XX

XXIt was a week after this that one afternoon Crabbe brought up to the pretty chintz-hung bedroom, now Bab's, the card of a visitor who was waiting in a pony cart outside. Bab, as she read the name, exclaimed with pleasure."Linda Blair!""And begging pardon, please," added Crabbe, "the young lady asks particular if you'll see her."Bab directed him to ask Miss Blair upstairs at once. The Beestons by now were settled for the summer at Byewolde. Beeston himself, entirely recovered from the illness that earlier in the year had threatened to lay him low, every day was to be seen walking or driving about the place. Bab was his constant companion. After his queer behavior the evening of the dance Beeston had resumed toward her his former air of gruff indulgence. To all appearances he might have been the most doting of grandfathers, Bab the most beloved of grandchildren. Miss Elvira, too, was as natural. Allthat one could descry in the least unusual about her was a smile, grim and covert, that off and on lighted her craggy features.The week had been a full one for Bab. The engagement David had not yet revealed, but had it been openly known the countryside could not have done more in the way of making Bab's days at Byewolde memorable. Here in the country she had been accepted, been taken for herself, far more than had been the case in the city. One reason for this was that in town the people were engrossed with their own affairs; there time sped too swiftly for them to give much thought to a newcomer. At Eastbourne, however, where the pace was less swift, the various households more closely associated, more of an opportunity was afforded to make Bab feel she was really welcome.She was left little time to herself. This was as she wished it; for all the new life, new scenes, new activities, thoroughly entertained her. Life in town, brilliant as it had been, had not appealed to her as this did. The reason, perhaps, was that in New York her surroundings had been too new to seem real. She had been a little staggered by herfirst acquaintance with luxury. The money everything cost had especially bewildered her. Now, however, she had begun to grow accustomed to it all. Money and the luxury it brings had become a commonplace. Already she had begun to lean upon it as a necessity. The animation of her new life, too, had become a second nature. She was rarely unoccupied. Every night she dined out; mornings and afternoons she either rode or drove with her new friends, now not so new either; or, alone with David, the two rambled in his roadster up and down the many unfrequented byroads of the island. Polo practice had begun at the country club; occasionally there was a drag hunt too; and at these events, where the neighborhood turned out in force, David seemed anxious to have her seen."You don't mind being dragged round like this, do you?" David asked one day. "I want you to meet everyone, you know."Bab didn't mind in the least. Now that she had got over her first feeling of strangeness there was nothing she liked more. However, in all this new life, among all her new friends, there was one person who from the first had filled her with a subtlefeeling of disquiet. And this person was Linda Blair. Was Linda her friend? Bab wished she knew. She liked the girl; more than that, she admired her. Linda, besides, had been a playmate of David's since childhood. But of late, it seemed to Bab, she had begun to notice about Linda an air of chilly, growing reserve. There was in her expression, too, a veiled disapproval. Bab wondered what she had done to offend her. She was still debating the question when Crabbe ushered in the caller."How do you do, Bab?" said Linda, and with a quick smile Bab put out her hand."How nice of you to come!" she returned. Determined not to be stiff, or show that she had noticed Linda's air of reserve, Bab tried to make her welcome very real, and she succeeded in this. But Linda's call she soon saw was not merely social. The girl crossed the room hesitantly, a slender, quiet creature, more womanly than girlish; and, having taken the chair by the window that Bab indicated, she sat waiting for Crabbe to withdraw. Obviously there was some special reason for her visit."You'll have tea, won't you?" asked Bab."Thanks, no," murmured Linda; "I can stay only a minute. I must be going on directly."Bab dismissed the butler, and with a growing interest seated herself in a chair opposite her visitor. There was a formality about Miss Blair's manner that did not escape her. Though pleasant enough, she had something in her manner that held Bab effectually at a distance.The conversation at the outset was aimless. To Linda manifestly it was an effort, and at times she came perilously near to rambling. There was to be a luncheon at the country club the week following, and she talked of that. Then, apropos of nothing, she remarked on a picture show she had seen in town, veering from that to a projected run of the drag hounds the following Saturday, the last meet of the season. Bab, in the pauses, led on the talk as best she could. But it was a difficult matter. Suddenly, in the midst of a sentence—something or other about a race meet the month following at the country club—Linda broke off with awkward abruptness. A faint frown of irritation swept across her brows."Let's be frank," she said bluntly; "I didn't comehere for this. I've something I'd like to ask you." Her dark eyes on the girl opposite her, for a moment she paused. "Bab," she then asked quietly, "what are you doing to David?"Blunt as the question was, and disconcerting, Bab already had guessed this was the purpose that had brought Linda to see her. She saw now, too, that it must have been her affair with David that had caused Linda's chilly reserve. Linda must have guessed what was happening. The color rushed into her face, which only added to her anger, for she resented showing her feelings."What do you mean?" she asked coldly."Don't be angry," Linda begged; "I don't mean to offend you. David, you know, has been my friend, my playmate, all my life. It's not just you that I question; I would have asked any girl. Don't you understand? David's a man, of course; but then, too, David's different. I can't stand by and see him hurt. Think how much he's had to bear already."Bab looked at her in undisguised amazement."Hurt?" she repeated. "Why should you think I would hurt him?"Linda smiled at her gently."You know perfectly, Bab.""I do not," Bab returned crisply; "I know what you suggest, of course—that I am—well, leading him on, to put it vulgarly. Isn't that what you mean by hurting him?""Precisely!""And you really think I am doing that?""No; I only asked whether you are."Bab with an effort got rid of the note of irritation in her tone. If she must fence she would at least fence with art. So she returned Linda's quiet smile."You've known David, as you say, all your life. Why, then, did you come to me? Why didn't you ask him?"A quick change swept into the other's expressive eyes, and Bab beheld it with surprise. It seemed to Bab almost as if she winced."Stop and think! You don't for a moment believe I'd let him know, do you? I at least don't mean to hurt him!"Bab waited until she had finished."Yes," she said, "but that doesn't prevent yourhurting me. You still suggest that I am amusing myself at his expense!"Linda shook her head."No; I merely beg you not to! That's why I came here to see you.""I dare say," said Bab quietly; "but there's one thing you overlook. You seem to forget, Linda, that what in another girl might seem significant, on my part would be harmless. Have you thought of that?""Harmless?" interrogated Linda."Exactly," smiled Bab. "David, you remember, is my cousin."It was a clincher. Bab, as she delivered the thrust, rather complimented herself on her cleverness. Somehow, though, the riposte fell short of its expected result. Linda's expression did not alter. Concern was still deeply written in her eyes. Her mouth quivered, setting itself as if again she had winced."David doesn't think so," she said.The retort fairly took Bab's breath away. It was as Linda said. David indeed did not think so; and there dawned on Bab then what she had been guiltyof in hiding the truth. David she was to marry, yet virtually she had denied it. What was more, in her denial she had displayed an attitude of defiance that might easily be construed as shame. Again she colored, irritation uppermost in her feelings. She was incensed as much at herself as at Linda. She was angered, besides, that she had agreed to conceal her engagement. Why had she done it? But what annoyed her most was her own clumsiness in handling the present situation."David," said Linda slowly, "thinks you love him."Bab had been seated in a low chair, her head negligently thrown back and her fingers laced together in her lap. Now she got suddenly to her feet."I don't see any reason why we should go on like this. I know David loves me, Linda, and I'm going to marry him."For a brief moment Linda stared at her with every indication of amazement and incredulity. "You marry David!" she gasped. But when Bab assured her this was so, Linda looked neither relieved nor gratified. "Marry David?" she again repeated; and then in her eyes once more rose thatvague cloud, a shadow of inward trouble. "Don't think me rude, Bab," said Linda hesitantly, "but will you tell me why you are going to marry him?""Why?" echoed Bab. Her discomfort, her righteous indignation perhaps at this point got the better of her. Linda, had she been David's own sister, could not have been more insistent. A sister, indeed, would have thought twice before she'd have ventured to go so far."Look here, Linda," said Bab, her voice matching in tone the angry glint in her eye; "I've been frank with you; now you be frank with me. Why do you wish to know all this? Is it because you'd like to marry David yourself?"The shot went straight to its mark. Bab saw her visitor catch swiftly at her breath."I—marry David?" In Linda's air, however, was pain, not discomfiture. The shadow in her eyes darkened perceptibly. "You don't understand, Bab; David and I were brought up together. We've been playmates since I was a baby. If he were my own kin, my own brother, I could not love him more. But that doesn't mean I could marry him. I don't love him that way."The words, each freighted with significance, thundered their accusation in Bab's startled mind. Linda did not love him that way! Bab, as she sat staring at the speaker, recalled her own reflections in the matter. She, too, had loved David as if bound to him by some tie of blood. She, too, had felt for him that same companionship. Beyond that, though, how else had she felt for him? How else had she loved the man she was to marry? She was still staring at her visitor, the question in her mind still unanswered, when Linda suddenly spoke."Why are you marrying him, Bab? Don't you know?"Bab found her tongue then."Because I—I——" She did not finish the sentence, but began another instead. "Why shouldn't I marry him?" she demanded, her voice strong with indignation. "Why shouldn't I marry David? I know he loves me; isn't that enough? I know he isn't marrying me for my money; he's marrying me for myself. That's why I'm marrying David."Linda still was steadily eyeing her."And is that really the reason?""It's one reason," returned Bab.Again Linda studied her with curious intentness."Bab," she said finally, her tone as grave as her air, "if there were someone else you loved, really loved, and you could assure yourself he was not marrying you for your money, then would you still marry David?"Bab's breath in her amazement came swiftly."Someone else?" she repeated. Then she demanded: "Why do you ask?"Linda quietly arose, as she did so picking up the driving gloves she had laid on a table near her. She began now deliberately to put them on. Changing the topic abruptly and ignoring Bab's question, she drifted toward the door. In the hall downstairs she turned with a smile and held out her hand."Bayard Varick will be at Eastbourne tomorrow, Bab. He's coming to us for the week-end."XXILinda had said she did not love David that way! Bab's mind still clung to that speech, wrestling with it dully. Five o'clock had struck from the spire of Eastbourne church as the pony cart, with a smart cob clinking in the shafts, drifted along a shady byway in the Beeston woods. They were the same woods in which Bab had spent that first morning at Byewolde with David, but she was alone now. There was not even a groom beside her on the seat of the Hempstead cart in which she was jogging along.She had wanted to be alone. Ever since that moment when Linda had uttered those memorable words Bab had felt she must get off by herself and think things over. Then, too, Linda had said Varick was to visit Eastbourne. He was to spend the week-end at the Blairs' place near by. As the clock in the church tower struck, Bab mechanically counted the strokes. Five! He must be there now!In view of Bab's firm resolve to marry David,her reflections concerning Varick seemed rather disconcerting. Varick, she'd told herself, had gone out of her life. She was done with him. But Bab somehow had not foreseen that Varick, like a ghost, would not down. She had not reflected that his life and hers must of a necessity cross continually. Left to herself, to the resolve she had made, she could have married David with perhaps no more than a qualm or so. She loved him, she knew. She might not love him, perhaps, as a wife should love her husband, but then what matter was that? Round her in the life she now was leading, countless women were married with much less right. They did not love at all. It was for convenience they married—for place, for power. Rarely, it seemed to her, did they marry just for love. And the marriages, after all, did not turn out so badly. Some of the women—quite a few, in fact—even learned to love their men. Of course a good many didn't, but then why dwell on that? She already loved David as a companion; in time she might learn to love him in another way. Probably she would.The cob, hacking along at his own free will, nowall at once pricked up his ears. Over the treetops from the near-by side of the wood the breeze brought a quick burst of sound. Bab heard it dully. It was a hunt day at the country club, the season's last, and the hounds were out. Clucking aimlessly to the cob, she again plunged into her reverie.The scene with Linda the day before had helped to clarify Bab's impressions. She began now to see things in their actual light. She saw even the truth concerning herself and Varick. What if he had sought to marry her once he learned she had money? He loved her, didn't he? She knew he did. She knew, too, he would marry no one he did not love, no matter how much money they had. Then in the midst of this reflection, her mind in its ferment going over and over it again, a new realization came to her. Of her love for Varick there could be no question! She knew how she loved him, this man who had gone out of her life. She loved him as she wished to God she could love David, the man she was going to marry. But she had given her promise to David, and she could not break it.The cob again pricked up his ears. Bab aimlesslyfingering the lines, felt him bear all at once against the bit. Just then in an open field beside the wood the hounds swept past in full cry."Steady, boy!"Full of life, vigorously skittish, the cob had begun to prance. Bab pulled it down to its four feet presently, and sat waiting for the chase to go on. Hard after the racing hounds came the vanguard of the field, the riders who followed, three men and a girl out far ahead. The men were strangers, but the girl Bab knew. She was the daughter of one of the Beestons' neighbors, an elfish, harum-scarum creature, whose chief delight seemed to be a reckless disregard of life and limb—her own, however. Perched on a big, raw-boned roan thoroughbred she took the in-and-out, the jump into the road and over into the field beyond with the aplomb of a veteran. The next instant she was gone, flashing out of view.Bab was still gazing after her when there was a crash and crackling of brush close beside her. A fourth rider, topping the roadside fence, flew into view. His horse instantly she recognized. It was one from the Blairs' stable, a thoroughbred that Baboften had seen Linda riding. The next instant she had recognized its rider. It was Varick!Bab's heart beneath her trim linen jacket gave a thump, and she sat staring at him in wonder. The color, a moment later, poured into her face. Already, before he saw her, Varick's mount had bucked into the road and, crossing it at a stride, was gathering himself to take the fence beyond. Varick pulled him up sharply. The horse, his eyes rolling with excitement, fought at the bit, and for a moment his rider had difficulty in getting him in hand. Then, quivering, the animal trotted toward the cart."Hello!" Varick hailed cheerfully. "I didn't expect to see you." Sliding from the saddle, he slipped the reins over his arm. "Nice to see you, Bab," and he held out a hand to her.She had never before seen him in riding things. The things themselves she had seen, and she remembered them, the boots especially. Slim and slender, neat on their wooden trees, they'd stood in a corner of his room at Mrs. Tilney's. What visions they'd created. And now in the boots, in his smart, well-cut riding clothes, how well he looked, how pleasant,smiling and well-bred! In contrast Bab felt herselfgaucheand uncomfortable. It did not make it any easier for her that he seemed in no way awkward or constrained. He stood beside the cart looking up at her, and with an effort Bab murmured a response to his greeting. As she finished, her air confused, he smiled faintly."I've been hearing about you," he announced.Hearing about her? Bab sharply pulled herself together. In Varick's tone was something more than the mere raillery the speech conveyed. She thought, too, she knew where it was he had been hearing of her."I dare say," returned Bab; "you're at Linda Blair's."The subtle innuendo of this he did not seem to heed. A quick light came into his eyes."Linda told you I was coming, did she?" He smiled brightly. "Linda's a dear, isn't she?" he exclaimed.Bab long had heard of Varick's friendliness with Linda. His admiration of her, too, was evident. It was not from Linda, though, that Varick had heard of Bab. Of that his next speech assured her."Where's the happy man, Bab? I heard the news at the country club, you know. Why are you alone?"The happy man—and Varick had heard the news! Speech for the moment left her. That day her engagement had been announced. David, deciding to wait no more, had given the news to his intimates. Tomorrow every newspaper in the city would have it. What should she say to Varick now in answer to his question? Was she to tell him that the happy man she had left at home? Was she to tell him, too, why she had left him there? The fact that David was announcing the engagement had caused her to seek solitude. She wanted time. She needed the opportunity to face herself before she must face Beeston, Miss Elvira and, last of all, David's parents. Yes, but what about Varick? She had not dreamed of facing him!The night of her dance—that moment when first she had told him of the promise she'd given David—the revelation had not been nearly so trying. Emotion had dulled her. She had been excited, overwrought, the pang of it had been blunted. She had found no time to ruminate, to taste its bitterness.Now, however, in the cold, everyday light of the fact as it was, as it ever would be, there was no soothing opiate of emotion to dull the pain. She had indeed not counted on facing him. She would almost rather have faced the truth itself. Varick all the time was looking at her."Bab," he asked, "tell me just one thing. Are you happy?"Her eyes drifted hazily away. Happy? The word somehow seemed an affront. Why was it that happiness had always to be dragged in? Linda had asked would David be happy? Here Varick was asking would Bab herself be happy? Why must everything so depend on her? She wished devoutly she could for once be freed of the responsibility. If only things could be made happy for her!"Won't you answer?" asked Varick.She had sat looking at him in silence. Of the storm, the ferment that was seething in her mind, Varick had no hint. Her face was set. Outwardly, with her lips tightly compressed, her mouth rigid, she looked reserved, affronted, if anything, at what he asked. The question was not one that could lightly be asked of any woman, least of all a womanwho had just promised herself. Varick saw her eyes, as he thought, harden. Then she looked away. He did not know, however, that why she did so was that of a sudden the eyes had clouded mistily. Their mistiness she would not have him see. But he was not dissuaded. As he gazed at her Varick's own face grew set."Look at me, Bab! Be angry if you like, but you've got to answer. If you're happy, say so, and I won't bother you. But I want you to tell me."Reaching up, he took in his the small gloved hand that clung to the rail of the Hempstead cart. She made no effort to release it. They were quite alone. The hunt, swinging westward over the open fields, had carried with it the first of the field; the others, with the onlookers following in traps and motors, had streamed away down a near-by road. Round these two was the wood, its leafy walls a haven of cloistered, quiet privacy."I want you to tell me, little girl," said Varick. His hold on the hand under his tightened reassuringly. "I just want to be sure you're glad, contented. If you are, then it's all right; I won't say a word. If you're not glad, though, not happy, thenI want to help you. Don't you understand, Bab?" She still did not reply, but sat perched on the cart's high pad staring straight ahead of her. The effort to answer him was beyond her. Then for the first time he seemed to see her misery."Why, Bab!" he cried.His air changed instantly, awakening to quick activity. He bade her sit as she was and, flinging the reins of his mount over a fence post handy, he took the cob by the bit. The cart he turned in the road. This accomplished, he returned to the tethered thoroughbred and, gathering the reins in hand, climbed into the saddle."Drive along, Bab," he directed; "I'll follow."There was another byroad, a turn-off from the main drive, a short way beyond; and there, as if of his own accord, the cob swung on. Tunneled in that aisle of greenery Varick and Bab were alone, alone indeed. Reaching over as his mount cantered on beside the cob, he touched the hand that held the reins."Pull up, Bab," he said, adding then: "You