A chill wind blew across the ramparts bringing with it the scent and the sound of the sea. There was no moon in the sky tonight, only the clouds flying over the stars, obscuring and revealing them alternately, making their light weirdly vague and fitful. Across the park an owl called persistently, its eerie hoot curiously like the cry of a human voice through the rustling night. The trees were murmuring together down by the lake as though some mysterious news were passing to and fro among them. And once more, alone on his castle walls, Saltash paced restlessly up and down.
It was his last night at Burchester, so he told himself, for many a year to come. The fever for change was upon him. He had played his last card and lost. It was characteristic of the man to turn his back upon his losses and be gone. His soul had begun to yearn for the wide spaces, and it was in answer to the yearning that he had come up to this eagle's eyrie a second time. He could not be still, and the feeling of walls around him was somehow unbearable. But he expected no vision tonight. He walked in darkness.
Down in the harbour his yacht was waiting, and he wondered cynically what whim kept him from joining her. Why was he staying to drain the cup to the dregs—he who had the whole world to choose from? He had sent his message, he had made his sacrifice—at what a cost not even Maud would ever know. It was the first voluntary sacrifice he had ever made, he reflected ironically, and he marvelled at himself to find that he cared so much. For, after all, what was it he had sacrificed? Nothing worth having, so he told himself. He had possessed her childish adoration, but her love—never! And, very curiously, it was her love that he had wanted. Actually, for the first time in his life, no lesser thing had appealed to him. Jaded and weary with long experience, he owned now to a longing for that at which all his life long he had scoffed. The longing was not to be satisfied. He was to go empty away. But yet the very fact that he had known it had in some inexplicable fashion purified him from earthly desires. He had as it were reached up and touched the spiritual, and that which was not spiritual had crumbled away below him. He looked back upon the desert through which all his life he had travelled, and saw only sand.
The sound of the turret-door banging behind him recalled him to his surroundings. He awoke to the fact that the wind was chill, and that a drift of rain was coming in from the sea. With an impatient shrug he turned. Why was he lingering here like a drunken reveller at a table of spilt wine? He would go down to his yacht and find Larpent—Larpent who had also loved and lost. They would go out on the turn of the tide—the two losers in the game of life—and leave the spilt wine behind them.
Impulsively he strode back along the ramparts. The game was over, and he would never play again; but at least he would face the issue like a man. No one, not even Larpent, should ever see him flinch. So he reached the turret-door, and came abruptly to a halt.
It was no vision that showed her to him, standing there in her slender fairness, wrapt in a cloak that glimmered vaguely blue in the glimmering starlight. Her face was very pale, and he saw her frightened eyes as she stood before him. Her hands were tightly clasped together, and she spoke no word at all.
The door was shut behind her, and he saw that she was trembling from head to foot.
He stood motionless, within reach of her, but not touching her. "Well?" he said.
She made a curious gesture with her clasped hands, standing before him as she had stood on board his yacht on that night in the Mediterranean when she had come to him for refuge.
"I've come," she said, in a voice that quivered uncontrollably, "to tell you something."
Saltash did not stir. His face was in shadow, but there was a suggestion of tension about his attitude that was not reassuring. "Well?" he said again.
She wrung her hands together with a desperate effort to subdue her agitation, and began again, "I've come—to tell you something."
"Something I don't know?" he questioned cynically.
She nodded. "Some—some—something you don't want to know. It—it wasMaud made me come."
That moved him a little. That piteous stammer of hers had always touched his compassion. "Don't fret yourself,ma chère!" he said. "I know all there is to know—all about Rozelle—all about Larpent—all about Spentoli."
"You—you don't know this," said Toby. "You—you—you don't know—why I ran away from you—in Paris!"
"Don't I?" he said, and she heard the irony of his voice. "I have an agile brain, my child. I can generally jump the gaps pretty successfully."
She shook her head with vehemence. "And how do you know about Spentoli?" she demanded suddenly. "Who told you that?"
"The man himself," said Saltash.
"Ah! And what did he tell you?" A note of fierceness sounded in her voice. She seemed to gather herself together like a cornered animal preparing to make a wild dash for freedom.
Saltash made her a queer, abrupt bow, and in so doing he blocked the way before her so that she could only flee by the way she had come. "He told me nothing that I did not know before," he said, "nothing that your own eyes had not told me long ago."
"What do you mean?" breathed Toby, pressing her clasped hands tightly to her breast. Her eyes were still upraised to his; they glittered in the dimness.
