Coningsby tramped to the hearth, and stood there, beating his leg

irritably with his riding-whip. There was a heavy frown on his face. He

did not once raise his eyes to the picture above him. He was still

thinking of Lady Emberdale and the Admiral. Finally, with a sudden idea

of refreshing himself, he wheeled towards the table. The next instant,

he stood and stared as if transfixed.

A woman dressed in black, and thickly veiled, was standing facing him

under the lamp.

He gazed at her speechlessly for a second or two, then passed his hand

across his eyes.

"Great heavens!" he said slowly, at last.

She made a quick movement of the hands that was like a gesture of

shrinking.

"You don't know me?" she asked, in a voice so low as to be barely

audible.

For a moment there flashed into his face the curious, listening look

that is seen on the faces of the blind. Then violently he strode

forward.

"I should know that voice in ten thousand!" he cried, his words sharp

and quivering. "Take off your veil, woman! Show me your face!"

The hunger in his eyes was terrible to see. He looked like a dying man

reaching out impotent hands for some priceless elixir of life.

"Your face!" he gasped again hoarsely, brokenly. "Show me your face!"

Mutely she obeyed him, removed hat and veil with fingers that never

faltered, and turned her sad, calm face towards him. For seconds longer

he stared at her, stared devouringly, fiercely, with the eyes of a

madman. Then, suddenly, with a great cry, he stumbled forward, flinging

himself upon his knees at the table, with his face hidden on his arms.

"Oh, I know you! I know you!" he sobbed. "You've tortured me like this

before. You've made me think I had only to open my arms to you, and I

should have you close against my heart. It's happened night after night,

night after night! Naomi! Naomi! Naomi!"

His voice choked, and he became intensely still crouching there before

her in an anguish too great for words.

For a long time she was motionless too, but at last, as he did not move,

she came a step toward him, pity and repugnance struggling visibly for

the mastery over her. Reluctantly she stooped and touched his shoulder.

"Geoffrey!" she said, "it is I, myself, this time."

He started at her touch but did not lift his head.

She waited, and presently he began to recover himself. At last he

blundered heavily to his feet.

"It's true, is it?" he said, peering at her uncertainly. "You're

here--in the flesh? You've been having just a ghastly sort of game with

me all these years, have you? Hang it, I didn't deserve quite that! And

so the little newspaper chap spoke the truth, after all."

He paused; then suddenly flung out his arms to her as he stood.

"Naomi!" he cried, "come to me, my girl! Don't be afraid. I swear I'll

be good to you, and I'm a man that keeps his oath! Come to me, I say!"

But she held back from him, her face still white and calm.

"No, Geoffrey," she said very firmly, "I haven't come back to you for

that. When I left you, I left you for good. And you know why. I never

meant to see your face again. You had made my life with you impossible.

I have only come to-day as--as a matter of principle, because I heard

you were going to marry again."

The man's arms fell slowly.

"You were always rather great on principle," he said, in an odd tone.

He was not angry--that she saw. But the sudden dying away of the

eagerness on his face made him look old and different. This was not the

man whose hurricanes of violence had once overwhelmed her, whose

unrestrained passions had finally driven her from him to take refuge in

a lie.

"I should not have come," she said, speaking with less assurance, "if it

had not been to prevent a wrong being done to another woman."

His expression did not change.

"I see," he said quietly. "Who sent you? Carey?"

She flushed uncontrollably at the question, though there was no offence

in the tone in which it was uttered.

"Yes," she answered, after a moment.

Coningsby turned slowly and looked into the fire.

"And how did he persuade you?" he asked. "Did he tell you I was going

blind?"

"No!" There was apprehension as well as surprise in her voice; and he

jerked his head up as though listening to it.

"Ah, well!" he said. "It doesn't much matter. There is a remedy for all

this world's evils. No doubt I shall take it sooner or later. So you're

going again are you? I'm not to touch you; not to kiss your hand? You

won't have me as husband, slave, or dog! Egad!" He laughed out harshly.

"I used not to be so humble. If you were queen, I was king, and I made

you know it. There! Go! You have done what you came to do, and more

also. Go quickly, before I see your face again! I'm only mortal still,

and there are some things that mortals can't endure--even strong

men--even giants. So--good-bye!"

He stopped abruptly. He was gripping the high mantelpiece with both

hands. Every bone of them stood out distinctly, and the veins shone

purple in the lamplight. His head was bowed forward upon his chest. He

was fighting fiercely with that demon of unfettered violence to which he

had yielded such complete allegiance all his life.

Minutes passed. He dared not turn his head to look but he knew that she

had not gone. He waited dumbly, still forcing back the evil impulse

that tore at his heart. But the tension became at last intolerable, and

slowly, still gripping himself with all his waning strength, he stood up

and turned.

She was standing close to him. The repugnance had all gone out of her

face. It held only the tenderness of a great compassion.

As he stared at her dumbfounded, she held out her hands to him.

"Geoffrey," she said, "if you wish it, I will come back to you."

He stared at her, still wide-eyed and mute, as though a spell were upon

him.

"Won't you have me, Geoffrey?" she said, a faint quiver in her voice.

He seized her hands then, seized them, and drew her to him, bowing his

head down upon her shoulder with a great sob.

"Naomi, Naomi," he whispered huskily, "I will be good to you, my

darling--so help me, God!"

Her own eyes were full of tears. She yielded herself to him without a

word.

IX

"Can I come in a moment, Reggie?"

Gwen's bright face peered round the door at him as he sat at the

writing-table in his room, with his head upon his hand. He looked up at

her.

"Yes, come in, child! What is it?"

She entered eagerly and went to him.

"Are you busy, dear old boy? It is horrid that you should be going away

so soon. I only wanted just to tell you something that the dear old

Admiral has just told me."

She sat down in her favourite position on the arm of his chair, her arm

about his neck. Her eyes were shining. Carey looked up at her.

"Well?" he said. "Has he plucked up courage at last to ask for what he

wants?"

"Yes; he actually has." There was a purr of content in Gwen's voice.

"And it's quite all right, Reggie. Mummy has said 'yes,' as I knew she

would, directly I told her about Major Coningsby finding his wife again.

All she said to that was: 'Dear me! How annoying for poor Major

Coningsby!' I thought it was horrid of her to say that, but I didn't say

so, for I wanted it all to come quite casually. And after that I wrote

to Charlie, and he told the Admiral. And he came straight over only

this morning and asked her. He's been telling me all about it, and he's

so awfully happy! He says he was a big fool not to ask her long ago in

the summer. For what do you think she said, Reggie, when he told her

that he'd been wanting to marry her for ever so long, but couldn't be

quite sure how she felt about it? Why, she said, with that funny little

laugh of hers--you know her way--'My dear Admiral, I was only waiting

to be asked.' The dear old man nearly cried when he told me. And I

kissed him. And he and Charlie are coming over to dine this evening. So

we can all be happy together."

Gwen paused to breathe, and to give her cousin an ardent hug.

"You've been a perfect dear about it," she ended with enthusiasm. "It

would never have happened but for you, and--and Mademoiselle Trèves. Do

you think she hated going back to that man very badly?"

"I think she did," said Carey.

He was looking, not at Gwen, but straight at the window in front of him.

There were deep lines about his eyes, as if he had not slept of late.

"But she needn't have stayed," urged Gwen.

He did not answer. In his pocket there lay a slip of paper containing a

few brief lines in a woman's hand.

"I have taken up my burden again, and, God helping me, I will carry it

now to the end. You know what it means to me, but I shall always thank

you in my heart, because in the hour of my utter weakness you were

strong.--NAOMI CONINGSBY."

The splendid courage that underlay those few words had not hidden from

the man the cost of her sacrifice. She had gone voluntarily back into

the bondage that once had crushed her to the earth. And he--and he

only--knew what it meant to her.

He was brought back to his surroundings by the pressure of Gwen's arm.

He turned and found her looking closely into his face.

"Reggie," she said, with a touch of shyness, "are you--unhappy--about

something?" He did not answer her at once, and she slipped suddenly down

upon her knees by his side. "Forgive me, dear old boy! Do you know, I

couldn't help guessing a little? You're not vexed?"

He laid a silencing hand upon her shoulder.

"I don't mind your knowing, dear," he said gently.

And he stooped, and kissed her forehead. She clung to him closely for a

second. When she rose, her eyes were wet. But, obedient to his unspoken

desire, she did not say another word.

When she was gone Carey roused himself from his preoccupation, and

concentrated his thoughts upon his correspondence. He was leaving

England in two days, and travelling to the East on a solitary shooting

expedition. He did not review the prospect with much relish, but

inaction had become intolerable to him, and he had an intense longing

to get away. He had arranged to return to town that afternoon.

It was towards luncheon-time that he left his room, and, descending,

came upon Lady Emberdale in the hall. She turned to meet him, a slight

flush upon her face.

"No doubt Gwen has told you our piece of news?" she said.

He held out his hand.

"It is official, is it? I am very glad. I wish you joy with all my

heart."

She accepted his congratulations with a gracious smile.

"I think everyone is pleased, including those absurd children. By the

way, here is a note just come for you, brought by a groom from

Crooklands Manor. I was going to bring it up to you, as he is waiting

for an answer."

He took it up and opened it hastily, with a murmured excuse. When he

looked up, Lady Emberdale saw at once that there was something wrong.

She began to question him, but he held the note out to her with a quick

gesture, and she took it from him.

"My husband met with an accident while motoring this morning,"

she read. "He has been brought home, terribly injured, and

keeps asking for you. Can you come?

"N. CONINGSBY."

Glancing up, she saw Carey, pale and stern, waiting to speak.

"Send back word, 'Yes, at once,'" he said. "And perhaps you can spare me

the car?"

He turned away without waiting for her reply, and went back to his room,

crushing the note unconsciously in his hand.

X

"And the sea--gave up--the dead--that were in it." Haltingly the words

fell through the silence. There was a certain monotony about them, as if

they had been often repeated. The speaker turned his head from side to

side upon the pillow uneasily, as if conscious of restraint, then spoke

again in the tone of one newly awakened. "Why doesn't that fellow come?"

he demanded restlessly. "Did you tell him I couldn't wait?"

"He is coming," a quiet voice answered at his side. "He will soon be

here."

He moved his head again at the words, seeming to listen intently.

"Ah, Naomi, my girl," he said, "you've turned up trumps at last. It

won't have been such a desperate sacrifice after all, eh, dear? It's

wonderful how things get squared. Is that the doctor there? I can't see

very well."

The doctor bent over him.

"Are you wanting anything?"

"Nothing--nothing, except that fellow Carey. Why in thunder doesn't he

come? No; there's nothing you can do. I'm pegging out. My time is up.