must not feel like that. Now tell me what's wrong." Her mouth was quivering. She had been sittingthere all the time with the tears brimming in her eyes. "You know," Varick added quietly, "I want to help you."That fixed it."Oh, Bayard, Bayard!" cried Bab brokenly. He did not speak, but he again slipped from the saddle and, with the reins looped over his arm, came and stood beside the wheel."How can I tell you!" she went on. "The other night, the time when you danced with me, I knew what I ought to do, but I couldn't. It was all so strange, all so sudden. I'd been blinded by it. All the new life I'd lived, that and all it had brought me, seemed to have blurred everything. It wasn't just what they'd said to me that made me turn from you; all along, from the very first, from the time at Mrs. Tilney's, I'd felt you didn't think I was as good as you were. When the money came I thought it would change things. Then the more I thought the more I knew it wouldn't. I was still as I'd always been; if you married me I'd still be the same. And then my grandfather told me it would be like you to want to marry me now, to want me for my—my money. And David didn't. Hewanted me for myself, just that. I could be sure of that; he'd have his own money, you know. He'll be as rich as I'll be some day.""As rich as you'll be, Bab?""Yes," Bab answered—"when grandfather dies, that is."Varick dared not meet her eyes. In his heart he could have wept for her. Presently his glance returned to her."Then it wasn't just David's money, David's position, that tempted you? That's not why you took him, is it?""David's money—tempt me?" Her astonishment was genuine. "Why should it?"Varick did not pursue the question. Again he laid his hand on hers, and again she let it lie there."Some day you'll understand," he said quietly; "you'll see, too, that neither has your money made any difference with me."Bab's voice at this broke again She knew now, she protested, that it hadn't. It made Varick smile whimsically to hear her."And you don't think me dreadful?" she pleaded."Dreadful?" He laughed. "Of course not!""You said you'd help me. Bayard, what am I to do?"Varick was still smiling. In the smile, though, was now nothing whimsical."I don't know, Bab.""You don't know!" Varick slowly shook his head. "Do you mean that?" asked Bab, her eyes wondering.He stirred uncomfortably."I'm afraid so. Don't you see you're the one who must help yourself there? I can't decide that for you; it wouldn't be right."Her wonder grew. What wouldn't be right? Hadn't he voluntarily offered to help her?"You don't understand," said Varick; "I'll help you any way I can, Bab, but not that way. I can't tell you whether you must marry David. Your conscience will have to decide that. It's hardly right for me even to comfort you. Can't you see it?""Don't you love me?" she asked slowly. "Is that it?"Varick smiled anew."You know I do," he answered. "But if you'dthink, you'd see, too, I have no right even to tell you that."The fine ethics of this, however, Bab was in no mood to comprehend. Love is woman's one fierce, common right. She wages it as man wages war—instinctively. And as in war, in love—as she often sees it—all things are fair."It's just this, Bab," said Varick; "you've given your word to David Lloyd. You're his woman, the one he's going to marry. With that promise still standing, you're as much his as if you were his wife. I can't tell you anything, Bab; I mustn't even tell you that I love you." Trying to keep his feelings from showing in his face, he fastened his eyes on hers. "I was a friend of his once. I can't stab him in the back like that. If you love him, Bab, marry him. If you don't, then decide whatever way you can. But don't ask me to decide for you. I can't! I never can!""You mean that you won't?""I'm afraid so," he responded gently."You won't help me at all?""Not that way, Bab. It's a question I wouldn't help any woman decide. What's more, I'd notmarry a woman who wouldn't or who couldn't decide it for herself. If you love David Lloyd, your course lies open. If you don't love him, it lies equally open. You'll have to do the choosing."He released the hand he held in his and began fumbling with the reins looped across his arm. The thoroughbred, busily cropping the roadside grass, lifted its shapely head, its muzzle nuzzling Varick's shoulder. Varick's lips were firmly pressed together. He did not look at Bab. "I must be going; we can't stay on here," he murmured. "Shall I see you again?"With what composure she could command she turned toward him. Inwardly now the turmoil of her emotions rose to concert pitch. Of its fierceness, however, evidently he saw nothing. Bab's eyes again had in them that look of hardness that had been there at first. "Good-by," she said methodically. She did not bother to say whether they should meet or not. She felt within her shame a fierce self-condemnation. The fact she did not blink—she had flung herself at Varick's head, and Varick virtually had refused her! She had cheapenedherself! With a fierce struggle to hold back the flood of tears, the hurt that flung its signals in her eyes, she gathered up the reins, then spoke to the waiting cob. The cart rolled swiftly up the road. Speeding along, it turned a bend in the wood's tunneled greenery. Behind it in the road the thoroughbred and its rider were left standing.But had Bab looked back before it was too late she would have seen something that perhaps would have stilled the tempest of resentment, of bitter hurt, that raged within her. Varick still stood there in the road, the reins dangling from his hand, looking after her. Then, when he could no longer see the slim figure perched swaying in the high cart, his eyes dropped, and he stood on, his shoulders drooping, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Forgotten, the thoroughbred once more fell to cropping the grass."Poor little girl!" whispered Varick. "My poor, poor little Bab!"It was long after six when the cob, its flanks white with lather, came stepping swiftly up the drive tothe portico at Byewolde. A groom from the stable was waiting. He gave one look at the horse, then glanced sideways at his mistress. Ordinarily she was not one to push an animal to its limit. But Bab gave no heed. Her bedroom was where she longed to be. Above all she wished to get there before any of the household should see her. The fates willed otherwise, it seemed."Begging pardon, please," said Crabbe as he opened the door for her; "Mrs. Lloyd will be in your sitting-room. She'll wish to see you."Bab's heart clanged with sudden apprehension."Mrs. Lloyd?""Yes, miss; she's been waiting above an hour now. She said you were please to go to her immediately."Bab slowly made her way up the stairs. It was the engagement, of course, that had brought Mrs. Lloyd hurrying to Byewolde. She had heard the announcement that afternoon. Bab opened the sitting-room door and stepped inside. Not above five minutes later the door again opened and Mrs. Lloyd emerged. She came quietly, discreetly, as if not to disturb others in that household. Herpale, usually expressionless face was lighted now with an ironic smile. She had just seen Bab. And, from A to izzard, she had divulged to her the story of Mr. Mapleson's forgery.XXIIDinner at Byewolde always was at eight; and downstairs in the big hall the corner clock sonorously boomed that hour. There followed a knock at the sitting-room door; and as she heard it Bab stirred restlessly. Listening, she held her breath. It was only Hibberd, however."Dinner is served, please. Thank you."Bab made no reply. Waiting until she heard the manservant's footfalls retreat along the hall, she again returned to her hurried preparations. Mrs. Lloyd's interview had been brief—hurried, in fact. Her father and Miss Elvira were driving, she knew; but at any moment they might return. Consequently time was precious.Once Bab had grasped all that her aunt's disclosures conveyed, Mrs. Lloyd's other remarks fell on her ears unheeded. Dazed, she sat staring in front of her. She awoke finally to the fact that Mrs. Lloyd was still addressing her."Under the circumstances," David's mother wassaying, "we cannot sanction, of course, any further intimacy with our son." They had never sanctioned it, Bab told herself bitterly. "Do you understand?" continued Mrs. Lloyd; and at the same time she laid her hand on Bab's arm.Bab shrank as if an iron had seared her."Don't touch me!" she whispered.It was more than physical aversion that Mrs. Lloyd had instilled in Bab. She wondered how she could ever have planned so blandly to marry David in spite of his parents. Now, of course, it was quite out of the question. That Bab, as a Beeston and an heiress, should defy them was one thing; but it was quite another that Bab, the boarding-house waif, should attempt such a thing. Her end achieved, Mrs. Lloyd had not lingered. She departed conscious she had done her duty.Bab, still half-dazed, sat on where her aunt had left her. She had no tears. The relief they would have afforded she was denied. Presently, however, the fire raging within her soul seemed to rouse her to a feverish animation. She felt she must do something! Below, under the portico, a grinding of wheels along the gravel of the driveway warnedher that Beeston and Miss Elvira had returned. A glance at the mantel told her she had a little more than an hour to herself. Before dinner they would nap, then dress. She had until eight to make her preparations. After that there would be inquiries. She must hurry!There was David, too. She had not seen him since early in the day; and he might come in at any moment. The thought of him was a swift reminder of something else.Her fingers clumsy, she began fumbling at the bosom of her dress. David that morning had begged her to slip the ring, his diamond, on her finger. But Bab had shaken her head. There had been reasons in her mind even then why she had not cared to wear it before the people about her. Now, with fingers that were bungling in their haste, she dragged open the clasp of the chain. The gem, like a drop of dew, rested in her hand; but without a look at it she dropped it on a near-by table. There it lay, blazing star-like as the light fell upon it. What to do with it she would decide later. Meanwhile she hurried.She was engrossed in her preparations when afootfall sounded suddenly in the hall. It was her maid, Mawson. As a precaution Bab had locked both the bedroom door and the door of the sitting-room adjoining. Having knocked, and Bab making no response, Mawson tried first one door, then the other. Her breath held, Bab stood in the middle of the room waiting. Mawson, she hoped, would depart. After a moment, however, the woman again tapped on the door. It was the hour when, every evening, she was required to help dress her young mistress for dinner."Half-past seven, please!" she called apologetically. It was evident that she thought Bab asleep.Bab went to the door. She did not open it, for she did not wish Mawson to see within."I won't need you, Mawson," she directed.The maid still remained."Shan't I lay out your things, miss?""Thank you, no," Bab returned.Mawson went away after that; but her footfalls were slow and lagging, as though she were uncertain what to do. She was probably puzzling over the two locked doors. Bab, her ear to the doorpanel, waited until she had made sure of the woman's departure.A glance at the clock caused her to start with apprehension. Half-past seven! Only half an hour was left her. If she hurried, however, in that half-hour she might accomplish much. With feverish animation she darted through the doorway that led to the sitting-room. There, standing on a chair, was a black leather traveling bag. With this she returned to the bedroom. Every drawer of her dressing table had been pulled out. Scattered on the bed was a haphazard assortment of the things she had selected from the dressing table's contents.Bab was going away. In a few minutes now she would have turned her back on that house for good. Her dream, like the thin veiling of a cloud, had dissipated, vanishing into the thinness of the air! As her fingers picked swiftly among the things spread out before her, Bab glanced again at the clock. Twenty minutes now! In twenty minutes everything would be ended.To leave this place at once had been her first impulse the instant she had come to her wits again after Mrs. Lloyd's departure. She did not quibble.She had perhaps backed and filled, been uncertain and weak over the other problems that had confronted her; in this, though, she had clearly seen the way. Now that she knew the truth about herself, there was no question in her mind as to what she should do. She had loved her new home. She had loved, too, the life, the surroundings that went with it. But, much as it allured her, she meant to pay for it no such price as would now be necessary. Mrs. Lloyd had not deceived her. Bab knew she need only appeal to David to remain there, fixed indefinitely among those surroundings. But she wanted the real thing, or else nothing. Her one thought now was to get away. She had not begun yet to think of the future.All at once out in the hall she heard a sound. Bab caught at her breath. Along the corridor, straight toward her door, came the measured slow tread now so familiar to her. There followed a knock on her door. She did not answer. Outside she could hear David as he propped himself on his crutches."Bab," he called. She still did not answer. "Bab!" he called again.In the tense stillness of the room the thick, hurried ticking of the clock upon the mantel beat on her ears like sledge strokes. She did not move. She dared hardly breathe. Beside the door she could hear him as he moved restlessly, one hand on the panels to support him. Then through the woodwork came to her a sigh—a deep and painful inspiration."David," she said. "Oh, don't!"A stifled exclamation came from the hall without. Bab, however, did not open the door."Let me in," pleaded David. His voice, in its thickness, she hardly knew. As he spoke he rattled the doorknob."You can't come in," Bab said wearily. "I can't see you."He was silent for a moment. She could hear him move again, shifting on his crutches."Where have you been, Bab? All the afternoon I've been hunting you. I tried to get to you first."To get to her first? She knew at once what he meant."You've seen your mother then?""Yes, Bab." His voice was toneless, its depth of weariedness abysmal. After another pause, while apparently he waited for her reply, David spoke again: "Bab, it makes no difference to me. The other day when I told you nothing would, I meant it. Open the door, won't you?"As gently as she could Bab answered him:"I can't, David—not now. I'll let you know when I can."Over her shoulder she threw a swift glance at the clock. Ten minutes to eight. At eight Beeston, as was his wont, would come stamping down the stair. It was he whom she dreaded meeting. Now that she realized he knew everything, she dared not face him."You're not coming down then?" David finally asked.Go down to dinner and face again that grim, indomitable figure at the head of the table? Bab quailed at the thought."No. And you must go now, please," she said."Can't I see you just a moment?" he begged."Not tonight," Bab answered. There was a moment's silence, then she heard David heavily andpainfully plod his way along the hall, and the thump! thump! of his crutches finally died away. When she turned from the door Bab's eyes were filled with tears. Even David had left her now.Five minutes more! At half-past eight, only a short half-hour now, the train for the city would leave Eastbourne, and after that there would be no train until well along toward midnight. The station was a mile away. She remembered, too, she would have her bag to carry. She must hurry.She had no plans further than that she would go to New York. Mrs. Tilney's, however, was not her destination. She could never return to the boarding house so long as Varick was there.To him she had so far hardly given a thought, but now she wondered vaguely whether he had known of the fraud all along. Probably he had. The significance of this, however, she did not debate. To her dazed mind it seemed long ages since she had met him in the wood, and she herself must have grown years older and wiser since then. All at once she was overwhelmed by a terrible loneliness. If she only had someone to whom she could appeal! If even Mr. Mapy were only with her!At first Bab had thought that she never again would care to see the little man, that the bitter memory of what his act had cost her would remain between them always. Now she no longer felt that way. Her mind in its loneliness dwelt on the fact of how Mr. Mapy had loved her. It was this love after all that had led him to attempt that ridiculous fraud. And at the thought of the sorrowful, solitary little man, a sudden longing filled her to see him again. She would go to him, and perhaps in some new place they might begin life over again happily.A startled exclamation here escaped Bab. A glance at the clock had shown her it wanted only a minute or two of eight. Spurred now to a new activity, she began tumbling into the bag the last of the things she had laid out on the bed. She could take little with her, of course; she saw that. The door of the closet near-by stood open and showed long rows of dresses—all the daintiest, the most costly. There were on the floor of the closet, too, double rows of little boots and shoes, and in the highboy against the wall were gloves, silk stockings, ribbons, scarfs. She must leave all these behind her. Only the smallest, the most personal, of belongingsshe was taking along. She did not own the others. They had been given to Barbara Beeston, the heiress—not to Bab, the boarding-house waif. With a wistful, brave little smile she was bending over to sort out a few handkerchiefs to take with her when out from among them fell a small morocco case. It was Beeston's pearl! The gem lay in its velvet bed gleaming up at her like a conjuring eye. In its exquisite beauty it seemed to symbolize all the refinement of that life of wealth and splendor she was now renouncing. For the first time she really grasped what she was giving up.Just then the mantle clock struck eight. As the chime's silvery notes cried the hour a step on the stair again startled Bab. She paused, once more breathless. It was only Hibberd, however."Dinner is served, please. Thank you," said the servant.Bab did not answer. Presently, the man's footfalls having died away, she turned back again to her packing. Nothing of all these things round her was hers. She could not lay claim even to the clothes she stood in. What she took, therefore, must be such things as afterward she would be ableto replace. She had a grim satisfaction in this. A minute or so later Bab stealthily unlocked the bedroom door and stepped out into the hall.The house was silent. The Beestons, brother and sister, either had not yet come down or were already in the dining-room. It seemed to Bab she heard remotely in that stillness a sustained murmur of voices. It was as if somewhere behind the closed doors of that house someone spoke, his speech broken and disjointed. But the important thing for the moment was that the way was clear. One last swift look Bab threw about her; then, her hand on the rail, she darted swiftly, silently, down the stairway. A moment later she had almost reached the door."Where are you going?" asked a voice.It was Beeston. He had been sitting there all the time on watch. As Bab, a gasp escaping her, shrank back guiltily, the man's gnarled hands tightened themselves on the arms of the chair in which he sat, and he lurched heavily to his feet. She had never seen his face so menacing. His brows twitched as he gleamed at her from under them, and she saw his jaws work dryly together. His voice had notraised itself when he spoke, but low, restrained, it rang like a trumpet."Going, were you—running away! Is that it?" A mirthless laugh, a sneer, left him. "Well, you're not going!"His stick thumping the hardwood floor like a pavior's maul, he hobbled swiftly toward the door. Then, when he had interposed himself between it and Bab, he halted. His face, she saw, had no kindliness for her, but in it, instead, was a look of fierce determination—the will of a remorseless, masterful man."I've heard what happened this evening," he snarled as Bab stared at him in silence. "I learned it a while ago. The business got away from me. That fellow Lloyd, my son-in-law, I warned long ago not to interfere with you; but I didn't think my daughter would dare oppose me. Never mind about that! What do I care who you are? You could be a drab out of the gutter for all I'm concerned. There's only one person in the world I care about—that's David! What he wants I want. That's what I'm here for; that's what my money's for! Listen, my girl; David wants you! D'ye hear me?It's you he wants and you he's going to have! You're going to marry him—do you understand?"He had drawn close to her, his murky eyes staring into the depths of hers, and Bab felt herself grow cold. But she did not give in. Now that she had made up her mind, in her resolution she might indeed have been a Beeston."No, I can't do that," she said.Beeston threw her a thunderous look."What's that you say?""I said I couldn't marry him."Again the fire flamed in his eyes."We'll see about that—can't, eh? Who says you can't?""I shall never marry him," she said doggedly. "Never!"She saw then, as in a dream, the man's huge face draw near to hers, and his eyes, fastened on hers, narrowed each to a pinpoint of light, like sparks glowing among the dead gray embers of a hearth."Oh, that's it, is it?" he sneered, mocking her. "You're not going to marry him, eh? Do you think I'd have kept you here, a fraud like you, if I hadn't meant you should? I knew what you were long ago. I knew, too, that David loved you. That's why I didn't turn you into the street. Now listen! You know the man that did this forgery—that fellow Mapleson. He's been like a father to you, hasn't he?"i301"'It's you he wants and you he's going to have!'"]"Yes, he's been a father to me," Bab answered. "Why do you wish to know?""You think a heap of him, too, I shouldn't wonder?" Beeston continued, ignoring her question. "Come, speak up now; isn't that so?" As Bab nodded her assent a gleam of satisfaction leaped again into the old man's eyes."All right!" he growled. "That's what I wanted to know!" He bent nearer, his expression grim but triumphant. "You take your choice now, young woman! Marry David, or if you don't I'll put that fellow Mapleson in jail! Now make up your mind, my girl. I'll give you five minutes to decide."

