It was late that evening that Bunny strolled forth alone to smoke a reminiscent pipe along his favourite glade of larches in Burchester Park. He went slowly through the summer dusk, his hands behind him, his eyes fixed ahead. He had had his way with Toby. She had promised to marry him as soon as old Bishop's retirement left the house in the hollow at his disposal. But somehow, though he had gained his end, he was not conscious of elation. Sheila Melrose's words had disturbed him no less than Toby's own peculiar interpretation of them. There was a very strong instinct of fair play in Bunny Brian, and, now that he had won his point, he was assailed by a grave doubt as to whether he were acting fairly towards the girl. She was young, but then many girls marry young. It was not really her youth that mattered; neither, when he came to sift the matter, was it the fact that she had had so little opportunity of seeing the world. But it was something in Toby's eyes, something in Sheila's manner, that gave him pause. He asked himself, scarcely knowing why, if it would not be fairer after all to wait.
He wished that he could have consulted Jake, but yet it would have been difficult to put his misgivings into definite words. Jake was a brick and understood most things, but he was away for another week at least.
The thought of the girl's father crossed his mind, only to be instantly dismissed. Even if he had been within reach, Captain Larpent's sternly unapproachable exterior would have held him back. He was inclined to like the man, but he could not feel that Toby's welfare was, or ever had been, of paramount importance to him. He had thoughts only for his yacht.
Bunny began to reflect moodily that life was a more complicated affair than he had ever before imagined, and, reaching this point, he also reached the gate by the copse and became aware of cigar-smoke dominating the atmosphere above the scent of his own now burnt-out pipe.
He removed the pipe from his mouth and looked around him.
"Hullo!" said a voice he knew. "Do I intrude?"
Saltash stepped suddenly out of the shadow of the larches and met him with outstretched hand.
"Hullo!" said Bunny, with a start.
A quick smile of welcome lighted his face, and Saltash's eyes flashed in answer. He gripped the boy's hand with fingers that closed like springs.
"What are you doing here?" he said.
"Just what I was going to ask you," said Bunny. "I often come here in the evening. It's my favourite look-out. But you—"
"I do the same for the same reason," said Saltash.
"I thought you were far away on the high seas," said Bunny.
Saltash laughed. "Well, I was. But I don't stay there, my good Bunny.The Blue Moondeveloped engine trouble—nothing very serious, but we brought her back to recuperate. You can never tell what you may be in for on a first voyage. Also, I was curious to see how affairs here were progressing. How goes it,mon ami? Is all well?"
"Well enough," said Bunny.
Saltash linked a friendly hand in his arm. "Have you and Nonette settled when to get married yet?"
Bunny stiffened momentarily, as if his instinct were to resent the kindly enquiry. But the next instant he relaxed again with impulsive confidence. "Well, it is more or less settled," he said. "But I'm wondering—you know, Charlie, she's rather young to be married, isn't she? She hasn't seen much of the world so far. You don't think it's shabby, do you, to marry her before she's had the same sort of chances as other girls?"
"Good heavens, no!" said Saltash. He gave Bunny an odd look from under brows that were slightly twisted. "What made you think of that?" he asked.
Bunny's face was red. He leaned his arms on the gate and looked out across the valley. "Sheila Melrose put it to me this afternoon," he said, "though I must admit it had crossed my mind before. She hasn't met many people, you know, Charlie. And—as I said—she's young. I don't want to take an unfair advantage."
"Life is too short to think of these things," said Saltash abruptly. "Marry her while you can get her and don't be an ass about it! If I had done the same thing in my youth, I should have been better off than I am at present."
Bunny smiled a little. "You would probably have been wishing you'd done the other thing by this time."
"Much you know about it!" returned Saltash with a whimsical frown. "Now look here! What I've really come back for is to see you married. All this preliminary messing about is nothing but a weariness to the flesh. Get it over, man! There's nothing on earth to wait for. Larpent's willing enough. In fact, he agrees with me—the sooner the better."
"He would!" said Bunny with a touch of bitterness.
"Well, you can't ask for anything better," maintained Saltash. "He's got his job, and he's not what you could call a family man. He's not a waster either, so you needn't put on any damned airs,mon vieux."
"I didn't!" said Bunny hotly.
Saltash laughed, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Look here! I'm talking for the good of your soul. Don't take any more advice—certainly not Sheila Melrose's! You go straight ahead and marry her! You've got money, I know, but I hope you won't chuck your job on that account. Stick to it, and you shall have the Dower House to live in while I yet cumber the ground, and Burchester Castle as soon as I'm under it!"
"What?" said Bunny. He turned almost fiercely. "Charlie! Stop it! You're talking rot. You always do. I don't want your beastly castle. You've got to marry and get an heir of your own. I'm damned if I'm going to be adopted by you!"
Saltash was laughing carelessly, mockingly, yet there was about him at the moment a certain royal self-assurance that made itself felt. "You'll do as you're told,mon ami. And you'll take what the gods send without any cavilling. As for me, I go my own way. I shall never marry. I shall never have an heir of my own blood. Burchester means more to you than it does to me. Therefore Burchester will pass to you at my death. Think you and Toby will be happy here?"
"Damn it!" said Bunny, still fiercely disconcerted. "You talk as if you were going to die to-morrow."
"Oh, probably not," said Saltash airily. "But I doubt if I live to a rakish old age. I'm a man that likes taking chances, and those who dice with the high gods are bound to throw a blank some day." For a moment the mockery died down in his eyes, and he looked more nearly serious than Bunny had ever seen him. He patted the shoulder under his hand. "Life is rather a rotten old show when you've tried everything and come to the end," he said. "And you know for a damn' certainty that you'll never taste any good fruit again. But you will never know what that feels like,mon ami. You've had the sense to play a straight game, and you'll find it pays in the long run. Jake taught you that, eh? You may thank your own particular lucky star that you had him for a brother-in-law instead of me."
"Don't talk rot!" said Bunny gruffly.
Saltash stretched up his arms with a laugh. "No, we'll talk sense—good square sense. I take it you'll continue to manage the estate for the present? If you get bored, we'll find an agent, but I'm satisfied with things as they are. We'll go round and have a look at the old Dower House to-morrow. It has a fairly decent position, you know,—overlooks Graydown. That ought to please you both."
Bunny turned upon him. "Oh, confound it, Charlie!" he said. "I can't talk about this. I couldn't possibly take it. You're too damned generous. I've never done anything to deserve it."
"Oh yes, you have!" said Saltash unexpectedly, "you've done a good many things for me. You have always been thebon amiwhatever I did—from your childhood upwards." His dark face laughed with friendly warmth into the boy's troubled eyes. "Always stuck up for me, haven't you, Bunny?" he said.
