CHAPTER XXXIIITHE BULL-DROPShe went to meet him with the feeling that now—now was her chance. He must not go until she had inquired as to the exact facts, which he seemed to suppose that she knew already.He came to invite herself and Miss Wilson to go down to the docks the following day to inspect one of the great captured enemy ships which was lying there for the inspection of visitors. She accepted the invitation, and they drifted into talk, which grew by degrees more and more absorbing. He told her some of his more poignant experiences at the front, and she gave him a sympathy which he appeared to find most gratifying. Though he never said a word that could be called love-making, she yet felt increasingly that he was wooing her; and the fact that he was doing so with Nin's voice and Nin's smile, and every now and then with Nin's very expression, filled her with sensations that she could not analyse. She was half fascinated, half revolted, and she had a feeling that if it went on—if she should be much in his society—she would succumb to the curious attraction.A dozen times she tried to lead round the talk so that she could touch upon the one subject without too great effort.In vain. As soon as she found herself within measurable distance of the words "your brother," her throat began to swell, her heart quickened its beat. He had risen to take leave before she was aware.... He had gone, and her chance was over for the present.He called the following day, and they motored down to the docks, after which he gave them lunch at the great new Anzac restaurant.It was as he was putting them into the car afterwards, and stood laughing and animated on the kerbstone making his farewells, that her eyes, straying past his in order not to meet their challenge, fell upon a lady whose face seemed familiar to her. The lady in question was young and handsome in a showy way, and as she strolled slowly past Olwen thought her eyes rested upon their party with a look of special interest. The impression was momentary, the stranger had moved on and was lost in the crowd surging thickly on the pavement.As they drove home her mind held the picture of the backward glance and the expression; but sub-consciously, and all mixed up with Wolf's charm and the magnetism of his personality.She felt that the hours she and he had passed together that day had made a great, a real difference.If matters were to advance at this rate, she must face the situation which might ensue. She reached home in restless mood, wondering how to pick up once more the thread of a life which seemed to have broken off short. The war and its resulting activities had filled in at first the blank which lay void after her departure from Guysewyke. Now even that palliative was taken away. It showed itself as the mere stopgap that it had always been. In truth, though peace had returned, life was exciting enough, had she felt that politics and social economy were things that could absorb her. She did not so feel. Hers was, like her father's, a nature which craved love as its starting-point. The fabric of her life must be built on love, so she felt, or go to pieces.The Colonel had taken care not to part without an arrangement for another meeting before long. He was to lunch the following day at Orchard Row, and take the two ladies to see over one of the great new institutions prepared for the reception of those permanently disabled in the war.He came accordingly, and the time passed charmingly. Aunt Maud thought him the most fascinating man she had ever seen. The situation piqued her curiosity. Not a word of confidence had Olwen given her, not a sentence had she ever let fall concerning this man's twin brother with whom she had spent so many hours at the Pele. Miss Wilson's conviction that some reason other than what appeared had all along existed for the girl's sudden departure from her post gained strength every minute.As for Olwen, she felt that she was skating on very thin ice. Easily though Wolf talked, he avoided any mention of his home or his family. He seemed to assume that Olwen knew of his brother's fate, and he did not allude to it. Their talk was always superficial, gliding lightly over a surface beneath which were unknown depths.That day Wolf asked permission to bring his cousin, Lady Caryngston, to call upon Miss Wilson and Miss Innes. The plan was carried out very soon afterwards, and with her ladyship came that Elma Guyse who so strongly resembled her cousin Ninian that it was agony to Olwen to be in the same room with her.Every minute some tone in her voice, some curve of her mouth, some gleam in her mischievous eye, recalled Nin in his most captivating mood. Olwen's emotion increased every moment. She felt that she could no longer endure the strain of going on in her present ignorance. She would ask Wolf all about Ninian, even though in the attempt she found herself compelled to betray her own feeling.Her chance came, for the Colonel did not depart when the other visitors left. Aunt Maud had a committee at half-past five, and so made her escape from the drawing-room, going out of it with the two ladies. Wolf and Olwen found themselves left together; and this was obviously the moment for which she had waited so long. He went to the window, glancing out to see if it rained. Now or never.She moistened her dry lips, and was just opening them to pronounce the fatal words, when the Colonel swung round, saying carelessly:"By the way, I heard from my brother this morning."Silence fell. She hardly breathed for a few moments. Something within her rose up in tumult, and she had to beat it down. For the second time, upon the mention of Nin, she showed Wolf an ashen face."Your ... brother?" she said at last, feeling that at all costs she must not betray the extent of her stupefaction."Yes. I think you said you knew what a horrible fate befell him?"Weakly she shook her head; she could not speak.He seemed surprised. "But I thought, the day we first met, you said you knew——""No, I don't know anything. I beseech you to tell me.""Well, but at least you knew he was a prisoner of war?""Not—even—that.""Yes; he got taken, poor chap, the very first time he went into action—right at the beginning, before we turned them on the Marne. He was badly hit, and they picked him up and took him to Griesslauen, the most remote of all the military camps—a place where unheard-of things went on.... We didn't know for nearly a year whether he was alive or dead. He was reported missing, you know. Rough luck, wasn't it?""Ye-es.Rough luck.... Is he at home now?""Oh, yes; he's been back more than six months now, and his native air has done a good bit for him; but he's very much changed.""Is he—maimed, do you mean—or disfigured?""Oh, no, not as bad as that. He had a horrible suppurating wound in his leg, the result of neglect and semi-starvation; but the Guysewyke air healed that in a couple of months. Of course, things are very depressing for him; in fact, he's just had another bad blow, poor chap, and I'm afraid he's taking it frightfully hard.""Tell me ... if you think you might? I ... want to hear."He came and sat down opposite, fixing his eyes upon her quivering face. She was so rapt that she had ceased to heed what he might be thinking. Ninian was not dead.He was not dead. He lived. She heard, but could not realise; she felt as though a blow had stunned her."I don't know whether I ought to tell you," said Wolf thoughtfully. "Nin might give me socks if he knew. But you seem to take some interest in the poor old chap, after all."She made a sound which she meant for a laugh, but which was merely a sob. "Perhaps I do.""I don't suppose he ever conversed with you on the subject of finance," went on Wolf softly; "but you may perhaps have gathered during your stay with us that he was pretty hard up?"He was narrowly watching her face, but she replied frankly enough:"Of course I knew it. I knew he was fighting as hard as he could so as not to—not to have to sell the Pele.""Oh, you knew that? You knew how set he was upon the old place?""Indeed, yes, I knew.""Well, when the war came there was no way out of it. He was bound to raise such a sum of money as should make my mother independent in case of his death. He went to our cousin, Caryngston, and offered to sell to him, upon conditions.""Conditions?""Yes. Caryngston was to give an undertaking not to sell again, and to allow my mother to remain in possession for the duration of the war.""Then—then it is actually sold?""Yes. At that time Caryngston was fearfully keen, for his son was just engaged to Miss Leverett, daughter of an American millionaire——""Wash-white Slick-Soap," she murmured."Just so. Her father found the purchase money, because he fancied his daughter in a feudal pile; and the deal went through. Since that time, however, the whole situation has changed. Poor Noel went to the front three months later, and was to be married as soon as he got his first leave. Well, he never got any leave. He was shot before he had been out a month. Miss Leverett never became Mrs. Guyse, and the old man wants his money back. Caryngston can't repay him unless he sells the Pele, and he has written to Nin to say that he will be reluctantly compelled to do so.""Oh, what a shame! What an utter shame!" burst forth Miss Innes, springing to her feet in her vehemence."I'm afraid, from what he says, that it has just about broken poor old Nin. The last straw, you know."Olwen sat down again as suddenly as she had uprisen. Her very knees were shaking. Perhaps Wolf saw that she could not speak, for he filled in the pause glibly."I wonder whether, when you were at the Pele, you ever heard the odd story—legend, I should say—of the Bull-drop?"She brought back her mind with an effort. "The Bull-drop?""Yes; the causeway leading to the Pele. There was a tale of a bull having jumped out of the keep through a breach made by the