"Isn't he a monster?" said Mab, as she sat before the kitchen fire in
Quiller's humble dwelling with Mrs. Quiller's three months' old baby in
her arms. "I guess he'd fetch a prize at a baby show, Mrs. Quiller. Isn't
he just too knowing for anything?"
"He's the best of the bunch, miss," said Mrs. Quiller proudly. "The other
eight, they weren't nothing special. But this one, he be a beauty, though
it ain't me as should say it. I'm sure it's very good of you, miss, to
spend the time you do over him. He'd be an ungrateful little rogue if he
didn't get on."
"It's real kind of you to make me welcome," Mab said, with her cheek
against the baby's head, "I don't know what I'd do if you didn't."
"Ah! Poor dear! You must be lonesome now the gentleman's gone," said Mrs.
Quiller commiseratingly.
"Oh, no," said Mab lightly. "Not so very. I couldn't ask my cousin to
give up all his time to me you know. Besides, he would come to see me at
any time if I really wanted him."
"Ah!" Mrs. Quiller shook her head. "But it ain't the same. You wants a
home of your own, my dear. That's what it is. What's become of t'other
gentleman what used to be down here?"
Mab almost laughed at the artlessness of this query.
"Mr. Merefleet, you mean? I don't know. I guess he's making some more
money."
At this point old Quiller, who had been toddling about in the November
sunshine outside, pushed open the door in a state of breathless
excitement.
"Here's Master Bernard coming, missie," he announced.
Mab started to her feet, her face in a sudden, marvellous glow.
"There now!" said Mrs. Quiller, relieving her of her precious burden.
"Who'd have thought it? You'd better go and talk to him."
And Mab stepped out into the soft sunshine. It fell around her in a flood
and dazzled her. She stood quite still and waited, till out of the
brilliance someone came to her and took her hand. The waves were dashing
loudly on the shore. The south wind raced by with a warm rushing. The
whole world seemed to laugh. She closed her eyes and laughed with it.
"Is it you, Big Bear?" she said.
And Merefleet's voice answered her.
"Yes," it said. "I have come for you in earnest this time. You won't send
me away again?"
Mab lifted her face with a glad smile.
"I guess there's no need," she said. "My dear, I'll come now."
And they went away together in the sunlight.
* * * * *
"And now I guess I'll tell you the story of the first Mrs. Ralph
Warrender," said Mab, some time later. "I won't say anything about him,
because he's dead, and if you can't speak well of the dead,--well it's
better not to speak at all. But she was miserable with him. And after her
baby died--it just wasn't endurable. Then came that railway accident, and
she was in it. There were a lot of folks killed, burnt to death most of
them. But she escaped, and then the thought came to her just to lie low
for a bit and let him think she was dead.
"Oh, it was a real wicked thing to do. But she was nearly demented with
trouble. And she did it. She managed to get away, too, in spite of her
lovely face. An old negro woman helped her. And she came to England and
went to a cousin of hers who had been good to her, whom she knew she
could trust--just a plain, square-jawed Englishman, Big Bear, like you in
some respects--not smart, oh no--only strong as iron. And he kept her
secret, though he didn't like it a bit. And he gave her some money of
hers that he had inherited, to live on. Which was funny, wasn't it?"
Mab paused to laugh.
"And then another man came along, a great, surly, fogheaded Englishman,
who made love to her till she was nearly driven crazy. For though
Warrender had married again before she could stop him, she wasn't free.
But she couldn't tell him so for the other woman's sake. It doesn't
matter now. It was a dreadful tangle once. And she felt real bad about
it. But it's come out quite simply. And no one will ever know.
"Now, I'll tell you a secret, Big Bear, about the woman you know of. You
must put your head down for I'll have to whisper. That's the way. Now!
She's just madly in love with you, Big Bear. And she is quite, quite free
to tell you so. There! And I reckon she's not Death's property any more.
She's just--yours."
The narrative ended in Merefleet's arms.
* * * * *
A few weeks later Quiller the younger looked up from a newspaper with a
grin.
"Mr. Merefleet's married our little missie, dad," he announced. "I saw it
coming t'other day."
And old Quiller looked up with a gleam of intelligence on his wrinkled
face.
"Why!" he said, with slow triumph. "If that ain't what I persuaded him
for to do, long, long ago! He's a sensible lad, is Master Bernard."
A measure of approval which Merefleet would doubtless have appreciated.
* * * * *
The Sacrifice
CHAPTER I
It had been a hot day at the Law Courts, but a faint breeze had sprung up
with the later hours, blowing softly over the river. It caught the tassel
of the blind by which Field sat and tapped it against the window-frame,
at first gently like a child at play, then with gathering force and
insistence till at last he looked up with a frown and rose to fasten it
back.
It was growing late. The rose of the afterglow lay upon the water,
tipping the silvery ripples with soft colour. It was a magic night. But
the wonder of it did not apparently reach him. A table littered with
papers stood in front of him bearing a portable electric lamp. He was
obviously too engrossed to think of exterior things.
For a space he sat again in silence by the open window, only the
faint rustling of the lace curtain being audible. His somewhat hard,
clean-shaven face was bent over his work with rigid concentration.
His eyelids scarcely stirred.
Then again there came a tapping, this time at the door. The frown
returned to his face. He looked up.
"Well?"
The door opened. A small, sharp-faced boy poked in his head. "A lady to
see you, sir."
"What?" said Field. His frown deepened. "I can't see any one. I told you
so."
"Says she won't go away till she's seen you, sir," returned the boy
glibly. "Can't get her to budge, sir."
"Oh, tell her--" said Field, and stopped as if arrested by a sudden
thought. "Who is it?" he asked.
A grin so brief that it might have been a mere twitch of the features
passed over the boy's face.
"Wouldn't give no name, sir. But she's a nob of some sort," he said. "Got
a shiny satin dress on under her cloak."
Field's eyes went for a moment to his littered papers. Then he picked up
a newspaper from a chair and threw it over them.
"Show her in!" he said briefly.
He got up with the words, and stood with his back to the window, watching
the half-open door.
There came a slight rustle in the passage outside. The small boy
reappeared and threw the door wide with a flourish. A woman in a dark
cloak and hat with a thick veil over her face entered.
The door closed behind her. Field stood motionless. She advanced with
slight hesitation.
"I hope you will forgive me," she said, "for intruding upon you."
Her voice was rich and deep. It held a throb of nervousness. Field came
deliberately forward.
"I presume I can be of use to you," he said.