"Oh, but that's rot," objected Bunny. "A man is bound to stick up for his pals."
"Even though he knows they're not worth it?" laughed Saltash. "Yes, that's just what I like about you. It's the one point on which we touch. But I'm not sure that even you would stick up for me if you knew precisely what sort of rotter you were sticking up for."
"Oh, shut up!" said Bunny.
"Bien, mon cher!We return to your affairs. Have you put up the banns yet? I presume you will allow me to be best man? Get it over soon, I beseech you! I can't stay here indefinitely. As a matter of fact, I'm due in Scotland at the present moment. Can't you fix it up immediately? And you can have the little car and leave of absence till you've got over it. Old Bishop can run this show till the winter. Maud can fit up the Dower House for you. And I shall feel at liberty to roam the desert once more—unencumbered."
"You're jolly decent to me!" said Bunny.
"Think so?" Saltash's brows twitched humorously. "I seem to be developing a taste for worthy deeds. But there's no reason on earth why you two shouldn't get married and done for as soon as possible. I'll see Larpent to-night and tell him, and you can go and see the parson about it to-morrow. You'll find Nonette won't put any obstacles in the way. She's a good child and does as she's told."
"No, Toby won't mind," Bunny said, with a sudden memory of her quick surrender flooding his soul. "By Jove, Charlie! You are a good sort to help me like this. There's no one else that can get things moving as you can."
"Oh, you can count on me for that," laughed Saltash. "I never was a drifter. Life is too short. We'll meet again to-morrow then. Come and dine if you like, and tell me what you've arranged! Good night!" He turned in his sudden fashion. "Good luck to you!"
He was gone upon the words, vanishing into the larches almost noiselessly as he had come, and Bunny was left alone.
He stood motionless at the gate for some time longer gazing out over the quiet, night-wrapt down. There was no elation in his attitude, only a deep thoughtfulness. He had never understood Charlie though oddly enough he had always believed in him. But to-night for the first time a curious doubt pierced his mind—a doubt that recurred again and again, banishing all sense of exultation. Why had Charlie returned like this? Why was he so eager to meddle in this affair? Why so recklessly generous? He had a strong feeling that there was something behind it all, some motive unrealized, some spur goading him, of which he, Bunny, might not approve if he came to know of it. He wished he could fathom the matter. It was unlike Saltash to take so much trouble over anything. He felt as if in some inexplicable fashion he were being tricked.
He put the thought from him, but he could not drive it away. Just as he had felt himself baffled a little earlier by Toby, so now he felt the same inability to comprehend Saltash. He seemed to be groping at a locked door, feeling and feeling for a key, that always eluded him. And again he wished that Jake was within reach.
He turned homewards at length, dissatisfied and ill at ease, yet calling himself a fool for scenting a mystery that did not exist.
The Graydown Stables were always a model of well-ordered efficiency, and it had ever been Bunny's pride to show them to his friends. But he awaited General Melrose and his daughter on the following afternoon in a mood of some impatience. He had arrived early in the hope of finding Toby at liberty, but his youngfianceéwas nowhere to be found. She had gone out riding, Maud said, immediately after luncheon, and he realized with some disgust that he had forgotten to tell her on the previous day of his coming.
"She will be in to tea, dear," Maud said, and he was obliged to content himself with the prospect of seeing her and acquainting her with Saltash's energetic interest on their behalf after the visitors had gone. He had never felt less in the mood for entertaining casual friends than he felt on that sunny afternoon in September as he lounged in the wide stable-yard and waited for them. He had always liked Sheila Melrose, they had a good deal in common. But curiously enough it was that very fact that made him strangely reluctant to meet her now. In some inexplicable fashion, he found her simple directness disconcerting. Toby's words stuck obstinately in his mind, refusing to be dislodged. "She likes you well enough not to want you to marry me." He realized beyond question that those words had not been without some significance. It might be just instinct with her, as Toby had declared, but that Sheila regarded his engagement as a mistake he was fairly convinced. That she herself had any feeling for him beyond that of friendship he did not for a moment imagine. Bunny had no vanity in that direction. There was too much of the boy, too much of the frank comrade, in his disposition for that. They were pals, and the idea of anything deeper than palship on either side had never seriously crossed his mind. He was honest in all his ways, and his love for Toby—that wild and wonderful flower of first love—filled all his conscious thoughts to the exclusion of aught beside. The odd, sweet beauty of her had him in thrall. She was so totally different from everyone else he had ever encountered. He felt the lure of her more and more with every meeting, the wonder and the charm.
But Sheila did not want him to marry her, and a very natural feeling of irritation against her possessed him in consequence. Doubtless Sheila had a perfect right to her opinions, but she might keep them to herself. Between Saltash's headlong resolve to help and Sheila's veiled desire to hinder, he felt that his course was becoming too complicated, as if in spite of his utmost efforts to guide his own craft there were contrary currents at work that he was powerless to avoid.
He had an urgent desire for Toby that afternoon, and he was inclined somewhat unreasonably to resent her absence. But when at length the hoot of the General's car warned him of his visitors' advent as they turned in at the gate, he was suddenly conscious of a feeling of relief that he was alone. Toby was not at her ease with them. She fancied they disapproved of her, and whether the fancy were justified or not he was glad that she was not there to meet them. He determined to get the business over as quickly as possible.
Sheila in her dainty summer attire was looking even prettier than usual, and almost against his will Bunny noted the fact. Against his will also, his barely-acknowledged feeling of resentment vanished before he had been five minutes in her company. Sheila's charms went beyond mere prettiness. She had the tact and ready ease of manner which experience of the world alone can impart. She was sympathetic and quick of understanding. Without flattering, she possessed the happy knack of setting those about her at their ease. It was very rarely that she was roused to indignation; perhaps only Saltash knew how deep her indignation could be. And he was not the man to impart the knowledge to anyone else.
So on that warm September afternoon in her gracious way she restored Bunny's good humour and reinstated their friendship without effort, without apparent consciousness of any strain upon it. They went through the stables, and Bunny displayed his favourites with an enthusiasm of which he had not believed himself capable a little earlier. The stud had always been his great delight from boyhood, and both the General and his daughter took a keen interest in all they saw.
The time passed with astounding rapidity, and the chiming of the great stable-clock awoke Bunny at length to the fact that the afternoon was practically over.
"Maud will think we are never going in to tea," he said, with a laugh, turning back from the gate into the training field where they had been inspecting some of the colts. "You'll come round to the house, won't you? She is expecting you—said I was to be sure to bring you in."
