than that. I cannot go away

with you. I can never make my home with you. I married you upon impulse.

I did you a great wrong, but you will admit that you hurried me into it.

And now that--that my eyes are open, I find that I cannot go on. Would

it--would it--" She was faltering under that unchanging gaze, but she

compelled herself to utter the question--"be quite impossible to--to get

a separation?"

"Quite," said Piet.

He did not raise his voice, but she shrank at the brief word, shrank

uncontrollably as if he had struck her.

He went on quite steadily, but his eyes gave her no rest. They seemed to

her to gleam red in the glancing firelight.

"I do not admit that our marriage was a mistake. I was always aware that

you married me for my money. But on the other hand I was willing to pay

your price. I wanted you. And--I want you still. Nothing will alter that

fact. I am sorry if you think you have made a bad bargain, for you will

have to abide by it. Perhaps some day you will change your mind again.

But it is not my habit to change mine. That is, I think, all that need be

said upon the subject."

There was not the faintest hint of vehemence in his tone, but there was

unmistakable authority. Having spoken, he stood grimly waiting for her

next move.

As for Nan, a sudden fury entered into her that possessed her more

completely than any fear. To be thus mastered in a few curt sentences was

more than her wild spirit would endure. Without an instant's hesitation

she flung down the gauntlet.

"It is true," she said, speaking quickly, "that I married you for your

money, but since you knew that, you were as much to blame as I. Had I

known then what sort of man you were, I would sooner have gone into the

workhouse. I am quite aware that it is thanks to you that my father is

not a ruined man, but I--I protest against being made the price for your

benefits. I will never touch another penny of your money myself, and

neither shall any of my family if I can prevent it. As to abiding by my

bargain, I refuse absolutely and unconditionally. I do not acknowledge

your authority over me. I will be no man's slave, and--and, sooner than

live with you as your wife, I--I will die in a ditch!"

Furiously she flung the words at him, too much carried away by her own

madness to note their effect upon him, too angry to see the sudden,

leaping flame in his eyes; too utterly reckless to realize that fire

kindles fire.

Her fierce wrath was in its way sublime. She was like a beautiful, wild

creature raging at its captor, too infuriated to be afraid.

"I defy you," she declared proudly, "to make me do anything against my

will!"

There was scorn as well as defiance in her voice--scorn because he stood

before her so silently; scorn because the fierce torrent of her anger had

flowed unchecked. She had only to stand up to him, it seemed, and like

the giant of the fable he dwindled to a pigmy. She was no longer hurt by

his passivity. She despised him for it.

But it was for the last time in her life. As she turned contemptuously to

pick up her cloak, he moved.

With a single stride he had reached her, and in an instant his hand was

on her arm, his face was close to hers. And then she saw, what she had

been too self-engrossed to see before, that fire had kindled fire indeed,

and that those rash words of hers had waked the savage in him.

She made a sharp, instinctive effort to free herself, but he held her

fast. She had outrun his patience at last.

"So," he said, "you defy me, do you? You defy me to take what is my own?

That is not very wise of you."

He spoke under his breath, and as he spoke he drew her to him suddenly,

violently, with a strength that was brutal. For a moment his eyes

compelled hers, terrible eyes alight with a passion that scorched her

with its fiery intensity. And then abruptly his arms tightened. She was

at his mercy, and he did not spare her. Savagely, fiercely, he rained

burning kisses upon her shrinking face, upon her neck, her shoulders, her

hands, till, after many seconds of vain resistance, spent, quivering,

terrified, she broke into agonized tears against his breast.

His hold relaxed then, but tightened again as her trembling limbs refused

to support her. He held her for a while till her agitation had in some

degree subsided; then at last he took her two shaking hands into one of

his, and turned her face upwards.

Once more his eyes held hers, but the fire in them had died down to a

smoulder. His mouth was grim.

"Come!" he said quietly, "you won't defy me after this?"

Her white lips only quivered in reply. She made no further effort to

resist him.

Very slowly he took his arm from her, still holding her hands.

"You have married a savage," he said, "but you would never have known it

if you had not taunted me with your defiance. Let me tell you now--for

it is as well that you should know it--that there is nothing--do you

hear?--nothing in this world that I cannot make you do if I so choose!

But if you are wise, you will not challenge me to prove this. It is

enough for you to know that as I have mastered myself, so I can--and so

I will--master you!"

His words fell with a ring of iron. The old inflexibly sombre demeanour

by which alone till that night she had always known him clothed him like

a coat of mail. Only the grasp of his hand was vital and close. It seemed

to burn her flesh.

"I have done!" he said, after a pause. "Have you anything further to say

to me?"

She found it within her power to free herself, and did so. She was

shaking from head to foot. The untamed violence of the man had appalled

her, but his abrupt resumption of self-control was almost more terrible.

She felt as if his will compassed and constrained her like bands of iron.

She stood before him in panting silence, a shrinking woman, striving

vainly to raise from the dust the shield of pride that he had so rudely

shattered and flung aside. She could not speak to him. She had no words.

From the depths of her soul she hated him. But--it had come to this--she

did not dare to tell him so.

He waited quietly for a few seconds; then unexpectedly, but without

vehemence, he held out his hand to her.

"Anne," he said, a subtle change in his deep voice, "fight against me,

and you will be miserable, for I am bound to conquer you. But come to

me--come to me of your own free will--and I swear before Heaven that I

will make you happy."

But Nan held back with horror, almost with loathing, in her eyes. She did

not utter a word. There was no need.

His hand fell. For a second the fire that smouldered in his eyes shot

upwards to a flame, but it died down again instantly. He turned from her

in silence and picked up her cloak.

He did not look at her as he handed it to her, and Nan did not dare to

look at him. Dumbly she forced her trembling body into subjection to

her will. She crossed the hall without faltering, and went without sound

or backward glance up the stairs. And the man was left alone in the

flickering firelight.

CHAPTER VIII

To Mona fell the task of making preparation for Nan's departure, for Nan

herself did not raise a finger to that end. Three days only remained to

her of the old free life--three days in which to bid farewell to

everybody and everything she knew and loved.

Her husband did not attempt to obtrude his presence upon her during those

three days. The man's patience was immense, cloaking him as with a

garment of passive strength. He was merely a guest in Colonel Everard's

house, and a silent guest at that.

No one knew what had passed between him and his young wife on the night

of the Hunt Ball, but it was generally understood that he had asserted

his authority over her after a fashion that admitted of no resistance.

Only Mona could have told of the white-faced, terrified girl who had lain

trembling in her arms all through the dark hours that had followed their

interview, but Mona knew when to hold her peace, though it was no love

for her brother-in-law that sealed her lips.

So, with a set face, she packed her sister's belongings, never faltering,

scarcely pausing for thought, till on the very last day she finished her

task, and then sat musing alone in the darkness of the winter evening.

Nan had been out all the afternoon, no one knew exactly where, though it

was supposed that she was paying farewell visits. The Colonel, whose

courteous instincts would not suffer him to neglect a guest, had been out

shooting with his son-in-law all day long. Mona heard them come tramping

up the drive and enter the house, as she sat above in the dark. She

listened without moving, and knew that one of her sisters was giving

them tea in the hall.

Two hours passed, but Nan did not return. Mona rose at last to dress for

dinner. Her face shone pale as she lighted her lamp, but her eyes were

steadfast; they held no anxiety.

Descending the stairs at length she found Piet waiting below before the

fire. He looked round as she came down, looked up the stairs beyond her,

and gravely rose to give her his chair.

Mona was generally regarded as hostess in her father's house, though she

was not his eldest daughter. She possessed a calmness of demeanour that

was conspicuously lacking in all the rest.

She sat down quietly, her hands folded about her knees. "Have you had

good sport?" she asked, her serene eyes raised to his.

There was a slight frown between Piet's brows. Hitherto he had always

regarded this girl as his friend. To-night, for the first time, she

puzzled him. There was something hostile about her something he felt

rather than saw, yet of which from the very moment of her coming, he was

keenly conscious.

He scarcely answered her query. Already his wits were at work.

Suddenly he asked her a blunt question. "Has Anne come in yet?"

She answered him quite as bluntly, almost as if she had wished for his

curt interrogation. "No."

He raised his brows for an instant, then in part reassured by her

absolute composure, he merely commented: "She is late."

Mona said nothing. She turned her quiet eyes to the blaze before her.

There was not the faintest sign of agitation in her bearing.

"Do you know what she is doing?" He asked the question slowly, half

reluctantly it seemed.

Again she looked at him. Clear and contemptuous, her eyes met his.

"Yes, I know."

The words, the look, stabbed him with a swift suspicion. He bent towards

her, his hand gripped her wrist.

"What do you mean? Where is she?"

She made no movement to avoid him. A faint, grim smile hovered about her

calm mouth.

"I can tell you what I mean," she said quietly. "I cannot tell you where

she is."

"Then tell me what you mean," he said between his teeth.

His face was close to hers, and in that moment it was terrible. But Mona

did not flinch. The small, bitter smile passed, that was all.

"I mean," she said, speaking very steadily and distinctly, "that you

will go back to South Africa without her after all. I mean that by your

hateful and contemptible brutality you have driven her from you for ever.

I mean that you have forced her into taking a step that will compel you

to set her free from your tyranny. I mean that simply and solely to

escape from you she has run away with--another man."

A quiver of pain went over her face as she ended. With a swift,

passionate movement she rose, flinging her mask of composure aside. The

hand that gripped her wrist was bruising her flesh, but she never felt

it.

"Yes," she said, with abrupt vehemence. "That is what you have

done--you--you! You would not stoop to win her. You chose to take her by

force, and force is the one thing in the world that she will never

tolerate. You bullied her, frightened her, humiliated her. You drove her

to do this desperate thing. And you face me now, you dare to face me,

because I am a weak woman. If I were a man, I would kick you out of the

house. I--I believe I would kill you! Even Nan cannot hate you or despise

you one-tenth as much as I do!"

She ceased, but her eyes blazed their hatred at him as her heart cursed

him. She was furious as a tigress that defends her young.

As for the man, his hand was still clenched upon her wrist, but no

violent outburst escaped him. He was white to the lips, but he was

absolutely sane. If he heard her wild reproaches, he passed them over.

"Who is the man?" he said, and his voice fell like a word of command,

arresting, controlling, compelling.

It was not what she had expected. She had been prepared for tempestuous,

for overwhelming, wrath. The absence of this oddly disconcerted her. Her

own tornado of indignation was checked. She answered him almost

involuntarily.

"Jerry Lister."

He frowned as if trying to recall the owner of the name, and again

without her conscious will she explained.

"You saw him that night at the ball. They were together all the evening."

The frown passed from his face.

"That--cub!" he said slowly. "And"--his eyes were searching hers closely;

he spoke with unswerving determination--"where have they gone?"

She withstood his look though she felt its compulsion.

"I refuse to tell you that."

"You know?" he questioned.

"Yes, I know."

"Then you will tell me." He spoke with conviction. She felt as if his

eyes were burning her.

"Then you will tell me," he repeated, as if she had not heard him.

"I refuse," she said again; but she said it with a wavering resolution.

Undoubtedly there was something colossal about this man. She began to

feel the grip of his fingers upon her wrist. The pain of it became

intense, yet she knew that he was not intentionally torturing her.

"You are hurting me," she said, and instantly his hold relaxed. But he

did not let her go.

"Answer me!" he said.

"Why should I answer you?" It was the last resort of her weakening will.

He betrayed no impatience.

"You will answer me for your sister's sake," he told her grimly.

"What do you mean? You will follow her?"

"I shall follow her."

"And bring her back?"

"Back here? No, certainly not."

"You will hurt her, bully her, terrify her!" The words were quick with

agitation.

He ignored them. "Tell me where she is."

She made a last effort.

"If I tell you--will you take me with you?"

"No," he said, "I will not."

"Then--then--" She was looking straight into those pitiless eyes. It

seemed she could not help herself. "I will tell you," she said at last.

"But you will be kind to her? You will remember how young she is, and

that--that you drove her to it?"

Her voice was piteous, her resistance was dead.

"I shall remember," he said very quietly, "one thing only."

"Yes?" she murmured. "Yes?"

"That she is my wife," he said, in the same level tone. "Now--answer me."

And because there was no longer any alternative course, she yielded.

Had he shown himself a raging demon she could have resisted him, and

rejoiced in it. But this man, with his rigid self-control, his unswerving

resolution, his deadly directness, dominated her irresistibly.

Without argument he had changed her point of view. Without argument or

protestation of any sort, he had convinced her that it was no passing

fancy of his that had prompted him to choose Nan for his wife. She had

vaguely suspected it before. Now she knew.

CHAPTER IX

It was very dark over the moors. The solitary lights of a cab crawling

almost at a foot pace along the lonely road shone like a will-o'-the-wisp

through the snow. It had been snowing for hours, steadily, thickly, and

the cold was intense. The dead heather by the roadside had long been

completely hidden under that ever-increasing load. It lay in great

billows of white wherever the carriage lamps revealed it, stretching away

into the darkness, an immense, untrodden desert, wrapped in a deathly

silence, more terrible than any sound.

It seemed to Nan, shivering inside that cheerless cab, as if the world

had stopped like a run-down watch, and that she alone, with her

melancholy equipage, retained in all that vast stillness the power to

move.