His tone was dry. There was scant encouragement about him as he drew
forward a chair.
She hesitated momentarily before accepting it, but finally sat down with
a gesture that seemed to indicate physical weakness of some sort.
"Yes, I want your help," she said.
Field said nothing. His face was the face of the trained man of law. It
expressed naught beyond a steady, impersonal attention.
He drew up another chair and seated himself facing her.
She looked at him through her veil for several seconds in silence.
Finally, with manifest effort, she spoke.
"It was so good of you to admit me--especially not knowing who I was. You
recognise me now, of course? I am Lady Violet Calcott."
"I should recognise you more easily," he said in his emotionless voice,
"if you would be good enough to put up your veil."
His tone was perfectly quiet and courteous, yet she made a rapid movement
to comply, as if he had definitely required it of her. She threw back the
obscuring veil and showed him the face of one of the most beautiful women
in London.
There was an instant's pause before he said.
"Yes, I recognise you, of course. And--you wanted to consult me?"
"No!" She leaned forward in her chair with white hands clasped. "I wanted
to beg you to tell me--why you have refused to undertake Burleigh
Wentworth's defence!"
She spoke with a breathless intensity. Her wonderful eyes were lifted to
his--eyes that had dazzled half London, but Field only looked down into
them as he might have regarded one of his legal documents. A slight,
peculiar smile just touched his lips as he made reply.
"I have no objection to telling you, Lady Violet. He is guilty. That is
why."
"Ah!" It was a sound like the snapped string of an instrument. Her
fingers gripped each other. "So you think that too! Indeed--indeed, you
are wrong! But--is that your only reason?"
"Isn't it a sufficient one?" he said.
Her fingers writhed and strained against each other. "Do you mean that it
is--against your principles?" she said.
"To defend a guilty man?" questioned the barrister slowly.
She nodded two or three times as if for the moment utterance were beyond
her.
Field's eyes had not stirred from her face, yet still they had that legal
look as if he searched for some hidden information.
"No," he said finally. "It is not entirely a matter of principle. As you
are aware, I have achieved a certain reputation. And I value it."
She made a quick movement that was almost convulsive.
"But you would not injure your reputation. You would only enhance it,"
she said, speaking very rapidly as if some obstruction to speech had very
suddenly been removed. "You are practically on the top of the wave. You
would succeed where another man would fail. And indeed--oh, indeed he is
innocent! He must be innocent! Things look black against him. But he can
be saved somehow. And you could save him--if you would. Think what the
awful disgrace would mean to him--if he were convicted! And he doesn't
deserve it. I assure you he doesn't deserve it. Ah, how shall I persuade
you of that?" Her voice quivered upon a note of despair. "Surely you are
human! There must be some means of moving you. You can't want to see an
innocent man go under!"
The beautiful eyes were blurred with tears as she looked at him. She
caught back a piteous sob. The cloak had fallen from about her shoulders.
They gleamed with an exquisite whiteness.
The man's look still rested upon her with unflickering directness. Again
that peculiar smile hovered about his grim mouth.
"Yes, I am human," he said, after a pause. "I do not esteem myself as
above temptation. As you probably know, I am a self-made man, of very
ordinary extraction. But--I do not feel tempted to take up Burleigh
Wentworth's defence. I am sorry if that fact should cause you any
disappointment. I do not see why it should. There are plenty of other
men--abler than I am--who would, I am sure, be charmed to oblige Lady
Violet Calcott or any of her friends."
"That is not so," she broke in rapidly. "You know that is not so. You
know that your genius has placed you in what is really a unique position.
Your name in itself is almost a mascot. You know quite well that you
carry all before you with your eloquence. If--if you couldn't get him
acquitted, you could get him lenient treatment. You could save his life
from utter ruin."
She clasped and unclasped her hands in nervous excitement. Her face was
piteous in its strain and pathos.
And still Field looked unmoved upon her distress.
"I am afraid I can't help you," he said. "My eloquence would need a very
strong incentive in such a case as this to balance my lack of sympathy."
"What do you mean by--incentive?" she said, her voice very low. "I
will do anything--anything in my power--to induce you to change your
mind. I never lost hope until--I heard you had refused to defend him.
Surely--surely--there is some means of persuading you left!"
For the first time his smile was openly cynical.
"Don't offer me money, please!" he said.
She flushed vividly, hotly.
"Mr. Field! I shouldn't dream of it!"
"No?" he said. "But it was more than a dream with you when you first
entered this room."
She dropped her eyes from his.
"I--didn't--realise--" she said in confusion.
He bent forward slightly. It was an attitude well known at the Law
Courts. "Didn't realise--" he repeated in his quiet, insistent fashion.
She met his look again--against her will.
"I didn't realise what sort of man I had to deal with," she said.
"Ah!" said Field. "And now?"
She shrank a little. There was something intolerably keen in his calm
utterance.
"I didn't do it," she said rather breathlessly. "Please remember that!"
"I do," he said.
But yet his look racked her. She threw out her hands with a sudden,
desperate gesture and rose.
"Oh, are you quite without feeling? What can I appeal to? Does position
mean a great deal to you? If so, my brother is very influential, and I
have influential friends. I will do anything--anything in my power. Tell
me what--incentive you want!"
Field rose also. They stood face to face--the self-made man and the girl
who could trace her descent from a Norman baron. He was broad-built,
grim, determined. She was slender, pale, and proud.
For a moment he did not speak. Then, as her eyes questioned him, he
turned suddenly to a mirror over the mantelpiece behind him and showed
her herself in her unveiled beauty.
"Lady Violet," he said, and his speech had a steely, cutting quality,
"you came into this room to bribe me to defend a man whom I believe to be
a criminal from the consequences of his crime. And when you found I was
not to be so easily bought as you imagined, you asked me if I were human.
I replied to you that I was human, and not above temptation. Since then
you have been trying--very hard--to find a means to tempt me. But--so
far--you have overlooked the most obvious means of all. You have told
me twice over that you will do anything in your power. Do you
mean--literally--that?"
He was addressing the face in the glass, and still his look was almost
brutally emotionless. It seemed to measure, to appraise. She met it for
a few seconds, and then in spite of herself she flinched.
"Will you tell me what you mean?" she said in a low voice.
He turned round to her again.
"Why did you come here yourself?" he said. "And at night?"
She was trembling.
"I had to come myself--as soon as I knew. I hoped to persuade you."
"You thought," he said mercilessly, "that, however I might treat others,
I could never resist you."
"I hoped--to persuade you," she said again.
"By--tempting--me?" he said slowly.