besiegers, and they prophesied that if such a thing ever happened again there would be a fair Guyse, and the family would recover its old importance.""Of course I remember. Why, of course!""Well, a curious thing happened just about the time you left us. Do you remember meeting a messenger-boy on your way to Raefell? As a matter of fact, he had a cablegram for you in his pocket, and he told us where to look for you. We questioned him and found that he had seen you on the road.""I remember well.""Like all boys, he was fascinated by the desire to walk on the parapet of the causeway. It was in a bad state, for the long frost had caked the old snow upon it so thickly that the rains had not removed all of it. He slipped and fell into the ravine.""Was he killed?""Not a bit of it. He fell quite near the farther end, among the underbrush on the slope. However, he broke a rib or two and was pretty bad. But the funny part of the story is, that when we put the chap to bed and sent for the doctor, we discovered that his name was Tommy Bull."As he hoped, this story diverted her attention from the consideration of Ninian's tragedy."Bull? It seems like the fulfilment of the prophecy! Oh, what did Sunia say?""She was perfectly certain that it was, as you say, the fulfilment of prophecy. She was so completely reassured by it that she was able to bear up under the sale of the Pele and the departure of her sahib for the war. She said that things must come right; it was merely a question of waiting. But I think she has lost heart at last. This latest blow is too heavy.""You say—did you tell me—that the tower is actually sold? I mean that Lord Caryngston has actually sold it?""I believe not. He wrote to warn Ninian that it was to be sold, and he mentioned that he had already had an offer of more than he gave. Of course, he is breaking his contract, but he knows Nin has no money to fight him.""No, but Mr. Guyse is in the Pele, and possession is nine points of the law," cried Olwen passionately. "If I were he I would decline to turn out, and surely the Courts would support him if anybody tried to evict him."He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe. Maybe not. I don't believe the conditions made are legally binding. He trusted to Caryngston's honour."She sat, hands locked together, mind so busy that it seemed to whirl."Does Mr. Guyse know that—that you and I have met?" she asked at length."No. I didn't say anything about it. It's a sore subject, you see. He has never got over your turning him down." As the colour flew to her cheeks, he added, "I beg pardon. I had no right to say that.""It is hardly accurate, moreover. Mr. Guyse only offered to marry me in order to satisfy a somewhat fantastic sense of honour. He would have been much surprised had I taken advantage of his proposal."Wolf's most expressive glance was upon her. "I wonder if you expect me to believe that?" he asked mischievously.Olwen drew herself up. "Whether you believe it or not hardly concerns me, Colonel Guyse."He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you are a person of importance now," said he, "and can take your pick of the fortune-hunters. I can tell you one thing, however. You will never find a man among them fit to tie up old Nin's shoe-string. But I had better say 'Good-bye,' before I offend past forgiveness!"He rose and held out his hand. "Then we meet at eleven to-morrow morning?" he said.She let him go, scarcely heeding what she did. The world was upside down, and she wanted time in which to readjust her ideas. When he had left the room, she went towards the door almost as though she were blind, groping for the handle. Just as she emerged upon the landing the parlourmaid came up from the hall, bearing a note upon a salver.It had been delivered by hand, and was marked "Urgent."She carried it up with her to her room, locked herself in, flung down the envelope on her toilet-table and herself upon the bed.Floods of tears came to her relief, and for a while she lay there helpless, overswept by a torrent of feeling, while a host of plans, hopes, wishes, fears, thrills careered madly through her mind.Not until the first bell reminded her that Parkinson would be arriving almost immediately to dress her for dinner did she arise; and going to the glass to survey the ravages of the past hour's emotion, remark the note lying on the jewel tray.It did not look at all important. She expected one of the appeals which reached her with distressing frequency from some impecunious person who had "heard she was celebrated for her kind and feeling heart." The contents were surprising. It was dated from an address at Finchley, and written in a pretty, ladylike hand."DEAR MADAM,—Pardon my troubling you, but as Colonel Guyse seems to be very often at your house, I am writing to inform you of what you may not know—namely, that he is a married man. I saw you talking to him in Regent Street the other day, and I have watched him since. If you need proof, I can show you my marriage lines, but if you show him this letter he won't deny it. We were married in Canada years ago, and I adored him so that I fell in with his idea that to have his marriage with me known would spoil his whole future. Now I feel that I have had enough of it. He has a Colonel's pay, and he ought to acknowledge me, instead of which he says he is going to reduce my allowance. I have come up to London unknown to him, for when he said he was going to cut me short I guessed there was something going on. I feel I must put a spoke in his wheel before it is too late. I have borne a great deal, but if he thinks he is going to deceive a nice young girl like you, who has done good all through the war, he is mistaken. My cousin from Canada was one of the boys you nursed, and I don't forget it. Write to me if you like, but if you are the girl I take you for this letter ought to do the trick.—Yours truly, LILY GUYSE."Lily Guyse! There was but little need to inquire what the lady's maiden name had been. She was Lily Martin, and the face which Olwen had noticed as Wolf took leave of her in Regent Street was the face she had seen between the leaves of a book in the Pele library.Wolf's wife!CHAPTER XXXIVTHE MILE-CASTLE AGAINMessrs. Green, Son & Wilkinson, who had the care of Miss Innes's legal affairs, were much inclined to advise her to think more than twice before purchasing a Border Pele. In like manner they had striven to persuade her not to face the tremendous expenditure of running a private hospital. The result was the same in both cases. Miss Innes, as she gently pointed out, was no longer a child. She was now well on in her twenties, and when she had made up her mind to do a thing she did it. She did not come to them for Advice, but to have her orders carried out.They told her that the land to be sold with the tower was inconsiderable and of poor quality. The Pele itself needed to have a large sum laid out upon it in order to make it fit for residence. The country was exposed, the distance from the railway great, the difficulties of water supply and electric light alike formidable.She listened, smiled, said she knew the place well, and had set her heart upon it. She declined to entertain the idea of a lease, would buy only the freehold; and stipulated that the present tenant, Mr. Guyse, should not be told the name of the purchaser.She was perfectly willing to agree to the somewhat stiff terms of sale, namely, that she undertook, under heavy penalties, not to divide the land, not to pull down the Tower, not to build cheap houses on the property, and a dozen other restrictions which seemed to her very absurd, but which were, none the less, insisted upon.There actually was another would-be buyer in the market, besides herself—an American; and she gave instructions that whatever this gentleman offered, her own representatives should offer more. The result was that, although she came off victorious, she had to pay more than Messrs. Green, Son & Wilkinson thought a fair price.Little cared she!It seemed to her that never had she really grasped the happiness of being rich, until she actually held in her hands the bulky title-deeds, the precious documents which made her the owner of the Pele, which gave Ninian's future, so to speak, into her tyrant hands.It was not until this transaction was accomplished that she realised how completely she had burnt her boats. The capital sum paid down must appreciably cripple her own income. Suppose that her worst fears were true—that Ninian had never loved her, and did not want her—what was she to do?What would the rest of life be like, after she had made over the Pele to him?She shut her ears to all such maddening thoughts. She was going to see him, or die in the attempt."He has never got over your turning him down." So Wolf had said. That might, however, easily be true, even though he had no spark of love for her. Had she accepted him, his home need never have been sold. Here was matter enough for regret from his point of view. It must be the loss of the fortune and not the woman that he lamented. Wolf's lip had curled as he said, "You can have your pick of the fortune-hunters now. You'll not find a man among them fit to tie up old Nin's shoe-string." In her heart she admitted the exact truth of this.As soon as she received Lily Guyse's letter she determined not to see Wolf again for the present. She coaxed Aunt Maud to leave town, and they went to a hotel a few miles out, whence she could easily motor in and interview her lawyers. During the time that the negotiations were pending, she was in a state of mind so unlike herself that Miss Wilson confided to General Grey her wish that Olwen would take a fancy to somebody and marry soon. "If she doesn't, she will be quite soured," said she with a sigh."Is there anybody?" he asked."Not that I know of. I always had an idea that there was something or somebody, but it was while