The sun hung low over Northbrook hills as Barres turned his touring
car in between the high, white service gates of Foreland Farms, swung
around the oval and backed into the garage.
Barres senior, very trim in tweeds, the web-straps of a creel and a
fly-book wallet crossing his breast, glanced up from his absorbing
occupation of preparing evening casts on a twelve-foot, tapered
mist-leader.
"Hello," he said absently, glancing from his son to Westmore through
his monocle, "where have you been keeping yourselves all day?"
"I'll tell you all about it later, dad," said Garry, emerging from the
garage with Westmore. "Where is mother?"
"In the kennels, I believe.... What do you think of this cast, Jim?--a
whirling dun for a dropper, a hare's ear for a----" He checked
himself; glanced doubtfully at the two young men.
"You're somewhat muddy," he remarked; and continued to explore his
fly-book for new combinations.
Westmore, very weary, started for the house; Garry walked across to
the kennel gate, let himself in among a dozen segregated and very
demonstrative English setters, walked along the tree-bordered alley
behind the garage, and, shutting out the affectionate but quarantined
dogs, entered the kennels.
His mother, in smock and apron, and wearing rubber gloves, was seated
on the edge of a straw-littered bunk, a bottle in one hand, a
medicine-dropper in the other. Her four-footed patient, swathed in
blankets, lay on the straw beside her.
"Well, dear," she said, looking up at her son, "where have you been
all night, and most of to-day?"
"I'll tell you about it later, mother. There's something else I want
to ask you----" He fell silent, watching her measure out fourteen
drops of Grover's Specific for distemper.
"I'm listening, Garry," she said, bending over the sick pup and gently
forcing open his feverish jaws. Then she dropped her medicine far back
on his tongue; the pup gulped, sneezed, looked at her out of dull eyes
and feebly wagged his tail.
"I'm going to pull him through, Garry," she said. "The other pups are
doing well, too. But your sister and I were up with them all night. I
only hope and pray that the distemper doesn't spread."
She looked up at her son:
"Well, dear, what is it you have to ask me?"
"Mother, do you like Dulcie Soane?"
"I scarcely know her yet.... She's very sweet--very young----"
"Do you like her?"
"Why--yes----" She looked intently at her tall, unsmiling son. "But I
don't even know who she is, Garry."
Her son bent down beside her and put one arm around her shoulder. She
sat quite motionless with the bottle of Grover's Specific in one
rubber-gloved hand, the medicine dropper poised in the other.
He said:
"Dulcie's name is Fane, not Soane. Her grandfather was Sir Barry
Fane, of Fane Court--an Irishman. His daughter, Eileen, was Dulcie's
mother.... Her father--is dead--I believe."
"But--this explains nothing, Garry."
"Is it not explanation enough, mother?"
"Is it enough for you, my son?"
"Yes."
Her head slowly drooped. She sat gazing in silence at the straw-littered
floor.
He looked earnestly, anxiously at his mother's face. Her brooding
expression remained tranquil but inscrutable.
He said, watching her intently:
"I wasn't sure about myself until last night. I don't know about
Dulcie, whether she can care for me--in this new way.... We were
friends. But I am in love with her now.... Deeply."
It was one of the moments in his career which remain fixed forever in
a young man's memory.
In a mother's memory, too. Whatever she says and does then, he never
forgets. She, too, remembers always.
He stood leaning over her in the dim light of the kennel, one arm
around her shoulders, waiting. And presently she lifted her head,
looked him quietly in the eyes, bent forward very gently, and kissed
him.
* * * * *
Dulcie was not in the house, nor was Thessalie.
Barres and Westmore exchanged conversation between their open doors
while bathing and dressing.
"You know, Garry," admitted the latter, "I feel all shaken up, yet,
over that ghastly business."
"So do I.... If they hadn't died so gamely.... But Skeel was a
_man_!"
"You bet he was, crazy or sane!... What a pity!... And that poor
devil, Soane! Did you hear them cheering there, at the last? And what
superb nerve--breaking out that green flag!"
"And think of their opening on that big patrol boat! They hadn't a
chance."
"They had no chance anyway," said Westmore. "It meant execution if
they surrendered--at least, they probably thought so. But how do you
suppose that cowardly strangler, Ferez, felt when he realised that
Skeel was going to fight?"
"He certainly got what was coming to him, didn't he?" said Barres
grimly. "You'll tell Thessa, won't you?"