Saltash answered her more gently than was his wont. "I mean that I know the sort of inferno your life had been—a perpetual struggle against odds that were always overwhelming you. If it hadn't been so, you would never have come to me for shelter. Do you think I ever flattered myself that that was anything but a last resource—the final surrender to circumstance? If I had failed you—"
"Wait!" Toby broke in tensely. "You're right in some things. You're wrong there. It's true I was always running away—as soon as I was old enough to realize the rottenness of life. Spentoli tried to ruin me, but I dodged him, and then—when he trapped me—the hell-hound—I did my best—to murder him!" The breath suddenly whistled through her teeth. "I tried to stab him to the heart. God knows I tried! But—I suppose it wasn't in the right place, for I didn't get there. I left him for dead—I thought he was dead—till that day in Paris. And ever since—it's been just a nightmare fight for life—and safety. I'd have tried some other dodge if you hadn't found me. I was not quite down and out. But you—you made all the difference. I had to go to you."
"And why?" said Charles Rex.
She rushed on regardless of question. The flood-gates were open; she was hiding nothing from him now.
"You came. If you'd been an angel from heaven, you couldn't have been more wonderful. You helped me—believed in me—gave me always—the benefit of the doubt—made a way of escape for me—made life possible—even—even—beautiful!" She choked a little over the word. "I offered you just everything. I couldn't help it. You were the only man in the world to me. How could I help worshipping you? You—you—you were always so splendid—so—so great. You made me—you made me realize—that life was worth having. You made me—believe in God." She broke into sudden wild tears. "And you didn't love me enough even to take the little I had to give! I didn't want you to marry me. I never dreamt of such a thing. I had kept myself from harm, but I knew very well I wasn't fit to be your wife. Only—I loved you so. And when I knew that Bunny was turning against me—would never believe in me—I just couldn't help turning to you again. And then—and then—you went and married me!" She wrung her hands tragically. "I ought not to have let you. God will never forgive me for it. I don't deserve to be forgiven. But I loved you—I loved you!"
She covered her face and sobbed.
Saltash reached out a hand and took her by the shoulder. "Nonette! Nonette!" he said, in a voice that was strangely uncertain. "Don't cry, child! Don't cry!"
She drew herself away from him. "Don't—don't! I don't want you to. I just came to tell you—that's all—in case you should think I ever—cared for—Bunny. Maud says—you ought to know that. We only—only—played together. We never—really—loved each other. I wasn't his sort—or he mine. He doesn't want me back. I wouldn't go if he did. I ran away—with that damn cur Spentoli—to give you a chance—to drop me. I couldn't face you after you knew everything. You'd never loved me, and I'd tricked you too badly. I knew you'd want to get free. Why didn't you start in and get a divorce? Why didn't you? Why didn't you?"
She suddenly lifted her face, storming the words, electrified as it were by the wild force of her passion. Again he reached a hand towards her, but she eluded him with a desperate gesture.
"No! No! Don't touch me! Don't touch me! I can't bear it! I'm going now! I'm going right away. You'll never see me again—never hear of me. And you'll be free! Do you understand? You'll be quite free. I'll keep that promise I made to you. It won't be difficult. No one shall ever know how—and only you—you who never even pretended to love me—will be able to guess why."
She turned about with the words, and wrenched furiously at the door behind her. In another moment she would have been gone. But in that moment Saltash moved, perhaps more swiftly than he had ever moved in his life before, and in a flash he had her in his arms.
She fought for her freedom then like a terrified animal, twisting this way and that, straining with frenzied effort to escape. And when, his hold encompassing her, he broke down her resistance, pressing her indomitably closer and closer till she lay powerless and palpitating against his breast, she burst into agonized tears, beseeching him, imploring him, to set her free.
"Why should I?" he said, still holding her. "Don't you know yet that it's the very last thing I mean to do?"
"You must! Oh, you must!" she cried back. "You can't—you—you can't—hold me—against my will!"
"That's true," said Saltash, as if struck by something. "And are you capable of leaving me—against mine?" His hold relaxed with the words, and instantly she sprang away from him—sprang like a fleeing bird upon the low parapet beside them, and in a second was sliding out upon the narrow ledge that surrounded the great stone buttress of the turret.
"Hell!" ejaculated Saltash, and gave a great leap as if he would pursue her, then with abrupt effort checked himself.
He stood with one foot on the parapet, and watched her, and in the vague starlight his eyes burned with the old mocking devilry behind which he had so long sheltered his soul.
"So you think you'll get away from me that way, do you?" he said, and laughed his gibing laugh. "Well, you may try. Either stay there till you've had enough—or throw yourself over! I'll get you in any case."
She came to a stand, her hands spread out on each side of her, her eyes turning back to him across the awful space that yawned between. Sheer depth was below her, but she did not seem aware of it.
"I will throw myself over," she said with tense purpose, "unless you promise—unless you swear—to let me go."
He laughed again, but there was no mirth in the glittering eyes that looked back at her, neither mirth nor dismay, only the most arrogant and absolute mastery that she had ever encountered.
"I promise nothing," he said, "except that one way or the other I'm going to have you. You can take your choice. You can sink or swim. But you won't get away. There is a bond between us that you can't break, however hard you try. Fling yourself over if you think it's worth it? And before you get to the bottom I shall be with you. I'll chase you through the gates of Hades. I've travelled alone far enough. For the future—we go together. That I swear to God!"