She wished heartily that she had permitted Jerry to come to the station

to meet her, but for some reason not wholly intelligible to herself she

had prohibited this. And he, ever obedient to her behests, had sent the

conveyance to fetch her, remaining behind himself to complete the

preparations for her reception upon which he had been engaged for the

past two days at the tiny, incommodious shooting-box which his father had

bequeathed to him, and of which not very valuable piece of landed

property he was somewhat inordinately proud.

It had been a tedious cross-country journey, and the five miles from the

station seemed to Nan interminable. Already deep down in her heart were

stirring ghastly doubts regarding the advisability of this mad expedition

of hers. Jerry, as she well knew, was fully prepared to enjoy the

situation to the utmost. He was a trusty friend in need to her, no more,

and she had not the smallest misgiving so far as he was concerned.

He would be to her what he had ever been, breezy comrade, merry

friend--romantic cavalier, perhaps, but in such a fashion as to convince

her that he was only playing at romance. It had always been his attitude

towards her, and she anticipated no change. The boy's natural chivalry

had moved her to accept his help, though she well knew that the step she

had taken was a desperate one, even for one of the wild Everards. That

it would fulfil its purpose she did not doubt. Her husband, she was fully

convinced, would take no further steps to deprive her of her liberty. Her

notions of legal procedure in such a case were of the haziest, but she

had not the faintest doubt that this last, wildest escapade of hers would

sooner or later procure her her freedom from the chain that so galled

her.

And yet she started and shivered at every creak of the crazy vehicle that

was bearing her to the haven of her emancipation. She was horribly,

unreasonably afraid, now that she had taken this rash step. Would it

upset her father very greatly, she wondered? But surely he would not

think badly of her for making a way of escape for herself. He had been

powerless to deliver her. Surely, surely he would understand!

The cab jolted to a standstill, and out of the darkness came an eager,

boyish voice, bidding her welcome. An impetuous hand wrenched open the

door, and she and Jerry were face to face.

She never recalled afterwards crossing the threshold of his little abode.

She was numbed and weary in mind and body. But she found herself at

length seated before a bright fire, with a cup of steaming tea in her

hand, and Jerry hovering about her in high delight; and the comfort of

his welcome revived her at length to an active realization of her

surroundings.

Clearly the adventure, mad, lawless as it undoubtedly was, was nothing

but a picnic to him. He was enjoying himself immensely without a thought

of any possible consequences, and it was plain that this was the attitude

in which he expected her to regard the matter.

With an effort she responded to his mood, but she could not shake off the

burden of doubt and foreboding that oppressed her. She felt as if the

long, bitter journey had in some fashion aged her. Jerry's gaiety was as

the prattle of a child to her now. They had been children together till

that day, but she felt that they could never be so again. Never before

had she stopped in her headlong course to look ahead, to count the cost!

Now, for the first time, misgivings arose within her upon Jerry's score.

What if this boy who had lent himself so lightly, so absolutely freely,

to her scheme for deliverance, were made in any way to suffer for his

reckless generosity? For this it had been with him--and this only--as she

well knew.

With sheer, boyish gallantry, he had offered his protection; with sheer,

girlish recklessness, she had accepted it. And now--now she had in a few

hours crossed the boundary between childhood and womanhood and she stood

aghast, asking herself what she had done!

By what means understanding had come to her she did not stay to

question. The tragic force of it overwhelmed all reasoning. She knew

beyond all doubting that she had made the most ghastly mistake of her

life. She had done it in blindness, but the veil had been rent away; and,

horror-struck, she now beheld the accursed quicksand into which they had

blundered.

"I say," said Jerry, "you're awfully tired, aren't you? You're positively

haggard. I've got quite a decent little dinner for you, and I've done

every blessed thing myself. There isn't a soul in the house except us

two. I thought you'd like it best."

She smiled at him wanly, and thanked him. He was watching her with

friendly, anxious eyes.

"Yes; well, drink that up and have some more. I'm afraid you'll think the

accommodation rather poor. It's only a pillbox, you know. I'll show you

round when you're ready. I've got my kennel in the kitchen. Best place

for a watch-dog, eh? But you've only got to thump on the floor if you want

anything. There, that's better. You don't look quite so frozen as you

did. Come, it's rather a lark, isn't it?"

His boyish eyes pleaded with her, and again she made a valiant effort to

respond. She knew what stupendous efforts he had been making to secure

her comfort.

"Everything is perfect," she declared, "and you're the nicest boy in the

world. I'm quite warm now. What a dear little hall, to be sure!"

"Hall!" said Jerry. "It's the living-room! But there's another one

upstairs that you can sit in. I thought you would like the upper regions

all to yourself. We can call on each other, you know, now and then. I

say, it's rather a lark, isn't it? Come and see my preparations for

dinner."

She went with him into the little bare kitchen, and bestowed lavish

praise upon everything she saw.

Jerry's cooking was an accomplishment of which he had some reason to be

proud. He was roasting a pheasant for his visitor's delectation.

"I always do the cooking when we camp out," he explained. "Just sit down

while I finish peeling the potatoes."

He pointed to a truckle bedstead in the corner; and Nan seated herself

and made a determined effort to banish her depression.

Jerry's preparations for his own comfort were anything but elaborate.

"Oh, I could sleep on bare boards," he lightly said, when she commented

upon the hardness of his couch. "I know the furniture isn't up to much,

but it isn't a bad little shanty when you're used to it. My pater and

mater spent their honeymoon here years ago, and I stayed here with two

other fellows for three weeks' grouse-shooting a couple of years back.

Rare sport we had, too. Do you mind passing over that saucepan? Thanks!

I say, Nan, I hope you don't mind it being a bit rough."

"My dear boy," Nan said impulsively, "if it were a palace I shouldn't

like it half so well."

Jerry grinned serenely.

"Yes, it's snug, anyhow, and I think you'll like that pheasant. There's

another one in the larder, so we shall have something to eat if we're

snowed up. That cupboard leads upstairs. Perhaps you would like to go and

explore. Dinner in half an hour."

Nan availed herself of this suggestion. She was frankly curious to know

what Jerry's ideas of feminine comfort might be. She ascended the steep

cottage stairs that wound up to the first floor, looking about her with

considerable interest. The narrow staircase was lighted from above, and

she finally emerged into a little room in which a fire burned brightly.

A sofa had been drawn in front of it, and was piled with cushions. There

were one or two basket-chairs, and a small square table bearing a

paper-shaded lamp, and a newspaper, a "Punch," Jerry's banjo, and a

cigarette case.

The window was covered with a red curtain, and the cosy warmth of the

place sent a glow of comfort through Nan. Jerry's efforts had not been

in vain.

From this apartment she passed into another beyond, the door of which

stood half open, and found herself in a bedroom. A small stove burned

in a corner of this, and upon it a kettle steamed merrily. There was room

for but little furniture besides the bed, but the general effect was

exceedingly comforting to the girl's oppressed soul. She sat down on the

edge of the bed and leaned her aching head against the back.

What was happening at home she wondered? Her departure must be known by

this time. Mona would have told Piet. She tried to picture the man's

untrammelled wrath when he heard. How furious he would be! She shivered

a little. She was quite sure he would never want to see her again.

And yet, curiously, there still ran in her brain those words he had

uttered on that night that she had defied him--that dreadful night when

he had held her in his arms and forced her to endure his hateful kisses!

She could almost hear his deep voice speaking: "Anne, fight against me

and you will be miserable, for I am bound to conquer you. But come to

me--come to me of your own free will--and I swear before Heaven that I

will make you happy!" Make her happy! He! She could not imagine it. And

yet it was true that, fighting against him, she was miserable.

With a great sigh, she rose at last and began to remove her outdoor

things. It was done--it was done. What was the use of stopping on the

wrong side of the hedge to think? She had taken the leap. There could

never be any return for her. The actual mistake had been committed long,

long ago, when she had married this man for his money. That had been

monstrous, contemptible! She realized it now. But that, too, was beyond

remedy. Her only hope left was that in his fury he would set her free,

and that without injury to Jerry. She had not the faintest notion how he

would set about it; but doubtless he would not keep her long in

ignorance. He would be more eager now than she had ever been to snap

asunder the chain that bound them to each other. Yes, she was quite,

quite sure that he would never want to see her again.

CHAPTER X

Jerry's dinner was not, for some reason, quite the success he had

anticipated.

Nan made no complaint of the cooking, but she ate next to nothing, to the

grief of his hospitable soul. She was tired, of course, but there was

something in her manner that he could not fathom. She was silent and

unresponsive. There was almost an air of tragedy about her that made her

so unfamiliar that he felt as if he were entertaining a stranger. He did

not like the change. His old domineering, impetuous playfellow was

infinitely easier to understand. He did not feel at ease with this quiet,

white-faced woman, who treated him with such wholly unaccustomed

courtesy.

"I say," he said, when the meal was ended, "let's go upstairs and have a

smoke. I can clear away after you have gone to bed. Or do you want to go

to bed now? It's nearly nine, so you may if you like."

She thanked him, and declined.

"I shouldn't sleep if I did," she said with a shiver. "No; I will help

you wash up, and then we will go upstairs and have some music."

Jerry fell in eagerly with this idea. He loved his banjo. He demurred a

little at accepting her assistance in the kitchen, but finally yielded,

for she would not be refused. She seemed to dread the thought of

solitude.

When they went upstairs at length, she made a great effort to shake off

her depression. She even sang a little to one or two of Jerry's melodies,

but her customary high spirits remained conspicuously absent, and after a

while Jerry became impatient, and laid the instrument down.

"What's the matter?" he asked bluntly.

Nan was sitting with her feet on the fender, her eyes upon the flames.

His question did not seem to surprise her.

"You wouldn't understand," she said, "if I were to tell you."

"Well, you might as well give me the chance," he responded. "My

intelligence is up to the average, I dare say."

She looked round at him with a faint smile.

"Oh, don't be huffy, dear boy! Why should you? You want to know what is

the matter? Well, I'll tell you. I'm afraid--I'm horribly afraid--that

I've made a great mistake."

"You have?" said Jerry. "How? What do you mean?"

"I knew you would ask that," she said, with a little, helpless gesture of

the shoulders. "And it is just that that I can't explain to you. You see,

Jerry, I've only just begun to realize it myself."

Jerry was staring at her blankly.

"Do you mean, that you wish you hadn't come?" he said.

She nodded, rising suddenly from her chair.

"Oh, Jerry, don't be vexed, though you've a perfect right. I've made a

ghastly, a perfectly hideous mistake. I--I can't think how I ever came to

do it. But--but I wouldn't mind so frightfully if it weren't for you.

That's what troubles me most--to have made a horrible mess of my life,

and to have dragged you into it." Her voice shook, and she broke off for

a moment, biting her lips. Then: "Oh, Jerry," she wailed, "I've done a

dreadful thing--a dreadful thing! Don't you see it--what he will think of

me--how he will despise me?"

The last words came muffled through her hands. Her head was bowed against

the chimney-piece.

Jerry was nonplussed. He rose somewhat awkwardly, and drew near the bowed

figure.

"But, my dear girl," he said, laying a slightly hesitating hand upon her

shoulder, "what the devil does it matter what he thinks? Surely you

don't--you can't care--care the toss of a half-penny?"

But here she amazed him still further.

"I do, Jerry, I do!" she whispered vehemently. "He's horrid--oh, he's

horrid. But I can't help caring. I wanted him to think the very worst

possible of me before I came. But now--but now--Then too, there's you,"

she ended irrelevantly. "What could they do to you, Jerry? Could they put

you in prison?"

"Great Scott, no!" said Jerry. "You needn't cry over me. I always manage

to fall on my feet. And, anyhow, it isn't a hanging matter. I say, cheer

up, Nan, old girl! Don't you think you'd better go to bed? No? Well, let

me play you something cheerful, then. I've never seen you in the dumps

before. And I don't like it. I quite thought this would be one of our

red-letter days. Look up, I say! I believe you're crying."

Nan was not crying, but such was the concern in his voice that she raised

her head and smiled to reassure him.

"You're very, very good to me, Jerry," she said earnestly. "And oh, I do

hope I haven't got you into trouble!"

"Don't you worry your head about me," said Jerry cheerfully. "You're

tired out, you know. You really ought to go to bed. Let's have something

rousing, with a chorus, and then we'll say good-night."

He took up his banjo again, and dashed without preliminary into the gay

strains of "The Girl I Left Behind Me."

He sang with a gaiety that even Nan did not imagine to be feigned, and,

lest lack of response should again damp his spirits, she forced herself

to join in the refrain. Faster and faster went Jerry's fingers, faster

and faster ran the song, his voice and Nan's mingling, till at last he

broke off with a shout of laughter, and sprang to his feet.

"There! That's the end of our soirée, and I'm not going to keep you up a

minute longer. I wonder if we're snowed up yet. We'll have some fun

to-morrow, if we are. I say, look at the time! Good-night! Good-night!"

He advanced towards her. She was standing facing him, with her back to

the fire. But something--something in her eyes--arrested him, sending his

own glancing backwards over his shoulder. She was looking, not at him,

but beyond him.

The next instant, with a sharp oath, Jerry had wheeled in his tracks. He,

too, stood facing the door, staring wide-eyed, dumbfounded.

There, at the head of the stairs, quite motionless, quite silent, facing

them both, stood Piet Cradock.