XXIt was a week after this that one afternoon Crabbe brought up to the pretty chintz-hung bedroom, now Bab's, the card of a visitor who was waiting in a pony cart outside. Bab, as she read the name, exclaimed with pleasure."Linda Blair!""And begging pardon, please," added Crabbe, "the young lady asks particular if you'll see her."Bab directed him to ask Miss Blair upstairs at once. The Beestons by now were settled for the summer at Byewolde. Beeston himself, entirely recovered from the illness that earlier in the year had threatened to lay him low, every day was to be seen walking or driving about the place. Bab was his constant companion. After his queer behavior the evening of the dance Beeston had resumed toward her his former air of gruff indulgence. To all appearances he might have been the most doting of grandfathers, Bab the most beloved of grandchildren. Miss Elvira, too, was as natural. Allthat one could descry in the least unusual about her was a smile, grim and covert, that off and on lighted her craggy features.The week had been a full one for Bab. The engagement David had not yet revealed, but had it been openly known the countryside could not have done more in the way of making Bab's days at Byewolde memorable. Here in the country she had been accepted, been taken for herself, far more than had been the case in the city. One reason for this was that in town the people were engrossed with their own affairs; there time sped too swiftly for them to give much thought to a newcomer. At Eastbourne, however, where the pace was less swift, the various households more closely associated, more of an opportunity was afforded to make Bab feel she was really welcome.She was left little time to herself. This was as she wished it; for all the new life, new scenes, new activities, thoroughly entertained her. Life in town, brilliant as it had been, had not appealed to her as this did. The reason, perhaps, was that in New York her surroundings had been too new to seem real. She had been a little staggered by herfirst acquaintance with luxury. The money everything cost had especially bewildered her. Now, however, she had begun to grow accustomed to it all. Money and the luxury it brings had become a commonplace. Already she had begun to lean upon it as a necessity. The animation of her new life, too, had become a second nature. She was rarely unoccupied. Every night she dined out; mornings and afternoons she either rode or drove with her new friends, now not so new either; or, alone with David, the two rambled in his roadster up and down the many unfrequented byroads of the island. Polo practice had begun at the country club; occasionally there was a drag hunt too; and at these events, where the neighborhood turned out in force, David seemed anxious to have her seen."You don't mind being dragged round like this, do you?" David asked one day. "I want you to meet everyone, you know."Bab didn't mind in the least. Now that she had got over her first feeling of strangeness there was nothing she liked more. However, in all this new life, among all her new friends, there was one person who from the first had filled her with a subtlefeeling of disquiet. And this person was Linda Blair. Was Linda her friend? Bab wished she knew. She liked the girl; more than that, she admired her. Linda, besides, had been a playmate of David's since childhood. But of late, it seemed to Bab, she had begun to notice about Linda an air of chilly, growing reserve. There was in her expression, too, a veiled disapproval. Bab wondered what she had done to offend her. She was still debating the question when Crabbe ushered in the caller."How do you do, Bab?" said Linda, and with a quick smile Bab put out her hand."How nice of you to come!" she returned. Determined not to be stiff, or show that she had noticed Linda's air of reserve, Bab tried to make her welcome very real, and she succeeded in this. But Linda's call she soon saw was not merely social. The girl crossed the room hesitantly, a slender, quiet creature, more womanly than girlish; and, having taken the chair by the window that Bab indicated, she sat waiting for Crabbe to withdraw. Obviously there was some special reason for her visit."You'll have tea, won't you?" asked Bab."Thanks, no," murmured Linda; "I can stay only a minute. I must be going on directly."Bab dismissed the butler, and with a growing interest seated herself in a chair opposite her visitor. There was a formality about Miss Blair's manner that did not escape her. Though pleasant enough, she had something in her manner that held Bab effectually at a distance.The conversation at the outset was aimless. To Linda manifestly it was an effort, and at times she came perilously near to rambling. There was to be a luncheon at the country club the week following, and she talked of that. Then, apropos of nothing, she remarked on a picture show she had seen in town, veering from that to a projected run of the drag hounds the following Saturday, the last meet of the season. Bab, in the pauses, led on the talk as best she could. But it was a difficult matter. Suddenly, in the midst of a sentence—something or other about a race meet the month following at the country club—Linda broke off with awkward abruptness. A faint frown of irritation swept across her brows."Let's be frank," she said bluntly; "I didn't comehere for this. I've something I'd like to ask you." Her dark eyes on the girl opposite her, for a moment she paused. "Bab," she then asked quietly, "what are you doing to David?"Blunt as the question was, and disconcerting, Bab already had guessed this was the purpose that had brought Linda to see her. She saw now, too, that it must have been her affair with David that had caused Linda's chilly reserve. Linda must have guessed what was happening. The color rushed into her face, which only added to her anger, for she resented showing her feelings."What do you mean?" she asked coldly."Don't be angry," Linda begged; "I don't mean to offend you. David, you know, has been my friend, my playmate, all my life. It's not just you that I question; I would have asked any girl. Don't you understand? David's a man, of course; but then, too, David's different. I can't stand by and see him hurt. Think how much he's had to bear already."Bab looked at her in undisguised amazement."Hurt?" she repeated. "Why should you think I would hurt him?"Linda smiled at her gently."You know perfectly, Bab.""I do not," Bab returned crisply; "I know what you suggest, of course—that I am—well, leading him on, to put it vulgarly. Isn't that what you mean by hurting him?""Precisely!""And you really think I am doing that?""No; I only asked whether you are."Bab with an effort got rid of the note of irritation in her tone. If she must fence she would at least fence with art. So she returned Linda's quiet smile."You've known David, as you say, all your life. Why, then, did you come to me? Why didn't you ask him?"A quick change swept into the other's expressive eyes, and Bab beheld it with surprise. It seemed to Bab almost as if she winced."Stop and think! You don't for a moment believe I'd let him know, do you? I at least don't mean to hurt him!"Bab waited until she had finished."Yes," she said, "but that doesn't prevent yourhurting me. You still suggest that I am amusing myself at his expense!"Linda shook her head."No; I merely beg you not to! That's why I came here to see you.""I dare say," said Bab quietly; "but there's one thing you overlook. You seem to forget, Linda, that what in another girl might seem significant, on my part would be harmless. Have you thought of that?""Harmless?" interrogated Linda."Exactly," smiled Bab. "David, you remember, is my cousin."It was a clincher. Bab, as she delivered the thrust, rather complimented herself on her cleverness. Somehow, though, the riposte fell short of its expected result. Linda's expression did not alter. Concern was still deeply written in her eyes. Her mouth quivered, setting itself as if again she had winced."David doesn't think so," she said.The retort fairly took Bab's breath away. It was as Linda said. David indeed did not think so; and there dawned on Bab then what she had been guiltyof in hiding the truth. David she was to marry, yet virtually she had denied it. What was more, in her denial she had displayed an attitude of defiance that might easily be construed as shame. Again she colored, irritation uppermost in her feelings. She was incensed as much at herself as at Linda. She was angered, besides, that she had agreed to conceal her engagement. Why had she done it? But what annoyed her most was her own clumsiness in handling the present situation."David," said Linda slowly, "thinks you love him."Bab had been seated in a low chair, her head negligently thrown back and her fingers laced together in her lap. Now she got suddenly to her feet."I don't see any reason why we should go on like this. I know David loves me, Linda, and I'm going to marry him."For a brief moment Linda stared at her with every indication of amazement and incredulity. "You marry David!" she gasped. But when Bab assured her this was so, Linda looked neither relieved nor gratified. "Marry David?" she again repeated; and then in her eyes once more rose thatvague cloud, a shadow of inward trouble. "Don't think me rude, Bab," said Linda hesitantly, "but will you tell me why you are going to marry him?""Why?" echoed Bab. Her discomfort, her righteous indignation perhaps at this point got the better of her. Linda, had she been David's own sister, could not have been more insistent. A sister, indeed, would have thought twice before she'd have ventured to go so far."Look here, Linda," said Bab, her voice matching in tone the angry glint in her eye; "I've been frank with you; now you be frank with me. Why do you wish to know all this? Is it because you'd like to marry David yourself?"The shot went straight to its mark. Bab saw her visitor catch swiftly at her breath."I—marry David?" In Linda's air, however, was pain, not discomfiture. The shadow in her eyes darkened perceptibly. "You don't understand, Bab; David and I were brought up together. We've been playmates since I was a baby. If he were my own kin, my own brother, I could not love him more. But that doesn't mean I could marry him. I don't love him that way."The words, each freighted with significance, thundered their accusation in Bab's startled mind. Linda did not love him that way! Bab, as she sat staring at the speaker, recalled her own reflections in the matter. She, too, had loved David as if bound to him by some tie of blood. She, too, had felt for him that same companionship. Beyond that, though, how else had she felt for him? How else had she loved the man she was to marry? She was still staring at her visitor, the question in her mind still unanswered, when Linda suddenly spoke."Why are you marrying him, Bab? Don't you know?"Bab found her tongue then."Because I—I——" She did not finish the sentence, but began another instead. "Why shouldn't I marry him?" she demanded, her voice strong with indignation. "Why shouldn't I marry David? I know he loves me; isn't that enough? I know he isn't marrying me for my money; he's marrying me for myself. That's why I'm marrying David."Linda still was steadily eyeing her."And is that really the reason?""It's one reason," returned Bab.Again Linda studied her with curious intentness."Bab," she said finally, her tone as grave as her air, "if there were someone else you loved, really loved, and you could assure yourself he was not marrying you for your money, then would you still marry David?"Bab's breath in her amazement came swiftly."Someone else?" she repeated. Then she demanded: "Why do you ask?"Linda quietly arose, as she did so picking up the driving gloves she had laid on a table near her. She began now deliberately to put them on. Changing the topic abruptly and ignoring Bab's question, she drifted toward the door. In the hall downstairs she turned with a smile and held out her hand."Bayard Varick will be at Eastbourne tomorrow, Bab. He's coming to us for the week-end."

