She cried out sharply as he caught her, and then she struggled and fought like a mad creature for freedom. But Bunny held her fast. He had been hard pressed, and now that the strain was over, all the pent passion of that long stress had escaped beyond control. He held her,—at first as a boy might hold a comrade who had provoked him to exasperation; then, as desperately she resisted him, a new element suddenly rushed like fire through his veins, and he realized burningly, overwhelmingly, that for the first time in his life he held a woman in his arms.
It came to him like a blinding revelation, and forth-with it seemed to him that he stepped into a new world. She had tried him too far, had thrown him off his balance. He was unfit for this further and infinitely greater provocation. His senses swam. The touch of her intoxicated him as though he had drunk a potent draught from some goblet of the gods. He heard himself laugh passionately at her puny effort to resist him and the next moment she was at his mercy. He was pressing fevered kisses upon her gasping, quivering lips.
But she fought against him still. Though he kissed her, she would have none of it. She struck at him, battering him frantically with her hands, stamping wildly with her feet, till he literally swung her off the ground, holding her slender body against his breast.
"You little madcap!" he said, with his hot lips against her throat. "How dare you? Do you think I'd let you go—now?"
The quick passion of his voice or the fiery possession of his hold arrested her. She suddenly ceased to battle with him, and stiffened in his grasp as if turned to stone.
"Let me go!" she said tensely.
"I will not," said Bunny.
He was mad with the fever of youth; he held her with a fierce exultation.There could be no returning now, nor did he wish to return.
"You little wild butterfly!" he said, and kissed the throbbing white throat again. "I've caught you now and you can't escape."
"You've—had your revenge," Toby flung back gaspingly. "You—you—you're a skunk if you take any more."
Oddly that sobered him as any protest more feminine would have failed to do. He set her on her feet, but he held her still.
"I haven't done with you," he said, with a certain doggedness.
"Oh, I know that," she returned very bitterly. "You're like all the men.You can't play fair. Men don't know how."
That stung him. "Fair or unfair, you've done all the playing so far," he said. "If you thought I was such a tame fool as to put up with it—well, that's not my fault."
"No, it's never your fault," said Toby. She made a little vehement movement to extricate herself, but finding him obdurate, abandoned the attempt. "You're not a fool, Bunny Brian. You're a beast and a coward,—there!"
"Be careful!" warned Bunny, his dark eyes gleaming ominously.
But she uttered a laugh of high defiance. "Oh, I'm not afraid of you.You're not full-grown yet. You're ashamed of yourself already."
He coloured deeply at the taunt, but he maintained his hold upon her.
"All right," he said. "Say I did it all! It doesn't matter how you put it. The fact remains."
"What fact?" said Toby swiftly.
He clasped her a little closer. "Well,—do you think I'm going to let you go—after this?"
She caught her breath sharply. "What do you mean? I—I—I don't know what you mean!"
There was quick agitation in her voice. Again she sought to free herself, and again he frustrated her. But the violence had gone out of his hold. There was even a touch of dignity about him as he made reply.
"I mean, you little wild butterfly, that now I've got you, I'm going to keep you. You'll have to marry me and make the best of me."
"Marry you!" said Toby as one incredulous.
"Yes. What's the matter with the idea? Don't you want to?" Bunny's good-looking young face came close to hers. He was laughing, but there was a half-coaxing note in his voice as well.
Toby was silent for a moment. Then: "You're mad!" she said tersely.
"I'm not!" said Bunny. "I'm perfectly serious. Don't you understand that when this kind of thing gets hold of you, there's no getting away from it? We can't possibly go back to where we were before—behave as if nothing had happened. You wouldn't want to, would you?"
There was a hint of pleading in his tone now. Toby made a curious little gesture that seemed to express a measure of reassurance. But, "I don't know," she said somewhat dubiously.
"You aren't angry, are you?" said Bunny softly.
She hesitated. "I was."
"Yes, but not now—when you've begun to realize what a jolly thing life together would be. It isn't as if we'd never met before. We're pals already."
"Yes; we're pals," said Toby, but still her voice was dubious.
"I say, be a sport!" the boy urged suddenly. "You said you weren't afraid of me. Don't chuck the best thing in life for want of a little ordinary courage!"
"What is—the best thing in life?" said Toby.
His hold grew close again, but it remained gentle. "You marry me," he said, "and I'll show you!"
There was something sublime rather than ridiculous in his assurance. Toby caught her breath again as if about to laugh, and then quite suddenly, wholly unexpectedly, she began to cry.
"You poor little darling!" said Bunny.
She leaned her head upon his shoulder, fighting great sobs that threatened to overwhelm her. It was not often that Toby cried, and this was no mere child's distress. Indeed there was about it something that filled her companion with a curious kind of awe. He held her closely and comfortingly, but for some reason he could not speak to her, could not even attempt to seek the cause of her trouble. As his sister had done before him, though almost unconsciously, he sensed a barrier that he might not pass.
Toby regained her self-command at last, stood for a space in silence, her face still hidden, then abruptly raised it and uttered a little quivering laugh.
"You great big silly!" she said. "I'm not going to marry you, so there!Now let me go!"
Her tone and action put him instantly at his ease. This was the Toby he knew.
"Yes, you are going to marry me. And I shan't let you go," he said. "So there!"
She looked him straight in the face. "No, Bunny!" she said, with a little catch in her breath. "You're a dear to think of it, but it won't do."
"Why not?" demanded Bunny.
She hesitated.
He squeezed her shoulders. "Tell me why not!"
"I don't want to tell you," said Toby.
"You've got to," he said with decision.
In the dimness his eyes looked into hers. A little shiver went throughToby. "I don't want to," she said again.
"Go on!" commanded Bunny, autocratically.
She turned suddenly and set her hands against his breast. "Well then, because I'm years and years older than you are—"
"Rot!" interjected Bunny.
"And—I'm not good enough for you!" finished Toby rather tremulously.
"Rats!" said Bunny.
"No, it isn't rats." She contradicted him rather piteously. "You've turned a silly game into deadly earnest, and you shouldn't—you shouldn't. I wouldn't have done it if I'd known. It's such a mistake—it's always such a great mistake—to do that. You say we can't go back to where we were before, but we can—we can. Let's try—anyway!"
"We can't," said Bunny with decision. "And there's no reason why we should. Look here! You don't want to marry anyone else, do you?"