she was staying away. There was a young doctor—it is possible she is fretting for him. I thought that very irresistible Colonel Guyse might have a chance, but somehow I don't fancy he has made much impression. I suppose the poor child feels that everybody must be after her money.""Oh, but she is attractive. She need not feel that. She is a girl who would always have had lovers.""Yes, indeed, Mr. Holroyd would have married her long before anybody dreamed she would be rich. But I am glad she did not care for him. He is not the husband for her; she wants a more dominant person, for she is very wilful and impetuous."The wilfulness and impetuosity of her niece were more clearly demonstrated in the course of a very few days. Miss Innes announced her intention of starting upon a tour in the north of England.Miss Wilson was seriously annoyed. She was wrapped up in her own affairs at the time, very busy, every moment occupied, London full, plenty of interest, the General just in the stage when a man may or may not go further according to opportunity."What has made you all of a sudden turn against London?" she asked with natural vexation. "You were wild to come here at first.""I know. One has to find out one's mistakes, and I have found out mine. There are disadvantages that I never foresaw. One is the way in which men keep on asking me to marry them without caring one bit for me, and expect me to take their devotion for granted.""Nonsense, Olwen!""It isn't nonsense. I wish they wouldn't do it. I said to Mr. Lambert only the other day, 'You don't know what love means, you haven't any idea! I am younger than you, but I know and you don't.' He took me up very quickly. 'Do you know by personal experience?' he wanted to know, and I asked him what he meant. 'Has a man made violent love to you—has he kissed you?' he asked. I told him nobody ever had done that; though five men, counting Ben Holroyd, have asked me to marry them. So he said I couldn't know. But I do, so what's the good of arguing? Heigh-ho! One man is just the same as another to me, and I'm sure they all go to the same tailor.""Don't get bitter, child.""If any of them looked different, or—weather-stained, or—even did things at a different time from anybody else, like the Snark you know—breakfasted at five o'clock tea and dined on the following day. But in London people are not like that. We are just like the carpet-bedding in the parks, we look all right in the mass, but if you examine any one of us individually, it is a poor little specimen, and if we grew too tall or too big, the gardener would snip us and trim us to make us match the others."Miss Wilson had no reply to make to this, and the heiress continued after a minute."Have you ever heard that if a man brings the girl he loves into a house where a corpse is lying he will never marry her?""Really, Ollie, what unpleasant things you sometimes say! No, I never heard of such a thing.""Well, I did. I believe it's true, too. Superstitions often are. They grow out of wild nature. In some parts of the world wild nature is still alive, and strong enough to hurt. The elements—cold and wind and snow—might kill you there. They have power! But for all that you would be free; ever so much more free than we are here, where everybody's thoughts are coloured by the latest novel that everybody else is reading, too.""I'm really not sure what you are talking about.""Oh, I'm not talking, merely thinking aloud. You have got to bear that now and then. If you knew how often I brood over things like this, and how seldom I bore you with them, you would think yourself lucky. I have just now got a craving for solitude and savagery. I want to see a black crag with a frozen lake at its base, and a low grey sky, a flurry of snow, the mist blotting out all the rest of the world—and in the midst of it all just one little place of refuge....""At the end of June, I'm afraid, even in the wildest parts of this country, you won't be able to indulge your desire," said Aunt Maud with irony. "Do you want to go abroad?""N-no. Only to the north.""Well, I am afraid I really can't leave town for another fortnight at least.""Then you mustn't think me a beast if I go off without you. You can join me, wherever I happen to be, can't you? You had better let me go, for I shall be poor company. I have nothing to do, I am at a loose end, and I think if I go somewhere where I can walk and walk and walk till I am so tired that I drop off to sleep the moment I have eaten my supper, I shall regain a more normal view of life. I'll go in the car. Aunt Ethel's in town this week, and she would love it if I were to motor her and Marjorie back to Leeds with me, and drop them at Mount Prospect on my way.""My child! Go travelling alone! Grandpapa would not like that."Olwen smiled serenely. "He won't be asked, bless him! Dear aunt, consider my advanced age! Chaperons and dodos now occupy the same glass case in most museums. I'll take Parkinson, and then Heaven knows I shall be respectable enough!"The plans thus made were duly carried through, as plans made by Olwen had a habit of being.Mrs. Whitefield, since her niece's accession to wealth, had varied in her feelings between envy and a desire to stand well with the heiress. She accepted all favours offered, but could not forbear disparaging criticism. She was pleased to travel north in the fine Rolls-Royce, but vexed because she could not understand why Ollie should continue her tour alone, instead of taking Marjorie with her. Marjorie had grown stout, and was stolid and uninteresting. Olwen was kindly disposed to her, but just now she felt that her continual company would be quite unbearable, and breathed a sigh of relief, when, after spending a night in the overpowering magnificence of Mount Prospect, she was free to pursue her journey unhindered.She passed by way of Watling Street, up to the Tyne, pausing when she reached Corbridge, to wander down to the river's edge, and trace the old line of the great highway, through Corstopitum. She slept that night at the Wheatsheaf, and early next morning passed through Hexham and Fourstones, to Bardon Mill, and thence over the shoulder of Barcombe. The hedgerows as they passed were crimson with the glow of such brier-roses as seem to grow only in Northumbria; but when they had passed Vindolana and the Roman milestone, and come out upon Wade's Road, they had reached the end of the hedgerows.At the Twice-Brewed Inn they stopped, and she left the car with Parkinson and Goddard, the chauffeur, to do as they liked until her return. She was going off by herself to slake her desire to behold once more Duke's Crag and the Hotwells Lough.Over her head was a sky of cloudless blue, in which larks sang and curlews wheeled, with their mewing cry, over the lonely land. She had a map with her, and was able to make straight for the mile-castle.She had hardly left the road, and set her face northward, before she was out of sight of all habitations. Before her, on the ridge, lay the long line of the outer vallum, and beyond it the swell of the height which carried the Wall itself, and was precipitous upon its northern face.After she had climbed some way she could, shading her eyes from the glare, descry, far away to her left, the smoke from the chimney of Hazel Crag, drifting idly on the warm breeze; and she lived again the moment of the opening door, and the face of Balmayne as he recognised the night wanderers.The cry of sheep, straying on the moor, came to her ears like a far away lament.Silence and passion, joy and peace,An everlasting wash of airRome's ghost since her decease! ...This was Ninian's native land. Its freedom, its loneliness, were alike typical of him in her mind. The short turf on which she trod was enamelled with the purple and gold of wild pansies. "There's pansies, that's for thoughts," she found herself whispering; and thoughts were thronging almost unbearably.In the long, awful months and years of his captivity, how must his wild heart have turned with sick longing to those broad spaces, that galloping wind, that fullness of liberty, that crowded solitude of his native north! She had a fantastic notion that for every time he or she had visited the place in spirit, one little thought-flower had sprung to bear witness of the dream!She was making for the Gap, like a mountain pass in miniature, which brings one through, close to the dark Lough. The water to-day looked temptingly cool and clear. Somewhere in its depths lay the stone which had struck her head. She did not descend to the plain beyond her, but turned westward and made her way along the ridge to the mile-castle.To her active feet the distance seemed very short in the fair weather. It was hard even to picture the drifting snow, like cold foam about clogged feet—the keenness of the driving blast, the furious opposition of the elements.Her imagination brought Ninian so near that she stopped and faced quickly about, with some idea of being followed. There was no one, only the memory-laden landscape looked her in the face, whispered in her ear.... How he had suffered since then! ... She used to read in the papers of the horrors of Griesslauen, harrowing details of typhoid, of bad water, of half rations, of torture.... Had she known what he was enduring she never could have borne it. The very memory forced drops from her eyes as she dwelt upon it.She reached the mile-castle, where it lay open to the sun. Over its broken wall she could descry the corrugated iron roof of the shed which had sheltered them. Her feet were noiseless on the grass, and her approach was unseen, unheard by the man who sat within, upon a remnant of inner wall.He was seated sideways, so that she saw his profile. His head was downbent, his elbows rested on his knees. In his hands he held something which at first she took to be a skein of silk, which he was idly pulling through his fingers. His hat lay