It was a week after this that one afternoon Crabbe brought up to the pretty chintz-hung bedroom, now Bab's, the card of a visitor who was waiting in a pony cart outside. Bab, as she read the name, exclaimed with pleasure.

"Linda Blair!"

"And begging pardon, please," added Crabbe, "the young lady asks particular if you'll see her."

Bab directed him to ask Miss Blair upstairs at once. The Beestons by now were settled for the summer at Byewolde. Beeston himself, entirely recovered from the illness that earlier in the year had threatened to lay him low, every day was to be seen walking or driving about the place. Bab was his constant companion. After his queer behavior the evening of the dance Beeston had resumed toward her his former air of gruff indulgence. To all appearances he might have been the most doting of grandfathers, Bab the most beloved of grandchildren. Miss Elvira, too, was as natural. Allthat one could descry in the least unusual about her was a smile, grim and covert, that off and on lighted her craggy features.

The week had been a full one for Bab. The engagement David had not yet revealed, but had it been openly known the countryside could not have done more in the way of making Bab's days at Byewolde memorable. Here in the country she had been accepted, been taken for herself, far more than had been the case in the city. One reason for this was that in town the people were engrossed with their own affairs; there time sped too swiftly for them to give much thought to a newcomer. At Eastbourne, however, where the pace was less swift, the various households more closely associated, more of an opportunity was afforded to make Bab feel she was really welcome.

She was left little time to herself. This was as she wished it; for all the new life, new scenes, new activities, thoroughly entertained her. Life in town, brilliant as it had been, had not appealed to her as this did. The reason, perhaps, was that in New York her surroundings had been too new to seem real. She had been a little staggered by herfirst acquaintance with luxury. The money everything cost had especially bewildered her. Now, however, she had begun to grow accustomed to it all. Money and the luxury it brings had become a commonplace. Already she had begun to lean upon it as a necessity. The animation of her new life, too, had become a second nature. She was rarely unoccupied. Every night she dined out; mornings and afternoons she either rode or drove with her new friends, now not so new either; or, alone with David, the two rambled in his roadster up and down the many unfrequented byroads of the island. Polo practice had begun at the country club; occasionally there was a drag hunt too; and at these events, where the neighborhood turned out in force, David seemed anxious to have her seen.

"You don't mind being dragged round like this, do you?" David asked one day. "I want you to meet everyone, you know."

Bab didn't mind in the least. Now that she had got over her first feeling of strangeness there was nothing she liked more. However, in all this new life, among all her new friends, there was one person who from the first had filled her with a subtlefeeling of disquiet. And this person was Linda Blair. Was Linda her friend? Bab wished she knew. She liked the girl; more than that, she admired her. Linda, besides, had been a playmate of David's since childhood. But of late, it seemed to Bab, she had begun to notice about Linda an air of chilly, growing reserve. There was in her expression, too, a veiled disapproval. Bab wondered what she had done to offend her. She was still debating the question when Crabbe ushered in the caller.

"How do you do, Bab?" said Linda, and with a quick smile Bab put out her hand.

"How nice of you to come!" she returned. Determined not to be stiff, or show that she had noticed Linda's air of reserve, Bab tried to make her welcome very real, and she succeeded in this. But Linda's call she soon saw was not merely social. The girl crossed the room hesitantly, a slender, quiet creature, more womanly than girlish; and, having taken the chair by the window that Bab indicated, she sat waiting for Crabbe to withdraw. Obviously there was some special reason for her visit.

"You'll have tea, won't you?" asked Bab.

"Thanks, no," murmured Linda; "I can stay only a minute. I must be going on directly."

Bab dismissed the butler, and with a growing interest seated herself in a chair opposite her visitor. There was a formality about Miss Blair's manner that did not escape her. Though pleasant enough, she had something in her manner that held Bab effectually at a distance.

The conversation at the outset was aimless. To Linda manifestly it was an effort, and at times she came perilously near to rambling. There was to be a luncheon at the country club the week following, and she talked of that. Then, apropos of nothing, she remarked on a picture show she had seen in town, veering from that to a projected run of the drag hounds the following Saturday, the last meet of the season. Bab, in the pauses, led on the talk as best she could. But it was a difficult matter. Suddenly, in the midst of a sentence—something or other about a race meet the month following at the country club—Linda broke off with awkward abruptness. A faint frown of irritation swept across her brows.

"Let's be frank," she said bluntly; "I didn't comehere for this. I've something I'd like to ask you." Her dark eyes on the girl opposite her, for a moment she paused. "Bab," she then asked quietly, "what are you doing to David?"

Blunt as the question was, and disconcerting, Bab already had guessed this was the purpose that had brought Linda to see her. She saw now, too, that it must have been her affair with David that had caused Linda's chilly reserve. Linda must have guessed what was happening. The color rushed into her face, which only added to her anger, for she resented showing her feelings.

"What do you mean?" she asked coldly.

"Don't be angry," Linda begged; "I don't mean to offend you. David, you know, has been my friend, my playmate, all my life. It's not just you that I question; I would have asked any girl. Don't you understand? David's a man, of course; but then, too, David's different. I can't stand by and see him hurt. Think how much he's had to bear already."

Bab looked at her in undisguised amazement.

"Hurt?" she repeated. "Why should you think I would hurt him?"

Linda smiled at her gently.

"You know perfectly, Bab."

"I do not," Bab returned crisply; "I know what you suggest, of course—that I am—well, leading him on, to put it vulgarly. Isn't that what you mean by hurting him?"

"Precisely!"

"And you really think I am doing that?"

"No; I only asked whether you are."

Bab with an effort got rid of the note of irritation in her tone. If she must fence she would at least fence with art. So she returned Linda's quiet smile.

"You've known David, as you say, all your life. Why, then, did you come to me? Why didn't you ask him?"

A quick change swept into the other's expressive eyes, and Bab beheld it with surprise. It seemed to Bab almost as if she winced.

"Stop and think! You don't for a moment believe I'd let him know, do you? I at least don't mean to hurt him!"

Bab waited until she had finished.

"Yes," she said, "but that doesn't prevent yourhurting me. You still suggest that I am amusing myself at his expense!"

Linda shook her head.

"No; I merely beg you not to! That's why I came here to see you."

"I dare say," said Bab quietly; "but there's one thing you overlook. You seem to forget, Linda, that what in another girl might seem significant, on my part would be harmless. Have you thought of that?"

"Harmless?" interrogated Linda.

"Exactly," smiled Bab. "David, you remember, is my cousin."

It was a clincher. Bab, as she delivered the thrust, rather complimented herself on her cleverness. Somehow, though, the riposte fell short of its expected result. Linda's expression did not alter. Concern was still deeply written in her eyes. Her mouth quivered, setting itself as if again she had winced.

"David doesn't think so," she said.

The retort fairly took Bab's breath away. It was as Linda said. David indeed did not think so; and there dawned on Bab then what she had been guiltyof in hiding the truth. David she was to marry, yet virtually she had denied it. What was more, in her denial she had displayed an attitude of defiance that might easily be construed as shame. Again she colored, irritation uppermost in her feelings. She was incensed as much at herself as at Linda. She was angered, besides, that she had agreed to conceal her engagement. Why had she done it? But what annoyed her most was her own clumsiness in handling the present situation.

"David," said Linda slowly, "thinks you love him."

Bab had been seated in a low chair, her head negligently thrown back and her fingers laced together in her lap. Now she got suddenly to her feet.

"I don't see any reason why we should go on like this. I know David loves me, Linda, and I'm going to marry him."

For a brief moment Linda stared at her with every indication of amazement and incredulity. "You marry David!" she gasped. But when Bab assured her this was so, Linda looked neither relieved nor gratified. "Marry David?" she again repeated; and then in her eyes once more rose thatvague cloud, a shadow of inward trouble. "Don't think me rude, Bab," said Linda hesitantly, "but will you tell me why you are going to marry him?"

"Why?" echoed Bab. Her discomfort, her righteous indignation perhaps at this point got the better of her. Linda, had she been David's own sister, could not have been more insistent. A sister, indeed, would have thought twice before she'd have ventured to go so far.

"Look here, Linda," said Bab, her voice matching in tone the angry glint in her eye; "I've been frank with you; now you be frank with me. Why do you wish to know all this? Is it because you'd like to marry David yourself?"

The shot went straight to its mark. Bab saw her visitor catch swiftly at her breath.

"I—marry David?" In Linda's air, however, was pain, not discomfiture. The shadow in her eyes darkened perceptibly. "You don't understand, Bab; David and I were brought up together. We've been playmates since I was a baby. If he were my own kin, my own brother, I could not love him more. But that doesn't mean I could marry him. I don't love him that way."

The words, each freighted with significance, thundered their accusation in Bab's startled mind. Linda did not love him that way! Bab, as she sat staring at the speaker, recalled her own reflections in the matter. She, too, had loved David as if bound to him by some tie of blood. She, too, had felt for him that same companionship. Beyond that, though, how else had she felt for him? How else had she loved the man she was to marry? She was still staring at her visitor, the question in her mind still unanswered, when Linda suddenly spoke.

"Why are you marrying him, Bab? Don't you know?"

Bab found her tongue then.

"Because I—I——" She did not finish the sentence, but began another instead. "Why shouldn't I marry him?" she demanded, her voice strong with indignation. "Why shouldn't I marry David? I know he loves me; isn't that enough? I know he isn't marrying me for my money; he's marrying me for myself. That's why I'm marrying David."