CHAPTER XI

Nan was the first to free herself from the nightmare paralysis that bound

her. Swiftly, as though in answer to a sudden inner urging, she moved

forward. She almost pushed past Jerry in her haste. She was white, white

to the lips with fear, but she never faltered till she stood between her

husband and the boy she had chosen to protect her. The first glimpse of

Piet had revealed to her in what mood he had come. In his right hand he

was gripping her father's heaviest hunting-crop.

He came slowly forward, ignoring her. His eyes were upon Jerry, who

glared back at him like a young panther. He did not appear to be aware

of Nan.

Suddenly he spoke, briefly, grimly every word clean as a pistol-shot.

"I suppose you are old enough to know what you are doing?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Jerry, in fierce response. "What are you

doing here? And how the devil did you get in? This place belongs to me!"

"I know." Piet's face was contemptuous. He seemed to speak through closed

lips. "That is why I came. I wanted you."

"What do you want me for?" flashed back Jerry, with clenched hands. "If

you have anything to say, you'd better say it downstairs."

"I have nothing whatever to say." There was a deep sound in Piet's voice

that was something more than a menace. Abruptly he squared his great

shoulders, and brought the weapon he carried into full view.

Jerry's eyes blazed at the action.

"You be damned!" he exclaimed loudly. "I'll fight you with pleasure, but

not before--"

"You will do nothing of the sort!" thundered Piet, striding forward.

"You will take a horse-whipping from me here and now, and in my wife's

presence. You have behaved like a cur, and she shall see you treated as

such."

The words were like the bellow of a goaded bull. Another instant, and he

would have been at hand grips with the boy, but in that instant Nan

sprang. With the strength of desperation, she threw herself against him,

caught wildly at his arms, his shoulders, clinging at last with frenzied

fingers to his breast.

"You shan't do it!" she gasped, struggling with him. "You shan't do it!

If--if you must punish anyone, punish me! Piet, listen to me! Oh listen!

I am to blame for this! You can't--you shan't--hurt him just because he

has stood by me when--when I most wanted a friend. Do you hear me, Piet?

You shan't do it! Beat me, if you like! I deserve it. He doesn't!"

"I will deal with you afterwards," he said, sweeping her hands from his

coat at a single gesture.

But she caught at the hand that sought to brush her aside, caught and

held it, clinging so fast to his arm that without actual violence he

could not free himself.

He stood still, then, his eyes glowering ruddily over her head at Jerry,

who stamped and swore behind her.

"Anne," he said, and the sternness of his voice was like a blow, "go into

the next room!"

"I will not!" she gasped back. "I will not!"

Her face was raised to his. With her left hand she sought and grasped his

right wrist. Her whole body quivered against him, but she stood her

ground.

"I shall hurt you!" he said between his teeth.

"I don't care!" she cried back hysterically. "You--you can kill me, if

you like!"

He turned his eyes suddenly upon her, flaming them straight into hers

mercilessly, scorchingly. She felt as though an electric current had run

through her, so straight, so piercing was his look. But she met it fully,

with wide, unflinching eyes, while her fingers still clutched desperately

at his iron wrists.

"Nan! Nan! For Heaven's sake go, and leave us to fight it out!" implored

Jerry. "This can't be settled with you here. You are only making things

worse for yourself. You don't suppose I'm afraid of him, do you?"

She did not so much as hear him. All her physical strength was leaving

her; but still, panting and quivering, she met those fiery, searching

eyes.

Suddenly she knew that her hold upon him was weaker than a child's. She

made a convulsive effort to renew it, failed, and fell forward against

him with a gasping cry.

"Piet!" she whispered, in nerveless entreaty. "Piet!"

He put his arm around her, supporting her; then as he felt her weight

upon him he bent and gathered her bodily into his arms. She sank into

them, more nearly fainting than she had ever been in her life; and,

straightening himself, he turned rigidly, and bore her into the inner

room.

He laid her upon the bed there, but still with shaking, powerless fingers

she tried to cling to him.

"Don't leave me! Don't go!" she besought him.

He took her hands and put them from him. He turned to leave her, but even

then she caught his sleeve.

"Piet, I--I want to--to tell you something," she managed to say.

He wheeled round and bent over her. There was something of violence in

his action.

"Tell me nothing!" he ordered harshly. "Be silent! Anne, do you hear me?

Do you hear me?"

Under the compulsion of his look and voice she submitted at last.

Trembling she hid her face.

And in another moment she heard his step as he went out, heard him close

the door and the sharp click of the key as he turned it in the lock.

CHAPTER XII

For many, many seconds after his departure she lay without breathing,

exactly as he had left her, listening, listening with all the strength

that remained to her for the sounds of conflict.

But all she heard was Piet's voice pitched so low that she could not

catch a word. Then came Jerry's in sharp, staccato tones. He seemed to be

surprised at something, surprised and indignant. Twice she heard him

fling out an emphatic denial. And, while she still listened with a

panting heart, there came the tread of their feet upon the stairs,

and she knew that they had descended to the lower regions.

For a long, long while she still crouched there listening, but there came

to her straining ears no hubbub of blows--only the sound of men's voices

talking together in the room below her, with occasional silences between.

Once indeed she fancied that Jerry spoke with passionate vehemence, but

the outburst--if such it were--evoked no response.

Slowly the minutes dragged away. It was growing very late. What could be

happening? What were they saying to each other? When--when would this

terrible strain of waiting be over?

Hark! What was that? The tread of feet once more and the sound of an

opening door. Ah, what were they doing? What? What?

Trembling afresh she raised herself on the bed to listen. There came to

her the sudden throbbing of a motor-engine. He had come in his car, then,

and now he was going, going without another word to her, leaving her

alone with Jerry. The conviction came upon her like a stunning blow,

depriving her for the moment of all reason. She leapt from the bed and

threw herself against the door, battering against it wildly with her

fists.

She must see him again! She must! She must! She would not be deserted

thus! The bare thought was intolerable to her. Did he hold her so lightly

as this, then--that, having followed her a hundred miles through blinding

snow, he could turn his back upon her and leave her thus?

That could only mean but one thing, and her blood turned to fire as she

realized it. It meant that he would have no more of her, that he deemed

her unworthy, that--that he intended to set her free!

But she could not bear it! She would not! She would not! She would

escape. She would force Jerry to let her go. She would follow him

through that dreadful wilderness of snow. She would run in the tracks

of his wheels until she found him.

And then she would force him--she would force him--to listen to her while

she poured out to him the foolish, the pitiably foolish truth!

But what if he would not believe her? What then? What then? She had sunk

to her knees before the door, still beating madly upon it, and crying

wildly at the keyhole for Jerry to come and set her free.

In every pause she heard the buzzing of the engine. It seemed to her to

hold a jeering note. The outer door was open, and an icy draught blew

over her face as she knelt there waiting for Jerry. She broke off again

to listen, and heard the muffled sounds of wheels in the snow. Then came

the note of the hooter, mockingly distinct; and then the hum of the

engine receding from the house. The outer door banged, and the icy

draught suddenly ceased.

With a loud cry she flung herself once more at the unyielding panels,

bruising hands and shoulders against the senseless wood.

"Jerry! Jerry!" she cried, and again in anguished accents, "Jerry! Come

to me, quick, oh, quick! Let me out! Let me out!"

She heard a step upon the stairs. He was coming.

In a frenzy she beat and shook the door to make him hasten. She was ready

to fly forth like a whirlwind in the wake of the speeding motor. For she

must follow him, she must overtake him; she must--Heaven help her! She

must somehow make him understand!

Oh, why was Jerry so slow? Every instant was increasing the distance

between her and that buzzing motor. She screamed to him in an agony of

impatience to hurry, to hurry, only to hurry.

He did not call in answer, but at last, at last, his hand was on the

door.

She stumbled to her feet as the key grated in the lock, and dragged

fiercely at the handle. It resisted her, for there was another hand upon

it, and with an exclamation of fierce impatience she snatched her own

away.

"Oh, be quick!" she cried hysterically. "Be quick! He is miles away by

this time. I shall never catch him, and I must, I must!"

The door opened. She dashed forward. But a man's arm barred her progress,

and with a cry she drew back. The next moment she reeled as she stood,

reeled gasping till she slipped and slid to the floor at his feet. The

man upon the threshold was her husband!

CHAPTER XIII

In silence he lifted her and laid her again upon the bed. His touch was

perfectly gentle, but there was no kindness in it, no warmth of any sort.

And Nan turned her face into the pillow and sobbed convulsively. How

could she tell him now?

He began to walk up and down the tiny room, still maintaining that

ominous silence. But she sobbed on, utterly unstrung, utterly hopeless,

utterly spent.

He paused at last, and poured some water into a glass.

"Drink this," he said, stopping beside her. "And then lie quiet until I

speak to you."

But she could neither raise herself nor take the glass. He stooped and

lifted her, holding the water to her trembling lips. She leaned against

him with closed eyes while she drank. She was painfully anxious to avoid

his look. And yet when he laid her down, the sobbing began again, though

she struggled feebly to repress it.

He fetched a chair at last and sat down beside her, gravely waiting till

her breathing became less distressed. Then, finding her calmer, he

finally spoke:

"You need not be afraid of me, Anne. I shall not hurt you."

"I am not afraid," she whispered back.

He sat silent for a space, not looking at her. At last:

"Can you attend to me now?" he asked her formally.

She raised herself slowly.

"May I say something first?" she said.

He turned his brooding eyes upon her.

"If you can say it quietly," he said.

She pressed her hand to her throat.

"You--will listen to me, and--and believe me?"

"I shall know if you lie to me," he said.

She made a sharp gesture of protest.

"I don't deserve that," she said. "You know it."

His grim lips relaxed a very little.

"I shouldn't talk about deserts if I were you," he said.

His tone scared her again, but she made a valiant effort to compose

herself.

"You say that," she said, "because you are very angry with me. I don't

dispute your right to be angry. I know I've made a fool of you. But--but

after all"--her voice began to shake uncontrollably; she forced out the

words with difficulty--"I've made a much bigger fool of myself. I think

you might consider that."

He did consider it with drawn brows.

"Does that improve your case?" he asked at length.

She did not answer him. She was trying hard to read his face, but it told

her nothing. With a swift movement she slipped to her feet and stood

before him.

"I don't know," she said, speaking fast and passionately, "what you have

in your mind. I don't know what you think of me. But I suppose you mean

to punish me in some way, to--to give me a lesson that will hurt me all

my life. You have me at your mercy, and--and I shall have to bear it,

whatever it is. But before--before you make me hate you, let me say this:

I am your wife. Hadn't you better remember that before you punish me?

I--I shan't hate you so badly so long as I know that you remember that."

She stopped. She was wringing her hands fast together to subdue her

agitation.

Piet had risen with her, but she could no longer search his face. She had

said that she did not fear him, but in that moment she was more horribly

afraid than she had ever been in her life.

She thought that he would never break his silence. Had she angered him

even further by those words of hers, she wondered desperately? And if

so--oh! if so--Suddenly he spoke, and every pulse in her body leaped and

quivered.

"Since when," he said, "have you begun to remember that?"

"I have never forgotten it," she said, in a voiceless whisper.

He took her hands, separated them, held up the left before her eyes.

"Never?" he said. "Be careful what you say to me."

She looked up with a flash of the old quick pride.

"I have spoken the truth," she said. "Why should I be careful?"

He dropped her hand.

"What have you done with your wedding-ring?"

"I--lost it." Nan's voice and eyes sank together. "It was an accident,"

she said. "We dropped it in the lake."

"We?" said Piet.

She made a little hopeless gesture.

"Yes, Jerry and I. It's no good telling you how it happened. You won't

believe me if I do."

He made no comment. Only after a moment he put his hand on her shoulder.

"Have you anything else to say?" he asked.

She shook her head without speaking. She was shivering all over.

"Very well, then," he said. "Come into the other room--you seem cold."

She went with him submissively. The fire had sunk low, and he replenished

it. The hunting crop that he had brought from her father's house lay on

the table with Jerry's banjo. He picked it up and put it away in a

corner.

"Sit down," he said.

She sank upon the sofa, hiding her face. He took up his stand on the rug,

facing her.

"Now," he said quietly, "do you remember my telling you that you had

married a savage? I see you do. And you are afraid of me in consequence.

I am a savage. I admit it. I hurt you that night. I meant to hurt you. I

meant you to see that I was in earnest. I meant you to realize that you

were my wife. I meant--I still mean--to master you. But I did not mean to

terrify you as you were terrified, as you are terrified now. I made a

mistake, and for that mistake I desire to apologize."

He stooped and drew one of her hands away from her face.

"You defied me," he said. "Do you remember? And I am not accustomed to

defiance. Nor will I bear it from anyone--my wife least of all. I am not

threatening you; I am simply showing you what you must learn to expect

from me, from the savage you have married. It is not my intention to

frighten you. I am no longer angry with either you or the young fool whom

you call your friend. By the way, I have not done him any violence. He

has merely gone to find a lodging for himself and for the motor in the

village. Yes, I turned him out of his own house, but I might have done

worse. I meant to do much worse."

"Yes?" murmured Nan. "Why--why didn't you?"

"Because," he answered grimly, "I found that I had only fools to deal

with."

He paused a moment.

"Well, now for your punishment," he said. "As you remarked just now,

I have you absolutely at my mercy. How much mercy do you expect--or

deserve? Answer me--as my wife."

But she could not answer him. She only bowed her head speechlessly

against the strong hand that still held hers.

