The same deep voice that had taunted him at Maisie's, only now it was no

longer taunting! He noticed the way she offered him her hand, with the

arm fully extended as if to hold him away from her. She was a smaller

woman than he had remembered; it was the courage of her bearing that had

made her seem taller. He could not see her face distinctly; it was in

shadow. But, when she turned, he caught the whiteness of her profile on

the dusk, clear-cut and tranquil as a cameo. After having gazed so long

at Sargent's painting, he would have recognized anywhere the rounded

shapeliness of her head, the hair swept smoothly back from the calm

forehead, the splendid strength of her throat and the delicate, wholly

feminine half-moon of her shoulders.

"Won't you sit over here? If you would prefer it, we can have more

lamps. But they would spoil----" She indicated the vague stretch of

country, across which mists were drifting like gray ghosts.

He drew up a chair at an angle to her own, so that he could study her.

"You say you think you know why I've come?"

"I was expecting you," she said quietly. He could feel rather than see

the steady kindness that was in her stone-gray eyes.

"If you were expecting me, then your sister must have----"

"My sister had nothing to do with my expecting. Can't you think of any

one closer?"

He shook his head. At first he had hoped that Maisie had told her and

done his work for him. Evidently it wasn't that. She was attributing

some other motive to his visit. It was a motive the disclosure of which

called for delicacy. She had prearranged his reception. It was no

accident that had caused him to find her alone in the dimness of the

gathering evening. The scanty lighting of the shadowy room had been

stage-set to spare them both embarrassment. "If it wasn't your

sister----" He paused at a loss to know how to proceed further.

Her hands came together gently in her lap. When she spoke, her emotional

voice had a new tenderness. "Will you allow me to help you? We're not

such strangers as we seem. For years I've been interested in you. I was

always hearing of your adventures in Mexico, Korea, the Balkans and last

of all at the Front. You've been quite a romantic figure in my life.

You've always seemed so strong; and I admire strength immensely. I never

dreamt that a time would ever come when I would be able to help you.

You're in love and she's not in love with you. You're older than she is

and it makes you unhappy. She has time to experiment, but for you it's

different; your love is bound up with the last of your youth. Because

you've been unhappy, you've been unwise. Your foolishness ended

yesterday with the return of Reggie Pollock. I received the news of his

return this morning. So you came down here to me, which was perfectly

natural."

He shifted his gaze and stared out of the window, puzzled and troubled.

"Unfortunately for me, Lady Dawn, a good deal of what you've said is

true. But I don't see how it makes it natural that I should have come to

you. I've been wanting to come for a very long time, but was given to

understand that what I had to say might be distasteful."

"You must put that out of your mind." She said it comfortingly, as

though to a little boy. "There's nothing distasteful in what you have

to say. It may cause awkwardness with Sir Tobias; but if you can assure

me that you're really in earnest over Terry, I'll be quite willing to

risk that in order to become your ally."

He smiled towards her through the darkness. "There's nothing I should

like better than to reckon you as my ally. And now I see why we've been

talking at cross-purposes. You think that I've come to wheedle Terry's

address out of you. Perhaps I have, since you've put the idea into my

head. And with regard to my earnestness, nothing except Terry in the

whole world matters. She's romance, self-fulfillment and, as you've

said, the last dream of my youth. If I supposed that I were going to

lose her, I would rather not have---- But I didn't come here to burden

you with my troubles. I came to do something for you--something which

I've tried to avoid doing. Something which has forced itself upon me and

followed me until---- It's as though I'd been compelled by a personality

outside myself. I may make you very unhappy----"

She leant forward, bringing her face so close that he could feel the

fanning of her breath. The moon was newly risen; as it shone on the

mist, low-lying in the meadows, it made the country-side luminous like a

vast lake of milk which washed about the trees and submerged the hedges.

In its reflected radiancy for the first time he saw her features

clearly. They startled him, leaping together out of the white blur that

they had been into something more lovely than he had imagined. He had

never seen such calmness. And the calmness was not alone in her

expression; the same sculptured quiet was in the white curve of her arms

and the gentle swelling of her breast. He knew now why she was declared

to be the most beautiful woman in England. But it was the wisdom of her

far more than the beauty that enthralled him. There was no weakness that

her sympathy could not encompass--nothing that he need be ashamed to

tell her. Though she appeared to be about the same age as himself, by

reason of her experience she made him feel younger. No woman who had

attracted him before had been able to make him feel that. Already he was

filled with a strange sense of gratitude.

Very simply she took his hand and folded it between her own.

"You, who have been a soldier, were a little afraid of me. Don't be

afraid of me, Lord Taborley. Whatever it is that you've come to do for

me, I shall try to be grateful. As for making me unhappy, no one--not

even you--has the power to do that."

VIII

He looked at her wonderingly. "They say you never cry."

A slow smile flitted across her face and died out. "You want the truth?

You yourself tell the truth---- When they say that I never cry, they

mean that I never let them see me."

He laughed softly. "I thought it was that: you cry in secret like a man.

Not to cry at all would be monstrous; it was that which made me afraid

of you. A man doesn't like a woman to be stronger than himself. It was

about a man who didn't like a woman to be stronger than himself that I

came to talk to you."

She had guessed. Through her hands he could feel the commotion of her

life struggle and die down till it grew almost silent. The stillness of

the room seemed a backwater of the intenser stillness of the night

without.

Her lips scarcely moved. "And the man?"

"Your husband."

"But he's dead."

"I know."

He waited for her to flame up at the indelicacy of his intrusion. He

almost hoped she would. When she sat motionless as a statue, he

continued apologetically. "I'm trespassing on things sacred. Because of

that I've fought to avoid this meeting, knowing all the time that it was

inevitable. I've tried to persuade myself that it would be kinder to

leave you in ignorance----"

"Of what?" She strove to subdue her apprehension. Her profile showed

pale and expressionless, as if chiseled in the solid wall of darkness.

"In ignorance of his grandeur."

He had said the thing most remote from what she had expected. He was

aware of her relieved suspense--at the same time of her gentle

skepticism. He felt irritated with himself at his choice of words.

Grandeur did not express the meaning he had intended. When he made a new

start, he stumbled his way gropingly, confused by his consciousness of

her unuttered doubts.

"Why I have to tell you this I can hardly say. It's not for his sake.

It's certainly not for mine. It's for yours, I fancy. Yes, I'm sure. By

doing him justice I shall be able to help you, though I have no reason

for supposing that you stand in need of help. It's to do him justice

that he's been urging me. Yet why should he have selected me to be his

spokesman? I wasn't his friend. I never met him till I reached the

Front; out there I really never knew him. No one did. He was like a

sleep-walker--a very silent man. You'll be wondering why, if this was

the case, I should be so impertinent as to mention his name to you--to

you of all persons, who can claim to have known him infinitely more

intimately than any one else. And you'll be wondering why, after two

months of procrastinating, I motored through the night from London to

force my way into your privacy, without forewarning or introduction. If

I'm going to be honest, I must run the risk of appearing absurd. I could

resist him no longer. He coerced me with ill-luck. Ever since I entered

your sister's house and discovered who you were, he's been urging----"

"Who I _was_!" Her head turned slowly. It was her first intense display

of interest.

"I mean your relation to him--that it was you who were his wife. At the

Front I didn't know that he was Lord Dawn; he'd blotted out his

identity. He was merely gun-fodder like the rest of us--something to be

sent over the top to be smashed and then to be left to sink into the

mud or else hurried back to be patched up in hospital. He was a

company-commander in my battalion. I knew nothing of his past. My

acquaintance with him began and ended in the trenches. I don't know much

now--only what Maisie's told me." He had been speaking with growing

earnestness. Suddenly he flashed into indignant vehemence. "What

Maisie's told me! It's false of the man as he was out there. He wants

you to believe that. Out there he was different. He may have been paltry

and base once; but he was reborn into a new nobility. He was white all

through. He was overpoweringly heroic. From the humblest Tommy we all

adored him--adored him for the example he set us. He was only cheerful

when there was dying to be done--out at rest and in quiet sectors he was

gloomy. The men loved him for that; it struck them as humorous. And yet

he was utterly indifferent to their love. He'd got beyond caring for

what anybody thought of him. He was too absorbed in establishing reasons

for thinking well of himself. I learnt things about him--one does in the

presence of physical torture. I learnt secrets about the fineness of his

spirit which, I believe, he never allowed you to suspect. Probably he

never suspected them himself until the ordeal of terror had sifted the

gold from the dross. It was the dross that Maisie remembered. But we,

who were his comrades in khaki, saw nothing but the gold--his untiring

ability to share. You weren't there; nevertheless, that's what I've got

to help you to understand. I've got to make you see the new Lord Dawn

who was born out there. It was last night, after Pollock returned, that

I saw my duty clearly. It came on me in a flash that, if a man who had

been counted dead could come back, it was not impossible that this

pleading from beyond the grave, which I'd tried to thwart and

ridicule----"

He broke off abruptly. It was the wideness of her eyes that warned him.

He was conscious that she, too, was feeling that invisible pressure. She

was expecting to see something. He followed the direction of her eyes,

glancing behind him into the hollow dimness of the room, where the

solitary lamp was burning and the vanished lords of Dawn gazed stonily

down from their canvases. In that moment he was aware that he had been

stating facts as he had never owned them to himself. It was as though

his lips had been used----

"Things that he didn't allow me to suspect!" She sighed shudderingly.

"He allowed me to suspect so much. But tell me. What were these things?

Since they're the reasons for your visit, they must be important."

"They're only part of the reasons."

"There are others?"

"The chief reason is yourself." He spoke cautiously, fearful lest he

might lose her attention by rousing her incredulity. Even to himself it

sounded preposterous that he, an outsider, should claim to bear so

intimate a message from a husband who was dead. "You believed, Lady

Dawn, that you had ceased to count in your husband's affections; yet

wherever his battalion went, you were present with us. The men and

officers knew you, without knowing who you were. You were with us in

the mud of the Somme; you went over the top with us in our attacks. More

than one young officer believed himself in love with you. Yours was the

last woman's face that many a poor fellow looked upon before he went

West. We were an emotional lot. Death made us natural as children. Women

meant more to us than they ever had before and than they ever will

again, perhaps. The nearness to eternity purged us of impurity. It fired

us with a wistful kind of chivalry. The change is hard to express. I've

known men, who hadn't a wife or sweetheart, cut strange women's

portraits from the illustrated papers and treasure them. As we sit here

it sounds a waste of sentiment; out there it seemed tragically pathetic.

