CHAPTER XII

THE SAFE HAVEN

In the days that followed, Mrs. Peck's honest soul was both vexed and

anxious concerning her charge. She found Columbine extraordinarily

reticent. As she herself put it, it was impossible to get any sense out

of her.

In compliance with the doctor's order and by the exercise of extreme

self-restraint, she refrained from questioning her upon the matter of

her behaviour on the night of the great tide. That Columbine would have

enlightened her had she done so was exceedingly doubtful. But there was

no doubt that something very unusual had taken place. The little white

roses that Rufus presented as a daily offering would have told her that,

apart from any other indications. She would have questioned Rufus, but

something held her back; and Adam, when urged thereto, flatly refused to

interfere.

Adam, rejuvenated and jubilant, went whistling about his work as of

yore. His boy had come back to him in the flesh, and he was more than

satisfied to leave things as they were.

"Leave 'em alone, Missus!" was his counsel "Rufus he knows what he's

about. He'll steer a straight course, and he'll bring her into harbour

sooner or later. You leave it to him, and be thankful that curly-topped

chap has sheered off at last!"

Mrs. Peck had no choice but to obey, but her anxiety regarding Columbine

did not diminish. The girl was so listless, so unlike herself, so

miserable. It was many days before she summoned the energy to dress, and

even then she displayed an almost painful reluctance to go downstairs.

She seemed to live in continual dread of some approaching ordeal.

"I believe it's Rufus she's afraid of," was Mrs. Peck's verdict.

But Adam scouted the idea as absurd. "What will you think of next,

woman? Why, any one can see as he's quiet and well-behaved enough for

any lass. She's missing the curly-topped chap a bit maybe. But she'll

get over that. Give her time! Give her time!"

So Mrs. Peck gave her time and urged her not at all. She was not very

friendly with Columbine in those days. She disapproved of her, and her

manner said as much. She kept all suspicions to herself, but she could

not behave as if nothing had happened.

"There's wild blood in her," she said darkly. "I mistrust her."

And Columbine was fully aware of the fact, but she was too wretched to

resent it. In any case, she would never have turned to Mrs. Peck for

comfort.

She came downstairs at last one summer evening when Mrs. Peck was busy

in the kitchen and no one was about. She had made no mention of her

intention; perhaps she wanted to be unhampered by observation. It had

been a soft, showery day, and there was the promise of more rain in the

sky.

She moved wearily, but not without purpose; and soon she was walking

with a hood drawn over her head in the direction of the cliff-edge where

grew the sweet bog-myrtle and the little roses.

She met no one by the way. It was nearing the hour for the evening meal,

nearing the hour when Mrs. Peck usually entered her room with the daily

offering of flowers that filled it with orange fragrance. Mrs. Peck was

not very fond of that particular task, though she never expressed her

reluctance. Well, she would not have it to accomplish tonight.

A bare-legged, blue-jerseyed figure was moving in a bent attitude along

the slope that overlooked Rufus's cottage and the Spear Point. The girl

stood a moment gazing out over the curving reef as if she had not seen

it. The pool was smooth as a mirror, and reflecting the drifting clouds.

The tide was out. But, stay! It must be on the turn, for as she stood,

there came the deep, tolling note of the bell-buoy. It sounded like a

knell.

As it struck solemnly over the water, the man straightened himself, and

in a moment he saw her.

He did not move to meet her, merely stood motionless, nearly knee-deep

in the bog-myrtle, and waited for her, the white roses in one great,

clenched hand. And she, as if compelled, moved towards him, till at last

she reached and stood before him, white, mute, passive as a prisoner in

iron fetters.

It was the man who spoke, with an odd jerkiness of tone and demeanour

that might have indicated embarrassment or even possibly some deeper

emotion. "So you've come along at last!" he said.

She nodded. For an instant her dark eyes were raised, but they flashed

downwards again immediately, almost before they had met his own.

Abruptly he thrust out to her the flowers he held. "I was getting these

for you."

She took them in a trembling hand. She bent her face over them to hide

the piteous quivering of her lips. "Why--do you get them?" she whispered

almost inarticulately.

He did not answer for a moment. Then: "Come down to my place!" he said.

"It's but a step."

She made a swift gesture that had in it something of recoil, but the

next moment, without a word, she began to walk down the slope.

He trod through the growth beside her, barefooted, unfaltering. His blue

eyes looked straight before him; they were unwavering and resolute as

the man himself.

They reached the cottage. He made her enter it before him, and he

followed, but he did not close the door. Instead, he stopped and

deliberately hooked it back.

Then, with the low call of the sea filling the humble little room, he

turned round to the girl, who stood with her head bent, awaiting his

pleasure.

"Columbine," he said, and the name came with an unaccustomed softness

from his lips, "I've something to say to you. You've been hiding

yourself from me. I know. I know. And you needn't. Them flowers--I

gathered 'em and I sent 'em up to you every day, because I wanted you to

understand as you've nothing to fear from me. I wanted you to know as

everything is all right, and I mean well by you. I didn't know how to

tell you, and then I saw the roses growing outside the door, and I

thought as maybe they'd do it for me. They made me think of you somehow.

They were so white--and pure."

"Ah!" The word was a wrung sound, half cry, half sob. His roses fell

suddenly and scattered upon the floor between them. Columbine's hands

covered her face.

She stood for a second or two in tense silence, then under her breath

she spoke. "You don't believe--that--of me!"

"I do, then," asserted Rufus, in his deep voice a note that was almost

aggressive.

She lifted her face suddenly, even fiercely, showing him the shamed

blush that burned there. "You didn't believe it--that night!" she said.

His eyes met hers with a certain stubbornness. "All right. I didn't," he

said.

Her look became a challenge. "Then why--how--have you come to change

your mind?"

He faced her steadily. "Maybe I know you better than I knew you then,"

he said slowly.

She made a sharp gesture as if pierced by an intolerable pain. "And

that--that has made a difference to your--your intentions!"

He moved also at that. His red brows came together. "You're quite

wrong," he said, his voice very low. "That night--I know--I was beyond

myself, I was mad. But since then I've some to my senses. And--I love

you too much to harm you. That's the truth. I'd love you

anyway--whatever you were. It's just my nature to."

His hands clenched with the words; he spoke with strong effort; but his

eyes looked deeply into hers, and they held no passion. They were still

and quiet as the summer sea below them.

Columbine stood facing him as if at bay, but she must have felt the

influence of his restraint, for she showed no fear. "There's no such

thing as love," she said bitterly. "You dress it up and call it that.

But all the time it's something quite different. And I tell you

this"--recklessly she flung the words--"that if it hadn't been for that

tidal wave I'd be just what you took me for that night, what Aunt Liza

thinks I am this minute. I wasn't keeping back--anything, and"--she

uttered a sudden wild laugh--"if I've kept my virtue, I've lost my

innocence. I know--I know now--just what the thing you call love is

worth! And nothing will ever make me forget it!"

She stopped, quivering from head to foot, passionate protest in every

line.

But the blue eyes that watched her never wavered. The man's face was

rock-like in its steadfast calm. He did not speak for a full minute

after the utterance of her wild words. Then very steadily, very

forcibly, he answered her. "I'll tell you, shall I, what the thing I

call love is like?" He turned with a sweep of the arm and pointed out to

the harbour beyond the quay. "It's just like that. It's a wall to keep

off the storms. It's a safe haven where nothing hurtful can reach you.

You're not bound to give yourself to it, but once given you're safe."

"Not bound!" Sharply she broke in upon him. "Not bound--when you made me

promise--"

He dropped his arm to his side. "I set you free from that promise," he

said.

Those few words, sombrely spoken, checked her wild outburst as surely as

a hand upon her mouth. She stood gazing at him for a space in utter

amazement, but gradually under his unchanging regard her look began to

fail. She turned at length with a little gasp, and sat down on the old

horsehair sofa, huddling herself together as if she desired to withdraw

herself from his observation.

He did not stir, and a long, long silence fell between them, broken

only by the ticking of the grandfather-clock in the corner and the

everlasting murmur of the sea.

The deep, warning note of the bell-buoy floated presently through the

summer silence, and as if in answer to a voice Rufus moved at last and

spoke. "You'd better go, lass. They'll be wondering about you. But don't

be afraid of me after this! I swear--before God--I'll give you no

cause!"

She started a little at the sound of his voice, but she made no movement

to go. Her face was hidden in her hands. She rocked herself to and fro,

to and fro, as if in pain.

He stood looking down at her with troubled eyes, but after a while, as

she did not speak, he moved to her side and stood there. At last, slowly

and massively, he stooped and touched her.

"Columbine!"

She made no direct response, only suddenly, as if his action had

released in her such a flood of emotion as was utterly beyond her

control, she broke into violent weeping, her head bowed low upon her

knees.

"My dear!" he said.

And then--how it came about neither of them ever knew--he was on his

knees beside her, holding her close in his great arms, and she was

sobbing out her agony upon his breast.

It lasted for many minutes that storm of weeping. All the torment of

humiliation and grief, which till then had found no relief, was poured

out in that burning torrent of tears. She clung to him convulsively as

though she even yet struggled in the deep waters, and he held her

through it all with that sustaining strength that had borne her up

safely against the Death Current on that night of dreadful storm.

Possibly the firm upholding of his arms brought back the memory of that

former terrible struggle, for it was of that that she first spoke when

speech became possible.

"Oh, why didn't you leave me to die? Why--why--why?"

He answered her in a voice that seemed to rise from the depths of the

broad chest that supported her.

"I wanted you."

She buried her face deeper that he might not see the cruel burning of

it. "So did he--then."

"Not he!" The deep voice held unutterable contempt. "He wanted to make

his fortune out of you, that's all. He didn't care whether you lived or

died, the damn' cur!"

She shrank at the fierce words, and was instantly aware of the jealous

closing of his arms about her.

"You aren't going to break your heart for a dirty swab like that," he

said, with more of insistence than interrogation in his voice. "Look you

here, Columbine! You're too honest to care for a beast like that.

Why--though I pulled him out of the quicksand and saved him from the

sea--I'd have wrung his neck if he'd stayed another day. I would that."

She started at the fiery declaration, and raised her head. "Oh, it was

you who sent him away, then?"

Her look held almost desperate entreaty for a moment, but he met it with

the utmost grimness and it quickly died.

"I didn't then," he said, with rough simplicity. "He made up his mind

without any help from me. He knew he couldn't face you again. It's not a

mite of good trying to deceive yourself now you know the truth. He's

gone, and he won't come back. Columbine, don't tell me as you want him

to!"

His expression for the moment was formidable. She caught an ominous

gleam in the stern eyes, but almost immediately they softened. He

uttered a sigh that ended in a groan. "Now I'm being a brute to you,

when there's nothing that I wouldn't do for your sake." His voice shook

a little. "You won't believe it, but it's true--it's true."