"I don't want to marry at all," said Toby.
He laughed at that. "Darling, of course you'll marry. Come! You might as well have me first as last. You won't get any other fellow to suit you half as well. What? Say you'll have me! Come, you've got to. You don't hate me, do you?"
Again the pleading note was in his voice. She responded to it almost involuntarily. Her hands slipped upwards to his shoulders.
"But—I'm not good enough," she said again, catching back a sob.
His arms enfolded her, closely and tenderly. "Oh, skip that!" he said. "I won't listen."
"You—you—you're very silly," murmured Toby, with her head against his neck.
"No. I'm not. I'm very sensible. Look here, we're engaged now, aren't we?" said Bunny.
"No—no—we're not!" Her voice came muffled against his coat. "You're not to think of such a thing for ages and ages and ages."
"Oh, rot!" he said again with impatience. "I hate a waiting game—especially when there's nothing to wait for. You're not going to give me the go-by now."
His face was close to her again. She put her hand against his chin and softly pushed it away. "Bunny!" she said.
"Well, dear?" He stood, not yielding, but suffering her check.
"Bunny!" she said again, speaking with obvious effort. "I've got to say something. You must listen—just for a minute. Jake,—Jake won't want you to be engaged to me."
"What?" Bunny started a little, as one who suddenly remembers a thing forgotten. "Jake!" Then hotly. "What the devil has it got to do with Jake?"
"Stop!" said Toby. "Jake's quite right. He knows. He—he's older than you are. You—you—you'd better ask him."
"Ask Jake!" Bunny's wrath exploded. "I'm my own master. I can marry whomI like. What on earth should I ask Jake for?"
Toby uttered a little sigh. "You needn't if you don't want to. But if you're wise, you will. He understands. You wouldn't. You see, I've been to a lot of different schools, Bunny—foreign ones—and I've learnt a heap of—rather funny things. That's why I'm so much older than you are. That's why I don't want to get married—as most girls do. I never ought to marry. I know too much."
"But you'll marry me?" he said swiftly.
"I don't know," she said. "Not anyway yet. If—if you can stick to me for six months—I—p'raps I'll think about it. But I think you'll come to your senses long before then, Bunny." A desolate little note of humour sounded in her voice. "And if you do, you'll be so glad not to have to throw me over."
"You're talking rot," he interposed.
"No, I'm not. I'm talking sense—ordinary common sense. I wouldn't get engaged to any man on the strength of what happened to-night. You hadn't even thought of me in that way when we came up here."
"I'm not so sure of that," said Bunny. "Anyway, the mischief is done now. And you needn't be afraid I shall throw you over because—" an unexpected throb came into his voice—"I know now I've simply got to have you."
Toby sighed again. "But if—if I'm not worth waiting for, I'm not worth having," she said.
"But why wait?" argued Bunny.
"For a hundred reasons. You're not really in love with me for one thing."Toby spoke with conviction.
"Yes, I am." Stubbornly he contradicted her.
"No, you're not. Listen, Bunny! Love isn't just a passion-flower that blooms in a single night and then fades. You're too young really to understand, but I know—I know. Love is more like a vine. It takes a long while to ripen and come to perfection, and it has a lot to go through first."
Again a sense of strangeness came to Bunny. Surely this was a grown woman speaking! This was not the wild little creature he knew. But—perhaps it was from perversity—her warning only served to strengthen his determination.
"You can go on arguing till midnight," he said, "you won't convince me. But look here, if you don't want anyone to know, we'll keep it to ourselves for a little while. Will that satisfy you? We'll meet and have some jolly times together in private. Will that make you any happier?"
"We shan't be engaged?" questioned Toby.
"Not if you'll kiss me without," said Bunny generously.
"Oh, I don't mind kissing you—" she lifted her lips at once, "if it doesn't mean anything."
He stooped swiftly and met them with his own. His kiss was close and lingering, it held tenderness; and in a moment her arms crept round his neck and she clung to him as she returned it. He felt a sob run through her slight frame as he held her though she shed no tears and made no sound, and he was stirred to a deeper chivalry than he had ever known before.
"It does mean one thing, darling," he said softly. "It means that we love each other, doesn't it?"
She did not answer him for a moment; then: "It may mean that," she whispered back. "I don't know—very much about—love. No one ever—really—loved me before."
"I love you," he said. "I love you."
"Thank you," she murmured.
He held her still. "You'll never run away from me again? Promise!"
She shook her head promptly with a faint echo of the elfin laughter that had so maddened him a little earlier. "No, I won't promise. But I'll show you where I was hiding if you like. Shall I?"
"All right. Show me!" he said.
She freed herself from him with a little spring, and turned to the stone buttress against which he had found her. He followed her closely, half afraid of losing her again, but she did not attempt to elude him.
"See!" she said, with a funny little chuckle. "I found this ledge."
The ledge she indicated was on a level with the parapet and not more than six inches wide. It ran square with the buttress, which on the outer side dropped sheer to the terrace.
Bunny looked and turned sick. "You never went along there!" he said.
She laughed again. "Yes, I did. It's quite easy if you slide your feet.I'll show you."
"You'll do nothing of the sort!" He grabbed her fiercely. "What in heaven's name were you thinking of? How did you learn to do these things?"
She did not answer him. "I wanted to tease you," she said lightly. "And I did it too, didn't I? I pretended I was Andromeda when I got round the corner, but no Perseus came to save me. Only an angry dragon ramped about behind."
Bunny stared at her as if he thought her bewitched. "But you were over by that north wall once. I'll swear you were over there."
"Oh, don't swear!" she said demurely. "It's so wrong. I wasn't there really. I only sent my voice that way to frighten you."
"Good heavens!" gasped Bunny.
She laughed again with gayinsouciance. "Haven't I given you a splendid evening's entertainment? Well, it's all over now, and the curtain's down. Let's go!"
She turned with her hand in his and led him back to the turret-door.
Reaching it, he sought to detain her. "You'll never do it again?Promise—promise!"
"I won't promise anything," she said lightly.
"Ah, but you must!" he insisted. "Toby, you might have killed yourself."
Her laugh suddenly had a mocking sound. "Oh, no! I shall never kill myself on Lord Saltash's premises," she said.
"Why do you say that?" questioned Bunny.
"Because—que voulez-vous?—he would want me neither dead nor alive," she made reckless answer.