on the ground beside him, and Olwen saw his hair, thickly sprinkled with grey.What was it which his fingers ceaselessly caressed? The sun glinted upon it, and it fell in a shower of gold.It was a tress of hair.A mixture of amazement, joy, and wicked triumph so flooded her that she could hardly see. Hair! It was her own hair! It was the big tress which, to Sunia's rage, Dr. Balmayne had been obliged to cut away in order to sew the wound on her head.There is no word to describe what she felt, as she fought for composure, schooled the trembling of her limbs and the muscles of her mouth.His gaze was fixed upon something which lay on the ground between his knees; something too small for her to see. Having made herself ready for the encounter, she let a bit of stone fall, with a rattling noise. He looked up.Nin it was, but the change in him was at first sight awful.His face was lined and parchment-like. There were puckers about his eyes, which looked sunken. He might have passed for ten years older than Wolf. For a long instant his look met hers as though he did not see her. Then suddenly there awoke, in his bewildered stare, something that resembled the Ninian she had known. With a swift movement he thrust the tress of hair into his breast pocket, snatched up what lay upon the grass, and with a flicker, a characteristic glance, he opened fire."Ah, well, you haven't succeeded in growing any taller, you know, in spite of all your new dignities." His manner, at least, was unchanged, though his voice sounded forced and unnatural.His words pulled Olwen together wonderfully. She had been on the very verge of self-betrayal—of a burst of silly tears. The familiar mocking seemed to put them back at once, just at the place where they left off, and she summoned her strength to fence with him as of old. "Yes," she replied, with a conventional smile, not moving forward, but speaking from her post in the entrance. "I am still a mouse, as your brother reminded me the other day; only the country mouse has become a town mouse."A quiver crossed his face as her voice was heard. "Oh," he said, "so you really are, are you? I've once or twice thought I saw you before to-day—slipping round a corner or peeping over a wall; but never face to face like this. How did you get here?""My car is waiting at Twice-Brewed. I have walked from there, and am very hot. I didn't expect to find you here.""Obviously not," he replied, with a grin which showed his teeth to be as good as ever. "You looked as if you had found a black-beetle in the sugar-basin. However, I'm not a fixture, you know." As he spoke, he laid down the thing he held in his hand, as it were furtively, on the stone at the farther side of him, out of sight.Determined to know what this was, she came suddenly forward and sank on the grass at his feet with a flutter of white skirts. The manoeuvre found him unprepared. Quickly he covered the little square bit of card with his hand; but her eyes were very keen, and she had seen that it was her own photo. She remembered that she had extracted it from a drawer while at the Pele, with the intention of sending it to her father, and had placed it on the mantelshelf in her room. She had never noticed the fact that it was not among the things so carefully packed and returned after her departure.Now, it told her all! She found him here, in this place, sacred to a memory which she alone could share; and with him he brought her picture and a tress of hair!Her courage rose with one bound, for all doubt was solved. Her lips curved with mischief as she looked up at him provocatively, bold in the delightful knowledge that she was prettier than she used to be, and that her clothes set her off to the best advantage."Since you don't ask me to be seated, I do so without ceremony!""My manners have gone to pieces since I saw you last. Pretty annoying, isn't it, to think how you wasted time and instruction on me?""Oh," was her retort, "I'm not surprised. I remember you had decided that you could not keep it up! You prepared me for a lapse.""It's worse than a lapse. It's what you might describe as adébâcleif you knew as much French as I do."She was below him, facing him, and she looked up steadily at him as she replied:"Ah, well, I suppose I shall have to begin all over again."That moved him. "No, by God you don't—not again," he answered defiantly."Do you suppose that you can stop me, if my mind is made up?""Upon my word, you have the cheek of the——""Cheek! I should think I have. Don't be under the impression that you can browbeat me.""If you'll take my advice, you'll run away to that car of yours as fast as your expensively shod feet will take you. I'm not good company to-day for the wealthy and frivolous.""I know, you always did find me a bore. But you can't get rid of me so easily as all that. I had the intention of coming to the Pele to call upon Madam, but as we have met here, perhaps you will take this as a call—like the two ladies inPunch, who met while bathing? Now let us begin to talk properly, and remember as much as you can of the nice manners I once taught you. How is your mother, Mr. Guyse?"His face, which had changed a dozen times as she teased him, settled into a scowl. "She is very ill," he said gruffly, "and she is getting worse. That's a topic I can't joke about.""I don't ask you to joke. I think you ought to consider it very seriously. Madam needs change of air and scene. Why don't you take her away somewhere—say to the Riviera?"He looked at her as if he could box her ears with pleasure. "Oh, just because I don't choose," he answered savagely. "I like to thwart her, just for the sake of thwarting her, as you ought to know by this time.""I do know, but I like to force you to admit it," said she with a demure smile. "I am wondering whether I could not do something to help cheer her up. I often think with regret of the fact that I refused to do what she wanted me to do so badly. I—I wonder whether it would do any good now.... Or whether it is too late."She pulled a blade of grass from beside her, and twisted it round her fingers, carefully keeping her eyes fixed upon it."Afraid I can't help you to a decision," he said harshly."Oh, yes, you can. In fact, it all depends on you," she replied, in a very small voice. "Do you remember our last talk at the Pele—when you came in to tea and I was so kind, I had kept yours hot for you, and I stayed to pour it out? And do you remember that on that occasion, in the intervals of drinking your tea, you did me the honour to ask me to marry you?""Did I? I must have been an ass.""Well, perhaps you were. But I really am not sure. Perhaps I was the ass for saying NO. Anyway, it has been in my mind that I ought to have said Yes, on account of Madam. Don't you agree?"He sprang to his feet. "Not in the humour to-day for any more twaddle," he said, laughing, with a catch in his breath. "I—I know I've been a beast and—and drawn this on myself, but have a little pity for me. This morning I've heard that the last blow has fallen. I'm now not merely a beggar but an outcast. I can't sit bandying words with you, I tell you I can't stand it."She did not move, but answered with a quiet which disarmed him. "Well, I won't keep you long, but as we have met, I wish you would just put up with me for a few minutes longer. You have roused all my curiosity and I think you ought to satisfy it. What do you mean by saying that you are not merely a beggar but an outcast?""Just what I say. When I did the one thing I shall regret all my life, and asked you to marry me, I did think I had something to offer a woman. Now I've nothing. It is sold over my head—the Pele I mean—and I shall have to take Madam on my back and tramp the country, asking the charitable for shelter."He had sunk down in his place again, and sat there, eyes fiercely fixed on the contemplation of his troubles."Oh, Nin," she said softly, "don't you think even having to marry me might be better than that? It does sound so uncomfortable for poor Madam."He looked at her, marvelling at her cruelty, and made a shrinking movement, as if hurt. "Out there," he said, after a pause, "out in Griesslauen I used to think I had endured everything a man could, and that hereafter I might reckon myself immune to pain. But I—I expect you have the right. If you get any satisfaction out of baiting me, go on. It's up to me to take what you give."She rose deliberately from where she had been sitting, and went away a few paces. He raised his head. She had gone to the door of the shed in which they had sheltered and stood staring in. After a while she turned slowly and caught his look fixed upon her. The colour flowed warm over her face."Perhaps," said she in a low voice, "perhaps your mother was right. It—it was very unconventional, wasn't it? Do you think—perhaps—on those grounds—I was wrong to say 'No'?"He stood up, and his face was rigidly set. "I think you had better go," was all he said.She turned to him, looking not into his face but somewhere about his second waistcoat button. "So you won't marry me on Madam's account—nor because it would be morecomme il faut. Would you marry me—now tell the truth—if by doing so you could get back the Pele?""No!" he shouted wrathfully. "No, no, and yet again no! I wouldn't marry you if you were hung all over with silver and gold—not if you were Venus and Diana rolled into one——""Well, well, well, you needn't make such a noise about it. I'm not a bit deaf—"He broke off, seeming to swallow rage in gulps. For a moment he surveyed her critically, as if he sneered at her fine clothes, then he turned abruptly on his heel. "Good-bye," he said shortly, making for the entrance.
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE BULL-DROP
She went to meet him with the feeling that now—now was her chance. He must not go until she had inquired as to the exact facts, which he seemed to suppose that she knew already.
