CHAPTER IX

A NOVICE

Gerald came to Silverside two or three times during the early summer,

arriving usually on Friday and remaining until the following Monday

morning.

All his youthful admiration and friendship for Selwyn had returned; that

was plainly evident--and with it something less of callow

self-sufficiency. He did not appear to be as cock-sure of himself and

the world as he had been; there was less bumptiousness about him, less

aggressive complacency. Somewhere and somehow somebody or something had

come into collision with him; but who or what this had been he did not

offer to confide in Selwyn; and the older man, dreading to disturb the

existing accord between them, forbore to question him or invite, even

indirectly, any confidence not offered.

Selwyn had slowly become conscious of this change in Gerald. In the

boy's manner toward others there seemed to be hints of that seriousness

which maturity or the first pressure of responsibility brings, even to

the more thoughtless. Plainly enough some experience, not wholly

agreeable, was teaching him the elements of consideration for others; he

was less impulsive, more tolerant; yet, at times, Selwyn and Eileen also

noticed that he became very restless toward the end of his visits at

Silverside; as though something in the city awaited him--some duty, or

responsibility not entirely pleasant.

There was, too, something of soberness, amounting, at moments, to

discontented listlessness--not solitary brooding; for at such moments he

stuck to Selwyn, following him about and remaining rather close to him,

as though the elder man's mere presence was a comfort--even a

protection.

At such intervals Selwyn longed to invite the boy's confidence, knowing

that he had some phase of life to face for which his experience was

evidently inadequate. But Gerald gave no sign of invitation; and Selwyn

dared not speak lest he undo what time and his forbearance were slowly

repairing.

So their relations remained during the early summer; and everybody

supposed that Gerald's two weeks' vacation would be spent there at

Silverside. Apparently the boy himself thought so, too, for he made some

plans ahead, and Austin sent down a very handsome new motor-boat for

him.

Then, at the last minute, a telegram arrived, saying that he had sailed

for Newport on Neergard's big yacht! And for two weeks no word was

received from him at Silverside.

Late in August, however, he wrote a rather colourless letter to Selwyn,

saying that he was tired and would be down for the week-end.

He came, thinner than usual, with the city pallor showing through traces

of the sea tan. And it appeared that he was really tired; for he seemed

inclined to lounge on the veranda, satisfied as long as Selwyn remained

in sight. But, when Selwyn moved, he got up and followed.

So subdued, so listless, so gentle in manner and speech had he become

that somebody, in his temporary absence, wondered whether the boy were

perfectly well--which voiced the general doubt hitherto unexpressed.

But Austin laughed and said that the boy was merely finding himself; and

everybody acquiesced, much relieved at the explanation, though to Selwyn

the explanation was not at all satisfactory.

There was trouble somewhere, stress of doubt, pressure of apprehension,

the gravity of immaturity half realising its own inexperience. And one

day in September he wrote Gerald, asking him to bring Edgerton Lawn and

come down to Silverside for the purpose of witnessing some experiments

with the new smokeless explosive, Chaosite.

Young Lawn came by the first train; Gerald wired that he would arrive

the following morning.

He did arrive, unusually pallid, almost haggard; and Selwyn, who met him

at the station and drove him over from Wyossett, ventured at last to

give the boy a chance.

But Gerald remained utterly unresponsive--stolidly so--and the other

instantly relinquished the hope of any confidence at that time--shifting

the conversation at once to the object and reason of Gerald's coming,

and gaily expressing his belief that the time was very near at hand when

Chaosite would figure heavily in the world's list of commercially

valuable explosives.

It was early in August that Selwyn had come to the conclusion that his

Chaosite was likely to prove a commercial success. And now, in

September, his experiments had advanced so far that he had ventured to

invite Austin, Gerald, Lansing, and Edgerton Lawn, of the Lawn

Nitro-Powder Company, to witness a few tests at his cottage laboratory

on Storm Head; but at the same time he informed them with characteristic

modesty that he was not yet prepared to guarantee the explosive.

About noon his guests arrived before the cottage in a solemn file,

halted, and did not appear overanxious to enter the laboratory on Storm

Head. Also they carefully cast away their cigars when they did enter,

and seated themselves in a nervous circle in the largest room of the

cottage. Here their eyes instantly became glued to a great bowl which

was piled high with small rose-tinted cubes of some substance which

resembled symmetrical and translucent crystals of pink quartz. That was

Chaosite enough to blow the entire cliff into smithereens; and they were

aware of it, and they eyed it with respect.

First of all Selwyn laid a cubic crystal on an anvil, and struck it

sharply and repeatedly with a hammer. Austin's thin hair rose, and

Edgerton Lawn swallowed nothing several times; but nobody went to

heaven, and the little cube merely crumbled into a flaky pink powder.

Then Selwyn took three cubes, dropped them into boiling milk, fished

them out again, twisted them into a waxy taper, placed it in a

candle-stick, and set fire to it. The taper burned with a flaring

brilliancy but without odour.

Then Selwyn placed several cubes in a mortar, pounded them to powder

with an iron pestle, and, measuring out the tiniest pinch--scarcely

enough to cover the point of a penknife, placed a few grains in several

paper cartridges. Two wads followed the powder, then an ounce and a half

of shot, then a wad, and then the crimping.

The guests stepped gratefully outside; Selwyn, using a light

fowling-piece, made pattern after pattern for them; and then they all

trooped solemnly indoors again; and Selwyn froze Chaosite and boiled it

and baked it and melted it and took all sorts of hair-raising liberties

with it; and after that he ground it to powder, placed a few generous

pinches in a small hand-grenade, and affixed a primer, the secret

composition of which he alone knew. That was the key to the secret--the

composition of the primer charge.

"I used to play base-ball in college," he observed smiling--"and I used

to be a pretty good shot with a snowball."

They followed him to the cliff's edge, always with great respect for the

awful stuff he handled with such apparent carelessness. There was a

black sea-soaked rock jutting out above the waves; Selwyn pointed at it,

poised himself, and, with the long, overhand, straight throw of a

trained ball player, sent the grenade like a bullet at the rock.

There came a blinding flash, a stunning, clean-cut report--but what the

others took to be a vast column of black smoke was really a pillar of

dust--all that was left of the rock. And this slowly floated, settling

like mist over the waves, leaving nothing where the rock had been.

"I think," said Edgerton Lawn, wiping the starting perspiration from his

forehead, "that you have made good, Captain Selwyn. Dense or bulk, your

Chaosite and impact primer seem to do the business; and I think I may

say that the Lawn Nitro-Powder Company is ready to do business, too. Can

you come to town to-morrow? It's merely a matter of figures and

signatures now, if you say so. It is entirely up to you."

But Selwyn only laughed. He looked at Austin.

"I suppose," said Edgerton Lawn good-naturedly, "that you intend to make

us sit up and beg; or do you mean to absorb us?"

But Selwyn said: "I want more time on this thing. I want to know what it

does to the interior of loaded shells and in fixed ammunition when it is

stored for a year. I want to know whether it is necessary to use a

solvent after firing it in big guns. As a bursting charge I'm

practically satisfied with it; but time is required to know how it acts

on steel in storage or on the bores of guns when exploded as a

propelling charge. Meanwhile," turning to Lawn, "I'm tremendously

obliged to you for coming--and for your offer. You see how it is, don't

you? I couldn't risk taking money for a thing which might, at the end,

prove dear at any price."

"I cheerfully accept that risk," insisted young Lawn; "I am quite ready

to do all the worrying, Captain Selwyn."

But Selwyn merely shook his head, repeating: "You see how it is, don't

you?"

"I see that you possess a highly developed conscience," said Edgerton

Lawn, laughing; "and when I tell you that we are more than willing to

take every chance of failure--"

But Selwyn shook his head: "Not yet," he said; "don't worry; I need the

money, and I'll waste no time when a square deal is possible. But I

ought to tell you this: that first of all I must offer it to the

Government. That is only decent, you see--"

"Who ever heard of the Government's gratitude?" broke in Austin.

"Nonsense, Phil; you are wasting time!"

"I've got to do it," said Selwyn; "you must see that, of course."

"But I don't see it," began Lawn--"because you are not in the Government

service now--"

"Besides," added Austin, "you were not a West Pointer; you never were

under obligations to the Government!"

"Are we not all under obligation?" asked Selwyn so simply that Austin

flushed.

"Oh, of course--patriotism and all that--naturally--Confound it, I don't

suppose you'd go and offer it to Germany or Japan before our own

Government had the usual chance to turn it down and break your heart.

But why can't the Government make arrangements with Lawn's Company--if

it desires to?"

"A man can't exploit his own Government; you all know that as well as I

do," returned Selwyn, smiling. "_Pro aris et focis_, you know--_ex

necessitate rei_."

"When the inventor goes to the Government," said Austin, with a

shrug--"_vestigia nulla retrorsum_."

"_Spero meliora_," retorted Selwyn, laughing; but there remained the

obstinate squareness of jaw, and his amused eyes were clear and steady.

Young Lawn looked into them and the hope in him flickered; Austin

looked, and shrugged; but as they all turned away to retrace their steps

across the moors in the direction of Silverside, Lansing lightly hooked

his arm into Selwyn's; and Gerald, walking thoughtfully on the other

side, turned over and over in his mind the proposition offered him--the

spectacle of a modern and needy man to whom money appeared to be the

last consideration in a plain matter of business. Also he turned over

other matters in his mind; and moved closer to Selwyn, walking beside

him with grave eyes bent on the ground.

* * * * *

The matter of business arrangements apparently ended then and there;

Lawn's company sent several men to Selwyn and wrote him a great many

letters--unlike the Government, which had not replied to his briefly

tentative suggestion that Chaosite be conditionally examined, tested,

and considered.

So the matter remained in abeyance, and Selwyn employed two extra men

and continued storage tests and experimented with rifled and smooth-bore

tubes, watchfully uncertain yet as to the necessity of inventing a

solvent to neutralise possible corrosion after a propelling charge had

been exploded.

Everybody in the vicinity had heard about his experiments; everybody

pretended interest, but few were sincere; and of the sincere, few were

unselfishly interested--his sister, Eileen, Drina, and Lansing--and

maybe one or two others.