You can't put back the clock. I wouldn't let you if you could--not as

things are. I have been a blackguard in my time, but I'll take my last

hedge straight. I'll die like a man."

Again he turned his head, seeming to listen.

"I thought I heard something. Did someone open the door? It's getting

very dark."

Yes; the door had opened, but only the dying brain had caught the sound.

As Carey came noiselessly forward only the dying man greeted him.

"Ah, here you are! Come quite close to me! I want to see you, if I can.

You're the little newspaper chap who saved my life at Magersfontein?"

"Yes," Carey said.

He sat down by Coningsby's side, facing the light.

"I was told you wanted me," he said.

"Yes; I want you to give me a promise." Coningsby spoke rapidly, with

brows drawn together. "I suppose you know I'm a dead man?"

"I don't believe in death," Carey answered very quietly.

Coningsby's eyes burned with a strange light.

"Nor I," he said. "Nor I. I've been too near it before now to be afraid.

Also, I've lived too long and too hard to care overmuch for what is

left. But there's one thing I mean to do before I go. And you'll give me

your promise to see it through?"

He paused, breathing quick and short; then went on hurriedly, as a man

whose time is limited.

"You'll stick to it, I know, for you're a fellow that speaks the truth.

I nearly thrashed you for it, once. Remember? You said I wasn't fit for

the society of any good woman. And you were right--quite right. I never

have been. Yet you ended by sending me the best woman in the world. What

made you do that, I wonder?"

Carey did not answer. His face was sternly composed. He had not once

glanced at the woman who sat on the other side of Coningsby's bed.

Coningsby went on unheeding.

"I drove her away from me, and you--you sent her back. I don't think I

could have done that for the woman I loved. For you do love her, eh,

Carey? I remember seeing it in your face that first night I brought you

here. It comes back to me. You were standing before her portrait in the

library. You didn't know I saw you. I was drunk at the time. But I've

remembered it since."

Again he paused. His breath was slowing down. It came spasmodically,

with long silences between.

Carey had listened with his eyes fixed and hard, staring straight before

him, but now slowly at length he turned his head, and looked down at the

man who was dying.

"Hadn't you better tell me what it is you want me to do?" he said.

"Ah!" Coningsby seemed to rouse himself. "It isn't much, after all," he

said. "I made my will only this morning. It was on my way back that I

had the smash. I was quite sober, only I couldn't see very well, and I

lost control. All my property goes to my wife. That's all settled. But

there's one thing left--one thing left--which I am going to leave you.

It's the only thing I value, but there's no nobility about it, for I

can't take it with me where I'm going. I want you, Carey--when I'm

dead--to marry the woman you love, and give her happiness. Don't wait

for the sake of decency! That consideration never appealed to me. I say

it in her presence, that she may know it is my wish. Marry her, man--you

love each other--did you think I didn't know? And take her away to some

Utopia of your own, and--and--teach her--to forget me."

His voice shook and ceased. His wife had slipped to her knees by the

bed, hiding her face. Carey sat mute and motionless, but the grim look

had passed from his face. It was almost tender.

Gaspingly at length Coningsby spoke again: "Are you going to do it,

Carey? Are you going to give me your promise? I shall sleep the easier

for it."

Carey turned to him and gripped one of the man's powerless hands in his

own. For a moment he did not speak--it almost seemed he could not. Then

at last, very low, but resolute his answer came:

"I promise to do my part," he said.

In the silence that followed he rose noiselessly and moved away.

He left Naomi still kneeling beside the bed, and as he passed out he

heard the dying man speak her name. But what passed between them he

never knew.

When he saw her again, nearly an hour later, Geoffrey Coningsby was

dead.

XI

It was on a day of frosty sunshine, nearly a fortnight later, that Carey

dismounted before the door of Crooklands Manor, and asked for its

mistress.

He was shown at once into the library, where he found her seated before

a great oak bureau with a litter of papers all around her.

She flushed deeply as she rose to greet him. They had not met since the

day of her husband's funeral.

"I see you're busy," he said, as he came forward.

"Yes," she assented. "Such stacks of papers that must be examined before

they can be destroyed. It's dreary work, and I have been very thankful

to have Gwen with me. She has just gone out riding."

"I met her," Carey said. "She was with young Rivers."

"It is a farewell ride," Naomi told him. "She goes back to school

to-morrow. Dear child! I shall miss her. Please sit down!"

The colour had ebbed from her face, leaving it very pale. She did not

look at Carey, but began slowly to sort afresh a pile of

correspondence.

He ignored her request, and stood watching her till at last she laid the

packet down.

Then somewhat abruptly he spoke: "I've just come in to tell you my

plans."

"Yes?" She took up an old cheque-book, as if she could not bear to be

idle, and began to look through it, seeming to search for something.

Again he fell silent, watching her.

"Yes?" she repeated after a moment, bending a little over the book she

held.

"They are very simple," he said quietly. "I'm going to a place I know of

in the Himalayas where there is a wonderful river that one can punt

along all day and all night, and never come to an end."

Again he paused. The fingers that held the memorandum were not quite

steady.

"And you have come to say good-bye?" she suggested in her deep, sad

voice.

His eyes were turned gravely upon her, but there was a faint smile at

the corners of his mouth.

"No," he said in his abrupt fashion. "That isn't in the plan. Good-bye

to the rest of the world if you will, but never again to you!"

He drew close to her and gently took the cheque-book out of her grasp.

"I want you to come with me, Naomi," he said very tenderly. "My darling,

will you come? I have wanted you--for years."

A great quiver went through her, as though every pulse leapt to the

words he uttered. For a second she stood quite still, with her face

lifted to the sunlight. Then she turned, without question or words of

any sort, as she had turned long ago--yet with a difference--and laid

her hand with perfect confidence in his.

* * * * *

THE RETURN GAME

I

"Well played, Hone! Oh, well played indeed!"

A great roar of applause went up from the polo-ground like the surge and

wash of an Atlantic roller. The regimental hero was distinguishing

himself--a state of affairs by no means unusual, for success always

followed Hone. His luck was proverbial in the regiment, as sure and as

deeply-rooted as his popularity.

"It's the devil's own concoction," declared Teddy Duncombe, Major Hone's

warmest friend and admirer, who was watching from the great stand near

the refreshment-tent. "It never fails. We call him Achilles because he

always carries all before him."

"Even Achilles had his vulnerable point," remarked Mrs. Perceval, to

whom the words were addressed.

She spoke with her dark eyes fixed upon the distant figure. Seen from a

distance, he seemed to be indeed invincible--a magnificent horseman who

rode like a fury, yet checked and wheeled his pony with the skill of a

circus rider. But there was no admiration in Mrs. Perceval's intent

gaze. She looked merely critical.

"Pat hasn't," replied Duncombe, whose love for Hone was no mean thing,

and who gloried in his Irish major's greatness. "He's a man in ten

thousand--the finest specimen of an imperfect article ever produced."

His enthusiasm fell on barren ground. Mrs. Perceval was not apparently

bestowing much attention upon him. She was watching the play with brows

slightly drawn.

Duncombe looked at her with faint surprise. She was not often

unappreciative, and he could not imagine any woman failing to admire

Hone. Besides, Mrs. Perceval and Hone were old friends, as everyone

knew. Was it not Hone who had escorted her to the East seven years ago

when she had left Home to join her elderly husband? By Jove, was it

really seven years since Perceval's beautiful young wife had taken them

all by storm? She looked a mere girl yet, though she had been three

years a widow. Small and dark and very regal was Nina Perceval, with the

hands and feet of a fairy and the carriage of a princess. He had seen

nothing of her during those last three years. She had been living a life

of retirement in the hills. But now she was going back to England and

was visiting her old haunts to bid her friends farewell. And Teddy

Duncombe found her as captivating as ever. She was more than beautiful.

She was positively dazzling.

What a splendid pair she and Pat would make, Duncombe thought to himself

as he watched her. A man like Major Hone, V.C., ought to find a mate.

Every king should have a queen.

The thought was still in his mind, possibly in his eyes also, when

abruptly Mrs. Perceval turned her head and caught him.

"Taking notes, Captain Duncombe?" she asked, with a smile too careless

to be malicious.

"Playing providence, Mrs. Perceval," he answered without embarrassment.

He had never been embarrassed in her presence yet. She had a happy knack

of setting her friends at ease.

"I hope you are preparing a kind fate for me," she said.

He laughed a little. "What would you call a kind fate?"

Her dark eyes flashed. She looked for a moment scornful. "Not the usual

woman's Utopia," she said. "I have been through that and come out on the

other side."

"I can hardly believe it," protested Teddy.

"Don't you know I am a cynic?" she said, with a little reckless laugh.

A second wild shout from the spectators on all sides of them swept their

conversation away. On the further side of the ground Hone, with steady

wrist and faultless aim, had just sent the ball whizzing between the

posts.

It was the end of the match, and Hone was once more the hero of the

hour.

"Really, I sometimes think the gods are too kind to Major Hone," smiled

Mrs. Chester, the colonel's wife, and Mrs. Perceval's hostess. "It can't

be good for him to be always on the winning side."

Hone was trotting quietly down the field, laughing all over his

handsome, sunburnt face at the cheers that greeted him. He dismounted

close to Mrs. Perceval, and was instantly seized by Duncombe and thumped

upon the back with all the force of his friend's goodwill.

"Pat, old fellow, you're the finest sportsman in the Indian Empire.

Those chaps haven't been beaten for years."

Hone laughed easily and swung himself free. "They've got some knowing

little brutes of ponies, by the powers," he said. "They slip about like

minnows. The Ace of Trumps was furious. Did you hear him squeal?"

He turned with the words to his own pony and kissed the velvet nose that

was rubbing against his arm.

"And a shame it is to make him carry a lively five tons," he murmured in

his caressing Irish brogue.

For Hone was a giant as well as a hero and he carried his inches, as he

bore his honours, like a man.

Raising his head, he encountered Mrs. Perceval's direct look. She bowed

to him with that regal air of hers that for all its graciousness yet

managed to impart a sense of remoteness to the man she thus honoured.

"I have been admiring your luck, Major Hone," she said. "I am told you

are always lucky."

He smiled courteously.

"Sure, Mrs. Perceval, you can hardly expect me to plead guilty to that."

"Anyway, you deserved your luck, Pat," declared Duncombe. "You played

superbly."

"Major Hone excels in all games, I believe," said Mrs. Perceval. "He

seems to possess the secret of success."

She spoke with obvious indifference; yet an odd look flashed across

Hone's brown face at the words. He almost winced.

But he was quick to reply. "The secret of success," he said, "is to know

how to make the best of a beating."

He was still smiling as he spoke. He met Mrs. Perceval's eyes with

baffling good-humour.

"You speak from experience, of course?" she said. "You have proved it?"