Linda still was steadily eyeing her.

"And is that really the reason?"

"It's one reason," returned Bab.

Again Linda studied her with curious intentness.

"Bab," she said finally, her tone as grave as her air, "if there were someone else you loved, really loved, and you could assure yourself he was not marrying you for your money, then would you still marry David?"

Bab's breath in her amazement came swiftly.

"Someone else?" she repeated. Then she demanded: "Why do you ask?"

Linda quietly arose, as she did so picking up the driving gloves she had laid on a table near her. She began now deliberately to put them on. Changing the topic abruptly and ignoring Bab's question, she drifted toward the door. In the hall downstairs she turned with a smile and held out her hand.

"Bayard Varick will be at Eastbourne tomorrow, Bab. He's coming to us for the week-end."

XXILinda had said she did not love David that way! Bab's mind still clung to that speech, wrestling with it dully. Five o'clock had struck from the spire of Eastbourne church as the pony cart, with a smart cob clinking in the shafts, drifted along a shady byway in the Beeston woods. They were the same woods in which Bab had spent that first morning at Byewolde with David, but she was alone now. There was not even a groom beside her on the seat of the Hempstead cart in which she was jogging along.She had wanted to be alone. Ever since that moment when Linda had uttered those memorable words Bab had felt she must get off by herself and think things over. Then, too, Linda had said Varick was to visit Eastbourne. He was to spend the week-end at the Blairs' place near by. As the clock in the church tower struck, Bab mechanically counted the strokes. Five! He must be there now!In view of Bab's firm resolve to marry David,her reflections concerning Varick seemed rather disconcerting. Varick, she'd told herself, had gone out of her life. She was done with him. But Bab somehow had not foreseen that Varick, like a ghost, would not down. She had not reflected that his life and hers must of a necessity cross continually. Left to herself, to the resolve she had made, she could have married David with perhaps no more than a qualm or so. She loved him, she knew. She might not love him, perhaps, as a wife should love her husband, but then what matter was that? Round her in the life she now was leading, countless women were married with much less right. They did not love at all. It was for convenience they married—for place, for power. Rarely, it seemed to her, did they marry just for love. And the marriages, after all, did not turn out so badly. Some of the women—quite a few, in fact—even learned to love their men. Of course a good many didn't, but then why dwell on that? She already loved David as a companion; in time she might learn to love him in another way. Probably she would.The cob, hacking along at his own free will, nowall at once pricked up his ears. Over the treetops from the near-by side of the wood the breeze brought a quick burst of sound. Bab heard it dully. It was a hunt day at the country club, the season's last, and the hounds were out. Clucking aimlessly to the cob, she again plunged into her reverie.The scene with Linda the day before had helped to clarify Bab's impressions. She began now to see things in their actual light. She saw even the truth concerning herself and Varick. What if he had sought to marry her once he learned she had money? He loved her, didn't he? She knew he did. She knew, too, he would marry no one he did not love, no matter how much money they had. Then in the midst of this reflection, her mind in its ferment going over and over it again, a new realization came to her. Of her love for Varick there could be no question! She knew how she loved him, this man who had gone out of her life. She loved him as she wished to God she could love David, the man she was going to marry. But she had given her promise to David, and she could not break it.The cob again pricked up his ears. Bab aimlesslyfingering the lines, felt him bear all at once against the bit. Just then in an open field beside the wood the hounds swept past in full cry."Steady, boy!"Full of life, vigorously skittish, the cob had begun to prance. Bab pulled it down to its four feet presently, and sat waiting for the chase to go on. Hard after the racing hounds came the vanguard of the field, the riders who followed, three men and a girl out far ahead. The men were strangers, but the girl Bab knew. She was the daughter of one of the Beestons' neighbors, an elfish, harum-scarum creature, whose chief delight seemed to be a reckless disregard of life and limb—her own, however. Perched on a big, raw-boned roan thoroughbred she took the in-and-out, the jump into the road and over into the field beyond with the aplomb of a veteran. The next instant she was gone, flashing out of view.Bab was still gazing after her when there was a crash and crackling of brush close beside her. A fourth rider, topping the roadside fence, flew into view. His horse instantly she recognized. It was one from the Blairs' stable, a thoroughbred that Baboften had seen Linda riding. The next instant she had recognized its rider. It was Varick!Bab's heart beneath her trim linen jacket gave a thump, and she sat staring at him in wonder. The color, a moment later, poured into her face. Already, before he saw her, Varick's mount had bucked into the road and, crossing it at a stride, was gathering himself to take the fence beyond. Varick pulled him up sharply. The horse, his eyes rolling with excitement, fought at the bit, and for a moment his rider had difficulty in getting him in hand. Then, quivering, the animal trotted toward the cart."Hello!" Varick hailed cheerfully. "I didn't expect to see you." Sliding from the saddle, he slipped the reins over his arm. "Nice to see you, Bab," and he held out a hand to her.She had never before seen him in riding things. The things themselves she had seen, and she remembered them, the boots especially. Slim and slender, neat on their wooden trees, they'd stood in a corner of his room at Mrs. Tilney's. What visions they'd created. And now in the boots, in his smart, well-cut riding clothes, how well he looked, how pleasant,smiling and well-bred! In contrast Bab felt herselfgaucheand uncomfortable. It did not make it any easier for her that he seemed in no way awkward or constrained. He stood beside the cart looking up at her, and with an effort Bab murmured a response to his greeting. As she finished, her air confused, he smiled faintly."I've been hearing about you," he announced.Hearing about her? Bab sharply pulled herself together. In Varick's tone was something more than the mere raillery the speech conveyed. She thought, too, she knew where it was he had been hearing of her."I dare say," returned Bab; "you're at Linda Blair's."The subtle innuendo of this he did not seem to heed. A quick light came into his eyes."Linda told you I was coming, did she?" He smiled brightly. "Linda's a dear, isn't she?" he exclaimed.Bab long had heard of Varick's friendliness with Linda. His admiration of her, too, was evident. It was not from Linda, though, that Varick had heard of Bab. Of that his next speech assured her."Where's the happy man, Bab? I heard the news at the country club, you know. Why are you alone?"The happy man—and Varick had heard the news! Speech for the moment left her. That day her engagement had been announced. David, deciding to wait no more, had given the news to his intimates. Tomorrow every newspaper in the city would have it. What should she say to Varick now in answer to his question? Was she to tell him that the happy man she had left at home? Was she to tell him, too, why she had left him there? The fact that David was announcing the engagement had caused her to seek solitude. She wanted time. She needed the opportunity to face herself before she must face Beeston, Miss Elvira and, last of all, David's parents. Yes, but what about Varick? She had not dreamed of facing him!The night of her dance—that moment when first she had told him of the promise she'd given David—the revelation had not been nearly so trying. Emotion had dulled her. She had been excited, overwrought, the pang of it had been blunted. She had found no time to ruminate, to taste its bitterness.Now, however, in the cold, everyday light of the fact as it was, as it ever would be, there was no soothing opiate of emotion to dull the pain. She had indeed not counted on facing him. She would almost rather have faced the truth itself. Varick all the time was looking at her."Bab," he asked, "tell me just one thing. Are you happy?"Her eyes drifted hazily away. Happy? The word somehow seemed an affront. Why was it that happiness had always to be dragged in? Linda had asked would David be happy? Here Varick was asking would Bab herself be happy? Why must everything so depend on her? She wished devoutly she could for once be freed of the responsibility. If only things could be made happy for her!"Won't you answer?" asked Varick.She had sat looking at him in silence. Of the storm, the ferment that was seething in her mind, Varick had no hint. Her face was set. Outwardly, with her lips tightly compressed, her mouth rigid, she looked reserved, affronted, if anything, at what he asked. The question was not one that could lightly be asked of any woman, least of all a womanwho had just promised herself. Varick saw her eyes, as he thought, harden. Then she looked away. He did not know, however, that why she did so was that of a sudden the eyes had clouded mistily. Their mistiness she would not have him see. But he was not dissuaded. As he gazed at her Varick's own face grew set."Look at me, Bab! Be angry if you like, but you've got to answer. If you're happy, say so, and I won't bother you. But I want you to tell me."Reaching up, he took in his the small gloved hand that clung to the rail of the Hempstead cart. She made no effort to release it. They were quite alone. The hunt, swinging westward over the open fields, had carried with it the first of the field; the others, with the onlookers following in traps and motors, had streamed away down a near-by road. Round these two was the wood, its leafy walls a haven of cloistered, quiet privacy."I want you to tell me, little girl," said Varick. His hold on the hand under his tightened reassuringly. "I just want to be sure you're glad, contented. If you are, then it's all right; I won't say a word. If you're not glad, though, not happy, thenI want to help you. Don't you understand, Bab?" She still did not reply, but sat perched on the cart's high pad staring straight ahead of her. The effort to answer him was beyond her. Then for the first time he seemed to see her misery."Why, Bab!" he cried.His air changed instantly, awakening to quick activity. He bade her sit as she was and, flinging the reins of his mount over a fence post handy, he took the cob by the bit. The cart he turned in the road. This accomplished, he returned to the tethered thoroughbred and, gathering the reins in hand, climbed into the saddle."Drive along, Bab," he directed; "I'll follow."There was another byroad, a turn-off from the main drive, a short way beyond; and there, as if of his own accord, the cob swung on. Tunneled in that aisle of greenery Varick and Bab were alone, alone indeed. Reaching over as his mount cantered on beside the cob, he touched the hand that held the reins."Pull up, Bab," he said, adding then: "You must not feel like that. Now tell me what's wrong." Her mouth was quivering. She had been sittingthere all the time with the tears brimming in her eyes. "You know," Varick added quietly, "I want to help you."That fixed it."Oh, Bayard, Bayard!" cried Bab brokenly. He did not speak, but he again slipped from the saddle and, with the reins looped over his arm, came and stood beside the wheel."How can I tell you!" she went on. "The other night, the time when you danced with me, I knew what I ought to do, but I couldn't. It was all so strange, all so sudden. I'd been blinded by it. All the new life I'd lived, that and all it had brought me, seemed to have blurred everything. It wasn't just what they'd said to me that made me turn from you; all along, from the very first, from the time at Mrs. Tilney's, I'd felt you didn't think I was as good as you were. When the money came I thought it would change things. Then the more I thought the more I knew it wouldn't. I was still as I'd always been; if you married me I'd still be the same. And then my grandfather told me it would be like you to want to marry me now, to want me for my—my money. And David didn't. Hewanted me for myself, just that. I could be sure of that; he'd have his own money, you know. He'll be as rich as I'll be some day.""As rich as you'll be, Bab?""Yes," Bab answered—"when grandfather dies, that is."Varick dared not meet her eyes. In his heart he could have wept for her. Presently his glance returned to her."Then it wasn't just David's money, David's position, that tempted you? That's not why you took him, is it?""David's money—tempt me?" Her astonishment was genuine. "Why should it?"Varick did not pursue the question. Again he laid his hand on hers, and again she let it lie there."Some day you'll understand," he said quietly; "you'll see, too, that neither has your money made any difference with me."Bab's voice at this broke again She knew now, she protested, that it hadn't. It made Varick smile whimsically to hear her."And you don't think me dreadful?" she pleaded."Dreadful?" He laughed. "Of course not!""You said you'd help me. Bayard, what am I to do?"Varick was still smiling. In the smile, though, was now nothing whimsical."I don't know, Bab.""You don't know!" Varick slowly shook his head. "Do you mean that?" asked Bab, her eyes wondering.He stirred uncomfortably."I'm afraid so. Don't you see you're the one who must help yourself there? I can't decide that for you; it wouldn't be right."Her wonder grew. What wouldn't be right? Hadn't he voluntarily offered to help her?"You don't understand," said Varick; "I'll help you any way I can, Bab, but not that way. I can't tell you whether you must marry David. Your conscience will have to decide that. It's hardly right for me even to comfort you. Can't you see it?""Don't you love me?" she asked slowly. "Is that it?"Varick smiled anew."You know I do," he answered. "But if you'dthink, you'd see, too, I have no right even to tell you that."The fine ethics of this, however, Bab was in no mood to comprehend. Love is woman's one fierce, common right. She wages it as man wages war—instinctively. And as in war, in love—as she often sees it—all things are fair."It's just this, Bab," said Varick; "you've given your word to David Lloyd. You're his woman, the one he's going to marry. With that promise still standing, you're as much his as if you were his wife. I can't tell you anything, Bab; I mustn't even tell you that I love you." Trying to keep his feelings from showing in his face, he fastened his eyes on hers. "I was a friend of his once. I can't stab him in the back like that. If you love him, Bab, marry him. If you don't, then decide whatever way you can. But don't ask me to decide for you. I can't! I never can!""You mean that you won't?""I'm afraid so," he responded gently."You won't help me at all?""Not that way, Bab. It's a question I wouldn't help any woman decide. What's more, I'd notmarry a woman who wouldn't or who couldn't decide it for herself. If you love David Lloyd, your course lies open. If you don't love him, it lies equally open. You'll have to do the choosing."He released the hand he held in his and began fumbling with the reins looped across his arm. The thoroughbred, busily cropping the roadside grass, lifted its shapely head, its muzzle nuzzling Varick's shoulder. Varick's lips were firmly pressed together. He did not look at Bab. "I must be going; we can't stay on here," he murmured. "Shall I see you again?"With what composure she could command she turned toward him. Inwardly now the turmoil of her emotions rose to concert pitch. Of its fierceness, however, evidently he saw nothing. Bab's eyes again had in them that look of hardness that had been there at first. "Good-by," she said methodically. She did not bother to say whether they should meet or not. She felt within her shame a fierce self-condemnation. The fact she did not blink—she had flung herself at Varick's head, and Varick virtually had refused her! She had cheapenedherself! With a fierce struggle to hold back the flood of tears, the hurt that flung its signals in her eyes, she gathered up the reins, then spoke to the waiting cob. The cart rolled swiftly up the road. Speeding along, it turned a bend in the wood's tunneled greenery. Behind it in the road the thoroughbred and its rider were left standing.But had Bab looked back before it was too late she would have seen something that perhaps would have stilled the tempest of resentment, of bitter hurt, that raged within her. Varick still stood there in the road, the reins dangling from his hand, looking after her. Then, when he could no longer see the slim figure perched swaying in the high cart, his eyes dropped, and he stood on, his shoulders drooping, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Forgotten, the thoroughbred once more fell to cropping the grass."Poor little girl!" whispered Varick. "My poor, poor little Bab!"It was long after six when the cob, its flanks white with lather, came stepping swiftly up the drive tothe portico at Byewolde. A groom from the stable was waiting. He gave one look at the horse, then glanced sideways at his mistress. Ordinarily she was not one to push an animal to its limit. But Bab gave no heed. Her bedroom was where she longed to be. Above all she wished to get there before any of the household should see her. The fates willed otherwise, it seemed."Begging pardon, please," said Crabbe as he opened the door for her; "Mrs. Lloyd will be in your sitting-room. She'll wish to see you."Bab's heart clanged with sudden apprehension."Mrs. Lloyd?""Yes, miss; she's been waiting above an hour now. She said you were please to go to her immediately."Bab slowly made her way up the stairs. It was the engagement, of course, that had brought Mrs. Lloyd hurrying to Byewolde. She had heard the announcement that afternoon. Bab opened the sitting-room door and stepped inside. Not above five minutes later the door again opened and Mrs. Lloyd emerged. She came quietly, discreetly, as if not to disturb others in that household. Herpale, usually expressionless face was lighted now with an ironic smile. She had just seen Bab. And, from A to izzard, she had divulged to her the story of Mr. Mapleson's forgery.