Sheila smiled and accepted the invitation. "We were hoping to see Mrs.Bolton to say good-bye," she said. "Is Miss Larpent not here to-day?"
"Yes, she's out riding," Bunny said. "She may be in any moment. It's a pity Jake is away. He is expected back some time next week."
"Yes, I'm sorry to have missed him," said the General. "Tell him that I've enjoyed seeing the animals, and I think he has a very fine show! I never could understand how Saltash could bring himself to part with the stud."
"He's so seldom at home," said Bunny. "Yachting is much more in his line—though as a matter of fact he is at the Castle just now, came back yesterday."
"Is he indeed? Are you sure of that?" Sheila spoke with surprise. "I thought he meant to be away much longer."
"His intentions never last more than a couple of days," remarked theGeneral with a touch of acidity. "Nothing he does ever surprises me."
"He's a very good chap," began Bunny. "He's been no end decent to me.Why,—" he broke off suddenly—"Hullo! There he is! And—Toby!"
Two figures had come suddenly round the corner of some stables, walking side by side. Both were in riding-dress, but the day being hot, the girl had discarded her long coat and was carrying it without ceremony over her arm. Her silk shirt was open at the neck, her soft hat pushed jauntily down on the side of her head. She was laughing as she came, and she looked like a merry little cow-boy straight from the prairies.
The man who moved beside her was laughing also. There was no grace about him, only that strange unstudied kingliness that had earned for him the title of "Rex." He was swift to see the advancing visitors and swept the hat from his head with a royal gesture of greeting.
Toby's face flushed deeply; she looked for the moment inclined to run away. Then with an impulse half-defiant, she restrained herself and caught back the smile that had so nearly vanished. She slapped the switch against her gaitered leg with boyish swagger and advanced.
A quick frown drew Bunny's forehead as he observed her attitude. He spoke impetuously, almost before they met.
"You look like a girl out of a comic opera. Why don't you put your coat on?"
Toby made a face at him. "Because it's cooler off. You can carry it if you like." She threw it to him nonchalantly with the words, and turned forthwith to Sheila. "Have you just been round the Stables? Grilling, isn't it? I've been exercising one of the youngsters. He nearly pulled my arms off. We've been practising some jumps."
"Then you shouldn't," put in Bunny. "The ground's too hard for jumping."
Toby turned upon him with a flash of temper. "No one asked for your opinion. I know a safe jump when I see one. Are you coming in to tea, Miss Melrose? I should think you're wanting it. Yes? What's the matter?"
She flung the two questions in a different tone, sharply, as though startled. Sheila was looking at her oddly, very intently, a species of puzzled recognition in her eyes.
Toby backed away from her, half-laughing, yet with something that was not laughter on her face. "What can be the matter?" she said. "Is it—is it my riding breeches? Here, Bunny! Let me have my coat!" She turned swiftly with extended arms. "Quick! Before Miss Melrose faints! I've given her the shock of her life."
"No! No!" protested Sheila, recovering. "Don't be absurd! You reminded me so vividly of someone, that's all. I don't quite know who even yet."
Bunny helped Toby into the coat without a word. There was grim displeasure on his face. The General and Saltash were talking together and for the moment they three stood there alone.
Toby turned round laughing. "How ridiculous you are!" she said to Bunny."You've seen me in this get-up heaps of times before—and will again.Miss Melrose, I forgot you hadn't. I'm horribly sorry to have shockedyou. Shall we go in for tea now?"
The puzzled look was still in Sheila's eyes though she smiled in answer."I am not shocked—of course," she said. "But—but—"
"Yes?" said Toby.
She spoke in the same brief, staccato note; the word was like a challenge. Saltash turned suddenly round.
"I have just been complimenting Miss Larpent on the excellence of her get-up," he said lightly. "We met at the gate on the downs, and I have been witnessing some very pretty horsemanship. Miss Melrose, I hear you are leaving tomorrow, and am quite desolated in consequence. It is always my luck to be left behind."
The hard little smile that only he could ever provoke was on Sheila's lips as she turned to him.
"For such a rapid rider, you are indeed unfortunate," she said.
He laughed with careless effrontery. "Yes, the devil usually takes the hindmost,—so I've been told. Miss Larpent anyway is quite safe, for she will always be an easy first."
"There is such a thing as going too fast," commented Bunny.
"There is such a thing as getting away altogether," flung back Toby with spirit.
Bunny's eyes flashed into sudden, ominous flame. He could not have said why the contrast between the two girls—the one in her dainty summer attire and the other in her boyish riding-kit—had such an effect upon him, but for the moment it almost infuriated him.
Toby saw it, and her own eyes lit in response. She stood waiting for his rejoinder—the spirit of mischief incarnate, wary, alert, daring him.
But Bunny did not speak in answer. He drew in a hard breath through teeth that gripped his lower lip, and restrained himself. The next instant he had turned away.
"Oh, damn!" said Toby, and swung upon her heel.
Saltash and the General walked beside her, rallying her. But Bunny andSheila came behind in silence.
They found Maud awaiting them in the long low room that overlooked her favourite view of the down. Saltash entered as one who had the right, and she greeted him with momentary surprise but evident pleasure.
"I couldn't spend twenty-four hours at Burchester without calling upon you," he said.
"You know you are always welcome," she made answer, with the smile which only her intimate friends ever saw.
They sat down by one of the wide French windows and General Melrose began to occupy his hostess's attention. Sheila took a chair that Bunny pushed forward, and Saltash glanced round for Toby. She was sitting on the end of a couch, playing with the silky ears of the old red setter. Her hat was flung down beside her; her pretty face downcast. He crossed to her deliberately and bent also to fondle the dog.
She started slightly at his coming, and a faint flush rose in her cheeks; but she neither glanced at him nor spoke.
For the moment they were alone, unobserved by the laughing group at the window. Saltash bent suddenly lower. His quick whisper came down to her:
"Go and put on the most girlish thing you've got!"
She looked up at him then, her blue eyes seeking his. A rapid flash of understanding passed between them. Then, without a word she rose.
When Maud looked round for her a few seconds later, Saltash was lounging alone against the sofa-head pulling Chops absently by the ear while he stared before him out of the window in a fit of abstraction that seemed to her unusual.
She called to him to join them at the tea-table, and he jerked himself to his feet and came across to her with the monkeyish grin on his face that she had learned long since to regard as the shield wherewith he masked his soul.
He sat down by her side, devoting himself to her with the gallantry that always characterized him when with her. No one seemed to notice that Toby had disappeared. They talked about the horses, about Jake and his recent victories, about the season at Fairharbour, about the Melroses' plans for the winter.
When questioned by the General on this subject, Saltash declared airily that he never made any.