She gave a great start. "Mr. Field--"
He put out a quiet hand, and laid it upon her bare arm.
"Wait a moment, please! As I said before, I am not above
temptation--being human. You take a very personal interest in Burleigh
Wentworth, I think?"
She met his look with quivering eyelids.
"Yes," she said.
"Are you engaged to him?" he pursued.
She winced in spite of herself.
"No."
He raised his brows.
"You have refused him, then?"
Her face was burning.
"He hasn't proposed to me--yet," she said. "Perhaps he never will."
"I see." His manner was relentless, his hold compelling. "I will defend
Burleigh Wentworth," he said, "upon one condition."
"What is that?" she whispered.
"That you marry me," said Percival Field with his steady eyes upon her
face.
She was trembling from head to foot.
"You--you--have never seen me before to-day," she said.
"Yes, I have seen you," he said, "several times. I have known your face
and figure by heart for a very long while. I haven't had the time to seek
you out. It seems to have been decreed that you should do that part."
Was there cynicism in his voice? It seemed so. Yet his eyes never left
her. They held her by some electric attraction which she was powerless
to break.
She looked at him, white to the lips.
"Are you--in--earnest?" she asked at last.
Again for an instant she saw his faint smile.
"Don't you know the signs yet?" he said. "Surely you have had ample
opportunity to learn them!"
A tinge of colour crept beneath her pallor.
"No one ever proposed to me--like this before," she said.
His hand was still upon her arm. It closed with a slow, remorseless
pressure as he made quiet reply to her previous question.
"Yes. I am in earnest."
She flinched at last from the gaze of those merciless eyes.
"You ask the impossible," she said.
"Then it is all the simpler for you to refuse," he rejoined.
Her eyes were upon the hand that held her. Did he know that its grasp had
almost become a grip? It was by that, and that alone, that she was made
aware of something human--or was it something bestial--behind that legal
mask?
Suddenly she straightened herself and faced him. It cost her all the
strength she had.
"Mr. Field," she said, and though her voice shook she spoke with
resolution, "if I were to consent to this--extraordinary suggestion; if
I married you--you would not ask--or expect--more than that?"
"If you consent to marry me," he said, "it will be without conditions."
"Then I cannot consent," she said. "Please let me go!"
He released her instantly, and, turning, picked up her cloak.
But she moved away to the window and stood there with her back to him,
gazing down upon the quiet river. Its pearly stillness was like a dream.
The rush and roar of London's many wheels had died to a monotone.
The man waited behind her in silence. She had released the blind-cord,
and was plucking at it mechanically, with fingers that trembled.
Suddenly the blast of a siren from a vessel in mid-stream shattered the
stillness. The girl at the window quivered from head to foot as if it had
pierced her. And then with a sharp movement she turned.
"Mr. Field!" she said, and stopped.
He waited with absolute composure.
She made a small but desperate gesture--the gesture of a creature trapped
and helpless.
"I--will do it!" she said in a voice that was barely audible. "But if--if
you ever come--to repent--don't blame me!"
"I shall not repent," he said.
She passed on rapidly.
"And--you will do your best--to save--Burleigh Wentworth?"
"I will save him," said Field.
She paused a moment; then moved towards him, as if compelled against her
will.
He put the cloak around her shoulders, and then, as she fumbled with it
uncertainly, he fastened it himself.
"Your veil?" he said.
She made a blind movement. Her self-control was nearly gone. With
absolute steadiness he drew it down over her face.
"Have you a conveyance waiting?" he asked.
"Yes," she whispered.
He turned to the door. He was in the act of opening it when she stayed
him.
"One moment!" she said.
He stopped at once, standing before her with his level eyes looking
straight at her.
She spoke hurriedly behind her veil.
"Promise me, you will never--never let him know--of this!"
He made a grave bow, his eyes unchangeably upon her.
"Certainly," he said.
She made an involuntary movement; her hands clenched. She stood as if she
were about to make some further appeal. But he opened the door and held
it for her, and such was the finality of his action that she was obliged
to pass out.
He followed her into the lift and took her down in unbroken silence.
A taxi awaited her. He escorted her to it.
"Good night!" he said then.
She hesitated an instant. Then, without speaking, she gave him her hand.
For a moment his fingers grasped hers.
"You may depend upon me," he said.
She slipped free from his hold. "Thank you," she said, her voice very
low.
A few seconds later Field sat again at his table by the window. The wind
was blowing in from the river in rising gusts. The blind-tassel tapped
and tapped, now here, now there, like a trapped creature seeking
frantically for escape. For a space he sat quite motionless, gazing
before him as though unaware of his surroundings. Then very suddenly but
very quietly he reached out and caught the swaying thing. A moment he
held it, then pulled it to him and, taking a penknife from the table,
grimly, deliberately, he severed the cord.
The tassel lay in his hand, a silken thing, slightly frayed, as if
convulsive fingers had torn it. He sat for a while and looked at it.
Then, with that strange smile of his, he laid it away in a drawer.
CHAPTER II
The trial of Burleigh Wentworth for forgery was one of the sensations of
the season. A fashionable crowd went day after day to the stifling Court
to watch its progress. The man himself, nonchalant, debonair, bore
himself with the instinctive courage of his race, though whether his
bearing would have been as confident had Percival Field not been at his
back was a question asked by a good many. He was one of the best-known
figures in society, a general favourite in sporting circles, and
universally looked upon with approval if not admiration wherever he went.
He had the knack of popularity. He came of an old family, and his
rumoured engagement to Lady Violet Calcott had surprised no one. Lord
Culverleigh, her brother, was known to be his intimate friend, and the
rumour had come already to be regarded as an accomplished fact when, like
a thunder-bolt, had come Wentworth's arraignment for forgery.
It had set all London talking. The evidence against him was far-reaching
and overwhelming. After the first shock no one believed him innocent.
The result of the trial was looked upon before its commencement as a
foregone conclusion until it became known that Percival Field, the rising
man of the day, had undertaken his defence, and then like the swing of a
weather cock public opinion veered. If Field defended him, there must be
some very strong point in his favour, men argued. Field was not the sort
to touch anything of a doubtful nature.
The trial lasted for nearly a week. During that time Lady Violet went day
after day to the Court and sat with her veil down all through the burning
hours. People looked at her curiously, questioning if there really had
been any definite understanding between the two. Did she really care for
the man, or was it mere curiosity that drew her? No one knew with any
certainty. She wrapped herself in her reserve like an all-enveloping
garment, and even those who regarded themselves as her nearest friends
knew naught of what she carried in her soul.