"Faith, that is another story," laughed Hone, hitching his pony's bridle

on his arm. "We live and learn, Mrs. Perceval. I have learnt it."

And with that he bowed and passed on, every inch a soldier and to his

finger-tips a gentleman.

II

"Hullo, Pat!"

Teddy Duncombe, airily clad in pyjamas, stood a moment on the verandah

to peer in upon his major, then stepped into the room with the assurance

of one who had never yet found himself unwelcome.

"Hullo, my son!" responded Hone, who, clad still more airily, was

exercising his great muscles with dumb-bells before plunging into his

morning tub.

Duncombe seated himself to watch the operations with eyes of keen

appreciation.

"By Jove," he said admiringly at length, "you are a mighty specimen! I

believe you'll live for ever."

"Not on this plaguey little planet, let us trust!" said Hone, speaking

through his teeth by reason of his exertions.

"You ought to marry," said Duncombe, still intently observant. "Giants

like you have no right to remain single in these degenerate days."

"Faith!" scoffed Hone. "It's an age of feather-weights, and I'm out of

date entirely."

He thumped down his dumb-bells, and stood up with arms outstretched. He

saw the open admiration in his friend's eyes, and laughed at it.

But Duncombe remained serious.

"Why don't you get married, Pat?" he said.

Hone's arms slowly dropped. His brown face sobered. But the next instant

he smiled again.

"Find the woman, Teddy!" he said lightly.

"I've found her," said Teddy unexpectedly.

"The deuce you have!" said Hone. "Sure, and it's truly grateful I am! Is

she young, my son, and lovely?"

"She is the loveliest woman I know," said Teddy Duncombe, with all

sincerity.

"Faith!" laughed the Irishman. "But that's heartfelt! Why don't you

enter for the prize yourself?"

"I'm going to marry little Lucy Fabian as soon as she will have me,"

explained Duncombe. "We settled that ages ago, almost as soon as she

came out. It's not a formal engagement even yet, but she has promised to

bear it in mind. We had a talk last night, and--I believe I haven't much

longer to wait."

"Good luck to you, dear fellow!" said Hone. "You deserve the best." He

laid his hand for a moment on Duncombe's shoulder. "It's been a good

partnership, Teddy boy," he said. "I shall miss you."

Teddy gripped the hand hard.

"You'll have to get married yourself, Pat," he declared urgently. "It

isn't good for man to live alone."

"And so you are going to provide for my future also," laughed Hone.

"And the lady's name?"

"Oh, she's an old friend!" said Duncombe. "Can't you guess?"

Hone shook his head.

"I can't imagine any old friend taking pity on me. Have you sounded her

feelings on the subject? Or perhaps she hasn't got any where I am

concerned."

"Oh, yes, she has her feelings about you!" said Duncombe, with

confidence. "But I don't know what they are. She wasn't particularly

communicative on that point."

"Or you, my son, were not particularly penetrating," suggested Hone.

"I certainly didn't penetrate far," Duncombe confessed. "It was a case

of 'No admission to outsiders.' Still, I kept my eyes open on your

behalf; and the conclusion I arrived at was that, though reticent where

you were concerned, she was by no means indifferent."

Hone stooped and picked up his dumb-bells once more.

"Your conclusions are not always very convincing, Teddy," he remarked.

Duncombe got to his feet in leisurely preparation for departure.

"There was no mistake as to her reticence anyhow," he observed. "It was

the more conspicuous, as all the rest of us were yelling ourselves

hoarse in your honour. I was watching her, and she never moved her

lips, never even smiled. But her eyes saw no one else but you."

Hone grunted a little. He was poising the dumb-bells at the full stretch

of his arms.

Duncombe still loitered at the open window.

"And her name is Nina Perceval," he said abruptly, shooting out the

words as though not quite certain of their reception.

The dumb-bells crashed to the ground. Hone wheeled round. For a single

instant the Irish eyes flamed fiercely; but the next he had himself in

hand.

"A pretty little plan, by the powers!" he said, forcing himself to speak

lightly. "But it won't work, my lad. I'm deeply grateful all the same."

"Rats, man! She is sure to marry again." Duncombe spoke with deliberate

carelessness. He would not seem to be aware of that which his friend had

suppressed.

"That may be," Hone said very quietly. "But she will never marry me.

And--faith, I'll be honest with you, Teddy, for the whole truth told is

better than a half-truth guessed--for her sake I shall never marry

another woman."

He spoke with absolute steadiness, and he looked Duncombe full in the

eyes as he said it.

A brief silence followed his statement; then impulsively Duncombe thrust

out his hand.

"Hone, old chap, forgive me! I'm a headlong, blundering jackass!"

"And the best friend a man ever had," said Hone gently. "It's an old

story, and I can't tell you all. It was just a game, you know; it began

in jest, but it ended in grim earnest, as some games do. It happened

that time we travelled out together, eight years ago. I was supposed to

be looking after her; but, faith, the monkey tricked me! I was a fool,

you see, Teddy." A faint smile crossed his face. "And she gave me an

elderly spinster to dance attendance upon while she amused herself. She

was only a child in those days. She couldn't have been twenty. I used to

call her the Princess, and I was St. Patrick to her. But the mischief

was that I thought her free, and--I made love to her." He paused a

moment. "Perhaps it's hardly fair to tell you this. But you're in love

yourself; you'll understand."

"I understand," Duncombe said.

"And she was such an innocent," Hone went on softly. "Faith, what an

innocent she was! Till one day she saw what had happened to me, and it

nearly broke her heart. For she hadn't meant any harm, bless her. It was

all a game with her, and she thought I was playing, too, till--till she

saw otherwise. Well, it all came to an end at last, and to save her from

grieving I pretended that I had known all along. I pretended that I had

trifled with her from start to finish. She didn't believe me at first,

but I made her--Heaven pity me!--I made her. And then she swore that she

would never forgive me. And she never has."

Hone turned quietly away, and put the dumb-bells into a corner. Duncombe

remained motionless, watching him.

"But she will, old chap," he said at last. "She will. Women do, you

know--when they understand."

"Yes, I know," said Hone. "But she never can understand. I tricked her

too thoroughly for that." He faced round again, his grey eyes level and

very steady.

"It's just my fate, Teddy," he said; "and I've got to put up with it.

However it may appear, the gods are not all-bountiful where I am

concerned. I may win everything in the world I turn my hand to, but I

have lost for ever the only thing I really want!"

III

It was two days later that Mrs. Chester decided to give what she termed

a farewell _fête_ to all Nina Perceval's old friends. Nina had always

been a great favourite with her, and she was determined that the

function should be worthy of the occasion.

To ensure success, she summoned Hone to her assistance. Hone always

assisted everybody, and it was well known that he invariably succeeded

in that to which he set his hand. And Hone, with native ingenuity, at

once suggested a water expedition by moonlight as far as the ruined

Hindu temple on the edge of the jungle that came down to the river at

that point. There was a spice of adventure about this that at once

caught Mrs. Chester's fancy. It was the very thing, she declared; a

water-picnic was so delightfully informal. They would cut for partners,

and row up the river in couples.

To Nina Perceval the plan seemed slightly childish, but she veiled her

feelings from her friend as she veiled them from all the world; for very

soon it would be all over, sunk away in that grey, grey past into which

she would never look again. She even joined in conference with Mrs.

Chester and Hone over the details of the expedition, and if now and

then the Irishman's eyes rested upon her as though they read that which

she would fain have hidden, she never suffered herself to be

disconcerted thereby.

When the party assembled on the eventful evening to settle the question

of partners, Hone was, as usual, in the forefront. The lots were drawn

under his management, not by his own choice, but because Mrs. Chester

insisted upon it. He presided over two packs of cards that had been

reduced to the number of guests. The men drew from one pack, the women

from the other; and thus everyone in the room was bound at length to

pair.

Hone would have foregone this part of the entertainment, but the

colonel's wife was firm.

"People never know how to arrange themselves," she declared. "And I

decline any responsibility of that sort. The Fates shall decide for us.

It will be infinitely more satisfactory in the end."

And Hone could only bow to her ruling.

Nina Perceval was the first to draw. Her card was the ace of hearts. She

slung it round her neck in accordance with Mrs. Chester's decree, and

sat down to await her destiny.

It was some time in coming. One after another drew and paired in the

midst of much chaff and merriment; but she sat solitary in her corner

watching the pile of cards diminish while she remained unclaimed.

"Most unusual!" declared Mrs. Chester. "Whom can the Fates be reserving

for you, I wonder?"

Nina had no answer to make. She sat with her dark eyes fixed upon the

few cards that were left in front of Hone, not uttering a single word.

He sat motionless, too, Teddy Duncombe, who had paired with his hostess,

standing by his side. He was not looking in her direction, but by some

mysterious means she knew that his attention was focussed upon herself.

She was convinced in her secret soul that, though he hid his anxiety, he

was closely watching every card in the hope that he might ultimately

pair with her.

The last man drew and found his partner. One card only was left in front

of Hone. He laid his hand upon it, paused for an instant, then turned it

up. The ace of hearts!

She felt herself stiffen involuntarily, and something within her began

to pound and race like the hoofs of a galloping horse. A brief agitation

was hers, which she almost instantly subdued, but which left her

strangely cold.

Hone had risen from the table. He came quietly to her side. There was no

visible elation about him. His grey eyes were essentially honest, but

they were deliberately emotionless at that moment.

In the hubbub of voices all about them he bent and spoke.

"It may not be the fate you would have chosen; but since submit we

must, shall we not make the best of it?"

She met his look with the aloofness of utter disdain.

"Your strategy was somewhat too apparent to be ascribed to Fate," she

said. "I cannot imagine why you took the trouble."

A dark flush mounted under Hone's tan. He straightened himself abruptly,

and she was conscious of a moment's sharp misgiving that was strangely

akin to fear. Then, as he spoke no word, she rose and stood beside him,

erect and regal.

"I submit," she said quietly; "not because I must, but because I do not

consider it worth while to do otherwise. The matter is too unimportant

for discussion."

Hone made no rejoinder. He was staring straight before him, stern-eyed

and still.

But a few moments later, he gravely proffered his arm, and in the midst

of a general move they went out together into the moonlit splendour of

the Indian night.

IV

Slowly the boats slipped through the shallows by the bank.

Hone sat facing his companion in unbroken silence while he rowed

steadily up the stream. But there was no longer anger in his steady

eyes. The habit of kindness, which was the growth of a lifetime, had

reasserted itself. He had not been created to fulfil a harsh destiny.

The chivalry at his heart condemned sternness towards a woman.

And Nina Perceval sat in the stern with the moonlight shining in her

eyes and the darkness of a great bitterness in her soul, and waited.

Despite her proud bearing she would have given much to have looked into

his heart at that moment. Notwithstanding all her scorn of him very deep

down in her innermost being she was afraid.