"If I do, I never stick to them, so what's the use?" he said.
"How weak of you!" said Maud.
And he threw her the old half-tender, half-audacious look, and tossed the subject banteringly away.
He was the first to make a move when the careless meal was over, but not to go. He sauntered forth and lounged against the door-post smoking, while Bunny and Sheila talked of tennis and golf, and Maud listened with well-disguised patience to the old General's oft-repeated French reminiscences.
And then when the tea was cold and forgotten and Sheila was beginning to awake to the fact that it was growing late, there came a sudden, ringing laugh across the lawn and Toby scampered into view with little Molly on her shoulder and Eileen running by her side. She was dressed in white, and she looked no more than a child herself as she danced across the grass, executing a fairy-like step as she came. The tiny girl's tinkling laughter mingled with hers. Her little hands were fondly clasped about the girl's neck; she looked down into her face with babyish adoration while Eileen, the elder child, gazed upward with a more serious devotion.
General Melrose interrupted his narrative to look at the advancing trio."My Jove, Mrs. Bolton," he said, "but that's a pretty sight!"
Sheila also ceased very suddenly to converse with Bunny, while Saltash made a scarcely perceptible movement as though he braced and restrained himself in the same instant.
"The prettiest picture I've seen for years!" vowed the General. "How that little Larpent girl changes! She is like a piece of quicksilver. There's no getting hold of her. How old is she?"
"She is nearly twenty," said Bunny with the swiftness of ownership.
"Nearly twenty! You don't say so! She might be fourteen at the present moment. Look at that! Look at it!" For Toby was suddenly whizzing like a butterfly across the lawn in a giddy flight that seemed scarcely to touch the ground, the little girl still upon her shoulder, the elder child standing apart and clapping her hands in delighted admiration.
"Yes, she is rather like fourteen," Maud said, with her tender smile. "Do you know what she did the other day? It was madness of course, and my husband was very angry with her. I was frightened myself though I have more faith in her than he has. She climbs like a cat, you know, and she actually took both those children up to a high bough of the old beech tree; I don't know in the least how she did it. None of the party seemed to think there was any cause for alarm till Jake came on the scene. He fetched them down with a ladder—all but Toby who went higher and pelted him with beech nuts till he retreated—at my urgent request."
"And what happened after that?" questioned Saltash, with his eyes still upon the dancing figure. "From what I have observed of Jake, I should say that an ignominious retreat is by no means in his line."
Maud laughed a little. "Oh, Jake can be generous when he likes. He had it out with her of course, but he wasn't too severe. Ah, look! She is going to jump the sun dial!"
Sheila turned to her. "Surely you are nervous! If she fell, the little one might be terribly hurt."
"She won't fall," Maud said with confidence.
And even as she spoke, Toby leapt the sun dial, leaving the ground as a bird leaves it, without effort or any sort of strain, and alighting again as a bird alights from a curving flight with absolute freedom and a natural adroitness of movement indescribably pleasant to watch.
"A very pretty circus trick!" declared the General, and even Bunny's clouded brow cleared a little though he said nothing.
"A circus trick indeed!" said Sheila, as if speaking to herself. "How on earth did she do it?"
"She is like a boy in many ways," said Maud.
Sheila looked at her. "Yes. She is just like a boy, or at least—" Her look went further, reached Saltash who lounged on Maud's other side, and fell abruptly away.
As Toby came up with the two children, all of them flushed and laughing, Toby herself in her white frock looking like a child just out of school, she rose and turned to Bunny.
"We ought to go now," she said. "I am going to fetch the car round forDad."
"I'll do it," he said.
But she went with him as he had known she would. They left the group at the window and moved away side by side in silence as they had walked that afternoon.
Saltash stood up and addressed Maud. "I'm going too. Bunny is dining with me tonight. I suppose you won't come?"
She gave him her hand, smiling. "I can't thank you. Ask me another day!You and Bunny will really get on much better without me."
"Impossible!" he declared gallantly, but he did not press her.
He turned to the General and took his leave.
Toby and the two children walked the length of the terrace with him, all chattering at once. She seemed to be in a daring, madcap mood and Saltash laughed and jested with her as though she had been indeed the child she looked. Only at parting, when she would have danced away, he suddenly stopped her with a word.
"Nonette!"
She stood still as if at a word of command; there had been something of compulsion in his tone.
He did not look at her, and the smile he wore was wholly alien to the words he spoke.
"Be careful how you go! And don't see Bunny again—till I have seen him!"
A hard breath went through Toby. She stood like a statue, the two children clasping her hands. Her blue eyes gazed at him with a wide questioning. Her face was white.
"Why? Why?" she whispered at length.
His look flashed before her vision like the grim play of a sword. "That girl remembers you. She will give you away. She's probably at it now. I'll see him—tell him the truth if necessary. Anyhow—leave him to me!"
"Tell him—the truth?" The words came from her like a cry. There was a sudden terror in her eyes. He made a swift gesture of dismissal. "Go, child! Go! Whatever I do will make it all right for you. I'm standing by. Don't be afraid! Just—go!"
It was a definite command. She turned to obey, the little girls still clinging to her. The next moment she was running lightly back with them, and Saltash turned in the opposite direction and passed out of sight round the corner of the house on his way to the stable-yard.
He went with careless tread as his fashion was, whistling the gay air to which all England was dancing that season. His swarthy countenance wore the half-mischievous, half-amused expression with which it was his custom to confront—and baffle—the world at large. No one knew what lay behind that facile mask. Only the very few suspected that it hid aught beyond a genial wickedness of a curiously attractive type.
His spurs rang upon the white stones, and Sheila Melrose, standing beside her father's car in the shadow of some buildings, turned sharply and saw him. Her face was pale; it had a strained expression. But it changed at sight of him. She regarded him with that look of frozen scorn which once she had flung him when they had met in the garish crowd at Valrosa.
Bunny was stooping over the car, but he became aware of Saltash almost in the same moment, and stood up straight to face him. Sheila was pale, but he was perfectly white, and there were heavy drops of perspiration on his forehead. He looked full at Saltash with eyes of blazing accusation.
Saltash's face never changed as he came up to the car. He ceased to whistle, but the old whimsical look remained. He seemed unaware of any tension.
"Car all right?" he asked smoothly. "Can I lend a hand? The general is beginning to move."
Sheila turned without a word and got into the car.
Bunny neither moved nor spoke. He stood like a man paralysed. It was Saltash who, with that royal air of amusing himself, stooped to the handle and started the engine.
The girl at the wheel did not even thank him. She looked beyond. Only as he stood aside and the car slid forward, she turned stiffly to Bunny.
"Good-bye!" she said.