However, the younger set, now predominant from Wyossett to Wonder Head,

made up parties to visit Selwyn's cottage, which had become known as The

Chrysalis; and Selwyn good-naturedly exploded a pinch or two of the

stuff for their amusement, and never betrayed the slightest annoyance or

boredom. In fact, he behaved so amiably during gratuitous interruptions

that he won the hearts of the younger set, who presently came to the

unanimous conclusion that there was Romance in the air. And they sniffed

it with delicate noses uptilted and liked the aroma.

Kathleen Lawn, a big, leisurely, blond-skinned girl, who showed her

teeth when she laughed and shook hands like a man, declared him

"adorable" but "unsatisfactory," which started one of the Dresden-china

twins, Dorothy Minster, and she, in turn, ventured the innocent opinion

that Selwyn was misunderstood by most people--an inference that she

herself understood him. And she smiled to herself when she made this

observation, up to her neck in the surf; and Eileen, hearing the remark,

smiled to herself, too. But she felt the slightest bit uncomfortable

when that animated brunette Gladys Orchil, climbing up dripping on to

the anchored float beyond the breakers, frankly confessed that the

tinge of mystery enveloping Selwyn's career made him not only adorable,

but agreeably "unfathomable"; and that she meant to experiment with him

at every opportunity.

Sheila Minster, seated on the raft's edge, swinging her stockinged legs

in the green swells that swept steadily shoreward, modestly admitted

that Selwyn was "sweet," particularly in a canoe on a moonlight

night--in spite of her weighty mother heavily afloat in the vicinity.

"He's nice every minute," she said--"every fibre of him is nice in the

nicest sense. He never talks 'down' at you--like an insufferable

undergraduate; and he is so much of a man--such a real man!--that I like

him," she added naïvely; "and I'm quite sure he likes me, because he

said so."

"I like him," said Gladys Orchil, "because he has a sense of humour and

stands straight. I like a sense of humour and--good shoulders. He's an

enigma; and I like that, too. . . . I'm going to investigate him every

chance I get."

Dorothy Minster liked him, too: "He's such a regular boy at times," she

explained; "I do love to see him without his hat sauntering along beside

me--and not talking every minute when you don't wish to talk. Friends,"

she added--"true friends are most eloquent in their mutual silence.

Ahem!"

Eileen Erroll, standing near on the pitching raft, listened intently,

but curiously enough said nothing either in praise or blame.

"He is exactly the right age," insisted Gladys--as though somebody had

said he was not--"the age when a man is most interesting."

The Minster twins twiddled their legs and looked sentimentally at the

ocean. They were a pair of pink and white little things with china-blue

eyes and the fairest of hair, and they were very impressionable; and

when they thought of Selwyn they looked unutterable things at the

Atlantic Ocean.

One man, often the least suitable, is usually the unanimous choice of

the younger sort where, in the disconcerting summer time, the youthful

congregate in garrulous segregation.

Their choice they expressed frankly and innocently; they admitted

cheerfully that Selwyn was their idol. But that gentleman remained

totally unconscious that he had been set up by them upon the shores of

the summer sea.

In leisure moments he often came down to the bathing-beach at the hour

made fashionable; he conducted himself amiably with dowager and

chaperon, with portly father and nimble brother, with the late

débutantes of the younger set and the younger matrons, individually,

collectively, impartially.

He and Gerald usually challenged the rollers in a sponson canoe when

Gerald was there for the week-end; or, when Lansing came down, the two

took long swims seaward or cruised about in Gerald's dory, clad in their

swimming-suits; and Selwyn's youth became renewed in a manner almost

ridiculous, so that the fine lines which had threatened the corners of

his mouth and eyes disappeared, and the clear sun tan of the tropics,

which had never wholly faded, came back over a smooth skin as clear as a

boy's, though not as smoothly rounded. His hair, too, crisped and grew

lighter under the burning sun, which revealed, at the temples, the

slightest hint of silver. And this deepened the fascination of the

younger sort for the idol they had set up upon the sands of Silverside.

Gladys was still eloquent on the subject, lying flat on the raft where

all were now gathered in a wet row, indulging in sunshine and the two

minutes of gossip which always preceded their return swim to the beach.

"It is partly his hair," she said gravely, "that makes him so

distinguished in his appearance--just that touch of silver; and you keep

looking and looking until you scarcely know whether it's really

beginning to turn a little gray or whether it's only a lighter colour at

the temples. How insipid is a mere boy after such a man as Captain

Selwyn! . . . I have dreamed of such a man--several times."

The Minster twins gazed soulfully at the Atlantic; Eileen Erroll bit her

under lip and stood up suddenly. "Come on," she said; joined her hands

skyward, poised, and plunged. One after another the others followed and,

rising to the surface, struck out shoreward.

On the sunlit sands dozens of young people were hurling tennis-balls at

each other. Above the beach, under the long pavilions, sat mothers and

chaperons. Motors, beach-carts, and victorias were still arriving to

discharge gaily dressed fashionables--for the hour was early--and up and

down the inclined wooden walk leading from the bathing-pavilion to the

sands, a constant procession of bathers passed with nod and gesture of

laughing salutation, some already retiring to the showers after a brief

ocean plunge, the majority running down to the shore, eager for the

first frosty and aromatic embrace of the surf rolling in under a

cloudless sky of blue.

As Eileen Erroll emerged from the surf and came wading shoreward through

the seething shallows, she caught sight of Selwyn sauntering across the

sands toward the water, and halted, knee-deep, smilingly expectant,

certain that he had seen her.

Gladys Orchil, passing her, saw Selwyn at the same moment, and her

clear, ringing salute and slender arm aloft, arrested his attention; and

the next moment they were off together, swimming toward the sponson

canoe which Gerald had just launched with the assistance of Sandon Craig

and Scott Innis.

For a moment Eileen stood there, motionless. Knee-high the flat ebb

boiled and hissed, dragging at her stockinged feet as though to draw her

seaward with the others. Yesterday she would have gone, without a

thought, to join the others; but yesterday is yesterday. It seemed to

her, as she stood there, that something disquieting had suddenly come

into the world; something unpleasant--but indefinite--yet sufficient to

leave her vaguely apprehensive.

The saner emotions which have their birth in reason she was not ignorant

of; emotion arising from nothing at all disconcerted her--nor could she

comprehend the slight quickening of her heart-beats as she waded to the

beach, while every receding film of water tugged at her limbs as though

to draw her backward in the wake of her unquiet thoughts.

Somebody threw a tennis-ball at her; she caught it and hurled it in

return; and for a few minutes the white, felt-covered balls flew back

and forth from scores of graceful, eager hands. A moment or two passed

when no balls came her way; she turned and walked to the foot of a dune

and seated herself cross-legged on the hot sand.

Sometimes she watched the ball players, sometimes she exchanged a word

of amiable commonplace with people who passed or halted to greet her.

But she invited nobody to remain, and nobody ventured to, not even

several very young and ardent gentlemen who had acquired only the

rudiments of social sense. For there was a sweet but distant look in her

dark-blue eyes and a certain reserved preoccupation in her

acknowledgment of salutations. And these kept the would-be adorer

moving--wistful, lagging, but still moving along the edge of that

invisible barrier set between her and the world with her absent-minded

greeting, and her serious, beautiful eyes fixed so steadily on a distant

white spot--the sponson canoe where Gladys and Selwyn sat, their paddle

blades flashing in the sun.

How far away they were. . . . Gerald was with them. . . . Curious that

Selwyn had not seen her waiting for him, knee-deep in the surf--curious

that he had seen Gladys instead. . . . True, Gladys had called to him

and signalled him, white arm upflung. . . . Gladys was very pretty--with

her heavy, dark hair and melting, Spanish eyes, and her softly rounded,

olive-skinned figure. . . . Gladys had called to him, and _she_ had not.

. . . That was true; and lately--for the last few days--or perhaps

more--she herself had been a trifle less impulsive in her greeting of

Selwyn--a little less _sans-façon_ with him. . . . After all, a man

comes when it pleases him. Why should a girl call him?--unless

she--unless--unless--

Perplexed, her grave eyes fixed on the sea where now the white canoe

pitched nearer, she dropped both hands to the sand--those once

wonderfully white hands, now creamed with sun tan; and her arms, too,

were tinted from shoulder to finger-tip. Then she straightened her

legs, crossed her feet, and leaned a trifle forward, balancing her body

on both palms flat on the sand. The sun beat down on her; she loosened

her hair to dry it, and as she shook her delicate head the superb

red-gold mass came tumbling about her face and shoulders. Under its

glimmering splendour, and through it, she stared seaward out of wide,

preoccupied eyes; and in her breast, stirring uneasily, a pulse,

intermittent yet dully importunate, persisted.

The canoe, drifting toward the surf, was close in, now. Gerald rose and

dived; Gladys, steadying herself by a slim hand on Selwyn's shoulder,

stood up on the bow, ready to plunge clear when the canoe capsized.

How wonderfully pretty she was, balanced there, her hand on his

shoulder, ready for a leap, lest the heavy canoe, rolling over in the

froth, strike her under the smother of foam and water. . . . How

marvellously pretty she was. . . . Her hand on his shoulder. . . .

Miss Erroll sat very still; but the pulse within her was not still.

When the canoe suddenly capsized, Gladys jumped, but Selwyn went with

it, boat and man tumbling into the tumult over and over; and the usual

laughter from the onlookers rang out, and a dozen young people rushed

into the surf to right the canoe and push it out into the surf again and

clamber into it.

Gerald was among the number; Gladys swam toward it, beckoning

imperiously to Selwyn; but he had his back to the sea and was moving

slowly out through the flat swirling ebb. And as Eileen looked, she saw

a dark streak leap across his face--saw him stoop and wash it off and

stand, looking blindly about, while again the sudden dark line

criss-crossed his face from temple to chin, and spread wider like a

stain.

"Philip!" she called, springing to her feet and scarcely knowing that

she had spoken.

He heard her, and came toward her in a halting, dazed way, stopping

twice to cleanse his face of the bright blood that streaked it.

"It's nothing," he said--"the infernal thing hit me. . . . Oh, don't use

_that_!" as she drenched her kerchief in cold sea-water and held it

toward him with both hands.

"Take it!--I--I beg of you," she stammered. "Is it s-serious?"

"Why, no," he said, his senses clearing; "it was only a rap on the

head--and this blood is merely a nuisance. . . . Thank you, I will use

your kerchief if you insist. . . . It'll stop in a moment, anyway."

"Please sit here," she said--"here where I've been sitting."

He did so, muttering: "What a nuisance. It will stop in a second. . . .