Every man wanted to believe, even though his believing was a conscious

pretense, that there was one woman peculiarly his, who would miss----"

He interrupted himself to glance again across his shoulder, following

her eyes where they probed the stealthy shadows. Then he brought his

gaze back. "That was how I first learnt to know your face--from the

portrait which your husband carried. Into whatever danger he was

ordered, you went--you accompanied him in the most real sense: he

carried you in his heart. From time to time I got glimpses of you. When

he thought no one was looking, he would prop your portrait against the

walls of dug-outs with a candle lighted before it, as if you were a

saint whom he worshiped. You were the inspiration of his steadfastness

to duty. What he did, he did for you. His courage was your courage; his

kindness was your kindness. He was striving every minute to be worthy of

you. I know of what I'm talking, for I did the same for Terry. Late at

night one would stumble down greasy dug-out stairs, coming in from a

patrol, to find him lost in thought and gazing at you. Or one would find

him covering page after page of letters which he never sent. When he was

dying, alone and far out in No Man's Land, he must have drawn out your

portrait from next his heart. It was so tightly clasped in his hand when

we found him, that we couldn't take it from him. I'd almost forgotten

all this until two months ago, when I recognized Sargent's painting of

you in your sister's house. Then for the first time I discovered your

name and who he was. Since then he's given me no rest."

She had been leaning forward, her arm supported on her knee, her chin

cushioned in her hand, the white light from the mist-covered meadows

falling softly on her through the tall window, revealing the pulse

beating in her throat and the trembling of her thin sweet mouth.

"What was it that he wanted you to do for me, Lord Taborley?"

He hesitated, clasping his forehead, like a man whose memory had

suddenly gone blank. "I'm not sure. And yet I was sure before I started

talking. Didn't you believe that he died hating you?"

She shook her head. "He left a child by me."

"Then, perhaps it wasn't that he hadn't hated you, but that he'd loved

you in his last moments. Was it that which he wanted me to tell you?"

Again, with a gesture, she negatived his suggestion. "He'd never have

doubted that I would know he had died loving me."

"Then why did he send me?"

Even while he asked it, he marveled at his certainty that she shared his

conviction that he had been sent.

She turned her eyes full on his face and let them dwell there

searchingly. As he returned her gaze, he noted that she was less young

than he had supposed. She was older than her portrait. Her hair, which

had looked night-black in the shadows, was prematurely frosted. The

moonlight, strengthening, picked out remorselessly each silver thread.

She was no longer capable of putting back the hands of time for any man.

She had read his thoughts. The pride went out of her voice. "Perhaps he

sent you," she faltered, "that he might give me back a little of what he

took."

"What did he take? Anything that I have----"

She leant back in her chair. Her face was again in shadow. "My youth. My

happiness."

In the silence which followed he was aware that the third presence had

departed.

IX

"Your youth! Your happiness!" He was astounded. "Strange that you should

say that! I thought that I alone was searching."

"Let me talk," she begged. "I want to speak about myself. Not for my own

sake, but for yours. To men like you who have lived at the Front, life

has become a terribly earnest affair. You're like impatient children;

what you want you want quickly. You seem to be afraid to postpone

anything lest death should carry you off before your desire has been

granted. But you're not really different from women like myself. Crises

come to all of us, when life grows desperate--when to be alone becomes

intolerable: when everything, even one's pleasures, becomes a burden,

because they are unshared. Such a crisis would have come to you sooner

or later in any event. It comes to every unmarried man and woman. The

war only happened to be the means of bringing home to you your

loneliness. When it broke, you didn't have time to choose; you seized on

Terry, because she was young and pretty and susceptible. You were

terrified by the calamity of being blotted out before you had known

love. You forgot that there's a worse calamity--and that's being

compelled to live forever with a person for whom you have ceased to

care. A man like yourself can have any woman he likes, only any woman

wouldn't suit. She would have to be unusual--of a high type like

yourself. Such women are rare. The thought of Terry attracts you because

a marriage with her would seem to halve your years. But why should you

want to halve your years? To have lived ought to mean that you have

gained experience, which is the most dearly purchased form of knowledge.

Why should you be ashamed of it and so anxious to be rid of it? You

purchased your experience with blood. It's the most valuable of all

your possessions. And if you were to marry Terry, what could she

contribute? A pretty face, an unbroken body and all the intolerance of

her youth. A pretty face doesn't go far in matrimony. Husbands soon get

used to mere prettiness and learn to look behind it for character. A

wife, in order to be your friend, would have to be your equal in her

understanding of suffering. How much suffering has a girl like Terry

had?"

He wasn't angry. He wasn't even offended. What she had been saying had

so clarified his thoughts that it had been as if he had been thinking

aloud. Her voice was a dark mirror, glancing into which he had

recognized himself. His self-knowledge carried him far beyond any

arguments of hers. He sat perfectly still with a face of iron, gazing

straight before him.

What he had mistaken for chivalry and romance had been nothing but

foolishness. He had been enacting the unwisdom of an infatuated boy with

the solemnity of a mature man. His clamor had been unprofitable,

undignified, absurd--on a level with the amorous hysterics of Grand

Opera, save that it had lacked the redeeming storm of contending music.

The utter futility of so much wasted feeling bordered on tragedy; the

need which it had expressed had been so primitive, so distressingly

sincere. He was confronted with the necessity of confessing that his

passion for Terry was at an end.

When had it died? Perhaps only since he had entered this quiet room,

with its moonlit landscape, its lowered lights and its wise mistress,

sitting so gravely alone with her patient beauty and her gently folded

hands. But even before he had entered, it must have been dying. For

weeks he had been flogging it, like an over-tired horse, into a feeble

display of energy. More than anything, his conduct with Maisie proved

that.

Maisie's excuse for the error of her many marriages recurred to

him--that Gervis and Lockwood had hung up their hats in her hall.

Frivolous, yes! But had he been less frivolous in his treatment of

Terry? He had felt the compulsion to concentrate his craving to love and

be loved on some special woman! Terry had been handiest, so he'd hung

his idolatry on her.

But to acknowledge this implied a fickleness of temperament that was

disastrous to his self-respect. It deflated him to the proportions of an

Adair. It toppled his lofty standards in the dust. It changed him from a

loyalist, making a fanatical last stand, into a haggard runaway.

His pride leapt up in his defense. Turning to Lady Dawn, with grim

despair he muttered, "But I want her. I can't do without her. I want no

one else."

X

Her voice reached him out of the darkness. "To own that we've been

mistaken takes more courage than to persist in the wrong direction. 'I

want no one else!' We've all said that. It was through saying it that I

brought about my shipwreck. But if you're sure that you want no one

else, you must have her. If there's any way of getting her for you,

I'll do my best to help."

She made an effort to rise. She stood before him swaying, a blinded look

on her face, her eyes closed, her hands stretched out. He placed his arm

about her. Her weight sagged against him.

"Not the servants," she whispered. "You and I. Give me air."

With his free hand he jerked the catch and pushed the window wide. The

cool dampness of the night streamed in on her. He stood there with her

clasped against him, her head stretched back, her body drooping. In the

bowl of darkness at the foot of the turret, the rose-garden floated. Out

of sight, in the green-scummed moat, a fish leapt with a sullen splash.

A bird called. Wheels rumbled on a distant road. Again the silence was

unbroken. The moonlight, falling on her face, gave to it an expression

of childishness. Her breast and throat, gleaming white as marble,

reminded him she was a woman.

She stirred. Her eyes opened. She gazed up at him wonderingly. "I'm

better. Foolish of me!" Then, inconsequently, "How tall you are, Lord

Taborley!"

He supported her till she could lean across the sill. They leant there

together, their faces nearly touching. His arm was still about her; she

did not seem to notice it. He was dumb with tremulous expectancy.

"It was about myself that I had to tell you," she whispered. "I was once

like you. I wanted no one else. I knew, even while I wanted him, that he

could never make me happy. Even when I was most in love with him, he

had qualities which I distrusted. After marriage the distrusting grew.

Yet all the while I was sorry for him. I would have given anything to

undo---- His sins were mine. With another woman, less virtuous, he might

have been good. In his yearning he tried to drag me down. I couldn't go,

not even if going would have saved him. There was something in me, not

exactly pride, that prevented. I have never spoken of this to anybody.

I'm saying it to you because----"

She broke off. Why was she saying it? The perfume of June roses under

moonlight, mingling with the fragrance of her hair, was intoxicating.

His arm about her tightened. Was she only allowing him to hold her out

of pity because of his confession?

"Because," she said, "I think before she knows of your visit it would be

better that you should go."

He failed to grasp her logic. "But if I stay, she will never know."

She released herself gently and gazed at him reproachfully. "Never know!

But you came in order that she might know."

He was more than ever puzzled. He had come to tell her of her husband.

Did she not believe him? She seemed to be accusing him. He remembered

how she had claimed, when he had entered, that she could guess what had

brought him. "I came solely to see you," he said, speaking slowly. "I

was compelled, as I've told you. I give you my word of honor that my

visit wasn't even remotely related to----"

A sharply indrawn breath cut short what he was saying. They turned

quickly, moving instinctively apart. Gazing in from the open door,

across the pool of lamplight, was Terry.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH

ROUND THE CORNER

I

Lady Dawn was the first to recover her composure. "Why, Terry, I thought

you were in bed!"

"I was."

Terry's eyes shifted from Lady Dawn to Tabs. They were startled and

misty with sleep. She seemed only half-awake. Her hand rested on the

door as if ready for retreat. Her square little face was flushed; her

gold, bobbed hair was flattened where it had pressed against the pillow.

She was clad in a filmy negligee; her bare feet had been pushed hastily

into slippers and peeped out rosily from beneath the hem. She looked

immature--the way she had in days gone by when he had tiptoed to her

bedside through the darkness to feel her tight little arms leap

stranglingly about his neck. She had been really a tiny girl then. Why

couldn't she have stayed like that always? Why need she have roused in

him this torturing desire which she did nothing but rebuff?

"I was asleep. I heard voices. I thought----"

What had she thought? How much had she seen and heard? How long had she

been standing there?

Tabs attempted to bridge the awkward silence. "I drove down from

London." Then he added, "That was last night."

None of them had stirred. Lady Dawn advanced from the window into the

pool of lamplight. "I think I know what you thought--that something was

wrong. It was. I nearly fainted. If it hadn't been for Lord

Taborley----But come inside. Why do you remain standing there?"

Terry stepped just across the threshold. Having closed the door, she

leant against it, still holding the knob in her hand. It was plain that

she was making an effort to be valiant. She looked fragile as a peeled

white wand; like a flower, shy and dew-wet. Life had not yet commenced

to break her. The clinging folds of her wrap emphasized her slenderness,

the grace of her lines and the girlish contours of her figure.