All through the trial she sat in utter immobility, sphinx-like,
unapproachable, yet listening with tense attention to all that passed.
Field's handling of the case was a marvel of legal ingenuity. There were
many who were attracted to the trial by that alone. He had made his mark,
and whatever he said carried weight. When he came at last to make his
speech for the defence, men and women listened with bated breath. It was
one of the greatest speeches that the Criminal Court had ever heard.
He flung into it the whole weight of his personality. He grappled like a
giant with the rooted obstacles that strewed his path, flinging them
hither and thither by sheer force of will. His scorching eloquence
blasted every opposing power, consumed every tangle of adverse evidence.
It was as if he fought a pitched battle for himself alone. He wrestled
for the mastery rather than appealed for sympathy.
And he won his cause. His scathing attacks, his magnetism, his ruthless
insistence left an indelible mark upon the minds of the jury--such a mark
as no subsequent comments from the judge could efface or even moderate.
The verdict returned was unanimous in spite of a by no means favourable
summing-up. The prisoner was Not Guilty.
At the pronouncement of the verdict there went up a shout of applause
such as that Court had seldom heard. The prisoner, rather white but still
affecting sublime self-assurance, accepted it with a smile as a tribute
to himself. But it was not really directed towards him. It was for the
man who had defended him, the man who sat at the table below the dock and
turned over a sheaf of papers with a faint, cynical smile at the corners
of his thin lips. This man, they said, had done the impossible. He had
dragged the prisoner out of his morass by sheer titanic effort. Obviously
Percival Field had believed firmly in the innocence of the man he had
defended, or he had not thus triumphantly vindicated him.
The crowd, staring at him, wondered how the victory affected him. It had
certainly enhanced his reputation. It had drawn from him such a display
of genius as had amazed even his colleagues. Did he feel elated at all
over his success? Was he spent by that stupendous effort? No one knew?
Now that it was over, he looked utterly indifferent. He had fought and
conquered, but it seemed already as if his attention were turning
elsewhere.
The crowd began to stream out. The day was hot and the crush had been
very great. On one of the benches occupied by the public a woman had
fainted. They carried her out into the corridor and there gradually she
revived. A little later she went home alone in a taxi with her veil
closely drawn down over her face.
CHAPTER III
The season was drawing to a close when the announcement of Lady Violet
Calcott's engagement to Percival Field took the world by storm.
It very greatly astonished Burleigh Wentworth, who after his acquittal
had drifted down to Cowes for rest and refreshment before the advent of
the crowd. He had not seen Lady Violet before his departure, she having
gone out of town for a few days immediately after the trial. But he took
the very next train back to London as soon as he had seen the
announcement, to find her.
It was late in the evening when he arrived, but this fact did not daunt
him. He had always been accustomed to having his own way, and he had a
rooted belief, which the result of his trial had not tended to lessen, in
his own lucky star. He had dined on the train and he merely waited to
change before he went straight to Lord Culverleigh's house.
He found there was a dinner-party in progress. Lady Culverleigh, Violet's
sister-in-law, was an indefatigable hostess. She had the reputation for
being one of the hardest-working women in the West End.
The notes of a song reached Wentworth as he went towards the
drawing-room. Lady Violet was singing. Her voice was rich and low. He
stood outside the half-open door to listen.
He did not know that he was visible to any one inside the room, but a man
sitting near the door became suddenly aware of his presence and got up
before the song was ended. Wentworth in the act of stepping back to let
him pass stopped short abruptly. It was Percival Field.
They faced each other for a second or two in silence. Then Field's hand
came quietly forth and grasped the other man's shoulder, turning him
about.
"I should like a word with you," he said.
They descended the stairs together, Burleigh Wentworth leading the way.
Down in the vestibule they faced each other again. There was antagonism
in the atmosphere though it was not visible upon either man's
countenance, and each ignored it as it were instinctively.
"Hullo!" said Wentworth, and offered his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you
here."
Field took the hand after a scarcely perceptible pause. His smile was
openly cynical.
"Very kind of you," he said. "I am somewhat out of my element, I admit.
We are celebrating our engagement."
He looked full at Wentworth as he said it with that direct, unflickering
gaze of his.
Wentworth did not meet the look quite so fully, but he faced the
situation without a sign of discomfiture.
"You are engaged to Lady Violet?" he said. "I saw the announcement.
I congratulate you."
"Thanks," said Field.
"Rather sudden, isn't it?" said Wentworth, with a curious glance.
Field's smile still lingered.
"Oh, not really. We have kept it to ourselves, that's all. The wedding is
fixed for the week after next--for the convenience of Lady Culverleigh,
who wants to get out of town."
"By Jove! It is quick work!" said Wentworth.
There were beads of perspiration on his forehead, but the night was
warm. He held himself erect as one defying Fate. So had he held himself
throughout his trial; Field recognised the attitude.
The song upstairs had ended. They heard the buzz of appreciation that
succeeded it. Field turned with the air of a man who had said his say.
"I don't believe in long engagements myself," he said. "They must be
a weariness to the flesh."
He began to mount the stairs again, and Wentworth followed him in
silence.
At the drawing-room door Field paused and they entered together. It was
almost Wentworth's first appearance since his trial. There was a moment
or two of dead silence as he sauntered forward with Field. Then, with a
little laugh to cover an instant's embarrassment, Lady Culverleigh came
forward. She shook hands with Wentworth and asked where he had been in
retreat.
Violet came forward from the piano very pale but quite composed, and
shook hands also. Several people present followed suit, and soon there
was a little crowd gathered round him, and Burleigh Wentworth was again
the popular centre of attraction.
Percival Field kept in the background; it was not his way to assert
himself in society. But he remained until Wentworth and the last guest
had departed. And then very quietly but with indisputable insistence he
drew Lady Violet away into the conservatory.
She was looking white and tired, but she held herself with a proud
aloofness in his presence. While admitting his claim upon her, she yet
did not voluntarily yield him an inch.
"Did you wish to speak to me?" she asked.
He stood a moment or two in silence before replying; then:
"Only to give you this," he said, and held out to her a small packet
wrapped in tissue paper on the palm of his hand.
She took it unwillingly.
"The badge of servitude?" she said.
"I should like to know if it fits," said Field quietly, as if she had not
spoken.
She opened the packet and disclosed not the orthodox diamond ring she had
expected, but a ring containing a single sapphire very deep in hue,
exquisitely cut. She looked at him over it, her look a question.