You needn't remain here with me, you know. Go in; it is simply

glorious."

"I've been in; I was drying my hair."

He glanced up, smiling; then, as the wet kerchief against his forehead

reddened, he started to rise, but she took it from his fingers, hastened

to the water's edge, rinsed it, and brought it back cold and wet.

"Please sit perfectly still," she said; "a girl likes to do this sort of

thing for a man."

"If I'd known that," he laughed, "I'd have had it happen frequently."

She only shook her head, watching him unsmiling. But the pulse in her

had become very quiet again.

"It's no end of fun in that canoe," he observed. "Gladys Orchil and I

work it beautifully."

"I saw you did," she nodded.

"Oh! Where were you? Why didn't you come?"

"I don't know. Gladys called you. I was waiting for you--expecting you.

Then Gladys called you."

"I didn't see you," he said.

"I didn't call you," she observed serenely. And, after a moment: "Do you

see only those who hail you, Captain Selwyn?"

He laughed: "In this life's cruise a good sailor always answers a

friendly hail."

"So do I," she said. "Please hail me after this--because I don't care to

take the initiative. If you neglect to do it, don't count on my hailing

you . . . any more."

The stain spread on the kerchief; once more she went to the water's

edge, rinsed it, and returned with it.

"I think it has almost stopped bleeding," she remarked as he laid the

cloth against his forehead. "You frightened me, Captain Selwyn. I am not

easily frightened."

"I know it."

"Did you know I was frightened?"

"Of course I did."

"Oh," she said, vexed, "how could you know it? I didn't do anything

silly, did I?"

"No; you very sensibly called me Philip. That's how I knew you were

frightened."

A slow bright colour stained face and neck.

"So I was silly, after all," she said, biting at her under lip and

trying to meet his humorous gray eyes with unconcern. But her face was

burning now, and, aware of it, she turned her gaze resolutely on the

sea. Also, to her further annoyance, her heart awoke, beating

unwarrantably, absurdly, until the dreadful idea seized her that he

could hear it. Disconcerted, she stood up--a straight youthful figure

against the sea. The wind blowing her dishevelled hair across her cheeks

and shoulders, fluttered her clinging skirts as she rested both hands on

her hips and slowly walked toward the water's edge.

"Shall we swim?" he asked her.

She half turned and looked around and down at him.

"I'm all right; it's stopped bleeding. Shall we?" he inquired, looking

up at her. "You've got to wash your hair again, anyhow."

She said, feeling suddenly stupid and childish, and knowing she was

speaking stupidly: "Would you not rather join Gladys again? I thought

that--that--"

"Thought _what_?"

"Nothing," she said, furious at herself; "I am going to the showers.

Good-bye."

"Good-bye," he said, troubled--"unless we walk to the pavilion

together--"

"But you are going in again; are you not?"

"Not unless you do."

"W-what have I to do with it, Captain Selwyn?"

"It's a big ocean--and rather lonely without you," he said so seriously

that she looked around again and laughed.

"It's full of pretty girls just now. Plunge in, my melancholy friend.

The whole ocean is a dream of fair women to-day."

"'If they be not fair to me, what care I how fair they be,'" he

paraphrased, springing to his feet and keeping step beside her.

"Really, that won't do," she said; "much moonlight and Gladys and the

Minster twins convict you. Do you remember that I told you one day in

early summer--that Sheila and Dorothy and Gladys would mark you for

their own? Oh, my inconstant courtier, they are yonder!--And I absolve

you. Adieu!"

"Do you remember what _I_ told _you_--one day in early summer?" he

returned coolly.

Her heart began its absurd beating again--but now there was no trace of

pain in it--nothing of apprehension in the echo of the pulse either.

"You protested so many things, Captain Selwyn--"

"Yes; and one thing in particular. You've forgotten it, I see." And he

looked her in the eye.

"No," she said, "you are wrong. I have not forgotten."

"Nor I."

He halted, looking out over the shining breakers. "I'm glad you have not

forgotten what I said; because, you see, I'm forbidden to repeat it. So

I shall be quite helpless to aid you in case your memory fails."

"I don't think it will fail," she said, looking at the flashing sea. A

curious tingling sensation of fright had seized her--something entirely

unknown to her heretofore. She spoke again because frightened; the

heavy, hard pulse in breast and throat played tricks with her voice and

she swallowed and attempted to steady it: "I--if--if I ever forget, you

will know it as soon as I do--"

Her throat seemed to close in a quick, unsteady breath; she halted, both

small hands clinched:

"_Don't_ talk this way!" she said, exasperated under a rush of

sensations utterly incomprehensible--stinging, confused emotions that

beat chaotic time to the clamour of her pulses. "Why d-do you speak of

such things?" she repeated with a fierce little indrawn breath--"why do

you?--when you know--when I said--explained everything?" She looked at

him fearfully: "You are somehow spoiling our friendship," she said; "and

I don't exactly know how you are doing it, but something of the comfort

of it is being taken away from me--and don't! don't! don't do it!"

She covered her eyes with her clinched hands, stood a moment,

motionless; then her arms dropped, and she turned sharply with a gesture

which left him standing there and walked rapidly across the beach to the

pavilion.

After a little while he followed, pursuing his way very leisurely to his

own quarters. Half an hour later when she emerged with her maid, Selwyn

was not waiting for her as usual; and, scarcely understanding that she

was finding an excuse for lingering, she stood for ten minutes on the

step of the Orchils' touring-car, talking to Gladys about the lantern

fête and dance to be given that night at Hitherwood House.

Evidently Selwyn had already gone home. Gerald came lagging up with

Sheila Minster; but his sister did not ask him whether Selwyn had gone.

Yesterday she would have done so; but to-day had brought to her the

strangest sensation of her young life--a sudden and overpowering fear of

a friend; and yet, strangest of all, the very friend she feared she was

waiting for--contriving to find excuses to wait for. Surely he could not

have finished dressing and have gone. He had never before done that. Why

did he not come? It was late; people were leaving the pavilion;

victorias and beach-phaetons were trundling off loaded to the water-line

with fat dowagers; gay groups passed, hailing her or waving adieux;

Drina drove up in her village-cart, calling out: "Are you coming,

Eileen, or are you going to walk over? Hurry up! I'm hungry."

"I'll go with you," she said, nodding adieu to Gladys; and she swung off

the step and crossed the shell road.

"Jump in," urged the child; "I'm in a dreadful hurry, and Odin can't

trot very fast."

"I'd prefer to drive slowly," said Miss Erroll in a colourless voice;

and seated herself in the village-cart.

"Why must I drive slowly?" demanded the child. "I'm hungry; besides, I

haven't seen Boots this morning. I don't want to drive slowly; must I?"

"Which are you most in a hurry for?" asked Eileen curiously; "luncheon

or Boots?"

"Both--I don't know. What a silly question. Boots of course! But I'm

starving, too."

"Boots? Of course?"

"Certainly. He always comes first--just like Captain Selwyn with you."

"Like Captain Selwyn with me," she repeated absently; "certainly;

Captain Selwyn should be first, everything else second. But how did you

find out that, Drina?"

"Why, anybody can see that," said the child contemptuously; "you are as

fast friends with Uncle Philip as I am with Boots. And why you don't

marry him I can't see--unless you're not old enough. Are you?"

"Yes. . . . I am old enough, dear."

"Then why don't you? If I was old enough to marry Boots I'd do it. Why

don't you?"

"I don't know," said Miss Erroll, as though speaking to herself.

Drina glanced at her, then flourished her be-ribboned whip, which

whistling threat had no perceptible effect on the fat, red, Norwegian

pony.

"I'll tell you what," said the child, "if you don't ask Uncle Philip

pretty soon somebody will ask him first, and you'll be too late. As soon

as I saw Boots I knew that I wanted him for myself, and I told him so.

He said he was very glad I had spoken, because he was expecting a

proposal by wireless from the young Sultana-elect of Leyte. Now," added

the child with satisfaction, "she can't have him. It's better to be in

time, you see."

Eileen nodded: "Yes, it is better to be in plenty of time. You can't

tell what Sultana may forestall you."

"So you'll tell him, won't you?" inquired Drina with business-like

briskness.

Miss Erroll looked absently at her: "Tell who what?"

"Uncle Philip--that you're going to marry him when you're old enough."

"Yes--when I'm old enough--I'll tell him, Drina."

"Oh, no; I mean you'll marry him when you're old enough, but you'd

better tell him right away."

"I see; I'd better speak immediately. Thank you, dear, for suggesting

it."

"You're quite welcome," said the child seriously; "and I hope you'll be

as happy as I am."

"I hope so," said Eileen as the pony-cart drew up by the veranda and a

groom took the pony's head.

Luncheon being the children's hour, Miss Erroll's silence remained

unnoticed in the jolly uproar; besides, Gerald and Boots were discussing

the huge house-party, lantern fête, and dance which the Orchils were

giving that night for the younger sets; and Selwyn, too, seemed to take

unusual interest in the discussion, though Eileen's part in the

conference was limited to an occasional nod or monosyllable.

Drina was wild to go and furious at not having been asked, but when

Boots offered to stay home, she resolutely refused to accept the

sacrifice.

"No," she said; "they are pigs not to ask girls of my age, but you may

go, Boots, and I'll promise not to be unhappy." And she leaned over and

added in a whisper to Eileen: "You see how sensible it is to make

arrangements beforehand! Because somebody, grown-up, might take him away

at this very party. That's the reason why it is best to speak promptly.

Please pass me another peach, Eileen."

"What are you two children whispering about?" inquired Selwyn, glancing

at Eileen.

"Oho!" exclaimed Drina; "you may know before long! May he not, Eileen?

It's about you," she said; "something splendid that somebody is going to

do to you! Isn't it, Eileen?"

Miss Erroll looked smilingly at Selwyn, a gay jest on her lips; but the

sudden clamour of pulses in her throat closed her lips, cutting the

phrase in two, and the same strange fright seized her--an utterly

unreasoning fear of him.

At the same moment Mrs. Gerard gave the rising signal, and Selwyn was

swept away in the rushing herd of children, out on to the veranda, where

for a while he smoked and drew pictures for the younger Gerards. Later,

some of the children were packed off for a nap; Billy with his assorted

puppies went away with Drina and Boots, ever hopeful of a fox or rabbit;

Nina Gerard curled herself up in a hammock, and Selwyn seated himself

beside her, an uncut magazine on his knees. Eileen had disappeared.