"A good thing too!" declared Bunny stoutly.
The echoes of Toby's laughter as she went down the chill, dark stairway had an eerie quality that sent an odd shiver through his heart. Somehow it made him think of the unquiet spirit that was said to haunt the place—a spirit that wandered alone—always alone—in the utter desolation.
"How long is this absurd farce to go on?" said Larpent.
"Aren't you enjoying yourself?" grinned Saltash.
Larpent looked sardonic.
Saltash took up the whisky decanter. "My worthy buccaneer, you don't know when you're lucky. If I had a reputation like yours—" He broke off, still grinning. "Well, it's no use crying over spilt milk, is it? Let's spill some whisky instead! Say when!"
Larpent watched him, frowning. "Thanks! That's enough. I should like an answer to my question if you've no objection. How long is this practical joke going to last?"
Saltash turned and looked upon him with a calculating eye. "I really don't know what's troubling you," he remarked. "You've got everything in your favour. I'd change places with you with all the pleasure in the world if circumstances permitted."
"That isn't the point, is it?" said Larpent.
"No? What is the point?" Saltash turned again to the whisky decanter.
"Well, you've got me into a damn' hole, and I want to know how you're going to get me out again." Larpent's voice was gruff and surly; he stared into his tumbler without drinking.
Saltash chuckled to himself with mischievous amusement. "My dear chap, I can't get you out. That's just it. I want you to stay there."
Larpent muttered deeply and inarticulately, and began to drink.
Saltash turned round, glass in hand, and sat down on the edge of the high, cushioned fender. "I really don't think you are greatly to be pitied," he remarked lightly. "The child will soon be married and off your hands."
"Oh, that's the idea, is it?" said Larpent. "Who's going to marry her?Young Brian?"
"Don't you approve?" said Saltash.
"I don't think it'll come off," said Larpent with decision.
"Why not?" An odd light flickered in the younger man's eyes for an instant. "Are you going to refuse your consent?"
"I?" Larpent shrugged his shoulders. "Are you going to give yours?"
Saltash made an elaborate gesture. "I shall bestow my blessing with both hands."
Larpent looked at him fixedly for a few seconds. "You're a very wonderful man, my lord," he remarked drily at length.
Saltash laughed. "Have you only just discovered that?"
Larpent drained his tumbler gravely and put it down. "All the same, I don't believe it will come off," he said.
Saltash moved impatiently. "You always were an unbeliever. But anyone can see they were made for each other. Of course it will come off."
"You want it to come off?" asked Larpent.
"It is my intention that it shall," said Saltash royally.
"You're playing providence in the girl's interest. Is that it?" Again Larpent's eyes, shrewd and far-seeing, were fixed upon him. They held a glint of humour. "It's a tricky job, my lord. You'll wish you hadn't before you've done."
"Think so?" said Saltash.
"If you haven't begun to already," said Larpent.
Saltash looked down at him with a comical twist of the eyebrows. "You're very analytical to-night. What's the matter?"
"Nothing," said Larpent bluntly. "Except that you're making a mistake."
"Indeed?" For a moment Saltash's look was haughty; then he began to smile again. "I see you're burning to give your advice," he said tolerantly. "Fire away, if it does you any good!"
Larpent's eyes, very steady under their fair, bushy brows, were still unwaveringly upon him. "No, I don't presume to give you advice," he said. "But I'll tell you something which you may or may not know. That young woman you have so kindly bestowed upon me as a daughter worships the ground you tread on, and—that being the case—she isn't very likely to make a dazzling success of it if she marries young Bernard Brian."
He ceased to speak, and simultaneously Saltash jerked himself to his feet with a short French oath that sounded like the snarl of an angry animal. He went across to the windows that were thrown wide to the summer night and stood before one of them with his head flung back in the attitude of one who challenges the universe.
Larpent lay back in his chair with the air of a man who has said his say. He did not even glance towards his companion, and there followed a considerable pause before either of them spoke again.
Abruptly at length Saltash wheeled.
"Larpent!" There was something of a whip-lash quality about his voice; it seemed to cut the silence. "Why the devil do you tell me this? Can't you see that it's the very thing I'm guarding against? Young Bunny is the best remedy she could take for a disease of that kind. And after all,—she's only a child."
"Do you say that for your own benefit or for mine?" said Larpent, without turning his head.
"What do you mean?" Savagely Saltash flung the question, but the man in the chair remained unmoved.
"You know quite well what I mean," he said. "You know that it isn't true."
"What isn't true?" Saltash came swiftly back across the room, moving as if goaded. He took his tumbler from the mantel-piece and drank the contents almost at a gulp. "Go on!" he said, with his back to Larpent. "May as well finish now you've begun. What isn't true?"
Larpent lounged in his chair and watched him, absolutely unmoved.
"When a thing is actually in existence—an accomplished fact—it's rather futile to talk of guarding against it," he said, in his brief, unsympathetic voice. "You've been extraordinarily generous to the imp, and it isn't surprising that she should be extraordinarily grateful. She wouldn't be human if she weren't. But when it comes to handing her on to another fellow—well, she may consent, but it won't be because she wants to, but because it's the only thing left. She knows well enough by this time that what she really wants is out of her reach."
Again Saltash made a fierce movement, but he did not turn or speak.
Larpent took out his pipe and began to fill it. "You've been too good a friend to her," he went on somewhat grimly, "and you're not made of the right stuff for that sort of thing. I'm sorry for the kid because she's a bit of a pagan too, and it's hard to have to embrace respectability whether you want to or not."
"Oh, damn!" Saltash exclaimed, suddenly and violently. "What more could any man have done? What the devil are you driving at?"
He turned upon Larpent almost menacingly, and found the steady eyes, still with that icy glint of humour in them, unflinchingly awaiting his challenge.
"You want to get married," the sailor said imperturbably. "Why in the name of all the stars of destiny don't you marry her? She may not have the blue blood in her veins, but blood isn't everything, and you've got enough for two. And it's my opinion you'd find her considerably easier to please than some—less strict in her views too, which is always an advantage to a man of your varying moods."
Saltash's laugh had a curious jarring sound as of something broken. "Oh, you think that would be a suitable arrangement, do you? And how long do you think I should stick to her? How long would it be before she ran away?"
"I never speculate so far as you are concerned," said Larpent, shaking the tobacco back into his pouch with care.
