I"My dear man, where have you been buried? You don't seem to know anybody. That's Bobby Landon, Lord Fingarton's only son. Just about to pull offthemarriage of the season."I accepted the rebuke meekly: a spell of three years in Africa investigating the question of sleeping sickness does almost count as burial."Oh! is that Lord Landon?" I murmured, glancing across the crowded restaurant at a clean-looking youngster dining with a couple of men. "See—who is he engaged to?""You win the bag of nuts," laughed my fair informant. "Robert Landon, only son of Earl Fingarton of Fingarton, is about to marry Cecilie, youngest daughter of the Duke of Sussex. A fuller society announcement can be given if required, bringing out the pleasing union of two historic families in these socialistic days...." She laughed again. "But speaking the normal mother tongue, a first-class boy is marrying a topping girl, which is all that matters.""It's all coming back to me," I said, slowly. "I'm getting warm. There was another son, wasn't there, and he died.""I believe so," she answered; "in fact I know there was. But he died before I was born. That was the first wife's son. Daddy would be able to tell you all about that.""What's that, my dear?" My host leaned across the table with a smile."Sir Richard was asking me about Lord Fingarton's family history, old man," she remarked, brightly. "I was telling him that I was slightly on the youthful side, and that you would elucidate the matter in your well-known breezy style."It doesn't require much elucidation," he said, slowly. "It was a mixture of tragedy and good fortune....""I remember that the first son died, Bill, but..." I paused and waited for him to continue."He broke his neck in the hunting field the day after he came of age. And the accident broke his mother's heart. They were absolutely wrapped up in that boy—both of 'em.... Six months later she died in Scotland, at Fingarton...." He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, and unconsciously my eyes wandered to the youngster at the neighbouring table."And where exactly does the good-fortune part of it come in?" I asked at length."This way," he answered. "They idolized the boy, and he certainly was the first thing in their lives. But when he died, the thing that came only one degree behind their love for him of necessity took first place.... Family.... While he lived, the two things were synonymous: they both centred in the boy himself.... And he was a splendid boy—better even than this one." Again he paused, and smoked for a while in silence. "You see—Betty Fingarton was too old to have another child, when the accident took place ... I think that fact hastened her death. And the man who would have come into the title was an outsider of the purest water—a distant cousin of sorts.... Bob used to move about like a man in a dream—dazed with the tragedy of it all. But I remember that even then, before she died, he realized that her death would—how shall I put it—help matters. Not that he ever said anything: but I knew Bob pretty well those days ... I've lost sight of him a bit since.... It was a horrible position for the poor old chap. The Fingartons have kept their line direct since 1450. Family was his God ... and he idolized Betty. Then she died; and Bob married again.... Quite a nice girl, and she made him a thundering good wife.... But he told me the night before he married, that the price of duty could sometimes be passing high.... It was with him...."My host paused and sipped his brandy, while the girl at my side whispered a little breathlessly:"I didn't know all that, daddy. Poor old Uncle Bob!"I looked at her inquiringly, and she smiled."He's always been uncle to me," she explained. "Though lately I've hardly seen him at all.... He buries himself more and more up at Fingarton....""And what of the present Lady Fingarton?" I inquired."I like her—she's a dear," answered the girl. "Though I think daddy always compares her with the first one." Her father smiled, but said nothing. "She is generally here in Town.... She likes to be near Bobby...."For a while we were silent, while the soft strains of the orchestra stole through the smoke-laden air above the hum of conversation.... It had gripped me—the picture painted by Bill Lakington, in his short clipped sentences. The tragedy of it—and, as he had said, the good fortune too.... Duty: pride of family—aye, they have their price. Mayhap Betty Fingarton was paying her share in the knowledge that the next of the line was not her son.... Or did she, with clearer vision, understand the workings of the Great Architect, which at first must have seemed so inscrutable?..."When is the wedding?" I asked."In about a month," said the girl. "Everyone will be there.""Personally," I murmured, "I shall be one of the forty or fifty odd million who won't. So you can send me an account of it.""Where are you going, Sir Richard?""To a little village way up in the outskirts of Skye," I replied with a smile. "More burial, young lady—and more hard work.""You ought to take a bit of a rest, Dick," said Bill Lakington. "You deserve it....""After I've broken the back of the book, I shall," I answered."Are you writing a novel, Sir Richard?" inquired the girl."No such claim to immortality," I sighed. "My subject is the mode of life of Glossina palpales—with illustrations.""And who are they when they're at home?" she asked, dubiously."Flies—whose conduct is not above suspicion. Shall I present you with a copy?""Rather. As long as you don't expect me to read it.—Hullo! Bob. Going to anything to-night?""We're staggering to Daly's, old thing...." With a feeling of mild curiosity I glanced at the boy who had paused by our table on the way out: a clean-cut, good-looking youngster. No outsider, this future seventeenth earl, like the distant cousin.... Yes, one could see where the good fortune came in....We, too, were going to Daly's, and we all passed out of the restaurant together. I had a word or two with the youngster as we waited for the car: he was keen as mustard on hearing about Africa, and especially Uganda...."Everybody is tottering out to the country these days, Sir Richard, and 'pon my word, I don't blame 'em...""If they can, no more do I. But the head of the family can't go, my dear boy.... That's the drawback to responsibility.""Do you know Fingarton?" A gleam came into his eyes as he spoke."I'm afraid I don't," I answered. "I've never met your father.""Go and look him up, if you're in those parts," he said, impulsively. "It'll do the dear old governor good.... He's burying himself too much up there, and it's lonely for him.. I've written and written just lately, and I can't get any answer out of him.... I want him to come South—he will for my wedding, of course—but these last few months, if ever I do get a line from him, it's in reply to a letter about three weeks old....""Come on, Sir Richard...." Molly Lakington was calling me from the car.... "We mustn't miss the last part of the first act...."Undoubtedly not, and with a nod to the youngster I stepped into the car."A good lad that, Bill," I remarked."Aye ... a good lad.... But notquiteso good as the other," he answered, thoughtfully."He's good enough for Cecilie, anyway, old man, and that's saying a good deal," said Molly....By the light of a passing lamp I saw Bill Lakington's face. He was smiling quietly to himself, as a man smiles when he has his own opinion, but refuses to argue about it...."Besides, you scarcely knew the first son," pursued Molly. "I've heard you say so yourself.""No, my dear, but I knew the first wife," answered her father, still with the same quiet smile. Evidently, on the subject of Betty Fingarton, Bill was adamant.And at that moment we drew up at Daly's and the conversation ceased. We were in time for the last part of the first act as the girl had demanded—though apparently one priceless song about a Bowwow named Chow-chow had eluded us.... My sorrow at this failure on our part was heightened by the information that it was one of the best Fox Trots you could dance to.... I was very anxious to know what a Fox Trot was: in Uganda, as a form of amusement, it is in but little vogue....But we'd missed it, and though I endeavoured to bear up under the staggering blow, I found my attention wandering more and more from the stage, and centring round the story or the sixteenth Earl Fingarton and his first wife Betty.The picture of the old man, shutting himself up more and more in his Highland castle, waiting for the time when he could be relieved of duty, and go once more to the woman he loved, came between me and the stage....Hischild to carry on the line, but nothers.... But it would be carried on in direct descent—that was the great point—it would remain unbroken. The sacrifice of the father had had its reward...."There is Lady Fingarton in the box opposite," said Molly Lakington in my ear, as the lights went up at the end of the first act.... "Sitting next to Bobby ... and Cecilie on the other side."I glanced across the theatre. The youngster was just getting up to go out and smoke, and for a moment or two he bent over a lovely girl, who smiled up into his face. Then he turned to his mother, and she too smiled—a smile of perfect happiness. She was a sweet-looking woman of rising fifty, and on a sudden impulse I spoke my thoughts to Bill Lakington."He ought to come down, Bill: he oughtn't to bury himself. He'd like it—once he'd broken away. It's not fair to them—or himself. Why doesn't he?""I can't tell you, old man..." he answered, slowly. "I know no more than you. He's happy up North: when he does come he's always hankering to get back again.""But they go up there, I suppose?""Sometimes," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Sometimes. But never for long.... When shooting starts, and he has guests.""I agree with Sir Richard," said Molly, decidedly. "It's not fair. He's got the son he wanted, and now he sees as little of the woman who gave it him as he can.... He ought at any rate to pretend...."The orchestra was filing back: the smokers were returning to their seats. And as the safety-curtain rolled slowly up, I glanced once more across the theatre at Lady Fingarton. Did she feel that too? And it seemed to me that her eyes were weary.... He ought at any rate to pretend....IIAnd so, but for a strange turn in the wheel of fate, the matter would have rested as far as I was concerned. For an evening the story of the sixteenth Earl Fingarton and his wife Betty had appealed to my imagination, then stress of work drove it from my mind. In Scotland, especially in the Highlands, the fierce pride of family and clan seems natural and right: from time immemorial that pride has been a dominant trait of those who live there.And up in Skye, where I wandered for a while before settling down to work, the old Earl's action seemed easier to understand.... As a man, his heart had died with his wife Betty; as the sixteenth of his line, he had gone forth into the world, which had ceased to interest him, and taking unto himself another wife, had waited until she gave him a son. Then, his duty over, he had come back to his dead and his memories.... Callous, perhaps, to the living; primitive in his treatment of his second wife, as men of old were primitive in their treatment of women, regarding them as merely the bearers of their children—yet understandable.... Look on the glory of Glen Sligachan, and it is understandable. Country such as that in another part of the Highlands belonged to the Fingartons, and the breathless marvel of it is not to be lightly parted with. It must remain for a man's son, and his son's son ... a sacred heritage. There must be no outsider to