Linda had said she did not love David that way! Bab's mind still clung to that speech, wrestling with it dully. Five o'clock had struck from the spire of Eastbourne church as the pony cart, with a smart cob clinking in the shafts, drifted along a shady byway in the Beeston woods. They were the same woods in which Bab had spent that first morning at Byewolde with David, but she was alone now. There was not even a groom beside her on the seat of the Hempstead cart in which she was jogging along.

She had wanted to be alone. Ever since that moment when Linda had uttered those memorable words Bab had felt she must get off by herself and think things over. Then, too, Linda had said Varick was to visit Eastbourne. He was to spend the week-end at the Blairs' place near by. As the clock in the church tower struck, Bab mechanically counted the strokes. Five! He must be there now!

In view of Bab's firm resolve to marry David,her reflections concerning Varick seemed rather disconcerting. Varick, she'd told herself, had gone out of her life. She was done with him. But Bab somehow had not foreseen that Varick, like a ghost, would not down. She had not reflected that his life and hers must of a necessity cross continually. Left to herself, to the resolve she had made, she could have married David with perhaps no more than a qualm or so. She loved him, she knew. She might not love him, perhaps, as a wife should love her husband, but then what matter was that? Round her in the life she now was leading, countless women were married with much less right. They did not love at all. It was for convenience they married—for place, for power. Rarely, it seemed to her, did they marry just for love. And the marriages, after all, did not turn out so badly. Some of the women—quite a few, in fact—even learned to love their men. Of course a good many didn't, but then why dwell on that? She already loved David as a companion; in time she might learn to love him in another way. Probably she would.

The cob, hacking along at his own free will, nowall at once pricked up his ears. Over the treetops from the near-by side of the wood the breeze brought a quick burst of sound. Bab heard it dully. It was a hunt day at the country club, the season's last, and the hounds were out. Clucking aimlessly to the cob, she again plunged into her reverie.

The scene with Linda the day before had helped to clarify Bab's impressions. She began now to see things in their actual light. She saw even the truth concerning herself and Varick. What if he had sought to marry her once he learned she had money? He loved her, didn't he? She knew he did. She knew, too, he would marry no one he did not love, no matter how much money they had. Then in the midst of this reflection, her mind in its ferment going over and over it again, a new realization came to her. Of her love for Varick there could be no question! She knew how she loved him, this man who had gone out of her life. She loved him as she wished to God she could love David, the man she was going to marry. But she had given her promise to David, and she could not break it.

The cob again pricked up his ears. Bab aimlesslyfingering the lines, felt him bear all at once against the bit. Just then in an open field beside the wood the hounds swept past in full cry.

"Steady, boy!"

Full of life, vigorously skittish, the cob had begun to prance. Bab pulled it down to its four feet presently, and sat waiting for the chase to go on. Hard after the racing hounds came the vanguard of the field, the riders who followed, three men and a girl out far ahead. The men were strangers, but the girl Bab knew. She was the daughter of one of the Beestons' neighbors, an elfish, harum-scarum creature, whose chief delight seemed to be a reckless disregard of life and limb—her own, however. Perched on a big, raw-boned roan thoroughbred she took the in-and-out, the jump into the road and over into the field beyond with the aplomb of a veteran. The next instant she was gone, flashing out of view.

Bab was still gazing after her when there was a crash and crackling of brush close beside her. A fourth rider, topping the roadside fence, flew into view. His horse instantly she recognized. It was one from the Blairs' stable, a thoroughbred that Baboften had seen Linda riding. The next instant she had recognized its rider. It was Varick!

Bab's heart beneath her trim linen jacket gave a thump, and she sat staring at him in wonder. The color, a moment later, poured into her face. Already, before he saw her, Varick's mount had bucked into the road and, crossing it at a stride, was gathering himself to take the fence beyond. Varick pulled him up sharply. The horse, his eyes rolling with excitement, fought at the bit, and for a moment his rider had difficulty in getting him in hand. Then, quivering, the animal trotted toward the cart.

"Hello!" Varick hailed cheerfully. "I didn't expect to see you." Sliding from the saddle, he slipped the reins over his arm. "Nice to see you, Bab," and he held out a hand to her.

She had never before seen him in riding things. The things themselves she had seen, and she remembered them, the boots especially. Slim and slender, neat on their wooden trees, they'd stood in a corner of his room at Mrs. Tilney's. What visions they'd created. And now in the boots, in his smart, well-cut riding clothes, how well he looked, how pleasant,smiling and well-bred! In contrast Bab felt herselfgaucheand uncomfortable. It did not make it any easier for her that he seemed in no way awkward or constrained. He stood beside the cart looking up at her, and with an effort Bab murmured a response to his greeting. As she finished, her air confused, he smiled faintly.

"I've been hearing about you," he announced.

Hearing about her? Bab sharply pulled herself together. In Varick's tone was something more than the mere raillery the speech conveyed. She thought, too, she knew where it was he had been hearing of her.

"I dare say," returned Bab; "you're at Linda Blair's."

The subtle innuendo of this he did not seem to heed. A quick light came into his eyes.

"Linda told you I was coming, did she?" He smiled brightly. "Linda's a dear, isn't she?" he exclaimed.

Bab long had heard of Varick's friendliness with Linda. His admiration of her, too, was evident. It was not from Linda, though, that Varick had heard of Bab. Of that his next speech assured her.

"Where's the happy man, Bab? I heard the news at the country club, you know. Why are you alone?"

The happy man—and Varick had heard the news! Speech for the moment left her. That day her engagement had been announced. David, deciding to wait no more, had given the news to his intimates. Tomorrow every newspaper in the city would have it. What should she say to Varick now in answer to his question? Was she to tell him that the happy man she had left at home? Was she to tell him, too, why she had left him there? The fact that David was announcing the engagement had caused her to seek solitude. She wanted time. She needed the opportunity to face herself before she must face Beeston, Miss Elvira and, last of all, David's parents. Yes, but what about Varick? She had not dreamed of facing him!

The night of her dance—that moment when first she had told him of the promise she'd given David—the revelation had not been nearly so trying. Emotion had dulled her. She had been excited, overwrought, the pang of it had been blunted. She had found no time to ruminate, to taste its bitterness.Now, however, in the cold, everyday light of the fact as it was, as it ever would be, there was no soothing opiate of emotion to dull the pain. She had indeed not counted on facing him. She would almost rather have faced the truth itself. Varick all the time was looking at her.

"Bab," he asked, "tell me just one thing. Are you happy?"

Her eyes drifted hazily away. Happy? The word somehow seemed an affront. Why was it that happiness had always to be dragged in? Linda had asked would David be happy? Here Varick was asking would Bab herself be happy? Why must everything so depend on her? She wished devoutly she could for once be freed of the responsibility. If only things could be made happy for her!

"Won't you answer?" asked Varick.

She had sat looking at him in silence. Of the storm, the ferment that was seething in her mind, Varick had no hint. Her face was set. Outwardly, with her lips tightly compressed, her mouth rigid, she looked reserved, affronted, if anything, at what he asked. The question was not one that could lightly be asked of any woman, least of all a womanwho had just promised herself. Varick saw her eyes, as he thought, harden. Then she looked away. He did not know, however, that why she did so was that of a sudden the eyes had clouded mistily. Their mistiness she would not have him see. But he was not dissuaded. As he gazed at her Varick's own face grew set.

"Look at me, Bab! Be angry if you like, but you've got to answer. If you're happy, say so, and I won't bother you. But I want you to tell me."

Reaching up, he took in his the small gloved hand that clung to the rail of the Hempstead cart. She made no effort to release it. They were quite alone. The hunt, swinging westward over the open fields, had carried with it the first of the field; the others, with the onlookers following in traps and motors, had streamed away down a near-by road. Round these two was the wood, its leafy walls a haven of cloistered, quiet privacy.

"I want you to tell me, little girl," said Varick. His hold on the hand under his tightened reassuringly. "I just want to be sure you're glad, contented. If you are, then it's all right; I won't say a word. If you're not glad, though, not happy, thenI want to help you. Don't you understand, Bab?" She still did not reply, but sat perched on the cart's high pad staring straight ahead of her. The effort to answer him was beyond her. Then for the first time he seemed to see her misery.

"Why, Bab!" he cried.

His air changed instantly, awakening to quick activity. He bade her sit as she was and, flinging the reins of his mount over a fence post handy, he took the cob by the bit. The cart he turned in the road. This accomplished, he returned to the tethered thoroughbred and, gathering the reins in hand, climbed into the saddle.

"Drive along, Bab," he directed; "I'll follow."

There was another byroad, a turn-off from the main drive, a short way beyond; and there, as if of his own accord, the cob swung on. Tunneled in that aisle of greenery Varick and Bab were alone, alone indeed. Reaching over as his mount cantered on beside the cob, he touched the hand that held the reins.

"Pull up, Bab," he said, adding then: "You must not feel like that. Now tell me what's wrong." Her mouth was quivering. She had been sittingthere all the time with the tears brimming in her eyes. "You know," Varick added quietly, "I want to help you."

That fixed it.

"Oh, Bayard, Bayard!" cried Bab brokenly. He did not speak, but he again slipped from the saddle and, with the reins looped over his arm, came and stood beside the wheel.

"How can I tell you!" she went on. "The other night, the time when you danced with me, I knew what I ought to do, but I couldn't. It was all so strange, all so sudden. I'd been blinded by it. All the new life I'd lived, that and all it had brought me, seemed to have blurred everything. It wasn't just what they'd said to me that made me turn from you; all along, from the very first, from the time at Mrs. Tilney's, I'd felt you didn't think I was as good as you were. When the money came I thought it would change things. Then the more I thought the more I knew it wouldn't. I was still as I'd always been; if you married me I'd still be the same. And then my grandfather told me it would be like you to want to marry me now, to want me for my—my money. And David didn't. Hewanted me for myself, just that. I could be sure of that; he'd have his own money, you know. He'll be as rich as I'll be some day."

"As rich as you'll be, Bab?"

"Yes," Bab answered—"when grandfather dies, that is."

Varick dared not meet her eyes. In his heart he could have wept for her. Presently his glance returned to her.

"Then it wasn't just David's money, David's position, that tempted you? That's not why you took him, is it?"

"David's money—tempt me?" Her astonishment was genuine. "Why should it?"

Varick did not pursue the question. Again he laid his hand on hers, and again she let it lie there.

"Some day you'll understand," he said quietly; "you'll see, too, that neither has your money made any difference with me."

Bab's voice at this broke again She knew now, she protested, that it hadn't. It made Varick smile whimsically to hear her.

"And you don't think me dreadful?" she pleaded.

"Dreadful?" He laughed. "Of course not!"

"You said you'd help me. Bayard, what am I to do?"

Varick was still smiling. In the smile, though, was now nothing whimsical.

"I don't know, Bab."

"You don't know!" Varick slowly shook his head. "Do you mean that?" asked Bab, her eyes wondering.

He stirred uncomfortably.

"I'm afraid so. Don't you see you're the one who must help yourself there? I can't decide that for you; it wouldn't be right."

Her wonder grew. What wouldn't be right? Hadn't he voluntarily offered to help her?

"You don't understand," said Varick; "I'll help you any way I can, Bab, but not that way. I can't tell you whether you must marry David. Your conscience will have to decide that. It's hardly right for me even to comfort you. Can't you see it?"

"Don't you love me?" she asked slowly. "Is that it?"

Varick smiled anew.

"You know I do," he answered. "But if you'dthink, you'd see, too, I have no right even to tell you that."

The fine ethics of this, however, Bab was in no mood to comprehend. Love is woman's one fierce, common right. She wages it as man wages war—instinctively. And as in war, in love—as she often sees it—all things are fair.

"It's just this, Bab," said Varick; "you've given your word to David Lloyd. You're his woman, the one he's going to marry. With that promise still standing, you're as much his as if you were his wife. I can't tell you anything, Bab; I mustn't even tell you that I love you." Trying to keep his feelings from showing in his face, he fastened his eyes on hers. "I was a friend of his once. I can't stab him in the back like that. If you love him, Bab, marry him. If you don't, then decide whatever way you can. But don't ask me to decide for you. I can't! I never can!"

"You mean that you won't?"

"I'm afraid so," he responded gently.

"You won't help me at all?"

"Not that way, Bab. It's a question I wouldn't help any woman decide. What's more, I'd notmarry a woman who wouldn't or who couldn't decide it for herself. If you love David Lloyd, your course lies open. If you don't love him, it lies equally open. You'll have to do the choosing."