For this was the man who long ago, when she was scarcely more than a

child, had blinded her, baffled her, beaten her. He had won her trust,

and had used it contemptibly for his own despicable ends. He had turned

an innocent game into tragedy, and had gone his way, leaving her life

bruised and marred and bitter before it had ripened to maturity. He had

put out the sunshine for ever, and now he expected to be forgiven.

But she would never forgive him. He had wounded her too cruelly, too

wantonly, for forgiveness. He had laid her pride too low. For even yet,

in all her furious hatred of him, she knew herself bound by a chain that

no effort of hers might break. Even yet she thrilled to the sound of

that soft, Irish voice, and was keenly, painfully aware of him when he

drew near.

He did not know it, so she told herself over and over again. No one

knew, or ever would know. That advantage, at least, was hers, and she

would carry it to her grave. But yet she longed passionately,

vindictively, to punish him for the ruin he had wrought, to humble

him--this faultless knight, this regimental hero, at whose shrine

everybody worshipped--as he had once dared to humble her; to make him

care, if it were ever so little--only to make him care--and then to

trample him ruthlessly underfoot, as he had trampled her.

She began to wonder how long he meant to maintain that uncompromising

silence. From across the water came the gay voices of their

fellow-guests, but no other boat was very near them. His face was in the

shadow, and she had no clue to his mood.

For a while longer she endured his silence. Then at length she spoke:

"Major Hone!"

He started slightly, as one coming out of deep thought.

"Why don't you make conversation?" she asked, with a little cynical

twist of the lips. "I thought you had a reputation for being

entertaining."

"Will it entertain you if I ask for an apology?" said Hone.

"An apology!" She repeated the words sharply, and then softly laughed.

"Yes, it will, very much."

"And yet you owe me one," said Hone.

"I fear I do not always pay my debts," she answered. "But you will find

it difficult to convince me on this occasion that the debt exists."

"Faith, I shall not try!" he returned, with a doggedness that met and

overrode her scorn. "The game isn't worth the candle. I know you will

think ill of me in either case."

"Why, Major Hone?"

He met her eyes in the moonlight, and she felt as if by sheer force he

held them.

"Because," he said slowly, "I have made it impossible for you to do

otherwise."

"Surely that is no one's fault but your own?" she said.

"I blame no one else," said Hone.

And with that he bent again to his work as though he had been betrayed

into plainer speaking than he deemed advisable, and became silent again.

Nina Perceval trailed her hand in the water and watched the ripples.

Those few words of his had influenced her strangely. She had almost for

the moment forgotten her enmity. But it returned upon her in the

silence. She began to remember those bitter years that stretched behind

her, the blind regrets with which he had filled her life--this man who

had tricked her, lied to her--ay, and almost broken her heart in those

far-off days of her girlhood, before she had learned to be cynical.

"And even if I did believe you," she said, "what difference would it

make?"

Hone was silent for a moment. Then--"Just all the difference in the

world," he said, his voice very low.

"You value my good opinion so highly?" she laughed. "And yet you will

make no effort to secure it?"

He turned his eyes upon her again.

"I would move heaven and earth to win it," he said, and she knew by his

tone that he was putting strong restraint upon himself, "if there were

the smallest chance of my ever doing so. But I know my limitations; I

know it's all no good. Once a blackguard, always a blackguard, eh, Mrs.

Perceval? And I'd be a special sort of fool if I tried to persuade you

otherwise."

But still she only laughed, in spite of the agitation but half-subdued

in his voice.

"I would offer to steer," she remarked irrelevantly, "only I don't feel

equal to the responsibility. And since you always get there sooner or

later, my help would be superfluous."

"You share the popular belief about my luck?" asked Hone.

"To be sure," she answered gaily. "Even you could scarcely manage to

find fault with it."

He drew a deep breath. "Not with you in the boat," he said.

She withdrew her hand from the water, and flicked it in his face.

"Hadn't you better slow down? You are getting overheated. I feel as if I

were sitting in front of a huge furnace."

"And you object to it?" said Hone.

"Of course I do. It's unseasonable. You Irish are so tropical."

"It's only by contrast," urged Hone. "You will get acclimatised in

time."

She raised her head with a dainty gesture.

"You take a good deal for granted, Major Hone."

"Faith, I know it!" he answered. "It's yourself that has turned my

head."

Her laugh held more than a hint of scorn.

"How amusing," she commented, "for both of us!"

"Does it amuse you?" said Hone.

The question did not call for a reply, and she made none. Only once more

she gathered up some water out of the magic moonlit ripples, and tossed

it in his face.

V

They reached their destination far ahead of any of the others. A thick

belt of jungle stretched down to the river where they landed, enveloping

both banks a little higher up the stream.

"What an awesome place!" remarked Mrs. Perceval, as she stepped ashore.

"I hope the rest will arrive soon, or I shall develop an attack of

nerves."

"You've got me to take care of you," suggested Hone.

She uttered her soft, little laugh.

"Faith, Major Hone, and I'm not at all sure that it isn't yourself I

want to run away from!"

Hone was securing the boat, and made no immediate response. But as he

straightened himself, he laughed also.

"Am I so formidable, then?"

She flashed a swift glance at him.

"I haven't quite decided."

"You have known me long enough," he protested.

She shrugged her shoulders lightly.

"Have I ever met you before to-night? I have no recollection of it."

And mutely, with that chivalry which was to him the very air he

breathed, Hone bowed to her ruling. She would have no reference to the

past. It was to be a closed book to them both. So be it, then! For this

night, at least, she would have her way.

He stepped forward in silence into the chequered shadow of the trees

that surrounded the ruin, and she walked lightly by his side with that

dainty, regal carriage of hers that made him yet in his secret heart

call her his princess.

The place was very dark and eerie. The shrill cries of flying-foxes,

disturbed by their appearance, came through the magic silence. But no

living thing was to be seen, no other sound to be heard.

"I'm frightened," said Nina suddenly. "Shall we stop?"

"Hold my hand!" said Hone.

"I'm not joking," she protested, with a shudder.

"Nor am I," he said gently.

She looked up at him sharply, as though she did not quite believe him,

and then unexpectedly and impulsively she laid her hand in his.

His fingers closed upon it with a friendly, reassuring pressure, and she

never knew how the man's heart leapt and the blood turned to liquid fire

in his veins at her touch.

She gave a shaky little laugh as though ashamed of her weakness. "We are

coming to an open space," she said. "We shall see the satyrs dancing

directly."

"Faith, if we do, we'll join them," declared Hone cheerily.

"They would never admit us," she answered. "They hate mortals. Can't you

feel them glaring at us from every tree? Why, I can breathe hostility in

the very air."

She missed her footing as she spoke, and stumbled with a sharp cry. Hone

held her up with that steady strength of his that was ever equal to

emergencies, but to his surprise she sprang forward, pulling him with

her, almost before she had fully recovered her balance.

"Oh, come, quick, quick!" she gasped. "I trod on something--something

that moved!"

He went with her, for she would not be denied, and in a few seconds they

emerged into a narrow clearing in the jungle in which stood the ruin of

a small domed temple.

Nina Perceval was shaking all over in a positive frenzy of fear, and

clinging fast to Hone's arm.

"What was it?" he asked her, trying gently to disengage himself. "Was it

a snake that scared you?"

She shuddered violently. "Yes, it must have been. A cobra, I should

think. Oh, what are you going to do?"

"It's all right," Hone said soothingly. "You stay here a minute! I've

got some matches. I'll just go back a few yards and investigate."

But at that she cried out so sharply that he thought for a moment that

something had hurt her. But the next instant he understood, and again

his heart leapt and strained within him like a chained thing.

"No, Pat! No, no, no! You shall do no such thing!" Incoherently the

words rushed out, and with them the old familiar name, uttered all

unawares. "Do you think I'd let you go? Why, the place may be thronged

with snakes. And you--you have nothing to defend yourself with. How can

you dream of such a thing?"

He heard her out with absolute patience. His face betrayed no sign of

the tumult within. It remained perfectly courteous and calm. Yet when he

spoke he, too, it seemed, had gone back to the old intimate days that

lay so far behind them.

"Yes, but, Princess," he said, "what about our pals? If there is any

real danger we can't let them come stumbling into it. We'll have to warn

them."

She was still clinging to his arm, and her hands tightened. For an

instant she seemed about to renew her wild protest, but something--was

it the expression in the man's steady eyes?--checked her.

She stood a moment silent. Then, "You're quite right, Pat," she said,

her voice very low. "We'll go straight back to the boat and stop them."

Her hands relaxed and fell from his arm, but Hone stood hesitating.

"You'll let me go first?" he said. "You stay here in the open! I'll come

back for you."

But at that her new-found docility at once evaporated. "I won't!" she

declared vehemently. "I won't! Don't be so ridiculous! Of course I am

coming with you. Do you suppose I would let you go alone?"

"Why not?" said Hone.

He remembered later that she passed the question by. "We are wasting

time," she said, "Let us go!"

And so together they went back into the danger that lurked in the

darkness.

VI

They went side by side, for she would not let him take the lead. Her

hand was in his, and he knew by its convulsive pressure something of the

sheer panic that possessed her. And he marvelled at the power that

nerved her, though he held his peace.

They entered the dense shadow of the strip of jungle that separated them

from the stream, and very soon he paused to strike a match. She stood

very close to him. He was aware that she was trembling in every limb.

He peered about him, but could see very little beyond the fact that the

path ahead of them lay clear. On both sides of this the undergrowth

baffled all scrutiny. He seemed to hear a small mysterious rustling

sound, but his most minute attention failed to locate it. The match

burned down to his fingers, and he tossed it away.

"There's nothing between us and the water," he said cheerily. "We'll

make a dash for it."

"Stay!" she whispered, under her breath. "I heard something!"

"It's only a bit of a breeze overhead," said Hone. "We won't stop to

listen anyway."

He caught her hand in his once more, grasping it firmly, and they moved

forward again. They could see the moonlight glimmering on the water

ahead, and in another yard or two the low-growing bush to which Hone had

moored the boat became visible.

In that instant, with a jerk of terror, Nina stopped short. "Pat! What

is that?"

Hone stood still. "There! Don't be scared!" he said soothingly. "What

would it be at all? There's nothing but shadow."

"But there is!" she gasped. "There is! There! On the bank above the

boat! What is it, Pat? What is it?"

Hone's eyes followed her quivering finger, discerning what appeared to

be a blot of shadow close to the bush above the water.

"Sure, it's only shadow--" he began.

But she broke in feverishly. "It's not, Pat! It's not! There's nothing

to cast it. It's in the full moonlight."

"You stay here!" said Hone. "I'll go and have a look."