"As soon as I can find her," nodded Westmore, giving his fresh bow-tie
a most killing twist.
He was ready before Barres was, and he lost no time in starting out to
find Thessalie.
Barres, following him later, discovered him on the library lounge with
Thessalie's fair cheek resting against his.
"I'm s-sorry!" he stammered, backing out, and very conscious of
Westmore's unconcealed annoyance. But Thessalie called to him in a
perfectly calm voice, and he ventured to come back.
"Are you going to tell Dulcie about this horrible affair?" she asked.
"Not immediately.... Are you feeling all right, Thessa?"
"Yes. I had a horrid night. Isn't it odd how a girl can so completely
lose her nerve after a thing is all over?"
"That's the best time to lose it," said Westmore. And to Barres:
"She's bruised from head to foot and her neck hurts yet----"
"It is nothing," murmured Thessalie, looking smilingly at her lover.
Then they both glanced at Barres.
There was a silence. Side by side on the library lounge they continued
to gaze expectantly at Barres. And when he got it into his head that
this polite expectancy might express their desire for his early
departure, he backed out again, embarrassed and slightly irritated.
Thessalie called to him very sweetly:
"If you are looking for Dulcie, I left her a few minutes ago over by
the wall-fountain in the rose arbour."
"Thanks," he said, and turned back through the hall, traversing it to
the north veranda.
There was no sign of Dulcie in the garden or on the lawn. He walked
slowly across the clipped grass, beyond the pool, and, turning to the
right past a sun-dial, stepped into the long rose-arbour. At the
further end of the blossoming tunnel he saw her seated on the low wall
in the rear of the tea-house. Her head was turned toward the woods
beyond.
When he was near her she heard him and looked around, was on the point
of rising, but something in his expression held her motionless.
"Where have you been, Garry?"
He ignored the question, seated himself beside her on the wall, and
drew both her hands into his. He saw the swift colour stain her face,
the lovely, disconcerted eyes lower.
"Last night," he said, "did you come back as you promised?"
"Yes."
"And you found me gone."
She nodded.
"What could you have thought of me, Dulcie?"
"I--my thoughts were--not very clear."
"Are they clearer?"
Her head remained lowered but she raised her grey eyes to his. Her
face had become very still and white.
"Dulcie," he said under his breath, "I am in love with you.... What
will you do about it?"
And, after a little while:
"W-what shall I do, Garry?" she whispered.
"Love me. Can you?"
She remained silent.
"Will you?--Dulcie Fane!"
Her lips stirred, but no sound came.
"You are so wonderful," he said. "I am just realising that I began to
fall in love with you a long time ago."
The declining sun sent a red shaft across the fields, painting every
tree-trunk, gilding bramble and brake. A single ray touched the girl's
white neck and turned her copper-tinted hair to burning gold.
"Do you love me? Can you love me, that way, Dulcie?"
She rose abruptly, and he rose too, retaining her hands; but as she
turned her head from him he saw her mouth quiver.
"Dearest--dearest!" But she interrupted him:
"I want to tell you--that I don't understand why I should be called by
my mother's maiden name.... I w-want you to know that I _don't_
understand it ... if that would make a difference--in your c-caring
for me.... And I wish you to know that--that I love and worship her
memory--and that I am happy and proud--and _proud_--to bear her
name."
"My darling----"
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, Dulcie."
"And do you still want me?"
"You adorable child----"
"_Do_ you?"
"Of course I do----" He caught her in his arms, held her close, lifted
her flushed face. "Now, tell me whether you can love _me_! Tell me
everything that's hidden in your mind and heart!"
"Oh, Garry," she faltered, "I do belong to you. I belong to you
anyway, because you made me. And I've always been in love with
you--always!--always from the very beginning of the world, _Asthore_!
And now--if you want me--this way--Garry _mo veel asthore_----" Her
hands crept from his breast to his shoulders; stole up around his
neck. "Asthore," she murmured; and their lips met in their first kiss.
Then she gravely turned her head and laid her cheek against his; and
he heard her murmuring to herself:
"_Drahareen o machree, mo veel asthore!_ This man--this man who takes
my heart--and gives me his...."
"What are you murmuring there all to yourself?" he whispered, laughing
and drawing her closer. But she only clung to him passionately and her
closed lids kept back the starting tears.
"What is it, dear?" he asked.
"H-happiness," she whispered, "and pride, perhaps.... And my love for
you, Asthore!"