"Why shouldn't I believe it?" she said swiftly. She had begun to tremble

in his hold.

He looked at her with an odd wistfulness. "Because I'm too big an

oaf--to make you understand," he said.

"And that is why you have set me free?" she questioned.

He bent his head, almost as if the sudden question embarrassed him.

"Yes, that," he said after a moment. "And because I care too much about

you to--marry you against your will."

"And you call that love?" she said.

He made a slight gesture of surprise. "It is love," he said simply.

His arms were still around her, but she had only to move to be free. She

did not move, save that she quivered like a vibrating wire, quivered and

hid her face.

"Rufus!" she said.

"Yes?" His head was bent above hers, but he could only see her black

hair, so completely was her face averted from him.

Her voice came, tensely whispering. "What if I were--willing to marry

you?"

Something of her agitation had entered into him. A great quiver went

through him also. But--"You're not," he said quietly, with conviction.

A trembling hand strayed upwards, feeling over his neck and throat,

groping for his face. "Rufus"--again came the tense whisper--"how do you

know that?"

He took the wandering hand and pressed it softly against his cheek.

"Because you don't love me, Columbine," he said.

"Ah!" A low sob escaped her; she lifted her head suddenly; the tears

were running down her face. "But--but--you could teach me, Rufus. You

could teach me what love--true love--is. I want the real thing--the real

thing. Will you give it to me? I want it--more than anything else in

the world." She drew nearer to him with the words, like a frozen

creature seeking warmth, and in a moment her arms were slipping round

his neck. "You are so true--so strong!" she sobbed. "I want to forget--I

want to forget that I ever loved--any one but you."

His arms were close about her again. He pressed her so hard against his

heart that she felt its strong beating against her own. His eyes gazed

straight into hers, and in them she saw again that deep, deep blue as of

flaming spirit.

"You mean it?" he said.

Breathlessly she answered him. "Yes, I mean it."

"Then"--he bent his great head to her, and for the fraction of a moment

she saw the meteor-like flash of his smile--"yes, I'll teach you,

Columbine," he said.

With the words he kissed her on the lips, kissed her closely, kissed her

lingeringly, and in that kiss her torn heart found its first balm of

healing.

* * *

"Well, what did I say?" crowed Adam a little later. "Didn't I tell you

if you left 'em alone he'd steer her safe into harbour? Wasn't I right,

missus? Wasn't I right?"

"I'm not gainsaying it," said Mrs. Peck, with a touch of severity. "And

I'm sure I hope as all will turn out for the best."

"Turn out for the best? Why, o' course it will!" said Adam, with cheery

confidence. "My son Rufus he may be slow, but he's no fool. And he's a

good man, too, missus, a long sight better than that curly-topped chap.

Him and me's partners, so I ought to know."

"To be sure you ought," said Mrs. Peck tolerantly. "And it's to be hoped

that Columbine knows it as well."

And in the solitude of her own room Columbine bent her dainty head and

kissed with reverence the little wild white roses that spoke to her of

the purity of a good man's love.

* * * * *

THE MAGIC CIRCLE

The persistent chirping of a sparrow made it almost harder to bear. Lady

Brooke finally rose abruptly from the table, her black brows drawn close

together, and swept to the window to scare the intruder away.

"I really have not the smallest idea what your objections can be," she

observed, pausing with her back to the room.

"A little exercise of your imagination might be of some assistance to

you," returned her husband dryly, not troubling to raise his eyes from

his paper.

He was leaning back in a chair in an attitude of unstudied ease. It was

characteristic of Sir Roland Brooke to make himself physically

comfortable at least, whatever his mental atmosphere. He seldom raised

his voice, and never swore. Yet there was about him a certain amount of

force that made itself felt more by his silence than his speech.

His young wife, though she shrugged her shoulders and looked

contemptuous, did not venture upon open defiance.

"I am to decline the invitation, then?" she asked presently, without

turning.

"Certainly!" Sir Roland again made leisurely reply as he scanned the

page before him.

"And give as an excuse that you are too staunch a Tory to approve of

such an innovation as the waltz?"

"You may give any excuse that you consider suitable," he returned with

unruffled composure.

"I know of none," she answered, with a quick vehemence that trembled on

the edge of rebellion.

Sir Roland turned very slowly in his chair and regarded the delicate

outline of his wife's figure against the window-frame.

"Then, my dear," he said very deliberately, "let me recommend you once

more to have recourse to your ever romantic imagination!"

She quivered, and clenched her hands, as if goaded beyond endurance.

"You do not treat me fairly," she murmured under her breath.

Sir Roland continued to look at her with the air of a naturalist

examining an interesting specimen of his cult. He said nothing till,

driven by his scrutiny, she turned and faced him.

"What is your complaint?" he asked then.

She hesitated for an instant. There was doubt--even a hint of

fear--upon her beautiful face. Then, with a certain recklessness, she

spoke:

"I have been accustomed to freedom of action all my life. I never

dreamed, when I married you, that I should be called upon to sacrifice

this."

Her voice quivered. She would not meet his eyes. Sir Roland sat and

passively regarded her. His face expressed no more than a detached and

waning interest.

"I am sorry," he said finally, "that the romance of your marriage has

ceased to attract you. But I was not aware that its hold upon you was

ever very strong."

Lady Brooke made a quick movement, and broke into a light laugh.

"It certainly did not fall upon very fruitful ground," she said. "It is

scarcely surprising that it did not flourish."

Sir Roland made no response. The interest had faded entirely from his

face. He looked supremely bored.

Lady Brooke moved towards the door.

"It seems to be your pleasure to thwart me at every turn," she said. "A

labourer's wife has more variety in her existence than I."

"Infinitely more," said Sir Roland, returning to his paper. "A

labourer's wife, my dear, has an occasional beating to chasten her

spirit, and she is considerably the better for it."

His wife stood still, very erect and queenly.

"Not only the better, but the happier," she said very bitterly. "Even a

dog would rather be beaten than kicked to one side."

Sir Roland lowered his paper again with startling suddenness.

"Is that your point of view?" he said. "Then I fear I have been

neglecting my duty most outrageously. However, it is an omission easily

remedied. Let me hear no more of this masquerade, Lady Brooke! You have

my orders, and if you transgress them you will be punished in a fashion

scarcely to your liking. Is that clearly understood?"

He looked straight up at her with cold, smiling eyes that yet seemed to

convey a steely warning.

She shivered very slightly as she encountered them. "You make a mockery

of everything," she said, her voice very low.

Sir Roland uttered a quiet laugh.

"I am nevertheless a man of my word, Naomi," he said. "If you wish to

test me, you have your opportunity."

He immersed himself finally in his paper as he ended, and she, with a

smile of proud contempt, turned and passed from the room.

She had married him out of pique, it was true, but life with him had

never seemed intolerable until he had shown her that he knew it.

She took her invitation with her, and in her own room sat down to read

it once again. It was from a near neighbour, Lady Blythebury, an

acquaintance with whom she was more intimate than was Sir Roland. Lady

Blythebury was a very lively person indeed. She had been on the stage in

her young days, and she had decidedly advanced ideas on the subject of

social entertainment. As a hostess, she was notorious for her

originality and energy, and though some of the county families

disapproved of her, she always knew how to secure as many guests as she

desired. Lady Brooke had known her previous to her own marriage, and she

clung to this friendship, notwithstanding Sir Roland's very obvious lack

of sympathy.

He knew Lord Blythebury in the hunting-field. Their properties adjoined,

and it was inevitable that certain courtesies should be exchanged. But

he refused so steadily to fall a captive to Lady Blythebury's bow and

spear, that he very speedily aroused her aversion. He soon realised that

her influence over his wife was very far from benevolent towards

himself, but, save that he persisted in declining all social invitations

to Blythebury, he made no attempt to counteract the evil. In fact, it

was not his custom to coerce her. He denied her very little, though with

regard to that little he was as adamant.

But to Naomi his non-interference was many a time more galling than his

interdiction. It was but seldom that she attempted to oppose him, and,

save that Lady Blythebury's masquerade had been discussed between them

for weeks, she would not have greatly cared for his refusal to attend

it. When Sir Roland asserted himself, it was her habit to yield without

argument.

But now, for the first time, she asked herself if he were not presuming

upon her wifely submission. He would think more of her if she resisted

him, whispered her hurt pride, recalling the courteous indifference

which it was his custom to mete out to her. But dared she do this

thing?

She took up the invitation again and read it. It was to be a fancy-dress

ball, and all were to wear masks. The waltz which she had learned to

dance from Lady Blythebury herself and which was only just coming into

vogue in England, was to be one of the greatest features of the evening.

There would be no foolish formality, Lady Blythebury had assured her.

The masks would preclude that. Altogether the whole entertainment

promised to be of so entrancing a nature that she had permitted herself

to look forward to it with considerable pleasure. But she might have

guessed that Sir Roland would refuse to go, she reflected, as she sat in

her dainty room with the invitation before her. Did he ever attend any

function that was not so stiff and dull that she invariably pined to

depart from the moment of arrival?

Again she read the invitation, recalling Lady Blythebury's gay words

when last they had talked the matter over.

"If only Una could come without the lion for once!" she had said.

And she herself had almost echoed the wish. Sir Roland always spoilt

everything.

Well!--She took up her pen. She supposed she must refuse. A moment it

hovered above the paper. Then, very slowly, it descended and began to

write.

* * *

The chatter of many voices and the rhythm of dancing feet, the strains

of a string-band in the distance, and, piercing all, the clear, high

notes of a flute, filled the spring night with wonderful sound. Lady

Blythebury had turned her husband's house into a fairy palace of

delight. She stood in the doorway of the ballroom, her florid face

beaming above her Elizabethan ruffles, looking in upon the gay and

ever-shifting scene which she had called into being.

"I feel as if I had stepped into an Arabian Night," she laughed to one

of her guests, who stood beside her. He was dressed as a court jester,

and carried a wand which he flourished dramatically. He wore a

close-fitting black mask.

"There is certainly magic abroad," he declared, in a rich, Irish brogue

that Lady Blythebury smiled to hear. For she also was Irish to the

backbone.

"You know something of the art yourself, Captain Sullivan?" she asked.

She knew the man for a friend of her husband's. He was more or less

disreputable, she believed, but he was none the less welcome on that

account. It was just such men as he who knew how to make things a

success. She relied upon the disreputable more than she would have

admitted.

"Egad, I'm no novice in most things!" declared the court jester, waving

his wand bombastically. "But it's the magic of a pretty woman that I'm

after at the present moment. These masks, Lady Blythebury, are uncommon

inconvenient. It's yourself that knows better than to wear one. Sure,

beauty should never go veiled."

Lady Blythebury laughed indulgently. Though she knew it for what it was,

the fellow's blarney was good to hear.