Lady Dawn went to her and put her arm about her. "You're afraid. Of what

are you afraid? Surely not of Lord Taborley? He's been telling me---- To

be loved like that---- There was a time when I would have been proud."

Terry's left hand went up to her breast. Her wild violet eyes looked

straight before her, seeking always the face of Tabs. They seemed to

call to him. He came slowly to the table where she could see him. It was

his chance. Lady Dawn was his advocate. It was the chance for which he

had waited.

He was contrasting the two women before him; the one in her dainty,

enviable promise and the dumb hostility of her youth; the other in the

gentleness of her experience and the charity of her dearly purchased

understanding. Terry, whom he had loved since she was a child, had

become inscrutable. But Lady Dawn---- Was it her suffering that made him

know her as he knew himself?

"I hadn't meant to intrude on you," he apologized. "I hadn't the least

idea you were here. How should I have had? You disappeared without

warning; at your father's house your address was refused me. Lady Dawn

will bear me out that, at the very moment you entered, I was assuring

her that my visit had nothing to do with you. Probably you heard."

"Nothing to do with me!" There was relief in her way of saying it. She

visibly relaxed. "Then it isn't because of me at all that you're here?"

The suppressed eagerness of her question was wounding. She wanted to

hear him state more positively that she had had nothing to do with his

visit. Whatever she had seen before they had become aware of her, had

had no power to rouse her jealousy. She could have given him no stronger

proof of how absolutely he had ceased to count. He smiled bitterly. "Not

because of you at all, Terry. The reason for my being here is strictly

private between Lady Dawn and myself. I didn't come to worry you. You

may set your mind at rest."

"Then you didn't know or even suspect----"

He laughed unhappily. "What more can I say to convince you? I haven't

the least idea what you suppose I could suspect. What business is it of

mine to suspect anything? And if I did, what license should I have to

interfere? We're not as we once were. There are no longer any

sentimental obligations that would hold us accountable to each other.

You've shown me that you consider our relation ended. In the face of

that, I should scarcely follow you into the country where, by all

accounts, you've come to escape me. It's purely a coincidence that you

find me here."

He caught Lady Dawn's eyes resting on him. They were wide and clear and

interrogating. He knew what she was remembering: that it was in this

room within the hour that he had said, "But I want her. I can't do

without her. I want no one else." Self-ridicule tempered his spirit into

sharpness. He turned again to Terry.

"Once and for all I should like to set your doubts at rest. You need

have no fear that I shall ever inconvenience you. We're bound to meet

from time to time, but I pledge you my word that I shall never refer to

the past. You're of an age to make decisions for yourself; you've

decided against me. You're acting quite within your privilege when you

discard old friends. You'll wonder why I state obvious facts. I'm doing

so in order that you may feel certain that I've withdrawn whatever

claims I had for influencing your movements. I shall always be

interested---- But as for presuming that anything that I might say or do

would make the least difference to your plans, I shouldn't be so

foolish----"

Breaking away from Lady Dawn, she crossed over to him. Resting her hand

on his arm, she sank her voice and commenced speaking so hurriedly that

he alone could make out what she said.

"I've been false and foolish. I don't need you to tell me. If you knew

how miserable I've been and how I've despised myself---- But I can't

help it. I go on doing things. I never used to be a beast--least of all

to you; never until you wanted me to marry you. If I can act like this

now, what sort of a wife---- Can't you understand? I'm trying to spare

you. But I won't have you hate me, Tabs. I can't endure that. Every

second that I've kept away from you, I've been wanting--not the _you_

that you are now, but the old you. Won't you start afresh, liking me the

way you did when--before this happened?" She seized his hand on the

impulse and pressed it to her lips. It was the humble act of a small

girl. "Love me just a little. I'm not really bad. Please, please forgive

me my wickedness, dear Tabs."

He stood dumbfounded and embarrassed. If they had been alone, he would

have known what to do. He was at a loss to find a motive for this

display of passion. Was it a ruse to get him back? He crushed the

suspicion as unworthy. Then was it what she had seen that had made her

possessive? Her tears fell scalding on his hands.

He drew her to him. "There, there, little Terry! You mustn't. There's

nothing to cry about. There's nothing wicked in not having loved a man.

It's a thing that can't be helped."

At the sign of his relenting, she threw away the last of her control.

Burying her face against his coat, she clung to him. All that he could

see of her was her golden head and her slight body, quivering with

sobbing. Her voice reached him muffled. "But I am wicked. I've pushed

you from me. If you knew---- If you did, you wouldn't touch me."

There had been no sound, yet something warned him. He looked up. The

door was closing.

"Lady Dawn," he called. In his voice there was the tremor of anxiety.

On the point of vanishing, she glanced back across her shoulder. "What

is it, Lord Taborley?"

The calmness of her austerity made emotion seem shallow. There was a

touch of scorn in her repose.

"Won't you help?"

She smiled faintly. "I was. I was going."

"Then please don't. It's late. Both you and she must be worn out."

Like a figure of silver, she came coldly back. But there was only

tenderness in her voice when she spoke. "Terry, did you hear what Lord

Taborley said? He thinks he ought to be going."

Slipping her arm about the girl, she led her from him. Their footsteps

died out on the turret stairs.

He waited, hoping that Lady Dawn would return. Now that she was gone, he

was invaded with his old loneliness. The dead lords eyed him cynically

from their canvases. Through leaded panes the moonlight fell. It seemed

the sorcery of her spirit. The perfume of the rose-garden was her

breath. How pale she had made his dream of Terry! How trivial she made

all women look when she stood beside them! There was nothing in this

gift of youth for which he had clamored. Terry's youth, had he married

her, would have been his scourge. He knew at last what it was that he

required at the hands of a woman--it was rest.

There was no sound. The Castle was intensely still. He lowered the wick

of the lamp before he left, watched the flame splutter and waited till

it sank. Tiptoeing softly down the stairs, he slipped out noiselessly

into the romance of the summer's night.

II

Next morning, for the first few seconds after he had wakened, he lay

wondering why he was so happy. Then he remembered.

He had never had a friendship with a woman. From the start, though he

had hidden the fact from himself, his supposed friendship with Maisie

had been nothing less than lazy courtship. Terry had detected that when

she had said that he wouldn't have been so interested in Maisie if she

hadn't been so desperately good-looking. Until this morning he had had

no faith in such friendships. He had believed that their fundamental

attraction, however well concealed, must always be sex. They could never

be more than a pretense, in which either the man or the woman was

cheating--the one being anxious to give more than friendship, the other

deriving amusement from giving less. He had held that such relations

between men and women were inherently dishonest, doomed to end in a

clash of desire or to broaden into an honorable love affair. There was

no middle course between coveting a woman and neglecting her as entirely

dispensable.

But this morning his point of view was altered. He was confident that

his interest in Lady Dawn was on an utterly different footing. He had

never had this peacefulness of feeling for any woman. He marveled at it.

He had to fight the disillusion that it might be no more than a mood.

His liking for her had come to him so suddenly. Suddenness in the

emotions prompted him to distrust. Yet his present contentment seemed as

secure as it was incomprehensible. His new affection compensated him for

all previous failures and atoned for the humiliation of every past

regret.

At that word "affection" he halted himself. Was it affection that he

entertained for Lady Dawn? He took a good look at the suspected word and

decided that it was. But it was the affection of reverence. In owning

this much he qualified his admission by insisting that his affection was

totally devoid of passion. Passion in the presence of Lady Dawn looked

hysteric and paltry. She inspired a serenity which had nothing to do

with the physical. It was the charm of her character that entranced him.

Her body scarcely figured in his thoughts; when it did, it failed to

stir him. It was no more than the gracious vehicle through which the

beauty of her spirit was expressed.

His paramount emotion was gratitude--gratitude that she, who was reputed

to be so cold, should so instantly have unveiled herself. There was a

startling purity in the frankness with which she had bared her spirit

to him. It left him awed and touched. He recognized the generosity which

had prompted her; she had realized his need of a woman's trust. And so

she had withheld nothing that would comfort him. She had made him feel

safe, the way a mother does. She had picked up the little boy that lies

hidden in the heart of every man, and had folded him in her breast.

It had been shameless of her. He had not guessed that a woman could be

so good.

And she had made him so finally sure of her. He felt that he could leave

her and know that her protection would follow him. He could return and

be equally certain that none of her understanding would have vanished.

She was the first woman who had impressed him with her wisdom; the only

one who had had the courage to offer him her strength.

And this was not love. He smiled exultantly. It was nobler and

infinitely more rare. Love, as he had read of it and mistaken it in his

experience, was a devastating energy, greedy and devouring. It was a

continual, nagging contention between self-abasement and hostility. It

was a humiliating attempt on the part of a man to barter something,

which was persistently undervalued, for the feminine equivalent which

was as persistently hoarded. It was an amalgam of physical yearning,

wounded vanity and resentment of contempt. It was egotism masquerading

as altruism. It was a dancing bear lumbering at the heels of insanity.

Of all the passions it was the most hypocritical--a snare-setter, a

digger of pitfalls, an enemy disguised as one's dearest friend. He

thanked God there was no hint of love in his new-found friendship. Like

an outcast fleeing from a storm, he had blundered against the door of

this woman's charity, had felt it yield beneath his touch, and had found

himself immersed in the blessedness of instant and unmerited rest.

Lazily he commenced to dress. From his window he could see the Castle,

perched grave and gray against the forehead of the clouds. He wondered

whether she was up, how she was occupying herself, whether she was

expecting him? He listened to her voice in the silence of his brain,

like the far-away singing of contralto bells. He saw her still face, her

slow smiling, the proud, sweet stateliness of her pacing steps. Then his

thoughts went back to whether he was expected.

If he were not---- The thought chilled him. She had said nothing to

encourage him to seek her afresh. What if his reappearance should cause

her embarrassment--an embarrassment which she would betray by

withholding herself? It was quite likely she would impute to him wrong

motives. Already she might have repented of intimacies she had allowed.

He had placed his arm about her. With the injustice of most women,

though she had permitted it, she might be blaming him because the act

had been witnessed by Terry. Terry of all persons! Having had time to

reflect, she might be accusing him of gallantries. It was not so long

since she had confused him with Adair. From her untypical knowledge of

him she was entitled to estimate him as the kind of man to whom

promiscuous caresses were a practice. He turned coward at the

recollection of his daring. Last night it had been so involuntary and

had seemed so natural. Why had he done it? Why had she allowed it? It

had been the liberty of a plow-boy with a village-girl. There would be

little room for wonder if, when next they met, she fixed a No Man's Land

of pride between herself and his familiarity. She would have good

reason, for their companionship would be shared by Terry. Poor little

Terry, with her exaggerated sins and distorted self-accusations!