break the line.Thus did it strike me as I settled down to work in the island that I loved. And then, as I have said, it gradually faded from my mind. Vast tracts of territory at present infested with sleeping sickness could, I felt convinced, be rendered immune from that dreadful scourge if my proposals were adopted. Starting from the point at which the German Commission under Professor Koch had left off, years before the war, I had carried his investigations several steps further. And I knew that I had been successful. So I found an undisturbed place to write, and quickly became absorbed in my task. Without undue conceit, I knew it was an important one....And then, one evening, after I had been working for about a fortnight, occurred the strange turn of the wheel which was to bring my attention back from the dark interior of Africa to things much nearer at hand. I had finished for the day, and was sitting by the open window watching the sun sink in a blaze of golden glory over the Coolin Hills, when a small urchin obtruded himself into my line of vision, and stared at me fixedly in the intervals of sucking his thumb. The inspection apparently proved satisfactory, and after a while the small urchin spoke. His language required interpretation by my landlady, but finally I gathered that the attentions of a medical man were wanted. And since the local doctor was away, he wanted to know whether I would come."It's for Mrs. MacDerry, sir," explained my landlady. "She's old and ailing fast."No doctor can disregard a call of such a sort, and though I had certainly not come to Skye with the idea of attending to the local man's practice during his absence, I followed my small guide to a little house some half a mile away. He left me at the door, and after a moment's hesitation I knocked. It was opened almost at once by a somewhat stern and forbidding-looking woman, who stared at me suspiciously, and then curtly inquired what I wanted."Nothing," I answered a little nettled by her tone. "But from the boy who led me here I gathered you wanted a doctor.""It was Doctor Lee I sent him for," she snapped."Well, Doctor Lee is out," I replied. "But doubtless he will be back soon, so I'll go away."I turned away distinctly annoyed at my reception, and was on the point of passing through the little gate when the woman overtook me."Are you a clever doctor?" she demanded."I have been told so," I remarked, suppressing a smile."Then come inside and see what you can do for my mistress.""Is your mistress Mrs. MacDerry?""Aye," she nodded. "It's herself." Without another word she turned and led the way up the narrow path, apparently taking it for granted that I would follow."What's the matter with your mistress?" I asked as I reached the door."If you're clever you'll find out for yourself," she remarked tersely, and again I suppressed a smile. An uncompromising handmaiden this....She left me alone in the room which in such houses is generally alluded to as the parlour, and while I waited I stared about me idly. And as I stared my vague curiosity gave way to acute surprise. Generally the furniture in such rooms must be seen to be believed: stuffed birds in glass domes, and beaded ornaments of incredible design meet one at every step. And should one lift one's eyes in a moment of panic to the walls, innumerable photographs of wedding groups leap at you in mute protest. But there was nothing of that sort in this room....Everything was in the most exquisite taste, from the bric-à-brac on a beautiful inlaid table, to the baby Grand standing in the corner. I glanced at some of the pictures, and my surprise changed to amazement. Three at least were genuine Corots.... And the next thing that caught my eye were half a dozen pieces of Sèvres...."Will you come this way, please?" The woman's harsh voice from the door interrupted my inspection, and I followed her slowly up the stairs.I found Mrs. MacDerry propped up in bed awaiting me. The bedroom, in the quick glance I took around it, seemed in keeping with the room below; then my attention centred on my patient. She was an old lady—sweet and fragile-looking as her own Sèvres china—and it needed but a glance to see that the fires were burning low. For Mrs. MacDerry the harbour was almost reached."It is good of you to come, Doctor——" She paused inquiringly."Morton is my name," I answered gently, drawing up a chair beside the bed."Doctor Lee seems to be out," she continued, "and—and..."Her voice died away, and she lay back on her pillows, while the harsh-voiced woman bent over her with a look of such infinite love on her weather-beaten face that I inwardly marvelled at the transformation."You see"—the invalid opened her eyes again as my fingers closed round the weak, fluttering pulse—"it's very important, Doctor Morton, that I should see my husband.... He has been up in London, and came down by the mail from Euston last night.... So he should be here in a few hours, shouldn't he?""He should," I answered, taking out a notebook and pencil. "Don't talk, Mrs. MacDerry ... just rest."I scribbled a few lines and handed the paper to the maid. I knew only the simplest drugs would be available, and it was going to be a stiff fight to keep the feeble flame alight even for a few hours."Either go yourself, or send the boy at once to the nearest chemist for those drugs," I whispered. "There's no time to be lost...."She left the room without a word, and once more the weak voice came from the bed."Can you do it, doctor; can you keep me ... till my husband comes?""Of course, Mrs. MacDerry, and long after he's come," I said, cheerfully; but she only shook her head with a faint smile."You can't deceive me," she whispered.... "Besides, I don't want to stay on.... It's finished—now; only I just want to hear from his own lips that it went off well.... That it's not all been in vain...."And then for a while she lay very still—so still that once I thought she had gone. But she stirred again, and said a few words which I could not catch. Faintly through the open window came the ceaseless murmur of the distant sea, while from a dozen cottages on the hillside opposite little yellow beams of light shone out serenely into the darkening night. And after a while I rose and lit the lamp, shading it from the face of the woman in the bed. One swift glance I stole at her, and she was sleeping with a look of ineffable peace on her face.... Then once more I sat down to wait....It was an hour before the maid returned with the drugs, and the slight noise she made as she entered the room roused the sleeper...."Has he come?" she cried, eagerly, only to sink back again with a tired sigh as the maid shook her head."He couldn't be here yet, Mrs. MacDerry," I said, reassuringly. "Not for an hour or two.... And now I want you to drink this, please...."Without a word she did as I told her, and once again closed her eyes.I beckoned to the maid. "Get a hot bottle. And a little brandy....""Can you do it, doctor?" she said, gripping my arm tight. "Can you let him see her alive?""Yes—I think so.... But he will have to come to-night."She left the room, and for a while I stood by the window staring out into the night. Was it my imagination, or did I see the head-lights of a car coming over the pass in the distance? He would have to come that way if he'd crossed from Kyle to Lochalsh.... But they had vanished again, and I couldn't remember if the road dipped behind a rise there or not...."Do you often go to London, Doctor Morton?" The invalid's voice was a little stronger, and I crossed to the bed."Very often, Mrs. MacDerry," I answered. "In fact, except when I'm abroad, I generally live there. At the moment I've come up here to work....""Ah! I see." ... She smiled faintly. "I haven't been to London for over twenty years. I haven't left Skye for over twenty years.... I suppose it's changed a lot....""Yes—I think you'd find it different to twenty years ago.... Motors everywhere instead of hansoms....""I've never been in a motor-car," she said, still with the same sweet smile. "I've been buried, doctor—just buried....""You could not have chosen a lovelier tomb," I answered, gently; and she nodded her head."Those are three delightful Corots you have downstairs," I continued after a moment. "I was admiring them before I came up...."She looked at me quickly."You know about such things, do you?""I'm a collector myself in a mild way," I answered."They belong to my husband," she said, abruptly; and once more closed her eyes. "Tell me, doctor," she continued after a while, "what is happening in London?""The usual things, Mrs. MacDerry.... In that respect I don't think there is much change since you were there. The world dances and goes to theatres as ever....""But is there no big event," she persisted, "in the season this year? ... No big ball ... or ... or marriage?""Why, yes," I answered, "there's a big marriage.... It's just taken place...." And though I saw those two fragile hands clenched tight, no suspicion dawned on me as I spoke. "Lord Fingarton's only son has just married the Duke of Sussex's youngest daughter....""And what do they say of Lord Fingarton's only son?" she demanded. "Is he a worthy successor of his father?""They say that he's a good lad," I answered. "I thought so myself when I spoke to him the other night....""You spoke to him?" she cried. "Tell me about him—everything you can...."And still I did not suspect.... I told her of the boy; I sketched him for her to the best of my ability, and she listened eagerly. And then when I had finished, something—I know not what—made me add one sentence for which, till my dying day, I shall be thankful."There is only one criticism," I said, "which I can make. And that was given by a man who knew the first Lady Fingarton well. Good though this boy is—he is notquiteso good as the one who died....""Who was the man who said that?" she whispered, breathlessly."Sir William Lakington—the great heart specialist," I answered, and at that moment clear and distinct through the still night came the thrumming of a motor-car."Is it—my husband?" She listened tensely, and I crossed to the window. The car had stopped outside the gate, and already a man was striding up the narrow path to the front door."He has come, Mrs. MacDerry," I said, cheerfully.... "Now I want you to have another drink of this...."I poured out the dose, and as I held the glass to her lips, the bedroom door gently opened and a man came in. I glanced up at him to ensure silence, and met a pair of piercing eyes, which were staring at me from under great bushy eyebrows. His huge frame seemed to fill the whole doorway; then, on tiptoe he crept towards the bed.I laid the glass down, and turned away. My part was over, save for a word of warning. And so I beckoned to him, and he followed me to the window."You have not got long, Mr. MacDerry," I whispered. "The sands are very low." It was then that I noticed a huge roll of illustrated papers under his arm. "I shall be downstairs: call me if you want me.""Is it the end?" he whispered, and I bowed gravely."It is the end," I answered.I heard him whisper, "Thank God I was in time"; and then I left them together.For maybe half an hour I sat in the room downstairs. Once the maid came in to know if I would have anything to eat, and after that the house grew very silent. Only the murmur of a man's deep voice above broke the stillness, and at length that, too, ceased. And then suddenly I heard him calling me from the landing, and went upstairs.One glance was enough, and he looked at my face and understood. Mechanically I stooped and picked up one of the papers that had slipped off the bed: then I moved away ... I could do no more for the sweet old lady: she had passed beyond all earthly aid.I put the paper on the table within the circle of light thrown by the lamp. It was a copy of theTatleropen at the page of photographs taken at the big wedding. There was one of young Landon and his bride—a good photo: and then I found myself staring foolishly at one of the others. I bent forward to examine it closer; there was no mistaking the great spare frame and thick eyebrows. Why had Robert, Sixteenth Earl of Fingarton, rushed post-haste from the wedding of his son to the death-bed of Mrs. MacDerry? And why had she called him—husband?...IIIIt was the following day that, closely muffled up, he came into my room as I worked."Do I disturb you, Sir Richard?" he asked as I rose.So he had made inquiries about my name.... "Not at all," I answered, gravely. "Sit down."He took the chair I indicated, and for a while he stared at me in silence."It was unfortunate that Doctor Lee was out," he said at length. "And Hannah—the maid—had naturally no idea who you were. I, on the contrary, know you well by reputation...."I bowed silently."And you know me, Sir Richard?"Again I bowed.For a while he drummed with his fingers on the table, then once again he fixed his piercing eyes on me."I want you to listen to a short story," he said, quietly. "It's very short, and"—his voice shook a little—"your reception of it is very important. I am no spinner of glib phrases: I have no tricks of speech to captivate your imagination. But I have an idea that the story I have to tell requires no assistance. Nearly fifty years ago a son was born to a certain man and his wife. He was their only child; the woman was not strong enough to have another. But that son was enough: he was the heir that was needed to an historic house.... And then there was an accident, and the boy broke his neck out hunting...."He broke off and stared out of the window."The woman was too old to have another child," he went on after a while, "and so it seemed that that historic name would pass out of the direct line. And it would go to a man who had recently been expelled from his London clubs for cheating at cards.... He was openly boasting of his good fortune: had already started to raise money on his prospects...." He paused again, his great fists clenched."A few months later the woman fell ill. And though she loved the man as it is given to few men to be loved, she was glad—for the sake of his family. She thought she was going to die, and then he could marry again.... She prayed to die, and her prayer was not heard, though maybe it was one of the most divinely unselfish prayers that a human heart has ever raised.... Then one night, as she was recovering, the man found her with a glass of something by her bedside.... And he didn't leave her till she had sworn that she would not take that way out...."He shifted restlessly in his seat. "It was about then that the plan was conceived. It was hazy at first, and the man would have none of it.... But after a while he began to think of it more and more.... And, one day, to his amazement he found that the woman had an unexpected ally in the shape of the heart specialist who was attending her.""Who was the heart specialist?" I asked, quietly."Sir William Lakington," he answered. "You see, Sir Richard, through a turn of fate, this man is in your hands. He has no intention of hiding anything from you.... That same day the prospective heir, who had married a barmaid, became the father of twin sons; and the man made up his mind. The woman died, and was buried in the family vault.... Such was the story that was told the world. And then, with the help of that great-hearted doctor, the woman was smuggled away. For twenty-four years she has lived by herself with only one maid—buried, scarce daring to leave the house, in case she should be recognized. Through those long years the man has visited her just now and then.... Not too often, again for fear of discovery, though when he did come he came disguised, save only last night, when nothing mattered but the fact that it was the end. And through those long years her only mainstay has been the knowledge that his son will succeed to the title—that the line is still direct.... Fate decreed it was not to be hers; but no word of complaint or disappointment has ever passed her lips. Maybe they did wrong—that man and that woman: maybe they sinned. But they did it for the best at the time, and when, ten years afterwards, the man who would have been the heir was confined in an inebriates' home, it seemed to them that they had been justified. And now in your hands, Sir Richard, rest the issue as to whether that sweet woman's sacrifice shall have been in vain.... Rests also the issue of a dreadful scandal...."The deep voice ceased, and I rose and stood by the window. The sun was glinting on the hills opposite, bathing them in a riot of purple and gold: a cart was moving lazily along the rough track below the house.... Maybe it had been a sin; who was I to judge? The risk was over now, the sacrifice finished. And God knows that sacrifice had been heavy. At the time they had done it for the best: that best was good enough for me."You have told me a very wonderful story, Mr. MacDerry," I said, as I turned and faced him. "For a short time I foolishly confused you with Lord Fingarton: I must apologize for my mistake. May I express my deepest sympathy with you in your terrible loss, and assure you that I will attend to all the necessary formalities with regard to Mrs. MacDerry's death?..."For a moment I thought he would break down: instead he took my hand and wrung it.... And then without a word he was gone.* * * * *It was a year later that I went with Bill Lakington to the christening of a man-child. They are not entertainments that I generally patronize, but this was an exception. Judging by the noise it contributed to the performance, it was a fine, lusty child: certainly its parents seemed more than usually idiotic about it."He's aged, Dick," said Bill to me after it was over. "Bob's aged badly."Coming towards us down the aisle was a tall gaunt man, whose piercing eyes gleamed triumphantly from under his bushy eyebrows. He stopped as he reached us, and held out a hand to each. And so for a moment we stood in silence.... Then he spoke:"The line is unbroken, old friends—the line is unbroken."Without another word he was gone.VII — The Real TestI"It depends entirely," remarked the Great Doctor, twirling an empty wine-glass in his long, sensitive fingers, "what you mean by fear. The common interpretation of the word—the method which I think you would use to portray it on the stage"—he turned to the Celebrated Actor, who was helping himself to a cigarette from a silver box on the table in front of him—"would show a nervous shrinking from doing a thing: a positive distaste to it—a probable refusal, finally, to carry out the action. And rightly or wrongly—but very naturally—that emotion is the object of universal scorn. But——" and the Great Doctor paused thoughtfully—"is there no more in fear than that?"The Well-known Soldier drained his port. "It would be a platitude to remark," he said, "that the successful overcoming of fear is the highest form of bravery.""That if, for instance, our young friend had overcome his fear this afternoon," said the Rising Barrister, "and had jumped in after that horrible little dog, it would have been an act of the highest bravery.""Or the most stupid bravado," supplemented the Celebrated Actor."Precisely my point," exclaimed the Great Doctor. "What is the dividing line between bravado and bravery?"The Well-known Soldier looked thoughtful. "The man," he said at length, "who exposes himself to being killed or wounded when there is no necessity, with probably—at the bottom of his mind—a desire to show off, is guilty of culpable bravado. The man who, when his battalion is faltering, exposes himself to certain death to hold them is brave.""Two extreme cases," answered the Doctor. "Narrow it down, General. What is the dividing line?""I suppose," murmured the Soldier, "when the results justify the sacrifice. No man has a right to throw his life away uselessly.""In those circumstances," said the Rising Barrister, "there can be no fixed dividing line. Every man must decide for himself; and what is bravery to you, might be bravado in me."The Doctor nodded. "Undoubtedly," he agreed. "And with a thoughtful man that decision may be very difficult. For the fraction of a second he will hesitate—weigh up the pros and cons; and even if he decides to do it finally, it may then be too late.""Only a fool would have gone in after that dog," said the Actor, dogmatically."Women love fools," answered the Barrister,à proposof nothing in particular; and the Celebrated Actor snorted contemptuously."Which is why the man who is reputed to know no fear is so universally popular," said the Soldier. "If such a man exists, he is most certainly a fool."The door opened and their hostess put her head into the room. "You men have got to come and dance," she cried. "There's no good looking at one another and hoping for bridge: you can have that afterwards."The strains of a gramophone came faintly from the drawing-room as they rose dutifully."I cannot perpetrate these new atrocities, dear lady," remarked the Soldier, "but if anybody would like to have a barn dance, I shall be happy to do my best.""Sybil shall take you in hand, Sir John," she answered, leading the way across the hall. "By the way, young Captain Seymour, the V.C. flying-man, has come up. Such a nice boy—so modest and unassuming."As they entered the room a fresh one-step had just started, and for a while they stood watching. The two sons of the house, just home from Eton, were performing vigorously with two pretty girls from a neighbouring place; while Sybil, their sister, who was to take the General in hand, floated past in the arms of a keen-eyed, bronzed young man who had won the V.C. for a flying exploit that read like a fairy-tale. The other two couples were girls dancing together; while, seated on a sofa, knitting placidly, were two elderly ladies."And where, Lady Vera," murmured the Actor to his hostess, "is our young friend Peter?"She frowned almost imperceptibly and looked away. "He disappeared after he left the dining-room," she remarked, shortly. "I suppose, in view of what occurred this afternoon, he prefers to be by himself."The Actor ran a delicate hand through his magnificent grey hair—it was a gesture for which he was famous—and regarded his hostess in surprise. "Even you, Lady Vera!" he remarked pensively. "I can understand these young girls blaming the boy; but for you—a woman of sense——" He shrugged his shoulders—another world-famed movement, feebly imitated by lesser lights."I don't think we will discuss the matter, Mr. Peering," she said, turning away a little abruptly.It had been a somewhat unpleasant incident at the time, and the unpleasantness was still apparently far from over. Madge Saunderson, one of the girls stopping in the house, had been the owner of a small dog of rat-like appearance and propensities, to which she had been devoted. She shared this devotion with no one, the animal being of the type that secretes itself under chairs and nips the ankle of the next person who unsuspectingly sits down. However,De mortuis... And since its violent death that afternoon, Toots—which was the animal's name—had been invested with a halo. Its atrocious habits were forgotten: it lived in everyone's memory as poor little Toots.It was over its death that Peter Benton had made himself unpopular. Not far from the house there was a disused mill, past which, at certain times of the year, the water poured in a black, evil-looking