"Ah, go and dance!" she said. "I've heard all that before. It never

means anything. Go and dance with the little lady over there in the pink

domino! I give you my word that she is pretty. Her name is Una, but she

is minus the lion on this occasion. I shall tell you no more than that."

"Egad! It's more than enough!" said the court jester, as he bowed and

moved away.

The lady indicated stood alone in the curtained embrasure of a

bay-window. She was watching the dancers with an absorbed air, and did

not notice his approach.

He drew near, walking with a free swagger in time to the haunting

waltz-music. Reaching her, he stopped and executed a sweeping bow, his

hand upon his heart.

"May I have the pleasure--"

She looked up with a start. Her eyes shone through her mask with a

momentary irresolution as she bent in response to his bow.

With scarcely a pause he offered her his arm.

"You dance the waltz?"

She hesitated for a second; then, with an affirmatory murmur, accepted

the proffered arm. The bold stare with which he met her look had in it

something of compulsion.

He led her instantly away from her retreat, and in a moment his hand was

upon her waist. He guided her into the gay stream of dancers without a

word.

They began to waltz--a dream--waltz in which she seemed to float without

effort, without conscious volition. Instinctively she responded to his

touch, keenly, vibrantly aware of the arm that supported her, of the

dark, free eyes that persistently sought her own.

"Faith!" he suddenly said in his soft, Irish voice. "To find Una without

the lion is a piece of good fortune I had scarcely prayed for. And what

was the persuasion that you used at all to keep the monster in his den?"

She glanced up, half-startled by his speech. What did this man know

about her?

"If you mean my husband," she said at last, "I did not persuade him. He

never wished or intended to come."

Her companion laughed as one well pleased.

"Very generous of him!" he commented, in a tone that sent the blood to

her cheeks.

He guided her dexterously among the dancers. The girl's breath came

quickly, unevenly, but her feet never faltered.

"If I were the lion," said her partner daringly, "by the powers, I'd

play the part! I wouldn't be a tame beast, egad! If Una went out to a

fancy ball, my faith, I would go too!"

Lady Brooke uttered a little, excited laugh. The words caught her

interest.

"And suppose Una went without your leave?" she said.

The Irishman looked at her with a humorous twist at one corner of his

mouth.

"I'm thinking that I'd still go too," he said.

"But if you didn't know?" She asked the question with a curious

vehemence. Her instinct told her that, however he might profess to

trifle, here at least was a man.

"That wouldn't happen," he said, with conviction, "if I were the lion."

The music was quickening to the _finale_, and she felt the strong arm

grow tense about her.

"Come!" he said. "We will go into the garden."

She went with him because it seemed that she must, but deep in her heart

there lurked a certain misgiving. There was an almost arrogant air of

power about this man. She wondered what Sir Roland would say if he knew,

and comforted herself almost immediately with the reflection that he

never could know. He had gone to Scotland, and she did not expect him

back for several weeks.

So she turned aside with this stranger, and passed out upon his arm into

the dusk of the soft spring night.

"You know these gardens well?" he questioned.

She came out of her meditations.

"Not really well. Lady Blythebury and I are friends, but we do not visit

very often."

"And that but secretly," he laughed, "when the lion is absent?" She did

not answer him, and he continued after a moment: "'Pon my life, the

very mention of him seems to cast a cloud. Let us draw a magic circle,

and exclude him!" He waved his wand. "You knew that I was a magician?"

There was a hint of something more than banter in his voice. They had

reached the end of the terrace, and were slowly descending the steps.

But at his last words, Lady Brooke stood suddenly still.

"I only believe in one sort of magic," she said, "and that is beyond the

reach of all but fools."

Her voice quivered with an almost passionate disdain. She was suddenly

aware of an intense burning misery that seemed to gnaw into her very

soul. Why had she come out with this buffoon, she wondered? Why had she

come to the masquerade at all? She was utterly out of sympathy with its

festive gaiety. A great and overmastering desire for solitude descended

upon her. She turned almost angrily to go.

But in the same instant the jester's hand caught her own.

"Even so, lady," he said. "But the magic of fools has led to paradise

before now."

She laughed out bitterly:

"A fool's paradise!"

"Is ever green," he said whimsically. "Faith, it's no place at all for

cynics. Shall we go hand in hand to find it then--in case you miss the

way?"

She laughed again at the quaint adroitness of his speech. But her lips

were curiously unsteady, and she found the darkness very comforting.

There was no moon, and the sky was veiled. She suffered the strong clasp

of his fingers about her own without protest. What did it matter--for

just one night?

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Wait till we get there!" murmured her companion. "We are just within

the magic circle. Una has escaped from the lion."

She felt turf beneath her feet, and once or twice the brushing of twigs

against her hand. She began to have a faint suspicion as to whither he

was leading her. But she would not ask a second time. She had yielded to

his guidance, and though her heart fluttered strangely she would not

seem to doubt. The dread of Sir Roland's displeasure had receded to the

back of her mind. Surely there was indeed magic abroad that night! It

seemed diffused in the very air she breathed. In silence they moved

along the dim grass path. From far away there came to them fitfully the

sound of music, remote and wonderful, like straying echoes of paradise.

A soft wind stirred above them, lingering secretly among opening leaves.

There was a scent of violets almost intoxicatingly sweet.

The silence seemed magnetic. It held them like a spell. Through it,

vague and intangible as the night at first, but gradually taking

definite shape, strange thoughts began to rise in the girl's heart.

She had consented to this adventure from sheer lack of purpose. But

whither was it leading her? She was a married woman, with her shackles

heavy upon her. Yet she walked that night with a stranger, as one who

owned her freedom. The silence between them was intimate and wonderful,

the silence which only kindred spirits can ever know. It possessed her

magically, making her past life seem dim and shadowy, and the present

only real.

And yet she knew that she was not free. She trespassed on forbidden

ground. She tasted the forbidden fruit, and found it tragically sweet.

Suddenly and softly he spoke:

"Does the magic begin to work?"

She started and tried to stop. Surely it were wiser to go back while she

had the will! But he drew her forward still. The mist overhead was

faintly silver. The moon was rising.

"We will go to the heart of the tangle," he said. "There is nothing to

fear. The lion himself could not frighten you here."

Again she yielded to him. There was a suspicion of raillery in his voice

that strangely reassured her. The grasp of his hand was very close.

"We are in the maze," she said at last, breaking her silence. "Are you

sure of the way?"

He answered her instantly with complete self-assurance.

"Like the heart of a woman, it's hard, that it is, to find. But I think

I have the key. And if not, by the saints, I'm near enough now to break

through."

The words thrilled her inexplicably. Truly the magic was swift and

potent. A few more steps, and she was aware of a widening of the hedge.

They were emerging into the centre of the maze.

"Ah," said the jester, "I thought I should win through!"

He led her forward into the shadow of a great tree. The mist was passing

very slowly from the sky. By the silvery light that filtered down from

the hidden moon Naomi made out the strong outline of his shoulders as he

stood before her, and the vague darkness of his mask.

She put up her free hand and removed her own. The breeze had died down.

The atmosphere was hushed and airless.

"Do you know the way back?" she asked him, in a voice that sounded

unnatural even to herself.

"Do you want to go back, then?" he queried keenly.

There was something in his tone--a subtle something that she had not

detected before. She began to tremble. For the first time, actual fear

took hold of her.

"You must know the way back!" she exclaimed. "This is folly! They will

be wondering where we are."

"Faith, Lady Una! It is the fool's paradise," he told her coolly. "They

will not wonder. They know too well that there is no way back."

His manner terrified her. Its very quietness seemed a menace.

Desperately she tore herself from his hold, and turned to escape. But it

was as though she fled in a nightmare. Whichever way she turned she met

only the impenetrable ramparts of the hedge that surrounded her. She

could find neither entrance nor exit. It was as though the way by which

she had come had been closed behind her.

But the brightness above was growing. She whispered to herself that she

would soon be able to see, that she could not be a prisoner for long.

Suddenly she heard her captor close to her, and, turning in terror, she

found him erect and dominating against the hedge. With a tremendous

effort she controlled her rising panic to plead with him.

"Indeed, I must go back!" she said, her voice unsteady, but very urgent.

"I have already stayed too long. You cannot wish to keep me here against

my will?"

She saw him shrug his shoulders slightly.

"There is no way back," he said, "or, if there is, I do not know it."

There was no dismay in his voice, but neither was there exultation. He

simply stated the fact with absolute composure. Her heart gave a wild

throb of misgiving. Was the man wholly sane?

Again she caught wildly at her failing courage, and drew herself up to

her full height. Perhaps she might awe him, even yet.

"Sir," she said, "I am Sir Roland Brooke's wife. And I--"

"Egad!" he broke in banteringly, "that was yesterday. You are free

to-day. I have brought you out of bondage. We have found paradise

together, and, my pretty Lady Una, there is no way back."

"But there is, there is!" she cried desperately. "And I must find it! I

tell you I am Sir Roland Brooke's wife. I belong to him. No one can keep

me from him!"

It was as though she beat upon an iron door.

"There is no way out of the magic circle," said the jester inexorably.

A white shaft of light illumined the mist above them, revealing the

girl's pale face, making sinister the man's masked one. He seemed to be

smiling. He bent towards her.

"You seem amazingly fond of your chains," he said softly. "And yet, from

what I have heard, Sir Roland is no gentle tyrant. How is it, pretty

one? What makes you cling to your bondage so?"

"He is my husband!" she said, through white lips.

"Faith, that is no answer," he declared. "Own, now, that you hate him,

that you loathe his presence and shudder at his touch! I told you I was

a magician, Lady Una; but you wouldn't believe me at all."

She confronted him with a sudden fury that marvellously reinforced her

failing courage.

"You lie, sir!" she cried, stamping passionately upon the soft earth. "I

do none of these things. I have never hated him. I have never shrunk

from his touch. We have not understood each other, perhaps, but that is

a different matter, and no concern of yours."

"He has not made you happy," said the jester persistently. "You will

never go back to him now that you are free!"

"I will go back to him!" she cried stormily. "How dare you say such a

thing to me? How dare you?"

He came nearer to her.

"Listen!" he said. "It is deliverance that I am offering you. I ask

nothing at all in return, simply to make you happy, and to teach you the

blessed magic which now you scorn. Faith! It's the greatest game in the

world, Lady Una; and it only takes two players, dear, only two players!"

There was a subtle, caressing quality in his voice. His masked face was

bending close to hers. She felt trapped and helpless, but she forced

herself to stand her ground.

"You insult me!" she said, her voice quivering, but striving to be calm.

"Never a bit!" he declared. "Since I am the truest friend you have!"

She drew away from him with a gesture of repulsion.

"You insult me!" she said again. "I have my husband, and I need no

other."

He laughed sneeringly, the insinuating banter all gone from his manner.

"You know he is nothing to you," he said. "He neglects you. He bullies

you. You married him because you wanted to be a married woman. Be

honest, now! You never loved him. You do not know what love is!"