He wandered down to breakfast disturbed by these apprehensions. As the

morning dragged by they took shape as facts. Towards noon he could

tolerate his uncertainty no longer. He turned his steps in the direction

of the Castle, having first determined, if he found himself unwelcome,

to announce that the purpose of his visit was to bid good-by before

setting out for London.

III

He had been shown into the turret room and supplied with the daily

papers, while the same grave image who had admitted him the night

before, had departed in search of her Ladyship. More to calm himself

than to satisfy his curiosity, he commenced to glance through the news.

It was a disjointed world that the pages reflected--not at all the

kingdom round the corner for which the war had been fought. Honor,

patriotism, heroism seemed forgotten words. The old ruthless scramble

of commercialism had restarted. The honesty of everybody, whether

individuals, governments or nations, was being doubted. Class and race

hatreds had broken loose. Strikes were pending. The Allies were allied

only in name; they gnashed their teeth at one another across the

council-table in Paris. The lying game of diplomacy had been revived.

Poison-notes were being exchanged. The tabby-cat statesmen who had been

too old to fight, were busy sowing the seeds of future wars. The

politicians who had nailed mankind to the cross, were casting lots for

the raiment which had survived the sacrifice. No one asked, "Is this

righteousness?" The only question was, "How much of it belongs to me?"

Meanwhile, the children of honester men who had died, starved by their

hundreds of thousands. Mothers pressed sick babies to their milkless

breasts. The mutilated, stoical with neglect, shuffled along the

pavements. Fanatics of despair turned hopeful eyes to Russia where a

devilment was brewing which, should it overboil, would pour destruction

across five continents. No one cared.

He glanced through the window at the quiet landscape, lying green and

sun-dappled against the wet, gray streak of summer sky. Was his own

experience so universal? Were kingdoms perpetually round the corner,

always and always out of sight?

As he again took up the paper, his eye was caught by a head-line: STEELY

JACK RUNS FOR PARLIAMENT. Immediately he forgot his pessimism and

became absorbed. Braithwaite had come out with the true story of his

life. He was calling on the seven million men who had seen service to

fight on in peace for the ideals for which they had fought in war. He

insisted that if they cast their votes together as one man, they could

control any election. If they combined with the patriot ex-soldiers of

other nations, they could control the world. He was out to smash

politics and the disastrous iniquity of political compromise. His aim

was to restore the comradeship and sharing which had enabled the old

front-line to stand fast. He was establishing a paper. He was

speechifying. He was to hold an immense mass meeting in the Albert

Hall----

Tabs laughed in sheer excitement. Here was one man at any rate who

wasn't content to miss his kingdom. He might have known it. He could see

Braithwaite's bleak look as clearly as if he stood before him. His

instinct was to join him and say to him, in the words of the coster,

"You and me was pals out there." He'd never lost an inch of trench.

"Bravo, Braithwaite!"

IV

"I beg your pardon, your Lordship."

Tabs looked up. The dignified image had returned and was standing in the

doorway, with his chin thrust out and his nose at a high angle with his

collar.

The man coughed deferentially. "If your Lordship will follow me----"

But at that moment he heard her calling from beneath the turret wall,

"Lord Taborley!"

Jumping to his feet, he hurried to the window and leant out. She was in

her riding habit, standing on the terrace above the rose-garden. "I've

just got back from my morning ride. I have to visit the kennels. I was

wondering whether you would accompany me."

He turned to the footman. "If you'll show me the way out to the terrace,

I can find Lady Dawn myself."

She had moved farther away to where the steps led down between the

rose-bushes. As he came towards her through the sunlight, she pretended

not to notice him, but stood meditatively flicking the dust from the toe

of her boot with her crop. Even when he joined her, she did not look up.

They descended the steps in silence. When they had turned along a path,

where no one could observe them, she raised her eyes. "I was afraid you

had left."

He smiled, unconsciously imitating her quietness. "And I, too, was

afraid. I was afraid you would not want me."

"Why not?" She stopped to pluck a bud in passing. "I should think any

woman would want you."

He looked to see if she were chaffing. "Last night," he explained, "you

were present when at least one woman didn't want me. That was why----"

She shot a glance at him with her honest, stone-gray eyes. Her hands

started out to touch him, but she recalled them. "You must feel sorry

for her," she said softly. "She's so young. I think you'll live to thank

her. She'll learn that men like you don't come every day--only once in a

lifetime."

[Illustration: "_I was afraid you had left._"]

Uneasily he harked back to her first statement. "Why did you fear that I

had left?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "You had nothing for which to stay."

"There was you."

"Me!" She laughed wisely. "You had to say that out of politeness. In a

man's world I'm of no consequence. I know how I appear in your eyes.

I've been married, so I'm no longer a novelty. I'm not so young as I

was; I shall be older. And then I'm a mother--you forget that, Lord

Taborley. Oh no, I have no attractions to offer."

"You have friendship."

"Friendship!" She repeated the word with a shake of her head. "Men never

want merely friendship; they want less or more. They want vivacity--some

one who will halve their years, with whom they can sport and romp. Some

one who can have babies to them--little pink babies, with squirmy toes

and baldy heads. They want to begin everything afresh. They're not

looking for another man's left-overs. Even in the matter of

disillusionizing a woman, they want to do that for themselves. Men

who've not been married, demand that a woman shall be doing everything,

as they are doing it, for the first time. It's their right."

"But there's another side," he protested. "A woman who's been married

has gained experience--the most dearly purchased form of knowledge, as

you yourself have told me. She can be trusted not to expect the

impossible. She's been over the course and knows the pitfalls. She's

learnt the value of compromise. She ought to have learnt how to be kind.

I think kindness is the thing that matters most. Few people are born

with it. You have to have been wretched to acquire the knack of it."

"And yet you have it," she glanced sideways at him humorously, "and you

haven't been married."

Realizing the drift of their conversation, he pulled himself up. He

feared lest she suspected him of flirting. "You're very generous, Lady

Dawn."

They had arrived at a lookout point, where a lichen-covered summerhouse

stood, protected on the steeper side by a low stone wall. Below them lay

the moat, green-scummed and starred with water-lilies; throbbing in the

midday haze, the emerald sward of the parkland seemed to float. Against

the wall she halted. "What makes you say that I'm generous?"

For all his thirty-six years, he blushed like a boy. "Because you take

me seriously. After last night you might have been either amused or

annoyed. The position in which I placed you was false. You thought that

I'd come from London to urge Terry to marry me. When I told you that

there was no one else in the world, you believed that I knew she was

staying with you--that I was trying to persuade you to plead my cause.

The anti-climax, after she'd surprised us, was the height of tragical

absurdity. It reduced all my high-flown sentiments to farce. I wonder

you were able to prevent yourself from laughing. Terry could afford such

a scene; she's little more than a child. I can't. With four more years

to my age I could pass for her father. No, please. I want to be hard on

myself. Let me finish what I'm saying. I've only met you twice; on each

occasion I've suffered a loss of dignity. The other time was when I

tried to turn you away from Maisie's door. You're probably aware that

since then, until Pollock's return, I've seen far more of your sister

than was wise. In fact I've offered myself like a job lot. And yet there

was a time when I was content to wait. I believed that one had only to

be faithful and he'd find what he hoped for round some future corner.

You're a proud woman, Lady Dawn. You admire strength almost cruelly.

You're inhumanly infallible----"

Her eyes filled. She slipped her hand through his arm and patted it

comfortingly. By the contact she was comforting herself as well. "I'm

not. I wasn't infallible when I married. My pride came later to cover up

my fault. I don't say it to flatter you--any woman would want you."

He gazed down at her. "How gentle you are!"

"I understand."

They strolled along in contented silence. They had trespassed far beyond

the bounds of discretion. A diversion was caused when they reached the

kennels. He watched her among the leaping hounds. She employed the same

tactics to quiet them that she had used with himself. With a coaxing

word and a caress she had them crouching at her feet. He listened to

the precision of her orders and the definiteness of her enquiries.

"You'd have made a business woman," he remarked.

She laughed. "I could if I'd been forced." And then, "By the way, you're

lunching with me, aren't you?"

"I'll be delighted. But, since confessions are the fashion, I may as

well make a clean breast. If I had found that you were upset with what

happened last night, I'd planned to tell you I was off to London."

"But you're not?"

"One doesn't run away from happiness."

He was afraid he had offended. Her expression clouded. She withdrew and

walked a few paces apart. He had come almost to the point of

apologizing, when she turned to him eyes that were misty--suspiciously

misty for a woman who never cried. "I'm glad you had the courage to tell

me, because I haven't felt so happy for---- I daren't own how long."

On entering the Castle, she left him while she went to change for lunch.

As he waited, he reminded himself that in a handful of seconds he would

be meeting Terry. The anticipation provided him with none of the old

elation. With what ecstasy he used to watch for her in days gone by, as

though the world was reborn when she stood before him! Far from feeling

ecstasy, he was filled with uneasiness. Her presence would recall to him

his failure and would mock something beautiful that had commenced in

his life. What that something was he hadn't estimated. All he knew was

that, with the coming of Lady Dawn, every one of his problems had

mysteriously found settlement. He was no longer humiliated. He was once

more sure of his direction. He felt unreasonably strong and triumphant,

as though the goal of his striving was in sight. His old dread of

growing middle-aged impressed him as puerile. Whatever his age, she

would always keep pace with him. She was the same age as he was. Had he

been younger or older, he might have missed her or gone by her with

unseeing eyes.

When he entered the room in which lunch was served, he found that Lady

Dawn was alone. Glancing at the table, he perceived with surprise that

only two covers had been laid. She read the question in his eyes and

answered it.

"Terry's away. I forgot to tell you. She had an early breakfast and

motored into Gloucester before I was up. The car's come back without

her. She's sent no word as to when or how she proposes to return."

"Something urgent?" he asked casually.

"More likely shopping. A woman's shopping's always urgent. I'm no wiser

than you are. The first I heard about her going was when I was informed

she had gone."

He relapsed into thought. It wasn't difficult to conjecture the reason

for Terry's errand. She'd been no more anxious to meet him just at

present than he had been to meet her. She'd taken the day off in the

hope that by nightfall he would have departed.

Another solution occurred to him. "Did she ever mention to you a General

Braithwaite?"

Lady Dawn met his eyes with a hint of warning. Listeners were present.