torrent, emerging below into a deep pond cupped out in the rocks. For a hundred yards before the stream came to the old mill-wheel the slope of the ground affected it to such an extent that, if much rain had fallen in the hills above, the current was dangerous. The water swirled along, its smoothness broken only by an occasional eddy, till with ever-increasing speed it dropped sheer into the pond, twenty feet below. Occasionally battered things were found floating in that pond—stray animals which had got caught in the stream above; and twice since the mill had closed down twenty years ago a child had been discovered, bruised and dead, in the placid pool below the wheel. But, then, these had been small animals and children—quite unable to keep their feet. Whereas Peter Benton was a man, and tall at that.Into this stream, flooded more than usual with the recent rain, had fallen poor little Toots. Being completely blind in both eyes, it had serenely waddled over the edge of the small hand-bridge which spanned the water, and had departed, struggling feebly, towards the mill-wheel seventy yards away. At the moment of the catastrophe Peter Benton and Madge Saunderson were standing on the bridge, and her scream of horror rang out simultaneously with the splash.The man, seeing in an instant what had happened, raced along the bank, and overtook the dog when it had gone about half-way, at the point where the current quickened and seemed to leap ahead. And then had occurred the dreadful thing.According to the girl, afterwards, he just stood there and watched Toots dashed to pieces. According to the man—but, incidentally, he said nothing, which proved his cowardice, as the girl remarked. He had nothing to say. Instead of going into the water and seizing the dog, he had stood on the bank and let it drown. And he had no excuse. Of course, there would have been a certain element of risk; but no man who was a man would have thought of that. Not with poor little Toots drowning before his eyes.And his remark at the moment when she had rushed up to him, almost hysterical with grief, showed him to be—well, perhaps it would be as well not to say what she thought. Madge Saunderson had paused in her narrative at tea and consumed a sugar cake."Whatdidhe say, Madge?" asked Sybil Lethbridge."He said," remarked Miss Saunderson, "'Sorry. No bon, as they say. It really wasn't worth it—not for Toots.' Can you beat it?" she stormed. "'Not for Toots!' Poor little heart—drowning before that brute's eyes.""Of course," said Sybil, thoughtfully, "the mill-stream is very dangerous.""My dear Sybil," answered Madge Saunderson, coldly, "if you're going to take that point of view I have nothing more to say. But I'd like to know what you'd have said if it had been Ruffles."The terrier in question regarded the speaker with an expectant eye, in which thoughts of cake shone brightly."What happened then?" asked one of the audience."We walked in silence down to the pool below," continued Madge. "And there—we found him—my little Toots. He floated to the side, and Mr. Benton was actually daring enough to stoop down and pull him out of the water. It was then that he added insult to injury," she went on, in a voice of suppressed fury. "'Rotten luck, Miss Saunderson,' he said; 'but in a way it's rather a happy release for the poor little brute, isn't it? I'm afraid only your kind heart prevented him being put away years ago.'"A silence had settled on the room, a silence which was broken at length by Sybil."Hewasvery old, wasn't he?" she murmured. Madge Saunderson's eyes flashed ominously. "Eighteen," she said. "And I quite fail to see that that's any excuse. You wouldn't let an old man of ninety drown, would you—just because he was old? And Toots was quite as human as any old man, and far less trouble."Such had been the officialcommuniqué, issued to a feminine gathering at tea-time; in due course it travelled to the rest of the house-party. And, as is the way with such stories, it had not lost in the telling.Daisy Johnson, for instance, had retailed it with some gusto to the Rising Barrister."What a pity about Mr. Benton, isn't it?" she had murmured before dinner, moving a little so that the pink light from a lamp fell on her face. Pink, she reflected, was undoubtedly the colour she would have for all the shades when she had a house.The Rising Barrister regarded her casually. "What is a pity?" he asked."Haven't you heard?" she cried. "Why, this afternoon poor little Toots—Madge Saunderson's dog—fell into the mill-stream.""Thank God!" ejaculated the Barrister, brutally."Oh, I know he wasn't an attractive dog!" she said."Attractive!" he interrupted. "Why, the little beast's snorts reverberated through the house!""But still," she continued, firmly, "I don't think Mr. Benton should have let it drown before his eyes without raising a finger to save it. He stood stock-still on the bank—hesitating; and then it was too late. Of course, I suppose it was a little dangerous." She shrugged a delightful pair of shoulders gracefully. "I don't think most men would have hesitated." She glanced at the Rising Barrister as she spoke, and if he failed to alter the "most men" to his own advantage the fault was certainly not hers. It struck him suddenly that pink gave a most attractive lighting effect."Er—perhaps not," he murmured. "Still, I expect he was quite right, you know. One—er—should be very careful what one says in cases of this sort."Which was why a few minutes later he retailed the story to the Celebrated Actor, over a sherry-and-bitters."The faintest tinge of the yellow streak," he said, confidentially. "There was something or other in France—I don't exactly recall it at this moment. I know I heard something."But the Celebrated Actor flatly refused to agree. "I don't know anything about France," he said, firmly. "I know a lot about that dog. If a suitable occasion arises, I shall publicly propose a vote of thanks to young Benton. Would you believe me, sir, only yesterday, when outlining my part in my new play to Lady Vera and one or two others, the little brute bit me in the ankle! True, I had inadvertently trodden on it, but——" He waved a careless hand, as if dismissing such a trifling cause.From all of which it will be seen what the general feeling in the house was towards Peter Benton on the night in question. And Peter, a very discerning young man, was not slow to realize it. At first it had amused him; after a while he had become annoyed. More or less a stranger in the locality, he had not known the depth of the mill-stream; and he frankly admitted to himself that he had hesitated to go into that black, swirling water, not a stone's throw from the mill itself, in order to save a dog. He had hesitated, and in a second it had been too late. The dog had flashed past him, and he had watched it disappear over the fall by the wheel. It was only later that to him the additional reason of the dog's extreme age and general ill-health presented itself. And the additional reason had not added to his popularity with the animal's mistress.He quite saw her point of view: he was annoyed because no one apparently saw his. And he was far too proud to attempt any explanation—apart from seeing the futility of it. He could imagine the cold answer—"Doubtless you were perfectly right. Poor little Toots is dead now. Shall we consider the incident closed?"Savagely he kicked the turf on the lawn outside the window where they were dancing. For three in succession Sybil had had Captain Seymour as her partner, and Peter had hoped——"Oh, hang that horrible little dog!" he muttered to himself, striding viciously away into the garden.A brilliant moon was shining, flooding the country with a cold white light, in which things stood out almost as clearly as by day. Half a mile away an unfinished factory chimney, still with its scaffolding round it, rose sheer and black against the sky. Around it new works were being erected, and for a while Peter stood motionless, gazing at the thin column of bricks and mortar.Only that morning he had watched men at work on it, with almost a shudder. They looked like so many flies crawling over the flimsy boards, and he had waited while one workman had peered nonchalantly over the edge of his plank and indulged in a wordy warfare with the man below. It seemed that unless the latter mended his ways he would shortly receive a brick on his blinking nut; but it was the complete disregard for their dizzy height that had fascinated Peter. He could imagine few professions which he would less sooner join than that of steeplejack. And yet the funny thing was that on the occasions when he had flown he had not noticed any discomfort at all.Presumably there was some scientific reason for it—something which would account for the fact that, though he could fly at twenty times the height of St. Paul's without feeling giddy, on the occasion when he had looked over the edge of that great dome from the little platform at the top he had been overcome with a sort of dreadful nausea and had had to go back quickly."Why, Peter, what are you doing here all alone?" A voice behind him made him look round.For a moment the dog episode had gone out of his mind, and, with a quick smile, he took a step towards the speaker. "Why, Sybil," he said, "how topping you look! Isn't it a glorious night?" And then suddenly he remembered, and stopped with a frown."Peter," said the girl, quietly, "I want to hear about this afternoon from you, please.""Haven't you heard all there is to be heard?" he answered, a little bitterly. "Miss Saunderson's dog fell into the mill-stream. I failed to pull it out: to be strictly accurate, I failed to attempt to pull it out. That's all there is to it."They faced one another in the moonlight, and after a while the girl spoke again. "That's not like you. Peter. Why did you let it drown?""Because," said the man, deliberately, "I did not consider I was called on to risk my life to save a dog. Even poor little Toots," he added, cynically."Supposing it had been a child, Peter?" said the girl, gravely."My God!" answered the man, very low. "As bad as that, is it? Oh, my God!""They're saying things, Peter: all these people are saying things."The man thrust his hands into his pockets, and stared with brooding eyes at the black, lifeless chimney."Saying I'm a coward, are they?" He forced the words out. "What do you think, Sybil?"The girl bit her lip, and suddenly put her hand on his arm. "Oh, Peter," she whispered, "it wasn't like you—not a bit!""You think," he said, dispassionately, "that I should have been justified—more, that I ought to have jumped into the mill-stream in flood to save that dog?"But the girl made no answer: she only looked miserably at the man's averted face."I don't know," she said at length. "I don't know. It's so—so difficult to know what to say."Gently Peter Benton removed her hand from his arm. "That is quite a good enough answer for me, Sybil." He faced her gravely. "The thing is unfortunate, because I was going to ask you—to-night——" His jaw set and he turned away for a moment. Then he faced her again. "But never mind that now: the situation, as they say in Parliament, does not arise. I would like you, however, to know that I do not think about the matter at all. For one brief second this afternoon I did think about it; for the fraction of a minute I had made up my mind to go in after the dog. And then I realized how utterly unjustifiable such an action would be. Since that moment—as I say—I have not thought about the matter at all.""And supposing it had been Ruffles?" asked the girl, slowly.For a while the man hesitated. Then: "My decision would have been the same," he answered, turning on his heel.