He made a jerky movement. Their eyes met for a single second. "You will write?" he said.
His throat was working spasmodically, the words seemed to come with gigantic effort. She bent her head in answer and passed between them through the white gate into the drive that led round to the house.
Saltash turned with a lightning movement to Bunny. "Walk back with me and we can talk!" he said.
Bunny drew sharply back. The movement was one of instinctive recoil. But still no words came. He stood staring at Saltash, and he was trembling from head to foot.
"Don't be an ass now!" Saltash said, and his voice was oddly gentle, even compassionate. "You've stumbled on a mare's nest. It's all right. I can explain."
Bunny controlled himself with a jerk. His face was like death, but he found his voice. "You can keep your damned lies to yourself," he said. "I've no use for them."
The prod of a riding-switch against his shoulder made him start as a spirited animal starts at the touch of a spur. But Saltash only laughed.
"You'll fight me for that!" he said.
"I wouldn't touch you!" flung back Bunny.
"Oh, wouldn't you?" The odd eyes mocked him openly. "Then you withdraw the insult—with apologies?"
"Apologise—to you!" said Bunny.
"Or fight!" said Saltash. "I think that would do you more good than the other, but you shall decide."
"I will do neither," said Bunny, and turned his back with the words."I've—done with you."
"You're wrong!" said Saltash. "You've got to face it, and you won't get the truth from anyone but me. That girl knows nothing, Bunny!" His voice was suddenly curt, with that in it which very few ever heard. "Turn around! Do you hear? Turn round—damn you! I'll kick you if you don't!"
Bunny turned. It was inevitable. They stood face to face. Then Saltash, the mockery gone from his eyes, reached out abruptly and gripped him by the arm. His touch was electric. For that moment—only for that moment—he was dangerous. There was something of the spring of a tiger in his action.
"You damn fool!" he said, and he spoke between his teeth. "Do you suppose even I would play such a blackguard's game as that?"
"Let me go!" Bunny said through white lips. "Facts are facts."
Saltash's hold did not slacken. "Where's Jake?" he said.
"Jake's away."
"Confound him! Just when he's wanted!" The ferocity died out of Saltash like the glow from cinders blown from a furnace. "Well, listen! I swear to you by all that is sacred that you're making a mistake. Sheila has told you a certain thing that is true, so far as it goes. But you've let your imagination run away with you. The rest is false."
He spoke with an emphasis that carried weight, and Bunny was moved in spite of himself. His own fire died down.
Saltash saw his advantage and pressed it. "If Jake were here, he'd tell you I was speaking the truth, and you'd believe him. You're on a wrong scent. So far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to follow it to blazes. I'm used to pleasantries of that sort from my friends. But I'm damned if I'll let that child be tripped for nothing. Do you hear, Bunny?" He shook the arm he gripped impatiently. "I'll see you in hell first!"
Bunny's mouth twisted with a painful effort to smile. "I'm in hell now," he said.
"Why the devil did you listen?" said Saltash. "Look here! We've got to have this thing out. Send a man along with my horse and walk across the park with me!"
He had gained his point by sheer insistence, and he knew it. Bunny knew it also and cursed himself for a weak fool as he moved to comply. With Saltash's blade through his heart, he yet could somehow find it possible to endure him.
He went with him in silence, hating the magnetism he found it impossible to resist. They passed through the shrubberies that skirted the house, and so to the open down.
Then in his sudden fashion, crudely and vehemently, Saltash began his defence.
"It's not my way," he said, "to give an answer to any man who questions; but you haven't stooped to question. So I tell you the truth. Sheila saw Toby working as a page at the Casino Hotel at Valrosa. That right? I thought so. It's the whole matter in a nutshell. I must have seen her too, but never noticed her till my last night in the place. Then I found Antonio hammering the poor little beggar out in the garden, and I stopped it. You'd have done the same. Afterwards, late that night, I went on board the yacht and found her down in the saloon—a stowaway. The yacht had started. I could have put back. I didn't. You wouldn't have done either. She took refuge with me. I sheltered her. She came to me as a boy. I treated her as such."
"You knew?" flung in Bunny.
Saltash's grin flashed across his dark features like a meteor through a cloudy sky and was gone. "I—suspected,mon ami. But—I did not even tell myself." That part of him that was French—a species of volatile sentimentality—sounded in the words like the echo of a laugh in a minor key. "I made a valet of her. I suffered her to clean my boots and brush my clothes. I kept her in order—with this—upon occasion."
He held up the switch he carried.
"I don't believe it," said Bunny bluntly.
Saltash's shoulders went up. "You please yourself,mon cher. I am telling you the truth. I treated her like a puppy. I was kind to her, but never extravagantly kind. But I decided—eventually I decided—that it was time to turn home. No game can last forever. So we returned, and on our last night at sea we were rammed and sunk. Naturally that spoilt—or shall I say somewhat precipitated?—my plans. We were saved, the two of us together. And then was started that scandalous report of the woman on the yacht." Again the laughter sounded in his voice. "You see,mon ami, how small a spark can start a conflagration. In self-defence I had to invent something, and I invented it quickly. I said she was Larpent's daughter. I wonder if you would have thought of that. You'd have done it if you had, I'll wager."
He turned upon the boy who strode in silence by his side with a gleam of triumph in his eyes, but there was no answering gleam in Bunny's. He moved heavily, staring straight before him, his face drawn in hard lines of misery.
"Well," Saltash said, "that's all I have done. You now know the truth, simple and unadorned, as Sheila Melrose in her simplicity does not know it and probably would not comprehend it if she did."
"Leave her out of it!" said Bunny, in a strangled voice. "It was—the obvious conclusion."
"Oh, the obvious!" Cynicism undisguised caught up the word. "Only the young and innocent can ever really say with any conviction what is the obvious way of blackguards. You don't know it—neither do I. A single decent impulse on the part of a blackguard can upset all the calculations of the virtuous. Oh, Bunny, you fool, what do you want to wreck things for at this stage? Can't you see you've got a gift from the gods? Take it, man, and be thankful that you're considered worthy of it!"
Bunny made a sharp movement of protest. Saltash was looking at him with half-humorous compassion as one looks at a child with a damaged toy, and he was keenly conscious of being at a disadvantage. But though checked, he was not defeated. Saltash had made out a case for himself. He had in a measure vindicated Toby. But that was not the end of the matter.
He stopped and faced him. "Why were you so anxious for me to marry her?" he said. "I've got to know that."
He was instantly aware that Saltash eluded him, even though he seemed to meet his look as he made reply. "You are quite welcome to know it,mon ami. I chance to take a fatherly interest in you both."