She could feel his fingers tightening to a grip. And she knew herself

beaten, powerless.

"Listen to me, Anne!" he said suddenly; and in his voice was something

that she had only heard once before, and that but vaguely. "I am going to

give you a fair chance, in spite of your behaviour to me. I am willing to

believe--I do believe--that, to a certain extent, I drove you to this

course. I also believe that you and your friend Jerry are nothing but a

pair of irresponsible children. I should like to have caned him, but I

had nothing but a loaded horse-whip to do it with, so I was obliged to

let him off. Now listen! I am going downstairs and I shall stay there for

exactly half an hour. If between now and the end of that half-hour you

come to me with any good and sufficient reason for letting you go back

and live apart from me in your father's house, I will let you go. You

have asked me to remember that you are my wife. Precisely what you meant

by that you have left me to guess. You will make that request of yours

quite plain to me within the next half-hour."

He relinquished his hold with the words, and would have withdrawn his

hand, but she made a sharp movement to stay him.

"Do you--really--mean that?" she asked him, a catch in her voice, her

head still bent.

"I have said it," he said.

But still with nervous fingers she sought to detain him.

"What--what would you consider a good and sufficient reason?"

The hand she held clenched slowly upon itself.

"If you can convince me," he said, his voice very deep and steady, "that

to desert me would be for your happiness, I will let you go for that."

"But how can I convince you?" she said, her face still hidden from him,

her hands closed tightly upon his wrist.

"You will be able to do so," he said, "if you know your own mind."

"And if--if I fail to satisfy you?" she faltered.

He was silent. After a moment he deliberately freed himself, and turned

away.

"Those are my terms," he said. "If you do not come to me in half an hour

I shall conclude that you leave the decision in my hands--in short, that

you wish to remain my wife. Think well, Anne, before you take action in

this matter. I do not seek to persuade you to either course. Only let me

warn you that, whatever your choice, I shall treat it as final. You must

realize that fully before you choose."

He was at the head of the stairs as he ended. Without a pause he began to

descend, and she counted his footsteps with a wildly beating heart till

they ceased in the room below.

CHAPTER XIV

She was alone. In a silence intense she lifted her head at last, and knew

that for half an hour she was safe from interruption.

Far away over the snow she heard a distant church clock tolling midnight.

It ceased, and in the silence she thought she heard her stretched nerves

cracking one by one. Soon--very soon--she would have to go down to him

and fight the final battle for her freedom. But she would wait till the

very last minute. She would spend the whole of the brief time accorded to

her in mustering all her strength. He had swept her pride utterly out of

her reach. But surely that was not her only weapon.

What of her hatred--that hatred that had driven her to this mad flight

with Jerry? Surely out of that she could fashion a shield that all his

savagery could not pierce. Moreover, he had given her his word to abide

by her decision whatever it might be, so long as she could convince him

of that same hatred that had once blazed so fiercely within her.

But what had happened to it, she wondered? It had wholly ceased to nerve

her for resistance. How was it? Was she too physically exhausted to fan

it into flame, or had he torn this also from her to wither underfoot with

her dead pride? Surely not! With all his boasts of mastery, he had not

mastered her yet. She would never submit to him--never, never! Crush her,

trample her as he would, she would never yield herself voluntarily to

him. It was only when he began to spare her that she found herself

wavering. Why had he spared her? she asked herself. Why had he given her

that single chance of escape?

Or, stay! Had he, after all, been generous? Had he but affected

generosity that he might the more completely subjugate her? He had said

that she must convince him that freedom from her chain would mean

happiness to her. And how could she ever convince him of this? How?

How? Would he ever see himself as she saw him--a monster of violence

whose very presence appalled her? The problem was hopeless, hopeless! She

knew that she could never make him understand.

Swiftly the time passed, and with every minute her resolution grew

weaker, her agitation more uncontrollable. She could not do it. She could

not face him with another challenge. It would kill her to resist him

again as she had resisted him on Jerry's behalf. And yet she must do

something. For, if she did not go to him, he would come to her. The

half-hour he had given her was nearly spent. If she did not make up her

mind soon it would be too late. It might be that already he was repenting

his brief generosity, if generosity it had been. It might be that at any

moment she would hear his tread upon the stairs.

She started up in a panic, fancying that she heard it already. But no

sound followed her wild alarm, and she knew that her quivering nerves

had tricked her. Shuddering from head to foot, she stood listening,

debating with herself.

Her time was very short now; only three minutes to the half-hour--only

two--only one!

With a gasp, she gathered together all the little strength she had left.

But she could not descend those gloomy stairs. She dared not go to him.

She stood halting at the top.

Ah, now he was moving! She heard his step in the room below, and she was

conscious of an instant's wild relief that the suspense was past.

Then panic rushed back upon her, blotting out all else. She saw his

shadow on the stairs, and she cried to him to stop.

"I am coming down to you! Wait for me! Wait!"

He stepped back, and she stumbled downwards, nearly falling in her haste.

At the last stair she tripped, recovering herself only by the arm he

flung out to catch her.

"I was coming!" she gasped incoherently. "I would have come before, but

the stairs were dark--so dark, and I was frightened!"

"There is nothing to frighten you," he said gravely.

"I can't help it!" she wailed like a child. "Oh, Piet--Piet, be kind to

me--just this once--if you can! I--I'm terrified!"

He put his arm round her.

"Why?" he said.

She could not tell him. But in a vague fashion his arm comforted her; and

that also was beyond explanation.

"You are not angry?" she whispered.

"No," he said.

"You will be," she said, shivering, "when I have told you my decision."

"What is your decision?" he asked.

She did not answer him; she could not.

He moved, and very gently set her free. There was a chair by the table

from which he had evidently just risen. He turned to it and sat down,

watching her under his hand.

"What is your decision?" he asked again.

She shook her head. Her agony of fear was passing, but still she could

not tell him yet.

He waited silently, his face so shaded by his hand that she could not

read its expression.

"Why don't you answer me?" he said at last.

"I--can't!" she said, with a sob.

"You leave the decision to me?" he questioned.

She did not answer.

He straightened himself slowly, without rising.

"My decision is made," he said. "Give me your hand; not that one--the

left."

She obeyed him trembling. He had taken something from his pocket. With a

start she saw what it was.

"Oh, no, Piet--no!" she cried.

But he had his way, for he would not suffer her resistance to thwart him.

Very gravely and resolutely he slipped a gold ring on to her finger.

"And you will give me your word to keep it there," he said, looking up at

her.

Her lips were quivering; she could not speak.

"Never mind," he said; "I can trust you."

He released her hand with the words, and there followed a brief silence

while Nan stood struggling vainly for self-control.

Failing at length, she sank suddenly down upon her knees at the table

hiding her face and crying as if her heart would break.

"My dear Anne!" he said. And then in a different tone, his hand upon her

bowed head: "What is it child? Don't cry, don't cry! Is it so hard for

you to be my wife?"

She could not answer him. His kindness was so strange to her. She could

only sob under that gentle, comforting hand.

"Hush!" he said. "Hush! Don't be so distressed. Anne, listen! I will

never be a savage to you again. I swear it on my honour, on my faith in

you, and on the love I have for you. What more can I do?"

Still she could not answer him, but her tears were ceasing. Yielding to

the pressure of his hand, she had drawn nearer to him. But she did not

raise her head.

After a long, quivering silence she spoke.

"Piet, I--I want you to--forgive me; not just for this, but for--a

thousand things. Piet, I--I didn't know you really loved me."

"I have always loved you, Anne," he said, in his deep, slow voice.

"And you--forgive me," she said faintly.

"I have forgiven you," he answered gravely.

She made a slight, shy movement, and he took his hand from her head. But

in an instant impulsively she caught at it, drawing it down against her

burning face.

"And you are not angry with me any more?" she murmured.

"No," he said again.

She was silent for a space, not moving, still tightly holding his hand.

He could not see her face, nor did he seek to do so. Perhaps he feared to

scare away her new-found courage.

At length, in a very small voice, she broke the silence.

"Piet!"

He leaned forward.

"What is it, Anne?"

He could feel her breath quick and short upon his hand. She seemed to be

making a supreme effort.

"Piet!" she said again.

"I am listening," he responded, with absolute patience.

She turned one cheek slightly towards him.

"If I loved anybody," she said, rather incoherently, "I--I'd find some

way of letting them know it."

He leaned his head once more upon his hand.

"I am a rough beast, Anne," he said sadly. "My love-making only hurts

you."

Nan was silent again for a little, but she still held fast to his hand.

"Were you," she asked hesitatingly at length, "were you--making love to

me--that night?"

"After my own savage fashion," he said.

"Well," she said, a slight quiver in her voice, "it didn't hurt me,

Piet."

Piet was silent.

"I mean," she said, gathering courage, "if--if I had known that it meant

just that, I--well, I shouldn't have minded so much."

Still Piet was silent. His hand shaded his eyes, but she knew that he was

watching her.

"Do you understand?" she asked him doubtfully.

"No," he said.

"Don't you--don't you know what I want you to do?" she said, rather

Breathlessly.

"No," he said again.

"Must I--tell you?" she asked, with a gasp.

"I think you must," he said, in his grave way.

She lifted her head abruptly. Her eyes were very big and shining. She

stretched her hands out to him with a little, quivering laugh.

"I hate you for making me say it!" she declared, with a vehemence half

passionate, half whimsical. "Piet, I--I want you--to--to--take me in your

arms again, and--and--kiss me--as you did--that night."

The last words were uttered from his breast, though she never knew how

she came to be there. It was as though a whirlwind had caught her away

from the earth into a sunlit paradise that was all her own--a paradise in

which fear had no place. And the chain against which she had chafed so

long and bitterly had turned to links of purest gold.

* * * * *

The Consolation Prize

"So you don't want to marry me?" said Earl Wyverton.

He said it by no means bitterly. There was even the suggestion of a smile

on his clean-shaven face. He looked down at the girl who stood before

him, with eyes that were faintly quizzical. She was bending at the moment

to cut a tall Madonna lily from a sheaf that grew close to the path. At

his quiet words she started and the flower fell.

He stooped and picked it up, considered it for a moment, then slipped it

into the basket that was slung on her arm.

"Don't be agitated," he said, gently. "You needn't take me

seriously--unless you wish."

She turned a face of piteous entreaty towards him. She was trembling

uncontrollably. "Oh, please, Lord Wyverton," she said, earnestly,

"please, don't ask me! Don't ask me! I--I felt so sure you wouldn't."

"Did you?" he said. "Why?"

He looked at her with grave interest. He was a straight, well-made man;

but his kindest friends could not have called him anything but ugly, and

there were a good many who thought him formidable also. Nevertheless,

there was that about him--an honesty and a strength--which made up to a

very large extent for his lack of other attractions.

"Tell me why," he said.

"Oh, because you are so far above me," the girl said, with an effort.

"You must remember that. You can't help it. I have always known that you

were not in earnest."

"Have you?" said Lord Wyverton, smiling a little. "Have you? You seem to

have rather a high opinion of me, Miss Neville."

She turned back to her flowers. "There are certain things," she said, in

a low voice, "that one can't help knowing."

"And one of them is that Lord Wyverton is too fond of larking to be

considered seriously at any time?" he questioned.

She did not answer. He stood and watched her speculatively.

"And so you won't have anything to say to me?" he said at last. "In fact,

you don't like me?"

She glanced at him with grey eyes that seemed to plead for mercy. "Yes,

I like you," she said, slowly. "But--"

"Never mind the 'but,'" said Wyverton, quietly. "Will you marry me?"

She turned fully round again and faced him. He saw that she was very

pale.

"Do you mean it?" she said. "Do you?"

He frowned at her, though his eyes remained quizzical and kindly. "Don't

be frightened," he said. "Yes; I am actually in earnest. I want you."

She stiffened at the words and grew paler still; but she said nothing.

It was Wyverton who broke the silence. There was something about her that

made him uneasy.

"You can send me away at once," he said, "if you don't want me. You

needn't mind my feelings, you know."

"Send you away!" she said. "I!"

He gave her a sudden, keen look, and held out his hand to her. "Never

mind the rest of the world, Phyllis," he said, very gravely. "Let them

say what they like, dear. If we want each other, there is no power on

earth that can divide us."

She drew in her breath sharply as she laid her hand in his.

"And now," he said, "give me your answer. Will you marry me?"

He felt her hand move convulsively in his own. She was trembling still.

He bent towards her, gently drawing her. "It is 'Yes,' Phyllis," he

whispered. "It must be 'Yes.'"

And after a moment, falteringly, through white lips, she answered him.

"It is--'Yes.'"

* * * * *

"And you accepted him! Oh, Phyllis!"

The younger sister looked at her with eyes of wide astonishment, almost

of reproach. They were two of a family of ten; a country clergyman's

family that had for its support something under three hundred pounds a

year. Phyllis, the eldest girl, worked for her living as a private

secretary and had only lately returned home for a brief holiday.

Lord Wyverton, who had seen her once or twice in town, had actually

followed her thither to pursue his courtship. She had not believed

herself to be the attraction. She had persistently refused to believe him

to be in earnest until that afternoon, when the unbelievable thing had

actually happened and he had definitely asked her to be his wife. Even

then, sitting alone with her sister in the bedroom they shared, she could

scarcely bring herself to realize what had happened to her.