I
"My dear man, where have you been buried? You don't seem to know anybody. That's Bobby Landon, Lord Fingarton's only son. Just about to pull offthemarriage of the season."
I accepted the rebuke meekly: a spell of three years in Africa investigating the question of sleeping sickness does almost count as burial.
"Oh! is that Lord Landon?" I murmured, glancing across the crowded restaurant at a clean-looking youngster dining with a couple of men. "See—who is he engaged to?"
"You win the bag of nuts," laughed my fair informant. "Robert Landon, only son of Earl Fingarton of Fingarton, is about to marry Cecilie, youngest daughter of the Duke of Sussex. A fuller society announcement can be given if required, bringing out the pleasing union of two historic families in these socialistic days...." She laughed again. "But speaking the normal mother tongue, a first-class boy is marrying a topping girl, which is all that matters."
"It's all coming back to me," I said, slowly. "I'm getting warm. There was another son, wasn't there, and he died."
"I believe so," she answered; "in fact I know there was. But he died before I was born. That was the first wife's son. Daddy would be able to tell you all about that."
"What's that, my dear?" My host leaned across the table with a smile.
"Sir Richard was asking me about Lord Fingarton's family history, old man," she remarked, brightly. "I was telling him that I was slightly on the youthful side, and that you would elucidate the matter in your well-known breezy style.
"It doesn't require much elucidation," he said, slowly. "It was a mixture of tragedy and good fortune...."
"I remember that the first son died, Bill, but..." I paused and waited for him to continue.
"He broke his neck in the hunting field the day after he came of age. And the accident broke his mother's heart. They were absolutely wrapped up in that boy—both of 'em.... Six months later she died in Scotland, at Fingarton...." He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, and unconsciously my eyes wandered to the youngster at the neighbouring table.
"And where exactly does the good-fortune part of it come in?" I asked at length.
"This way," he answered. "They idolized the boy, and he certainly was the first thing in their lives. But when he died, the thing that came only one degree behind their love for him of necessity took first place.... Family.... While he lived, the two things were synonymous: they both centred in the boy himself.... And he was a splendid boy—better even than this one." Again he paused, and smoked for a while in silence. "You see—Betty Fingarton was too old to have another child, when the accident took place ... I think that fact hastened her death. And the man who would have come into the title was an outsider of the purest water—a distant cousin of sorts.... Bob used to move about like a man in a dream—dazed with the tragedy of it all. But I remember that even then, before she died, he realized that her death would—how shall I put it—help matters. Not that he ever said anything: but I knew Bob pretty well those days ... I've lost sight of him a bit since.... It was a horrible position for the poor old chap. The Fingartons have kept their line direct since 1450. Family was his God ... and he idolized Betty. Then she died; and Bob married again.... Quite a nice girl, and she made him a thundering good wife.... But he told me the night before he married, that the price of duty could sometimes be passing high.... It was with him...."
My host paused and sipped his brandy, while the girl at my side whispered a little breathlessly:
"I didn't know all that, daddy. Poor old Uncle Bob!"
I looked at her inquiringly, and she smiled.
"He's always been uncle to me," she explained. "Though lately I've hardly seen him at all.... He buries himself more and more up at Fingarton...."
"And what of the present Lady Fingarton?" I inquired.
"I like her—she's a dear," answered the girl. "Though I think daddy always compares her with the first one." Her father smiled, but said nothing. "She is generally here in Town.... She likes to be near Bobby...."
For a while we were silent, while the soft strains of the orchestra stole through the smoke-laden air above the hum of conversation.... It had gripped me—the picture painted by Bill Lakington, in his short clipped sentences. The tragedy of it—and, as he had said, the good fortune too.... Duty: pride of family—aye, they have their price. Mayhap Betty Fingarton was paying her share in the knowledge that the next of the line was not her son.... Or did she, with clearer vision, understand the workings of the Great Architect, which at first must have seemed so inscrutable?...
"When is the wedding?" I asked.
"In about a month," said the girl. "Everyone will be there."
"Personally," I murmured, "I shall be one of the forty or fifty odd million who won't. So you can send me an account of it."
"Where are you going, Sir Richard?"
"To a little village way up in the outskirts of Skye," I replied with a smile. "More burial, young lady—and more hard work."
"You ought to take a bit of a rest, Dick," said Bill Lakington. "You deserve it...."
"After I've broken the back of the book, I shall," I answered.
"Are you writing a novel, Sir Richard?" inquired the girl.
"No such claim to immortality," I sighed. "My subject is the mode of life of Glossina palpales—with illustrations."
"And who are they when they're at home?" she asked, dubiously.
"Flies—whose conduct is not above suspicion. Shall I present you with a copy?"
"Rather. As long as you don't expect me to read it.—Hullo! Bob. Going to anything to-night?"
"We're staggering to Daly's, old thing...." With a feeling of mild curiosity I glanced at the boy who had paused by our table on the way out: a clean-cut, good-looking youngster. No outsider, this future seventeenth earl, like the distant cousin.... Yes, one could see where the good fortune came in....
We, too, were going to Daly's, and we all passed out of the restaurant together. I had a word or two with the youngster as we waited for the car: he was keen as mustard on hearing about Africa, and especially Uganda....
"Everybody is tottering out to the country these days, Sir Richard, and 'pon my word, I don't blame 'em..."
"If they can, no more do I. But the head of the family can't go, my dear boy.... That's the drawback to responsibility."
"Do you know Fingarton?" A gleam came into his eyes as he spoke.
"I'm afraid I don't," I answered. "I've never met your father."
"Go and look him up, if you're in those parts," he said, impulsively. "It'll do the dear old governor good.... He's burying himself too much up there, and it's lonely for him.. I've written and written just lately, and I can't get any answer out of him.... I want him to come South—he will for my wedding, of course—but these last few months, if ever I do get a line from him, it's in reply to a letter about three weeks old...."
"Come on, Sir Richard...." Molly Lakington was calling me from the car.... "We mustn't miss the last part of the first act...."
Undoubtedly not, and with a nod to the youngster I stepped into the car.
"A good lad that, Bill," I remarked.
"Aye ... a good lad.... But notquiteso good as the other," he answered, thoughtfully.
"He's good enough for Cecilie, anyway, old man, and that's saying a good deal," said Molly....
By the light of a passing lamp I saw Bill Lakington's face. He was smiling quietly to himself, as a man smiles when he has his own opinion, but refuses to argue about it....