"I believe she did," she admitted discouragingly.

"The only reason why I asked was that his name's in the morning papers.

She may have seen it before she started. If so, it might explain----"

"John will know." Lady Dawn turned to the footman. "Did Miss Beddow read

the papers, John, this morning before she left?"

"She did, my Lady. It was after she had read them that she ordered the

car."

"Then that's it." Tabs dismissed the subject as unworthy of further

discussing. "She went to Gloucester to hurry off a telegram of

congratulation. Braithwaite's had a stroke of luck."

"If that is all," Lady Dawn smiled mischievously, "I wonder that she

didn't come back in the car. A telegram can be dispatched in five

minutes."

From then on, the threat of Terry's return hung over them, urging them

to make the most of their respite. Everything that had started between

them was so new and uncertain. No time-limit had been set to Tabs'

visit; his original reason for coming to Dawn Castle was exhausted.

There was no sufficiently plausible excuse for prolonging his stay in

the village longer. A little absence, a little carelessness of

forgetting, a few new interests and who could say but that this sudden

need of each other, which had rushed them together with such compelling

impulse, might not subside as unaccountably as it had occurred. In both

their hearts this dread was present--this distrust of the permanency of

their emotions. If they parted, they might meet again to find the magic

irrecoverable.

After lunch they retired to the room in the turret. She chose her

favorite chair by the window and sat there sewing, with her work-basket

at her feet. He sat opposite, watching the busy occupation of her hands.

He noticed that many of the garments which she mended belonged to the

small boy whom he had seen in the rose-garden.

She looked up. "I always do everything for Eric."

It was later, when tea was being served, that the small boy himself

peered in on them. Tabs caught his jealous eyes peering round the

doorway. "Won't you come and talk to me?"

But the child ran away, despite his mother's coaxings, and refused to

divulge his place of hiding.

She apologized. "He's not quite eight yet--the only sweetheart I have."

Later she said, "I've been thinking of what we talked last night--I mean

his father. Would it be too far-fetched to believe that it was really he

and not your imagination, that piloted us together?"

"Not far-fetched at all. I'm sure of it. He wanted us to meet that I

might tell you----"

"What?" She bent forward, folding her hands in her lap and watching him

searchingly. "Not about his heroism; he'd take that for granted. Not

that he'd loved me; we both knew it. Not anything self-pitying or weak

that would rouse my regret----"

"You know." His assertion was almost a question. "Somehow he's got his

message across to you."

She lowered her eyes and resumed her sewing. "I couldn't sleep last

night. I lay awake puzzling and remembering--remembering the long waste

of years, the loneliness and the love that had turned to bitterness. And

now, when ordinarily there would be no chance to make amends, he sends

you to me, speaking through your lips and taking possession of your

thoughts. He's trying to do something for me--something that will blot

out my past for me, as his sacrifice has blotted out his past for him.

Something comforting and tender----"

The seconds ticked by. If she had guessed the dead man's desire, she

refused to put it into words. The silence grew painful.

Tabs looked at his watch. It was nearer six than five. He rose

reluctantly. "I suppose I should be going."

"But you're staying in the village to-night?"

"I hadn't intended. There'll be moonlight. I was planning to be in

London by morning."

"Don't do that. You'll make me think you're afraid of meeting Terry.

Dine with me to-night."

She had risen. Her gesture was almost one of pleading. He smiled

tenderly and took her hand. "Your wishes are mine. I'll run down to the

inn and dress."

By the time he returned it was nearly seven. She met him with

ill-concealed trouble. "Terry's not back. It's strange. You see I'm

responsible for her. And----"

The footman entered with a letter. "For your Lordship."

"Are you sure?" Then Tabs recollected. "Yes, of course. I left my

address with Ann."

As he took the letter he scanned the handwriting. "Odd!" When the man

had left, he turned to Lady Dawn. "It's from her. Did you guess?"

V

"But why should she be writing when she'll be seeing you any minute?"

Tabs squared his lips. He began to feel the stirring of a storm of

anxiety. "Perhaps, because she doesn't intend to be seeing me any

minute." He looked at the postmark. It had been mailed at eleven o'clock

that morning in Gloucester. He tore the envelope and commenced to read.

Before he had read far, he turned with a worried expression to Lady

Dawn. "This concerns you as well." She came and stood beside his elbow.

They glanced through the pages together. It was written on commercial

note-paper of _The New Inn_, Gloucester, and ran:

DEAREST TABS:

I love you very much--just as much as ever. I always want you to feel

sure of that. But my love isn't the kind you've asked for. It never

can be. Because of this there are so many things that I've not been

able to tell you--so I've been avoiding and deceiving you ever since

you came back. I know I've not been honorable. A promise once given

ought to be sacred; I gave you my promise that I would marry you. But

that's all I could do for you now--just marry you; I couldn't give

you the other things you would have a right to expect. I ought to

have said, the other things you have earned and deserved more than

any man. So, though I married you, I should still be robbing you,

which would be even more treacherous than not fulfilling a promise.

That I'm in love with General Braithwaite is no news to you. Love may

not be the proper word. At least I'm so infatuated with him that

there's no room in my heart for any other man. Do you remember that

night in March, when you dined with us and asked my father for my

hand, and next morning early I came round in a panic to your house? I

didn't dare tell you all my trouble. The General had urged me to

elope with him. I _wish, wish, wish_ that I had. I should be his now

and sure of him. By delaying and suspecting I've all but lost him.

I always knew that he would be a big man--as big after the war as he

was while it lasted. What this morning's papers say about him proves

it. So for all these reasons and because I can't bear to face you at

the Castle, I'm taking my fate in my hands. Please tell Lady Dawn

that I shan't be back and excuse me in any way you can. I'm only

carrying one small bag; she can send the rest of my things after me.

There's one request I have to make--that neither of you will notify

my father till at least twenty-four hours have elapsed. All my future

happiness may depend on your granting this request. It's the last

favor I shall ever ask you.

And now, my very dear Tabs, almost my brother, if this hurts you,

please take revenge by bundling me out of your mind. I was never your

equal, never worthy of you, though you placed me on a pedestal that

was far above you. Comfort yourself by believing that if you'd

married me, you would have found this out. What a wretched quitter I

appear in my own eyes after all you suffered in the trenches, to have

reserved this worse suffering for you, when your life has been spared

and you had counted on me for happiness. My entire body's not worth

your little finger. And yet how good you've always been to me--

You'll get a better woman than I am. I think I already know who

she'll be; if I'm right, I shall be so very glad.

I feel so humble--so apologetic. It's such a different ending from

the one we dreamt when I saw you off on the troop-train with my hair

all blowy down my back. There's nothing gained by recalling that. I

meant so well by you; you've always been so much to me, my dearest,

loyal Tabs.

Even though you despise me, I still insist on signing myself,

Your ever affectionate

TERRY.

"I'm sorry." It was Lady Dawn.

He shook himself. He was so raw that even her sympathy almost wounded.

"Don't pity me. It's she we've got to help. What's to be done?"

"Done! I haven't thought. What can we----"

"We can follow her and bring her back. We've got to--and we haven't much

time. You must have read between the lines what her letter meant. After

having turned Braithwaite down, she's gone off to beg him to elope with

her. When a girl puts herself at a man's mercy like that, there's no

knowing how he'll act. The chances are that, whatever he does, it won't

be honorable. We're got to prevent her, not only for her own sake, but

for his sake as well. He's just started on a great career; if this story

leaks out, he'll be smashed. They'll both be smashed, for that matter.

If she'd give him time to marry her honestly, it wouldn't matter whether

her family had consented. But she doesn't intend to--that's why she's

asked us to keep quiet for twenty-four hours. What we've got to do is

not to stop her from marrying him--no one cares about that; but to catch

her before she runs off with him."

"But we don't know where----"

"No, we don't." He spoke rapidly. "But we can find out. Ann can tell us.

Ann's a maid in my house; she was practically engaged to him when he was

my valet. Now that I look back, I'm sure she's known everything from the

start and has seen this coming. We can get Braithwaite's address from

her; when we know that, we shall have laid our hands on Terry."

While he had been speaking, Lady Dawn had been rummaging through her

desk. He went and bent over her, his hands on her shoulders. She was

fingering a time-table. She looked up at him with her head leant back.

"There's no train--nothing that will reach London till morning."

"Then we must motor."

Her face was still raised to his. She spoke softly. "_We!_ You say _we_

every time. Do you mean---- What do you mean, Lord Taborley?"

His intensity relaxed. Flushing with confusion, he stared down at the

whiteness of her breast, the queenliness of her, her graying hair and

her expectant, tender mouth. "I want you to come with me. I ought to

have asked you properly. I've been taking you for granted and ordering

you about."

She remained very still, gazing directly up into his troubled eyes. He

thought she was judging him. At last she whispered, "Don't be sad. I

like you to order me."

VI

They had all night before them. If they left the Castle by ten, they

could be in Brompton Square by five in the morning. Nothing would be

gained by arriving earlier.

Now that the first shock was over, they went into dinner as if nothing

had happened. In the long, dim banqueting-hall there were only the two

of them. They sat close together at the illuminated high-table like

castaways, marooned on an island, in an ocean of brooding shadows. While

they dined they conversed in lowered voices to prevent their plans from

being overheard. It was decided to take Lady Dawn's Rolls Royce and to

leave the runabout behind. The reason acknowledged was that it would be

more dependable. The reason unmentioned was that the presence of a

chauffeur would lend an air of much needed propriety.

Gradually as they talked, the seriousness of their errand dropped from

sight; their journey took on the complexion of an adventure. Its

unconvention clothed it with romance. How unconventional it was they

realized when Lady Dawn gave the butler orders concerning her departure.

He was an old man, rigid with tradition, who, having served the family

for three generations, had acquired the aristocratic bearing of his

masters.

"At ten o'clock, your Ladyship. To where? To London! That's a long

journey to take at night. And the car will call at the inn first to pick

up his Lordship's luggage. Oh, I see, my Lady. I thought at first that

your Ladyship was going."

"I am," she corrected with quiet dignity. "Lord Taborley and I are going

on an errand of great importance. I don't want this talked about. You

understand? And who'll be driving? Witherall! Then warn Witherall to

keep silent."

When the butler had withdrawn, she turned to Tabs. "I'm breaking all my

precedents for you. I couldn't have told him, if I hadn't had you to

keep me in countenance. He looked so shocked that he made me feel as if

it were you and I, instead of Terry, who were doing the eloping. I'm

sure that's what he thought. There'll be gossip. I shall have to pay the

piper; but I'm too happy to-night to look ahead."