"You think it wouldn't matter, perhaps?" gibed Saltash. "My royal house is so inured to scandal that no one would expect anything else?"
"I don't think she is the sort to run away," said Larpent quietly. "AndI'm pretty sure of one thing. You could hold her if you tried."
"An ideal arrangement!" sneered Saltash. "And I should then settle down to a godly, righteous, and sober life, I suppose? Is that the idea?"
"You said it," observed Larpent, pushing his pipe into his mouth.
Saltash lodged one foot on the high fender, and stared at it. The sneer died out of his face and the old look, half mischievous, half melancholy, took its pace. "I haven't—seriously—contemplated marriage for eight years," he said, his mouth twitching a little as with a smile suppressed. "Not since the day I tried to steal Maud Brian away from Jake—and failed—rather signally. I don't think I've ever done anything quite so low down since."
Larpent lighted his pipe with grave attention. "A good thing for you both that you did fail!" he observed.
"Think so?" Saltash glanced at him. "Why?"
"She isn't the woman for you." Larpent spoke with the absolute conviction of one who knows. "She has too many ideals. Now this sprat you caught at Valrosa—has none."
"Not so sure of that," said Saltash.
"Well, no illusions anyway." There was a hint of compassion in Larpent's voice. "It wasn't because she trusted you that she put herself under your protection. She didn't trust you. She simply chucked herself at you with her eyes open. Like Jonah's whale, you were the only shelter within reach. I'd wager a substantial sum that she's never had any illusions about you. But if you held up your little finger she'd come to you. She's your property, and it isn't in her to do anything else, let her down as often as you will."
Saltash made an excruciating grimace. "My good fellow, spare me! That's just where the shoe pinches. I've broken faith with her already. But—damnation!—what else could I do? I didn't choose the part of virtuous hero. It was thrust upon me. The gods are making sport of me. I am lost in a labyrinth of virtue, and horribly—most horribly—sick of it. I nearly broke through once, but the wreck pulled me up, and when I recovered from that, I was more hopelessly lost than before."
"So you are not enjoying it either!" remarked Larpent, with the glimmer of a smile. "But you don't seem to have let her down very far."
Saltash brought his foot down with a bang. "I swore I'd keep her with me. I meant—oh, God knows what I meant to do. I didn't do it anyway. I broke my oath and I made her go, and she never uttered a word of reproach—not one word! Do you think I'll let her ruin herself by marrying me after that? Like Jonah's whale I've managed to throw her up on to dry land, and if she gets swamped again, it won't be my fault."
He began to laugh again suddenly and cynically—the bitter laugh of a man who hides his soul; and Larpent leaned back in his chair again, as if he recognized that the discussion was over.
"I don't suppose anyone will blame you for it," he said.
"No one will have the chance," said Saltash.
The polo-ground at Fairharbour was reckoned as one of the greatest attractions the town possessed. Because of it, and the Graydown race-course an ever-increasing stream of visitors poured yearly into the town and its neighbourhood, and very fashionable crowds were wont to gather during the summer season at the various hotels which had sprung up during recent years for their accommodation.
The old Anchor Hotel facing the shore had been bought by a syndicate and rebuilt and was now a very modern erection indeed. It boasted a large lounge, palm-decked and glass-covered, in which a string band played for several hours of the day, and the constant swing of its doors testified to the great popularity to which it had attained since its renovation.
To Bunny, who had known the place under very different circumstances in his boyhood, it was always a source of amusement to drop in and mark progress. The polo-ground was only a few yards away, and he had become an ardent member of the Club to which he almost invariably devoted two afternoons of the week.
He was a promising player, and his keenness made him a favourite. He rode Lord Saltash's ponies, Saltash himself very seldom putting in an appearance. He was wont to declare that he had no time for games, and his frequent absences made it impossible for him to take a very active part in the proceedings of the Club which he had himself inaugurated in an idle hour. He dropped in occasionally to watch a game, and he took interest in Bunny's progress; but he was very rarely moved to play himself. He was too restless, too volatile, to maintain any lasting enthusiasm for any pastime. All that was generally seen of him when staying at Burchester was a lightning glimpse as he tore by in his car, or else galloped furiously over the downs and along the hard sands in the early morning.
He was a good deal in town as a rule during the season, but with the general exodus in July he was invariably the first to go, driven by a fever that gave him no rest. Even his most intimate friends seldom knew where he was to be found or whither his wild fancy would take him next. No one was sure of him at any time. He would accept an engagement and throw it up again without scruple if it did not accord with his mood. Yet wherever he went he could always command a welcome—at least from the feminine portion of the community who declared that Charles Rex could not be judged by ordinary standards; he was a law unto himself.
Even Bunny did not know where he was on that hot afternoon in mid-July when all Fairharbour gathered to watch a match between the regular team and the visitors. It bid fair to be an exciting event, and he was in high spirits at being one of those chosen to play. Maud had promised to bring Toby down to see the game at his special request. He had seen very little of Toby since that night at the Castle, though he was forced to admit to himself that if she avoided him of set purpose she did it in a fashion that baffled detection. She seemed to have settled down as a regular inmate of Jake's household, and with the exception of her early rides with Jake she gave herself up almost exclusively to helping Maud with the children. She had eased his sister's burden in a wonderful fashion, and the children loved her dearly. Her readiness and her sweet temper never seemed to fail. She was but a child herself, but Bunny had an uneasy feeling that she was changing. She had stipulated for six months, but he sometimes wondered if by the end of that time she would not have contrived to put herself out of his reach. It was that suspicion that kept him hotly determined to pursue her untiringly till he captured her. Even at a distance that odd charm of hers lured him strongly, and he knew instinctively that if once she were launched in society his chances of victory would be very greatly reduced. He wished he could have seen more of Captain Larpent and possibly have enlisted his sympathy, but he had left the Castle with Saltash, and even Toby herself professed ignorance of his whereabouts. It was evident that they had never seen much of one another, and Bunny realized that he would look in vain for help in that quarter.
He doggedly maintained his resolve to win her none the less, and his visits to his sister's house were frequent. He spoke no word on the subject either to Maud or Jake. Toby should not feel that he had in any sense taken a mean advantage. But he never looked at her without the quick longing to take her in his arms rising in his heart, and though the longing was never satisfied he believed that she was aware of it. She was always friendly with him and never embarrassed in his presence. Yet he had a strong feeling that by some subtle means she was holding him off. He bided his time with what patience he could muster, but he was determined it should not be for long.