"Besides, you scarcely knew the first son," pursued Molly. "I've heard you say so yourself."
"No, my dear, but I knew the first wife," answered her father, still with the same quiet smile. Evidently, on the subject of Betty Fingarton, Bill was adamant.
And at that moment we drew up at Daly's and the conversation ceased. We were in time for the last part of the first act as the girl had demanded—though apparently one priceless song about a Bowwow named Chow-chow had eluded us.... My sorrow at this failure on our part was heightened by the information that it was one of the best Fox Trots you could dance to.... I was very anxious to know what a Fox Trot was: in Uganda, as a form of amusement, it is in but little vogue....
But we'd missed it, and though I endeavoured to bear up under the staggering blow, I found my attention wandering more and more from the stage, and centring round the story or the sixteenth Earl Fingarton and his first wife Betty.
The picture of the old man, shutting himself up more and more in his Highland castle, waiting for the time when he could be relieved of duty, and go once more to the woman he loved, came between me and the stage....Hischild to carry on the line, but nothers.... But it would be carried on in direct descent—that was the great point—it would remain unbroken. The sacrifice of the father had had its reward....
"There is Lady Fingarton in the box opposite," said Molly Lakington in my ear, as the lights went up at the end of the first act.... "Sitting next to Bobby ... and Cecilie on the other side."
I glanced across the theatre. The youngster was just getting up to go out and smoke, and for a moment or two he bent over a lovely girl, who smiled up into his face. Then he turned to his mother, and she too smiled—a smile of perfect happiness. She was a sweet-looking woman of rising fifty, and on a sudden impulse I spoke my thoughts to Bill Lakington.
"He ought to come down, Bill: he oughtn't to bury himself. He'd like it—once he'd broken away. It's not fair to them—or himself. Why doesn't he?"
"I can't tell you, old man..." he answered, slowly. "I know no more than you. He's happy up North: when he does come he's always hankering to get back again."
"But they go up there, I suppose?"
"Sometimes," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Sometimes. But never for long.... When shooting starts, and he has guests."
"I agree with Sir Richard," said Molly, decidedly. "It's not fair. He's got the son he wanted, and now he sees as little of the woman who gave it him as he can.... He ought at any rate to pretend...."
The orchestra was filing back: the smokers were returning to their seats. And as the safety-curtain rolled slowly up, I glanced once more across the theatre at Lady Fingarton. Did she feel that too? And it seemed to me that her eyes were weary.... He ought at any rate to pretend....
II
And so, but for a strange turn in the wheel of fate, the matter would have rested as far as I was concerned. For an evening the story of the sixteenth Earl Fingarton and his wife Betty had appealed to my imagination, then stress of work drove it from my mind. In Scotland, especially in the Highlands, the fierce pride of family and clan seems natural and right: from time immemorial that pride has been a dominant trait of those who live there.
And up in Skye, where I wandered for a while before settling down to work, the old Earl's action seemed easier to understand.... As a man, his heart had died with his wife Betty; as the sixteenth of his line, he had gone forth into the world, which had ceased to interest him, and taking unto himself another wife, had waited until she gave him a son. Then, his duty over, he had come back to his dead and his memories.... Callous, perhaps, to the living; primitive in his treatment of his second wife, as men of old were primitive in their treatment of women, regarding them as merely the bearers of their children—yet understandable.... Look on the glory of Glen Sligachan, and it is understandable. Country such as that in another part of the Highlands belonged to the Fingartons, and the breathless marvel of it is not to be lightly parted with. It must remain for a man's son, and his son's son ... a sacred heritage. There must be no outsider to break the line.
Thus did it strike me as I settled down to work in the island that I loved. And then, as I have said, it gradually faded from my mind. Vast tracts of territory at present infested with sleeping sickness could, I felt convinced, be rendered immune from that dreadful scourge if my proposals were adopted. Starting from the point at which the German Commission under Professor Koch had left off, years before the war, I had carried his investigations several steps further. And I knew that I had been successful. So I found an undisturbed place to write, and quickly became absorbed in my task. Without undue conceit, I knew it was an important one....
And then, one evening, after I had been working for about a fortnight, occurred the strange turn of the wheel which was to bring my attention back from the dark interior of Africa to things much nearer at hand. I had finished for the day, and was sitting by the open window watching the sun sink in a blaze of golden glory over the Coolin Hills, when a small urchin obtruded himself into my line of vision, and stared at me fixedly in the intervals of sucking his thumb. The inspection apparently proved satisfactory, and after a while the small urchin spoke. His language required interpretation by my landlady, but finally I gathered that the attentions of a medical man were wanted. And since the local doctor was away, he wanted to know whether I would come.
"It's for Mrs. MacDerry, sir," explained my landlady. "She's old and ailing fast."
No doctor can disregard a call of such a sort, and though I had certainly not come to Skye with the idea of attending to the local man's practice during his absence, I followed my small guide to a little house some half a mile away. He left me at the door, and after a moment's hesitation I knocked. It was opened almost at once by a somewhat stern and forbidding-looking woman, who stared at me suspiciously, and then curtly inquired what I wanted.
"Nothing," I answered a little nettled by her tone. "But from the boy who led me here I gathered you wanted a doctor."
"It was Doctor Lee I sent him for," she snapped.
"Well, Doctor Lee is out," I replied. "But doubtless he will be back soon, so I'll go away."
I turned away distinctly annoyed at my reception, and was on the point of passing through the little gate when the woman overtook me.
"Are you a clever doctor?" she demanded.
"I have been told so," I remarked, suppressing a smile.
"Then come inside and see what you can do for my mistress."
"Is your mistress Mrs. MacDerry?"
"Aye," she nodded. "It's herself." Without another word she turned and led the way up the narrow path, apparently taking it for granted that I would follow.
"What's the matter with your mistress?" I asked as I reached the door.
"If you're clever you'll find out for yourself," she remarked tersely, and again I suppressed a smile. An uncompromising handmaiden this....
She left me alone in the room which in such houses is generally alluded to as the parlour, and while I waited I stared about me idly. And as I stared my vague curiosity gave way to acute surprise. Generally the furniture in such rooms must be seen to be believed: stuffed birds in glass domes, and beaded ornaments of incredible design meet one at every step. And should one lift one's eyes in a moment of panic to the walls, innumerable photographs of wedding groups leap at you in mute protest. But there was nothing of that sort in this room....
Everything was in the most exquisite taste, from the bric-à-brac on a beautiful inlaid table, to the baby Grand standing in the corner. I glanced at some of the pictures, and my surprise changed to amazement. Three at least were genuine Corots.... And the next thing that caught my eye were half a dozen pieces of Sèvres....
"Will you come this way, please?" The woman's harsh voice from the door interrupted my inspection, and I followed her slowly up the stairs.
I found Mrs. MacDerry propped up in bed awaiting me. The bedroom, in the quick glance I took around it, seemed in keeping with the room below; then my attention centred on my patient. She was an old lady—sweet and fragile-looking as her own Sèvres china—and it needed but a glance to see that the fires were burning low. For Mrs. MacDerry the harbour was almost reached.
"It is good of you to come, Doctor——" She paused inquiringly.
"Morton is my name," I answered gently, drawing up a chair beside the bed.
"Doctor Lee seems to be out," she continued, "and—and..."
Her voice died away, and she lay back on her pillows, while the harsh-voiced woman bent over her with a look of such infinite love on her weather-beaten face that I inwardly marvelled at the transformation.
"You see"—the invalid opened her eyes again as my fingers closed round the weak, fluttering pulse—"it's very important, Doctor Morton, that I should see my husband.... He has been up in London, and came down by the mail from Euston last night.... So he should be here in a few hours, shouldn't he?"
"He should," I answered, taking out a notebook and pencil. "Don't talk, Mrs. MacDerry ... just rest."
I scribbled a few lines and handed the paper to the maid. I knew only the simplest drugs would be available, and it was going to be a stiff fight to keep the feeble flame alight even for a few hours.
"Either go yourself, or send the boy at once to the nearest chemist for those drugs," I whispered. "There's no time to be lost...."
She left the room without a word, and once more the weak voice came from the bed.
"Can you do it, doctor; can you keep me ... till my husband comes?"
"Of course, Mrs. MacDerry, and long after he's come," I said, cheerfully; but she only shook her head with a faint smile.
"You can't deceive me," she whispered.... "Besides, I don't want to stay on.... It's finished—now; only I just want to hear from his own lips that it went off well.... That it's not all been in vain...."
And then for a while she lay very still—so still that once I thought she had gone. But she stirred again, and said a few words which I could not catch. Faintly through the open window came the ceaseless murmur of the distant sea, while from a dozen cottages on the hillside opposite little yellow beams of light shone out serenely into the darkening night. And after a while I rose and lit the lamp, shading it from the face of the woman in the bed. One swift glance I stole at her, and she was sleeping with a look of ineffable peace on her face.... Then once more I sat down to wait....
It was an hour before the maid returned with the drugs, and the slight noise she made as she entered the room roused the sleeper....