For a while Nina swung there in silence, her pretty eyes fixed on her

brother. He had nearly finished cutting the leaves of the magazine

before she spoke, mentioning the fact of Rosamund Fane's arrival at the

Minsters' house, Brookminster.

The slightest frown gathered and passed from her brother's sun-bronzed

forehead, but he made no comment.

"Mr. Neergard is a guest, too," she observed.

"What?" exclaimed Selwyn, in disgust.

"Yes; he came ashore with the Fanes."

Selwyn flushed a little but went on cutting the pages of the magazine.

When he had finished he flattened the pages between both covers, and

said, without raising his eyes:

"I'm sorry that crowd is to be in evidence."

"They always are and always will be," smiled his sister.

He looked up at her: "Do you mean that anybody _else_ is a guest at

Brookminster?"

"Yes, Phil."

"Alixe?"

"Yes."

He looked down at the book on his knees and began to furrow the pages

absently.

"Phil," she said, "have you heard anything this summer--lately--about

the Ruthvens?"

"No."

"Nothing at all?"

"Not a word."

"You knew they were at Newport as usual."

"I took it for granted."

"And you have heard no rumours?--no gossip concerning them? Nothing

about a yacht?"

"Where was I to hear it? What gossip? What yacht?"

His sister said very seriously: "Alixe has been very careless."

"Everybody is. What of it?"

"It is understood that she and Jack Ruthven have separated."

He looked up quickly: "Who told you that?"

"A woman wrote me from Newport. . . . And Alixe is here and Jack Ruthven

is in New York. Several people have--I have heard about it from several

sources. I'm afraid it's true, Phil."

They looked into each other's troubled eyes; and he said: "If she has

done this it is the worse of two evils she has chosen. To live with him

was bad enough, but this is the limit."

"I know it. She cannot afford to do such a thing again. . . . Phil, what

is the matter with her? She simply cannot be sane and do such a

thing--can she?"

"I don't know," he said.

"Well, I do. She is not sane. She has made herself horridly conspicuous

among conspicuous people; she has been indiscreet to the outer edge of

effrontery. Even that set won't stand it always--especially as their men

folk are quite crazy about her, and she leads a train of them about

wherever she goes--the little fool!

"And now, if it's true, that there's to be a separation--what on earth

will become of her? I ask you, Phil, for I don't know. But men know what

becomes eventually of women who slap the world across the face with

over-ringed fingers.

"If--if there's any talk about it--if there's newspaper talk--if

there's a divorce--who will ask her to their houses? Who will condone

this thing? Who will tolerate it, or her? Men--and men only--the odious

sort that fawn on her now and follow her about half-sneeringly. They'll

tolerate it; but their wives won't; and the kind of women who will

receive and tolerate her are not included in my personal experience.

What a fool she has been!--good heavens, what a fool!"

A trifle paler than usual, he said: "There is no real harm in her. I

know there is not."

"You are very generous, Phil--"

"No, I am trying to be truthful. And I say there is no harm in her. I

have made up my mind on that score." He leaned nearer his sister and

laid one hand on hers where it lay across the hammock's edge:

"Nina; no woman could have done what she has done, and continue to do

what she does, and be mentally sound. This, at last, is my conclusion."

"It has long been my conclusion," she said under her breath.

He stared at the floor out of gray eyes grown dull and hopeless.

"Phil," whispered his sister, "suppose--suppose--what happened to her

father--"

"I know."

She said again: "It was slow at first, a brilliant eccentricity--that

gradually became--something else less pleasant. Oh, Phil! Phil!"

"It was softening of the brain," he said, "was it not?"

"Yes--he entertained a delusion of conspiracy against him--also a

complacent conviction of the mental instability of others. Yet, at

intervals he remained clever and witty and charming."

"And then?"

"Phil--he became violent at times."

"Yes. And the end?" he asked quietly.

"A little child again--quite happy and content--playing with toys--very

gentle, very pitiable--" The hot tears filled her eyes. "Oh, Phil!" she

sobbed and hid her face on his shoulder.

Over the soft, faintly fragrant hair he stared stupidly, lips apart,

chin loose.

A little later, Nina sat up in the hammock, daintily effacing the traces

of tears. Selwyn was saying: "If this is so, that Ruthven man has got to

stand by her. Where could she go--if such trouble is to come upon her?

To whom can she turn if not to him? He is responsible for her--doubly

so, if her condition is to be--_that_! By every law of manhood he is

bound to stand by her now; by every law of decency and humanity he

cannot desert her now. If she does these--these indiscreet things--and

if he knows she is not altogether mentally responsible--he cannot fail

to stand by her! How can he, in God's name!"

"Phil," she said, "you speak like a man, but she has no man to stand

loyally by her in the direst need a human soul may know. He is only a

thing--no man at all--only a loathsome accident of animated decadence."

He looked up quickly, amazed at her sudden bitterness; and she looked

back at him almost fiercely.

"I may as well tell you what I've heard," she said; "I was not going to,

at first; but it will be all around town sooner or later. Rosamund told

me. She learned--as she manages to learn everything a little before

anybody else hears of it--that Jack Ruthven found out that Alixe was

behaving very carelessly with some man--some silly, callow, and

probably harmless youth. But there was a disgraceful scene on Mr.

Neergard's yacht, the _Niobrara_. I don't know who the people were, but

Ruthven acted abominably. . . . The _Niobrara_ anchored in Widgeon Bay

yesterday; and Alixe is aboard, and her husband is in New York, and

Rosamund says he means to divorce her in one way or another! Ugh! the

horrible little man with his rings and bangles!"

She shuddered: "Why, the mere bringing of such a suit means her social

ruin no matter what verdict is brought in! Her only salvation has

been in remaining inconspicuous; and a sane girl would have realised

it. But"--and she made a gesture of despair--"you see what she has

done. . . . And Phil--you know what she has done to you--what a mad risk

she took in going to your rooms that night--"

"Who said she had ever been in my rooms?" he demanded, flushing darkly

in his surprise.

"Did you suppose I didn't know it?" she asked quietly. "Oh, but I did;

and it kept me awake nights, worrying. Yet I knew it must have been all

right--knowing you as I do. But do you suppose other people would hold

you as innocent as I do? Even Eileen--the sweetest, whitest, most loyal

little soul in the world--was troubled when Rosamund hinted at some

scandal touching you and Alixe. She told me--but she did not tell me

what Rosamund had said--the mischief maker!"

His face had become quite colourless; he raised an unsteady hand to his

mouth, touching his moustache; and his gray eyes narrowed menacingly.

"Rosamund--spoke of scandal to--Eileen?" he repeated. "Is that

possible?"

"How long do you suppose a girl can live and not hear scandal of some

sort?" said Nina. "It's bound to rain some time or other, but I prepared

my little duck's back to shed some things."

"You say," insisted Selwyn, "that Rosamund spoke of me--in that way--to

Eileen?"

"Yes. It only made the child angry, Phil; so don't worry."

"No; I won't worry. No, I--I won't. You are quite right, Nina. But the

pity of it; that tight, hard-shelled woman of the world--to do such a

thing--to a young girl."

"Rosamund is Rosamund," said Nina with a shrug; "the antidote to her

species is obvious."

"Right, thank God!" said Selwyn between his teeth; "_Mens sana in

corpore sano_! bless her little heart! I'm glad you told me this, Nina."

He rose and laughed a little--a curious sort of laugh; and Nina watched

him, perplexed.

"Where are you going, Phil?" she asked.

"I don't know. I--where is Eileen?"

"She's lying down--a headache; probably too much sun and salt water.

Shall I send for her?"

"No; I'll go up and inquire how she is. Susanne is there, isn't she?"

And he entered the house and ascended the stairs.

The little Alsatian maid was seated in a corner of the upper hall,

sewing; and she informed Selwyn that mademoiselle "had bad in ze h'ead."

But at the sound of conversation in the corridor Eileen's gay voice came

to them from her room, asking who it was; and she evidently knew, for

there was a hint of laughter in her tone.

"It is I. Are you better?" said Selwyn.

"Yes. D-did you wish to see me?"

"I always do."

"Thank you. . . . I mean, do you wish to see me now? Because I'm very

much occupied in trying to go to sleep."

"Yes, I wish to see you at once."

"Particularly?"

"Very particularly."

"Oh, if it's as serious as that, you alarm me. I'm afraid to come."

"I'm afraid to have you. But please come."

He heard her laugh to herself; then her clear, amused voice: "What are

you going to say to me if I come out?"

"Something dreadful! Hurry!"

"Oh, if that's the case I'll hurry," she returned, and a moment later

the door opened and she emerged in a breezy flutter of silvery ribbons

and loosened ruddy hair.

She was dressed in some sort of delicate misty stuff that alternately

clung and floated, outlining or clouding her glorious young figure as

she moved with leisurely free-limbed grace across the hall to meet him.

The pretty greeting she always reserved for him, even if their

separation had been for a few minutes only, she now offered, hand

extended; a cool, fragrant hand which lay for a second in his, closed,

and withdrew, leaving her eyes very friendly.

"Come out on the west veranda," she said; "I know what you wish to say

to me. Besides, I have something to confide to you, too. And I'm very

impatient to do it."

He followed her to the veranda; she seated herself in the broad swing,

and moved so that her invitation to him was unmistakable. Then when he

had taken the place beside her she turned toward him very frankly, and

he looked up to encounter her beautiful direct gaze.

"What is disturbing our friendship?" she asked. "Do you know? I don't. I

went to my room after luncheon and lay down on my bed and quietly

deliberated. And do you know what conclusion I have reached?"

"What?" he asked.

"That there is nothing at all to disturb our friendship. And that what I

said to you on the beach was foolish. I don't know why I said it; I'm

not the sort of girl who says such stupid things--though I was

apparently, for that one moment. And what I said about Gladys was

childish; I am not jealous of her, Captain Selwyn. Don't think me silly

or perverse or sentimental, will you?"

"No, I won't."

She smiled at him with a trifle less courage--a trifle more

self-consciousness: "And--and as for what I called you--"

"You mean when you called me by my first name, and I teased you?"

"Y-es. I was silly to do it; sillier to be ashamed of doing it. There's

a great deal of the callow schoolgirl in me yet, you see. The wise,

amused smile of a man can sometimes stampede my self-possession and

leave me blushing like any ninny in dire confusion. . . . It was very,

very mean of you--for the blood across your face did shock me. . . .