"It is false!" she cried. "I will not listen to you. Let me go!"

He took a sudden step forward.

"You refuse deliverance?" he questioned harshly.

She did not retreat this time, but faced him proudly.

"I do!"

"Listen!" he said again, and his voice was stern. "Sir Roland Brooke has

returned home. He knows that you have disobeyed him. He knows that you

are here with me. You will not dare to face him. You have gone too far

to return."

She gasped hysterically, and tottered for an instant, but recovered

herself.

"I will--I will go back!" she said.

"He will beat you like a labourer's wife," warned the jester. "He may do

worse."

She was swaying as she stood.

"He will do--as he sees fit," she said.

He stooped a little lower.

"I would make you happy, Lady Una," he whispered. "I would protect

you--shelter you--love you!"

She flung out her hands with a wild and desperate gesture. The

magnetism of his presence had become horrible to her.

"I am going to him--now," she said.

Behind him she saw, in the brightening moonlight, the opening which she

had vainly sought a few minutes before. She sprang for it, darting past

him like a frightened bird seeking refuge, and in another moment she was

lost in the green labyrinths.

* * *

The moonlight had become clear and strong, casting black shadows all

about her. Twice, in her frantic efforts to escape, she ran back into

the centre of the maze. The jester had gone, but she imagined him

lurking behind every corner, and she impotently recalled his words:

"There is no way out of the magic circle."

At last, panting and exhausted, she knew that she was unwinding the

puzzle. Often as its intricacies baffled her, she kept her head,

rectifying each mistake and pressing on, till the wider curve told her

that she was very near the entrance. She came upon it finally quite

suddenly, and found herself, to her astonishment, close to the terrace

steps.

She mounted them with trembling limbs, and paused a moment to summon her

composure. Then, outwardly calm, she traversed the terrace and entered

the house.

Lady Blythebury was dancing, and she felt she could not wait. She

scribbled a few hasty words of farewell, and gave them to a servant as

she entered her carriage. Hers was the first departure, and no one

noted it.

She sank back at length, thankfully, in the darkness, and closed her

eyes. Whatever lay before her, she had escaped from the nightmare horror

of the shadowy garden.

But as the brief drive neared its end, her anxiety revived. Had Sir

Roland indeed returned and discovered her absence? Was it possible?

Her face was white and haggard as she entered the hall at last. Her eyes

were hunted.

The servant who opened to her looked at her oddly for a moment.

"What is it?" she said nervously.

"Sir Roland has returned, my lady," he said. "He arrived two hours ago,

and went straight to his room, saying he would not disturb your

ladyship."

She turned away in silence, and mounted the stairs. Did he know? Had he

guessed? Was it that that had brought him back?

She entered her room, and dismissed the maid she found awaiting her.

Swiftly she threw off the pink domino, and began to loosen her hair with

stiff, fumbling fingers, then shook it about her shoulders, and sank

quivering upon a couch. She could not go to bed. The terror that

possessed her was too intense, too overmastering.

Ah! What was that? Every pulse in her body leaped and stood still at

sound of a low knock at the door. Who could it be? gasped her fainting

heart. Not Sir Roland, surely! He never came to her room now.

Softly the door opened. It was Sir Roland and none other--Sir Roland

wearing an old velvet smoking--jacket, composed as ever, his grey eyes

very level and inscrutable.

He paused for a single instant upon the threshold, then came noiselessly

in and closed the door.

Naomi sat motionless and speechless. She lacked the strength to rise.

Her hands were pressed upon her heart. She thought its beating would

suffocate her.

He came quietly across the room to her, not seeming to notice her

agitation.

"I should not have disturbed you at this hour if I had not been sure

that you were awake," he said.

Reaching her, he bent and touched her white cheek.

"Why, child, how cold you are!" he said.

She started violently back, and then, as a sudden memory assailed her,

she caught his hand and held it for an instant.

"It is nothing," she said with an effort. "You--you startled me."

"You are nervous tonight," said Sir Roland.

She shrank under his look.

"You see, I did not expect you," she murmured.

"Evidently not." Sir Roland stood gravely considering her. "I came

back," he said, after a moment, "because it occurred to me that you

might be lonely after all, in spite of your assurance to the contrary.

I did not ask you to accompany me, Naomi. I did not think you would care

to do so. But I regretted it later, and I have come back to remedy the

omission. Will you come with me to Scotland?"

His tone was quiet and somewhat formal, but there was in it a kindliness

that sent the blood pulsing through her veins in a wave of relief even

greater than her astonishment at his words. He did not know, then. That

was her one all-possessing thought. He could not know, or he had not

spoken to her thus.

She sat slowly forward, drawing her hair about her shoulders like a

cloak. She felt for the moment an overpowering weakness, and she could

not look up.

"I will come, of course," she said at last, her voice very low, "if you

wish it."

Sir Roland did not respond at once. Then, as his silence was beginning

to disquiet her again, he laid a steady hand upon the shadowing hair.

"My dear," he said gently, "have you no wishes upon the subject?"

Again she started at his touch, and again, as if to rectify the start,

drew ever so slightly nearer to him. It was many, many days since she

had heard that tone from him.

"My wishes are yours," she told him faintly.

His hand was caressing her softly, very softly. Again he was silent for

a while, and into her heart there began to creep a new feeling that

made her gradually forget the immensity of her relief. She sat

motionless, save that her head drooped a little lower, ever a little

lower.

"Naomi," he said, at last, "I have been thinking a good deal lately. We

seem to have been wandering round and round in a circle. I have been

wondering if we could not by any means find a way out?"

She made a sharp, involuntary movement. What was this that he was saying

to her?

"I don't quite understand," she murmured.

His hand pressed a little upon her, and she knew that he was bending

down.

"You are not happy," he said, with grave conviction.

She could not contradict him.

"It is my own fault," she managed to say, without lifting her head.

"I do not think so," he returned, "at least, not entirely. I know that

there have frequently been times when you have regretted your marriage.

For that you were not to blame." He paused an instant. "Naomi," he said,

a new note in his voice, "I think I am right in believing that,

notwithstanding this regret, you do not in your heart wish to leave me?"

She quivered, and hid her face in silence.

He waited a few seconds, and finally went on as if she had answered in

the affirmative.

"That being so, I have a foundation on which to build. I would not ask

of you anything which you feel unable to grant. But there is only one

way for us to get out of the circle that I can see. Will you take it

with me, Naomi? Shall we go away together, and leave this miserable

estrangement behind us?"

His voice was low and tender. Yet she felt instinctively that he had not

found it easy to expose his most sacred reserve thus. She moved

convulsively, trying to answer him, trying for several unworthy moments

to accept in silence the shelter his generosity had offered her. But her

efforts failed, for she had not been moulded for deception; and this new

weapon of his had cut her to the heart. Heavy, shaking sobs overcame

her.

"Hush!" he said. "Hush! I never dreamed you felt it so."

"Ah, you don't know me!" she whispered. "I--I am not what you think me.

I have disobeyed you, deceived you, cheated you!" Humbled to the earth,

she made piteous, halting confession before her tyrant. "I was at the

masquerade tonight. I waltzed--and afterwards went into the maze--in the

dark--with a stranger--who made love to me. I never--meant you--to

know."

Silence succeeded her words, and, as she waited for him to rise and

spurn her, she wondered how she had ever brought herself to utter them.

But she would not have recalled them even then. He moved at last, but

not as she had anticipated. He gathered the tumbled hair back from her

face, and, bending over her, he spoke. Even in her agony of

apprehension she noted the curious huskiness of his voice.

"And yet you told me," he said. "Why?"

She could not answer him, nor could she raise her face. He was not

angry, she knew now; but yet she felt that she could not meet his eyes.

There was a short silence, then he spoke again, close to her ear:

"You need not have told me, Naomi."

The words amazed her. With a great start of bewilderment she lifted her

head and looked at him. He put his hands upon her shoulders. She thought

she saw a smile hovering about his lips, but it was of a species she had

never seen there before.

"Because," he explained gently, "I knew."

She stared at him in wonder, scarcely breathing, the tears all gone from

her eyes.

"You--knew!" she said slowly, at last.

"Yes, I knew," he said. He looked deep into her eyes for seconds, and

then she felt him drawing her irresistibly to him. She yielded herself

as driftwood yields to a racing flood, no longer caring for the

interpretation of the riddle, scarcely remembering its existence; heard

him laugh above her head--a brief, exultant laugh--as he clasped her.

And then came his lips upon her own....

"You see, dear," he said later, a quiver that was not all laughter in

his voice, "it is not so remarkably wonderful, after all, that I should

know all about it, when you come to consider that I was there--there

with you in the magic circle all the time."

"You were there!" she echoed, turning in his arms. "But how was it I

never knew? Why did I not see you?"

"Faith, sweetheart, I think you did!" said Sir Roland. Then, at her

quick cry of amazed understanding: "I wanted to teach you a lesson, but,

sure, I'm thinking it's myself that learned one, after all." And, as she

clung to him, still hardly believing: "We have found our paradise

together, my Lady Una," he whispered softly. "And, love, there is no way

back."

* * * * *

THE LOOKER-ON

I

"Oh, I'm going to be Lady Jane Grey," said Charlie Cleveland, balancing

himself on the deck-rail in front of his friends, Mrs. Langdale and

Mollie Erle, with considerable agility. "And, Mollie, I say, will you

lend me a black silk skirt? I saw you were wearing one last night."

He spoke with complete seriousness. It was this boy's way to infuse into

all his actions an enthusiasm that deprived the most trifling of the

commonplace element. He was the gayest passenger on board--the very life

of the boat. Yet he had few accomplishments to recommend him, his

abundant spirits alone attaining for him the popularity he everywhere

enjoyed.

Molly Erle, who with Mrs. Langdale was returning home after spending the

winter with some friends at Calcutta, regarded him with a toleration not

wholly devoid of contempt. He apparently deemed it necessary to pay her

a good deal of attention, and Molly was strongly determined to keep him

at a distance--a matter, by the way, that had its difficulties in face

of young Cleveland's romping lack of ceremony.

"Yes, you may have the skirt," she said with a generosity not wholly

spontaneous, as he waited expectantly for a reply to his request.

"Ah, good!" he said effusively. "That is a great weight off my mind. And

may I have Number Ten on your programme?"

"Are you going to dance?" asked Mrs. Langdale, with a half-suppressed

laugh.

He turned upon her, grinning openly.

"No. Fisher says I mustn't. I'm going to sit out, dear Mrs. Langdale--a

modest wall-flower for once. I hope you will all be very kind to me.

Have you made a note of Number Ten, Molly--I mean, Miss Erle? No? But

you will, though. Ah! Thanks, awfully! Here comes Fisher! I wish you

would persuade him to do Guildford Dudley. I can't."