"Has he come?" she cried, eagerly, only to sink back again with a tired sigh as the maid shook her head.
"He couldn't be here yet, Mrs. MacDerry," I said, reassuringly. "Not for an hour or two.... And now I want you to drink this, please...."
Without a word she did as I told her, and once again closed her eyes.
I beckoned to the maid. "Get a hot bottle. And a little brandy...."
"Can you do it, doctor?" she said, gripping my arm tight. "Can you let him see her alive?"
"Yes—I think so.... But he will have to come to-night."
She left the room, and for a while I stood by the window staring out into the night. Was it my imagination, or did I see the head-lights of a car coming over the pass in the distance? He would have to come that way if he'd crossed from Kyle to Lochalsh.... But they had vanished again, and I couldn't remember if the road dipped behind a rise there or not....
"Do you often go to London, Doctor Morton?" The invalid's voice was a little stronger, and I crossed to the bed.
"Very often, Mrs. MacDerry," I answered. "In fact, except when I'm abroad, I generally live there. At the moment I've come up here to work...."
"Ah! I see." ... She smiled faintly. "I haven't been to London for over twenty years. I haven't left Skye for over twenty years.... I suppose it's changed a lot...."
"Yes—I think you'd find it different to twenty years ago.... Motors everywhere instead of hansoms...."
"I've never been in a motor-car," she said, still with the same sweet smile. "I've been buried, doctor—just buried...."
"You could not have chosen a lovelier tomb," I answered, gently; and she nodded her head.
"Those are three delightful Corots you have downstairs," I continued after a moment. "I was admiring them before I came up...."
She looked at me quickly.
"You know about such things, do you?"
"I'm a collector myself in a mild way," I answered.
"They belong to my husband," she said, abruptly; and once more closed her eyes. "Tell me, doctor," she continued after a while, "what is happening in London?"
"The usual things, Mrs. MacDerry.... In that respect I don't think there is much change since you were there. The world dances and goes to theatres as ever...."
"But is there no big event," she persisted, "in the season this year? ... No big ball ... or ... or marriage?"
"Why, yes," I answered, "there's a big marriage.... It's just taken place...." And though I saw those two fragile hands clenched tight, no suspicion dawned on me as I spoke. "Lord Fingarton's only son has just married the Duke of Sussex's youngest daughter...."
"And what do they say of Lord Fingarton's only son?" she demanded. "Is he a worthy successor of his father?"
"They say that he's a good lad," I answered. "I thought so myself when I spoke to him the other night...."
"You spoke to him?" she cried. "Tell me about him—everything you can...."
And still I did not suspect.... I told her of the boy; I sketched him for her to the best of my ability, and she listened eagerly. And then when I had finished, something—I know not what—made me add one sentence for which, till my dying day, I shall be thankful.
"There is only one criticism," I said, "which I can make. And that was given by a man who knew the first Lady Fingarton well. Good though this boy is—he is notquiteso good as the one who died...."
"Who was the man who said that?" she whispered, breathlessly.
"Sir William Lakington—the great heart specialist," I answered, and at that moment clear and distinct through the still night came the thrumming of a motor-car.
"Is it—my husband?" She listened tensely, and I crossed to the window. The car had stopped outside the gate, and already a man was striding up the narrow path to the front door.
"He has come, Mrs. MacDerry," I said, cheerfully.... "Now I want you to have another drink of this...."
I poured out the dose, and as I held the glass to her lips, the bedroom door gently opened and a man came in. I glanced up at him to ensure silence, and met a pair of piercing eyes, which were staring at me from under great bushy eyebrows. His huge frame seemed to fill the whole doorway; then, on tiptoe he crept towards the bed.
I laid the glass down, and turned away. My part was over, save for a word of warning. And so I beckoned to him, and he followed me to the window.
"You have not got long, Mr. MacDerry," I whispered. "The sands are very low." It was then that I noticed a huge roll of illustrated papers under his arm. "I shall be downstairs: call me if you want me."
"Is it the end?" he whispered, and I bowed gravely.
"It is the end," I answered.
I heard him whisper, "Thank God I was in time"; and then I left them together.
For maybe half an hour I sat in the room downstairs. Once the maid came in to know if I would have anything to eat, and after that the house grew very silent. Only the murmur of a man's deep voice above broke the stillness, and at length that, too, ceased. And then suddenly I heard him calling me from the landing, and went upstairs.
One glance was enough, and he looked at my face and understood. Mechanically I stooped and picked up one of the papers that had slipped off the bed: then I moved away ... I could do no more for the sweet old lady: she had passed beyond all earthly aid.
I put the paper on the table within the circle of light thrown by the lamp. It was a copy of theTatleropen at the page of photographs taken at the big wedding. There was one of young Landon and his bride—a good photo: and then I found myself staring foolishly at one of the others. I bent forward to examine it closer; there was no mistaking the great spare frame and thick eyebrows. Why had Robert, Sixteenth Earl of Fingarton, rushed post-haste from the wedding of his son to the death-bed of Mrs. MacDerry? And why had she called him—husband?...
III
It was the following day that, closely muffled up, he came into my room as I worked.
"Do I disturb you, Sir Richard?" he asked as I rose.
So he had made inquiries about my name.... "Not at all," I answered, gravely. "Sit down."
He took the chair I indicated, and for a while he stared at me in silence.
"It was unfortunate that Doctor Lee was out," he said at length. "And Hannah—the maid—had naturally no idea who you were. I, on the contrary, know you well by reputation...."
I bowed silently.
"And you know me, Sir Richard?"
Again I bowed.
For a while he drummed with his fingers on the table, then once again he fixed his piercing eyes on me.
"I want you to listen to a short story," he said, quietly. "It's very short, and"—his voice shook a little—"your reception of it is very important. I am no spinner of glib phrases: I have no tricks of speech to captivate your imagination. But I have an idea that the story I have to tell requires no assistance. Nearly fifty years ago a son was born to a certain man and his wife. He was their only child; the woman was not strong enough to have another. But that son was enough: he was the heir that was needed to an historic house.... And then there was an accident, and the boy broke his neck out hunting...."
He broke off and stared out of the window.
"The woman was too old to have another child," he went on after a while, "and so it seemed that that historic name would pass out of the direct line. And it would go to a man who had recently been expelled from his London clubs for cheating at cards.... He was openly boasting of his good fortune: had already started to raise money on his prospects...." He paused again, his great fists clenched.
"A few months later the woman fell ill. And though she loved the man as it is given to few men to be loved, she was glad—for the sake of his family. She thought she was going to die, and then he could marry again.... She prayed to die, and her prayer was not heard, though maybe it was one of the most divinely unselfish prayers that a human heart has ever raised.... Then one night, as she was recovering, the man found her with a glass of something by her bedside.... And he didn't leave her till she had sworn that she would not take that way out...."
He shifted restlessly in his seat. "It was about then that the plan was conceived. It was hazy at first, and the man would have none of it.... But after a while he began to think of it more and more.... And, one day, to his amazement he found that the woman had an unexpected ally in the shape of the heart specialist who was attending her."
"Who was the heart specialist?" I asked, quietly.
"Sir William Lakington," he answered. "You see, Sir Richard, through a turn of fate, this man is in your hands. He has no intention of hiding anything from you.... That same day the prospective heir, who had married a barmaid, became the father of twin sons; and the man made up his mind. The woman died, and was buried in the family vault.... Such was the story that was told the world. And then, with the help of that great-hearted doctor, the woman was smuggled away. For twenty-four years she has lived by herself with only one maid—buried, scarce daring to leave the house, in case she should be recognized. Through those long years the man has visited her just now and then.... Not too often, again for fear of discovery, though when he did come he came disguised, save only last night, when nothing mattered but the fact that it was the end. And through those long years her only mainstay has been the knowledge that his son will succeed to the title—that the line is still direct.... Fate decreed it was not to be hers; but no word of complaint or disappointment has ever passed her lips. Maybe they did wrong—that man and that woman: maybe they sinned. But they did it for the best at the time, and when, ten years afterwards, the man who would have been the heir was confined in an inebriates' home, it seemed to them that they had been justified. And now in your hands, Sir Richard, rest the issue as to whether that sweet woman's sacrifice shall have been in vain.... Rests also the issue of a dreadful scandal...."
The deep voice ceased, and I rose and stood by the window. The sun was glinting on the hills opposite, bathing them in a riot of purple and gold: a cart was moving lazily along the rough track below the house.... Maybe it had been a sin; who was I to judge? The risk was over now, the sacrifice finished. And God knows that sacrifice had been heavy. At the time they had done it for the best: that best was good enough for me.
"You have told me a very wonderful story, Mr. MacDerry," I said, as I turned and faced him. "For a short time I foolishly confused you with Lord Fingarton: I must apologize for my mistake. May I express my deepest sympathy with you in your terrible loss, and assure you that I will attend to all the necessary formalities with regard to Mrs. MacDerry's death?..."
For a moment I thought he would break down: instead he took my hand and wrung it.... And then without a word he was gone.