Bunny flinched a little. Something in the light reply had pierced him though he could not have said how. "That's all?" he asked rather thickly.
"That is quite all," said Saltash, and faintly smiled—the smile of the practised swordsman behind the blade.
Bunny stood for some moments regarding him, his boyish face stern and troubled. Up to that point, against his will, he had believed him; from it, he believed him no longer. But—he faced the truth however it might gall him—he was pitted against a skilled fencer, and he was powerless. Experience could baffle him at every turn.
"Do you tell me you have never realized that she cared for you?" he blurted forth abruptly, and there was something akin to agony in his utterance of the words. He knew that he was baring his breast for the stroke as he forced them out.
But Saltash did not strike. Just for an instant he showed surprise. Then—quite suddenly he lowered his weapon. He faced Bunny with a smile of comradeship.
"Quite honestly, Bunny," he said, "if I had realized it, it wouldn't have made any difference. I have no use for sentimental devotion at my age. She has never been more to me than—a puppy that plays with your hand."
"Ah," Bunny said, and swung away from him with the words. "I suppose that is how you treat them all. Women and dogs—they're very much alike."
"Not in every respect," said Saltash. "I should say that Toby is an exception anyway. She knows play from earnest."
"Does she?" said Bunny. He paused a moment, as if trying to concentrate his forces; then he turned to Saltash again. "I'm going back now. I can't dine with you—though I've no desire to quarrel. But you see—you must understand—that I can never—accept anything from you again. I'm sorry—but I can't."
"What are you going to do?" said Saltash.
Bunny hesitated, his boyish face a white mask of misery.
Saltash reached out a second time and touched him lightly, almost caressingly, with the point of his switch. "What's the matter with you, Bunny?" he said. "Think I've lied to you?"
Bunny met his look. "I don't want to quarrel with you," he said. "It isn't—somehow it isn't—worth it."
"Thanks!" said Saltash, and briefly laughed. "You place my friendship at a pretty high figure then. Tell me what you're going to do!"
"What is it to you what I do?" A quick gleam shone for an instant in Bunny's eyes, dispelling the look of stricken misery. "I'm not asking you to help me."
"I've grasped that," said Saltash. "But even so, I may be able to lend a hand. As you say, there is not much point in our quarrelling. There's nothing to quarrel about that I can see—except that you've called me a liar for no particular good reason!"
"Do you object to that?" said Bunny.
Saltash made a careless gesture. "Perhaps—-as you say—it isn't worth it. All the same, I've a certain right to know what you propose to do, since, I gather, I have not managed to satisfy you."
"A right!" flashed Bunny.
"Yes, a right." Saltash's voice was suddenly and suavely confident. "You may forget—or possibly you may remember—that I gave my protection to Nonette on the day she came to me for it, and I have never withdrawn it since. What matters to her—matters to me."
"I see." Bunny stood stiffly facing him. "I am responsible to you, am I?"
"That is what I am trying to convey," said Saltash.
The fire in Bunny's eyes leapt high for a moment or two, then died down again. Had Jake been his opponent, he would have flung an open challenge, but somehow Saltash, with whom he had never before striven in his life, was less easy to resist. In some subtle fashion he seemed able to evade resistance and yet to gain his point.
He gained his point on this occasion. Almost before he knew it, Bunny had yielded.
"I am going to her," he said, "to ask her for the whole truth—about her past."
"Is any woman capable of telling the truth to that extent?" questionedSaltash.
"I shall know if she doesn't," said Bunny doggedly.
"And will that help?" The note of mockery that was never long absent from his voice sounded again. "Isn't it possible—sometime—to try to know too much? There is such a thing as looking too closely,mon ami. And then we pay the price."
"Do you imagine I could ever be satisfied not knowing?" said Bunny.
Saltash shrugged his shoulders. "I merely suggested that you are going the wrong way to satisfy yourself. But that is your affair, not mine. The gods have sent you a gift, and because you don't know what it is made of, you are going to pull it to pieces to find out. And presently you will fling it away because you cannot fit it together again. You don't realize—you never will realize—that the best things in life are the things we never see and only dimly understand."
A vein of sincerity mingled with the banter in his voice, and Bunny was aware of a curious quality of reverence, of something sacred in a waste place.
It affected him oddly. Convinced though he was that in one point at leastSaltash had sought to deceive him it yet influenced him very strongly inSaltash's favour. Against his judgment, against his will even, he saw himas a friend.
"Do you mean to tell me," he said, speaking slowly, his eyes upon the swarthy, baffling countenance, "that you have never even tried to know where she came from—what she is?"
Saltash made a quick gesture as of remonstrance. "Mon ami, the last I have always known. The first I have never needed to know."
"Then," Bunny spoke with difficulty, but his look never wavered, "tell me—as before God—tell me what you believe her to be!"
"What I know her to be," corrected Saltash, "I will tell you—certainly.She is a child who has looked into hell, but she is still—a child."
"What do you mean?" questioned Bunny.
Saltash's eyes, one black, one grey, suddenly flashed a direct challenge into his own. "I mean," he said, "that the flame has scorched her, but it has never actually touched her."
"You know that?" Bunny's voice was hoarse. There was torture in his eyes."Man—for God's sake—the truth!"
"It is the truth," Saltash said.
"How do you know it? You've no proof. How can you be sure?" He could not help the anguish of his voice. The words fell harsh and strained.
"How do I know it?" Saltash echoed the words sharply. "What proof? Bunny, you fool, do you know so little of the world—of women—as that? What proof do you need? Just—look into her eyes!"
A queer note of passion sounded in his own voice, and it told Bunny very clearly that he was grappling with the naked truth at last. It arrested him in a moment. He suddenly found that he could go no further. There was no need.
Impulsively, with an inarticulate word of apology, he thrust out his hand. Saltash's came to meet it in a swift, hard grip.
"Enough?" he asked, with that odd, smiling grimace of his that revealed so little.
And, "Yes, enough!" Bunny said, looking him straight in the face.
They parted almost without words a few minutes later. There was no more to be said.
Saltash dined alone that night. He was in a restless mood and preoccupied, scarcely noticing what was put before him, pushing away the wine untasted. In the end he rose from the table almost with a gesture of disgust.
"I'm going to smoke on the ramparts," he said to the decorous butler who waited upon him. "If anyone should call to see me, let them wait in the music-room!"
"Very good, my lord! And where would you like to take coffee?" enquired the man sedately.
Saltash laughed. "Not on the ramparts—emphatically. I'll have mercy on you to that extent. Put it on the spirit-lamp in the music-room, and leave it! You needn't sit up, any of you. I'll put out the lights."
"Very good, my lord."