"I won't!" she rejoined in a fierce whisper, holding him fast. "You--you

shan't go a step nearer. We must get away somehow--somehow!" with a

hunted glance around. "Not through the undergrowth, that's certain.

We--we shall have to go back."

Hone was still staring at the motionless blot in the moonlight. He

resisted her frantic efforts to drag him away.

"I must go and see," he said at last. "I'm sure there's nothing to alarm

us. We can't run away from shadows, Princess. We should never hold up

our heads again."

"Oh, Pat, you fool!" she exclaimed, almost beside herself. "I tell you

that is no shadow! It's a snake! Do you hear? It's a huge python! And it

was a snake I trod on just now. And they are everywhere--everywhere! The

whole place is rustling with them. They are closing in on us. I can hear

them! I can feel them! I can smell them! Pat, what shall we do? Quick,

quick! Think of something! See now! It's moving--uncoiling! Look, look!

Did you ever see anything so horrible? Pat!"

Her voice ended in a breathless shriek. She suddenly collapsed against

him, her face hidden on his breast. And Hone, stooping impulsively,

caught her up in his arms.

"We'll get out of it somehow," he said. "Never fear!"

But even his eyes had widened with a certain horror, for the blot in the

moonlight was beyond question moving, elongating, quivering, subtly

changing under his gaze.

He held his companion pressed tightly to his heart. She made no further

attempt to urge him. Only by the tense clinging of her arms about his

neck did he know that she was conscious.

Again he heard that vague rustling which he had set down to a sudden

draught overhead. It seemed to come from all directions.

"Ye gods!" he muttered softly to himself. And again, more softly, "Ye

gods!"

To the woman in his arms he uttered no word whatever. He only pressed

the slender figure ever closer, while the blood surged and sang

tumultuously in his veins. Though he stood in the midst of mortal

danger, he was conscious of an exultation so mad as to be almost

delirious. She was his--his--his!

Something stirred in the undergrowth close to him, and in a moment his

attention was diverted from the slow-moving monster ahead of him. He

became aware of a dark object, but vaguely discernible, that swayed to

and fro about three feet from the ground seeming to menace him.

The moment he saw this thing, his brain flashed into sudden

illumination. The shrewdness of the hunted creature entered into him.

Without panic, he became most vividly, most intensely alive to the

ghastly danger that threatened him. He stopped to ascertain nothing

further. Swift as a lightning flash he acted--leapt backwards, leapt

sideways, landed upon something that squirmed and thrashed hideously,

nearly overthrowing him; and the next moment was breaking madly through

the undergrowth, regardless of direction, running blindly through the

jungle, fighting furiously every obstacle--forcing by sheer giant

strength a way for himself and for the woman he carried through the

opposing tangle of vegetation.

Branches slapped him in the face as he went, clutched at him, tore him,

but could not stay his progress. Many times he stumbled, many times he

recovered himself, dashing wildly on and still on like a man possessed.

A marvellous strength was his. Titan-like, he accomplished that which to

any ordinary man would have been an utter impossibility. Save that he

was in perfect condition, even he must have failed. But that fact was

his salvation, that and the fierce passion that urged him, endowing him

with an endurance more than human.

Headlong as was his flight, the working of his brain was even swifter,

and very soon, without slackening his speed, he was swerving round again

towards the open. He could see the moonlight gleaming through the trees,

and he made a dash for it, utterly reckless, since caution was of no

avail, but alert for every danger, cunning for every advantage, keen as

the born fighter for every chance that offered.

And so at last, torn, bleeding, but undismayed, he struggled free from

the undergrowth, and sprang away from that place of horrors, staggering

slightly but running strongly still, till the dark line of jungle fell

away behind him and he reached the river bank once more.

Here he stopped and loosened his grip upon the slight form he carried.

Her arms dropped from his neck. She had fainted.

For a few seconds he stared down into her white face, seeing nothing

else, while the fiery heart of him leapt and quivered like a wild thing

in leash. Then, suddenly, from the water a voice hailed him, and he

looked up with a start.

"Hullo, Pat! What on earth is the matter? You have landed the wrong side

of the stream. Is anything wrong?"

It was Teddy Duncombe in a boat below him. He saw his face of concern in

the moonlight.

He pulled himself together.

"I was coming to warn you. This infernal jungle is full of snakes. We've

had to run for it, and leave the boat behind."

"Great Scotland! And Mrs. Perceval?"

Again Hone's eyes sought the white face on his arm.

"No, she isn't hurt. It's just a faint. Pull up close, and I'll hand her

down to you!"

Between them, they lowered her into the boat. Hone followed, and raised

her to lean against his knee.

Duncombe began to row swiftly across the stream, with an uneasy eye upon

the two in the stern.

"What in the world made you go wrong, I wonder?" he said. "No one ever

goes that side, not even the natives. They say it's haunted. We all

landed near the old bathing _ghat_."

Hone was moistening Nina Perceval's face with his handkerchief. He made

no reply to Teddy's words. He was anxiously watching for some sign of

returning consciousness.

It came very soon. The dark eyes opened and gazed up at him, at first

uncomprehendingly, then with a dawning wonder.

"St. Patrick!" she whispered.

"Princess!" he whispered back.

With an effort she raised herself, leaning against him.

"What happened? Were you hurt? Your face is all bleeding!"

"It's nothing!" he said jerkily. "It's nothing!"

She took his handkerchief in her trembling hand and wiped the blood

away. She said no more of any sort. Only when she gave it back to him

her eyes were full of tears.

And Hone caught the little hand in passionate, dumb devotion, and

pressed it to his lips.

VII

"I am so sorry, Major Hone, but she is seeing no one. I would ask you to

dine if it would be of any use. But you wouldn't see her if I did."

So spoke the colonel's wife three days later in a sympathetic undertone;

while Hone paced beside her _rickshaw_ with a gloomy face.

"She isn't ill?" he asked. "You are sure she isn't ill?"

"No, not really ill. Her nerves are upset, of course. That was almost

inevitable. But she has determined to start for Bombay on Monday, and

nothing I can say will make her change her purpose."

"But she can't mean to go without saying good-bye!" he protested.

Mrs. Chester shook her head.

"She says she doesn't like good-byes. I had the greatest difficulty in

persuading her to come here at all. I am afraid that is exactly what she

does mean to do."

Hone stood still. His face was suddenly stubborn.

"I must see her," he said, "with her consent or without it. Will you, of

your goodness, ask me to dine tonight? I will manage the rest for

myself."

Mrs. Chester looked somewhat dubious. Long as she had known Hone, she

was not familiar with this mood.

He saw her hesitation, and smiled upon her persuasively.

"You are not going to refuse my petition? It isn't yourself that would

have the heart!"

She laughed, in spite of herself.

"Oh, go away, you wheedling Irishman! Yes, you may dine if you like. The

Gerrards are coming for bridge, and you'll be odd man out. There will be

no one to entertain you."

"Sure, I can entertain myself," grinned Hone. "And it's truly grateful

that I am to your worshipful ladyship."

He bowed, with his hand upon his heart, and, turning, went his way.

Mrs. Chester went hers, still vaguely doubtful as to the wisdom of her

action. In common with the rest of mankind, she found Hone well-nigh

impossible to resist.

When he made his appearance that evening, he presented an absolutely

serene aspect to the world at large. He was the gayest of the party, and

Mrs. Chester's uneasiness speedily evaporated. Nina Perceval was not

present, but this fact apparently did not depress him. He remained in

excellent spirits throughout dinner.

When it was over, and the bridge players were established on the

veranda, he drifted off to the smoking-room in an aimless, inconsequent

fashion, and his hostess and accomplice saw him no more.

She would have given a good deal to have witnessed his subsequent

movements, but she would have been considerably disappointed had she

done so, for Hone's methods were disconcertingly direct. All he did when

he found himself alone was to sit down and scribble a brief note.

"I am waiting to see you" (so ran his message). "Will you come to me

now, or must I follow you to the world's end? One or the other it will

surely be.--Yours, PAT."

This note he delivered to the _khitmutgar_, with orders to return to him

with a reply. Then, with a certain massive patience, he resumed his

cigar and settled himself to wait.

The _khitmutgar_ did not return, but he showed no sign of exasperation.

His eyes stared gravely into space. There was not a shade of anxiety in

them.

And it was thus that Nina Perceval found him when at last she came

lightly in from the veranda in answer to his message. She entered

without the smallest hesitation, but with that regal air of hers before

which men did involuntary homage. Her shadowy eyes met his without fear

or restraint of any sort, but they held no gladness either. Her

remoteness chilled him.

"Why did you send me that extraordinary message?" she said. "Wasn't it a

little unnecessary?"

He had risen to meet her. He paused to lay aside his cigar before he

answered, and in the pause that dogged expression that had surprised

Mrs. Chester descended like a mask and covered the first spontaneous

impulse to welcome her that had dominated him.

"It was necessary that I should see you," he said.

"I really don't know why," she returned. "I wrote a note to thank you

for the care you took of me the other night. That was days ago. I

suppose you received it?"

"Yes, I received it," said Hone. "I have been trying, without success,

to see you ever since."

She made a slight impatient movement.

"I haven't seen any one. I was upset after that horrible adventure. I

shouldn't be seeing you now, only your ridiculous note made me wonder if

there was anything wrong. Is there?"

She faced him with the direct inquiry. There was a faint frown between

her brows. Her delicate beauty possessed him like a charm. He felt his

blood begin to quicken, but he kept himself in check.

"There is nothing wrong, Princess," he said steadily. "I am, as ever,

your humble servant, only I've got to come to the point with you before

you go. I've got to make the most of this shred of opportunity which you

have given me against your will. You are not disposed to be generous, I

see; but I appeal to your sense of justice. Is it fair play at all to

fling a man into gaol, and to refuse to let him plead on his own

behalf?"

The annoyance passed like a shadow from her face. She began to smile.

"What can you mean?" she said. "Is it a joke--a riddle? Am I supposed to

laugh?"

"Heaven help me, no!" he said. "There is only one woman in the world

that I can't trifle with, and that's yourself."

"Oh, but what an admission!" She laughed at him, softly mocking. "And

I'm so fond of trifling, too. Then what can you possibly want with me? I

suppose you have really called to say good-bye."

"No," said Hone. He spoke quickly, and, as he spoke, he leaned towards

her. A deep glow had begun to smoulder in his eyes. "It's something else

that I've come to say--something quite different. I've come to tell you

that you are all the world to me, that I love you with all there is of

me, that I have always loved you. Yes, you'll laugh at me. You'll think

me mad. But if I don't take this chance of telling you, I'll never have

another. And even if it makes no difference at all to you, I'm bound to

let you know."

He ceased. The fire that smouldered in his eyes had leaped to lurid

flame; but still he held himself in check, he subdued the racing madness

in his veins. He was, as ever, her humble servant.