He came to invite herself and Miss Wilson to go down to the docks the following day to inspect one of the great captured enemy ships which was lying there for the inspection of visitors. She accepted the invitation, and they drifted into talk, which grew by degrees more and more absorbing. He told her some of his more poignant experiences at the front, and she gave him a sympathy which he appeared to find most gratifying. Though he never said a word that could be called love-making, she yet felt increasingly that he was wooing her; and the fact that he was doing so with Nin's voice and Nin's smile, and every now and then with Nin's very expression, filled her with sensations that she could not analyse. She was half fascinated, half revolted, and she had a feeling that if it went on—if she should be much in his society—she would succumb to the curious attraction.
A dozen times she tried to lead round the talk so that she could touch upon the one subject without too great effort.
In vain. As soon as she found herself within measurable distance of the words "your brother," her throat began to swell, her heart quickened its beat. He had risen to take leave before she was aware.... He had gone, and her chance was over for the present.
He called the following day, and they motored down to the docks, after which he gave them lunch at the great new Anzac restaurant.
It was as he was putting them into the car afterwards, and stood laughing and animated on the kerbstone making his farewells, that her eyes, straying past his in order not to meet their challenge, fell upon a lady whose face seemed familiar to her. The lady in question was young and handsome in a showy way, and as she strolled slowly past Olwen thought her eyes rested upon their party with a look of special interest. The impression was momentary, the stranger had moved on and was lost in the crowd surging thickly on the pavement.
As they drove home her mind held the picture of the backward glance and the expression; but sub-consciously, and all mixed up with Wolf's charm and the magnetism of his personality.
She felt that the hours she and he had passed together that day had made a great, a real difference.
If matters were to advance at this rate, she must face the situation which might ensue. She reached home in restless mood, wondering how to pick up once more the thread of a life which seemed to have broken off short. The war and its resulting activities had filled in at first the blank which lay void after her departure from Guysewyke. Now even that palliative was taken away. It showed itself as the mere stopgap that it had always been. In truth, though peace had returned, life was exciting enough, had she felt that politics and social economy were things that could absorb her. She did not so feel. Hers was, like her father's, a nature which craved love as its starting-point. The fabric of her life must be built on love, so she felt, or go to pieces.
The Colonel had taken care not to part without an arrangement for another meeting before long. He was to lunch the following day at Orchard Row, and take the two ladies to see over one of the great new institutions prepared for the reception of those permanently disabled in the war.
He came accordingly, and the time passed charmingly. Aunt Maud thought him the most fascinating man she had ever seen. The situation piqued her curiosity. Not a word of confidence had Olwen given her, not a sentence had she ever let fall concerning this man's twin brother with whom she had spent so many hours at the Pele. Miss Wilson's conviction that some reason other than what appeared had all along existed for the girl's sudden departure from her post gained strength every minute.
As for Olwen, she felt that she was skating on very thin ice. Easily though Wolf talked, he avoided any mention of his home or his family. He seemed to assume that Olwen knew of his brother's fate, and he did not allude to it. Their talk was always superficial, gliding lightly over a surface beneath which were unknown depths.
That day Wolf asked permission to bring his cousin, Lady Caryngston, to call upon Miss Wilson and Miss Innes. The plan was carried out very soon afterwards, and with her ladyship came that Elma Guyse who so strongly resembled her cousin Ninian that it was agony to Olwen to be in the same room with her.
Every minute some tone in her voice, some curve of her mouth, some gleam in her mischievous eye, recalled Nin in his most captivating mood. Olwen's emotion increased every moment. She felt that she could no longer endure the strain of going on in her present ignorance. She would ask Wolf all about Ninian, even though in the attempt she found herself compelled to betray her own feeling.
Her chance came, for the Colonel did not depart when the other visitors left. Aunt Maud had a committee at half-past five, and so made her escape from the drawing-room, going out of it with the two ladies. Wolf and Olwen found themselves left together; and this was obviously the moment for which she had waited so long. He went to the window, glancing out to see if it rained. Now or never.
She moistened her dry lips, and was just opening them to pronounce the fatal words, when the Colonel swung round, saying carelessly:
"By the way, I heard from my brother this morning."
Silence fell. She hardly breathed for a few moments. Something within her rose up in tumult, and she had to beat it down. For the second time, upon the mention of Nin, she showed Wolf an ashen face.
"Your ... brother?" she said at last, feeling that at all costs she must not betray the extent of her stupefaction.
"Yes. I think you said you knew what a horrible fate befell him?"
Weakly she shook her head; she could not speak.
He seemed surprised. "But I thought, the day we first met, you said you knew——"
"No, I don't know anything. I beseech you to tell me."
"Well, but at least you knew he was a prisoner of war?"
"Not—even—that."
"Yes; he got taken, poor chap, the very first time he went into action—right at the beginning, before we turned them on the Marne. He was badly hit, and they picked him up and took him to Griesslauen, the most remote of all the military camps—a place where unheard-of things went on.... We didn't know for nearly a year whether he was alive or dead. He was reported missing, you know. Rough luck, wasn't it?"
"Ye-es.Rough luck.... Is he at home now?"
"Oh, yes; he's been back more than six months now, and his native air has done a good bit for him; but he's very much changed."
"Is he—maimed, do you mean—or disfigured?"
"Oh, no, not as bad as that. He had a horrible suppurating wound in his leg, the result of neglect and semi-starvation; but the Guysewyke air healed that in a couple of months. Of course, things are very depressing for him; in fact, he's just had another bad blow, poor chap, and I'm afraid he's taking it frightfully hard."
"Tell me ... if you think you might? I ... want to hear."
He came and sat down opposite, fixing his eyes upon her quivering face. She was so rapt that she had ceased to heed what he might be thinking. Ninian was not dead.He was not dead. He lived. She heard, but could not realise; she felt as though a blow had stunned her.
"I don't know whether I ought to tell you," said Wolf thoughtfully. "Nin might give me socks if he knew. But you seem to take some interest in the poor old chap, after all."
She made a sound which she meant for a laugh, but which was merely a sob. "Perhaps I do."
"I don't suppose he ever conversed with you on the subject of finance," went on Wolf softly; "but you may perhaps have gathered during your stay with us that he was pretty hard up?"
He was narrowly watching her face, but she replied frankly enough:
"Of course I knew it. I knew he was fighting as hard as he could so as not to—not to have to sell the Pele."
"Oh, you knew that? You knew how set he was upon the old place?"
"Indeed, yes, I knew."
"Well, when the war came there was no way out of it. He was bound to raise such a sum of money as should make my mother independent in case of his death. He went to our cousin, Caryngston, and offered to sell to him, upon conditions."
"Conditions?"
"Yes. Caryngston was to give an undertaking not to sell again, and to allow my mother to remain in possession for the duration of the war."
"Then—then it is actually sold?"
"Yes. At that time Caryngston was fearfully keen, for his son was just engaged to Miss Leverett, daughter of an American millionaire——"
"Wash-white Slick-Soap," she murmured.
"Just so. Her father found the purchase money, because he fancied his daughter in a feudal pile; and the deal went through. Since that time, however, the whole situation has changed. Poor Noel went to the front three months later, and was to be married as soon as he got his first leave. Well, he never got any leave. He was shot before he had been out a month. Miss Leverett never became Mrs. Guyse, and the old man wants his money back. Caryngston can't repay him unless he sells the Pele, and he has written to Nin to say that he will be reluctantly compelled to do so."
"Oh, what a shame! What an utter shame!" burst forth Miss Innes, springing to her feet in her vehemence.
"I'm afraid, from what he says, that it has just about broken poor old Nin. The last straw, you know."
Olwen sat down again as suddenly as she had uprisen. Her very knees were shaking. Perhaps Wolf saw that she could not speak, for he filled in the pause glibly.
"I wonder whether, when you were at the Pele, you ever heard the odd story—legend, I should say—of the Bull-drop?"
She brought back her mind with an effort. "The Bull-drop?"
"Yes; the causeway leading to the Pele. There was a tale of a bull having jumped out of the keep through a breach made by the besiegers, and they prophesied that if such a thing ever happened again there would be a fair Guyse, and the family would recover its old importance."
"Of course I remember. Why, of course!"