He released the hand he held in his and began fumbling with the reins looped across his arm. The thoroughbred, busily cropping the roadside grass, lifted its shapely head, its muzzle nuzzling Varick's shoulder. Varick's lips were firmly pressed together. He did not look at Bab. "I must be going; we can't stay on here," he murmured. "Shall I see you again?"

With what composure she could command she turned toward him. Inwardly now the turmoil of her emotions rose to concert pitch. Of its fierceness, however, evidently he saw nothing. Bab's eyes again had in them that look of hardness that had been there at first. "Good-by," she said methodically. She did not bother to say whether they should meet or not. She felt within her shame a fierce self-condemnation. The fact she did not blink—she had flung herself at Varick's head, and Varick virtually had refused her! She had cheapenedherself! With a fierce struggle to hold back the flood of tears, the hurt that flung its signals in her eyes, she gathered up the reins, then spoke to the waiting cob. The cart rolled swiftly up the road. Speeding along, it turned a bend in the wood's tunneled greenery. Behind it in the road the thoroughbred and its rider were left standing.

But had Bab looked back before it was too late she would have seen something that perhaps would have stilled the tempest of resentment, of bitter hurt, that raged within her. Varick still stood there in the road, the reins dangling from his hand, looking after her. Then, when he could no longer see the slim figure perched swaying in the high cart, his eyes dropped, and he stood on, his shoulders drooping, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Forgotten, the thoroughbred once more fell to cropping the grass.

"Poor little girl!" whispered Varick. "My poor, poor little Bab!"

It was long after six when the cob, its flanks white with lather, came stepping swiftly up the drive tothe portico at Byewolde. A groom from the stable was waiting. He gave one look at the horse, then glanced sideways at his mistress. Ordinarily she was not one to push an animal to its limit. But Bab gave no heed. Her bedroom was where she longed to be. Above all she wished to get there before any of the household should see her. The fates willed otherwise, it seemed.

"Begging pardon, please," said Crabbe as he opened the door for her; "Mrs. Lloyd will be in your sitting-room. She'll wish to see you."

Bab's heart clanged with sudden apprehension.

"Mrs. Lloyd?"

"Yes, miss; she's been waiting above an hour now. She said you were please to go to her immediately."

Bab slowly made her way up the stairs. It was the engagement, of course, that had brought Mrs. Lloyd hurrying to Byewolde. She had heard the announcement that afternoon. Bab opened the sitting-room door and stepped inside. Not above five minutes later the door again opened and Mrs. Lloyd emerged. She came quietly, discreetly, as if not to disturb others in that household. Herpale, usually expressionless face was lighted now with an ironic smile. She had just seen Bab. And, from A to izzard, she had divulged to her the story of Mr. Mapleson's forgery.

XXIIDinner at Byewolde always was at eight; and downstairs in the big hall the corner clock sonorously boomed that hour. There followed a knock at the sitting-room door; and as she heard it Bab stirred restlessly. Listening, she held her breath. It was only Hibberd, however."Dinner is served, please. Thank you."Bab made no reply. Waiting until she heard the manservant's footfalls retreat along the hall, she again returned to her hurried preparations. Mrs. Lloyd's interview had been brief—hurried, in fact. Her father and Miss Elvira were driving, she knew; but at any moment they might return. Consequently time was precious.Once Bab had grasped all that her aunt's disclosures conveyed, Mrs. Lloyd's other remarks fell on her ears unheeded. Dazed, she sat staring in front of her. She awoke finally to the fact that Mrs. Lloyd was still addressing her."Under the circumstances," David's mother wassaying, "we cannot sanction, of course, any further intimacy with our son." They had never sanctioned it, Bab told herself bitterly. "Do you understand?" continued Mrs. Lloyd; and at the same time she laid her hand on Bab's arm.Bab shrank as if an iron had seared her."Don't touch me!" she whispered.It was more than physical aversion that Mrs. Lloyd had instilled in Bab. She wondered how she could ever have planned so blandly to marry David in spite of his parents. Now, of course, it was quite out of the question. That Bab, as a Beeston and an heiress, should defy them was one thing; but it was quite another that Bab, the boarding-house waif, should attempt such a thing. Her end achieved, Mrs. Lloyd had not lingered. She departed conscious she had done her duty.Bab, still half-dazed, sat on where her aunt had left her. She had no tears. The relief they would have afforded she was denied. Presently, however, the fire raging within her soul seemed to rouse her to a feverish animation. She felt she must do something! Below, under the portico, a grinding of wheels along the gravel of the driveway warnedher that Beeston and Miss Elvira had returned. A glance at the mantel told her she had a little more than an hour to herself. Before dinner they would nap, then dress. She had until eight to make her preparations. After that there would be inquiries. She must hurry!There was David, too. She had not seen him since early in the day; and he might come in at any moment. The thought of him was a swift reminder of something else.Her fingers clumsy, she began fumbling at the bosom of her dress. David that morning had begged her to slip the ring, his diamond, on her finger. But Bab had shaken her head. There had been reasons in her mind even then why she had not cared to wear it before the people about her. Now, with fingers that were bungling in their haste, she dragged open the clasp of the chain. The gem, like a drop of dew, rested in her hand; but without a look at it she dropped it on a near-by table. There it lay, blazing star-like as the light fell upon it. What to do with it she would decide later. Meanwhile she hurried.She was engrossed in her preparations when afootfall sounded suddenly in the hall. It was her maid, Mawson. As a precaution Bab had locked both the bedroom door and the door of the sitting-room adjoining. Having knocked, and Bab making no response, Mawson tried first one door, then the other. Her breath held, Bab stood in the middle of the room waiting. Mawson, she hoped, would depart. After a moment, however, the woman again tapped on the door. It was the hour when, every evening, she was required to help dress her young mistress for dinner."Half-past seven, please!" she called apologetically. It was evident that she thought Bab asleep.Bab went to the door. She did not open it, for she did not wish Mawson to see within."I won't need you, Mawson," she directed.The maid still remained."Shan't I lay out your things, miss?""Thank you, no," Bab returned.Mawson went away after that; but her footfalls were slow and lagging, as though she were uncertain what to do. She was probably puzzling over the two locked doors. Bab, her ear to the doorpanel, waited until she had made sure of the woman's departure.A glance at the clock caused her to start with apprehension. Half-past seven! Only half an hour was left her. If she hurried, however, in that half-hour she might accomplish much. With feverish animation she darted through the doorway that led to the sitting-room. There, standing on a chair, was a black leather traveling bag. With this she returned to the bedroom. Every drawer of her dressing table had been pulled out. Scattered on the bed was a haphazard assortment of the things she had selected from the dressing table's contents.Bab was going away. In a few minutes now she would have turned her back on that house for good. Her dream, like the thin veiling of a cloud, had dissipated, vanishing into the thinness of the air! As her fingers picked swiftly among the things spread out before her, Bab glanced again at the clock. Twenty minutes now! In twenty minutes everything would be ended.To leave this place at once had been her first impulse the instant she had come to her wits again after Mrs. Lloyd's departure. She did not quibble.She had perhaps backed and filled, been uncertain and weak over the other problems that had confronted her; in this, though, she had clearly seen the way. Now that she knew the truth about herself, there was no question in her mind as to what she should do. She had loved her new home. She had loved, too, the life, the surroundings that went with it. But, much as it allured her, she meant to pay for it no such price as would now be necessary. Mrs. Lloyd had not deceived her. Bab knew she need only appeal to David to remain there, fixed indefinitely among those surroundings. But she wanted the real thing, or else nothing. Her one thought now was to get away. She had not begun yet to think of the future.All at once out in the hall she heard a sound. Bab caught at her breath. Along the corridor, straight toward her door, came the measured slow tread now so familiar to her. There followed a knock on her door. She did not answer. Outside she could hear David as he propped himself on his crutches."Bab," he called. She still did not answer. "Bab!" he called again.In the tense stillness of the room the thick, hurried ticking of the clock upon the mantel beat on her ears like sledge strokes. She did not move. She dared hardly breathe. Beside the door she could hear him as he moved restlessly, one hand on the panels to support him. Then through the woodwork came to her a sigh—a deep and painful inspiration."David," she said. "Oh, don't!"A stifled exclamation came from the hall without. Bab, however, did not open the door."Let me in," pleaded David. His voice, in its thickness, she hardly knew. As he spoke he rattled the doorknob."You can't come in," Bab said wearily. "I can't see you."He was silent for a moment. She could hear him move again, shifting on his crutches."Where have you been, Bab? All the afternoon I've been hunting you. I tried to get to you first."To get to her first? She knew at once what he meant."You've seen your mother then?""Yes, Bab." His voice was toneless, its depth of weariedness abysmal. After another pause, while apparently he waited for her reply, David spoke again: "Bab, it makes no difference to me. The other day when I told you nothing would, I meant it. Open the door, won't you?"As gently as she could Bab answered him:"I can't, David—not now. I'll let you know when I can."Over her shoulder she threw a swift glance at the clock. Ten minutes to eight. At eight Beeston, as was his wont, would come stamping down the stair. It was he whom she dreaded meeting. Now that she realized he knew everything, she dared not face him."You're not coming down then?" David finally asked.Go down to dinner and face again that grim, indomitable figure at the head of the table? Bab quailed at the thought."No. And you must go now, please," she said."Can't I see you just a moment?" he begged."Not tonight," Bab answered. There was a moment's silence, then she heard David heavily andpainfully plod his way along the hall, and the thump! thump! of his crutches finally died away. When she turned from the door Bab's eyes were filled with tears. Even David had left her now.Five minutes more! At half-past eight, only a short half-hour now, the train for the city would leave Eastbourne, and after that there would be no train until well along toward midnight. The station was a mile away. She remembered, too, she would have her bag to carry. She must hurry.She had no plans further than that she would go to New York. Mrs. Tilney's, however, was not her destination. She could never return to the boarding house so long as Varick was there.To him she had so far hardly given a thought, but now she wondered vaguely whether he had known of the fraud all along. Probably he had. The significance of this, however, she did not debate. To her dazed mind it seemed long ages since she had met him in the wood, and she herself must have grown years older and wiser since then. All at once she was overwhelmed by a terrible loneliness. If she only had someone to whom she could appeal! If even Mr. Mapy were only with her!At first Bab had thought that she never again would care to see the little man, that the bitter memory of what his act had cost her would remain between them always. Now she no longer felt that way. Her mind in its loneliness dwelt on the fact of how Mr. Mapy had loved her. It was this love after all that had led him to attempt that ridiculous fraud. And at the thought of the sorrowful, solitary little man, a sudden longing filled her to see him again. She would go to him, and perhaps in some new place they might begin life over again happily.A startled exclamation here escaped Bab. A glance at the clock had shown her it wanted only a minute or two of eight. Spurred now to a new activity, she began tumbling into the bag the last of the things she had laid out on the bed. She could take little with her, of course; she saw that. The door of the closet near-by stood open and showed long rows of dresses—all the daintiest, the most costly. There were on the floor of the closet, too, double rows of little boots and shoes, and in the highboy against the wall were gloves, silk stockings, ribbons, scarfs. She must leave all these behind her. Only the smallest, the most personal, of belongingsshe was taking along. She did not own the others. They had been given to Barbara Beeston, the heiress—not to Bab, the boarding-house waif. With a wistful, brave little smile she was bending over to sort out a few handkerchiefs to take with her when out from among them fell a small morocco case. It was Beeston's pearl! The gem lay in its velvet bed gleaming up at her like a conjuring eye. In its exquisite beauty it seemed to symbolize all the refinement of that life of wealth and splendor she was now renouncing. For the first time she really grasped what she was giving up.Just then the mantle clock struck eight. As the chime's silvery notes cried the hour a step on the stair again startled Bab. She paused, once more breathless. It was only Hibberd, however."Dinner is served, please. Thank you," said the servant.Bab did not answer. Presently, the man's footfalls having died away, she turned back again to her packing. Nothing of all these things round her was hers. She could not lay claim even to the clothes she stood in. What she took, therefore, must be such things as afterward she would be ableto replace. She had a grim satisfaction in this. A minute or so later Bab stealthily unlocked the bedroom door and stepped out into the hall.The house was silent. The Beestons, brother and sister, either had not yet come down or were already in the dining-room. It seemed to Bab she heard remotely in that stillness a sustained murmur of voices. It was as if somewhere behind the closed doors of that house someone spoke, his speech broken and disjointed. But the important thing for the moment was that the way was clear. One last swift look Bab threw about her; then, her hand on the rail, she darted swiftly, silently, down the stairway. A moment later she had almost reached the door."Where are you going?" asked a voice.It was Beeston. He had been sitting there all the time on watch. As Bab, a gasp escaping her, shrank back guiltily, the man's gnarled hands tightened themselves on the arms of the chair in which he sat, and he lurched heavily to his feet. She had never seen his face so menacing. His brows twitched as he gleamed at her from under them, and she saw his jaws work dryly together. His voice had notraised itself when he spoke, but low, restrained, it rang like a trumpet."Going, were you—running away! Is that it?" A mirthless laugh, a sneer, left him. "Well, you're not going!"His stick thumping the hardwood floor like a pavior's maul, he hobbled swiftly toward the door. Then, when he had interposed himself between it and Bab, he halted. His face, she saw, had no kindliness for her, but in it, instead, was a look of fierce determination—the will of a remorseless, masterful man."I've heard what happened this evening," he snarled as Bab stared at him in silence. "I learned it a while ago. The business got away from me. That fellow Lloyd, my son-in-law, I warned long ago not to interfere with you; but I didn't think my daughter would dare oppose me. Never mind about that! What do I care who you are? You could be a drab out of the gutter for all I'm concerned. There's only one person in the world I care about—that's David! What he wants I want. That's what I'm here for; that's what my money's for! Listen, my girl; David wants you! D'ye hear me?It's you he wants and you he's going to have! You're going to marry him—do you understand?"He had drawn close to her, his murky eyes staring into the depths of hers, and Bab felt herself grow cold. But she did not give in. Now that she had made up her mind, in her resolution she might indeed have been a Beeston."No, I can't do that," she said.Beeston threw her a thunderous look."What's that you say?""I said I couldn't marry him."Again the fire flamed in his eyes."We'll see about that—can't, eh? Who says you can't?""I shall never marry him," she said doggedly. "Never!"She saw then, as in a dream, the man's huge face draw near to hers, and his eyes, fastened on hers, narrowed each to a pinpoint of light, like sparks glowing among the dead gray embers of a hearth."Oh, that's it, is it?" he sneered, mocking her. "You're not going to marry him, eh? Do you think I'd have kept you here, a fraud like you, if I hadn't meant you should? I knew what you were long ago. I knew, too, that David loved you. That's why I didn't turn you into the street. Now listen! You know the man that did this forgery—that fellow Mapleson. He's been like a father to you, hasn't he?"i301"'It's you he wants and you he's going to have!'"]"Yes, he's been a father to me," Bab answered. "Why do you wish to know?""You think a heap of him, too, I shouldn't wonder?" Beeston continued, ignoring her question. "Come, speak up now; isn't that so?" As Bab nodded her assent a gleam of satisfaction leaped again into the old man's eyes."All right!" he growled. "That's what I wanted to know!" He bent nearer, his expression grim but triumphant. "You take your choice now, young woman! Marry David, or if you don't I'll put that fellow Mapleson in jail! Now make up your mind, my girl. I'll give you five minutes to decide."