"It hadn't occurred to me----" Tabs hesitated. "I've been unpardonably

inconsiderate. I see it now--you'll be what they call compromised. In

that case, it will be wiser----"

"It won't." She bent towards him laughing. Her pearls, nestling in the

white cleft of her bosom, gleamed dully, shaken by her quiet merriment.

In the short time that he had known her, she had become extraordinarily

girlish--almost girlish enough to put back the hands of time for the

proper man. "It won't. It won't be wiser. It's never wiser to turn your

back on happiness. I'd dare anything to-night. You've invited me; you

can't wriggle out."

"If that's how you feel----" He checked himself. Her mischief warned

him. Instinctively he knew that she was about to ask precisely how he

thought she felt. He cancelled what he had intended saying and

substituted, "It's an ill-wind that blows nobody any good. And it's poor

Terry we have to thank for this chance of being together a little

longer!"

"Is it a chance? You're not bored? You do want me?"

He raised his eyes slowly. Her pain had startled him. Up to that moment

he hadn't been awake to how utterly he had come to want her. For an

instant he had a glimpse of the emptiness of life, should he find

himself deprived of her comradeship.

"You didn't need to ask me that!" he said quietly. "And now it's my turn

to be inquisitive. Does it make you glad to hear me own that I want

you?"

He watched her color rise. It was like the elfin tiptoeing of her spirit

behind the white transparent walls of her flesh. It climbed the smooth

ascent of her breast, passed up the columned tower of her throat and

stared out at him excitedly in the brightness of her eyes.

"Men don't ask things like that," she said reproachfully, "at least,

only when they're flirting. I sometimes think---- Don't treat me like

all the others who were before me."

"What others?"

She held his gaze. "The emotional women and silly girls---- You must

have been loved very often, Lord Taborley."

To have defended himself against her tender jealousy would have been

futile. She was plainly anxious to believe her accusation. Perhaps it

flattered her a little. Perhaps it lent him an added touch of glamor. He

was wondering how he should satisfy her. He could remember no hearts

that his fascination had broken. He could rake up absolutely---- She was

speaking again.

"And yet I'm glad you compelled me to tell you that I wanted you. You're

making me do things that I never did before in my life. I'm supposed to

be a cold woman. You'll find people who'll say that I'm remote and

domineering. I've only one big affection--my little boy. For your sake

I'm leaving him alone to-night."

"For mine?"

"For whose else?"

"I thought for Terry's."

Her lips parted. The laughter died in her eyes. "In your heart you knew

better."

Then he left her and went down to the inn to pack his bag.

VII

He had paid his bill. His luggage had been carried downstairs. There was

still a full quarter of an hour to wait. He sat in his bedroom smoking

furiously. Before he met her again, he wanted to know precisely what had

happened to himself--and, perhaps, to her.

He was filled with self-distrust. His newly discovered propensity for

falling in love was genuinely alarming. It wasted his time, upset his

plans and robbed him of his mental vigor. It made him a rudderless ship

at the mercy of any chance winds of sentiment. Up to less than three

months ago the solitary woman in his life had been Terry. Throughout the

war, while the masculine world had been making an amorous idiot of

itself, he had kept his head clear and gone straight. Things had come to

a pretty pass if now, when normality was returning and the excuse for

running wild was out-of-date, he should start on his emotional

escapades. His love for Terry had been deep-rooted. His fondness for

Maisie had been the attempt of a starved heart to satisfy its craving

with a substitute. But where was this pursuit of substitutes to end? If

it went much further he would gain for himself the reputation of being a

limpet who attached himself to any chance rock of feminine amiability.

The kind of woman he cared to associate with would avoid him. If ever he

were to fall in love again, his attentions would be so shop-worn

that----

If ever he were to fall in love again! Within the last twenty-four hours

his irresponsible heart had committed this disastrous folly for a third

time.

He smiled cynically, as though he were two separate persons, one of whom

was cool and calculating, while the other was improvident and

scape-grace. How Lady Dawn would despise him, were he to reveal to her

the stupid commotion of his mind! His excuse for blundering his way into

her privacy had been sufficiently fantastic: that her late husband was

employing his living brain to communicate with her from the dead. It

must have strained her credulity to the breaking-point. If on top of

this he were to propose to her, what possible conclusions could she

draw? Either that in order to gain her intimacy, he had perpetrated a

cruel fraud; or else that he was so lacking in humor as to believe that

Lord Dawn, from beyond the grave, was arranging for his wife's second

marriage. The drollery of a dead husband acting match-maker made him

smile. In the middle of his smiling he pulled himself up. Why not? Why

shouldn't a husband who had wrecked his wife's happiness, try to repair

the damage, if that were possible, when through death he had attained a

kinder knowledge? The Roman Church prayed to the dead whom it canonized.

There were thousands of parents, wives, sweethearts, bereft by the war,

who were asserting that their longing had bridged the gulf and

penetrated----

He shook himself, as though to struggle free from an invisible

assailant. Hallucinations! All these so-called spiritualistic

manifestations were the result of over-taxed imagination. To stick to

facts was the only safe course; and these were the facts in his case. He

had approached Lady Dawn as a matter of duty to tell her the truth about

a husband whom she had not known at his best. She had misinterpreted his

motive and had believed that he had come to confess to her his own

failure. She had been thrown off her guard, had dropped her mask of

stoicism and had lavished on him a reckless kindness. But other women

had been reckless to him in their kindness. Terry had: so had Maisie.

Women's kindness had caused his present predicament--their kindness,

plus his awkward knack of valuing their kindness at more than its face

worth. He had learnt his lesson. Never again would he be lured into the

net of feminine fickleness. When he felt the temptation rising, he would

suppress and ignore it; at any rate he would ignore it until the woman,

who was rousing his affection, had declared her intentions beyond any

chance of mistaking.

And Lady Dawn? She was in a class by herself. He held her sacred. The

mere thought that she should ever fall in love with him was

impertinence. To talk cheap sentiment would be insulting. It would cause

him to lose her friendship--a loss which he could not bear to

contemplate. It would be taking a mean advantage of a situation created

for an entirely different purpose.---- And yet, dare he trust himself,

now that he was in love with her, in the intimate aloneness of a long

night drive to London?

He rose to his feet disgusted. If this was the loss of self-control that

peace had brought, better a thousand times the rigors of the sacrifice

that was ended. Out there he had been strong; here he was a sick dog,

licking his sores and whimpering at his own shadow. Self-pity had

wrought this wholesale impotence--an impotence which was infecting the

entire world. While individuals and nations had thought only of others,

they had been valiant; they had raced in generous competition,

clean-limbed as athletes, towards the tape, where endeavor ends and

eternity commences. And now this lethargy, this cowardice--this

monstrous fat of quaking emotion!

A memory flashed back on him--an afternoon in March when he had been

obsessed by a similar discontent. It had happened in the Mall, after his

interview with Braithwaite and just before his introduction to Maisie.

He had come across a sign-board which had announced that, by following a

certain path, one would arrive at the Passport Office. That narrow

track, vanishing into the bushy greenness, had seemed to him the first

five hundred yards of the road that led to world-wideness and freedom.

At the end of it lay Samoa, Tibet, the Malay Archipelago--jeweled seas

and painted solitudes which human disillusions could not wither.

Instantly his will concentrated. By following that road he could become

lean-souled again. By reseeking hardships, he could recover his lost

discipline. The idea held him spellbound. It meant escape. It meant a

return to monasticism. Then and there he determined that he would

commence his preliminary enquiries to-morrow.

Going to the window, he leant out. The quaint village street was

sleeping. The night was so still that, it scarcely breathed; it lay like

a tired child in the firm white arms of the moonlight. Coming smoothly

to a halt before the hostel was a powerful car. It was a landaulet and

the hood was lowered. Lady Dawn must have altered her plans at the last

moment; instead of sending for him, she had come herself! Catching sight

of him, she waved her hand. His heart became quiet. Like the night

without, his being was flooded with a drifting whiteness that robbed the

darkness of its terror.

VIII

As he stood by the side of the car talking to her while his bag was

being stowed away, her manner was chillingly conventional. It was so

conventional that it bordered on the unfriendly. About the

unfriendliness of the chauffeur there could be no doubt. The elaborate

care with which he tucked the robe about her Ladyship had a distinct air

of alert possessiveness.

When Tabs had taken his place beside her and the village was left

behind, she relaxed and laughed softly. "Such a trouble I've had! They

all disapproved of our expedition--I mean the servants. Their eyes

accused me of---- Perhaps it's better not to be explicit. But that was

why I called for you, instead of letting you come to the Castle. Did you

notice anything queer about Witherall?"

"Your chauffeur? I thought he rather overdid his superciliousness and

that he treated you a little as if he were your husband. Apart from

that----"

"Apart from that," she laughed, "he made you feel entirely welcome. You

mustn't mind him. My servants aren't used to seeing me with an escort.

And then---- Well, an all-night ride would be a little difficult to

explain to anybody."

"I suppose it would."

They relapsed into silence. It was jolly to be so near to her and,

after the fears he had had, to know himself so trusted. She sat quite

close to him, so that he could feel the warmth of her body. Her

shoulders touched him; sometimes she leant against him with a gentle

pressure. Her fragrance was all about him. The robe spread across their

knees gave an added touch of intimacy. He glanced down at her sideways.

She was wearing a moleskin coat with a deep collar of silver-fox. She

had on a moleskin hat, close fitting to her glossy head. Her face was

partly hidden by a smart veil. She was immaculate as ever--as composed

and stylish as if she were going to a theater-party instead of on an

all-night ride to London. But it wasn't her stylishness that impressed

him; it was her littleness. She looked very tender and pale as she sat

beside him. The moral back of her chauffeur, as seen through the glass,

condemned him of unkindness. He had had no right to ask her to accompany

him. Why should he have burdened her with his troubles? She must have

plenty of her own, with her boy to care for and her estate to manage.

"I've been selfish," he said. "You ought to be in bed and sleeping now."

She smiled. "Always blaming yourself, aren't you? I shouldn't be here

unless I'd wanted."

"But why did you want?"

Beneath the robe her hand commenced to grope. It stole into his own and

lay there quietly. "Because I couldn't bear to see you hurt. You're so

good. In some ways you're so strong; in others you're just as tiny as

my Eric. I felt you needed me for the moment."

"For the moment! I shall always need you."

"I wish you might." She shook her head slowly. "But you won't. You'll go

away. I shall hear about you--all the big things you're accomplishing

and planning. And then I shall remember that for just one night I had

you for my very own."

"But we're always going to be friends. I shall be always coming back to

you."