"Well, a curious thing happened just about the time you left us. Do you remember meeting a messenger-boy on your way to Raefell? As a matter of fact, he had a cablegram for you in his pocket, and he told us where to look for you. We questioned him and found that he had seen you on the road."
"I remember well."
"Like all boys, he was fascinated by the desire to walk on the parapet of the causeway. It was in a bad state, for the long frost had caked the old snow upon it so thickly that the rains had not removed all of it. He slipped and fell into the ravine."
"Was he killed?"
"Not a bit of it. He fell quite near the farther end, among the underbrush on the slope. However, he broke a rib or two and was pretty bad. But the funny part of the story is, that when we put the chap to bed and sent for the doctor, we discovered that his name was Tommy Bull."
As he hoped, this story diverted her attention from the consideration of Ninian's tragedy.
"Bull? It seems like the fulfilment of the prophecy! Oh, what did Sunia say?"
"She was perfectly certain that it was, as you say, the fulfilment of prophecy. She was so completely reassured by it that she was able to bear up under the sale of the Pele and the departure of her sahib for the war. She said that things must come right; it was merely a question of waiting. But I think she has lost heart at last. This latest blow is too heavy."
"You say—did you tell me—that the tower is actually sold? I mean that Lord Caryngston has actually sold it?"
"I believe not. He wrote to warn Ninian that it was to be sold, and he mentioned that he had already had an offer of more than he gave. Of course, he is breaking his contract, but he knows Nin has no money to fight him."
"No, but Mr. Guyse is in the Pele, and possession is nine points of the law," cried Olwen passionately. "If I were he I would decline to turn out, and surely the Courts would support him if anybody tried to evict him."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe. Maybe not. I don't believe the conditions made are legally binding. He trusted to Caryngston's honour."
She sat, hands locked together, mind so busy that it seemed to whirl.
"Does Mr. Guyse know that—that you and I have met?" she asked at length.
"No. I didn't say anything about it. It's a sore subject, you see. He has never got over your turning him down." As the colour flew to her cheeks, he added, "I beg pardon. I had no right to say that."
"It is hardly accurate, moreover. Mr. Guyse only offered to marry me in order to satisfy a somewhat fantastic sense of honour. He would have been much surprised had I taken advantage of his proposal."
Wolf's most expressive glance was upon her. "I wonder if you expect me to believe that?" he asked mischievously.
Olwen drew herself up. "Whether you believe it or not hardly concerns me, Colonel Guyse."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you are a person of importance now," said he, "and can take your pick of the fortune-hunters. I can tell you one thing, however. You will never find a man among them fit to tie up old Nin's shoe-string. But I had better say 'Good-bye,' before I offend past forgiveness!"
He rose and held out his hand. "Then we meet at eleven to-morrow morning?" he said.
She let him go, scarcely heeding what she did. The world was upside down, and she wanted time in which to readjust her ideas. When he had left the room, she went towards the door almost as though she were blind, groping for the handle. Just as she emerged upon the landing the parlourmaid came up from the hall, bearing a note upon a salver.
It had been delivered by hand, and was marked "Urgent."
She carried it up with her to her room, locked herself in, flung down the envelope on her toilet-table and herself upon the bed.
Floods of tears came to her relief, and for a while she lay there helpless, overswept by a torrent of feeling, while a host of plans, hopes, wishes, fears, thrills careered madly through her mind.
Not until the first bell reminded her that Parkinson would be arriving almost immediately to dress her for dinner did she arise; and going to the glass to survey the ravages of the past hour's emotion, remark the note lying on the jewel tray.
It did not look at all important. She expected one of the appeals which reached her with distressing frequency from some impecunious person who had "heard she was celebrated for her kind and feeling heart." The contents were surprising. It was dated from an address at Finchley, and written in a pretty, ladylike hand.
"DEAR MADAM,—Pardon my troubling you, but as Colonel Guyse seems to be very often at your house, I am writing to inform you of what you may not know—namely, that he is a married man. I saw you talking to him in Regent Street the other day, and I have watched him since. If you need proof, I can show you my marriage lines, but if you show him this letter he won't deny it. We were married in Canada years ago, and I adored him so that I fell in with his idea that to have his marriage with me known would spoil his whole future. Now I feel that I have had enough of it. He has a Colonel's pay, and he ought to acknowledge me, instead of which he says he is going to reduce my allowance. I have come up to London unknown to him, for when he said he was going to cut me short I guessed there was something going on. I feel I must put a spoke in his wheel before it is too late. I have borne a great deal, but if he thinks he is going to deceive a nice young girl like you, who has done good all through the war, he is mistaken. My cousin from Canada was one of the boys you nursed, and I don't forget it. Write to me if you like, but if you are the girl I take you for this letter ought to do the trick.—Yours truly, LILY GUYSE."
Lily Guyse! There was but little need to inquire what the lady's maiden name had been. She was Lily Martin, and the face which Olwen had noticed as Wolf took leave of her in Regent Street was the face she had seen between the leaves of a book in the Pele library.
Wolf's wife!
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE MILE-CASTLE AGAIN
Messrs. Green, Son & Wilkinson, who had the care of Miss Innes's legal affairs, were much inclined to advise her to think more than twice before purchasing a Border Pele. In like manner they had striven to persuade her not to face the tremendous expenditure of running a private hospital. The result was the same in both cases. Miss Innes, as she gently pointed out, was no longer a child. She was now well on in her twenties, and when she had made up her mind to do a thing she did it. She did not come to them for Advice, but to have her orders carried out.
They told her that the land to be sold with the tower was inconsiderable and of poor quality. The Pele itself needed to have a large sum laid out upon it in order to make it fit for residence. The country was exposed, the distance from the railway great, the difficulties of water supply and electric light alike formidable.
She listened, smiled, said she knew the place well, and had set her heart upon it. She declined to entertain the idea of a lease, would buy only the freehold; and stipulated that the present tenant, Mr. Guyse, should not be told the name of the purchaser.
She was perfectly willing to agree to the somewhat stiff terms of sale, namely, that she undertook, under heavy penalties, not to divide the land, not to pull down the Tower, not to build cheap houses on the property, and a dozen other restrictions which seemed to her very absurd, but which were, none the less, insisted upon.
There actually was another would-be buyer in the market, besides herself—an American; and she gave instructions that whatever this gentleman offered, her own representatives should offer more. The result was that, although she came off victorious, she had to pay more than Messrs. Green, Son & Wilkinson thought a fair price.
Little cared she!
It seemed to her that never had she really grasped the happiness of being rich, until she actually held in her hands the bulky title-deeds, the precious documents which made her the owner of the Pele, which gave Ninian's future, so to speak, into her tyrant hands.
It was not until this transaction was accomplished that she realised how completely she had burnt her boats. The capital sum paid down must appreciably cripple her own income. Suppose that her worst fears were true—that Ninian had never loved her, and did not want her—what was she to do?
What would the rest of life be like, after she had made over the Pele to him?
She shut her ears to all such maddening thoughts. She was going to see him, or die in the attempt.
"He has never got over your turning him down." So Wolf had said. That might, however, easily be true, even though he had no spark of love for her. Had she accepted him, his home need never have been sold. Here was matter enough for regret from his point of view. It must be the loss of the fortune and not the woman that he lamented. Wolf's lip had curled as he said, "You can have your pick of the fortune-hunters now. You'll not find a man among them fit to tie up old Nin's shoe-string." In her heart she admitted the exact truth of this.
As soon as she received Lily Guyse's letter she determined not to see Wolf again for the present. She coaxed Aunt Maud to leave town, and they went to a hotel a few miles out, whence she could easily motor in and interview her lawyers. During the time that the negotiations were pending, she was in a state of mind so unlike herself that Miss Wilson confided to General Grey her wish that Olwen would take a fancy to somebody and marry soon. "If she doesn't, she will be quite soured," said she with a sigh.
"Is there anybody?" he asked.
"Not that I know of. I always had an idea that there was something or somebody, but it was while she was staying away. There was a young doctor—it is possible she is fretting for him. I thought that very irresistible Colonel Guyse might have a chance, but somehow I don't fancy he has made much impression. I suppose the poor child feels that everybody must be after her money."
"Oh, but she is attractive. She need not feel that. She is a girl who would always have had lovers."