Dinner at Byewolde always was at eight; and downstairs in the big hall the corner clock sonorously boomed that hour. There followed a knock at the sitting-room door; and as she heard it Bab stirred restlessly. Listening, she held her breath. It was only Hibberd, however.

"Dinner is served, please. Thank you."

Bab made no reply. Waiting until she heard the manservant's footfalls retreat along the hall, she again returned to her hurried preparations. Mrs. Lloyd's interview had been brief—hurried, in fact. Her father and Miss Elvira were driving, she knew; but at any moment they might return. Consequently time was precious.

Once Bab had grasped all that her aunt's disclosures conveyed, Mrs. Lloyd's other remarks fell on her ears unheeded. Dazed, she sat staring in front of her. She awoke finally to the fact that Mrs. Lloyd was still addressing her.

"Under the circumstances," David's mother wassaying, "we cannot sanction, of course, any further intimacy with our son." They had never sanctioned it, Bab told herself bitterly. "Do you understand?" continued Mrs. Lloyd; and at the same time she laid her hand on Bab's arm.

Bab shrank as if an iron had seared her.

"Don't touch me!" she whispered.

It was more than physical aversion that Mrs. Lloyd had instilled in Bab. She wondered how she could ever have planned so blandly to marry David in spite of his parents. Now, of course, it was quite out of the question. That Bab, as a Beeston and an heiress, should defy them was one thing; but it was quite another that Bab, the boarding-house waif, should attempt such a thing. Her end achieved, Mrs. Lloyd had not lingered. She departed conscious she had done her duty.

Bab, still half-dazed, sat on where her aunt had left her. She had no tears. The relief they would have afforded she was denied. Presently, however, the fire raging within her soul seemed to rouse her to a feverish animation. She felt she must do something! Below, under the portico, a grinding of wheels along the gravel of the driveway warnedher that Beeston and Miss Elvira had returned. A glance at the mantel told her she had a little more than an hour to herself. Before dinner they would nap, then dress. She had until eight to make her preparations. After that there would be inquiries. She must hurry!

There was David, too. She had not seen him since early in the day; and he might come in at any moment. The thought of him was a swift reminder of something else.

Her fingers clumsy, she began fumbling at the bosom of her dress. David that morning had begged her to slip the ring, his diamond, on her finger. But Bab had shaken her head. There had been reasons in her mind even then why she had not cared to wear it before the people about her. Now, with fingers that were bungling in their haste, she dragged open the clasp of the chain. The gem, like a drop of dew, rested in her hand; but without a look at it she dropped it on a near-by table. There it lay, blazing star-like as the light fell upon it. What to do with it she would decide later. Meanwhile she hurried.

She was engrossed in her preparations when afootfall sounded suddenly in the hall. It was her maid, Mawson. As a precaution Bab had locked both the bedroom door and the door of the sitting-room adjoining. Having knocked, and Bab making no response, Mawson tried first one door, then the other. Her breath held, Bab stood in the middle of the room waiting. Mawson, she hoped, would depart. After a moment, however, the woman again tapped on the door. It was the hour when, every evening, she was required to help dress her young mistress for dinner.

"Half-past seven, please!" she called apologetically. It was evident that she thought Bab asleep.

Bab went to the door. She did not open it, for she did not wish Mawson to see within.

"I won't need you, Mawson," she directed.

The maid still remained.

"Shan't I lay out your things, miss?"

"Thank you, no," Bab returned.

Mawson went away after that; but her footfalls were slow and lagging, as though she were uncertain what to do. She was probably puzzling over the two locked doors. Bab, her ear to the doorpanel, waited until she had made sure of the woman's departure.

A glance at the clock caused her to start with apprehension. Half-past seven! Only half an hour was left her. If she hurried, however, in that half-hour she might accomplish much. With feverish animation she darted through the doorway that led to the sitting-room. There, standing on a chair, was a black leather traveling bag. With this she returned to the bedroom. Every drawer of her dressing table had been pulled out. Scattered on the bed was a haphazard assortment of the things she had selected from the dressing table's contents.

Bab was going away. In a few minutes now she would have turned her back on that house for good. Her dream, like the thin veiling of a cloud, had dissipated, vanishing into the thinness of the air! As her fingers picked swiftly among the things spread out before her, Bab glanced again at the clock. Twenty minutes now! In twenty minutes everything would be ended.

To leave this place at once had been her first impulse the instant she had come to her wits again after Mrs. Lloyd's departure. She did not quibble.She had perhaps backed and filled, been uncertain and weak over the other problems that had confronted her; in this, though, she had clearly seen the way. Now that she knew the truth about herself, there was no question in her mind as to what she should do. She had loved her new home. She had loved, too, the life, the surroundings that went with it. But, much as it allured her, she meant to pay for it no such price as would now be necessary. Mrs. Lloyd had not deceived her. Bab knew she need only appeal to David to remain there, fixed indefinitely among those surroundings. But she wanted the real thing, or else nothing. Her one thought now was to get away. She had not begun yet to think of the future.

All at once out in the hall she heard a sound. Bab caught at her breath. Along the corridor, straight toward her door, came the measured slow tread now so familiar to her. There followed a knock on her door. She did not answer. Outside she could hear David as he propped himself on his crutches.

"Bab," he called. She still did not answer. "Bab!" he called again.

In the tense stillness of the room the thick, hurried ticking of the clock upon the mantel beat on her ears like sledge strokes. She did not move. She dared hardly breathe. Beside the door she could hear him as he moved restlessly, one hand on the panels to support him. Then through the woodwork came to her a sigh—a deep and painful inspiration.

"David," she said. "Oh, don't!"

A stifled exclamation came from the hall without. Bab, however, did not open the door.

"Let me in," pleaded David. His voice, in its thickness, she hardly knew. As he spoke he rattled the doorknob.

"You can't come in," Bab said wearily. "I can't see you."

He was silent for a moment. She could hear him move again, shifting on his crutches.

"Where have you been, Bab? All the afternoon I've been hunting you. I tried to get to you first."

To get to her first? She knew at once what he meant.

"You've seen your mother then?"

"Yes, Bab." His voice was toneless, its depth of weariedness abysmal. After another pause, while apparently he waited for her reply, David spoke again: "Bab, it makes no difference to me. The other day when I told you nothing would, I meant it. Open the door, won't you?"

As gently as she could Bab answered him:

"I can't, David—not now. I'll let you know when I can."

Over her shoulder she threw a swift glance at the clock. Ten minutes to eight. At eight Beeston, as was his wont, would come stamping down the stair. It was he whom she dreaded meeting. Now that she realized he knew everything, she dared not face him.

"You're not coming down then?" David finally asked.

Go down to dinner and face again that grim, indomitable figure at the head of the table? Bab quailed at the thought.

"No. And you must go now, please," she said.

"Can't I see you just a moment?" he begged.

"Not tonight," Bab answered. There was a moment's silence, then she heard David heavily andpainfully plod his way along the hall, and the thump! thump! of his crutches finally died away. When she turned from the door Bab's eyes were filled with tears. Even David had left her now.

Five minutes more! At half-past eight, only a short half-hour now, the train for the city would leave Eastbourne, and after that there would be no train until well along toward midnight. The station was a mile away. She remembered, too, she would have her bag to carry. She must hurry.

She had no plans further than that she would go to New York. Mrs. Tilney's, however, was not her destination. She could never return to the boarding house so long as Varick was there.

To him she had so far hardly given a thought, but now she wondered vaguely whether he had known of the fraud all along. Probably he had. The significance of this, however, she did not debate. To her dazed mind it seemed long ages since she had met him in the wood, and she herself must have grown years older and wiser since then. All at once she was overwhelmed by a terrible loneliness. If she only had someone to whom she could appeal! If even Mr. Mapy were only with her!

At first Bab had thought that she never again would care to see the little man, that the bitter memory of what his act had cost her would remain between them always. Now she no longer felt that way. Her mind in its loneliness dwelt on the fact of how Mr. Mapy had loved her. It was this love after all that had led him to attempt that ridiculous fraud. And at the thought of the sorrowful, solitary little man, a sudden longing filled her to see him again. She would go to him, and perhaps in some new place they might begin life over again happily.

A startled exclamation here escaped Bab. A glance at the clock had shown her it wanted only a minute or two of eight. Spurred now to a new activity, she began tumbling into the bag the last of the things she had laid out on the bed. She could take little with her, of course; she saw that. The door of the closet near-by stood open and showed long rows of dresses—all the daintiest, the most costly. There were on the floor of the closet, too, double rows of little boots and shoes, and in the highboy against the wall were gloves, silk stockings, ribbons, scarfs. She must leave all these behind her. Only the smallest, the most personal, of belongingsshe was taking along. She did not own the others. They had been given to Barbara Beeston, the heiress—not to Bab, the boarding-house waif. With a wistful, brave little smile she was bending over to sort out a few handkerchiefs to take with her when out from among them fell a small morocco case. It was Beeston's pearl! The gem lay in its velvet bed gleaming up at her like a conjuring eye. In its exquisite beauty it seemed to symbolize all the refinement of that life of wealth and splendor she was now renouncing. For the first time she really grasped what she was giving up.

Just then the mantle clock struck eight. As the chime's silvery notes cried the hour a step on the stair again startled Bab. She paused, once more breathless. It was only Hibberd, however.

"Dinner is served, please. Thank you," said the servant.

Bab did not answer. Presently, the man's footfalls having died away, she turned back again to her packing. Nothing of all these things round her was hers. She could not lay claim even to the clothes she stood in. What she took, therefore, must be such things as afterward she would be ableto replace. She had a grim satisfaction in this. A minute or so later Bab stealthily unlocked the bedroom door and stepped out into the hall.

The house was silent. The Beestons, brother and sister, either had not yet come down or were already in the dining-room. It seemed to Bab she heard remotely in that stillness a sustained murmur of voices. It was as if somewhere behind the closed doors of that house someone spoke, his speech broken and disjointed. But the important thing for the moment was that the way was clear. One last swift look Bab threw about her; then, her hand on the rail, she darted swiftly, silently, down the stairway. A moment later she had almost reached the door.

"Where are you going?" asked a voice.

It was Beeston. He had been sitting there all the time on watch. As Bab, a gasp escaping her, shrank back guiltily, the man's gnarled hands tightened themselves on the arms of the chair in which he sat, and he lurched heavily to his feet. She had never seen his face so menacing. His brows twitched as he gleamed at her from under them, and she saw his jaws work dryly together. His voice had notraised itself when he spoke, but low, restrained, it rang like a trumpet.

"Going, were you—running away! Is that it?" A mirthless laugh, a sneer, left him. "Well, you're not going!"

His stick thumping the hardwood floor like a pavior's maul, he hobbled swiftly toward the door. Then, when he had interposed himself between it and Bab, he halted. His face, she saw, had no kindliness for her, but in it, instead, was a look of fierce determination—the will of a remorseless, masterful man.

"I've heard what happened this evening," he snarled as Bab stared at him in silence. "I learned it a while ago. The business got away from me. That fellow Lloyd, my son-in-law, I warned long ago not to interfere with you; but I didn't think my daughter would dare oppose me. Never mind about that! What do I care who you are? You could be a drab out of the gutter for all I'm concerned. There's only one person in the world I care about—that's David! What he wants I want. That's what I'm here for; that's what my money's for! Listen, my girl; David wants you! D'ye hear me?It's you he wants and you he's going to have! You're going to marry him—do you understand?"

He had drawn close to her, his murky eyes staring into the depths of hers, and Bab felt herself grow cold. But she did not give in. Now that she had made up her mind, in her resolution she might indeed have been a Beeston.

"No, I can't do that," she said.

Beeston threw her a thunderous look.

"What's that you say?"

"I said I couldn't marry him."

Again the fire flamed in his eyes.

"We'll see about that—can't, eh? Who says you can't?"

"I shall never marry him," she said doggedly. "Never!"

She saw then, as in a dream, the man's huge face draw near to hers, and his eyes, fastened on hers, narrowed each to a pinpoint of light, like sparks glowing among the dead gray embers of a hearth.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" he sneered, mocking her. "You're not going to marry him, eh? Do you think I'd have kept you here, a fraud like you, if I hadn't meant you should? I knew what you were long ago. I knew, too, that David loved you. That's why I didn't turn you into the street. Now listen! You know the man that did this forgery—that fellow Mapleson. He's been like a father to you, hasn't he?"

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"'It's you he wants and you he's going to have!'"]

"'It's you he wants and you he's going to have!'"]

"'It's you he wants and you he's going to have!'"]

"Yes, he's been a father to me," Bab answered. "Why do you wish to know?"

"You think a heap of him, too, I shouldn't wonder?" Beeston continued, ignoring her question. "Come, speak up now; isn't that so?" As Bab nodded her assent a gleam of satisfaction leaped again into the old man's eyes.

"All right!" he growled. "That's what I wanted to know!" He bent nearer, his expression grim but triumphant. "You take your choice now, young woman! Marry David, or if you don't I'll put that fellow Mapleson in jail! Now make up your mind, my girl. I'll give you five minutes to decide."

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