The man withdrew, and Saltash chose a cigar. An odd grimace drew his features as he lighted it. He had the look of a man who surveys his last card and knows himself a loser. Though he went out of the room and up the great staircase to the music-room with his head up and complete indifference in his carriage, his eyelids were slightly drawn. He did not look as if he had enjoyed the game.
A single red lamp lighted the music-room, and the long apartment looked dim and ghostly. He stood for a moment as he entered it and looked round, then with a scarcely perceptible lift of the shoulders he passed straight through to the curtain that hung before the door leading to the turret. The darkness of the place gaped before him, and he turned back with a muttered word and recrossed the room. There were Persian rugs upon the floor, and his feet made no sound. He went to the mantel-piece and, feeling along it, found a small electric torch. The light of it flared before him as he returned. The door yielded to his touch and swung shut behind him. He passed into vault-like silence.
The stone steps gave back the sound of his tread as he mounted, with eerie, wandering echoes. The grey walls glimmered with a ghostly desolation around him. Halfway up, he stopped to flick the ash from his cigar, and laughed aloud. But the echoes of his laughter sounded like voices crying in the darkness. He went on more swiftly, like a phantom imprisoned and seeking escape. The echoes met him and fell away behind him. The loneliness was like a curse. The very air felt dead.
He reached the top of the turret at last, and the heavy door that gave upon the ramparts. With a sound that was almost a gasp, he pushed it open, and passed out into the open air.
A full moon was shining, and his acres lay below him—a wonderful picture in black and silver. He came to the first gap in the battlements, mounted the parapet, and stood there with a hand resting on each side.
The wash of the sea came murmurously through the September silence. His restless eyes flashed hither and thither over the quiet scene, taking in every detail, lingering nowhere. The pine trees stirred in the distance below him, seeming to whisper together, and an owl hooted with a weird persistence down by the lake. It was like the calling of a human voice—almost like a cry of distress. Then it ceased, and the trees were still again.
The spell of the silence fell like the falling of a curtain. The loneliness crept about his heart.
He took the cigar from his mouth and spoke, ironically, grimly.
"There is your kingdom, Charles Rex!" he said.
He turned with the words and leaped down upon the narrow walk between the battlements. The owl began to call again, but the desolation remained. He paced forward with his hands behind him, his head bent. No one could see him here. The garment of mockery could be flung aside. He was like a prisoner tramping the stone walls from which he could never escape.
He paused once to toss away his cigar, but he did not look out again over the fair prospect of his lands. He was looking at other things, seeing the vast emptiness of a life that had never been worth while stretching behind and before him. Like a solitary traveller pausing in the heart of the desert, he stood to view the barrenness around him.
He had travelled far, had pursued many a quest with ardour; but the ardour had all gone out of him now. Only the empty solitude remained. He had lived a life of fevered variety, he had drunk deep of many waters; but he had never been satisfied. And now it seemed to him that all he had ever looked upon, all he had ever achieved, was mirage. Nothing of all that he had ever striven for was left. The fruit had turned to ashes in his mouth, and no spring remained whereat to quench his thirst.
Perhaps few men have ever realized the utter waste of wickedness as Charles Rex realized it that night. He met it whichever way he turned. To gratify the moment's whim had ever been his easy habit. If a generous impulse had moved him, he had gratified that also. But it had never been his way to sacrifice himself—until a certain night when a child had come to him, wide-eyed and palpitating like a driven bird, and had sought shelter and protection at his hands.
That, very curiously, had been the beginning of a new era in his life. It had appealed to him as nothing had ever appealed before. He had never tasted—or even desired—the Dead Sea fruit again. Something had entered his being on that night which he had never been able to cast out, and all other things had been dwarfed to insignificance.
He faced the fact as he paced his castle walls. The relish had gone out of his life. He was gathering what he had sown, and the harvest was barren indeed.
Time passed; he walked unheeding. If he spent the whole night on the ramparts, there was no one to know or care. It was better than tossing sleepless under a roof. He felt as if a roof would suffocate him. But sheer physical weariness began to oppress even his elastic frame at last. He awoke to the fact that he was dead tired.
He sat down in an embrasure between the battlements, and drifted into the numb state between waking and sleeping in which visions are born. For a space nothing happened, then quite suddenly, rising as it were out of a void, a presence entered his consciousness, reached and touched his spirit. Intangibly, but quite unmistakably, he was aware of the summons, of a voice that spoke within his soul.
He lifted his head and looked about him. Emptiness, stark emptiness, was all he saw. Yet, in a moment, as though a hand had beckoned, he arose. Without a backward glance he traversed the distance that lay between him and the turret-door. He went through it into utter darkness, and in utter darkness began the descent.
A shaft of moonlight smote through a slit in the stone wall as he rounded the corner of the stair. It lay like a shining sword across his path, and for a second he paused. Then he passed over it, sure-footed and confident, and plunged again into darkness. When he reached the end of the descent, he was breathing heavily, and his eyes were alight with a strange fire. He pulled upon the door and put aside the thick curtain with the swift movements of a man who can brook no delay. He passed into the long, dim room beyond with its single red lamp burning at the far end. He prepared to pass on to the door that led out upon the gallery and so to the grand staircase. But before he had gone half-a-dozen paces he stopped. It was no sound that arrested, no visible circumstance of any sort. Yet, as if at a word of command, he halted. His quick look swept around the room like the gleam of a rapier, and suddenly he swung upon his heel, facing that still, red light.
Seconds passed before he moved again. Then swiftly and silently he walked up the room. Close to the lamp was a deep settee on which the spots of a leopard skin showed in weird relief. At one end of the settee, against the leopard skin, something gold was shining. Saltash's look was fixed upon it as he drew near.
He reached the settee treading noiselessly. He stood beside it, looking down. And over his dark face with its weary lines and cynical mouth, its melancholy and its bitterness, there came a light such as neither man nor woman had ever seen upon it before. For there before him, curled up like a tired puppy, her tumbled, golden hair lying in ringlets over the leopard skin, was Toby, asleep in the dim, red lamplight.
For minutes he stood and gazed upon her before she awoke. For minutes that strange glory came and went over his watching face. He did not stir, did not seem even to breathe. But the fact of his presence must have pierced her consciousness at last, for in the end quite quietly, supremely naturally, the blue eyes opened and fixed upon him.
"Hullo!" said Toby sleepily. "Time to get up?"
And then, in a moment, she had sprung upright on the couch, swift dismay on her face.
"I—I thought we were on the yacht! I—I—I never meant to go to sleep here! I came to speak to you, sir. I wanted to see you."
He put a restraining hand upon her thin young shoulder, and his touch vibrated as with some unknown force controlled.