Across the abyss he flung his tremendous challenge, the laugh still on his lips and in his eyes the blazing derision that mocks at fate.
And as she heard it, the girl's heart suddenly failed her. She began to tremble. Yet, even so, she made a last desperate bid for pride and freedom.
She clutched at the cold stones on each side of her with nerveless, quivering fingers. "There is—no bond between us!" she gasped forth piteously. "There never—never has been!"
He flung back the words like a missile, unerring, blindingly direct. "No bond between us! Good God! Would I follow you through death if there were not?" And then suddenly, with an amazing change to tenderness that leapt the void and enchained her where she stood:—"Toby—Toby, you little ass—don't you know I've loved you from the momentThe Night Mothstruck?"
There was no questioning the truth of those words. A great sob broke from Toby, and the tension went out of her attitude. She stood for a few seconds with her head raised, and on her face the unutterable rapture of one who sees a vision. Then, with sharp anguish, "I can't come back!" she cried like a frightened child. "I'm going to fall!"
Saltash straightened himself. His forehead was wet, but he did not pause for a moment. "I'm coming to you," he said. "Keep as you are and I'll give you a hand to hold!"
She obeyed him as one dazed into submission. Blindly she waited, till with a monkey-like agility, he also had traversed that giddy ledge to where she stood. His fingers met and gripped her own.
"Now," he said, "come with me and you are safe! You can't fall. My love is holding you up."
She heard the laugh in his voice, and her panic died. Mutely she yielded herself to him. By the strength of his will alone, she left the abyss behind. But when he lifted her from the parapet back to safety, she cried out as one whom fear catches by the throat, and fainted in his arms.
* * * * *
Out of a great darkness, the light dawned again for Toby. She opened her eyes gasping to find that the scene had changed. She was lying upon tiger-skins in Saltash's conical chamber, and he, the king of all her dreams, was kneeling by her side.
That was the first thing that occurred to her—that he should kneel.
"Oh, don't! Oh, don't!" she said quickly. "I am not—not Maud."
He regarded her humorously, but the old derisive lines were wholly gone from his dark face. His eyes held something that was unfamiliar, something that made her quiver with a quick agitation that was not distress.
"So I am only allowed to kneel to Maud!" he said.
She tried to meet his look and, failing, hid her face. "I—I know you have always loved her," she murmured rather incoherently. "You couldn't—you couldn't—pretend to—to—to really love anyone else—after Maud!"
There fell a brief silence, and she thought the beating of her heart would choke her. Then there came the touch of his hand upon her head, and its wild throbbing grew calmer.
"No," he said, and in his voice was a new deep note unknown to her. "I am not pretending, Nonette."
The light touch drew her as it were magnetically. With a swift, impulsive movement she raised herself, gave herself to him, hiding her face still more deeply against his breast.
"But you—you—you couldn't really love me!" she whispered like an incredulous child. "You sure you do?"
His arms went round her, holding her fast. He made no other answer. Saltash, the glib of tongue and ready of gibe, was for once speechless in the presence of that which has no words.
She nestled closer to him as a little furry animal that has found its home. Her incredulity was gone, but she kept her face hidden. "But why didn't you tell me before?" she said.
He bent his black head till his lips reached and rested against her hair."Nonette," he said, "you told me that I had made you believe in God."
"Yes?" she whispered back rather breathlessly. "Yes?"
"That's why," he said. "You got me clean through my armour there. Egad, it made me a believer too. If I'd failed you after that—well, He'd have been justified in damning me, body and soul!"
"But you couldn't!" she protested. "You couldn't fail me!"
His dark face twisted with the old wry grimace. "I've failed a good many in my time, Nonette. But—no one ever trusted me to that extent. You practically forced me—to prove myself."
A little gasp of relief came from Toby. She spoke with more assurance."Oh, was that it? You were just trying—to be good?"
"Just—trying!" said Saltash.
"You still trying?" asked Toby, a little curious note of laughter in her voice.
"I shan't keep on much longer," he returned, "unless I get what I want."
"There'd be a blue moon if you did!" remarked Toby impudently.
Saltash raised his head abruptly. "By Jupiter! There is one!" he said."Let's go to her!"
Toby's face shot upwards in a moment. "Where?"
Her eyes sought the skylight above them and the dim mysterious blue of the night. His came down to her in a flash, dwelt upon her, caressed her, drew her.
She turned sharply and looked at him. "Charles Rex!" she said reproachfully.
He took her pointed chin and laughed down at her. His eyes, one black, one grey, shone with a great tenderness, holding hers till they widened and shone back with a quick blue flame in answer.
Then: "As I was saying," remarked Charles Rex royally "when I was interrupted some six months ago—I have never yet refused—a gift from the gods."
"But you've taken your time over accepting it, haven't you?" said Toby, with a chuckle.
He bent to her. "Let's go!" he said again.