And, by myself, and in my very private thoughts, I do sometimes call

you--by your first name. . . . And that explains it. . . . Now, what

have you to say to me?"

"I wish to ask you something."

"With pleasure," she said; "go ahead." And she settled back, fearlessly

expectant.

"Very well, then," he said, striving to speak coolly. "It is this: Will

you marry me, Eileen?"

She turned perfectly white and stared at him, stunned. And he repeated

his question, speaking slowly, but unsteadily.

"N-no," she said; "I cannot. Why--why, you know that, don't you?"

"Will you tell me why, Eileen?"

"I--I don't know why. I think--I suppose that it is because I do not

love you--that way."

"Yes," he said, "that, of course, is the reason. I wonder--do you

suppose that--in time--perhaps--you might care for me--that way?"

"I don't know." She glanced up at him fearfully, fascinated, yet

repelled. "I don't know," she repeated pitifully. "Is it--can't you help

thinking of me in that way? Can't you be as you were?"

"No, I can no longer help it. I don't want to help it, Eileen."

"But--I wish you to," she said in a low voice. "It is that which is

coming between us. Oh, don't you see it is? Don't you feel it--feel what

it is doing to us? Don't you understand how it is driving me back into

myself? Whom am I to go to if not to you? What am I to do if your

affection turns into this--this different attitude toward me? You were

so perfectly sweet and reasonable--so good, so patient; and now--and now

I am losing confidence in you--in myself--in our friendship.

I'm no longer frank with you; I'm afraid at times--afraid and

self-conscious--conscious of you, too--afraid of what seemed once the

most natural of intimacies. I--I loved you so dearly--so fearlessly--"

Tears blinded her; she bent her head, and they fell on the soft delicate

stuff of her gown, flashing downward in the sunlight.

"Dear," he said gently, "nothing is altered between us. I love you in

that way, too."

"D-do you--really?" she stammered, shrinking away from him.

"Truly. Nothing is altered; nothing of the bond between us is weakened.

On the contrary, it is strengthened. You cannot understand that now. But

what you are to believe and always understand is that our friendship

must endure. Will you believe it?"

"Y-yes--" She buried her face in her handkerchief and sat very still for

a long time. He had risen and walked to the farther end of the veranda;

and for a minute he stood there, his narrowed eyes following the sky

flight of the white gulls off Wonder Head.

When at length he returned to her she was sitting low in the swing, both

arms extended along the back of the seat. Evidently she had been waiting

for him; and her face was very grave and sorrowful.

"I want to ask you something," she said--"merely to prove that you are a

little bit illogical. May I?"

He nodded, smiling.

"Could you and I care for each other more than we now do, if we were

married?"

"I think so," he said.

"Why?" she demanded, astonished. Evidently she had expected another

answer.

He made no reply; and she lay back among the cushions considering what

he had said, the flush of surprise still lingering in her cheeks.

"How can I marry you," she asked, "when I would--would not care to

endure a--a caress from any man--even from you? It--such things--would

spoil it all. I _don't_ love you--that way. . . . Oh! _Don't_ look at me

that way! Have I hurt you?--dear Captain Selwyn? . . . I did not mean

to. . . . Oh, what has become of our happiness! What has become of it!"

And she turned, full length in the swing, and hid her face in the silken

pillows.

For a long while she lay there, the western sun turning her crown of

hair to fire above the white nape of her slender neck; and he saw her

hands clasping, unclasping, or crushing the tiny handkerchief deep into

one palm.

There was a chair near; he drew it toward her, and sat down, steadying

the swing with one hand on the chain.

"Dearest," he said under his breath, "I am very selfish to have done

this; but I--I thought--perhaps--you might have cared enough to--to

venture--"

"I do care; you are very cruel to me." The voice was childishly broken

and muffled. He looked down at her, slowly realising that it was a child

he still was dealing with--a child with a child's innocence, repelled by

the graver phase of love, unresponsive to the deeper emotions,

bewildered by the glimpse of the mature rôle his attitude had compelled

her to accept. That she already had reached that mile-stone and, for a

moment, had turned involuntarily to look back and find her childhood

already behind her, frightened her.

Thinking, perhaps, of his own years, and of what lay behind him, he

sighed and looked out over the waste of moorland where the Atlantic was

battering the sands of Surf Point. Then his patient gaze shifted to the

east, and he saw the surface of Sky Pond, blue as the eyes of the girl

who lay crouching in the cushioned corner of the swinging seat, small

hands clinched over the handkerchief--a limp bit of stuff damp with her

tears.

"There is one thing," he said, "that we mustn't do--cry about it--must

we, Eileen?"

"No-o."

"Certainly not. Because there is nothing to make either of us unhappy;

is there?"

"Oh-h, no."

"Exactly. So we're not going to be unhappy; not one bit. First because

we love each other, anyway; don't we?"

"Y-yes."

"Of course we do. And now, just because I happen to love you in that way

and also in a different sort of way, in addition to that way, why, it's

nothing for anybody to cry about it; is it, Eileen?"

"No. . . . No, it is not. . . . But I c-can't help it."

"Oh, but you're going to help it, aren't you?"

"I--I hope so."

He was silent; and presently she said: "I--the reason of it--my

crying--is b-b-because I don't wish you to be unhappy."

"But, dear, dear little girl, I am not!"

"Really?"

"No, indeed! Why should I be? You do love me; don't you?"

"You know I do."

"But not in _that_ way."

"N-no; not in _that_ way. . . . I w-wish I did."

A thrill passed through him; after a moment he relaxed and leaned

forward, his chin resting on his clinched hands: "Then let us go back to

the old footing, Eileen."

"Can we?"

"Yes, we can; and we will--back to the old footing--when nothing of

deeper sentiment disturbed us. . . . It was my fault, little girl. Some

day you will understand that it was not a wholly selfish fault--because

I believed--perhaps only dreamed--that I could make you happier by

loving you in--both ways. That is all; it is your happiness--our

happiness that we must consider; and if it is to last and endure, we

must be very, very careful that nothing really disturbs it again. And

that means that the love, which is sometimes called friendship, must be

recognised as sufficient. . . . You know how it is; a man who is locked

up in Paradise is never satisfied until he can climb the wall and look

over! Now I have climbed and looked; and now I climb back into the

garden of your dear friendship, very glad to be there again with

you--very, very thankful, dear. . . . Will you welcome me back?"

She lay quite still a minute, then sat up straight, stretching out both

hands to him, her beautiful, fearless eyes brilliant as rain-washed

stars.

"Don't go away," she said--"don't ever go away from our garden again."

"No, Eileen."

"Is it a promise . . . Philip?"

Her voice fell exquisitely low.

"Yes, a promise. Do you take me back, Eileen?"

"Yes; I take you. . . . Take me back, too, Philip." Her hands tightened

in his; she looked up at him, faltered, waited; then in a fainter voice:

"And--and be of g-good courage. . . . I--I am not very old yet."

She withdrew her hands and bent her head, sitting there, still as a

white-browed novice, listlessly considering the lengthening shadows at

her feet. But, as he rose and looked out across the waste with enchanted

eyes that saw nothing, his heart suddenly leaped up quivering, as though

his very soul had been drenched in immortal sunshine.

An hour later, when Nina discovered them there together, Eileen, curled

up among the cushions in the swinging seat, was reading aloud "Evidences

of Asiatic Influence on the Symbolism of Ancient Yucatan"; and Selwyn,

astride a chair, chin on his folded arms, was listening with evident

rapture.

"Heavens!" exclaimed Nina, "the blue-stocking and the fogy!--and yours

_are_ pale blue, Eileen!--you're about as self-conscious as

Drina--slumping there with your hair tumbling _à la_ Mérode! Oh, it's

very picturesque, of course, but a straight spine and good grooming is

better. Get up, little blue-stockings and we'll have our hair done--if

you expect to appear at Hitherwood House with me!"

Eileen laughed, calmly smoothing out her skirt over her slim ankles;

then she closed the book, sat up, and looked happily at Selwyn.

"Fogy and _Bas-bleu_," she repeated. "But it _is_ fascinating, isn't

it?--even if my hair is across my ears and you sit that chair like a

polo player! Nina, dearest, what is your mature opinion concerning the

tomoya and the Buddhist cross?"

"I know more about a tomboy-a than a tomoya, my saucy friend," observed

Nina, surveying her with disapproval--"and I can be as cross about it as

any Buddhist, too. You are, to express it as pleasantly as possible, a

sight! Child, what on earth have you been doing? There are two smears

on your cheeks!"

"I've been crying," said the girl, with an amused sidelong flutter of

her lids toward Selwyn.

"Crying!" repeated Nina incredulously. Then, disarmed by the serene

frankness of the girl, she added: "A blue-stocking is bad enough, but a

grimy one is impossible. _Allons! Vite_!" she insisted, driving Eileen

before her; "the country is demoralising you. Philip, we're dining

early, so please make your arrangements to conform. Come, Eileen; have

you never before seen Philip Selwyn?"

"I am not sure that I ever have," she replied, with a curious little

smile at Selwyn. Nina had her by the hand, but she dragged back like a

mischievously reluctant child hustled bedward:

"Good-bye," she said, stretching out her hand to Selwyn--"good-bye, my

unfortunate fellow fogy! I go, slumpy, besmudged, but happy; I return,

superficially immaculate--but my stockings will still be blue! . . .

Nina, dear, if you don't stop dragging me I'll pick you up in my

arms!--indeed I will--"

There was a laugh, a smothered cry of protest; and Selwyn was the amused

spectator of his sister suddenly seized and lifted into a pair of

vigorous young arms, and carried into the house by this tall, laughing

girl who, an hour before, had lain there among the cushions, frightened,

unconvinced, clinging instinctively to the last gay rags and tatters of

the childhood which she feared were to be stripped from her for ever.

It was clear starlight when they were ready to depart. Austin had

arrived unexpectedly, and he, Nina, Eileen, and Selwyn were to drive to

Hitherwood House, Lansing and Gerald going in the motor-boat.

There was a brief scene between Drina and Boots--the former fiercely

pointing out the impropriety of a boy like Gerald being invited where

she, Drina, was ignored. But there was no use in Boots offering to

remain and comfort her as Drina had to go to bed, anyway; so she kissed

him good-bye very tearfully, and generously forgave Gerald; and

comforted herself before she retired by putting on one of her mother's

gowns and pinning up her hair and parading before a pier-glass until her

nurse announced that her bath was waiting.