"All right, Nonette!" he said, and his voice had the same quality; it was reassuring but oddly unsteady. "Sorry I kept you waiting."
She looked at him. Her face was quivering. "I've had—a hell of a time," she said pathetically. "Been here hours—thought you'd never come. Your man—your man said I wasn't to disturb you."
"Damn the fool!" said Saltash.
She broke into a breathless laugh. "That's—that's just what I said. But I thought—I thought perhaps—you'd rather—rather I waited." She shivered suddenly. "I don't like this place. Can you take me somewhere else?"
He bent lower, put his hand under her elbow and helped her to her feet. She came up from the couch with a spring, and stood before him, half-daring and half-shy.
Saltash kept his hold upon her arm, and turned her towards the wall beside the tall mantel-piece. She went with him readily enough, watching, eager-eyed, as he stretched his free hand up to the oak panelling.
"Now I'm going to find out all your secrets!" she said boyishly.
"Not quite all," said Saltash.
There came the click of a spring and the panel slid to one side, leaving a long, narrow opening before them. Toby glanced up at him and, with a small, nestling movement, slipped within the circle of his arm. It tightened upon her in an instant, and she laughed again, a quivering, exultant laugh.
"I'm glad you've come," she said.
They paused on the edge of darkness, but there was no hesitation about Toby. She was all athrill with expectancy. Then in a flash the room before them was illuminated, and they entered.
It was a strange chamber, panelled, built in the shape of a cone. A glass dome formed its roof, and there was no window besides. The lights were cunningly concealed behind a weirdly coloured fresco of Oriental figures. But one lamp alone on a small table burned with a still red glow. This lamp was supported on the stuffed skin of a hooded cobra.
Toby's eyes were instantly drawn towards it. They shone with excitement.Again she glanced up at the man beside her.
"What a wonderful place!"
"Better than the music-room?" suggested Saltash.
"Oh, yes, far better." Her shining eyes sought his. "It might be your cabin on the yacht."
He stretched a hand behind him and again the spring clicked. Then he drew her forward. They trod on tiger skins. Everywhere were tiger skins, on the floor and on a deep low settee by the table which was the only other furniture the room possessed. Toby was clinging to the arm that held her, clinging very closely. There was unspoken entreaty in her hold. For there was something about Saltash at the moment, something unfamiliar and unfathomable that frightened her. His careless drollery, his two-edged ironies, were nought to her; but his silence was a barrier unknown that she could not pass. She could only cling voicelessly to the support he had not denied her.
He brought her to the settee and stood still. His face was strangely grim.
"Well—Toby?" he said.
She twisted in his hold and faced him, but she kept his arm wound close about her, her hand tight gripped on his. "Are you—angry with me for coming?" she asked him quiveringly. "I—had to come."
He looked down into her eyes. "Bien, petite!Then you need—a friend," he said.
Her answering look was piteous. "I need—you," she said.
One of the old gay smiles flashed across his face. He seemed to challenge her to lightness. The grimness went out of his eyes like a shadow.
"And so you have come,ma mignonette, at the dead of night—at the risk of your reputation—and mine—"
Toby made an excruciating grimace, and broke impulsively in upon him. "It wasn't the dead of night when I started. I've been waiting hours—hours. But it doesn't matter. I've found you—at last. And you can't send me away now—like you did before—because—because—well, I've no one to go to. You might have done it if you'd come down earlier. But you can't do it—now." Her voice thrilled on a high note of triumph. "You've got to keep me—now. I've come—to stay."
"What?" said Saltash. He bent towards her, looking closely into her face. "Got to keep you, have I? What's that mean? Has Bunny been a brute to you? I could have sworn I'd made him understand."
She laughed in answer. "Bunny! I didn't wait to see him!"
"What?" Saltash said again.
She reached up a quick, nervous hand and laid it against his breast. Her eyes, wide and steadfast, never flinched from his. "I've come—to stay," she repeated. And then, after a moment, "It's all right. I left a note behind for Bunny. I told him I wasn't going back."
He caught her hand tightly into his. His hold was drawing her, and she yielded herself to it still with that quivering laughter that was somehow more eloquent than words, more piteous than tears.
Saltash spoke, below his breath. "What am I going to do with you?" he said.
Her arms reached up to him suddenly. Perhaps it was that for which she had waited. "You're going—to keep me—this time," she told him tremulously. "Oh, why did you ever send me away—when I belonged to you—and to no one else? You meant to give me my chance? What chance have I of anything but hell and damnation away from you? No, listen! Let me speak! Hear me first!" She uttered the words with passionate insistence. "I'm not asking anything of you—only to be with you. I'll be to you whatever you choose me to be—always—always. I will be your valet, your slave, your—plaything. I will be—the dust under your feet. But I must be with you. You understand me. No one else does. No one else ever can."
"Are you sure you understand yourself?" Saltash said.
His arms had closed about her. He was holding her in a vital clasp. But his restless look did not dwell upon her. It seemed rather to be seeking something beyond.
Toby's hands met and gripped each other behind his neck. She clung to him with an almost frenzied closeness.
"You can't send me away!" she told him brokenly. "If you do, I shall die.And I'm asking such a little—such a very little."
"You don't know what you're asking, child," he said, and though he held her fast pressed to him his voice had the sombre ring of a man who battles with misgiving. "You have never known. That's the hell of it."
"I do know!" she flung back almost fiercely. "I know—all I need to know—of most things. I know—very well—" her breath came quickly, but still her eyes remained upraised—"what would have happened—what was bound to happen—if the yacht had never gone down. I wasn't afraid then. I'm not now. You're the only man on this earth that I'd say it to. I hate men—most men! But to you—to you—" a sudden sob caught her voice, she paused to steady it—"to you I just want to be whatever you're needing most in life. And when I can't be that to you any longer—I'll just drop out—as I promised—and you—you shall never know a thing about it. That I swear."
His look came swiftly to her. The blue eyes were swimming in tears. He made a sudden gesture as of capitulation, and the strain went out of his look. His arms tightened like springs about her. He spoke lightly, jestingly.
"Bien!Shall I tell what you shall be to me,mignonne?" he said, and smiled down at her with his royal air of confidence.
She trembled a little and was silent, realizing that he had suddenly leapt to a decision, fearing desperately what that decision might be. His old baffling mask of banter had wholly replaced the sombreness, but she was aware of a force behind it that gripped her irresistibly. She could not speak in answer.
"I will tell you," he said, and his dark, face laughed into hers with a merriment half-mischievous, half-kindly. "I am treading the path of virtue,mignonne, and uncommon lonely I'm finding it. You shall relieve the monotony. We will be virtuous together—for a while. You shall be—my wife!"