He bounced off the rail and departed, laughing.

Molly looked after him with slight disapprobation on her pretty face. He

was such a thoroughly nice boy. She wished with almost unreasonable

intensity that he possessed more of that sterling quality, solidity, for

which his travelling companion, Fisher, was chiefly noteworthy.

Captain Fisher approached them with a casual air as if he had drifted

their way by accident. He was one of those oppressively quiet men who

possess the unhappy knack of appearing wholly out of touch with all

social surroundings. There was a reticence about him which almost all

took for surliness, but which was in reality merely a somewhat

unattractive mixture of awkwardness and laziness.

He was in the Royal Engineers, and believed to be a very clever man in

his profession. But there was never anything in the least bright or

original in his conversation. Yet, for some vague reason, Molly credited

him with the ability to do great deeds, and was particularly gracious to

him.

Mrs. Langdale, who was lively herself, infinitely preferred Charlie

Cleveland's boisterous company, and on the present occasion she rose to

follow him with great promptitude.

"I must find out how he has managed the rest of his costume," she said

to Molly. "It is sure to be strikingly original--like himself."

The contempt deepened a little on Molly's face, contempt and regret--an

odd mixture.

"He is very funny, no doubt," she said; "but I think one gets a little

tired of his perpetual gaiety. I don't think we should find him so

delightful if a storm came on. I haven't much faith in those people who

can never take anything really seriously. I believe he would die

laughing."

"All the better," declared Mrs. Langdale, who loved Charlie's impetuous

ways with maternal tolerance. "It is always better to laugh than cry, my

dear; though it isn't always easier by any means."

She departed with the words, laughing a little to herself at Molly's

critical mood; and Captain Fisher went and sat stolidly down beside

Molly, who turned to him with an instant smile of welcome. She was the

only lady on board who was never bored by this man's quiet society. She

liked him thoroughly, finding the contrast between him and his volatile

friend a great relief.

Fisher never talked frivolities; indeed, he seldom talked at all. Yet to

Molly the hour he spent beside her on that sunny day in the

Mediterranean passed as pleasantly and easily as she could have desired.

Captain Fisher might seem heavy to others, but never to her--a fact of

which secretly she was rather proud.

II

"Come up on deck!" whispered Charlie in an eager undertone. "There's no

one there, and the night is divine."

Molly Erie looked at the strange figure in fancy-dress beside her and

laughed aloud. She had not allowed Charlie a _tête-à-tête_ for many

days, but she felt that he could scarcely attempt to be sentimental in

that costume.

She went with him, therefore, thinking what a pretty girl he would have

made.

Charlie led her to the deck-rail. His ridiculous figure was less

obtrusively absurd in the dim light. His laughing voice, lowered

half-confidently, half-reverently, sounded less inconsequent than was

its wont.

Suddenly he turned to her and spoke with wholly unexpected vehemence.

"I can't keep it in," he said. "You've got to know it. Molly, I love you

most awfully. You do know it, I believe, without being told. Why do you

always run away and hide when I try to speak?"

He spoke quickly, jerkily. She glanced at him with a nervous movement as

she drew back. He was not laughing for once, yet she fancied there was

the shadow of a smile quivering about his face. Possibly it was an

illusion. The dim light made everything indefinite. But the suspicion

roused in her in full strength her prejudice against him. She drew back

deliberately, and her anger grew from scorn to cruelty during the

moments that intervened between his question and her answer.

"You have chosen a very appropriate occasion," she remarked icily at

length. "Do you imagine yourself irresistible when playing the fool, I

wonder?"

He faced round on her.

"I have taken the only opportunity I could get," he said. "I am a slave

of circumstance. If I had come to you in rational costume you would not

have consented to sit out with me."

There was a ring of laughter in his explanation. He did not take her

anger seriously, then. Molly quivered with indignation. She would

speedily show him his mistake.

"You think, then," she said, "that this buffoonery is too amusing to be

foregone? I am afraid I do not agree with you."

She paused. Charlie had given a great start of surprise. She could see

the astonishment on his boyish face under the white mantilla he wore.

"Oh, look here!" he exclaimed impetuously. "You have got the wrong side

of everything. It isn't buffoonery. I don't play with sacred things.

I'm in earnest, Molly. Can't you see it? What do you take me for?"

She heard the note of honesty in his voice and shifted her batteries.

"You may be--for a moment," she said, scorn vibrating in every word she

uttered. "But you will soon get over it, you know. By to-morrow, or even

sooner, all danger will be over."

"Stop!" exclaimed Charlie. For the first time in all her dealings with

him he spoke sternly, as a man might speak, and Molly started at his

tone. "You are making a mistake," he said more quietly. "I am not the

superficial ass you take me for."

"I have only your word for that," she returned, striking without pity

because for a second he had startled her out of her contemptuous

attitude.

He looked at her in silence, and again her indignation arose full-armed

against him. How dared he--this clown in woman's clothes--speak to her

at such a moment of that which she rightly held to be the holiest thing

on earth?

"How can you expect me to believe you?" she demanded. "You tell me you

are in earnest. But you know as well as I do that that is a mere figure

of speech. You are never in earnest. You play all day long. You will do

it all your life. You never do anything worth mentioning. Other people

do the work. You simply skim the surface of things. You are merely a

looker-on."

"A very intelligent looker-on, though," said Charlie, in a tone she did

not wholly understand.

"And if I don't do anything worth doing, it is possibly lack of

opportunity, isn't it? I can do many things, from driving engines to

playing skittles. Take a man for what he is, not for what he does! It is

the only fair estimate. Otherwise the blatant fools get all the honey."

Molly uttered a scornful little laugh.

"This is paltry," she exclaimed. "A man's actions are the actual man. He

can make his own opportunities. No, Mr. Cleveland. You will never

convince me of your intrinsic worth by talking."

She paused, as it were, involuntarily. Again that startled feeling of

uncertainty was at her heart. There was a momentary silence. Then

Charlie made her an odd, jerky bow, and without a single word further

turned and left her.

Quaint as was his attire, ungainly as were his movements, there was in

his withdrawal a touch of dignity, even a hint of the sublime; and Molly

could not understand it.

She paced the length of the deck and sat down to regain her composure.

The interview had left her considerably ruffled, even ill at ease.

III

She had been sitting there for some moments when suddenly, with a great

throb that seemed to vibrate through the whole length of the great

vessel from end to end, the engines ceased. The music in the large

saloon, where the first-class passengers were dancing, came to an abrupt

stop. There was a pause, a thrilling, intense pause; and then the

confusion of voices.

A man ran quickly by her to the bridge, where she could dimly discern

the first-officer on watch. She sprang up, dreading she knew not what,

and at the same instant Charlie--she knew it was he by the flutter of

the ridiculous garb he wore--leapt off the bridge like a hurricane, and

tore past her.

He was gone in a second, almost before she had had time to realise his

flying presence; and the next moment passengers were streaming up on

deck, asking questions, uttering surmises, on the verge of panic, yet

trying to ignore the anxiety that tugged at their resolution.

Molly joined the crowd. She was frightened too, badly frightened; but it

is always better to face fear in company. So at least says human

instinct.

The passengers collected in a restless mass on the upper deck. The

captain was seen going swiftly to the bridge. After a brief word with

him the first-officer came down to them. He was a pleasant,

easy-tempered man, and did not appear in the least dismayed.

"It's all right," he said, raising his voice. "Please don't be alarmed!

There has been a little accident in the engine-room. The captain hopes

you won't let it interfere with your dancing."

He placed himself in the thick of the strangely dressed crowd. His

clean-shaven face was perfectly unconcerned.

"I'll come and join you, if I may," he said. "The captain allows me to

knock off. Will you admit a non-fancy-dresser?"

He led the way below, calling for the orchestra as he went. The

frightened crowd turned and followed as if in this one man who spoke

with the voice of authority protection could be found. But they hung

back from dancing, and after a pause the first-officer seized a banjo

and proceeded to entertain them with comic songs. He kept it up for a

while, and then Mrs. Langdale went nobly to his assistance and sang some

Irish songs. One or two other volunteers presented themselves, and the

evening's entertainment developed into a concert.

The tension relaxed considerably as the time slipped by, but it did not

wholly pass. It was noticed that the doctor was absent.

A reluctance to disperse for the night was very manifestly obvious.

About two hours after the first alarm the great ship thrilled as if in

answer to some monster touch. The languid roll ceased. The engines

started again firmly, regularly, with gradually rising speed. In less

than a minute all was as it had been.

A look of intense relief shot across the first-officer's quiet face.

"That means 'All's well,'" he said, raising his voice a little. "Let us

congratulate ourselves and turn in!"

"There has been danger, then, Mr. Gresley?" queried Mrs. Granville, a

lady who liked to know everything in detail.

Mr. Gresley laughed with an indifference perfectly unaffected. "I

believe the engineers thought so," he said. "I must refer you to them

for particulars. Anyhow, it's all right now. I am going to tell the

steward to bring coffee."

He got up leisurely and strolled away.

There was a slight commotion on the other side of the door as he opened

it, a giggle that sounded rather hysterical. A moment later Lady Jane

Grey; her head-gear gone, her shorn curls looking absurdly frivolous,

walked mincingly into the saloon and subsided upon the nearest seat. She

was attended by Captain Fisher, who looked anxious.

"Such a misfortune!" she remarked, in a squeaky voice that sounded,

somehow, a horrible strain. "I have been shut up in the Tower and have

only just escaped. I trust I am not too late for my execution. I'm

afraid I have kept you all waiting."

All the heaviness of misgiving passed out of the atmosphere in a burst

of merriment.

"Where on earth have you been hiding?" shouted Major Granville. "I

believe you have been playing the fool with us, you rascal."

"I!" cried Charlie. "My dear sir, what are you thinking of? If you were

to breathe such a suspicion as that to the captain he would clap me in

irons for the rest of the voyage."

"You have been in the engine-room for all that," said Mrs. Langdale,

whose powers of observation were very keen. "Look at your skirt!"

Charlie glanced at the garment in question. It was certainly the worse

for wear. There were some curious patches in the front that had the

appearance of oil stains.

"That'll be all right!" he said cheerfully. "I had a fright and tumbled

upstairs. Skirts are beastly awkward things to run away in, aren't they,

Mrs. Langdale? Well, good-night all! I'm going to bed."

He got up with the words, grinned at everyone collectively, picked up

the injured skirt with exaggerated care, and stepped out of the saloon.

Mrs. Langdale looked after him, half-laughing, yet with a touch of

concern.

"He looks queer," she remarked to Molly, who was standing by her. "Quite

white and shaky. I believe something has happened to him. He has hurt

himself in some way."

But Molly was feeling peculiarly indignant at that moment, though not

on account of her ruined skirt.

"He's a silly poltroon!" she said with emphasis, and walked stiffly

away.