The work on Saltash's estate had done him good. He was keen to prove himself, and the vigorous, out-door life suited him. Jake saw with satisfaction that he was developing a self-reliance and resourcefulness that had not characterized him formerly. He had given up racing according to his promise, and the life he now led was after Jake's own heart, an existence of wholesome activity that was making of him exactly the type of man that he desired him to become. The boy was a gentleman and there was fine stuff in him. Jake gloried in the fact. There had always been in Bunny qualities that appealed to him very strongly, and it was in a large measure due to his influence that those qualities had ripened as they had.
He did not accompany Maud and Toby down to Fairharbour, for business kept him at the Stables. "Bring him back with you!" he said to his wife at parting, and she smiled and promised. Bunny was never difficult to persuade.
But when they reached the polo-ground he was in the midst of a crowd of visitors from the hotel, and it seemed at first as if he would have no time to spare for them. He very speedily detached himself, however, at sight of them and came up with an eager greeting.
"So awfully glad you've come. There are some people here you used to know, Maud, in the old days. Friends of Charlie's too. The Melroses—you remember them, don't you?"
The name came upon Maud with a curious shock. Yes, she remembered the Melroses. They belonged to the long, long ago before her marriage—to that strange epoch in her early girlhood when Charlie Burchester had filled her world. How far away it seemed! They had all been in the same set, they and the Cressadys who had been responsible for the scandal that had so wrung her proud heart. Lady Cressady had been dead for years. She wondered if Charlie had ever regretted her. It had been but a passing fancy, and she suspected that he had forgotten her long since. He had never really taken her seriously; of that she was convinced now. Life had been merely a game with him in those days. It was only recently that it had begun to be anything else.
She felt no keen desire to resume the long-forgotten acquaintance with the Melroses, but Bunny evidently expected it of her, had already told them about her, and she had no choice.
She followed him therefore, Toby very sedate and upright behind her. Toby was looking wonderfully pretty that day. She varied as a landscape varies on a windy day, but that afternoon she was at her best. Her blue eyes looked forth upon the crowd with a hint of audacity, and herpiquantelittle face was full of charm.
Bunny's look dwelt upon her as he drew aside for his sister to pass him at the pavilion. He pinched her elbow with a sudden smile.
"You don't want to go and talk to those people. Come with me and see the ponies!"
She responded with characteristic eagerness to the invitation. "Shall I?But won't Maud mind? Do you think I ought?"
"Of course you ought," he rejoined with decision. "Maud won't care. I'll bring you back to her before the play begins."
He drew her away through the crowd, and she went with him without further demur. Bunny was tall and bore himself with distinction. There was, moreover, something rather compelling about him just then, and Toby felt the attraction. She suffered the hand that grasped her own.
"Look here!" he said abruptly, as they drew apart from the throng. "I've got to see more of you somehow. Have you been dodging me all this time?"
"I?" said Toby.
She met his eyes with a funny little chuckle. There was spontaneous mischief in his own.
He gave her hand an admonitory squeeze. "I'm not laughing. You're not playing the game. What's the good of my coming to the house to see you if we never meet?"
"Don't understand," said Toby briefly.
"Yes, you do. Or you can if you try. You never seem to have any liberty now-a-days. Is it Maud's doing or your own?"
Toby laughed again lightly and bafflingly. "I can do anything I want to do," she said.
"Oh, can you?" Bunny pounced. "Then you've got to meet me sometimes away from the rest. See? Come! That's only fair."
Toby made a face at him. "Suppose I don't want to?" she said.
He laughed into her eyes. "Don't tell me that! When and where?"
She laughed back. He was hard to resist. "I don't know. I'm too busy."
"Rot!" said Bunny.
"You're very rude," she remarked.
"I'll be ruder when I get the chance," he laughed. "Listen, I want to see you alone very badly. You're not going to let me down."
"I don't know what I'm going to do yet," said Toby.
But she could not look with severity into the handsome young face that was bent to hers. It was not in her to repulse a friendly influence. She had to respond.
"I'll tell you what you're going to do," said Bunny, marking her weakening with cheery assurance. "You'll take Chops for a walk to-morrow evening through the Burchester Woods. You know that gate by the larch copse? It's barely a mile across the down. Be there at seven, and perhaps—who knows?—perhaps—Chops may meet somebody he's rather fond of."
"And again perhaps he mayn't," said Toby, suppressing a dimple.
"Oh, I say, that's shabby! You'll give him the chance anyhow?"
The pleading note sounded in Bunny's voice. Toby suddenly dropped her eyes. She looked as if she were bracing herself to refuse.
Bunny saw and quickly grappled with the danger. "Give him the chance!" he urged softly into her ear. "You won't be sorry—afterwards."
She did not lift her eyes, but somehow the enchantment held. By a bold stroke he had entered her defences, and she could not for the moment drive him out. She was silent.
"You'll come?" whispered Bunny.
They were nearing a little group of ponies that were being held in readiness at the end of the field. Toby quickened her pace.
He kept beside her, but he did not speak again. And perhaps his silence moved her more than speech, for she gave a little impulsive turn towards him and threw him her sudden, boyish smile.
"All right. We'll come," she said.
"Hooray!" crowed Bunny softly.
"But I shan't stay long," she warned him. "And if I don't like it, I shall never come again."
"You will like it," said Bunny with confidence.
"I wonder," said Toby with her chin in the air.
Bunny surpassed himself that afternoon. Wherever he went, success seemed to follow, and shouts of applause reached him from all quarters.
"That young fellow is a positive genius," commented General Melrose, who had a keen eye for the game. "He ought to be in the Service. Why isn't he, Mrs. Bolton?"
"He wasn't considered strong enough," Maud said. "It was a great disappointment to him. You see, he spent the whole of his childhood on his back with spine trouble. And when that was put right he outgrew his strength."
"Ah! I remember now. You used to wheel the poor little beggar about in a long chair. Well, he's rather different now from what he was in those days. Not much the matter with him, is there?"
"Nothing now," Maud said.
"What does he do with himself?" asked the General, surveying the distant figure at that moment galloping in a far corner of the field.
"He is agent on Lord Saltash's estate at Burchester," his daughter said, suddenly entering the conversation. "He was telling me about it at luncheon. He and Lord Saltash are friends."