* * * * *

The drive to Hitherwood House was a dream of loveliness; under the stars

the Bay of Shoals sparkled in the blue darkness set with the gemmed ruby

and sapphire and emerald of ships' lanterns glowing from unseen yachts

at anchor.

The great flash-light on Wonder Head broke out in brilliancy, faded,

died to a cinder, grew perceptible again, and again blazed blindingly in

its endless monotonous routine; far lights twinkled on the Sound, and

farther away still, at sea. Then the majestic velvety shadow of the

Hither Woods fell over them; and they passed in among the trees, the

lamps of the depot wagon shining golden in the forest gloom.

Selwyn turned instinctively to the young girl beside him. Her face was

in shadow, but she responded with the slightest movement toward him:

"This dusk is satisfying--like sleep--this wide, quiet shadow over the

world. Once--and not so very long ago--I thought it a pity that the sun

should ever set. . . . I wonder if I am growing old--because I feel the

least bit tired to-night. For the first time that I can remember a day

has been a little too long for me."

She evidently did not ascribe her slight sense of fatigue to the scene

on the veranda; perhaps she was too innocent to surmise that any

physical effect could follow that temporary stress of emotion. A quiet

sense of relief in relaxation from effort came over her as she leaned

back, conscious that there was happiness in rest and silence and the

soft envelopment of darkness.

"If it would only last," she murmured lazily.

"What, Eileen?"

"This heavenly darkness--and our drive, together. . . . You are quite

right not to talk to me; I won't, either. . . . Only I'll drone on and

on from time to time--so that you won't forget that I am here beside

you."

She lay so still for a while that at last Nina leaned forward to look at

her; then laughed.

"She's asleep," she said to Austin.

"No, I'm not," murmured the girl, unclosing her eyes; "Captain Selwyn

knows; don't you? . . . What is that sparkling--a fire-fly?"

But it was the first paper lantern glimmering through the Hitherwood

trees from the distant lawn.

"Oh, dear," sighed Eileen, sitting up with an effort, and looking

sleepily at Selwyn. "_J'ai sommeil--besoin--dormir_--"

But a few minutes later they were in the great hall of Hitherwood House,

opened from end to end to the soft sea wind, and crowded with the

gayest, noisiest throng that had gathered there in a twelvemonth.

Everywhere the younger set were in evidence; slim, fresh, girlish

figures passed and gathered and crowded the stairs and galleries with a

flirt and flutter of winnowing skirts, delicate and light as

powder-puffs.

Mrs. Sanxon Orchil, a hard, highly coloured, tight-lipped little woman

with electric-blue eyes, was receiving with her slim brunette daughter,

Gladys.

"A tight little craft," was Austin's invariable comment on the matron;

and she looked it, always trim and trig and smooth of surface like a

converted yacht cleared for action.

Near her wandered her husband, orientally bland, invariably affable, and

from time to time squinting sideways, as usual, in the ever-renewed

expectation that he might catch a glimpse of his stiff, retroussé

moustache.

The Lawns were there, the Minsters, the Craigs from Wyossett, the Grays

of Shadow Lake, the Draymores, Fanes, Mottlys, Cardwells--in fact, it

seemed as though all Long Island had been drained from Cedarhurst to

Islip and from Oyster Bay to Wyossett, to pour a stream of garrulous and

animated youth and beauty into the halls and over the verandas and

terraces and lawns of Hitherwood House.

It was to be a lantern frolic and a lantern dance and supper, all most

formally and impressively _sans façon_. And it began with a candle-race

for a big silver gilt cup--won by Sandon Craig and his partner, Evelyn

Cardwell, who triumphantly bore their lighted taper safely among the

throngs of hostile contestants, through the wilderness of flitting

lights, and across the lawn to the goal where they planted it,

unextinguished, in the big red paper lantern.

Selwyn and Eileen came up breathless and laughing with the others, she

holding aloft their candle, which somebody had succeeded in blowing out;

and everybody cheered the winners, significantly, for it was expected

that Miss Cardwell's engagement to young Craig would be announced before

very long.

Then rockets began to rush aloft, starring the black void with

iridescent fire; and everybody went to the lawn's edge where, below on

the bay, a dozen motor-boats, dressed fore and aft with necklaces of

electric lights, crossed the line at the crack of a cannon in a race for

another trophy.

Bets flew as the excitement grew, Eileen confining hers to gloves and

bonbons, and Selwyn loyally taking any offers of any kind as he

uncompromisingly backed Gerald and Boots in the new motor-boat--the

_Blue Streak_--Austin's contribution to the Silverside navy.

And sure enough, at last a blue rocket soared aloft, bursting into azure

magnificence in the zenith; and Gerald and Boots came climbing up to the

lawn to receive prize and compliments, and hasten away to change their

oilskins for attire more suitable.

Eileen, turning to Selwyn, held up her booking list in laughing dismay:

"I've won about a ton of bonbons," she said, "and too many pairs of

gloves to feel quite comfortable."

"You needn't wear them all at once, you know," he assured her.

"Nonsense! I mean that I don't care to win things. Oh!"--and she laid

her hand impulsively on his arm as a huge sheaf of rockets roared

skyward, apparently from the water.

Then, suddenly, Neergard's yacht sprang into view, outlined in

electricity from stem to stern, every spar and funnel and contour of

hull and superstructure twinkling in jewelled brilliancy.

On a great improvised open pavilion set up in the Hither Woods,

garlanded and hung thick with multi-coloured paper lanterns, dancing had

already begun; but Selwyn and Eileen lingered on the lawn for a while,

fascinated by the beauty of the fireworks pouring skyward from the

_Niobrara_.

"They seem to be very gay aboard her," murmured the girl. "Once you said

that you did not like Mr. Neergard. Do you remember saying it?"

He replied simply, "I don't like him; and I remember saying so."

"It is strange," she said, "that Gerald does."

Selwyn looked at the illuminated yacht. . . . "I wonder whether any of

Neergard's crowd is expected ashore here. Do you happen to know?"

She did not know. A moment later, to his annoyance, Edgerton Lawn came

up and asked her to dance; and she went with a smile and a whispered:

"Wait for me--if you don't mind. I'll come back to you."

It was all very well to wait for her--and even to dance with her after

that; but there appeared to be no peace for him in prospect, for Scott

Innis came and took her away, and Gladys Orchil offered herself to him

very prettily, and took him away; and after that, to his perplexity and

consternation, a perfect furor for him seemed to set in and grow among

the younger set, and the Minster twins had him, and Hilda Innis

appropriated him, and Evelyn Cardwell, and even Mrs. Delmour-Carnes took

a hand in the badgering.

At intervals he caught glimpses of Eileen through the gay crush around

him; he danced with Nina, and suggested to her it was time to leave, but

that young matron had tasted just enough to want more; and Eileen, too,

was evidently having a most delightful time. So he settled into the

harness of pleasure and was good to the pink-and-white ones; and they

told each other what a "dear" he was, and adored him more inconveniently

than ever.

Truly enough, as he had often said, these younger ones were the

charmingly wholesome and refreshing antidote to the occasional

misbehaviour of the mature. They were, as he also asserted, the hope and

promise of the social fabric of a nation--this younger set--always a

little better, a little higher-minded than their predecessors as the

wheel of the years slowly turned them out in gay, eager, fearless

throngs to teach a cynical generation the rudiments of that wisdom which

blossoms most perfectly in the hearts of the unawakened.

Yes, he had frequently told himself all this; told it to others, too.

But, now, the younger set, _en masse_ and in detail, had become a little

bit _cramponné_--a trifle too all-pervading. And it was because his

regard for them, in the abstract, had become centred in a single

concrete example that he began to find the younger set a nuisance. But

others, it seemed, were quite as mad about Eileen Erroll as he was; and

there seemed to be small chance for him to possess himself of her,

unless he were prepared to make the matter of possession a pointed

episode. This he knew he had no right to do; she had conferred no such

privilege upon him; and he was obliged to be careful of what he did and

said lest half a thousand bright unwinking eyes wink too knowingly--lest

frivolous tongues go clip-clap, and idle brains infer that which, alas!

did not exist except in his vision of desire.

The Hither Woods had been hung with myriads of lanterns. From every

branch they swung in clusters or stretched away into perspective,

turning the wooded aisles to brilliant vistas. Under them the more

romantic and the dance-worn strolled in animated groups or quieter twos;

an army of servants flitted hither and thither, serving the acre or so

of small tables over each of which an electric cluster shed yellow

light.

Supper, and then the Woodland cotillon was the programme; and almost all

the tables were filled before Selwyn had an opportunity to collect Nina

and Austin and capture Eileen from a very rosy-cheeked and indignant boy

who had quite lost his head and heart and appeared to be on the verge of

a headlong declaration.

"It's only Percy Draymore's kid brother," she explained, passing her arm

through his with a little sigh of satisfaction. "Where have you been all

the while?--and with whom have you danced, please?--and who is the

pretty girl you paid court to during that last dance? What? _Didn't_ pay

court to her? Do you expect me to believe that? . . . Oh, here comes

Nina and Austin. . . . How pretty the tables look, all lighted up among

the trees! And such an uproar!"--as they came into the jolly tumult and

passed in among a labyrinth of tables, greeted laughingly from every

side.

Under a vigorous young oak-tree thickly festooned with lanterns Austin

found an unoccupied table. There was a great deal of racket and laughter

from the groups surrounding them, but this seemed to be the only

available spot; besides, Austin was hungry, and he said so.

Nina, with Selwyn on her left, looked around for Gerald and Lansing.

When the latter came sauntering up, Austin questioned him, but he

replied carelessly that Gerald had gone to join some people whom he,

Lansing, did not know very well.

"Why, there he is now!" exclaimed Eileen, catching sight of her brother

seated among a very noisy group on the outer edge of the illuminated

zone. "Who are those people, Nina? Oh! Rosamund Fane is there, too;

and--and--"

She ceased speaking so abruptly that Selwyn turned around; and Nina bit

her lip in vexation and glanced at her husband. For, among the

overanimated and almost boisterous group which was attracting the

attention of everybody in the vicinity sat Mrs. Jack Ruthven. And Selwyn

saw her.