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Holroyd would have married her long before anybody dreamed she would be rich. But I am glad she did not care for him. He is not the husband for her; she wants a more dominant person, for she is very wilful and impetuous."
The wilfulness and impetuosity of her niece were more clearly demonstrated in the course of a very few days. Miss Innes announced her intention of starting upon a tour in the north of England.
Miss Wilson was seriously annoyed. She was wrapped up in her own affairs at the time, very busy, every moment occupied, London full, plenty of interest, the General just in the stage when a man may or may not go further according to opportunity.
"What has made you all of a sudden turn against London?" she asked with natural vexation. "You were wild to come here at first."
"I know. One has to find out one's mistakes, and I have found out mine. There are disadvantages that I never foresaw. One is the way in which men keep on asking me to marry them without caring one bit for me, and expect me to take their devotion for granted."
"Nonsense, Olwen!"
"It isn't nonsense. I wish they wouldn't do it. I said to Mr. Lambert only the other day, 'You don't know what love means, you haven't any idea! I am younger than you, but I know and you don't.' He took me up very quickly. 'Do you know by personal experience?' he wanted to know, and I asked him what he meant. 'Has a man made violent love to you—has he kissed you?' he asked. I told him nobody ever had done that; though five men, counting Ben Holroyd, have asked me to marry them. So he said I couldn't know. But I do, so what's the good of arguing? Heigh-ho! One man is just the same as another to me, and I'm sure they all go to the same tailor."
"Don't get bitter, child."
"If any of them looked different, or—weather-stained, or—even did things at a different time from anybody else, like the Snark you know—breakfasted at five o'clock tea and dined on the following day. But in London people are not like that. We are just like the carpet-bedding in the parks, we look all right in the mass, but if you examine any one of us individually, it is a poor little specimen, and if we grew too tall or too big, the gardener would snip us and trim us to make us match the others."
Miss Wilson had no reply to make to this, and the heiress continued after a minute.
"Have you ever heard that if a man brings the girl he loves into a house where a corpse is lying he will never marry her?"
"Really, Ollie, what unpleasant things you sometimes say! No, I never heard of such a thing."
"Well, I did. I believe it's true, too. Superstitions often are. They grow out of wild nature. In some parts of the world wild nature is still alive, and strong enough to hurt. The elements—cold and wind and snow—might kill you there. They have power! But for all that you would be free; ever so much more free than we are here, where everybody's thoughts are coloured by the latest novel that everybody else is reading, too."
"I'm really not sure what you are talking about."
"Oh, I'm not talking, merely thinking aloud. You have got to bear that now and then. If you knew how often I brood over things like this, and how seldom I bore you with them, you would think yourself lucky. I have just now got a craving for solitude and savagery. I want to see a black crag with a frozen lake at its base, and a low grey sky, a flurry of snow, the mist blotting out all the rest of the world—and in the midst of it all just one little place of refuge...."
"At the end of June, I'm afraid, even in the wildest parts of this country, you won't be able to indulge your desire," said Aunt Maud with irony. "Do you want to go abroad?"
"N-no. Only to the north."
"Well, I am afraid I really can't leave town for another fortnight at least."
"Then you mustn't think me a beast if I go off without you. You can join me, wherever I happen to be, can't you? You had better let me go, for I shall be poor company. I have nothing to do, I am at a loose end, and I think if I go somewhere where I can walk and walk and walk till I am so tired that I drop off to sleep the moment I have eaten my supper, I shall regain a more normal view of life. I'll go in the car. Aunt Ethel's in town this week, and she would love it if I were to motor her and Marjorie back to Leeds with me, and drop them at Mount Prospect on my way."
"My child! Go travelling alone! Grandpapa would not like that."
Olwen smiled serenely. "He won't be asked, bless him! Dear aunt, consider my advanced age! Chaperons and dodos now occupy the same glass case in most museums. I'll take Parkinson, and then Heaven knows I shall be respectable enough!"
The plans thus made were duly carried through, as plans made by Olwen had a habit of being.
Mrs. Whitefield, since her niece's accession to wealth, had varied in her feelings between envy and a desire to stand well with the heiress. She accepted all favours offered, but could not forbear disparaging criticism. She was pleased to travel north in the fine Rolls-Royce, but vexed because she could not understand why Ollie should continue her tour alone, instead of taking Marjorie with her. Marjorie had grown stout, and was stolid and uninteresting. Olwen was kindly disposed to her, but just now she felt that her continual company would be quite unbearable, and breathed a sigh of relief, when, after spending a night in the overpowering magnificence of Mount Prospect, she was free to pursue her journey unhindered.
She passed by way of Watling Street, up to the Tyne, pausing when she reached Corbridge, to wander down to the river's edge, and trace the old line of the great highway, through Corstopitum. She slept that night at the Wheatsheaf, and early next morning passed through Hexham and Fourstones, to Bardon Mill, and thence over the shoulder of Barcombe. The hedgerows as they passed were crimson with the glow of such brier-roses as seem to grow only in Northumbria; but when they had passed Vindolana and the Roman milestone, and come out upon Wade's Road, they had reached the end of the hedgerows.
At the Twice-Brewed Inn they stopped, and she left the car with Parkinson and Goddard, the chauffeur, to do as they liked until her return. She was going off by herself to slake her desire to behold once more Duke's Crag and the Hotwells Lough.
Over her head was a sky of cloudless blue, in which larks sang and curlews wheeled, with their mewing cry, over the lonely land. She had a map with her, and was able to make straight for the mile-castle.
She had hardly left the road, and set her face northward, before she was out of sight of all habitations. Before her, on the ridge, lay the long line of the outer vallum, and beyond it the swell of the height which carried the Wall itself, and was precipitous upon its northern face.
After she had climbed some way she could, shading her eyes from the glare, descry, far away to her left, the smoke from the chimney of Hazel Crag, drifting idly on the warm breeze; and she lived again the moment of the opening door, and the face of Balmayne as he recognised the night wanderers.
The cry of sheep, straying on the moor, came to her ears like a far away lament.
Silence and passion, joy and peace,An everlasting wash of airRome's ghost since her decease! ...
Silence and passion, joy and peace,An everlasting wash of airRome's ghost since her decease! ...
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of air
Rome's ghost since her decease! ...
This was Ninian's native land. Its freedom, its loneliness, were alike typical of him in her mind. The short turf on which she trod was enamelled with the purple and gold of wild pansies. "There's pansies, that's for thoughts," she found herself whispering; and thoughts were thronging almost unbearably.
In the long, awful months and years of his captivity, how must his wild heart have turned with sick longing to those broad spaces, that galloping wind, that fullness of liberty, that crowded solitude of his native north! She had a fantastic notion that for every time he or she had visited the place in spirit, one little thought-flower had sprung to bear witness of the dream!
She was making for the Gap, like a mountain pass in miniature, which brings one through, close to the dark Lough. The water to-day looked temptingly cool and clear. Somewhere in its depths lay the stone which had struck her head. She did not descend to the plain beyond her, but turned westward and made her way along the ridge to the mile-castle.
To her active feet the distance seemed very short in the fair weather. It was hard even to picture the drifting snow, like cold foam about clogged feet—the keenness of the driving blast, the furious opposition of the elements.
Her imagination brought Ninian so near that she stopped and faced quickly about, with some idea of being followed. There was no one, only the memory-laden landscape looked her in the face, whispered in her ear.... How he had suffered since then! ... She used to read in the papers of the horrors of Griesslauen, harrowing details of typhoid, of bad water, of half rations, of torture.... Had she known what he was enduring she never could have borne it. The very memory forced drops from her eyes as she dwelt upon it.
She reached the mile-castle, where it lay open to the sun. Over its broken wall she could descry the corrugated iron roof of the shed which had sheltered them. Her feet were noiseless on the grass, and her approach was unseen, unheard by the man who sat within, upon a remnant of inner wall.
He was seated sideways, so that she saw his profile. His head was downbent, his elbows rested on his knees. In his hands he held something which at first she took to be a skein of silk, which he was idly pulling through his fingers. His hat lay on the ground beside him, and Olwen saw his hair, thickly sprinkled with grey.