"Ah! To be sure!" General Melrose's look suddenly came to Maud and she felt herself colour a little.
"He is an old friend of the family," she said. "We live not far from theCastle. My husband owns the Graydown Stables."
"Oh, I know that," the General said courteously. "I know your husband, Mrs. Bolton, and I am proud to know him. What I did not know until to-day was that he was your husband. I never heard of your marriage."
"We have been married for eight years," she said with a smile.
"It must be at least ten since I saw you last," he said. "This girl of mine—Sheila—must have been at school in those days. You never met her?"
Maud turned to the girl. "I don't think we have ever met before," she said. "Is this your first visit to Fairharbour?"
"My first visit, yes." Sheila leaned forward. She was a pretty girl of two-and-twenty with a quantity of soft dark hair and grey eyes that held a friendly smile. "We don't go to the sea much in the summer as a rule. We get so much of it in the winter. Dad always winters in the South. It only seems a few weeks since we came back from Valrosa."
Maud was conscious of an abrupt jerk from Toby on her other side, and she laid a hand on her arm with the kindly intention of drawing her into the conversation. But the next instant feeling tension under her hand, she turned to look at her, and was surprised to see that Toby was staring out across the field with wide, strained eyes. She looked so white that Maud had a moment of sharp anxiety.
"Is anything the matter, dear?" she whispered.
An odd little tremor went through Toby. She spoke with an effort. "I thought he was off his pony that time, didn't you?"
She kept her eyes upon Bunny who was coming back triumphant.
Maud smiled. "Oh, I don't think there is much danger of that. Miss Melrose was talking about Valrosa. You were there too last winter, weren't you?"
The colour mounted in Toby's face. She turned almost defiantly. "Just for a day or two. I was at school at Geneva. I went there to join my father."
"I was at school at Geneva a few years ago," said Sheila Melrose. "You didn't go to Mademoiselle Denise, I suppose?"
"No," said Toby briefly. "Madame Beaumonde."
"I never heard of her," said Sheila. "It must have been after I left."
Toby nodded. "I wasn't there long. I've never been anywhere long. ButI've left school now, and I'm going to do as I like."
"A very wise resolution!" commented a laughing voice behind her. "It's one of the guiding principles of my life."
All the party turned, Toby with a quick exclamation muffled at birth. Saltash, attired in a white yachting suit and looking more than usually distinguished in his own fantastic fashion, stood with his hand on the back of Toby's chair.
"Quite a gathering of old friends!" he declared, smiling impartially upon all.
General Melrose stretched a welcoming hand to him. "Hullo, Saltash! Where on earth have you sprung from? Or are you fallen straight out of the skies?"
"Like Lucifer, son of the morning!" laughed Saltash. "Well, I haven't sprung and I haven't fallen. I have simply arrived."
Toby was on her feet. "Come and sit down!" she said in a low voice.
He shook his head. "No, no,ma chérie. I will stand behind you. Miss Melrose, my humble regards to you. Is the black mark still against my name?"
Sheila looked at him with a touch ofhauteurthat somehow melted into a smile. She had learnt her lesson at Valrosa, and there was nothing to add thereto. This man was never in earnest, and he had never intended her to think him so.
"I banned you as bold and bad long ago," she said. "I don't remember that you have done anything to change the impression."
He laughed lightly, enigmatically. "Nothing in your presence, I fear. The Fates have always been sportive so far as I was concerned. But really I'm not such a bad sort now-a-days, am I, Mrs. Bolton?"
Maud smiled upon him. "Not so bad, I think. But please don't ask me to be your sponsor! I really couldn't play the part."
"Ask me!" said Toby suddenly, with flushed face up-raised. "He saved my life whenThe Night Mothwent down, when most men would only have bothered to save their own."
"What a libel!" laughed Saltash. "Don't you know I only hung on to you because you had a life-belt on!"
"Oh, naturally!" said the General. "That would be your motive. I was sorry to hear aboutThe Night Moth, but you had a lucky escape."
"I always escape somehow," remarked Saltash complacently. "The Night Mothwanted new engines too, that's one consolation. I've just bought another," he added, suddenly touching Toby's shoulder. "Your daddy is quite pleased with her. We've just come round from London in her."
"Oh, have you?" Eagerly Toby's eyes came up to his, "What is she like?What are you going to call her?"
"She isn't christened yet. I'm going to hold a reception on board, and Maud shall perform the ceremony. I'm calling herThe Blue Moon—unless you can suggest something better." Saltash's restless look went to Maud. "I wanted to call her after you," he said lightly, "But I was afraid Jake might object."
"I thinkThe Blue Moonis much more suitable," she answered. "Is she as rare as she sounds?"
"She's rather a fine article," he made answer. "You must come and see her—come and cruise in her if you will. She's only just off the slips. I was lucky to get her. She skims along like a bird."
"Why not call herThe Blue Bird?" suggested Sheila.
He shook his head with his odd grimace. "That is a thing I can never hope to possess, Miss Melrose. The blue moon may occur once in my life if I am exceptionally virtuous, but the blue bird never. I have ceased to hope for it." His glance flashed beyond her. "Young Bunny is distinguishing himself to-day. That was a fine effort."
Everyone was clapping except Toby who was staring before her with her hands in her lap. Her blue eyes were very wide open, but they did not seem to be watching the game.
"It will fly to you,chérie," suddenly whispered a voice in her ear."It is already upon the wing."
A little tremor went through her, but she did not turn her head. Only after a moment she slipped a hand behind her through the back of her chair.
Wiry fingers closed upon it, gripped it, let it go. "When it comes to you, hold it fast!" came the rapid whisper."Il ne vient pas deux fois—l'oiseau bleu."
Toby's lip trembled. She bit it desperately. Her look was strained. She did not attempt to speak.
"It is the gift of the gods,chérie." The words came softly at her shoulder, but they pierced her. "We do not cast their gifts away. They come—too seldom."
She made a quick movement; it was almost convulsive, like the start of one suddenly awakened. A hard breath went through her, and then she was laughing, laughing and clapping with the rest, her eyes upon the boyish, triumphant figure in front of her. When the applause died away, Saltash had departed, abruptly as was his wont. And though they saw him in the distance several times, he did not return that afternoon.