Perhaps she realized it, for she showed no sign of shrinking as she

stood before him. Her eyes grew a little wider and a little darker, that

was all.

"I don't know what to say to you, Major Hone," she said, after a

moment. "I don't know even what you expect me to say, since you

expressly tell me that you are not trifling."

"Faith!" he broke in impetuously. "And is it trifling I'd be with the

only woman I ever loved or ever wanted? I'm not asking you to flirt. I'm

asking a bigger thing of you than that. I'm asking you--Princess, I'm

asking you to stay--and be my wife."

He drew nearer to her, but he made no attempt to touch her. Only the

flame of his passion seemed to reach her, to scorch her, for she made a

slight movement away from him.

She looked at him doubtfully. "I still don't know what to say," she

said.

His face altered. With a mighty effort he subdued the fiery impulse that

urged him to override her doubts and fears, to take and hold her in his

arms, to make her his with or without her will.

He became in a trice the kindly, winning personality that all his world

knew and loved. "Sure then, you're not afraid of me?" he said, as though

he softly cajoled a child. "It wouldn't be yourself at all if you were,

you that could tread me underfoot like a centipede and not be a mite the

worse."

She smiled a little, smiled and uttered a sudden quick sigh. "Don't you

think you are rather a fool, Pat?" she said. "I gave you credit for more

shrewdness. You certainly had more once."

"What do you mean?" There was a sharp note of pain in Hone's voice.

She moved restlessly across the room and paused with her back to him.

"None but a fool would conclude that because a woman is pretty she must

be good as well," she said, a tremor of bitterness in her voice. "Why do

you take it for granted in this headlong fashion that I am all that man

could desire?"

"You are all that I want," he said.

She shook her head. "The woman who lived inside me died long ago," she

said, "and a malicious spirit took her place."

"None but yourself would ever dare to say that to me," said Hone. "And I

won't listen even to you. Princess--"

"You are not to call me that!" She rounded upon him suddenly, a fierce

gleam in her eyes. "You must never--never--"

She broke off. He was close to her, with that on his face that stilled

her protest. He gathered her to him with a tenderness that yet was

irresistible.

"Sure, then," he whispered, with a whimsical humour that cloaked all

deeper feeling, "you shall be my queen instead, for by the saints I

swear that in some form or other I was created to be your slave."

And though she averted her face and after a moment withdrew herself from

his arms, she raised no further protest. She suffered him to plant the

flag of his supremacy unhindered.

VIII

Certainly the colonel's wife was in her element. A wedding in the

regiment, and that the wedding of its idolized hero, was to her an

affair of almost more importance than anything that had happened since

her own. The church had been fully decorated under her directions, and

she had turned it into as elegant a reception room as circumstances

permitted. White favours had been distributed to the dusky warriors

under Hone's command who lined the aisle. All was in readiness, from the

bridegroom, resplendent in scarlet and gold, waiting in the chancel with

Teddy Duncombe, the best man, to the buzzing guests who swarmed in at

the west door to be received by the colonel's wife, who in her capacity

of hostess seemed to be everywhere at once.

"She was quite ready when I left, and looking sweet," so ran the story

to one after another. "Oh, yes, in her travelling dress, of course. That

had to be. But quite bridal--the palest silver grey. She looks quite

charming, and such a girl. No one would ever think--" and so on, to

innumerable acquaintances, ending where she had begun--"yes, she was

quite ready when I left, and looking sweet!"

Ready or not, she was undoubtedly late, as is the recognised custom of

brides all the world over. The organist, who had been playing an

impressive selection, was drawing to the end of his resources and

beginning to improvise somewhat spasmodically. The bridegroom betrayed

no impatience, but there was undeniable strain in his attitude. He stood

stiff and motionless as a soldier on parade. The guests were commencing

to peer and wonder. Mrs. Chester made her tenth pilgrimage to the door.

Ah! The carriage at last! She turned back with a beaming face, and

rustled up the aisle as though she were the heroine of the occasion. A

flutter of expectation went through the church. The organist plunged

abruptly into "The Voice that Breathed o'er Eden."

Everyone rose. Everyone craned towards the door. The carriage, with its

flying favours, was stopping, had stopped. The colonel was seen

descending.

He was looking very pale, whispered someone. Could anything be wrong? He

was not wont to suffer from nervousness.

He did not turn to assist the bride. Surely that was strange! Nor did

she follow him. Surely--surely the carriage behind him was empty!

Something indeed had happened. She must be ill! A great tremor went

through the waiting crowd. No one was singing, but the music pealed on

and on till some wild rumour of disaster reached the waiting chaplain,

and he stepped across the chancel and touched the organist's shoulder.

Instantly silence fell--a terrible, nerve-racking silence. Colonel

Chester had entered. He stood just within the door, pale and stern,

whispering to the officer in charge of the men. People stared at him, at

each other, at the bridegroom still standing motionless by the chancel

steps. And then at last the silence broke into a murmur that spread and

spread. Something had happened! Something was wrong! No, the bride was

not ill. But there would be no wedding that day.

Someone came hurriedly and spoke to Teddy Duncombe, who turned first

crimson, then very white, and finally pulled himself together with a

jerk and went to Hone. Everyone craned to see what would happen--how the

news would affect him, whether he would be deeply shocked, or

whether--whether--ah! A great sigh went through the church. He did not

seem startled or even greatly dismayed. He listened to Duncombe gravely,

but without any visible discomfiture. There could not be anything very

serious the matter, then. A note was put into his hand, which he read

with absolute calmness under the eyes of the multitude.

When he looked up from it, the colonel had reached his side. They

exchanged a few words, and then Hone, smiling faintly, beckoned to the

chaplain. He rested a hand on his shoulder in his careless, friendly

way, and spoke into his ear.

The chaplain looked deeply concerned, nodded once or twice, and,

straightening himself, faced the crowd of guests.

"I am requested to state," he announced in the midst of dead silence,

"that, owing to a most regrettable and unforeseen mischance, the happy

event which we are gathered here to celebrate must be unavoidably

postponed. The bride has just received an urgent summons to England on a

matter of the first importance, which she feels compelled to obey, and

she is already on her way to Bombay in the hope of catching the steamer

which will sail to-morrow. It only remains for me to express deep

sympathy, in which I am sure all present join me, with our friend Major

Hone and his bride-elect on their disappointment, and the sincere hope

that their happy union may not long be deferred."

He ended with a doubtful glance at Hone, who, standing on the chancel

steps, bowed briefly, and, taking Duncombe by the shoulder, marched with

him into the vestry. He certainly did not look in the least disconcerted

or anxious. It could not be anything really serious. A feeling of relief

lightened the atmosphere. People began to talk, to speculate, even to

enjoy the sensation. Poor Hone! He was not often unlucky. But, of

course, it would be all right. He would probably follow his bride to

England, and they would be married there. Doubtless that was his

intention, or he could not have looked so undismayed.

So ran the tide of gossip and surmise. And in Hone's pocket lay the

twisted note which the woman he loved had left behind--the note which he

had read with an unmoved countenance under a host of watching eyes.

"Good-bye, St. Patrick! It has been an amusing game, has it not? Do you

remember how you beat me once long ago? I was but a child in those days.

I did not know the rules of the game, and so you had the advantage. But

you could not hope to have it always. It is my turn now, and I think I

may claim the return match for my own. So good-bye, Achilles! Perhaps

the gods will send you better luck next time. Who knows?"

No eye but Hone's ever read that heartless note, and his but once. Half

an hour after he had received it, it lay in ashes, but every word of it

was graven deep upon his brain.

IX

It was in the early hours of the morning that Nina Perceval reached

Bombay.

She had sat wide-eyed and motionless all through the night. She had felt

no desire to sleep. An intense horror of her surroundings seemed to

possess her. She was like a hunted creature seeking to escape from a

world of horrors. She would know no rest till she reached the sea, till

she was speeding away over the glittering water, and the land--that land

which had become more hateful to her than any prison--was left far

behind.

She had played her game, she had sped her shaft, and now panic--sheer,

unreasoning panic--filled her. She was terrified at what she had done,

too terrified yet for coherent thought. She had taken her revenge at

last. She had pierced her conqueror to the heart. As he had once laughed

at her, as he had once, with a smile and a jest, broken and tossed her

aside--so she had done to him. She had gathered up her wounded pride,

and she had smitten him therewith. She was convinced that he would never

laugh at her again.

He would get over it, of course; men always did. She had known men by

the score who played the same merry game, men who broke hearts for

sport and went their careless ways, unheeding, uncomprehending. It was

the way of the world, this world of countless tragedies. She had

learned, in her piteous cynicism, to look for nothing else. Faithfulness

had become to her a myth. Surely all men loved--they called it love--and

rode away.

No, she did not flatter herself that she had hurt him very seriously.

She had dealt his pride a blow, that was all.

She reached Bombay, and secured her berth. The steamer was to sail at

noon. There were not a great many passengers, and she managed to engage

a cabin to herself. But she could not even attempt to rest in that

turmoil of noise and excitement. She went ashore again, and repaired to

a hotel for a meal. She took a private room, and lay down; but sleep

would not come to her, and presently, urged by that gnawing

restlessness, she was pacing up and down, up and down, like a wild

creature newly caged.

Sometimes she paused at the window to stare down into the busy

thoroughfare below, but she never paused for long. The fever that

consumed her gave her no rest, and again she was pacing to and fro, to

and fro, eternally, counting the leaden minutes that crept by so slowly.

At last, when flesh and blood could endure no longer, she snatched up

her hat and veil, and prepared to go on board. Standing before a mirror,

she began to adjust these with trembling fingers, but suddenly stopped

dead, gazing speechlessly before her. For her own eyes had inadvertently

met the eyes of the haggard woman in the glass, and dumbly, with a new

horror clutching at her heart, she stared into their wild depths and

read as in a book the tale of torture that they held.

When she turned away at length, she was shivering from head to foot as

though she had seen a spectre; and so in truth she had. For those eyes

had told her what she had not otherwise begun to realise.

That which she had believed dead for so long had been, only dormant, and

had sprung to sudden, burning life. The weapon with which she had

thought to pierce her enemy had turned in her grasp and pierced her

also, pierced her with an agony unspeakable--ay, pierced her to the

heart.

X

As one in a dream she stood on deck and watched India slipping below the

horizon. Her restlessness was subsiding at last. She was conscious of an

intense weariness, greater than any she had ever known. As soon as that

distant line of land had disappeared she told herself that she would go

and rest. Her fellow passengers had for the most part settled down. They

sat about in groups under the awning. A few, like herself, stood at the

rail and gazed astern, but there was no one very near her. She felt as

if she stood utterly alone in all the world.