"Will you put it on?" he said.
She hesitated an instant, then with a tightening of the lips she slipped
it on to her left hand.
"Is it too easy?" he said.
She looked at him again.
"No; it is not easy at all."
He took her hand and looked at it. His touch was cool and strong. He
slipped the ring up and down upon her finger, testing it. It was as if
he waited for something.
She endured his action for a few seconds, then with a deliberate movement
she took her hand away.
"Thank you very much," she said conventionally. "I wonder what made you
think of a sapphire."
"You like sapphires?" he questioned.
"Of course," she returned. Her tone was resolutely indifferent, yet
something in his look made her avert her eyes abruptly. She turned them
upon the ring. "Why did you choose a sapphire?" she said.
If she expected some compliment in reply she was disappointed. He stood
in silence.
Half-startled she glanced at him. In the same moment he held out his hand
to her with a formal gesture of leave-taking.
"I will tell you another time," he said. "Good night!"
She gave him her hand, but he scarcely held it. The next instant, with a
brief bow, he had turned and left her.
CHAPTER IV
Burleigh Wentworth looked around him with a frown of discontent.
He ought to have been in good spirits. Life on the moors suited him. The
shooting was excellent, the hospitality beyond reproach. But yet he was
not satisfied. People had wholly ceased to eye him askance. He had come
himself to look back upon his trial as a mere escapade. It had been an
unpleasant experience. He had been a fool to run such a risk. But it was
over, and he had come out with flying colours, thanks to Percival Field's
genius. A baffling, unapproachable sort of man--Field! The affair of his
marriage was still a marvel to Wentworth. He had a strong suspicion that
there was more in the conquest than met the eye, but he knew he would
never find out from Field.
Violet was getting enigmatical too, but he couldn't stand that. He would
put a stop to it. She might be a married woman, but she needn't imagine
she was going to keep him at a distance.
She and her husband had joined the house-party of which he was a member
the day before. It was the end of their honeymoon, and they were
returning to town after their sojourn on the moors. He grimaced to
himself at the thought. How would Violet like town in September? He had
asked her that question the previous night, but she had not deigned to
hear. Decidedly, Violet was becoming interesting. He would have to
penetrate that reserve of hers.
He wondered why she was not carrying a gun. She had always been such an
ardent sportswoman. He would ask her that also presently. In fact, he
felt inclined to go back and ask her now. He was not greatly enjoying
himself. It was growing late, and it had begun to drizzle.
His inclination became the more insistent, the more he thought of it.
Yes, he would go. He was intimate enough with his host to do as he liked
without explanation. And he and Violet had always been such pals.
Besides, the thought of sitting with her in the firelight while her
husband squelched about in the rain was one that appealed to him. He had
no liking for Field, however deeply he might be in his debt. That latent
antagonism between them was perpetually making itself felt. He hated the
man for the very ability by which he himself had been saved. He hated
his calm superiority. Above all, he hated him for marrying Violet. It
seemed that he had only to stretch out his hand for whatever he wanted.
Still, he hadn't got everything now, Wentworth said to himself, as he
strode impatiently back over the moor. Possibly, as time went on, he
might even come to realise that what he had was not worth very much.
He reached and entered the old grey house well ahead of any of the other
sportsmen. He was determined to find Violet somehow, and he made instant
enquiry for her of one of the servants.
The reply served in some measure to soothe his chafing mood. Her ladyship
had gone up into the turret some little time back, and was believed to be
on the roof.
Without delay he followed her. The air blew chill down the stone
staircase as he mounted it. He would have preferred sitting downstairs
with her over the fire. But at least interruptions were less probable in
this quarter.
There was a battlemented walk at the top of the tower, and here he found
her, with a wrap thrown over her head, gazing out through one of the deep
embrasures over the misty country to a line of hills in the far distance.
The view was magnificent, lighted here and there by sunshine striking
through scudding cloud-drifts. And a splendid rainbow spanned it like a
multi-coloured frame.
She did not hear him approaching. He wondered why, till he was so close
that he could see her face, and then very swiftly she turned upon him and
he saw that she was crying.
"My dear girl!" he exclaimed.
She drew back sharply. It was impossible to conceal her distress all in a
moment. She moved aside, battling with herself.
He came close to her. "Violet!" he said.
"Don't!" she said, in a choked whisper.
He slipped an arm about her, gently overcoming her resistance. "I
say--what's the matter? What's troubling you?"
He had never held her so before. Always till that moment she had
maintained a delicate reserve in his presence, a barrier which he had
never managed to overcome. He had even wondered sometimes if she were
afraid of him. But now in her hour of weakness she suffered him, albeit
under protest.
"Oh, go away!" she whispered. "Please--you must!"
But Wentworth had no thought of yielding his advantage. He pressed her to
him.
"Violet, I say! You're miserable! I knew you were the first moment I saw
you. And I can't stand it. You must let me help. Don't anyhow try to keep
me outside!"
"You can't help," she murmured, with her face averted. "At least--only by
going away."
But he held her still. "That's rot, you know. I'm not going. What is it?
Tell me! Is he a brute to you?"
She made a more determined effort to disengage herself. "Whatever he is,
I've got to put up with him. So it's no good talking about it."
"Oh, but look here!" protested Wentworth. "You and I are such old
friends. I used to think you cared for me a little. Violet, I say, what
induced you to marry that outsider?"
She was silent, not looking at him.
"You were always so proud," he went on. "I never thought in the old days
that you would capitulate to a bounder like that. Why, you might have had
that Bohemian prince if you'd wanted him."
"I didn't want him!" She spoke with sudden vehemence, as if stung into
speech. "I'm not the sort of snob-woman who barters herself for a title!"
"No?" said Wentworth, looking at her curiously. "But what did you barter
yourself for, I wonder?"
She flinched, and dropped back into silence.
"Won't you tell me?" he said.
"No." She spoke almost under her breath. He relinquished the matter with
the air of a man who has gained his point. "Do you know," he said, in a
different tone, "if it hadn't been for that fiendish trial, I'd have been
in the same race with Field, and I believe I'd have made better running,
too?"
"Ah!" she said.
It was almost a gasp of pain. He stopped deliberately and looked into her
face.
"Violet!" he said.
She trembled at his tone and thrust out a protesting hand. "Ah, what is
the use?" she cried. "Do you--do you want to break my heart?"
Her voice failed. For the first time her eyes met his fully.
There followed an interval of overwhelming stillness in which neither of
them drew a breath. Then, with an odd sound that might have been a laugh
strangled at birth. Burleigh Wentworth gathered her to his heart and held
her there.