It was an evening of golden silence, and the larch copse in its stillness was like an enchanted wood. Now and then something moved in the undergrowth with a swift rustle or a blackbird raised a long ripple of alarm. But for the most part all was still. No breeze came up the hillside, and in the west a long black line of cloud lay like a barrier across the sun, so that great rays slanted out over land and sea, transforming all things with their radiance.
A soft low whistle broke the stillness or mingled with it. A snatch of melody came like the strains of a fairy pipe from the edge of the larch wood. Again there came a sharp movement in some long grass near the gate that led from the open down into the Burchester estate. It sounded as if some small imprisoned creature were fighting for freedom. Then in another moment there came the rush and snuffle of a questing dog, and old Chops the setter came bursting through the hedge that bordered the wood.
He flung himself through the long grass with an agility that belied his advancing years, and in an instant there arose a cry that seemed to thrill the whole wood with horror. The enchanted silence broke upon it like the shivering of a crystal ball, for as Chops pounced another cry rang clear and commanding from the other side of the hedge.
"Chops! Back! Back! Do you hear, Chops? Come back."
Chops did not come back, but he paused above his quarry, and looked round with open jaws and lolling tongue. If it had been his master who thus called him, he would have obeyed on the instant. But Toby was a different matter, and the frantic, struggling thing in front of him was a sore temptation.
His brief hesitation, however, lost him the game. Her light feet raced through the grass with the speed of wings, and she threw herself over the gate and upon him before he could make good his claim. He found himself thrust back, and the long habit of obedience had conquered instinct before it could reassert itself. She dropped upon her knees beside the thing in the grass and discovered a young hare caught in a snare.
It was a very ordinary poacher's contrivance fashioned of wire. The little animal was fairly caught round the body, and the cruel tension of the gin testified to his anguished and futile struggles for freedom. The wire had cut into his shoulder, and his bolting eyes were wild with terror. It was no easy task to loosen the trap, and there was blood on Toby's hands as she strove to release the straining, frenzied creature.
She was far too deeply engrossed in the matter to heed any sound of approaching feet, and when the thud of a horse's hoofs suddenly fell on the turf close to her she did not raise her head. But she did look up startled when two hands swooped down from above her and gripped the hare with a vice-like strength that stilled all struggling.
"He will claw you to pieces," said Bunny bluntly. "Shall I kill him? He's damaged. Or do you want to let him go?"
"Oh, let him go—of course!" cried Toby, dragging reckless at the wire."See, it's coming now! Hold him tight while I slip it off!"
The wire slipped at last. She forced it loose, and the victim was free. Bunny turned to lay him in the grass, and Toby sprang upon Chops and held him fast. She was crying, fiercely, angrily.
"How dare they set that cruel thing? How dare they? He isn't dead, is he?Why doesn't he run away?"
"He's hurt," said Bunny. "Let me kill him! Let Chops finish him!"
"No, no, no, no!" Vehemently Toby flung her protest. "He may be hurt, but he'll get over it. Anyway, give him his chance! There! He's moving! It wouldn't be fair not to give him his chance."
"It would be kinder to kill him," said Bunny.
"I hate you!" she cried back, weeping over Chops who stood strained against her. "If—if—if you touch him—I'll never, never speak to you again!"
Bunny came to her, took Chops by the collar, and fastened him with his whip to the gate. Then he stooped over Toby, his young face sternly set.
"Stop crying!" he said. "Let me have your hands!"
They were a mass of scratches from the hare's pounding feet. He began to look at them, but Toby thrust them behind her back. She choked back her tears like a boy, and looked up at him with eyes of burning indignation, sitting back on her heels in the long grass.
"Bunny, it's a damn' shame to trap a thing like that. Did you do it?"
"I? No. I'm not a poacher." Grimly Bunny made reply. That flare of anger made her somehow beautiful, but he knew if he yielded to the temptation to take her in his arms at that moment she would never forgive him. "Don't be unreasonable!" he said. "You'll have to come and bathe your hands. They can't be left in that state."
"Oh, what does it matter?" she said impatiently. "I've had much worse things than that to bear. Bunny, you believe in God I know. Why does He let things be trapped? It isn't fair. It isn't right. It—it—it hurts so."
"Lots of things hurt," said Bunny.
"Yes, but there's nothing so mean and so horrible as a trap. I—I could kill the man who set it. I'm glad it wasn't you." Toby spoke passionately.
"So am I," said Bunny.
He crumpled the wire gin in his hand, and dragged it up from the ground.
Toby watched him still kneeling in the grass. "What are you going to do with it?"
"Destroy it," he said promptly.
She smiled at him, the tears still on her cheeks. "That's fine of you.Bunny, I haven't got a handkerchief."
He gave her his, still looking grim. She dried her eyes and got up. The hare, recovering somewhat, gave her a frightened stare and slipped away into the undergrowth. She looked up at Bunny.
"I'm sorry I was angry," she said. "Are you cross with me?"
He relaxed a little. "Not particularly."
"Don't be!" she said tremulously. "I couldn't help it. He suffered so horribly, and I know—I know so well what it felt like."
"How do you know?" said Bunny.
Her look fell before his. She made an odd movement of shrinking. He put his arm swiftly round her.
"Never mind the wretched hare! He's got away this time anyway. And I'm not at all sure you didn't have the worst of it. Feeling better now?"
She nodded. "Yes, much better. I like you, Bunny, but I can't help thinking you're rather cruel. You didn't want to kill the poor thing?"
"I think it was rather prolonging the agony to let him live," said Bunny."Let me see your hands!"
She tried to hide them, but he was insistent, and at length impulsively she yielded.
"You must come down to old Bishop's and bathe them," he said.
She shook her head instantly. "No, Bunny, I'm not going to. I'll run down to the lake if you like. There's sure not to be anyone there."
"All right," said Bunny, but he lingered still with his arm about her."Will you kiss me, Toby?" he said suddenly.
"No," she said, and swiftly averted her face.
His arm tightened for a second, then he felt her brace herself against him and let her go. "All right," he said again. "We'll go down to the lake."
She threw him a swift glance of surprise, but he turned away to releaseChops and unfasten his horse without further discussion.
Their way lay along a grass ride that ran beside the larch wood. Bunny walked gravely along, leading his horse. Toby moved lightly beside him.
Behind them the silence closed like the soft folds of a curtain, but it was not a silence devoid of life. As they drew away from the place, a man stepped out from the larches and stood motionless, watching them. A whimsical smile that was not without bitterness hovered about his mouth. As they passed from sight, he turned back into the trees and walked swiftly and silently away.