For a moment he looked at her--looked at Gerald beside her, and Neergard

on the other side, and Rosamund opposite; and at the others, whom he had

never before seen. Then quietly, but with heightened colour, he turned

his attention to the glass which the servant had just filled for him,

and, resting his hand on the stem, stared at the bubbles crowding upward

through it to the foamy brim.

Nina and Boots had begun, ostentatiously, an exceedingly animated

conversation; and they became almost aggressive, appealing to Austin,

who sat back with a frown on his heavy face--and to Eileen, who was

sipping her mineral water and staring thoughtfully at a big, round,

orange-tinted lantern which hung like the harvest moon behind Gerald,

throwing his curly head into silhouette.

[Illustration: "Gerald beside her, and Neergard on the other side."]

What conversation there was to carry, Boots and Nina carried. Austin

silently satisfied his hunger, eating and drinking with a sullen

determination to make no pretence of ignoring a situation that plainly

angered him deeply. And from minute to minute he raised his head to

glare across at Gerald, who evidently was unconscious of the presence of

his own party.

When Nina spoke to Eileen, the girl answered briefly but with perfect

composure. Selwyn, too, added a quiet word at intervals, speaking in a

voice that sounded a little tired and strained.

It was that note of fatigue in his voice which aroused Eileen to

effort--the instinctive move to protect--to sustain him. Conscious of

Austin's suppressed but increasing anger at her brother, amazed and

distressed at what Gerald had done--for the boy's very presence there

was an affront to them all--she was still more sensitive to Selwyn's

voice; and in her heart she responded passionately.

Nina looked up, surprised at the sudden transformation in the girl, who

had turned on Boots with a sudden flow of spirits and the gayest of

challenges; and their laughter and badinage became so genuine and so

persistent that, combining with Nina, they fairly swept Austin from his

surly abstraction into their toils; and Selwyn's subdued laugh, if

forced, sounded pleasantly, now, and his drawn face seemed to relax a

little for the time being.

Once she turned, under cover of the general conversation which she had

set going, and looked straight into Selwyn's eyes, flashing to him a

message of purest loyalty; and his silent gaze in response sent the

colour flying to her cheeks.

It was all very well for a while--a brave, sweet effort; but ears could

not remain deaf to the increasing noise and laughter--to familiar

voices, half-caught phrases, indiscreet even in the fragments

understood. Besides, Gerald had seen them, and the boy's face had become

almost ghastly.

Alixe, unusually flushed, was conducting herself without restraint;

Neergard's snickering laugh grew more significant and persistent; even

Rosamund spoke too loudly at moments; and once she looked around at Nina

and Selwyn while her pretty, accentless laughter, rippling with its

undertone of malice, became more frequent in the increasing tumult.

There was no use in making a pretence of further gaiety. Austin had

begun to scowl again; Nina, with one shocked glance at Alixe, leaned

over toward her brother:

"It is incredible!" she murmured; "she must be perfectly mad to make

such an exhibition of herself. Can't anybody stop her? Can't anybody

send her home?"

Austin said sullenly but distinctly: "The thing for us to do is to get

out. . . . Nina--if you are ready--"

"But--but what about Gerald?" faltered Eileen, turning piteously to

Selwyn. "We can't leave him--there!"

The man straightened up and turned his drawn face toward her:

"Do you wish me to get him?"

"Y-you can't do that--can you?"

"Yes, I can; if you wish it. Do you think there is anything in the world

I can't do, if you wish it?"

As he rose she laid her hand on his arm:

"I--I don't ask it--" she began.

"You do not have to ask it," he said with a smile almost genuine.

"Austin, I'm going to get Gerald--and Nina will explain to you that

he's to be left to me if any sermon is required. I'll go back with him

in the motor-boat. Boots, you'll drive home in my place."

As he turned, still smiling and self-possessed, Eileen whispered

rapidly: "Don't go. I care for you too much to ask it."

He said under his breath: "Dearest, you cannot understand."

"Yes--I do! Don't go. Philip--don't go near--her--"

"I must."

"If you do--if you go--h-how can you c-care for me as you say you

do?--when I ask you not to--when I cannot endure--to--"

She turned swiftly and stared across at Alixe; and Alixe, unsteady in

the flushed brilliancy of her youthful beauty, half rose in her seat and

stared back.

Instinctively the young girl's hand tightened on Selwyn's arm: "She--she

is beautiful!" she faltered; but he turned and led her from the table,

following Austin, his sister, and Lansing; and she clung to him almost

convulsively when he halted on the edge of the lawn.

"I must go back," he whispered--"dearest--dearest--I must."

"T-to Gerald? Or--_her_?"

But he only muttered: "They don't know what they're doing. Let me go,

Eileen"--gently detaching her fingers, which left her hands lying in

both of his.

She said, looking up at him: "If you go--if you go--whatever time you

return--no matter what hour--knock at my door. Do you promise? I shall

be awake. Do you promise?"

"Yes," he said with a trace of impatience--the only hint of his anger at

the prospect of the duty before him.

So she went away with Nina and Austin and Boots; and Selwyn turned back,

sauntering quietly toward the table where already the occupants had

apparently forgotten him and the episode in the riotous gaiety

increasing with the accession of half a dozen more men.

When Selwyn approached, Neergard saw him first, stared at him, and

snickered; but he greeted everybody with smiling composure, nodding to

those he knew--a trifle more formally to Mrs. Ruthven--and, coolly

pulling up a chair, seated himself beside Gerald.

"Boots has driven home with the others," he said in a low voice; "I'm

going back in the motor-boat with you. Don't worry about Austin. Are you

ready?"

The boy had evidently let the wine alone, or else fright had sobered

him, for he looked terribly white and tired: "Yes," he said, "I'll go

when you wish. I suppose they'll never forgive me for this. Come on."

"One moment, then," nodded Selwyn; "I want to speak to Mrs. Ruthven."

And, quietly turning to Alixe, and dropping his voice to a tone too low

for Neergard to hear--for he was plainly attempting to listen:

"You are making a mistake; do you understand? Whoever is your

hostess--wherever you are staying--find her and go there before it is

too late."

She inclined her pretty head thoughtfully, eyes on the wine-glass which

she was turning round and round between her slender fingers. "What do

you mean by 'too late'?" she asked. "Don't you know that everything is

too late for me now?"

"What do _you_ mean, Alixe?" he returned, watching her intently.

"What I say. I have not seen Jack Ruthven for two months. Do you know

what that means? I have not heard from him for two months. Do you know

what _that_ means? No? Well, I'll tell you, Philip; it means that when I

do hear from him it will be through his attorneys."

He turned slightly paler: "Why"?"

"Divorce," she said with a reckless little laugh--"and the end of things

for me."

"On what grounds?" he demanded doggedly. "Does he threaten you?"

She made no movement or reply, reclining there, one hand on her

wine-glass, the smile still curving her lips. And he repeated his

question in a low, distinct voice--too low for Neergard to hear; and he

was still listening.

"Grounds? Oh, he thinks I've misbehaved with--never mind who. It is not

true--but he cares nothing about that, either. You see"--and she bent

nearer, confidentially, with a mysterious little nod of her pretty

head--"you see, Jack Ruthven is a little insane. . . . You are

surprised? Pooh! I've suspected it for months."

He stared at her; then: "Where are you stopping?"

"Aboard the _Niobrara_."

"Is Mrs. Fane a guest there, too?"

He spoke loud enough for Rosamund to hear; and she answered for herself

with a smile at him, brimful of malice:

"Delighted to have you come aboard, Captain Selwyn. Is that what you are

asking permission to do?"

"Thanks," he returned dryly; and to Alixe: "If you are ready, Gerald and

I will take you over to the _Niobrara_ in the motor-boat--"

"Oh, no, you won't!" broke in Neergard with a sneer--"you'll mind your

own business, my intrusive friend, and I'll take care of my guests

without your assistance."

Selwyn appeared not to hear him: "Come on, Gerald," he said pleasantly;

"Mrs. Ruthven is going over to the _Niobrara_--"

"For God's sake," whispered Gerald, white as a sheet, "don't force me

into trouble with Neergard."

Selwyn turned on him an astonished gaze: "Are you _afraid_ of that

whelp?"

"Yes," muttered the boy--"I--I'll explain later. But don't force things

now, I beg you."

Mrs. Ruthven coolly leaned over and spoke to Gerald in a low voice;

then, to Selwyn, she said with a smile: "Rosamund and I are going to

Brookminster, anyway, so you and Gerald need not wait. . . . And thank

you for coming over. It was rather nice of you"--she glanced insolently

at Neergard--"considering the crowd we're with. _Good_-night, Captain

Selwyn! _Good_-night, Gerald. So very jolly to have seen you again!"

And, under her breath to Selwyn: "You need not worry; I am going in a

moment. Good-bye and--thank you, Phil. It _is_ good to see somebody of

one's own caste again."

A few moments later, Selwyn and Gerald in their oilskins were dashing

eastward along the coast in the swiftest motor-boat south of the

Narrows.

* * * * *

The boy seemed deathly tired as they crossed the dim lawn at Silverside.

Once, on the veranda steps he stumbled, and Selwyn's arm sustained him;

but the older man forbore to question him, and Gerald, tight-lipped and

haggard, offered no confidence until, at the door of his bedroom, he

turned and laid an unsteady hand on Selwyn's shoulder: "I want to talk

with you--to-morrow. May I?"

"You know you may, Gerald. I am always ready to stand your friend."

"I know. . . . I must have been crazy to doubt it. You are very good to

me. I--I am in a very bad fix. I've got to tell you."

"Then we'll get you out of it, old fellow," said Selwyn cheerfully.

"That's what friends are for, too."

The boy shivered--looked at the floor, then, without raising his eyes,

said good-night, and, entering his bedroom, closed the door.

As Selwyn passed back along the corridor, the door of his sister's room

opened, and Austin and Nina confronted him.

"Has that damfool boy come in?" demanded his brother-in-law, anxiety

making his voice tremulous under its tone of contempt.

"Yes. Leave him to me, please. Good-night"--submitting to a tender

embrace from his sister--"I suppose Eileen has retired, hasn't she? It's

an ungodly hour--almost sunrise."

"I don't know whether Eileen is asleep," said Nina; "she expected a word

with you, I understand. But don't sit up--don't let her sit up late.

We'll be a company of dreadful wrecks at breakfast, anyway."

And his sister gently closed the door while he continued on to the end

of the corridor and halted before Eileen's room. A light came through

the transom; he waited a moment, then knocked very softly.