Charlie Cleveland had recovered from his serious fit even sooner than

she had thought possible; and, though she had made it sufficiently clear

to him that as a serious suitor he was utterly unwelcome, she was

intensely angry with him for having so swiftly resumed his customary gay

spirits.

IV

"Come! What happened last evening? We want to know," said Major

Granville, in his slightly overbearing manner. "I saw you with the

second engineer this morning, Fisher. I'm sure you have ferreted it

out."

"I am not at liberty to pass on my information," responded Fisher

stolidly. "You wouldn't understand it if I did, Major. There was danger

and there was steam. Two of the engineers had their arms scalded, and

one of the stokers was badly hurt. I can't tell you any more than that."

"Do you go so far as to say that the ship herself was in danger?" asked

Major Granville. He was talking loudly, as was his wont, across the

smoking saloon.

"I should say so," said Fisher, without lifting his eyes from the

magazine he was deliberately studying.

"Where is young Cleveland this morning?" asked the Major abruptly.

Fisher shrugged his shoulders.

"He was in his bunk when I saw him last. Heaven knows what he may be up

to by now."

Charlie Cleveland strolled in at this juncture. He had his right arm in

a sling.

"Hullo!" he said. "How are you all? I'm on the sick-list to-day. I

sprained my wrist when I fell up the steps yesterday."

Fisher glanced at him for a moment over the top of his magazine and

resumed his reading in silence.

"Look here, my friend!" he said. "You were in the thick of this engine

business. I am sure of it."

"I was," said Charlie readily. "But for me you would all be at the

bottom of the sea by this time."

He threw himself into a chair with a broad grin at Major Granville's

contemptuous countenance and took up a book.

Major Granville looked intensely disgusted. It was scarcely credible

that a passenger could have penetrated to the engine-room and interfered

with the machinery there, yet he more than half believed that this

outrageous thing had actually occurred. He got up after a brief silence

and stalked stiffly from the saloon.

Charlie banged down his book with a yell of laughter.

"Didn't I tell you, Fisher?" he cried. "He's gone to have a good,

square, face-to-face talk with the captain. But he won't get anything

out of him. I've been there first."

He went up on deck and found a party of quoit-players. Molly Erle was

among them. Charlie stood and watched, yelling advice and

encouragement.

"Looking on as usual?" the girl said to him presently, with a bitter

little smile, as she found herself near him.

He nodded.

"I'm really afraid to speak to you to-day," he said. "Your skirt will

never again bear the light of day."

"What happened?" she said briefly.

The game was over, and they strolled away together across the deck.

"I'll tell you," he said, with ill-suppressed gaiety in his voice. "We

should all have been blown out of the water last night if it hadn't been

for me. Forgetful of my finery, I went and--looked on. The magic result

was that I saved the situation, and--incidentally, of course--the ship."

He stopped.

"You don't believe me?" he said abruptly.

Her lip curled a little.

"Do you really expect to be believed?" she said.

"I don't know," he said; "I thought it was the usual thing to do between

friends."

"I was not aware--" began Molly.

He broke in with a most disarming smile.

"Oh, please," he said. "I don't deserve that--anyhow. I'm awfully sorry

about the skirt. I hope you'll let me bear the cost of the damage. I've

got into hot water all round. Nobody will believe I'm seriously sorry,

though it's a fact for all that. Don't be hard on me, Molly, I say!"

There was a note of genuine pleading in the last words that induced her

to relent a little.

"Oh, well, I'll forgive you for the skirt," she said. "I suppose boys

can't help being mischievous, though you are nearly old enough to know

better."

She looked at him as she said it. His face was comically penitent.

Somehow she could not quarrel with the lurking smile in his merry eyes.

He was certainly a boy. He would never be anything else. But Molly did

not realise this, and she was still too young herself to have

appreciated the gift of perpetual youth had she been aware of its

existence.

"That's right!" said Charlie cheerily. "And perhaps"--he spoke

cautiously, with a half-deprecatory glance at her bright

face--"perhaps--in time, you know--you will be able to forgive me for

something else as well."

"I think the less we say about that the better," remarked Molly, tilting

her chin a little.

"All right!" said Charlie equably. "Only, you know"--his voice was

suddenly grave--"I was--and am--in earnest."

Molly laughed.

"So far as in you lies, I suppose?" she said indifferently. "I wonder if

you ever really did anything worth doing in your life, Mr. Cleveland."

"I wish you would call me Charlie!" he said impulsively. "Yes. I

proposed to you last night. Wasn't that worth doing?"

She drew her brows together in a quick frown, but she made no reply.

Fisher was drifting towards them. She turned deliberately, her head very

high, and strolled to meet him.

Charlie glanced over his shoulder, stood a moment irresolute, then

walked away more soberly than usual towards the bridge, where he was a

constant and welcome visitor.

V

"There are plenty of fine chaps in the world who aren't to be recognised

as such at first sight," drawled Bertie Richmond to his young cousin,

Molly Erle, who was sitting with her feet on the fender on a very cold

winter evening.

"I'm sure of that," said Mrs. Richmond from the other side of the fire,

with a tender glance at her husband's loosely knit figure. "I never

thought there was an inch of heroism in you, Bertie darling, till that

day when we went punting and we got upset. How brave you were! I've

never forgotten it. It was the beginning of everything."

"It sounds as if it were nearer being the end," remarked Molly, who

systematically avoided all sentiment. "I don't believe myself that any

man can be actually heroic and yet not betray it somehow."

"You're wrong," said Bertie.

"I don't think so," said Molly. She could be quite as obstinate as most

women, and this was a point upon which she was very decided.

"I'll prove it," said Bertie, with quiet determination. "There's a chap

coming with the crowd of sportsmen to-morrow who is the bravest and, I

think, the best fellow I ever met. I shan't tell you who he is. I'll

leave you to find out--if you can. But I don't believe you will."

"I am quite sure I can tell the difference between a looker-on, a mere

loafer, and a man who does," said Molly, with absolute confidence.

"Bet you you don't!" murmured Bertie Richmond, smiling at the ceiling.

"I know the woman's theory so jolly well."

Molly smiled also.

"I'll take your bet, whatever it is, Bertie," she said.

Bertie shook his head.

"No, I don't bet on a dead cert," he said comfortably. "I'll even tell

you the fellow's heroic deeds, and then you'll never spot him. I met him

first in South Africa. He saved my life twice. Once he carried me nearly

a mile under fire, and got wounded in the process. Another time he sat

all night under fire holding a fellow's artery. Since then he has been

knocking about in odd corners, doing splendid things in the dark, as it

were, for he is horribly modest. The last I heard of him was from my

friend Captain Raglan. He travelled on Raglan's ship from Calcutta, One

night in the Mediterranean something went wrong in the engine-room. Two

of the boat's engineers were badly scalded. They managed to get away,

but a wretched stoker was too hurt to escape, and this fellow--this hero

of mine--went down into a perfect inferno and got him out. Not only

that, he went back afterwards with one of the engineers to direct him,

and worked like a bull till the mischief was put right. There was danger

of an explosion every moment, but he never lost his nerve for an

instant. When it was over everyone concerned was sworn to secrecy, and

not a passenger on board that boat knew what had actually taken place.

As I said before, he is not the sort of chap anyone would credit with

that sort of heroism. I shan't tell you what he is like in other

respects."

"I probably know," said Molly. "I came home on Captain Raglan's ship in

the autumn."

"What! You were on board?" exclaimed Bertie. "What a rum go! You will

meet one or two old friends, then. And the hero is probably known to you

already, though I'm sure you have never taken him for such."

"Oh, you're quite wrong!" laughed Molly. "I have known him and detected

his splendid qualities for quite a long while. He is nice, isn't he? I

am glad he is coming."

She took up her book with slightly heightened colour, and began to turn

over its pages.

Bertie Richmond stared at her in silence for some moments.

"Well!" he said at last. "You have got sharper insight than any woman I

know."

"Thanks!" said Molly, with an indifferent laugh. "But you are not so

awfully great on that point yourself, are you, Bertie? I should say you

are scarcely a competent judge."

Mrs. Richmond protested on Bertie's behalf, but without effect. Molly

was slightly vexed with him for imagining that she could be so dull.

VI

The great country house was invaded by a host of guests on the following

day. Portmanteaux and gun-cases were continually in evidence. The place

was filled to overflowing.

Mrs. Langdale, who was Mrs. Richmond's greatest friend, arrived in

excellent spirits, and was delighted to find Molly Erle a fellow-guest.

"And actually," she said, "Charlie Cleveland and Captain Fisher are

going to swell the throng of sportsmen. We shall imagine ourselves back

in our old board-ship days. Charlie was talking about them and of all

the fun we had only last Saturday. Yes, I have seen him several times

lately. He has been staying in town, waiting for something to turn up,

he says. Funny boy! He is just as gay as ever. And Captain Fisher, whom

he dragged to my flat to tea, is every bit as heavy and uninteresting,

poor dear!"

"I don't call Captain Fisher uninteresting," remarked Molly. "At least,

I never found him so in the old days."

"My dear, he is heavy as lead!" declared Mrs. Langdale. "I believe he

only opened his mouth once to speak, and then it was to ask for five

lumps of sugar instead of three. A most wearing person to entertain. I

will never have him at my table without Charlie to raise the gloom. He

and Charlie seemed to have decided to join forces for the present. They

spent Christmas together with Captain Fisher's people. I don't know if

they are as sober as he is. If so, poor dear Charlie must have felt

distinctly out of his element. But his spirits are wonderful. I believe

he would make a tombstone laugh."

"It will be nice to see him again," said Molly tolerantly. "It is three

months now since we dispersed."

She made the remark with another thought in her mind. Surely by this

Charlie would have forgotten the folly that had caused her annoyance in

the old days! Constancy was the very last quality with which she

credited him. Or so at least she thought.

She went for a walk on the rocky shore that afternoon, meeting the

steely north-east blast with a good deal of resolution, if scant

enjoyment. Something in the immediate future she found vaguely

disquieting, something connected with Charlie Cleveland.

She did not believe that her estimate of this young man was in any way

wide of the mark. And yet the thought of meeting him again had in it a

disturbing element for which she could not account. It worried her a

good deal that wild afternoon in January. Perhaps a suspicion that she

had once done young Cleveland an injustice strengthened the unwelcome

sense of regret, for it felt like regret in her mind.

Yet as she turned homeward along the windy shore one comforting

reflection came to her and remained with her. She was at least

unfeignedly glad that Captain Fisher was going to be there. She liked

those silent, strong men who did all the hard work and then stood aside

to let the tide of praise and admiration flood past.

Right well did her cousin's description fit this quiet hero, she told

herself with flushed cheeks.

She remembered how he had spoken of him as "doing splendid things in the

dark, as it were," as being "horribly modest." Fisher's heavy

personality came before her with the memory. She could detect the

heroism behind the grave exterior with which this man baffled all

others.