"No!" he said. "No! I want to make you--the happiest woman in the world!"
"Too late! Too late!" she whispered.
But he stopped the words upon her lips, passionately, irresistibly, with
his own.
"You are mine!" he swore, with his eyes on hers. "You are mine! No man on
earth shall ever take you from me again!"
CHAPTER V
Violet was in her room ready dressed for dinner that evening, when there
came a knock upon her door. She was seated at a writing-table in a corner
scribbling a note, but she covered it up quickly at the sound.
"Come in!" she said.
She rose as her husband entered. He also was ready dressed. He came up to
her in his quiet, direct fashion, looking at her with those steady eyes
that saw so much and revealed so little.
"I just came in to say," he said, "that I am sorry to cut your pleasure
short, but I find we must return to town to-morrow."
She started at the information. "To-morrow!" she echoed. "Why?"
"I find it necessary," he said.
She looked at him. Her heart was beating very fast. "Percival, why?" she
said again.
He raised his eyebrows slightly. "It would be rather difficult for me to
explain."
"Do you mean you have to go on business?" she said.
He smiled a little. "Yes, on business."
She turned to the fire with a shiver. There was something in the
atmosphere, although the room was warm, that made her cold from head
to foot. With her back to him she spoke again:
"Is there any reason why I should go too?"
He came and joined her before the fire. "Yes; one," he said.
She threw him a nervous glance. "And that?"
"You are my wife," said Field quietly.
Again that shiver caught her. She put out a hand to steady herself
against the mantelpiece. When she spoke again, it was with a great
effort.
"Wives are sometimes allowed a holiday away from their husbands."
Field said nothing whatever. He only looked at her with unvarying
attention.
She turned at last in desperation and faced him. "Percival! Why do you
look at me like that?"
He turned from her instantly, without replying. "May I write a note
here?" he said, and went towards the writing-table. "My pen has run dry."
She made a movement that almost expressed panic. She was at the table
before he reached it. "Ah, wait a minute! Let me clear my things out
of your way first!"
She began to gather up the open blotter that lay there with feverish
haste. A sheet of paper flew out from her nervous hands and fluttered
to the floor at Field's feet. He stooped and picked it up.
She uttered a gasp and turned as white as the dress she wore. "That is
mine!" she panted.
He gave it to her with grave courtesy. "I am afraid I am disturbing you,"
he said. "I can wait while you finish."
But she crumpled the paper in her hand. She was trembling so much that
she could hardly stand.
"It--doesn't matter," she said almost inaudibly.
He stood for a second or two in silence, then seated himself at the
writing-table and took up a pen.
In the stillness that followed she moved away to the fire and stood
before it. Field wrote steadily without turning his head. She stooped
after a moment and dropped the crumpled paper into the blaze. Then she
sat down, her hands tightly clasped about her knees, and waited.
Field's quiet voice broke the stillness at length. "If you are writing
letters of your own, perhaps I may leave this one in your charge."
She looked round with a start. He had turned in his chair. Their eyes met
across the room.
"May I?" he said.
She nodded, finding her voice with an effort. "Yes--of course."
He got up, and as he did so the great dinner-gong sounded through the
house. He came to her side. She rose quickly at his approach, moving
almost apprehensively.
"Shall we go down?" she said.
He put out a hand and linked it in her arm. She shrank at his touch, but
she endured it. She even, after a moment, seemed to be in a measure
steadied by it. She stood motionless for a few seconds, and during those
seconds his fingers closed upon her, very gentle, very firmly; then
opened and set her free.
"Will you lead the way?" he said.
CHAPTER VI
A very hilarious party gathered at the table that night. Burleigh
Wentworth was in uproarious spirits which seemed to infect nearly
everyone else.
In the midst of the running tide of joke and banter Violet sat as one
apart. Now and then she joined spasmodically in the general merriment,
but often she did not know what she laughed at. There was a great fear at
her heart, and it tormented her perpetually. That note that she had
crumpled and burnt! His eyes had rested upon it during the moment he had
held it in his hand. How much had they seen? And what was it that had
induced him in the first place to declare his intention of curtailing
their visit? Why had he reminded her that she was his wife? Surely he
must have heard something--suspected something! But what?
Covertly she watched him during that interminable dinner, watched his
clear-cut face with its clever forehead and intent eyes, his slightly
scornful, wholly unyielding lips. She cast her thoughts backwards over
their honeymoon, trying somehow to trace an adequate reason for the fear
that gripped her. He had been very forbearing with her throughout that
difficult time. He had been gentle; he had been considerate. Though he
had asserted and maintained his mastery over her, though his will had
subdued hers, he had never been unreasonable, never so much as impatient,
in his treatment of her. He had given her no cause for the dread that now
consumed her, unless it were that by his very self-restraint he had
inspired in her a fear of the unknown.
No, she had to look farther back than her honeymoon, back to the days of
Burleigh Wentworth's trial, and the almost superhuman force by which he
had dragged him free. It was that force with which she would have very
soon to reckon, that overwhelming, all-consuming power that had wrestled
so victoriously in Wentworth's defence. How would it be when she found
herself confronted by that? She shivered and dared not think.
The stream of gaiety flowed on around her. Someone--Wentworth she knew
later--proposed a game of hide-and-seek by moonlight in and about the old
ruins on the shores of the loch. She would have preferred to remain
behind, but he made a great point of her going also. She did not know if
Percival went or not, but she did not see him among the rest. The fun was
fast and furious, the excitement great. Almost in spite of herself she
was drawn in.
And then, how it happened she scarcely knew, she found herself hiding
alone with Wentworth in a little dark boat-house on the edge of the
water. He had a key with him, and she heard him turn it on the inside.
"I think we are safe here," he said, and then in the darkness his arms
were round her. He called her by every endearing name that he could think
of.
Why was it his ardour failed to reach her? She had yielded to him only
that afternoon. She had suffered him to kiss away her tears. But now
something in her held her back. She drew herself away.
"Come and sit in the boat!" he said. "We will go on the water as soon as
the hue and cry is over. Hush! Don't speak! They are coming now."
They sat with bated breath while the hunt spread round their
hiding-place. The water lapped mysteriously in front of them with an
occasional gurgling chuckle. The ripples danced far out in the moonlight.
It was a glorious night, with a keenness in the air that was like the
touch of steel.
Violet drew her cloak more closely about her. She felt very cold.
Someone came and battered at the door. "I'm sure they're here," cried a
voice.