It was nearly a mile across the park to the lake in the hollow, and the boy and girl tramped it steadily with scarcely a word. Chops walked sedately by Toby's side, occasionally poking his nose under her hand. Bunny's face was stern. He had the look of a man who moved with a definite goal in view.
They came to the beechwood that surrounded the lake. The Castle from its height looked down over the terraced gardens upon one end of the water. It was a spot in fairyland.
They came to a path that led steeply downwards, and Bunny stopped. "I'll leave my animal here," he said.
Toby did not wait. She plunged straight down the steep descent. When he rejoined her, she was at the water's edge. She knelt upon a bed of moss and thrust her hands into the clear water. He stood above her for a moment or two, then knelt beside her and took the wet wrists very gently into a firm hold. She made a faint resistance, but finally yielded. He looked down at the hands nervously clenched in his grasp. He was older in that moment, more manly, than she had ever seen him.
"What's the matter, little girl?" he said softly. "What are you afraid of?"
"Nothing," said Toby instantly, and threw up her chin in the old dauntless way.
He looked at her closely. "Sure?"
The blue eyes met his with defiance. "Of course I'm sure. That horrid trap upset me, that's all."
He continued to look at her steadily. "That isn't why you won't have anything to say to me," he said.
Her colour rose under his gaze, but she would not avoid it. "Does it matter why?" she said.
"It does when I want to know," he answered. Again his look went to her hands. "How the little brute scored you! So much for gratitude!"
"You don't expect gratitude from a creature wild with fright," said Toby.
She spoke rather breathlessly, and he saw that she was on the verge of tears again. He got up and drew her to her feet.
"Let's walk for a bit!" he said.
She stood as one in doubt and he felt that she was trembling.
"I say—don't!" he said suddenly and winningly. "I won't do anything you don't like, I swear. You shan't be bothered. Can't you trust me?"
She made a little movement towards him, and he put his arm round her shoulders. They turned along the greensward side by side.
"It was awfully nice of you to come," Bunny said in that new gentle voice of his. "I didn't mean you to get there first, but old Bishop is so long-winded I couldn't get away."
"It didn't matter," said Toby with a nervous little smile.
"It did to me," said Bunny. "It would have saved you that anyway."
"But you'd have killed the hare," she said.
"Not if he hadn't been damaged," he said. "I'm not a brute. I don't kill for the sake of killing."
She looked incredulous. "Most men do. Don't you hunt? Don't you shoot?"
"Oh, you're talking of sport!" said Bunny.
"Yes, it's called sport," said Toby, an odd little vibration in her voice. "It's just a name for killing things, isn't it?"
Bunny considered the matter. "No, that's not fair," he decided. "Sport is sport. But I prefer to walk up my game and I never countenance digging out a fox. That's sport."
"There are very few sportsmen in the world," said Toby.
"Oh, I don't know. Anyway, I hope I'm one of 'em. I try to be," saidBunny.
She gave him a quick look. "I think you are. And so is Jake."
"Oh, Jake! Jake's magnificent. He's taught me all I know in that line. I used to be a horrid little bounder before I met Jake. He simply made me—body and soul." Bunny spoke with a simple candour.
"P'raps he had good stuff to work on," suggested Toby.
Bunny's arm drew her almost imperceptibly. "I don't think he had. My father was a wild Irishman, and my mother—well, she's dead too—but she wasn't anything to be specially proud of."
"Oh, was your mother a rotter?" said Toby, with sudden interest.
He nodded. "We don't talk about her much, Maud and I. She married a second time—a brute of a man who used to run the Anchor Hotel. They went to Canada, and she died."
"The Anchor Hotel!" said Toby. "That place at Fairharbour down by the shore?"
"Yes, Maud and I were there too at first. I was a cripple in those days, couldn't even walk. We had a fiendish time there—till Jake came."
"Ah!" Toby's blue eyes suddenly gleamed. "Did Maud marry Jake to get away?" she asked.
Bunny nodded again and began to smile. "Yes. We were in a beastly hole, she and I. Something had to be done."
"She didn't love him then?" questioned Toby, almost with eagerness.
"Oh no, not then. Not till long after. Jake and I were the pals. He was always keen enough on her, poor chap. But Charlie complicated matters rather in those days. You see, Charlie came first—before she ever met Jake."
"Charlie?" said Toby quickly.
"Lord Saltash. You knew he was an old friend, didn't you?"
"I didn't know—that he—and Maud—ever loved each other." Toby halted over the words as if they were somehow difficult to utter.
Bunny enlightened her with a boy's careless assurance. "Oh, that's a very old story. They were very fond of each other in their youth. In fact they were practically engaged. Then Charlie, who has always been a bit giddy, went a bit too far with Lady Cressady who was also a somewhat gay young person, and Sir Philip Cressady, who was a brute, tried to divorce her. He didn't succeed. The case fell through. But it set everyone by the ears, and Maud threw Charlie over. He pretends he didn't care, but he did—pretty badly, and he's never married in consequence."
"Oh, is that why?" said Toby.
"That's why. He's gone the pace fairly rapidly ever since. But he's a good chap at heart. Even Jake acknowledges that now, and he knows him as well as anyone."
"And—Maud?" said Toby, in a low voice. She was not looking at Bunny, but staring out over the still waters of the lake with a rather piteous intentness.
"Maud has always kept a soft place in her heart for him. She couldn't help it. Women can't."
"I see," said Toby. "And doesn't—Jake—mind?"
"Jake? No, not a bit. He's sure of her now. She thinks there's no one like him in the world. And she's quite right. There's not." Bunny spoke with warm enthusiasm.
Toby's brows were drawn a little. "Then—she isn't in love with LordSaltash?" she said.
"No, not now. She just takes a motherly interest in him, tries to persuade him to settle down and be good—that sort of thing. I believe she feels rather responsible for him. He certainly bolted very thoroughly after she gave him up. It's all years ago of course. But he's never settled—never will."
"I see," said Toby.
A slight shiver went through her, and she looked up at Bunny with a small, pinched smile. "Fancy—Maud—giving him up!" she said.
"Well, she always had her share of pride, and he certainly didn't treat her with great consideration. He might have known she'd never stand it," said Bunny. "He only had himself to thank."