What was it which his fingers ceaselessly caressed? The sun glinted upon it, and it fell in a shower of gold.It was a tress of hair.
A mixture of amazement, joy, and wicked triumph so flooded her that she could hardly see. Hair! It was her own hair! It was the big tress which, to Sunia's rage, Dr. Balmayne had been obliged to cut away in order to sew the wound on her head.
There is no word to describe what she felt, as she fought for composure, schooled the trembling of her limbs and the muscles of her mouth.
His gaze was fixed upon something which lay on the ground between his knees; something too small for her to see. Having made herself ready for the encounter, she let a bit of stone fall, with a rattling noise. He looked up.
Nin it was, but the change in him was at first sight awful.
His face was lined and parchment-like. There were puckers about his eyes, which looked sunken. He might have passed for ten years older than Wolf. For a long instant his look met hers as though he did not see her. Then suddenly there awoke, in his bewildered stare, something that resembled the Ninian she had known. With a swift movement he thrust the tress of hair into his breast pocket, snatched up what lay upon the grass, and with a flicker, a characteristic glance, he opened fire.
"Ah, well, you haven't succeeded in growing any taller, you know, in spite of all your new dignities." His manner, at least, was unchanged, though his voice sounded forced and unnatural.
His words pulled Olwen together wonderfully. She had been on the very verge of self-betrayal—of a burst of silly tears. The familiar mocking seemed to put them back at once, just at the place where they left off, and she summoned her strength to fence with him as of old. "Yes," she replied, with a conventional smile, not moving forward, but speaking from her post in the entrance. "I am still a mouse, as your brother reminded me the other day; only the country mouse has become a town mouse."
A quiver crossed his face as her voice was heard. "Oh," he said, "so you really are, are you? I've once or twice thought I saw you before to-day—slipping round a corner or peeping over a wall; but never face to face like this. How did you get here?"
"My car is waiting at Twice-Brewed. I have walked from there, and am very hot. I didn't expect to find you here."
"Obviously not," he replied, with a grin which showed his teeth to be as good as ever. "You looked as if you had found a black-beetle in the sugar-basin. However, I'm not a fixture, you know." As he spoke, he laid down the thing he held in his hand, as it were furtively, on the stone at the farther side of him, out of sight.
Determined to know what this was, she came suddenly forward and sank on the grass at his feet with a flutter of white skirts. The manoeuvre found him unprepared. Quickly he covered the little square bit of card with his hand; but her eyes were very keen, and she had seen that it was her own photo. She remembered that she had extracted it from a drawer while at the Pele, with the intention of sending it to her father, and had placed it on the mantelshelf in her room. She had never noticed the fact that it was not among the things so carefully packed and returned after her departure.
Now, it told her all! She found him here, in this place, sacred to a memory which she alone could share; and with him he brought her picture and a tress of hair!
Her courage rose with one bound, for all doubt was solved. Her lips curved with mischief as she looked up at him provocatively, bold in the delightful knowledge that she was prettier than she used to be, and that her clothes set her off to the best advantage.
"Since you don't ask me to be seated, I do so without ceremony!"
"My manners have gone to pieces since I saw you last. Pretty annoying, isn't it, to think how you wasted time and instruction on me?"
"Oh," was her retort, "I'm not surprised. I remember you had decided that you could not keep it up! You prepared me for a lapse."
"It's worse than a lapse. It's what you might describe as adébâcleif you knew as much French as I do."
She was below him, facing him, and she looked up steadily at him as she replied:
"Ah, well, I suppose I shall have to begin all over again."
That moved him. "No, by God you don't—not again," he answered defiantly.
"Do you suppose that you can stop me, if my mind is made up?"
"Upon my word, you have the cheek of the——"
"Cheek! I should think I have. Don't be under the impression that you can browbeat me."
"If you'll take my advice, you'll run away to that car of yours as fast as your expensively shod feet will take you. I'm not good company to-day for the wealthy and frivolous."
"I know, you always did find me a bore. But you can't get rid of me so easily as all that. I had the intention of coming to the Pele to call upon Madam, but as we have met here, perhaps you will take this as a call—like the two ladies inPunch, who met while bathing? Now let us begin to talk properly, and remember as much as you can of the nice manners I once taught you. How is your mother, Mr. Guyse?"
His face, which had changed a dozen times as she teased him, settled into a scowl. "She is very ill," he said gruffly, "and she is getting worse. That's a topic I can't joke about."
"I don't ask you to joke. I think you ought to consider it very seriously. Madam needs change of air and scene. Why don't you take her away somewhere—say to the Riviera?"
He looked at her as if he could box her ears with pleasure. "Oh, just because I don't choose," he answered savagely. "I like to thwart her, just for the sake of thwarting her, as you ought to know by this time."
"I do know, but I like to force you to admit it," said she with a demure smile. "I am wondering whether I could not do something to help cheer her up. I often think with regret of the fact that I refused to do what she wanted me to do so badly. I—I wonder whether it would do any good now.... Or whether it is too late."
She pulled a blade of grass from beside her, and twisted it round her fingers, carefully keeping her eyes fixed upon it.
"Afraid I can't help you to a decision," he said harshly.
"Oh, yes, you can. In fact, it all depends on you," she replied, in a very small voice. "Do you remember our last talk at the Pele—when you came in to tea and I was so kind, I had kept yours hot for you, and I stayed to pour it out? And do you remember that on that occasion, in the intervals of drinking your tea, you did me the honour to ask me to marry you?"
"Did I? I must have been an ass."
"Well, perhaps you were. But I really am not sure. Perhaps I was the ass for saying NO. Anyway, it has been in my mind that I ought to have said Yes, on account of Madam. Don't you agree?"
He sprang to his feet. "Not in the humour to-day for any more twaddle," he said, laughing, with a catch in his breath. "I—I know I've been a beast and—and drawn this on myself, but have a little pity for me. This morning I've heard that the last blow has fallen. I'm now not merely a beggar but an outcast. I can't sit bandying words with you, I tell you I can't stand it."
She did not move, but answered with a quiet which disarmed him. "Well, I won't keep you long, but as we have met, I wish you would just put up with me for a few minutes longer. You have roused all my curiosity and I think you ought to satisfy it. What do you mean by saying that you are not merely a beggar but an outcast?"
"Just what I say. When I did the one thing I shall regret all my life, and asked you to marry me, I did think I had something to offer a woman. Now I've nothing. It is sold over my head—the Pele I mean—and I shall have to take Madam on my back and tramp the country, asking the charitable for shelter."
He had sunk down in his place again, and sat there, eyes fiercely fixed on the contemplation of his troubles.
"Oh, Nin," she said softly, "don't you think even having to marry me might be better than that? It does sound so uncomfortable for poor Madam."
He looked at her, marvelling at her cruelty, and made a shrinking movement, as if hurt. "Out there," he said, after a pause, "out in Griesslauen I used to think I had endured everything a man could, and that hereafter I might reckon myself immune to pain. But I—I expect you have the right. If you get any satisfaction out of baiting me, go on. It's up to me to take what you give."
She rose deliberately from where she had been sitting, and went away a few paces. He raised his head. She had gone to the door of the shed in which they had sheltered and stood staring in. After a while she turned slowly and caught his look fixed upon her. The colour flowed warm over her face.
"Perhaps," said she in a low voice, "perhaps your mother was right. It—it was very unconventional, wasn't it? Do you think—perhaps—on those grounds—I was wrong to say 'No'?"
He stood up, and his face was rigidly set. "I think you had better go," was all he said.
She turned to him, looking not into his face but somewhere about his second waistcoat button. "So you won't marry me on Madam's account—nor because it would be morecomme il faut. Would you marry me—now tell the truth—if by doing so you could get back the Pele?"
"No!" he shouted wrathfully. "No, no, and yet again no! I wouldn't marry you if you were hung all over with silver and gold—not if you were Venus and Diana rolled into one——"
"Well, well, well, you needn't make such a noise about it. I'm not a bit deaf—"
He broke off, seeming to swallow rage in gulps. For a moment he surveyed her critically, as if he sneered at her fine clothes, then he turned abruptly on his heel. "Good-bye," he said shortly, making for the entrance.