"They can't be," said another. "The place is locked, and there's no key."
"Bet you it's on the inside!" persisted the first, and a match was
lighted and held to the lock.
The man inside laughed under his breath. The key was dangling between his
hands.
"Oh, come on!" called a girl's voice from the distance. "They wouldn't
hide in there. It's such a dirty hole. Lady Violet is much too
fastidious."
And Violet, sitting within, drew herself together with a little shrinking
movement. Yes, that had always been their word for her. She was
fastidious. She had rather prided herself upon having that reputation.
She had always regarded women who made themselves cheap with scorn.
The chase passed on, and Wentworth's arm slipped round her again. "Now we
are safe," he said. "By Jove, dear, how I have schemed for this! It was
really considerate of your worthy husband to absent himself."
Again, gently but quite decidedly, she drew herself away. "I think Freda
is right," she said. "This is rather a dirty place."
He laughed. "A regular black hole! But wait till I can get you out on to
the loch! It's romantic enough out there. But look here, Violet! I've
got to come to an understanding with you. Now that we've found each
other, darling, we are not going to lose each other again, are we?"
She was silent in the darkness.
He leaned to her and took her hand. "Oh, why did you go and complicate
matters by getting married?" he said. "It was such an obvious--such
a fatal--mistake. You knew I cared for you, didn't you?"
"You--had never told me so," she said, her voice very low.
"Never told you! I tried to tell you every time we met. But you were
always so aloof, so frigid. On my soul, I was afraid to speak. Tell me
now!" His hand was fast about hers. "When did you begin to care?"
She sat unyielding in his hold. "I--imagined I cared--a very long time
ago," she said, with an effort.
"What! Before that trial business?" he said. "I wish to Heaven I'd
known!"
"Why?" she said.
"Because if I'd known I wouldn't have been such a fool," he said with
abrupt vehemence. "I would never have run that infernal risk."
"What risk?" she said.
He laughed, a half-shamed laugh. "Oh, I didn't quite mean to let that
out. Consider it unsaid! Only a man without ties is apt to risk more than
a man who has more to lose. I've had the most fantastic ill-luck this
year that ever fell any man's lot before."
"At least you were vindicated," Violet said.
"Oh, that!" said Wentworth. "Well, it was beginning to be time my luck
turned, wasn't it? It was rank enough to be caught, but if I'd been
convicted, I'd have hanged myself. Now tell me! Was it Field's brilliant
defence that dazzled you into marrying him?"
She did not answer him. She turned instead and faced him in the darkness.
"Burleigh! What do you mean by risk? What do you mean by being--caught?
You don't mean--you can't mean--that you--that you were--guilty!"
Her voice shook. The words tumbled over each other. Her hand wrenched
itself free.
"My dear girl!" said Wentworth. "Don't be so melodramatic! No man is
guilty until he is proved so. And--thanks to the kindly offices of
your good husband--I did not suffer the final catastrophe."
"But--but--but--" Her utterance seemed suddenly choked. She rose, feeling
blindly for the door.
"It's locked," said Wentworth, and there was a ring of malice in his
voice. "I say, don't be unreasonable! You shouldn't ask unnecessary
questions, you know. Other people don't. For Heaven's sake, let's enjoy
what we've got and leave the past alone!"
"Open the door!" gasped Violet in a whisper.
He rose without haste. Her white dress made her conspicuous in the
dimness. Her cloak had fallen from her, and she seemed unaware of it.
He reached out as if to open the door, and then very suddenly his
intention changed. He caught her to him.
"By Heaven," he said, and laughed savagely, "I'll have my turn first!"
She turned in his hold, turned like a trapped creature in the first wild
moment of capture, struggling so fiercely that she broke through his grip
before he had made it secure.
He stumbled against the boat, but she sprang from him, sprang for the
open moonlight and the lapping water, and the next instant she was gone
from his sight.
CHAPTER VII
The water was barely up to her knees, but she stumbled among slippery
stones as she fled round the corner of the boat-house, and twice she
nearly fell. There were reeds growing by the bank; she struggled through
them, frantically fighting her way.
She was drenched nearly to the waist when at last she climbed up the
grassy slope. She heard the seekers laughing down among the ruins some
distance away as she did so, and for a few seconds she thought she might
escape to the house unobserved. She turned in that direction, her wet
skirts clinging round her. And then, simultaneously, two things happened.
The key ground in the lock of the boat-house, and, ere Wentworth could
emerge, a man walked out from the shadow of some trees and met her on the
path. She stopped short in the moonlight, standing as one transfixed. It
was her husband.
He came to her, moving more quickly than was his won't. "My dear child!"
he ejaculated.
Feverishly she sought to make explanation. "I--I was hiding--down
on the bank. I slipped into the lake. It was very foolish of me.
But--but--really I couldn't help it."
Her teeth were chattering. He took her by the arm.
"Come up to the house at once!" he said.
She looked towards the boat-house. The door was ajar, but Wentworth had
not shown himself. With a gasp of relief she yielded to Field's insistent
hand.
Her knees were shaking under her, but she made a valiant effort to
control them. He did not speak further, and something in his silence
dismayed her. She trembled more and more as she walked. Her wet clothes
impeded her. She remembered with consternation that she had left her
cloak in the boat-house. In her horror at this discovery she stopped.
As she did so a sudden tumult behind them told her that Wentworth had
been sighted by his pursuers.
In the same moment Field very quietly turned and lifted her in his arms.
She gave a gasp of astonishment.
"I think we shall get on quicker this way," he said. "Put your arm over
my shoulder, won't you?"
He spoke as gently as if she had been a child, and instinctively she
obeyed. He bore her very steadily straight to the house.
CHAPTER VIII
In the safe haven of her own room Violet recovered somewhat. Field left
her in the charge of her maid, but the latter she very quickly dismissed.
She sat before the fire clad in a wrapper, still shivering spasmodically,
but growing gradually calmer.
"I believe there is a letter on the writing-table," she said to the maid
as she was about to go out. "Take it with you and put it in the box
downstairs!"
The girl returned and took up the letter that Field had written that
evening. "It isn't stamped my lady," she began; and then in a tone of
surprise: "Why, it is addressed to your ladyship!"
Violet started. "Give it to me!" she commanded "That will do. I shall not
be wanting you again to-night."
The girl withdrew, and she crouched lower over the fire, the letter in
her hand.
Yes, it was addressed to her in her husband's clear, strong
writing--addressed to her and written in her presence!