"Yes," she said; "I accepted him of course--of course. My dear Molly, how

could I refuse?"

Molly made no reply, but her silence was somehow tragic.

"Think of mother," the elder girl went on, "and the children. How could I

possibly refuse--even if I wanted?"

"Yes," said Molly; "I see. But I quite thought you were in love with Jim

Freeman."

In the silence that followed this blunt speech she turned to look

searchingly at her sister. Molly was just twenty, and she did the entire

work of the household with sturdy goodwill. She possessed beauty that was

unusual. They were a good-looking family, and she was the fairest of them

all. Her eyes were dark and very shrewd, under their straight black

brows; her face was delicate in colouring and outline; her hair was

red-gold and abundant. Moreover, she was clever in a strictly practical

sense. She enjoyed life in spite of straitened circumstances. And she

possessed a serenity of temperament that no amount of adversity ever

seemed to ruffle.

Having obtained the desired glimpse of her sister's face, she returned

without comment to the very worn stocking that she was repairing.

"I had a talk with Jim Freeman the other day," she said. "He was driving

the old doctor's dog-cart and going to see a patient. He offered me a

lift."

"Oh!" Phyllis's tone was carefully devoid of interest. She also took up a

stocking from the pile at her sister's elbow and began to work.

"I asked him how he was getting on," Molly continued. "He said that Dr.

Finsbury was awfully good to him, and treated him almost like a son. He

asked very particularly after you; and when I told him you were coming

home he said that he should try and manage to come over and see you. But

he is evidently beginning to be rather important, and he can't get away

very easily. He asked a good many questions about you, and wanted to know

if I thought you were happy and well."

"I see." Again the absence of interest in Phyllis's tone was so marked as

to be almost unnatural.

Molly dismissed the subject with a far better executed air of

indifference.

"And you are really going to marry Earl Wyverton," she said. "How nice,

Phyl! Did he make love to you?"

There was a distinct pause before Phyllis replied. "No. There was no

need."

"He didn't!" ejaculated Molly.

"I didn't encourage him to," Phyllis confessed. "He went away directly

after. He said he should come to-morrow and see dad."

"I suppose he's frightfully rich?" said Molly, reflectively.

"Enormously, I believe." A deep red flush rose in Phyllis's face. She had

begun to tremble again in spite of herself. Molly suddenly dropped her

work and leaned forward.

"Phyl, Phyl," she said, softly; "shall I tell you what Jim Freeman said

to me that day? He said that very soon he should be able to support a

wife--and I knew quite well what he meant. I told him I was glad--so

glad. Oh, Phyl, darling, when he comes and asks you to go to him, what

will you say?"

Phyllis looked up with quick protest on her lips. She wrung her hands

together with a despairing gesture.

"Molly, Molly," she gasped, "don't torture me! How can I help it? How can

I help it? I shall have to send him away."

"Oh, poor darling!" Molly said. "Poor, poor darling!"

And she gathered her sister into her arms, pressing her close to her

heart with a passionate fondness of which only a few knew her to be

capable. There was only a year between them, and Molly had always been

the leading spirit, protector and comforter by turns.

Even as she soothed and hushed Phyllis into calmness her quick brain was

at work upon the situation. There must be a way of escape somewhere. Of

that she was convinced. There always was a way of escape. But for the

time at least it baffled her. Her own acquaintance with Wyverton was very

slight. She wished ardently that she knew what manner of man he was at

heart.

Upon one point at least she was firmly determined. This monstrous

sacrifice must not take place, even were it to ensure the whole family

welfare. The life they lived was desperately difficult, but Phyllis must

not be allowed to ruin her own life's happiness and another's also to

ease the burden.

But what a pity it seemed! What a pity! Why in wonder was Fate so

perverse? Molly thought. Such a brilliant chance offered to herself

would have turned the whole world into a gilded dreamland. For she was

wholly heart-free.

The idea was a fascinating one. It held her fancy strongly. She began to

wonder if he cared very deeply for her sister, or if mere looks had

attracted him.

She had good looks too, she reflected. And she was quick to learn,

adaptable. The thought rushed through her mind like a meteor through

space. He might be willing. He might be kind. He had a look about his

eyes--a quizzical look--that certainly suggested possibilities. But dare

she put it to the test? Dare she actually interfere in the matter?

For the first time in all her vigorous young life Molly found her courage

at so low an ebb that she was by no means sure that she could rely upon

it to carry her through.

She spent the rest of that day in trying to screw herself up to what she

privately termed "the necessary pitch of impudence."

* * * * *

At nine o'clock on the following morning Lord Wyverton, sitting at

breakfast alone in the little coffee-room of the Red Lion, heard a voice

he recognized speak his name in the passage outside.

"Lord Wyverton," it said, "is he down?"

Lord Wyverton rose and went to the door. He met the landlady just

entering with a basket of eggs in her hand. She dropped him a curtsy.

"It's Miss Molly from the Vicarage, my lord," she said.

Molly herself stood in the background. Behind the landlady's broad back

she also executed a village bob.

"I had to come with the eggs. We supply Mrs. Richards with eggs. And it

seemed unneighbourly to go away without seeing your lordship," she said.

She looked at him with wonderful dark eyes that met his own with

unreserved directness. He told himself as he shook hands that this girl

was a great beauty and would be a magnificent woman some day.

"I am pleased to see you," he said, with quiet courtesy. "It was kind of

you to look me up. Will you come into the garden?"

"I haven't much time to spare," said Molly. "It's my cake morning. You

are coming round to the Vicarage, aren't you? Can't we walk together?"

"Certainly," he replied at once, "if you think I shall not be too early a

visitor."

Molly's lips parted in a little smile. "We begin our day at six," she

said.

"What energy!" he commented. "I am only energetic when I am on a

holiday."

"You're on business now, then?" queried Molly.

He looked at her keenly as they passed out upon the sunlit road. "I think

you know what my business is," he said.

She did not respond. "I'll take you through the fields," she said. "It's

a short cut. Don't you want to smoke?"

There was something in her manner that struck him as not altogether

natural. He pondered over it as he lighted a cigarette.

"They are cutting the grass in the church fields," said Molly. "Don't you

hear?"

Through the slumberous summer air came the whir of the machine. It was

June.

"It's the laziest sound on earth," said Wyverton.

Molly turned off the road to a stile. "You ought to take a holiday," she

said, as she mounted it.

He vaulted the railing beside it and gave her his hand. "I'm not

altogether a drone, Miss Neville," he said.

Molly seated herself on the top bar and surveyed him. "Of course not,"

she said. "You are here on business, aren't you?"

Wyverton's extended hand fell to his side. "Now what is it you want to

say to me?" he asked her, quietly.

Molly's hands were clasped in her lap. They did not tremble, but they

gripped one another rather tightly.

"I want to say a good many things," she said, after a moment.

Lord Wyverton smiled suddenly. He had meeting brows, but his smile was

reassuring.

"Yes?" he said. "About your sister?"

"Partly," said Molly. She put up an impatient hand and removed her hat.

Her hair shone gloriously in the sunlight that fell chequered through the

overarching trees.

"I want to talk to you seriously, Lord Wyverton," she said.

"I am quite serious," he assured her.

There followed a brief silence. Molly's eyes travelled beyond him and

rested upon the plodding horses in the hay-field.

"I have heard," she said at length, "that men and women in your position

don't always marry for love."

Wyverton's brows drew together into a single, hard, uncompromising line.

"I suppose there are such people to be found in every class," he said.

Molly's eyes returned from the hay-field and met his look steadily. "I

like you best when you don't frown," she said. "I am not trying to insult

you."

His brows relaxed, but he did not smile. "I am sure of that," he said,

courteously. "Please continue."

Molly leaned slightly forward. "I think one should be honest at all

times," she said, "at whatever cost. Lord Wyverton, Phyllis isn't in

love with you at all. She cares for Jim Freeman, the doctor's

assistant--an awfully nice boy; and he cares for her. But, you see, you

are rich, and we are so frightfully poor; and mother is often ill,

chiefly because there isn't enough to provide her with what she needs.

And so Phyllis felt it would be almost wicked to refuse your offer.

Perhaps you won't understand, but I hope you will try. If it weren't for

Jim, I would never have told you. As it is--I have been wondering--"

She broke off abruptly and suddenly covered her face with her two hands

in a stillness so tense that the man beside her marvelled.

He moved close to her. He was rather pale, but by no means discomposed.

"Yes?" he said. "Go on, please. I want you to finish."

There was authority in his voice, but Molly sat in unbroken silence.

He waited for several moments, then laid a perfectly steady hand on her

knee.

"You have been wondering--" he said.

She did not raise her head. As if under compulsion, she answered him with

her face still hidden.

"I have dared to wonder if--perhaps--you would take me--instead. I--am

not in love with anybody else, and I never would be. If you are in love

with Phyllis, I won't go on. But if it is just beauty you care for, I am

no worse-looking than she is. And I should do my best to please you."

The low voice sank. Molly's habitual self-possession had wholly deserted

her at this critical moment. She was painfully conscious of the quiet

hand on her knee. It seemed to press upon her with a weight that was

almost intolerable.

The silence that followed was terrible to her. She wondered afterwards

how she sat through it.

Then at last he moved and took her by the wrists. "Will you look at me?"

he said.

His voice sent a quiver through her. She had never felt so desperately

scared and ashamed in all her healthy young life. Yet she yielded to the

insistence of his touch and tone, and met the searching scrutiny of his

eyes with all her courage. He was not angry, she saw; nor was he

contemptuous. More than that she could not read. She lowered her eyes

and waited. Her pulses throbbed wildly, but still she kept herself from

trembling.

"Is this a definite offer?" he asked at last.

"Yes," she answered. Her voice was very low, but it was steady.

He waited a second, and she felt the mastery of the eyes she could not

meet.

"Forgive me," he said, then; "but are you actually in earnest?"

"Yes," she said again, and marvelled at her own daring.

His hold tightened upon her wrists. "You are a very brave girl," he said.

There was a baffling note in his tone, and she glanced up involuntarily.

To her intense relief she saw the quizzical, kindly look in his eyes

again.

"Will you allow me to say," he said, "that I don't think you were created

for a consolation prize?"

He spoke somewhat grimly, but his tone was not without humour. Molly sat

quite still in his hold. She had a feeling that she had grossly insulted

him, that she had made it his right to treat her exactly as he chose.

After a moment he set her quietly free.

"I see you are serious," he said. "If you weren't--it would be

intolerable. But do you actually expect me to take you at your word?"

She did not hesitate. "I wish you to," she said.

"You think you would be happy with me?" he pursued. "You know, I am

called eccentric by a good many."

"You are eccentric," said Molly, "or you wouldn't dream of marrying one

of us. As to being happy, it isn't my nature to be miserable. I don't

want to be a countess, but I do want to help my people. That in itself

would make me happy."

"Thank you for telling me the truth," Wyverton said, gravely. "I believe

I have suspected some of it from the first. And now listen. I asked your

sister to marry me--because I wanted her. But I will spoil no woman's

life. I will take nothing that does not belong to me. I shall set her

free."

He paused. Molly was looking at him expectantly. His face softened a

little under her eyes.

"As for you," he said, "I don't think you quite realize what you have

offered me--how much of yourself. It is no little thing, Molly. It is all

you have. A woman should not part with that lightly. Still, since you

have offered it to me, I cannot and do not throw it aside. If you are of

the same mind in six months from now, I shall take you at your word. But

you ought to marry for love, child--you ought to marry for love."

He held out his hand to her abruptly, and Molly, with a burning face,

gave him both her own.

"I can't think how I did it," she said, in a low voice. "But I--I am not

sorry."

"Thank you," said Lord Wyverton, and he stooped with an odd little smile,

and kissed first one and then the other of the hands he held.

* * * * *

No one, save Phyllis, knew of the contract made on that golden morning in

June on the edge of the flowering meadows; and even to Phyllis only the

bare outlines of the interview were vouchsafed.

That she was free, and that Lord Wyverton felt no bitterness over his

disappointment, he himself assured her. He uttered no word of reproach.

He did not so much as hint that she had given him cause for complaint. He

was absolutely composed, even friendly.

He barely mentioned her sister's interference in the matter, and he

said nothing whatsoever as to her singular method of dealing with the

situation. It was Molly who briefly imparted this action of hers, and

her manner of so doing did not invite criticism.

Thereafter she went back to her multitudinous duties without an apparent

second thought, shouldering her burden with her usual serenity; and no

one imagined for a moment what tumultuous hopes and doubts underlay her

calm exterior.

Lord Wyverton left the place, and the general aspect of things returned

to their usual placidity.

The announcement of the engagement of the vicar's eldest daughter to Jim

Freeman, the doctor's assistant in the neighbouring town, created a small

stir among the gossips. It was generally felt that, good fellow as young

Freeman undoubtedly was, pretty Phyllis Neville might have done far

better for herself. A rumour even found credence in some quarters that

she had actually refused the wealthy aristocrat for Jim Freeman's sake,

but there were not many who held this belief. It implied a foolishness

too sublime.

Discussion died down after Phyllis's return to her work. It was

understood that her marriage was to take place in the winter. Molly's

hands were, in consequence, very full, and she had obviously no time to

talk of her sister's choice. There was only one visitor who ever called

at the Vicarage in anything approaching to state. Her visits usually

occurred about twice a year, and possessed something of the nature of a

Royal favour. This was Lady Caryl, the Lady of the Manor, in whose gift

the living lay.