If Charlie had been a hero, too, instead of a frivolous imp of mischief!

A sigh rose in her heart. Somehow, even though she told herself she had

no interest in the matter, Molly wished that he were something more

valuable than the flippant looker-on she took him to be. How could any

man, who was worth anything, bear to be only that, she wondered?

She found a large party gathered in the hall at tea on her return. A

laugh she knew fell on her ears as she entered, and an instant later she

was aware of Charlie springing to meet her, his brown face aglow with

the smile of welcome.

"How awfully good to meet you here, Molly!" he said, with that audacious

use of her Christian name against which no protest of hers seemed to

take any effect.

She shook hands with him and she tried to do it coldly, but his warm

grasp was close and lingering. She realised with something of a shock

that he really was as glad as he professed to be to see her again.

She went forward to the group around the fire and shook hands with all

she knew.

Captain Fisher was the last to receive this attention. He was standing

in the background. He moved forward half a pace to greet her. In his own

peculiar, dumb fashion he also seemed pleased to meet her there.

He had an untasted cup of tea in his hand which he hastened to pass on

to her.

"I shouldn't accept it if I were you," laughed Mrs. Langdale. "I saw ten

lumps of sugar go into it just now."

Fisher raised his eyebrows, but made no verbal protest. He never spoke

if a gesture would do as well.

Molly accepted the cup of tea with a gracious smile, and Fisher found

her a chair and sat silently down beside her.

Molly had plenty to say at all times. Her companion did not embarrass

her by his lack of responsiveness as he embarrassed most people. She had

a feeling that his reticence did not spring from inattention.

"I am going to let you have the Silent Fish, as Charlie calls him, for

partner at dinner," her hostess said to her later. "You are a positive

marvel, Molly. He becomes quite genial under your influence."

Fisher brightened considerably when he found himself allotted to Molly.

He even conversed a little, and went so far as to seek her out in the

drawing-room later.

Charlie, who was making tracks in the same direction, turned sharply

away when he saw it, and went off to the billiard-room where several of

the rest were collected playing pool. He was in uproarious spirits, and

the whole gathering was speedily infected thereby.

The evening ended in a boisterous abandonment to childish games, and the

party broke up at midnight, exhausted but still merry. Charlie, after an

animated sponge-fight with half-a-dozen other sportsmen, finally effaced

himself by bolting into Fisher's bedroom and locking himself in.

To Fisher, who was smoking peacefully by the fire, he made hurried

apology, to which Fisher gruffly responded by requesting him to get out.

But Charlie, after listening to the babel dying away down the corridor,

turned round with a smile and established himself at comfortable length

on Fisher's bed.

"I want to talk to you, dear old fellow," he tenderly remarked. "Can you

spare me a few moments of your valuable time?"

"Two minutes," said Fisher with brevity.

"By Jove! What generosity!" ejaculated Charlie, his hands clasped behind

his head, his eyes on the ceiling. "It's rather a delicate matter.

However, here goes! Do you seriously mean business, or don't you? Are

you in sober earnest, or aren't you? Are you badly smitten, or are you

only just beginning to hover round the candle? Pardon my mixture of

similes! The meaning remains intact."

Silence followed his somewhat involved speech. After a pause Captain

Fisher got up slowly, and turned round to face the boy on his bed.

"Whatever your meaning may be, I don't fathom it," he said curtly.

Charlie rolled on to his side to look at him.

"Dense as a London fog," he murmured.

"You'd better go," said Fisher, dropping his cigarette into the fire and

beginning to undress.

Charlie sat up and watched him with an air of interest. Fisher took no

more notice of him. There was no waste of ceremony between these two.

Charlie got up at last and laid sudden hands on his friend's square

shoulders.

"I think it wouldn't hurt you to give me a straight answer, old boy," he

said, a flicker of something that was not mischief in his eyes.

Fisher faced him instantly.

"What is it you want to know?" he inquired bluntly.

"This only," Charlie said, with perfect steadiness. "Are you going in

for Miss Erle in solid earnest or are you not? I want to know your

intentions, that's all."

"I can't enlighten you, then," returned Fisher.

Charlie laughed without effort.

"Cautious old duffer!" he said. "Well, tell me this! I've no right to

ask it. Only somehow I've got to know. You care for her, don't you?"

Fisher looked at him keenly for a moment. "Why do you ask?" he said.

"Oh, it's infernal impertinence, of course. I admit that," said Charlie,

his tanned face growing suddenly red. "I suspected it, you see, ages

ago--on board ship, in fact. Is it true, then?"

Fisher turned abruptly from him, and began to wind his watch with

extreme care. He spoke at length with his back turned on Charlie, who

was waiting with extraordinary patience for his answer.

"Yes," he said deliberately. "It is true."

"Go on and prosper!" said Charlie with a gay laugh. "You have my

blessing, old chap. Thanks for telling me!"

He moved up to Fisher and thrust out an immense brown paw.

"Take a friend's advice, man!" he said. "Ask her soon!"

Then he bounced out of the room with his usual brisk energy, and shut

the door noisily behind him.

VII

Was it by happy accident or by some kind friend's deliberate provision

that Fisher found himself walking alone with Molly Erle to church on the

following Sunday? Across the frosty park the voices of the other

churchgoers sounded fitfully distinct.

Charlie Cleveland and another boy called Archie Croft, as hare-brained

as himself, were making Mrs. Langdale slide along the slippery drive.

Mrs. Langdale's laughter could be plainly heard. Molly thought her,

privately, rather childish to suffer herself to be thus carried away.

Her companion was sauntering very slowly at her side.

"I think we are late," Molly presently remarked, in a suggestive tone.

"Are we?" said Fisher. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," said Molly with decision. "I don't like going in after the

service has begun."

"We won't," said Fisher.

She looked at him in some surprise and found him gravely watching her.

"I don't think we ought to do that," she remarked, smiling a little.

"I'll go with you to-night," said Fisher, "if you will come with me

now."

They had come to a path that branched off towards the shore. He stopped

with an air of determination.

Molly stopped too, looking irresolute. Her heart was beating very fast.

She wished he would turn his eyes away.

Suddenly he took his hand from his pocket and held it out to her.

"Come with me, Miss Erle!" he said, in a quiet tone.

She hesitated momentarily, then as he waited she put her hand in his.

She glanced up at him as she did so, her face a glow of colour.

"How far, Captain Fisher?" she said faintly.

"All the way," said Fisher, with a sudden smile that illuminated his

sombre countenance like a searchlight on a dark sea.

Molly laughed softly.

"How far is that?" she said.

He drew the little hand to his breast and put his free arm round her.

"Further than we can see, Molly," he said, and his quiet voice suddenly

thrilled. "Side by side through eternity."

Thus, with no word of love, did Fisher the Silent take to himself the

priceless gift of love. And the girl he wooed loved him the better for

that which he left unuttered.

They returned home late for lunch, entering sheepishly, and sitting down

as far apart as the length of the table would allow.

Charlie fell upon Fisher with merciless promptitude.

"You base defaulter!" he cried. "I'll see you march in front next time.

I was never more scandalised in my life than when I realised that you

and Molly had done a slope."

Fisher shrugged the shoulder nearest to him and offered no explanation

of his and Molly's defection.

Charlie kept up a running fire of chaff for some time, to which Fisher,

as was his wont, showed himself to be perfectly indifferent. Lunch over,

Molly disappeared. Charlie saw her go and turned instantly to Fisher.

"Come and have a single on the asphalt court!" he said. "I haven't tried

it yet. I want to."

Fisher was reluctant, but yielded to persuasion.

They went off together, Charlie with an affectionate arm round his

friend's shoulders.

"I am to congratulate, I suppose?" he asked, as they crossed the garden

to the tennis-court.

Fisher looked at him gravely, a hint of suspicion in his eyes.

"You may, if it gives you any pleasure to do so, my boy," he said.

"Ah, that's good!" said Charlie. "You're a jolly good fellow, old chap.

You'll make her awfully happy."

"I shall do my best," Fisher said.

Charlie passed instantly to less serious matters, but the critical look

did not pass entirely from Fisher's face. He seemed to be watching for

something, for some card that Charlie did not appear disposed to play.

Throughout the hard set that followed, his vigilance did not relax; but

Charlie played with all his customary zest. Tennis was to him for the

time being the only thing worth doing on the face of the earth. In his

enthusiasm he speedily stripped off his coat and rolled his sleeves to

the shoulder as if it had been the hottest summer day.

At the end of the set, which Charlie won, a couple of spectators who had

come up unseen applauded their energy, and Charlie, swinging round in

flushed triumph, raced up for a word with his host and Molly Erie.

"I can't stuff over a fire all the afternoon," he said. "But the light

is getting bad, isn't it? Fisher and I will have to knock off. Are you

two going for a walk? We'll come, too, if you are, eh, Fisher?"

He turned towards Fisher, who had come up, and held out his hand for the

other's racquet.

Molly uttered a sudden startled exclamation.

"Why, Charlie," she ejaculated, "what have you done to your arm? What is

the matter with it?"

Charlie jumped at her startled tone and tore down his shirt-sleeve

hastily.

"An old wound," he said, with a shame-faced laugh.

She put her gloved hand swiftly on his to stay his operations.

"No, tell me!" she said. "What is it--really? How was it done?"

"You will never get him to tell you that," laughed Bertie Richmond. "You

had better ask Fisher."

"Oh, rats!" cried Charlie vehemently. "Fisher, I'll break your head with

this racquet if you give my show away. Come along! I believe the moon

has contracted a romantic habit of rising over the sea when the sun

sets. Let's go and----"

"I'll tell you, Molly," broke in Bertie, linking a firm arm in Charlie's

to keep him quiet. "He can't break his host's head, you know. It's a

scald, eh, Charlie? He got it in the engine-room of the _Andover_ one

night in the autumn. You were on board, you know. Help me to hold him,

Fisher! He's getting restive. But I thought you knew all about it,

Molly. You told me so."

"Oh, I didn't know--this!" the girl said. "How could I? I never

guessed--this!"

Her three listeners were all surprised by the tragic note in her voice.

There was a momentary silence. Then Charlie made a fierce attempt to

wrest himself free.

"You infernal idiots!" he exclaimed violently. "Fisher, if you interfere

with me any more I--I'll punch your head! Bertie, don't be such a fool!"

He shook them off with an angry effort. Fisher laughed quietly.

"You can't always hide your light, my dear fellow," he observed. "If you

will do impossible things, you will have to put up with the penalty of

being occasionally found out."

"Silly ass!" commented Bertie. "Anyone would think that to save a few

hundred human lives was a thing to be ashamed of. It was the same thing

in South Africa; always slinking off into the background when the work

was done, till everyone took you for nothing but a looker-on--a chap who

ought to wear the V.C., if ever there was one," he ended, thrusting an

arm through Charlie's, as the latter, having put on his coat, turned

once more towards them.