Her hands were trembling very much as she tore open the envelope. A
baffling mist danced before her eyes. For a few seconds she could see
nothing. Then with a great effort she commanded herself, and read:
"My own Beloved Wife,
"If I have made your life a misery, may I be forgiven! I meant
otherwise. I saw you on the ramparts this evening. That is why I want
you to leave this place to-morrow. But if you do not wish to share my
life any longer, I will let you go. Only in Heaven's name choose some
worthier means than this!
"I am yours to take or leave. P.F."
Hers--to take--or leave! She felt again the steady hold upon her arm, the
equally steady release. That was what he had meant. That!
She sat bowed like an old woman. He had seen! And instead of being angry
on his own account, he was concerned only on hers. She was his own
beloved wife. He was--hers to take or leave!
Suddenly a great sob broke from her. She laid her face down upon the note
she held....
There came a low knock at the door that divided her room from the one
adjoining. She started swiftly up as one caught in a guilty act.
"Can I come in?" Field said.
She made some murmured response, and he opened the dividing door. A
moment he stood on the threshold; then he came quietly forward. He
carried her cloak upon his arm.
He deposited it upon the back of a chair, and came to her. "I hoped you
would be in bed," he said.
"I am trying--to get warm," she muttered almost inarticulately.
"Have you had a hot drink since your accident?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I told West--I couldn't."
He turned and rang the bell. He must have seen his note tightly grasped
in her hand, but he made no comment upon it.
"Sit down again!" he said gently, and, stooping, poked the sinking fire
into a blaze.
She obeyed him almost automatically. After a moment he laid down the
poker, and drew the chair with her in it close to the fender. Then he
picked up the cloak and put it about her shoulders, and finally moved
away to the door.
She heard him give an order to a servant, and sat nervously awaiting his
return. But he did not come back to her. He went outside and waited in
the passage.
There ensued an interval of several minutes, and during that time she sat
crouched over the fire, holding her cloak about her, and shivering,
shivering all over. Then the door which he had left ajar closed quietly,
and she knew that he had come back into the room.
She drew herself together, striving desperately to subdue her agitation.
He came to her side and stooped over her. "I want you to drink this," he
said.
She glanced up at him swiftly, and as swiftly looked away. "Don't bother
about me!" she said. "I--am not worth it."
He passed the low words by. "It's only milk with a dash of brandy," he
said. "Won't you try it?"
Very reluctantly she took the steaming beverage from him and began to
drink.
He remained beside her, and took the cup from her when she had finished.
"Now," he said, "wouldn't it be wise of you to go to bed?"
She made a movement that was almost convulsive. She had his note still
clasped in her hand.
After a moment, without lifting her eyes, she spoke. "Percival, why did
you--what made you--write this?"
"I owed it to you," he said.
"You--meant it?" she said, with an effort.
"Yes. I meant it." He spoke with complete steadiness.
"But--but--" She struggled with herself for an instant; then, "Oh, I've
got to tell you!" she burst forth passionately. "I'm--very wicked."
"No," he said quietly, and laid a constraining hand upon her as she sat.
"That is not so."
She contracted at his touch. "You don't know me. I wrote you a note this
evening, trying to explain. I told you I meant to leave you. But--I
didn't mean you to read it till I was gone. Did you read it?"
"No," he said. "I guessed what you had done."
Desperately she went on. "You've got to know the worst. I was ready to go
away with him. We--were such old friends, and I thought--I thought--I
knew him." She bowed herself lower under his hand. Her face was hidden.
"I thought he was at least a gentleman. I thought I could trust him.
I--believed in him."
"Ah!" said Field. "And now?"
"Now"--her head was sunk almost to her knees--"I know him--for what--he
is." Her voice broke in bitter weeping. "And I had given so much--so
much--to save him!" she sobbed.
"I know," Field said. "He wasn't worth the sacrifice." He stood for a
moment or two as though in doubt; then knelt suddenly down beside her and
drew her to him.
She made as if she would resist him, but finally, as he held her,
impulsively she yielded. She sobbed out her agony against his breast. And
he soothed her as he might have soothed a child.
But though presently he dried her tears, he did not kiss her. He spoke,
but his voice was devoid of all emotion.
"You are blaming the wrong person for all this. It wasn't Wentworth's
fault. He has probably been a crook all his life. It wasn't yours. You
couldn't be expected to detect it. But"--he paused--"don't you realise
now why I am offering you the only reparation in my power?" he said.
She was trembling, but she did not raise her head or attempt to move,
though his arms were ready to release her.
"No. I don't," she said.
Very steadily he went on: "You have not wronged me. It was I who did the
wrong. I could have made you see his guilt. It would have been infinitely
easier than establishing his innocence before the world. But--I have
always wanted the unattainable. I knew that you were out of reach, and so
I wanted you. Afterwards, very soon afterwards, I found I wanted even
more than what I had bargained for. I wanted your friendship. That was
what the sapphire stood for. You didn't understand. I had handicapped
myself too heavily. So I took what I could get, and missed the rest."
He stopped. She still lay against his breast.
"Why did you want--my friendship?" she whispered.
He made a curious gesture, as if he faced at last the inevitable. When he
answered her his voice was very low. He seemed to speak against his will.
"I--loved you."
"Ah!" It was scarcely more than a breath uttering the words. "And you
never told me!"
He was silent.
She raised herself at last and faced him. Her hands were on his
shoulders. "Percival," she said, and there was a strange light shining
in the eyes that he had dried. "Is your love so small, then--as to be
not--worth--mentioning?"
For the first time in her memory he avoided her look. "No," he said.
"What then?" Her voice was suddenly very soft and infinitely appealing.
He opened his arms with a gesture of renunciation "It is--beyond words,"
he said.
She leaned nearer. Her hands slipped upwards, clasping his neck.
"It is the greatest thing that has ever come to me," she said, and in her
voice there throbbed a new note which he had never heard in it before.
"Do you think--oh, do you think--I would cast--that--away?"
He did not speak in answer. It seemed as if he could not. That which lay
between them was indeed beyond words. Only in the silence he took her
again into his arms and kissed her on the lips.
* * * * *
By Ethel M. Dell
The Way of an Eagle
The Knave of Diamonds
The Rocks of Valpré
The Swindler
The Keeper of the Door
Bars of Iron
The Hundredth Chance
The Safety Curtain
Greatheart
The Lamp in the Desert
The Tidal Wave
The Top of the World
Rosa Mundi and Other Stories
The Obstacle Race
The Odds and Other Stories
Charles Rex
Tetherstones