"Men don't come back, Lord Taborley. A man of your temperament is least

likely to come back. You press forward. You're eager. Wherever you go

you form new affections. I'm not like that. I'm cold. You don't think

so, but then I'm treating you as I never treated any other man. You

slipped under my reserve and reached my heart before I could stop you.

Do you know how I'm treating you? Just the way I'd like some good woman

to treat my little Eric one day, when I'm not here and he's a man."

"But you're going to be here for a long time--just as long as I am."

There was alarm in his assertion. "I couldn't bear to think of your not

being in the world. It wouldn't matter so much whether I saw you; it

would be the knowledge that I could see you; that would make all the

difference."

"Would it?"

"Yes, I'm sure. You mustn't think that because there was Terry and--I'm

ashamed to have to own it--a passing fancy for your sister, that I'm

fickle."

"I don't. I never thought it for a moment. What I thought was that you

were unhappy. People do a lot of foolish things when they're unhappy."

"It seems so long since I was unhappy," he said gently. "You've healed

everything."

She was shaken as though with a storm of sobbing. No sound escaped her.

She did a thing which was as amazing as it was beautiful. Raising his

hand which she had been holding, she hugged it against her breast.

IX

During the night he nodded. Once when he wakened, he found her tucking

the robe more closely about him. "Go to sleep. You're tired," she

whispered, patting his shoulder.

A strange woman--strangely maternal and beautiful! She never seemed to

think of herself. The women whom he had known had always demanded that

men should do all the giving. Even Terry had been like that. His

conception, of love had been of a continual bestowing with no hope of

reciprocity. To be allowed to give throughout one's life to the woman

beloved had seemed to him to be the maximum of married blessedness. He

knew better now. Lady Dawn had given so generously that she had

established a new standard; he would never again ask so little from any

woman. He began to perceive that all his approaches to love had been

self-abasing. In the true sense of the word he had never been in love.

Dream-intoxicated, yes! But all that he had experienced had been desire.

It was a new thought to him that a man must respect, even more than he

desires, the woman whom he covets.

His feeling for Lady Dawn was one of worship. When he wakened to find

her watching over him, it seemed to him that the Mother of God sat

beside him. When God's Mother is symbolized in a living woman, love is

reborn into the world.

The last time he awoke, dawn was breaking. The moon had grown feeble. A

chill was in the air. He sat up. "What! Still awake! I don't believe

you've slept a wink all night."

"I haven't. I didn't want. I've been enjoying myself."

"You look tired."

He commenced to pile cushions behind her and tried to coax her to take

some rest. "If you insist," she assented. "But I'd much rather not. I'm

like a child at a party; I want to last out every moment."

"Then let's talk. We're nearing London. We sha'n't get much chance for

being alone after we arrive. We don't know what we'll find. We may be

whisked away in opposite directions. Before we're separated, I want to

acknowledge what I owe you."

"It's cold," she shuddered, drawing closer to him. And then, "You owe me

nothing."

He was tempted to place his arm about her, but the cowardice of past

failure was strong upon him. He was afraid lest the ordinary gestures of

affection would cheapen him in her eyes; he was still more afraid that

they might mean to her that he valued her too lightly. He held himself

in hand, staring straight before him and speaking quietly.

"I'm the only judge of what I owe you. I came to you broken. Life had

made a fool of me. I'd fallen through placing my ideals too high.

Everything was slipping. Every belief I'd ever had was open to doubt.

Most of all I'd lost faith in the goodness of women. To explain my state

of mind I have to tell you that the war had made me fanatical. Like

millions of men who went out to die, I'd persuaded myself that I was

fighting more than Germans--I was fighting to bring about the new heaven

and the new earth. Our politicians promised us as much. You remember

their phrases. 'A world safe for democracy! A land fit for heroes to

live in.' When all the muck and the heartbreak were ended, we found that

outwardly it was the same old world. Heaven was as far away as ever.

There were no signs that any one wanted a new earth. Nations which had

been comrades, began to wrangle. Soldiers came home to find their jobs

held by slackers. The glorious promises had been a death-bed repentance;

their insincerity was proved when the world recovered. But our worst

disappointment was utterly personal--that despite the magnanimity we had

shared and witnessed, we ourselves were no less selfish. For me all

these disillusions were epitomized in Terry. I'd fought for her. I'd

carried her in my heart. If I'd died, my last thoughts would have been

of her. I came back hungry and she disowned me. That she should have

done that made humanity a Judas and God a mocker. I don't mean you to

believe that I gave way at once to this wholesale injustice. At first I

made an effort to struggle against it. I'd always held that great living

was a matter of pressing forward, of wearing an air of triumph when you

knew you were defeated, of believing, in spite of every proof to the

contrary, that further up the road your kingdom waited for you."

He felt the pressure of her friendly hand. "It does," she assured him.

"That's what you've taught me. It's what you taught Maisie; it's almost

as though you'd willed her husband to come back. You're a great

believer. All great believers have been doubters. They give away so much

of their faith that at times they have none left for themselves. You

limp. Don't flinch; with me there's no need to be sensitive. When you

entered my room for the first time, you made me think of another lame

man. Do you remember how Jacob wrestled all night with an unknown

assailant? When dawn was breaking his thigh was out of joint, but he

refused to let his assailant go until he had asked his name. The

stranger would not tell him--instead he blessed him. And then Jacob knew

it was with God he had wrestled. When the sun rose and he went upon his

way, he halted upon his thigh. You have the look that I think he must

have had--the look of a man who has been maimed in trying to make God

answer questions. It's that look and your very lameness that have given

me back something that Lord Dawn took from me--something that he knew,

when he sent you, you could give me back: my faith in men, without

which a woman can have no happiness."

The ghostly world streamed by, silent-footed and mist-muffled. It was

the hour when children are born and weary people die--the hour of new

beginnings and ancient endings, when life and death, like soldiers

changing guard, salute at the cross-roads of the new day as friends.

At last he broke the silence. "I thought I had nothing to give you. I

felt so empty. You seemed so strong and immovable, like a still tree in

a forest that was storm-shaken. You made me feel that however the wind

raged, beneath your branches there would be always rest. I never

knew----" He paused as though he had forgotten what he had set out to

say. "I never guessed that a woman could be so good."

"Nor I that there was so good a man."

They clasped hands so tightly that it hurt. The sun was rising as they

entered London. Trees dripped gold and birds were chattering as they

drove into Brompton Square. It was only when they had halted before the

sleeping house, gay with flaming window-boxes, that she released his

hand. With the severance of contact he awoke from his trance and

remembered the errand that had brought them.

X

He had opened the door with his latch-key and had stood aside to allow

her to pass into the hall, when suddenly he clutched her arm and drew

her back. He signed to her to make no sound. Together they stood

listening. The early morning stillness was broken by a door shutting

smartly at the top of the house, a cheerful whistling and then the

unmistakeably firm step of a man descending.

Tabs had no man in his employ, so what was a man doing in his house?

There was no secretiveness about the stranger's movements; on the

contrary, there was an airy boldness.

The sunlight danced and nickered on the wall as if it shared the

excitement of their suspense. The footsteps drew nearer. They paused

dramatically. The whistling ceased abruptly. Had the stranger taken

warning? A match was struck. He was only lighting a cigarette. The

footsteps came on again. At the final bend of the stairs the intruder

came in sight. He halted, mirroring their surprise, and stood staring

down at them with a bleak, hard look. He was the man whom they had least

expected.

Tabs was the first to collect himself. He closed the front door behind

him. "Good morning, General. You couldn't have been more prompt if we

had telegraphed you that we were coming." When Braithwaite still stared,

Tabs continued, "Allow me to introduce you to Lady Dawn and may I ask

how long I have had you as my guest?"

Braithwaite drew a puff at his cigarette. His manner was as haughty as

if he had been the owner of the house. "Since last night," he said. "I

have to thank your Lordship for a bed. Mrs. Braithwaite----" A gleam of

amusement shot into his eyes. "Mrs. Braithwaite had a sentiment for

spending her first night beneath your roof. Seeing that you were away

and that I was so newly wedded"--he made an eloquent gesture--"I could

scarcely deny her." Turning on his heel, he commenced to reascend.

Across his shoulder he flung back, "Of course I apologize. We'll not

trespass further. In a few minutes I'll have her dressed. In half an

hour, at the outside, I'll remove her."

"Don't be a fool." Tabs spoke sharply. "You make me wonder which of us

is mad."

Braithwaite regarded him for a moment with an enigmatic smile. "I'm not.

Yesterday I did the wisest thing of my life." With that he vanished.

Lady Dawn turned to Tabs gently. "If that's the way he feels, then he

has. Terry's to be congratulated."

"But why on earth should she have wanted to spend her marriage-night in

my house?" Tabs questioned. "My house of all inappropriate places!

That's what I can't understand. And what could Ann have been doing to

consent? You remember I told you there was a time when he was

practically engaged to Ann."

They mounted the stairs till they came to the first landing. Entering

the library, with its bright red lacquer, they sat down to await events.

But Tabs did not sit long; he was too restless. Having flung wide the

French windows which opened out on to the veranda, he kept going to the

doorway to listen.

He glanced at his wrist-watch. "Barely six o'clock! Upon my word, I

don't relish the idea of her being disturbed. Braithwaite's such a

hot-head. For all I care, they can stop here as long as they like. I'll

take a holiday so as not to embarrass them." He faced Lady Dawn with

troubled frankness. "The question is: _are_ they married? I've been

trying to figure things out. They simply can't be unless he met her with

a special license in Gloucester. And even then, I can't see how---- But

if they're not married, surely he would never have had the audacity to

bring her to my house. It would be too preposterous--to the house of a

man to whom she was engaged, where she would be waited on by a woman

with whom he was once in love."

At that moment Ann entered, pretty and sleepy-eyed, with Braithwaite

following close behind. Tabs commenced speaking at once, in order that

he might put them at their ease as regards his intentions.

"We're not here to blame any one. You, General, evidently think that I'm

hostile. I'm not. As far as you're concerned, Ann, whatever you've done

is right. Of course I'm a little taken aback to find that my house was

chosen for the honeymoon. But if you'd like to have the use of it for a

week or so and Ann doesn't object, I'll clear out and leave you to

yourselves. You'll make me really happy if you'll accept the offer;

it'll be a proof of friendliness. You're wondering why we surprised you

so early. It wasn't to prevent you from marrying. It was because Lady

Dawn was responsible for Terry and we felt that a runaway match, with

the marriage announced after the event, might damage not only her but

you, General, as well. I read yesterday in the papers of what you're

doing and I want to say just this to you. You're the better man. You

deserved to win. Last time we met you refused to shake my hand. I hope

you'll take it now. You can afford to be magnanimous to a rival, now

that you're Terry's husband."