This lady had always shown a marked preference for the vicar's second

daughter.

"Mary Neville," she would remark to her friends, "is severely handicapped

by circumstance, but she will make her mark in spite of it. Her beauty is

extraordinary, and I cannot believe that Providence has destined her for

a farmer's wife."

It was on a foggy afternoon at the end of November that Lady Caryl's

carriage turned in at the Vicarage gates for the second state call of the

year.

Molly received the visitor alone. Her mother was upstairs with a

bronchial attack.

Lady Caryl, handsome, elderly, and aristocratic, entered the shabby

drawing-room with her most gracious air. She sat and talked for a while

upon various casual subjects. Molly poured out the tea and responded with

her usual cheery directness. Lady Caryl did not awe her. Her father was

wont to remark that Molly was impudent as a robin and brave as a lion.

After a slight pause in the conversation Lady Caryl turned from parish

affairs with an abruptness somewhat characteristic of her, but by no

means impetuous.

"Did you ever chance to meet Earl Wyverton, my dear Mary?" she inquired.

"He spent a few days here in the summer."

"Yes," said Molly. "He came to see us several times."

The beautiful colour rose slightly as she replied, but she looked

straight at her questioner with a directness almost boyish.

"Ah!" said Lady Caryl. "I was away from the Manor at the time, or I

should have asked him to stay there. I have always liked him."

"We like him too," said Molly, simply.

"He is a gentleman," rejoined Lady Caryl, with emphasis. "And that makes

his misfortune the more regrettable."

"Misfortune!" echoed Molly.

She started a little as she uttered the word--so little that none but a

very keen observer would have noticed it.

"Ah!" said Lady Caryl. "You have not heard, I see. I suppose you would

not hear. But it has been the talk of the town. They say he has lost

practically every penny he possessed over some gigantic American

speculation, and that to keep his head above water he will have to sell

or let every inch of land he owns. It is particularly to be regretted, as

he has always taken his responsibilities seriously. Indeed, there are

many who regard his principles as eccentrically fastidious. I am not of

the number, my dear Mary. Like you, I have a high esteem for him, and he

has my most heartfelt sympathy."

She ceased to speak, and there was a little pause.

"How dreadful!" Molly said then. "It must be far worse to lose a lot of

money than to be poor from the beginning."

The flush had quite passed from her face. She even looked slightly pale.

Lady Caryl laid down her cup and rose. "That would be so, no doubt," she

said. "I think I shall try to persuade him to come to us at the end of

the year. And your sister is to be married in January? It will be quite

an event for you all. I am sure you are very busy--even more so than

usual, my dear Mary."

She made her stately adieu and swept away.

After her departure Molly bore the teacups to the kitchen and washed them

with less than her usual cheery rapidity. And when the day's work was

done she sat for a long while in her icy bedroom, with the moonlight

flooding all about her, thinking, thinking deeply.

* * * * *

It was the eve of Phyllis's wedding-day, and Molly was hard at work in

the kitchen. The children were all at home, but she had resolutely

turned every one out of this, her own particular domain, that she might

complete her gigantic task of preparation undisturbed. The whole

household were in a state of seething excitement. There were guests in

the house as well, and every room but the kitchen seemed crowded to its

utmost capacity. Molly was busier than she had ever been in her life, and

the whirl of work had nearly swept away even her serenity. She was very

tired, too, though she was scarcely conscious of it. Her hands went from

one task to another with almost mechanical skill.

She was bending over the stove, stirring a delicacy that required her

minute attention when there came a knock on the kitchen door.

She did not even turn her head as she responded to it. "Go away!" she

called. "I can't talk to anyone."

There was a pause--a speculative pause--during which Molly bent lower

over her saucepan and concluded that the intruder had departed.

Then she became suddenly aware that the door had opened quietly and

someone had entered. She could not turn her head at the moment.

"Oh, do go away!" she said. "I haven't a second to spare; and if this

goes wrong I shall be hours longer."

The kitchen door closed promptly and obligingly, and Molly, with a little

sigh of relief, concentrated her full attention once more upon the matter

in hand.

The last critical phase of the operation arrived, and she lifted the

saucepan from the fire and turned round with it to the table.

In that instant she saw that which so disturbed her equanimity that she

nearly dropped saucepan and contents upon the kitchen floor.

Earl Wyverton was standing with his back against the door, watching her

with eyes that shone quizzically under the meeting brows.

He came forward instantly, and actually took the saucepan out of her

hands.

"Let me," he said.

Molly let him, being for the moment powerless to do otherwise.

"Now," he said, "what does one do--pour it into this glass thing? I see.

Don't watch me, please; I'm nervous."

Molly uttered a curious little laugh that was not wholly steady.

"How did you come here?" she said.

He did not answer her till he had safely accomplished what he had

undertaken. Then he set down the saucepan and looked at her.

"I am staying with Lady Caryl," he told her gravely. "I arrived this

afternoon. And I have come here to present a humble offering to your

sister, and to make a suggestion equally humble to you. I arrived here in

this room by means of a process called bribery and corruption. But if you

are too busy to listen to me, I will wait."

"I can listen," Molly said.

He had not even shaken hands with her, and she felt strangely uncertain

of herself. She was even conscious of a childish desire to run away.

He took her at her word at once. "Thank you," he said. "Now, do you

remember a certain conversation that took place between us six months

ago?"

"I remember," she said.

An odd sense of powerlessness had taken possession of her, and she knew

it had become visible to him, for she saw his face alter.

"I know I'm ugly," he said, abruptly; "but I'm not frowning, believe me."

She understood the allusion and laughed rather faintly. "I'm not afraid

of you, Lord Wyverton," she said.

He smiled at her. "Thank you," he said. "That's kind. I'm coming to the

point. There are just two questions I have to ask you, and I've done.

First, have they told you that I'm a ruined man?"

Molly's face became troubled. "Yes," she said. "Lady Caryl told me. I was

very sorry--for you."

She uttered the last two words with a conscious effort. He was mastering

her in some subtle fashion, drawing her by some means irresistible. She

felt almost as if some occult force were at work upon her. He did not

thank her for her sympathy. Without comment he passed on to his second

question.

"And are you still disposed to be generous?" he asked her, with a

directness that surpassed her own. "Is your offer--that splendid offer of

yours--still open? Or have you changed your mind? You mustn't pity me

overmuch. I have enough to live on--enough for two"--he smiled again that

pleasant, sudden smile of his--"if you will do the cooking and polish the

front-door knob."

"What will you do?" demanded Molly, with a new-found independence of tone

that his light manner made possible.

"I shall clean the boots," he answered, promptly, "or swab the floors,

or, it may be"--he bent slightly towards her, and she saw a new light in

his eyes as he ended--"it may be, stand by my wife to lift the saucepan

off the fire, or do all her other little jobs when she is tired."

Again, and more strongly, she felt that he was drawing her, and she knew

that she was going--going into deep waters in which his hand alone could

hold her up. She stood before him silently. Her heart was beating very

fast. The surging of the deep sea was in her ears. It almost frightened

her, though she knew she had no cause to fear.

And then, suddenly, his hands were upon her shoulders and his eyes were

closely searching her face.

"I offer you myself, Molly," he said, and there was ringing passion in

his voice, though he controlled it. "I loved you from the moment you

offered to marry me. Is not that enough?"

Yes; it was enough. The mastery of it rolled in upon her in a full

flood-tide that no power of reasoning could withstand. She drew one long,

gasping breath--and yielded. The splendour of that moment was greater

than anything she had ever known. Its intensity was almost too vivid

to be borne.

She stretched up her arms to him with a little sob of pure and glad

surrender. There was no hiding what was in her heart. She revealed it to

him without words, but fully, gloriously, convincingly, as she yielded

her lips to his. And she forgot that she had desired to marry him for his

money. She forgot that the family clothes were threadbare and the family

cares almost impossible to cope with. She knew only that better thing

which is greater than poverty or pain or death itself. And, knowing it,

she possessed more than the whole world, and found it enough.

Late that night, when at last Molly lay down to rest with the morrow's

bride by her side, there came the final revelation of that amazing day.

Neither she nor Wyverton had spoken a word to any of that which was

between them. It was not their hour; or, rather, the time had not arrived

for others to share in it.

But as the two girls clasped one another on that last night of

companionship Phyllis presently spoke his name.

"I actually haven't told you what Lord Wyverton did, Moll," she said.

"You would never guess. It was so unexpected, so overwhelming. You know

he came to tea. You were busy and didn't see him. Jim was there, too. He

came straight up to me and said the kindest things to us both. We were

standing away from the rest. And he put an envelope into my hand and

asked me, with his funny smile, to accept it for an old friend's sake. He

disappeared mysteriously directly after. And--and--Molly, it was a cheque

for a thousand pounds."

"Good gracious!" said Molly, sharply.

"Wasn't it simply amazing?" Phyllis continued. "It nearly took my breath

away. And then Lady Caryl arrived, and I showed it to her. And she said

that the story of his ruin was false, that she thought he himself had

invented it for a special reason that had ceased to exist. And she said

that she thought he was richer now than he had ever been before. Why,

Molly, Molly--what has happened? What is it?"

Molly had suddenly sprung upright in bed. The moonlight was shining on

her beautiful face, and she was smiling tremulously, while her eyes

were wet with tears.

She reached out both her arms with a gesture that was full of an infinite

tenderness.

"Yes," she said, "yes, I see." And her glad voice rang and quivered on

that note which Love alone can strike. "It's true, darling. It's true.

He is richer now than he ever was before, and I--I have found endless

riches too. For I love him--I love him--I love him! And--he knows it!"

"Molly!" exclaimed her sister in amazement.

Molly did not turn. She was staring into the moonlight with eyes that

saw.

"And nothing else counts in all the world," she said. "He knows that too,

as we all know it--we all know it--at the bottom of our hearts."

And with that she laughed--the soft, sweet laugh of Love triumphant--and

lay back again by her sister's side.

* * * * *

Her Freedom

"We have been requested to announce that the marriage arranged between

Viscount Merrivale and Miss Hilary St. Orme will not take place."

Viscount Merrivale was eating his breakfast when he chanced upon this

announcement. He was late that morning, and, contrary to custom, was

skimming through the paper at the same time. But the paragraph brought

both occupations to an abrupt standstill. He stared at the sheet for a

few moments as if he thought it was bewitched. His brown face reddened,

and he looked as if he were about to say something. Then he pushed the

paper aside with a contemptuous movement and drank his coffee.

His servant, appearing in answer to the bell a few minutes later, looked

at him with furtive curiosity. He had already seen the announcement,

being in the habit of studying society items before placing the paper

on the breakfast-table. But Merrivale's clean-shaven face was free from

perturbation, and the man was puzzled.

"Reynolds," Merrivale said, "I shall go out of town this afternoon. Have

the motor ready at four!"

"Very good, my lord." Reynolds glanced at the table and noted with some

satisfaction that his master had only eaten one egg.

"Yes, I have finished," Merrivale said, taking up the paper. "If Mr.

Culver calls, ask him to be good enough to wait for me. And--that's all,"

he ended abruptly as he reached the door.

"As cool as a cucumber!" murmured Reynolds, as he began to clear the

table. "I shouldn't wonder but what he stuck the notice in hisself."

Merrivale, still with the morning paper in his hand, strolled easily down

to his club and collected a few letters. He then sauntered into the

smoking-room, where a knot of men, busily conversing in undertones, gave

him awkward greeting.

Merrivale lighted a cigar and sat down deliberately to study his paper.

Nearly an hour later he rose, nodded to several members, who glanced up

at him expectantly, and serenely took his departure.

A general buzz of discussion followed.

"He doesn't look exactly heart-broken," one man observed.

"Hearts grow tough in the West," remarked another. "He has probably done

the breaking-off himself. Jack Merrivale, late of California, isn't the

sort of chap to stand much trifling."

A young man with quizzical eyes broke in with a laugh.

"Ask Mr. Cosmo Fletcher! He is really well up on that subject."

"Also Mr. Richard Culver, apparently," returned the first speaker.

Culver grinned and bowed.

"Certainly, sir," he said. "But--luckily for himself--he has never

qualified for a leathering from Jack Merrivale, late of California. I

don't believe myself that he did do the breaking-off. As they haven't met

more than a dozen times, it can't have gone very deep with him. And,

anyhow, I am certain the girl never cared twopence for anything except

his title, the imp. She's my cousin, you know, so I can call her what I

like--always have."

"I shouldn't abuse the privilege in Merrivale's presence if I were you,"

remarked the man who had expressed the opinion that Merrivale was not one

to stand much trifling.

* * * * *

"Well, but wasn't it unreasonable?" said Hilary St. Orme, with hands

clasped daintily behind her dark head. "Who could stand such tyranny as

that? And surely it's much better to find out before than after. I hate

masterful men, Sybil. I am quite sure I could never have been happy with

him."

The girl's young step-mother looked across at the pretty, mutinous face

and sighed.

"It wasn't a nice way of telling him so, I'm afraid, dear," she said.

"Your father is very vexed."