"Is it you?" she asked in a low voice.

"Yes. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No. Is Gerald here?"

"Yes, in his own room. . . . Did you wish to speak to me about

anything?"

"Yes."

He heard her coming to the door; it opened a very little. "Good-night,"

she whispered, stretching toward him her hand--"that was all I

wanted--to--to touch you before I closed my eyes to-night."

He bent and looked at the hand lying within his own--the little hand

with its fresh fragrant palm upturned and the white fingers relaxed,

drooping inward above it--at the delicate bluish vein in the smooth

wrist.

Then he released the hand, untouched by his lips; and she withdrew it

and closed the door; and he heard her laugh softly, and lean against it,

whispering:

"Now that I am safely locked in--I merely wish to say that--in the old

days--a lady's hand was sometimes--kissed. . . . Oh, but you are too

late, my poor friend! I can't come out; and I wouldn't if I could--not

after what I dared to say to you. . . . In fact, I shall probably remain

locked up here for days and days. . . . Besides, what I said is out of

fashion--has no significance nowadays--or, perhaps, too much. . . . No,

I won't dress and come out--even for you. _Je me déshabille--je fais ma

toilette de nuit, monsieur--et je vais maintenant m'agenouiller et faire

ma prière. Donc--bon soir--et bonne nuit_--"

And, too low for him to hear even the faintest breathing whisper of her

voice--"Good-night. I love you with all my heart--with all my heart--in

my own fashion."

* * * * *

He had been asleep an hour, perhaps more, when something awakened him,

and he found himself sitting bolt upright in bed, dawn already

whitening his windows.

Somebody was knocking. He swung out of bed, stepped into his

bath-slippers, and, passing swiftly to the door, opened it. Gerald stood

there, fully dressed.

"I'm going to town on the early train," began the boy--"I thought I'd

tell you--"

"Nonsense! Gerald, go back to bed!"

"I can't sleep, Philip--"

"Can't sleep? Oh, that's the trouble, is it? Well, then, sit here and

talk to me." He gave a mighty yawn--"I'm not sleepy, either; I can go

days without it. Here!--here's a comfortable chair to sprawl in. . . .

It's daylight already; doesn't the morning air smell sweet? I've a jug

of milk and some grapes and peaches in my ice-cupboard if you feel

inclined. No? All right; stretch out, sight for a thousand yards, and

fire at will."

Gerald strove to smile; for a while he lay loosely in the arm-chair, his

listless eyes intent on the strange, dim light which fell across the

waste of sea fog. Only the water along the shore's edge remained

visible; all else was a blank wall behind which, stretching to the

horizon, lay the unseen ocean. Already a few restless gulls were on the

wing, sheering inland; and their raucous, treble cries accented the

pallid stillness.

But the dawn was no paler than the boy's face--no more desolate. Trouble

was his, the same old trouble that has dogged the trail of folly since

time began; and Selwyn knew it and waited.

At last the boy broke out: "This is a cowardly trick--this slinking in

to you with all my troubles after what you've done for me--after the

rotten way I've treated you--"

"Look here, my boy!" said Selwyn coolly, crossing one knee over the

other and dropping both hands into the pockets of his pajamas--"I asked

you to come to me, didn't I? Well, then; don't criticise my judgment in

doing it. It isn't likely I'd ask you to do a cowardly thing."

"You don't understand what a wretched scrape I'm in--"

"I don't yet; but you're going to tell me--"

"Philip, I can't--I simply cannot. It's so contemptible--and you warned

me--and I owe you already so much--"

"You owe me a little money," observed Selwyn with a careless smile, "and

you've a lifetime to pay it in. What is the trouble now; do you need

more? I haven't an awful lot, old fellow--worse luck!--but what I have

is at your call--as you know perfectly well. Is that all that is

worrying you?"

"No--not all. I--Neergard has lent me money--done things--placed me

under obligations. . . . I liked him, you know; I trusted him. . . .

People he desired to know I made him known to. He was a--a trifle

peremptory at times--as though my obligations to him left me no choice

but to take him to such people as he desired to meet. . . . We--we had

trouble--recently."

"What sort?"

"Personal. I felt--began to feel--the pressure on me. There was, at

moments, something almost of menace in his requests and suggestions--an

importunity I did not exactly understand. . . . And then he said

something to me--"

"Go on; what?"

"He'd been hinting at it before; and even when I found him jolliest and

most amusing and companionable I never thought of him as a--a social

possibility--I mean among those who really count--like my own people--"

"Oh! he asked you to introduce him into your own family circle?"

"Yes--I didn't understand it at first--until somehow I began to feel the

pressure of it--the vague but constant importunity. . . . He was a good

fellow--at least I thought so; I hated to hurt him--to assume any

attitude that might wound him. But, good heavens!--he couldn't seem to

understand that nobody in our family would receive him--although he had

a certain footing with the Fanes and Harmons and a few others--like the

Siowitha people--or at least the men of those families. Don't you see,

Philip?"

"Yes, my boy, I see. Go on! When did he ask to be presented to--your

sister?"

"W-who told you that?" asked the boy with an angry flush.

"You did--almost. You were going to, anyway. So that was it, was it?

That was when you realised a few things--understood one or two things;

was it not? . . . And how did you reply? Arrogantly, I suppose."

"Yes."

"With--a--some little show of--a--contempt?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Exactly. And Neergard--was put out--slightly?"

"Yes," said the boy, losing some of his colour. "I--a moment afterward I

was sorry I had spoken so plainly; but I need not have been. . . . He

was very ugly about it."

"Threats of calling loans?" asked Selwyn, smiling.

"Hints; not exactly threats. I was in a bad way, too--" The boy winced

and swallowed hard; then, with sudden white desperation stamped on his

drawn face: "Oh, Philip--it--it is disgraceful enough--but how am I

going to tell you the rest?--how can I speak of this matter to you--"

"What matter?"

"A--about--about Mrs. Ruthven--"

"_What_ matter?" repeated Selwyn. His voice rang a little, but the

colour had fled from his face.

"She was--Jack Ruthven charged her with--and me--charged me with--"

"_You_!"

"Yes."

"Well--it was a lie, wasn't it?" Selwyn's ashy lips scarcely moved, but

his eyes were narrowing to a glimmer. "It was a lie, wasn't it?" he

repeated.

"Yes--a lie. I'd say it, anyway, you understand--but it really was a

lie."

Selwyn quietly leaned back in his chair; a little colour returned to his

cheeks.

"All right--old fellow"--his voice scarcely quivered--"all right; go on.

I knew, of course, that Ruthven lied, but it was part of the story to

hear you say so. Go on. What did Ruthven do?"

"There has been a separation," said the boy in a low voice. "He behaved

like a dirty cad--she had no resources--no means of support--" He

hesitated, moistening his dry lips with his tongue. "Mrs. Ruthven has

been very, very kind to me. I was--I am fond of her; oh, I know well

enough I never had any business to meet her; I behaved abominably toward

you--and the family. But it was done; I knew her, and liked her

tremendously. She was the only one who was decent to me--who tried to

keep me from acting like a fool about cards--"

_Did_ she try?"

"Yes--indeed, yes! . . . and, Phil--she--I don't know how to say it--but

she--when she spoke of--of you--begged me to try to be like you. . . .

And it is a lie what people say about her!--what gossip says. I know; I

have known her so well--and--I was like other men--charmed and

fascinated by her; but the women of that set are a pack of cats, and the

men--well, none of them ever ventured to say anything to me! . . . And

that is all, Philip. I was horribly in debt to Neergard; then Ruthven

turned on me--and on her; and I borrowed more from Neergard and went to

her bank and deposited it to the credit of her account--but she doesn't

know it was from me--she supposes Jack Ruthven did it out of ordinary

decency, for she said so to me. And that is how matters stand; Neergard

is ugly, and grows more threatening about those loans--and I haven't any

money, and Mrs. Ruthven will require more very soon--"

"Is that _all_?" demanded Selwyn sharply.

"Yes--all. . . . I know I have behaved shamefully--"

"I've seen," observed Selwyn in a dry, hard voice, "worse behaviour than

yours. . . . Have you a pencil, Gerald? Get a sheet of paper from that

desk. Now, write out a list of the loans made you by Neergard. . . .

Every cent, if you please. . . . And the exact amount you placed to Mrs.

Ruthven's credit. . . . Have you written that? Let me see it."

The boy handed him the paper. He studied it without the slightest change

of expression--knowing all the while what it meant to him; knowing that

this burden must be assumed by himself because Austin would never

assume it.

And he sat there staring at space over the top of the pencilled sheet of

paper, striving to find some help in the matter. But he knew Austin; he

knew what would happen to Gerald if, after the late reconciliation with

his ex-guardian, he came once more to him with such a confession of debt

and disgrace.

No; Austin must be left out; there were three things to do: One of them

was to pay Neergard; another to sever Gerald's connection with him for

ever; and the third thing to be done was something which did not concern

Gerald or Austin--perhaps, not even Ruthven. It was to be done, no

matter what the cost. But the thought of the cost sent a shiver over

him, and left his careworn face gray.

His head sank; he fixed his narrowing eyes on the floor and held them

there, silent, unmoved, while within the tempests of terror, temptation,

and doubt assailed him, dragging at the soul of him, where it clung

blindly to its anchorage. And it held fast--raging, despairing in the

bitterness of renunciation, but still held on through the most dreadful

tempest that ever swept him. Courage, duty, reparation--the words

drummed in his brain, stupefying him with their dull clamour; but he

understood and listened, knowing the end--knowing that the end must

always be the same for him. It was the revolt of instinct against

drilled and ingrained training, inherited and re-schooled--the insurgent

clamour of desire opposed to that stern self-repression characteristic

of generations of Selwyns, who had held duty important enough to follow,

even when their bodies died in its wake.

And it were easier for him, perhaps, if his body died.

He rose and walked to the window. Over the Bay of Shoals the fog was

lifting; and he saw the long gray pier jutting northward--the pier where

the troopships landed their dead and dying when the Spanish war was

ended.

And he looked at the hill where the field hospital had once been. His

brother died there--in the wake of that same duty which no Selwyn could

ignore.

After a moment he turned to Gerald, a smile on his colourless face:

"It will be all right, my boy. You are not to worry--do you understand

me? Go to bed, now; you need the sleep. Go to bed, I tell you--I'll

stand by you. You must begin all over again, Gerald--and so must I; and

so must I."