Tabs stood with his hand held out. Braithwaite made no motion to accept

it; and yet his expression was generous. "I can't shake your hand as

Terry's husband, Lord Taborley. I'm not married to her."

Lady Dawn sprang to her feet and came between the two tall men. "Not

married to her! But you intend to marry her? You told us you were

married."

Braithwaite was still smiling. "I am." To their amazement he slipped his

arm about Ann and kissed her sleepy, tender mouth. "Terry is safe with

your Ladyship's sister. We took her there when she arrived last night."

He turned to Tabs. "You said that I was the better man. I'm not. It was

your sense of duty that always urged me. I have to thank your Lordship

for the greatest happiness that can befall any man. You made me see it

as my greatest happiness, when I was in danger of becoming a cad. There

was one thing you said to me that sank into my mind. 'You'll never

succeed, however great your courage, unless you start with your honor

solvent.' You saved my honor. I didn't like your methods. But I thank

you with all my heart now. If it hadn't been for you, neither Ann nor I

would have come safely to our journey's end. I think we'd both like to

shake your hand."

XI

It was two hours later. They were finishing their breakfast in the open,

on the balcony of the Hyde Park Hotel. From where they sat they could

watch a lawn-mower traveling slowly back and forth, patterning the sward

with alternate stripes of different colored greenness. They could smell

the acrid juices of newly cut grass. Beyond the islands of flowers and

vivid candelabra of trees, they could see the wild fowl of the

Serpentine rise and drift like phantoms across the sultry stretch of

blueness. Wheels of a water-cart grumbled sleepily against the gravel.

Moving through the sunlit shadows of the Row, riders were returning from

their early morning gallop.

They were still together--just the two of them. They were romantically

self-conscious of the domestic appearance which their twoness caused.

Only married couples or very ardent lovers rise, while the lazy world is

sleeping, to keep each other company at breakfast. They had not had the

heart to disturb the General and Ann in their temporary possession of

the little nest-like house.

Lady Dawn was speaking. "So you've done it again."

"What have I done?"

"What you did for Maisie. How did you put it last night? You've led them

to their kingdom."

He smiled. "I seem to have a faculty for doing that. I do for others

what I can't do for myself."

Still not looking at him, she said: "Perhaps you don't find your own

kingdom because you're too much in love with the search. You don't want

to bring your journey to an end. There are people like that."

"I'm not one of them.--I wish you'd look at me, Lady Dawn. Do you know

what I covet most in all the world? Rest and certainty. I don't mean a

lazy kind of rest, but the rest of a mind at peace with itself--the

certainty we all had while the war was on, when we were adventuring for

the advantage of other people. I've done nothing lately that wasn't for

myself. I want some one to live for, so that I can forget myself. I've

been thinking----"

The waiter presented the bill. Tabs scarcely knew whether to curse or

bless. He had been approaching the danger-mark; nevertheless, he wasn't

at all sure that he was grateful for the interruption. His heart cried

out to him to risk humiliation by one last act of daring. Experience

warned him that it is the sins of precaution--the follies left

uncommitted--that are most regretted by men of seventy.

She rose as he was gathering up his change. The purpose that had brought

them to London was ended. There was no further reason for their being

together. If they were to prolong their companionship, a new excuse must

be invented. He saw by the tentative manner in which she waited, that

she also had realized that. He became perturbed lest she might dismiss

him. Speaking hurriedly to forestall her, he said, "I suppose we had

better make sure of Terry by hunting her up at Mulberry Tree Court."

She barely nodded. Perhaps she thought, now that Braithwaite had been

eliminated as a rival, that this making sure of Terry betokened a

rekindling of the old infatuation. A constraint grew up between them. It

was not until they were standing on the top of the hotel steps, waiting

for her car, that he ventured to correct the wrong impression. "Funny

about Terry! If it hadn't been for her, we might never have been

friends. The first day of my home-coming she drew my attention to you;

it was too late--you had passed. You were driving with the Queen in the

Park. I remember what Terry said. She called you Di and spoke of you as

the most beautiful woman in England."

She gave no sign that she had heard. As though she were unescorted, she

passed before him down the steps. But the moment they were seated in the

car, she turned to him. She looked her full age. Her face was pale with

more than weariness. He noticed the threads of gray in her hair. Ever

since he had seen Ann in her flushed shy exaltation, he had felt more

keenly the pathos of Lady Dawn. It was a pathos that found an echo in

his heart--the pathos of approaching separation. What purpose did it

serve her to be beautiful, if she had no man of her own to admire her?

"You were on the verge of telling me something, when the waiter

interrupted," she prompted. "It began like a confession. You'd been

speaking about living for other people and your need of rest. Then, you

said you'd been thinking----"

"It was about how one could make a man's job out of living," he answered

quickly. "It's all wrong that one should feel decent only when he's

attempting to get slaughtered. It takes neither brains nor perseverance

to be dead. Any one can----"

"But it was about finding rest that you were speaking."

"Yes, but I've burdened you with too many of my troubles." He hesitated,

wondering whether he dare tell her what had happened to his heart. "I've

done nothing for you. I've only borrowed from your strength. You're the

most restful woman, the most calm----" Then he dodged. "But since you

ask me of what I was thinking, it was of how I might escape to the old

hardships. I thought I'd call at the Passport Office and get in touch

with the Royal Geographical Society, and commence arrangements to

explore----"

"Then I sha'n't be seeing you again?" She asked it in a tone of

dreariness, bordering on terror. Her hands trembled in her lap. She

stared straight before her.

"But you will." He forced a cheerfulness into his voice which he was far

from feeling. "These things take time. It may be weeks----"

"But you'll go away. I know it."

"I suppose I shall. Sooner or later I shall return. In the meanwhile we

can write."

She paid no attention to his consolation. Her face was gray as granite.

Her hands kept folding and unfolding. There was something symbolic in

their emptiness. "You won't come back. It's the end. You weren't sent,

after all."

How or why he said it, he never could tell. The words were utterly

unpremeditated. He spoke them, ordinarily and unemotionally, as though

throwing out a casual suggestion. "We could get married, if that would

make you happier."

"It's what I'd like."

His heart missed a beat. He dared not credit his senses. He glanced down

at her, prepared to find that she was mocking. The most beautiful woman

in England! There was no mistake; she had actually asked him.

"It's what I should like, too." He spoke conventionally. Nothing in his

tone betrayed his emotion. "It's what I've been dreaming from the moment

that we met---- When would be convenient?"

"As soon as possible."

"Would a week from to-day suit?"

She nodded, "Or sooner."

Beneath the robe his hand sought hers. He did not trust himself to look

at her. She was his, all of her and forever. It was marvelous. The

secret clasp of her hand was sufficient for the present. He was still

doubtful of his fortune and unnerved by his temerity. He felt aloof and

disembodied--an uninvolved spectator. And this was love, the journey's

end--this smiling stillness, which was so different from anything he had

imagined!

They entered Mulberry Tree Court and drew up before the house with the

marigold-tinted curtains. It was while they were waiting for the door to

be opened that he broke the silence. Smiling down at her with a guilty,

glad expression he asked, "We're engaged now, I suppose?"

She returned his smile less certainly. "I'm ashamed. But you won't

go----"

He laughed at the folly of her question. "Go, when I've got you, the

woman whom I wanted!"

"Then you won't go exploring? You won't exchange me for hardships?"

"Di, dearest, I've done with searching."

The door was opening. She pulled herself together. Porter stood before

them, neatly laundered, with the old suspicious meekness in her glance.

"Good morning, Porter. We've come to see Miss Beddow. We've been told

that she's staying with my sister."

"She is, your Ladyship. But none of them are down. She arrived so late

and unexpected."

They followed her across the hall into the sun-filled drawing-room, with

its fragrant flowers, tall windows, rockery-garden and little oval pond,

with the toy boat floating on its surface. The moment the door had

closed, he had her in his arms. Now that he was sure of her possession,

he held her desperately as if he feared that he were going to lose her.

"Closer," she whispered. "Closer." It flashed through his memory that

the last time he was in that room, he had been the spectator of just

such a union and had fled from it because he was excluded.

She stirred against him, lifting up her face.

"This time you're really crying," he whispered. Stooping he pressed her

lips. "They always told me you never----"

Freeing her arms, she clasped him tightly about the neck. He could feel

the weight of her body, dragging his face lower. She kissed him

passionately, stopping his breath, as though she would breathe into him

her very soul. "Oh, my dearest--my very dear! How cruel you were! You

made me ask you. I thought I'd never get you."

The door was opening. Terry was watching them. The first they knew of

her presence was when she spoke.

"You came to see me."

They broke apart like shameful children and stood regarding her, their

hands just touching. She seemed their elder.

"I suppose you have the right to jeer at me," she continued slowly. "I'm

left out. I was too cold. I'm too late. I didn't want what was offered

at the time it was offered. What I didn't want once, I can't have now.

And, perhaps, I still don't want it. Tabs used to speak of kingdoms. I

never knew what he meant. You've all found yours--Maisie, Braithwaite,

both of you and even Ann. Everybody, except me." She laughed to prevent

her tears from falling. "I suppose Tabs would tell me that mine's still

round the corner. You would, wouldn't you, Tabs?"

Her need, which had been theirs, penetrated their happiness. They felt

again the old wild pang of neglected loneliness. Sargent's painting

above the mantelpiece, looking down on them, reminded Lady Dawn of her

own forgotten tragedy. It was unendurable that their gladness should

bring sorrow to Terry. With a common instinct they went towards her.

Lady Dawn placed her arms about her. It was Tabs who spoke.

"Little Terry, you're not left out. You're ours more than ever. We've

not robbed you. We couldn't. Of you alone it's true that everything lies

before you. All the time you've had your kingdom, though you didn't know

it. You still have it--the Kingdom of Youth, for which we older people

were all searching."

In the silence that followed there stole to them through the summer

sunshine, above the mutter of London, the music of a distant

barrel-organ. In the mind of Tabs a picture formed; it was of children

dancing along a golden pavement on that first spring morning of his

disillusion. The tune which the barrel-organ played was the same. His

brain sang words to the music:

"Apres la guerre

There'll be a good time everywhere."

And it was no longer an optimism--it was fulfilled promise.

Surely, beyond the bounds of space, Lord Dawn also listened and was

happy. For Tabs, as long as life lasted, it would be the marching-song

of the kingdom round the corner.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Kingdom Round the Corner, by Coningsby Dawson