"But it was beautifully conclusive, wasn't it?" laughed Hilary. "As to

the poor old pater, he won't keep it up for ever, bless his simple heart,

that did want its daughter to be a viscountess. So while the fit lasts

I propose to judiciously absent my erring self. It's a nuisance to have

to miss all the fun this season; but with the pater in the sulks it

wouldn't be worth it. So I'm off to-morrow to join Bertie and the

house-boat at Riverton. As Dick has taken a bungalow close by, we shall

be quite a happy family party. They will be happy; I shall be happy; and

you--positively, darling, you won't have a care left in the world. If it

weren't for your matrimonial bonds, I should quite envy you."

"I don't think you ought to go down to Riverton without someone

responsible to look after you," objected Mrs. St. Orme dubiously.

"My dear little mother, what a notion!" cried her step-daughter with a

merry laugh. "Who ever dreamt of the proprieties on the river? Why, I

spent a whole fortnight on the house-boat with only Bertie and the Badger

that time the poor old pater and I fell out over--what was it? Well, it

doesn't matter. Anyhow, I did. And no one a bit the worse. Bertie is

equal to a dozen _duennas_, as everyone knows."

"Don't you really care, I wonder?" said Mrs. St. Orme, with wondering

eyes on the animated face.

"Why should I, dear?" laughed the girl, dropping upon a hassock at her

side. "I am my own mistress. I have a little money, and--considering

I am only twenty-four--quite a lot of wisdom. As to being Viscountess

Merrivale, I will say it fascinated me a little--just at first, you know.

And the poor old pater was so respectful I couldn't help enjoying myself.

But the gilt soon wore off the gingerbread, and I really couldn't enjoy

what was left. I said to myself, 'My dear, that man has the makings of a

hectoring bully. You must cut yourself loose at once if you don't want to

develop into that most miserable of all creatures, a down-trodden wife.'

So after our little tiff of the day before yesterday I sent the notice

off forthwith. And--you observe--it has taken effect. The tyrant hasn't

been near."

"You really mean to say the engagement wasn't actually broken off before

you sent it?" said Mrs. St. Orme, looking shocked.

"It didn't occur to either of us," said Hilary, looking down with a

smile at the corners of her mouth. "He chose to take exception to my

being seen riding in the park with Mr. Fletcher. And I took exception to

his interference. Not that I like Mr. Fletcher, for I don't. But I had to

assert my right to choose my own friends. He disputed it. And then we

parted. No one is going to interfere with my freedom."

"You were never truly in love with him, then?" said Mrs. St. Orme, regret

and relief struggling in her voice.

Hilary looked up with clear eyes.

"Oh, never, darling!" she said tranquilly. "Nor he with me. I don't know

what it means; do you? You can't--surely--be in love with the poor old

pater?"

She laughed at the idea and idly took up a paper lying at hand. Half a

minute later she uttered a sharp cry and looked up with flaming cheeks.

"How--how--dare he?" she cried, almost incoherent with angry

astonishment. "Sybil! For Heaven's sake! See!"

She thrust the paper upon her step-mother's knee and pointed with a

finger that shook uncontrollably at a brief announcement in the society

column.

"We are requested to state that the announcement in yesterday's issue

that the marriage arranged between Viscount Merrivale and Miss Hilary St.

Orme would not take place was erroneous. The marriage will take place, as

previously announced, towards the end of the season."

* * * * *

"What sublime assurance!" exclaimed Bertie St. Orme, lying on his back in

the luxurious punt which his sister was leisurely impelling up stream,

and laughing up at her flushed face. "This viscount of yours seems to

have plenty of decision of character, whatever else he may be lacking

in."

Bertie St. Orme was a cripple, and spent every summer regularly upon the

river with his old manservant, nicknamed "the Badger."

"Oh, he is quite impossible!" Hilary declared. "Let's talk of something

else!"

"But he means to keep you to your word, eh?" her brother persisted. "How

will you get out of it?"

Hilary's face flushed more deeply, and she bit her lip.

"There won't be any getting out of it. Don't be silly! I am free."

"The end of the season!" teased Bertie. "That allows you--let's

see--four, five, six more weeks of freedom."

"Be quiet, if you don't want a drenching!" warned Hilary. "Besides," she

added, with inconsequent optimism, "anything may happen before then. Why,

I may even be married to a man I really like."

"Great Scotland, so you may!" chuckled her brother. "There's the wild man

that Dick has brought down here to tame before launching at society. He's

a great beast like a brown bear. He wouldn't be my taste, but that's a

detail."

"I hate fashionable men!" declared Hilary, with scarlet face. "I'd rather

marry a red Indian than one of these inane men about town."

"Ho! ho!" laughed Bertie. "Then Dick's wild man will be quite to your

taste. As soon as he leaves off worrying mutton-bones with his fingers

and teeth, we'll ask Dick to bring him to dine."

"You're perfectly disgusting!" said Hilary, digging her punt-pole into

the bed of the river with a vicious plunge. "If you don't mean to behave

yourself, I won't stay with you."

"Oh, yes, you will," returned Bertie with brotherly assurance. "You

wouldn't miss Dick's aborigine for anything--and I don't blame you, for

he's worth seeing. Dick assures me that he is quite harmless, or I don't

know that I should care to venture my scalp at such close quarters."

"You're positively ridiculous to-day," Hilary declared.

* * * * *

A perfect summer morning, a rippling blue river that shone like glass

where the willows dipped and trailed, and a girl who sang a murmurous

little song to herself as she slid down the bank into the laughing

stream.

Ah, it was heavenly! The sun-flecks on the water danced and swam all

about her. The trees whispered to one another above her floating form.

The roses on the garden balustrade of Dick Culver's bungalow nodded as

though welcoming a friend. She turned over and struck out vigorously,

swimming up-stream. It was June, and the whole world was awake and

singing.

"It's better than the entire London season put together," she murmured to

herself, as she presently came drifting back.

A whiff of tobacco-smoke interrupted her soliloquy. She shook back her

wet hair and stood up waist-deep in the clear, green water.

"What ho, Dick!" she called gaily. "I can't see you, but I know you're

there. Come down and have a swim, you lazy boy!"

There followed a pause. Then a diffident voice with an unmistakably

foreign accent made reply.

"Were you speaking to me?"

Glancing up in the direction of the voice, Hilary discovered a stranger

seated against the trunk of a willow on the high bank above her. She

started and coloured. She had forgotten Dick's wild man. She described

him later as the brownest man she had ever seen. His face was brown, the

lower part of it covered with a thick growth of brown beard. His eyes

were brown, surmounted by very bushy eyebrows. His hair was brown. His

hands were brown. His clothes were brown, and he was smoking what looked

like a brown clay pipe.

Hilary regained her self-possession almost at once. The diffidence of the

voice gave her assurance.

"I thought my cousin was there," she explained. "You are Dick's friend,

I think?"

The man on the bank smiled an affirmative, and Hilary remarked to herself

that he had splendid teeth.

"I am Dick's friend," he said, speaking slowly, as if learning the lesson

from her. There was a slight subdued twang in his utterance which

attracted Hilary immensely.

She nodded encouragingly to him.

"I am Dick's cousin," she said. "He will tell you all about me if you ask

him."

"I will certainly ask," the stranger said in his soft, foreign drawl.

"Don't forget!" called Hilary, as she splashed back into deep water. "And

tell him to bring you to dine on our house-boat at eight to-night! Bertie

and I will be delighted to see you. We were meaning to send a formal

invitation. But no one stands on ceremony on the river--or in it either,"

she laughed to herself as she swam away with swift, even strokes.

"I shouldn't have asked him in that way," she explained to her brother

afterwards, "if he hadn't been rather shy. One must be nice to

foreigners, and dear Dickie's society undiluted would bore me to

extinction."

"I don't think we had better give him a knife at dinner," remarked

Bertie. "I shouldn't like you to be scalped, darling. It would ruin your

prospects. I suppose my only course would be to insist upon his marrying

you forthwith."

"Bertie, you're a beast!" said his sister tersely.

* * * * *

"We have taken you at your word, you see," sang out Dick Culver from his

punt. "I hope you haven't thought better of it by any chance, for my

friend has been able to think of nothing else all day."

A slim white figure danced eagerly out of the tiny dining-saloon of the

house-boat.

"Come on board!" she cried hospitably. "The Badger will see to your punt.

I am glad you're not late."

She held out her hand to the new-comer with a pretty lack of ceremony. He

looked more than ever like a backwoodsman, but it was quite evident that

he was pleased with his surroundings. He shook hands with her almost

reverently, and smiled in a quiet, well-satisfied way. But, having

nothing to say, he did not vex himself to put it into words--a trait

which strongly appealed to Hilary.

"His name," said Dick Culver, laughing at his cousin over the big man's

shoulder, "is Jacques. He has another, but, as nobody ever uses it, it

isn't to the point, and I never was good at pronunciation. He is a French

Canadian, with a dash of Yankee thrown in. He is of a peaceable

disposition except when roused, when all his friends find it advisable

to give him a wide berth. He--"

"That'll do, my dear fellow," softly interposed the stranger, with a

gentle lift of the elbow in Culver's direction. "Leave Miss St. Orme to

find out the rest for herself! I hope she is not easily alarmed."

"Not at all, I assure you," said Hilary. "Never mind Dick! No one does.

Come inside!"

She led the way with light feet. Her exile from London during the season

promised to be less deadly than she had anticipated. Unmistakably she

liked Dick's wild man.

They found Bertie in the little roselit saloon, and as he welcomed the

stranger Culver drew Hilary aside. There was much mystery on his comical

face.

"I'll tell you a secret," he murmured; "this fellow is a great chief in

his own country, but he doesn't want anyone to know it. He's coming here

to learn a little of our ways, and he's particularly interested in

English women, so be nice to him."

"I thought you said he was a French Canadian," said Hilary.

"That's what he wants to appear," said Culver. "And, anyhow, he had a

Yankee mother. I know that for a fact. He's quite civilised, you know.

You needn't be afraid of him."

"Afraid!" exclaimed Hilary.

Turning, she found the new-comer looking at her with brown eyes that were

soft under the bushy brows.

"He can't be a red man," she said to herself. "He hasn't got the

cheek-bones."

Leaving Dick to amuse himself, she smiled upon her other guest with

winning graciousness and forthwith began the dainty task of initiating

him into the ways of English women.

She was relieved to find that, notwithstanding his hairy appearance, he

was, as Dick had assured her, quite civilised. As the meal proceeded she

suddenly conceived an interest in Canada and the States, which had never

before possessed her. She questioned him with growing eagerness, and he

replied with a smile and always that half-reverent, half-shy courtliness

that had first attracted her. Undoubtedly he was a pleasant companion. He

clothed the information for which she asked in careful and picturesque

language. He was ready at any moment to render any service, however

slight, but his attentions were so unobtrusive that Hilary could not

but accept them with pleasure. She maintained her pretty graciousness

throughout dinner, anxious to set him at his ease.

"Englishmen are not half so nice," she said to herself, as she rose from

the table. And she thought of the stubborn Viscount Merrivale as she

said it.

There was a friendly regret at her departure written in the man's eyes as

he opened the door for her, and with a sudden girlish impulse she paused.

"Why don't you come and smoke your cigar in the punt?" she said.

He glanced irresolutely over his shoulder at the other two men who were

discussing some political problem with much absorption.

With a curious desire to have her way with him, the girl waited with a

little laugh.

"Come!" she said softly. "You can't be interested in British politics."

He looked at her with his friendly, silent smile, and followed her out.

* * * * *

"Isn't it heavenly?" breathed Hilary, as she lay back on the velvet

cushions and watched the man's strong figure bend to the punt-pole.

"I think it is Heaven, Miss St. Orme," he answered in a hushed voice.

The sun had scarcely set in a cloudless shimmer of rose, and, sailing up

from the east, a full moon cast a rippling, silvery pathway upon the

mysterious water.

The girl drew a long sigh of satisfaction, then laughed a little.

"What a shame to make you work after dinner!" she said.

She saw his smile in the moonlight.

"Do you call this work?" She seemed to hear a faint ring of amusement in

the slowly-uttered question.

"You are very strong," she said almost involuntarily.

"Yes," he agreed quietly, and there suddenly ran a curious thrill through

her--a feeling that she and he had once been kindred spirits together in

another world.

She felt as if their intimacy had advanced by strides when she spoke

again, and the sensation was one of a strange, quivering delight which

the perfection of the June night seemed to wholly justify. Anyhow, it was

not a moment for probing her inner self with searching questions. She

turned a little and suffered her fingers to trail through the moonlit

water.

"I wonder if you would tell me something?" she said almost diffidently.

"If it lies in my power," he answered courteously.

"You may think it rude," she suggested, with a most unusual attack of

timidity. It had been her habit all her life to command rather than to

request. But somehow the very courtesy with which this man treated her

made her uncertain of herself.

"I shall not think anything so--impossible," he assured her gently, and

again she saw his smile.

"Well," she said, looking up at him intently, "will you--please--let me

into your secret? I promise I won't tell. But do tell me who you are!"

There followed a silence, during which the man leaned a little on his

pole, gazing downwards while he kept the punt motionless. The water

babbled round them with a tinkling murmur that was like the laughter of

fairy voices. They had passed beyond the region of house-boats and

bungalows, and the night was very still.

At last the man spoke, and the girl gave a queer little motion of relief.

"I should like to tell you everything there is to know about me," he said

in his careful, foreign English. "But--will you forgive me?--I do not

feel myself able to do so--yet. Some day I will answer your question

gladly--I hope some day soon--if you are kind enough to continue to

extend to me your interest and your friendship."