Slowly at last she turned away. Slowly she crossed the deck and began to

descend the companion. A knot of people stood talking at the foot. They

made way for her to pass. She went through them without a glance. She

scarcely even saw them.

She went to her cabin and lay down, but she knew at once that sleep

would not come to her. Her eyes burned as though weighted with many

scalding tears, but she could not weep. She could only lie staring

vaguely before her, and dumbly endure that suffering which she had

vainly fancied could never again be her portion. She could only

strive--and strive in vain--to shut out the vision of the man she loved

standing alone at the altar waiting for the woman who had played him

false.

The dinner hour approached. Mechanically she rose and dressed. She did

not shrink from meeting the eyes of strangers. They simply did not exist

for her. She took her place in the great dining saloon, looking neither

to right nor left. The buzz of conversation all around her passed her

by. She might have been sitting in utter solitude. And all the while the

misery gnawed ever deeper into her heart.

She rose at last, before the meal was ended, and went up to the great

empty deck. She felt as if she would stifle below. But, up above, the

wash of the sea and the immensity of the night soothed her somewhat. She

found a secluded corner, and leaned upon the rail, gazing out over the

black waste of water.

What was he doing, she wondered. How was he spending this second night

of misery? Had he begun to console himself already? She tried to think

so, but failed--failed utterly.

Irresistibly the memory of the man swept over her, his gentleness, his

chivalry, his unfailing kindness. She was beginning to see the whole

bitter tragedy by the light of her repentance. He had loved her, surely

he had loved her in those old days when she had tricked him in sheer,

childish gaiety of soul. And, for her sake, that her suffering might be

the briefer, he had masked his love. She had never thought so before,

but she saw it clearly now.

It had all been a miserable misunderstanding from beginning to end, but

she was sure, now, that he had loved her faithfully for all those years.

And if it were against all reason to think so, if all her experience

told her that men were not moulded thus, had not his chosen friend

declared him to be one in ten thousand, and did not her quivering

woman's heart know him to be such? Ah, what had she done? What had she

done?

"Oh, Pat!" she sobbed. "Pat! Pat! Pat!"

The great idol of her pride had fallen at last, and she wept her heart

out up there in the darkness, till physical exhaustion finally overcame

her, and she could weep no more.

XI

"Won't you sit down?" a quiet voice said.

She started out of what was almost a stupor of grief, to find a man's

figure standing close to her. Her eyes were all blinded by weeping, and

she could see him but vaguely in the dimness. She had not heard him

approach. He seemed to appear from nowhere. Or had he, perchance, been

near her all the time?

Instinctively she drew a little away from him, though in that moment of

utter desolation even the sympathy of a stranger sent a faint warmth of

comfort to her heart.

"There is a chair here," the quiet voice went on, and as she turned

vaguely, almost as though feeling her way, a steady hand closed upon her

elbow and guided her.

Perhaps it was the touch that, like the shock of an electric current,

sent the blood suddenly tingling through her veins, or it may have been

some influence more subtle. She was yielding half-mechanically when

suddenly, piercing her through and through, there came to her such a

flash of revelation as almost deprived her for the moment of her

senses.

She stood stock still and faced him.

"Oh, who is it?" she cried piteously. "Who is it?"

The hand that held her tightened ever so slightly. He did not instantly

reply, but when he did, it was on a note of grimness that she had never

heard from him before.

"It is I--Pat," he told her. "Have you any objection?"

She gazed at him speechlessly as one in a dream. He had followed her,

then; he had followed her! But wherefore?

She began to tremble in the grip of sudden, overmastering fear. This was

the last thing she had anticipated. What could it mean? Had she driven

him demented? Had he pursued her to wreak his vengeance upon her,

perhaps to kill her?

Compelled by the pressure of his hand, she moved to the dark seat he had

indicated, and sank down.

He stood beside her, looming large in the gloom. A terrible silence fell

between them. Worn out by sleeplessness and bitter weeping, she cowered

before him dumbly. She had no pride left, no weapon of any sort

wherewith to resist him. She longed, yet dreaded unspeakably, to hear

his voice. He was watching her, she knew, though she did not dare to

raise her head.

He spoke at last, quietly, without emotion, yet with that in his

deliberate utterance that made her shrink and quiver in every nerve.

"Faith," he said, "it's been an amusing game entirely, but you haven't

beaten me yet. I must trouble you to take up your cards again and play

to a finish before we decide who scoops the pool."

"What do you mean?" she whispered.

He did not answer her, and she thought there was something contemptuous

in his silence.

She waited a little, summoning her strength, then, rising, with a

desperate courage she faced him.

"I don't understand you. Tell me what you mean!"

He made a curious gesture as if he would push her from him.

"I am not good at explaining myself," he said. "But you will understand

me better presently."

And again inexplicably she shrank. There was that about him which

terrified her more than any uttered menace.

"What are you going to do?" she said nervously. "Why--why have you

followed me?"

He answered her in a tone which she deemed scoffing. It was too dark for

her to see his face.

"You can hardly expect me to show my hand at this stage," he said. "You

never showed me yours."

It was true, and she found no word to say against it. But none the less,

she was horribly afraid. She felt herself to be utterly at his mercy,

and was instinctively aware that he was in no mood to spare her.

"I can't go on playing, Pat," she said, after a moment, her voice very

low. "I have no cards left to play."

"In that case you are beaten," he said, with that doggedness which she

was beginning to know as a part of his fighting equipment. "Do you own

it?"

She hesitated.

"Do you own it?" he insisted sternly.

And, yielding to a sudden impulse that overwhelmed all reason, she threw

herself unreservedly upon his mercy.

"Yes, I own it."

He stood silent for several seconds after the admission, while she

waited with a thumping heart. At last, half-grudgingly it seemed to her,

he spoke.

"You are a wise woman," he said, "even wiser than I took you for, which

is saying much. The game is ended, then. But you will pardon me if I

refuse to surrender my winnings. Such as they are, I value them."

She bent her head. Her subjection was complete. She was too exhausted,

physically and mentally, to attempt to withstand him, and undoubtedly

the ultimate victory was his. Had he not witnessed those agonizing

tears?

"You are welcome to anything you can find," she said, smiling wanly. "I

suppose all experience is of value. At least, I used to think so."

Again for a moment he was silent. Then: "It is the most valuable thing

in the world," he said, "if you know how to turn it to account. But,

sure, that is a lesson that some of us are slow to learn."

He paused; then, as she remained silent, "You are going below to rest?"

he said. "Don't let me keep you! You have travelled hard, and need it."

There was a hint of the old kindliness in his tone. She stood listening

to it, longing, yet not daring to avail herself of it and make her peace

with him.

But, whatever his intentions, it was apparently no part of Hone's plan

to allow himself to be conciliated at that stage, for, after the

briefest pause, he bowed abruptly and stepped aside.

And Nina Perceval went humbly away, as befitted one who had played a

desperate game, and had been outwitted by the adversary she had dared to

despise.

XII

During the whole three weeks of the voyage Hone took no further action.

Nina saw him every day of those interminable weeks, but he made no sign.

He did not seek her out, neither did he avoid her, but continually he

mystified her by the cheery indifference of his bearing.

He became--as was almost inevitable--an immense favourite on board. He

was in the thick of every amusement, and no entertainment was complete

without him. No rumour of the extraordinary circumstances that had led

to his undertaking the voyage had reached their fellow passengers. No

one suspected that anything unusual existed between the winning,

frank-faced Irishman and the silent young widow who so seldom looked his

way. No one had heard of the wedding party that had lacked a bride.

But everyone welcomed Hone, V.C., as a tremendous acquisition, and Hone,

V.C., laughed his humorous, good-tempered laugh, and placed himself

unreservedly and impartially at everyone's disposal.

Nina never saw him in private. In public he treated her with the kindly

courtesy he extended to every woman on board. There was not in his

manner the faintest hint of anything deeper. He would laugh into her

eyes with absolute friendliness. And yet from the depths of her soul she

feared him. She knew that he was continuing the game that she had

wantonly begun. She knew that there was more to come, that he had not

done with her, that he was merely waiting, as an experienced player

knows how to wait, till the time arrived to play his final card.

What that final card could be she had not the remotest idea, but she

awaited it with an almost morbid sense of dread. His very forbearance

seemed ominous.

On the night before their arrival there was a dance on board. Nina, who

had not joined in any of these gaieties for the simple reason that she

had no heart for them, rose from dinner with the intention of going to

her cabin. But as she passed out of the saloon, Hone stepped forward and

intercepted her.

"Will you give me a dance, Mrs. Perceval?"

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes with an effort.

"I am not dancing," she said.

"Just one," he pleaded, with that air of gallantry that cloaked she knew

not what.

She hesitated, and then, almost in spite of herself, with something of

the old regal graciousness, she yielded.

"Just one, then, Major Hone, since to-morrow it will be good-bye."

He thanked her with a deep bow, and promptly led her away.

They danced the first waltz together in unbroken silence. Nina kept her

face studiously turned over her shoulder. Not once did she glance at her

partner, whose quiet dancing and steady arm told her nothing.

When it was over, he led her to a seat in full view of the other

dancers, and sat down beside her. For a few seconds he maintained his

silence, then quietly he turned and spoke.

"Are you going to stay in London?"

The direct question surprised her. Somehow, though he had given her

small reason to do so, she had come to expect naught but subtle strategy

from him.

"I shall spend one night there," she said, after a moment's thought.

"No longer?"

She faced him calmly, though her heart had begun to leap and race within

her.

"Why do you ask?"

"Why don't you answer?" said Hone.

He was smiling faintly, but there was determination in the set of his

jaw.

"Because," she said slowly, "I am not sure that I want you to know."

"Why not?" said Hone. She shook her head in silence. "It's sorry I am to

hear it," he said, after a brief pause. "For if it's to be a game of

hide-and-seek I shall soon run you to earth."

She raised her eyebrows. Had they been alone together she knew that she

could not have disguised her fear. It had grown upon her marvellously of

late. But the publicity of their intercourse endued her with a certain

courage.

"What is it that you want of me?" she said.

He met her eyes with absolute steadiness.

"I will tell you," he said, "the next time we meet."

She tried to laugh to hide the wild tumult his words stirred up.

"Is that a promise?"

"My solemn bond," said Hone.

She rose.

"I shall stay at the Seton Ward Hotel for a week," she said.

"Good-night!"

He rose also; they stood for a moment face to face.

"Alone?" he asked.

And again, with a reckless sense of throwing herself upon his mercy, she

made brief reply.

"I haven't a friend in the world."

He gave her his arm.

"Any enemies?" he asked.

They were at the door before she answered.

"Yes--one."

For an instant his arm grew tense, detaining her.

"And that?" he questioned.

She withdrew her hand sharply.

"Myself," she said, and swiftly, without another glance, she left him.