"Oh, you are utterly wrong," the boy said forcibly, almost angrily. "If

you judge a man by what he does on impulse you might decorate the

biggest blackguard in the world with the V.C."

"You're made of impulse, my dear lad," Bertie remarked, walking off with

him. "You're a mass of impulse. That's why you do such idiotic things."

Charlie yielded, chafing, to the friendly hand.

"I should like to kick you, Bertie," he said.

But he went no further than that. Bertie Richmond was his very good

friend, and he was Bertie's. Neither of them was likely to forget that

fact.

VIII

"Oh, Charlie, here you are! I _am_ glad!"

Molly entered the smoking-room with an air of resolution. She had just

returned from evening church with Fisher. They were late, and the latter

had gone off to dress forthwith.

But Molly had glanced into the smoking-room, and, seeing Charlie alone

there, as she had half hoped but scarcely expected, she entered.

Charlie sprang up instantly, his brown face exceedingly alert.

"Come to the fire!" he said hospitably.

Molly went, but did not sit down. She stood facing him on the

hearth-rug. Her young face was very troubled.

"I want to tell you," she said steadily, "how sorry--and grieved--I am

for all the hard things I have said and thought of you. I would like to

retract them all. I was quite wrong. I took you for an idler--a buffoon

almost. I know better now. And I--I should like you to forgive me."

Her voice suddenly faltered. Her eyes were full of tears she could

neither repress nor conceal.

Charlie, however, seemed to notice nothing strained in the atmosphere.

He broke into a gay laugh and held out his hand.

"Oh, that's all right," he said briskly. "Shake hands and forget what

those asses said about me! You were quite right, you know. I am a

buffoon. There isn't an inch of heroism anywhere about me. You took my

measure long ago, didn't you? To change the subject, I'm most awfully

pleased to hear that you and old Fisher have come to an understanding.

Congratulate you most heartily. There's solid worth in that chap. He

goes straight ahead and never plays the fool."

He looked straight at her as he spoke. Not by the flicker of an eyelid

did he seem to recall the fact that he had once asked on his own behalf

that which he apparently so heartily approved of her bestowing upon

another.

Yet Molly, torn with remorse over what was irrevocable, did a most

outrageous thing.

"Charlie!" she cried, with a deep ringing passion that would not be

suppressed. "Why have I been deceived like this? Why didn't you tell me?

How could you let me imagine anything so false?" She flung out her other

hand to him and he took it; but still he laughed.

"Oh, come, Molly!" he protested. "I did tell you, you know. I told you

the day after it happened. Don't you remember? I had to account for the

skirt."

She wrenched her hands away from him. The thrill of laughter in his

voice seemed to jar all her nerves. She was, moreover, wearied with the

emotions of the day.

"Oh, don't you see," she cried passionately, "how different it might

have been? If you had told me--if you had made me understand! I could

have cared--I did care--only you seemed to me--unworthy. How could I

know? What chance had I?"

She bowed her head suddenly, and burst into a storm of bitter weeping.

Charlie turned white to his lips. He stood perfectly motionless till the

anguished sobbing goaded him beyond endurance. Then he flung round with

a jerk.

"Stop, for Heaven's sake!" he exclaimed harshly. "I can't bear it. It's

too much--too much."

He moved close to her, his face twitching, and took her shaking

shoulders between his hands.

"Molly!" he said almost violently. "You don't know what you said just

now. You didn't mean it. It has always been Fisher--always, from the

very beginning."

She did not contradict him. She did not even answer him. She was sobbing

as in passionate despair.

And it was that moment which Fisher chose for poking his head into the

smoking-room in search of Charlie, whom he expected to find dozing over

the fire, ignorant of the fact that it was close upon dinner-time.

Charlie leapt round at the opening of the door, but Fisher had taken

stock of the situation. He entered with that in his face which the boy

had never seen there before--a look that it was impossible to ignore.

Charlie met Fisher half-way across the room.

"Come into the billiard-room!" he said hurriedly.

He seized Fisher's arms with muscular fingers.

"Not here," he whispered urgently. "She is tired--upset. There is

nothing really the matter."

But Fisher resisted the impulsive grip.

"I will talk to you presently," he said. "You clear out!"

He pushed past Charlie and went straight to the girl. His jaw was set

with a determination that would have astonished most of his friends.

"What is it, Molly?" he said, halting close beside her. "What is wrong,

child?"

But Molly could not tell him. She turned towards him indeed, laying an

imploring hand on his arm; but she kept her face hidden and uttered no

word.

It was Charlie who plunged recklessly into the opening breach--plunged

with a wholesale gallantry, regardless of everything but the moment's

emergency.

"It's my doing, Fisher," he declared, his voice shaking a little. "I've

been making an ass of myself. It was, partly your fault, too--yours and

Bertie's. Let her go! I'll explain."

He was excited and he spoke quickly, but his eyes were very steady.

"Molly," he said, "you go upstairs! You've got to dress, you know, and

you'll be late. I'll make it all right. Don't you worry yourself!"

Molly lifted a perfectly white face and looked at Fisher. She met his

eyes, struggled with herself a moment, then with quivering lips turned

slowly away. He did not try to stop her. He realised that Charlie must

be disposed of before he attempted to extract an explanation from her.

Charlie sprang to the door, shut it hastily after her, and turned the

key.

"Now!" he said, and, wheeling, marched straight back to Fisher and

halted before him. "You want an explanation. You shall have one. You

gave my show away this afternoon. You made her imagine that in taking me

for an ordinary--or perhaps I should say a rather extraordinary--fool

she had done me an injustice. She came in her sweetness and told me she

was sorry. And I--forgot myself, and said things that made her cry. That

is the whole matter."

"What did you say to her?" demanded Fisher.

"I'm not going to tell you."

"You shall tell me!" said Fisher.

He took a step forward, all the hidden force in him risen to the

surface.

Charlie faced him for a second with his head flung defiantly back, then,

as Fisher laid a powerful hand on his shoulder, he stuck his hands in

his pockets and smiled a little.

"No, old chap," he said. "I'll apologise to you, if you like. But you

haven't any right to ask for more."

"I have a right to know why what you said upset her," Fisher said.

Charlie shook his head.

"Not the smallest," he said. "But I should have thought your imagination

might have accomplished that much. Surely you needn't grudge the tears

of pity a woman wastes over a man she has had to disappoint?"

He spoke with his eyes on Fisher's face. He was not afraid of Fisher,

yet his look of relief was unmistakable as the hand on his shoulder

relaxed.

"You care for her, then?" Fisher said.

Charlie flung impetuously away from him.

"Oh, need we discuss the thing any further?" he said. "I'm on the wrong

side of the hedge, and that's enough. I hope you won't say any more to

her about it. You will only distress her."

He walked to the end of the room and came slowly back to Fisher, whose

eyes were sternly fixed upon him. He thrust out his hand impulsively.

"Forgive me, old chap!" he said. "After all, I've got the hardest part."

Fisher's face softened.

"I'm sorry, boy," he said, and took the proffered hand.

"I'll clear out to-morrow," Charlie said. "You'll forget this foolery of

mine?" gripping Fisher's hand hard for a moment.

Fisher did not answer him. He struck him instead a sounding blow on the

shoulder, and Charlie turned away satisfied. He had played a difficult

game with considerable skill. That it had been a losing game did not at

the moment enter into his calculations. He had not played for his own

stakes.

IX

"Jove! It's a wild night," said Archie Croft comfortably, as he

stretched out his legs to the smoking-room fire. "What's become of

Charlie? He doesn't usually retire early."

"I don't believe he has retired," said Bertie Richmond sleepily. "I saw

him go out something over an hour ago."

"Out?" said Croft. "What on earth for?"

"Up to some fool trick or other, no doubt," said Fisher from the

smoking-room sofa.

"Hullo, Fisher! I thought you were asleep," said Bertie. "You ought to

be. It's after midnight. Time we all turned in if we mean to start early

with the guns to-morrow."

Croft stretched himself and rose leisurely.

"It's a positively murderous night!" he remarked, strolling to the

window. "There must be a tremendous sea."

He drew aside the blind, staring at the blackness that seemed to press

against the pane. A moment later, with a sharp exclamation, he ripped

back the blind and flung the window wide open. An icy spout of rain and

snow whirled into the room. Richmond turned round to expostulate, but

was met by a face of such wild excitement that his protest remained

unuttered.

"I saw a rocket!" Croft declared.

"Oh, rats!" murmured Fisher.

"It isn't rats!" he said indignantly. "It's a ship down among those

infernal rocks. I'm off to see what's doing."

"Hi! Wait a minute!" exclaimed his host, starting up. "You are perfectly

certain, are you, Croft? No humbug? I heard no report."

"Who could hear anything in a gale like this?" returned Croft

impatiently. "Yes, of course, I am certain. Are you coming?"

"I must send a man on horseback to the life-boat station," said Bertie,

starting towards the door. "It's two miles round the headland. They may

not know there is anything up."

He was out of the room with the words. The rest of the men in the

smoking-room followed. Fisher remained to shut the window. He stood a

couple of seconds before it, facing the hurricane. The night was like

pitch. The angry roar of the sea half-a-mile away surged up on the

tearing gale like the voice of a devouring monster. He turned away into

the cosy room and followed the others.

The whole party went out into the raging night. They groped their way

after Bertie to the stables. A groom was dispatched on horseback to the

life-boat station. Lanterns were then procured, and, with the blast full

in their teeth, they fought their way to the shore.

Here were darkness and desolation unspeakable. The tide was high. Great

waves, flashing white through the darkness, came smiting through the

rocks as if they would rend the very surface of the earth apart. The

clouds scurrying overhead uncovered a star or two and instantly drew

together in impenetrable darkness.

Down by the sea-wall that protected the little village nestling between

the cliffs and the sea they found a knot of men and women. A short

distance away in the boiling tumult there shone a shifting light, but

between it and the shore the storm-god held undisputed possession.

"That's her!" explained one of the men to Bertie Richmond. "She's sunk

right down in them rocks, sir. It's a little schooner. I see her masts

a-stickin' up just now."

The man was one of his own gardeners. He yelled his information into

Bertie's ear with great enjoyment.

"Have you sent to the lifeboat chaps?" shouted Bertie.

"Young gentleman went an hour ago," came the answer. "But they are off

on another job to Mulworth, t'other side of the station. He wanted us to

go out in a fishing-boat. But no one 'ud go. He be gone for a bit o'

rope now. You see, sir, them rocks 'ud dash a boat to pieces like a bit

o' eggshell. There's only three chaps aboard as far as we could see

awhile ago. And not a hundred yards off us. But it's a hundred yards of

death, as you might say. No boat could live through it. It ain't worth

the trying."

A hundred yards of death and only three little human lives to be gained

by the awful risk of braving that hundred yards!