He looked down into Hilary's uplifted face with a queer wistfulness that

struck unexpectedly straight to her heart. She felt suddenly that this

man's past contained something of loss and disappointment of which he

could not lightly speak to a mere casual acquaintance.

With the quickness of impulse characteristic of her, she smiled

sympathetic comprehension.

"And you won't even tell me your name?" she said.

He bent again to the pole, and she saw his teeth shine in the moonlight.

"I think my friend told you one of my names," he said.

"Oh, it's much too commonplace," she protested. "Quite half the men

I know are called Jack."

And then for the first time she heard him laugh--a low, exultant laugh

that sent the blood in a sudden rush to her cheeks.

"Shall we go back now?" she suggested, turning her face away.

He obeyed her instantly, and the punt began to glide back through the

ripples.

No further word passed between them till, as they neared the house-boat,

the high, keen notes of a flute floated out upon the tender silence.

Hilary glanced up sharply, the moonlight on her face, and saw a group of

men in a punt moored under the shadowy bank. One of them raised his

hand and sent a ringing salutation across the water.

Hilary nodded and turned aside. There was annoyance on her face--the

annoyance of one suddenly awakened from a dream of complete enjoyment.

Her companion asked no question. He was bending vigorously to his work.

But she seemed to consider some explanation to be due to him.

"That," she said, "is a man I know slightly. His name is Cosmo Fletcher."

"A friend?" asked the big man.

Hilary coloured a little.

"Well," she said half-reluctantly, "I suppose one would call him that."

* * * * *

"I believe you're in love with Culver's half-breed American," said Cosmo

Fletcher brutally, nearly three weeks later. He had just been rejected

finally and emphatically by the girl who faced him in the stern of his

skiff.

She was very pale, but her eyes were full of resolution as they met his.

"That," she said, "is no business of yours. Please take me back!"

He looked as if he would have liked to refuse, but her steadfast eyes

compelled him. Sullenly he turned the boat.

Dead silence reigned between them till, as they rounded a bend in the

river and came within sight of the house-boat, Fletcher, glancing over

his shoulder, caught sight of a big figure seated on the deck.

Then he turned to the girl with a sneer:

"It might interest Jack Merrivale to hear of this pretty little romance

of yours," he said.

The colour flamed in her cheeks.

"Tell him then!" she said defiantly.

"I think I must," said Fletcher. "He and I are such old friends."

He waited for her to tell him that it was on his account that they had

quarrelled, but she would not so far gratify him, maintaining a stubborn

silence till they drew alongside. Jacques rose to hand her on board.

"I hope you have enjoyed your row," he said courteously.

"Thanks!" she returned briefly, avoiding his eyes. "I think it is too hot

to enjoy anything to-day."

The tea-kettle was singing merrily on the dainty brass spirit-lamp, and

she sat down at the table forthwith.

Jacques stood beside her, silent and friendly as a tame mastiff. Perhaps

his presence after what had just passed between herself and Fletcher made

her nervous, or perhaps her thoughts were elsewhere and she forgot to be

cautious. Whatever the cause, she took up the kettle carelessly and

knocked it against the spirit-lamp with some force.

Jacques swooped forward and steadied it before it could overturn; but the

dodging flame caught the girl's muslin sleeve and set it ablaze in an

instant. She uttered a cry and started up with a wild idea of flinging

herself into the river, but Jacques was too quick for her. He turned and

seized the burning fabric in his great hands, ripping it away from her

arm and crushing out the flames with unflinching strength.

"Don't be frightened!" he said. "It's all right. I've got it out."

"And what of you?" she gasped, eyes of horror on his blackened hands.

He smiled at her reassuringly.

"Well done, man!" cried Dick Culver. "It was like you to save her life

while we were thinking about it. Are you hurt, Hilary?"

"No," she said, with trembling lips. "But--but--"

She broke off on the verge of tears, and Dick considerately transferred

his attention to his friend.

"Let's see the damage, old fellow!"

"It is nothing," said Jacques, still faintly smiling. "Yes, you may see

it if you like, if only to prove that I speak the truth."

He thrust out one hand and displayed a scorched and blistered palm.

"Call that nothing!" began Dick.

Fletcher suddenly pushed forward with an oath that startled them all.

"I should know that hand anywhere!" he exclaimed. "You infernal, lying

impostor!"

There was an elaborate tattoo of the American flag on the extended wrist,

to which he pointed with a furious laugh.

"Deny it if you can!" he said.

Jacques looked at him gravely, without the smallest sign of agitation.

"You certainly have good reason to know that hand rather well," he said

after a moment, speaking with extreme deliberation, "considering that it

has had the privilege of giving you the finest thrashing of your life."

Fletcher turned purple. He looked as if he were going to strike the

speaker on the mouth. But before he could raise his hand Hilary suddenly

forced herself between them.

"Mr. Fletcher," she said, her voice quivering with anger, "go instantly!

There is your boat. And never come near us again!"

Fletcher fell back a step, but he was too furious to obey such a command.

"Do you think I am going to leave that confounded humbug to have it all

his own way?" he snarled. "I tell you--"

But here Culver intervened.

"You shut up!" he ordered sternly. "We've had too much of you already.

You had better go."

He took Fletcher imperatively by the arm, but Jacques intervened.

"Pray let the gentleman speak, Dick!" he said. "It will ease his feelings

perhaps."

"No!" broke in Hilary breathlessly. "No, no! I won't listen! I tell you

I won't!" facing the big man almost fiercely. "Tell me yourself if you

like!"

He looked at her closely, still with that odd half-smile upon his face.

Then, before them all, he took her hand, and, bending, held it to his

lips.

"Thank you, Hilary!" he said very softly.

In the privacy of her own cabin Hilary removed her tatters and cooled her

tingling cheeks. She and her brother were engaged to dine at Dick's

bungalow that night, but an overwhelming shyness possessed her, and at

the last moment she persuaded Bertie to go alone. It was plain that

for some reason Bertie was hugely amused, and she thought it rather

heartless of him.

She dined alone on the house-boat with her face to the river. Her fright

had made her somewhat nervous, and she was inclined to start at every

sound. When the meal was over she went up to her favourite retreat on the

upper deck. A golden twilight still lingered in the air, and the river

was mysteriously calm. But the girl's heart was full of a heavy

restlessness. Each time she heard a punt-pole striking on the bed of the

river she raised her head to look.

He came at last--the man for whom her heart waited. He was punting

rapidly down-stream, and she could not see his face. Yet she knew him,

by the swing of his arms, the goodly strength of his muscles,--and by the

suffocating beating of her heart. She saw that one hand was bandaged, and

a passionate feeling that was almost rapture thrilled through and through

her at the sight. Then he shot beyond her vision, and she heard the punt

bump against the house-boat.

"It's a gentleman to see you, miss," said the Badger, thrusting a grey

and grinning visage up the stairs.

"Ask him to come up!" said Hilary, steadying her voice with an effort.

A moment later she rose to receive the man she loved. And her heart

suddenly ceased to beat.

"You!" she gasped, in a choked whisper.

He came straight forward. The last light of the day shone on his smooth

brown face, with its steady eyes and strong mouth.

"Yes," he said, and still through his quiet tones she seemed to hear a

faint echo of the subdued twang which dwellers in the Far West sometimes

acquire. "I, John Merrivale, late of California, beg to render to you,

Hilary St. Orme, in addition to my respectful homage, that freedom for

which you have not deigned to ask."

She stared at him dumbly, one hand pressed against her breast. The ripple

of the river ran softly through the silence. Slowly at last Merrivale

turned to go.

And then sharply, uncertainly, she spoke.

"Wait, please!" she said.

She moved close to him and laid her hand on the flower-bedecked

balustrade, trembling very much.

"Why have you done this?" Her quivering voice sounded like a prayer.

He hesitated, then answered her quietly through the gloom.

"I did it because I loved you."

"And what did you hope to gain by it?" breathed Hilary.

He did not answer, and she drew a little nearer as though his silence

reassured her.

"Wouldn't it have saved a lot of trouble," she said, her voice very low

but no longer uncertain, "if you had given me my freedom in the first

place? Don't you think you ought to have done that?"

"I don't know," Merrivale said. "That fellow spoilt my game. So I offer

it to you now--with apologies."

"I should have appreciated it--in the first place," said Hilary, and

suddenly there was a ripple of laughter in her voice like an echo of the

water below them. "But now I--I--have no use for it. It's too late. Do

you know, Jack, I'm not sure he did spoil your game after all!"

He turned towards her swiftly, and she thrust out her hands to him with a

quick sob that became a laugh as she felt his arms about her.

"You hairless monster!" she said. "What woman ever wanted freedom when

she could have--Love?"

* * * * *

Two days later Viscount Merrivale's friends at the club read with

interest and some amusement the announcement that his marriage to Miss

Hilary St. Orme had been fixed to take place on the last day of the

month.

* * * * *

Death's Property

CHAPTER I

A high laugh rang with a note of childlike merriment from the far end of

the coffee-room as Bernard Merefleet, who was generally considered a bear

on account of his retiring disposition, entered and took his seat near

the door. It was a decidedly infectious laugh and perhaps for this reason

it was the first detail to catch his attention and to excite his

disapproval.

He frowned as he glanced at the menu in front of him.

He had arrived in England after an absence of twenty years in America,

where he had made a huge fortune. He was hungering for the quiet

unhurried speech of his fellow-countrymen, for the sights and sounds and

general atmosphere of English life which for so long had been denied to

him. And the first thing he heard on entering the coffee-room of this

English hotel was the laugh of an American woman.

He had thought that in this remote corner of England--this little,

old-world fishing town, with its total lack of entertainment, its

unfashionable beach, and its wild North Sea breakers--no unit of the

great Western race would have set foot. He had believed its entire

absence of attraction to be a sure safeguard, and he was unfeignedly

disgusted to discover that this was not the case.

As he ate his dinner the high laugh broke in on his meditations again

and again, and his annoyance grew to a sense of savage irritation. He

had come over to England for a rest after a severe illness, and with

an intense craving, after his twenty years of stress and toil, to

stand aside and watch the world--the English, conservative world he

loved--dawdle by.

He wanted to bury himself in an unknown fishing-town and associate with

the simple, unflurried fisher-folk alone. It was a dream of his--a dream

which he had imagined near its fulfilment when he had arrived in the

peaceful little world of Old Silverstrand.

There was a large and fashionable watering-place five miles away. This

was New Silverstrand, a town of red brick, self-centred and prosperous.

But he had not thought that its visitors would have overflowed into the

old fishing-town. He himself saw no attraction there save the peace of

the shore and the turmoil of the sea. He had known and loved the old town

in his youth, long before the new one had been built or even thought

of. For New Silverstrand was a growth of barely ten years.

In all his wanderings his heart had always turned with a warm thrill of

memory to the little old fishing-town where much of his restless boyhood

had been spent. He had returned to it as to a familiar friend and found

it but slightly changed. A new hotel had been erected where the old

Crayfish Inn had once stood. And this, so far as he had been able to

judge in his first walk through the place on the evening of his arrival,

was the sole alteration.

He had heard that the shore had crumbled beyond the town, but he had left

that to be investigated on the morrow. The fishing-harbour was the same;

the brown-sailed fishing-boats rocked with the well-remembered swing

inside; the water poured roaring in with the same baffled fury; and

children played as of old on the extreme and dangerous edge of the stone

quay.

The memory of that selfsame quay roused deeper recollections in

Merefleet's mind as he sat and dined alone at the little table near the

door.

There came to him the thought, with a sudden, stabbing regret, of a

little dark-eyed sister who had hung with him over that perilous edge and

laughed at the impotent breakers below. He could hear the silvery echoes

of her laughter across half a lifetime, could feel the warm hand that

clasped his own. A magic touch swept aside the years and revealed the

old, glad days of his boyhood.

Merefleet pushed away his plate and sat with fixed eyes, fascinated by

the rosy vision. They were side by side in a fishing-smack, he and the

playmate of his childhood. There was an old fisherman in charge with

grizzled hair, whose name, he recollected without effort, was Quiller.

He was showing the little maid how to tie a knot that was warranted never

to come undone.

Merefleet watched the ardent, flushed face with a deep reverence. He had

not seen it so vividly since the day he had kissed it for the last time

and gone forth into the seething sea of life to fight the whirlpools.

Well, he had emerged triumphant so far as earthly success went. He had

breasted the tide and risen above the billows. He was wealthy, and he was

celebrated. No mortal power rose up in his path to baulk him of his

desire. Only desire itself had failed him, and ambition had become

mockery.

For twenty years he had not had time to stop and think. For twenty years

he had wrestled ceaselessly with the panting crowd. He had bartered away

the best years of his life to the gold god, and he was satiated with the

success of this transaction.

In all that time he had not mourned, as he mourned to-night, the loss of

the twin-sister who had been as his second and better self. He had not

realised till he sat alone in the place, where as a boy he had never

known solitude, how utterly flat and undesirable was the future that

stretched out like a trackless desert at his feet.

And in that moment he would have cast away the whole bulk of his great

possessions for one precious day of youth out of the many that had fled

away for ever.

A woman's laugh, high, inconsequent, rang through the great coffee-room,

and all but one looked towards the corner whence it proceeded. An

American voice began at once to explain the joke with considerable

volubility.

Bernard Merefleet rose from his chair with a frowning countenance and

made his way down to the old stone quay below the hotel.