XIII

The roar of the London traffic rose muffled through the London fog. It

was a winter afternoon of great murkiness.

In the private sitting-room of a private hotel Nina Perceval sat alone,

as she had sat for two dragging, intolerable days, and waited. She had

begun to ask herself--she had asked herself many times that day--if she

waited in vain. She would remain for the week, whatever happened, but

the torture of suspense had become such as she scarcely knew how to

endure. Something of the fever of restlessness that had tormented her at

Bombay was upon her now, but with it, subtly mingled, was a misery of

uncertainty that had not gripped her then. She was unspeakably lonely,

and at certain panic-stricken times unspeakably afraid; but whether it

was the possibility of his presence or the certainty of his continued

absence that appalled her, she could not have said.

A fire burned with a cheery crackling in the room, throwing weird

shadows through the dimness. Yet she shivered from time to time as

though the chill of the London fog penetrated to her bones. Ah! what was

that? She startled violently at the sound of a low knock at the door,

then hastily commanded herself. It was only a waiter with the tea she

had ordered, of course. With her back to the door she bade him enter.

But, though the door opened and someone entered, there came no jingle of

tea things. She did not turn her head. It was as though she could not.

She was as one turned to stone. She thought that the wild throbbing of

her heart would choke her.

He came straight to her and stood beside her, not offering to touch so

much as her hand. The red firelight beat upwards on his face. She

ventured a single glance at him, and was oddly shocked by the look he

wore. Something of the red glow on the hearth shone back at her from his

eyes. She did not dare to look again. Yet when he spoke, though he

uttered no greeting, his voice was quite normal, wholly free from

agitation.

"I should have been here sooner, but I was scouring London for an old

friend. I have found him at last, but, faith, I've had a chase. Do you

remember Jasper Caldicott, the parson who went out with us on the

_Scindia_ eight years ago?"

"Yes, I remember him." She spoke with a strong effort. Her lips felt

stiff and cold.

"He has a parish Whitechapel way," said Hone. "I only found him out this

morning. I wanted to bring him to see you."

"Yes?" At his abrupt pause she moved slightly. "But he wouldn't come?"

"He will come some day," said Hone. "But he had some scruple about

accompanying me there and then, as I wished. In fact, he wants you to

visit him instead."

"Yes?" She almost whispered the word. She was holding the mantelpiece

with both hands to steady her trembling limbs.

"Sure, there's nothing to alarm you at all," Hone said. "It'll soon be

over. He wants you to do him the honour of being married in his church

and there's a taxi below waiting to take you."

"Now?" She turned and faced him, white to the lips.

"Yes, now! By special licence." Sternly he made reply, and again she

felt as though the fire in his eyes scorched her.

"And if I--refuse?" She stood up to her full height, flinging her fear

from her with a royal gesture that was almost a challenge.

But Hone was ready for her. Hone, the gentle, the kind, the chivalrous,

stepped suddenly forth from his garden of virtues with level lance to

meet her.

"By the powers," he said, and the words came from between his teeth, "I

wonder you dare to ask me that!"

She laughed, but her laughter was slightly hysterical, and in an instant

he seized and pressed his advantage.

"It is the end of the game," he grimly told her. "And you are beaten.

You told me once that you didn't always pay your debts. But, by Heaven,

you shall pay this one!"

By sheer weight he beat down her resistance. Against her will, in spite

of her utmost effort, she gave way before him.

A moment she stood in silence. Then, "So be it!" she said, and, turning,

left him.

When she joined him again she was so thickly veiled that he could not

see her face. She preceded him without a word into the lift, and they

went down in utter silence to the waiting taxi. Then side by side

through the gloom as though they travelled through space, a myriad

lights twinkling all about them, the rush and roar of a universe in

their ears, but they two alone in an atmosphere that none other

breathed.

It was a journey that neither ever afterwards calculated by time. It was

incalculable as the flight of a meteor. And when at last it came to an

end, for an instant neither moved.

Then, as though emerging from a dream, Hone rose and alighted, and

turned to give his hand to his companion. A little group of ragged

urchins stood to view upon the muddy pavement. There was no other pomp

to attend the coming of a bride.

Silently they entered a church that was lighted from end to end for

evening service. They passed up the aisle through a haze of fog. They

halted at the chancel steps....

The knot of urchins had grown to a considerable crowd when they emerged.

Women and half-grown girls jostled each other for a glimpse of the

bride. But the utmost that any saw was a slender figure wearing a thick

veil that walked a little apart from the bridegroom, and entered the

waiting motor unassisted.

XIV

Back once more in the room where the fire crackled, newly replenished,

and electric light revealed a shining tea-table, Hone turned to the

silent woman beside him.

"Can I write a message? I promised to send one to Teddy as soon as we

were married."

She pointed to the writing-table; and moved herself to the fire. There

she stood for a few seconds quite motionless, seeming to listen to the

scratching of his pen.

He ceased to write, and turned in his chair. For a moment his eyes

rested upon her.

"Take off your hat!" he said.

She obeyed him in utter silence. Her hands were stiff and numb with

cold. She stooped, the firelight shining on her hair, and held them to

the blaze.

Hone rose quietly, and came to her side. He held his message for her to

read, and she did so silently.

"Just married. All well. Love.--PAT."

"Will it do?" he said.

She glanced up at him and shivered.

"Is all well?" she asked, in a tone that demanded no answer.

He made none, merely rang the bell and gave orders for the despatch of

the message.

Then he came quietly back to her. They stood face to face. She was quite

erect, but pale to the lips. She stood before him as a prisoner awaiting

sentence, too proud to ask for mercy.

Hone paused a few moments, as if to give her time to speak, to challenge

him, to make her defence, or to plead her weakness. Then, as she did

none of these things, he suddenly laid steady hands upon her, drew her

to him, and, bending, looked closely into her eyes.

"And is there any reason at all why I should not take what is my own?"

he said.

She did not resist him, but a long shiver went through her.

"Are you sure it is worth the taking?" she said.

"Quite sure," he answered quietly. "Shall I tell you how I know?"

Her eyes sank before his.

"You will do exactly as you choose."

He was silent for an instant, still intently searching her white face.

Then:

"Do you remember that night that you fainted in my arms?" he said. "Do

you remember opening your eyes in the boat? Do you know--can you

guess--what your eyes told me?"

She was silent; only again from head to foot she shivered.

He went on very quietly, as one absolutely sure of himself:

"I looked into your soul that night, and I saw your secret hidden away

in its darkest corner. And I knew it had been there for a long, long

time. I knew from that moment that, hate me as you might, you were mine,

as I have been yours for so long as I have known you."

She raised her eyes suddenly, stiffening in his grasp.

"And you expect me to believe that of you?" she said, a tremor that was

not of fear, in her voice.

"You do believe it," he answered with conviction.

She raised her hands with something of her old imperious grace, and laid

them on his arms, freeing herself with a single gesture.

"And all those years ago," she said, "when you made me believe you had

been trifling with me--"

"I lied!" said Hone. "It was the hardest thing I ever did. But something

had to be done. I did it to save you suffering."

She turned abruptly from him, moving blindly, till groping, she found

the mantelpiece, and leaned upon it. Then, her back to him, she spoke:

"And you succeeded in breaking my heart."

A sudden silence fell. Hone stood motionless, his hands fallen to his

sides. The dull roar of the streets beat up through the stillness like

the roar of a distant sea, bringing to mind a night long, long ago when

first he had met his little princess, when first the gay charm of her

personality had been cast upon him.

With a resolute effort he spoke.

"But you were scarcely more than a child," he said. "It--sure, it

couldn't have been as bad as that?"

At the sound of the pain in his voice she slowly turned.

"It was much worse than that," she said. "While it lasted, it was

intolerable. There were times when I thought it would drive me crazy.

But you--you were always there, and I think the sight of you kept me

sane. I hated you so. I had to show you that I didn't care."

Again he heard in her voice that tremor that was not of fear.

"As long as my husband lived," she went on, "I kept up the miserable

farce. As you know, we never loved each other. Then he died, and I found

I couldn't bear it any longer. There was no reason why I should. I went

away. I should never have seen you again, only Mrs. Chester would take

no refusal. And I had put it all away from me by that time. I felt it

did not greatly matter if we did meet. Nothing seemed of much importance

till that day I saw you on the polo ground, carrying all before

you--Achilles triumphant! That day I began to hate you again." A faint

smile drew the corners of her mouth. "I think you suspected it," she

said, "but your suspicions were soon lulled to rest. Did it never cross

your mind to wonder how we came to pair on that night of the river

picnic? I accused you of cheating, do you remember? And you were quite

indignant." A glimmer of the old gay mischief shone for a fleeting

second through her tragedy. "That was the first move in the game," she

said. "At least you never suspected me of that."

"No; you had me there." There was a ring of sternness in Hone's voice.

"So that was the beginning?" he said.

She nodded.

"And it would have been the end also, if you would have suffered it. For

that very night I ceased to hate you." A faint flush tinged her pale

face. "I would have let you off," she said. "I didn't want to go on. But

you would not have it so. You came after me. You wouldn't leave me

alone, even though I warned you--I warned you that I wasn't worth your

devotion. And so"--again her voice trembled--"you had to have your

lesson after all."

"And do you know what it has taught me?"

Again there sounded in his voice that new mastery that had so strangely

overwhelmed her.

She shrank a little as it reached her, and turned her face aside. "I can

guess," she said.

"And is it good at guessing that you are?"

He drew nearer to her with the words, but he did not offer to touch her.

She stood motionless, her head bent lest he should see, and understand,

the piteous quivering of her lips. With immense effort she made reply:

"It has taught you to hate and despise me, as--as I deserve."

"Faith!" he said. "You think that--honestly now?"

The mastery had all gone out of his voice. It was soft with that

caressing quality she knew of old--that tenderness, half-humorous,

half-persuasive, that had won her heart so long, so long ago. She did

not answer him--for she could not.

He waited for the space of a score of seconds, standing close to her,

yet still not touching her, looking down in silence at the proud dark

head abased before him.

At last: "It's myself that'll have to tell you, after all," he said

gently, "for sure it's the only way to make you understand. It's taught

me that we can both be winners, dear, if we play the game squarely, just

as we have both been losers all these weary years. But we will have to

be partners from this day forward. So just put your little hand in mine,

and it'll be all right, mavourneen! Pat'll understand!"

She moved at that--moved sharply, convulsively, passionately. For a

moment her eyes met his; for a moment she seemed on the verge of amazed

questioning, even of vehement protest.

But--perhaps the grey eyes that looked straight and steadfast into her

own made speech seem unnecessary--for she only whispered, "St.

Patrick!" in a voice that trembled and broke.

And "Princess! My Princess!" was all he answered as he took her into his

arms.