* * * * *
It was a year later that I went with Bill Lakington to the christening of a man-child. They are not entertainments that I generally patronize, but this was an exception. Judging by the noise it contributed to the performance, it was a fine, lusty child: certainly its parents seemed more than usually idiotic about it.
"He's aged, Dick," said Bill to me after it was over. "Bob's aged badly."
Coming towards us down the aisle was a tall gaunt man, whose piercing eyes gleamed triumphantly from under his bushy eyebrows. He stopped as he reached us, and held out a hand to each. And so for a moment we stood in silence.... Then he spoke:
"The line is unbroken, old friends—the line is unbroken."
Without another word he was gone.
VII — The Real Test
I
"It depends entirely," remarked the Great Doctor, twirling an empty wine-glass in his long, sensitive fingers, "what you mean by fear. The common interpretation of the word—the method which I think you would use to portray it on the stage"—he turned to the Celebrated Actor, who was helping himself to a cigarette from a silver box on the table in front of him—"would show a nervous shrinking from doing a thing: a positive distaste to it—a probable refusal, finally, to carry out the action. And rightly or wrongly—but very naturally—that emotion is the object of universal scorn. But——" and the Great Doctor paused thoughtfully—"is there no more in fear than that?"
The Well-known Soldier drained his port. "It would be a platitude to remark," he said, "that the successful overcoming of fear is the highest form of bravery."
"That if, for instance, our young friend had overcome his fear this afternoon," said the Rising Barrister, "and had jumped in after that horrible little dog, it would have been an act of the highest bravery."
"Or the most stupid bravado," supplemented the Celebrated Actor.
"Precisely my point," exclaimed the Great Doctor. "What is the dividing line between bravado and bravery?"
The Well-known Soldier looked thoughtful. "The man," he said at length, "who exposes himself to being killed or wounded when there is no necessity, with probably—at the bottom of his mind—a desire to show off, is guilty of culpable bravado. The man who, when his battalion is faltering, exposes himself to certain death to hold them is brave."
"Two extreme cases," answered the Doctor. "Narrow it down, General. What is the dividing line?"
"I suppose," murmured the Soldier, "when the results justify the sacrifice. No man has a right to throw his life away uselessly."
"In those circumstances," said the Rising Barrister, "there can be no fixed dividing line. Every man must decide for himself; and what is bravery to you, might be bravado in me."
The Doctor nodded. "Undoubtedly," he agreed. "And with a thoughtful man that decision may be very difficult. For the fraction of a second he will hesitate—weigh up the pros and cons; and even if he decides to do it finally, it may then be too late."
"Only a fool would have gone in after that dog," said the Actor, dogmatically.
"Women love fools," answered the Barrister,à proposof nothing in particular; and the Celebrated Actor snorted contemptuously.
"Which is why the man who is reputed to know no fear is so universally popular," said the Soldier. "If such a man exists, he is most certainly a fool."
The door opened and their hostess put her head into the room. "You men have got to come and dance," she cried. "There's no good looking at one another and hoping for bridge: you can have that afterwards."
The strains of a gramophone came faintly from the drawing-room as they rose dutifully.
"I cannot perpetrate these new atrocities, dear lady," remarked the Soldier, "but if anybody would like to have a barn dance, I shall be happy to do my best."
"Sybil shall take you in hand, Sir John," she answered, leading the way across the hall. "By the way, young Captain Seymour, the V.C. flying-man, has come up. Such a nice boy—so modest and unassuming."
As they entered the room a fresh one-step had just started, and for a while they stood watching. The two sons of the house, just home from Eton, were performing vigorously with two pretty girls from a neighbouring place; while Sybil, their sister, who was to take the General in hand, floated past in the arms of a keen-eyed, bronzed young man who had won the V.C. for a flying exploit that read like a fairy-tale. The other two couples were girls dancing together; while, seated on a sofa, knitting placidly, were two elderly ladies.
"And where, Lady Vera," murmured the Actor to his hostess, "is our young friend Peter?"
She frowned almost imperceptibly and looked away. "He disappeared after he left the dining-room," she remarked, shortly. "I suppose, in view of what occurred this afternoon, he prefers to be by himself."
The Actor ran a delicate hand through his magnificent grey hair—it was a gesture for which he was famous—and regarded his hostess in surprise. "Even you, Lady Vera!" he remarked pensively. "I can understand these young girls blaming the boy; but for you—a woman of sense——" He shrugged his shoulders—another world-famed movement, feebly imitated by lesser lights.
"I don't think we will discuss the matter, Mr. Peering," she said, turning away a little abruptly.
It had been a somewhat unpleasant incident at the time, and the unpleasantness was still apparently far from over. Madge Saunderson, one of the girls stopping in the house, had been the owner of a small dog of rat-like appearance and propensities, to which she had been devoted. She shared this devotion with no one, the animal being of the type that secretes itself under chairs and nips the ankle of the next person who unsuspectingly sits down. However,De mortuis... And since its violent death that afternoon, Toots—which was the animal's name—had been invested with a halo. Its atrocious habits were forgotten: it lived in everyone's memory as poor little Toots.
It was over its death that Peter Benton had made himself unpopular. Not far from the house there was a disused mill, past which, at certain times of the year, the water poured in a black, evil-looking torrent, emerging below into a deep pond cupped out in the rocks. For a hundred yards before the stream came to the old mill-wheel the slope of the ground affected it to such an extent that, if much rain had fallen in the hills above, the current was dangerous. The water swirled along, its smoothness broken only by an occasional eddy, till with ever-increasing speed it dropped sheer into the pond, twenty feet below. Occasionally battered things were found floating in that pond—stray animals which had got caught in the stream above; and twice since the mill had closed down twenty years ago a child had been discovered, bruised and dead, in the placid pool below the wheel. But, then, these had been small animals and children—quite unable to keep their feet. Whereas Peter Benton was a man, and tall at that.
Into this stream, flooded more than usual with the recent rain, had fallen poor little Toots. Being completely blind in both eyes, it had serenely waddled over the edge of the small hand-bridge which spanned the water, and had departed, struggling feebly, towards the mill-wheel seventy yards away. At the moment of the catastrophe Peter Benton and Madge Saunderson were standing on the bridge, and her scream of horror rang out simultaneously with the splash.
The man, seeing in an instant what had happened, raced along the bank, and overtook the dog when it had gone about half-way, at the point where the current quickened and seemed to leap ahead. And then had occurred the dreadful thing.
According to the girl, afterwards, he just stood there and watched Toots dashed to pieces. According to the man—but, incidentally, he said nothing, which proved his cowardice, as the girl remarked. He had nothing to say. Instead of going into the water and seizing the dog, he had stood on the bank and let it drown. And he had no excuse. Of course, there would have been a certain element of risk; but no man who was a man would have thought of that. Not with poor little Toots drowning before his eyes.
And his remark at the moment when she had rushed up to him, almost hysterical with grief, showed him to be—well, perhaps it would be as well not to say what she thought. Madge Saunderson had paused in her narrative at tea and consumed a sugar cake.
"Whatdidhe say, Madge?" asked Sybil Lethbridge.
"He said," remarked Miss Saunderson, "'Sorry. No bon, as they say. It really wasn't worth it—not for Toots.' Can you beat it?" she stormed. "'Not for Toots!' Poor little heart—drowning before that brute's eyes."
"Of course," said Sybil, thoughtfully, "the mill-stream is very dangerous."
"My dear Sybil," answered Madge Saunderson, coldly, "if you're going to take that point of view I have nothing more to say. But I'd like to know what you'd have said if it had been Ruffles."
The terrier in question regarded the speaker with an expectant eye, in which thoughts of cake shone brightly.
"What happened then?" asked one of the audience.
"We walked in silence down to the pool below," continued Madge. "And there—we found him—my little Toots. He floated to the side, and Mr. Benton was actually daring enough to stoop down and pull him out of the water. It was then that he added insult to injury," she went on, in a voice of suppressed fury. "'Rotten luck, Miss Saunderson,' he said; 'but in a way it's rather a happy release for the poor little brute, isn't it? I'm afraid only your kind heart prevented him being put away years ago.'"
A silence had settled on the room, a silence which was broken at length by Sybil.
"Hewasvery old, wasn't he?" she murmured. Madge Saunderson's eyes flashed ominously. "Eighteen," she said. "And I quite fail to see that that's any excuse. You wouldn't let an old man of ninety drown, would you—just because he was old? And Toots was quite as human as any old man, and far less trouble."
Such had been the officialcommuniqué, issued to a feminine gathering at tea-time; in due course it travelled to the rest of the house-party. And, as is the way with such stories, it had not lost in the telling.
Daisy Johnson, for instance, had retailed it with some gusto to the Rising Barrister.
"What a pity about Mr. Benton, isn't it?" she had murmured before dinner, moving a little so that the pink light from a lamp fell on her face. Pink, she reflected, was undoubtedly the colour she would have for all the shades when she had a house.
The Rising Barrister regarded her casually. "What is a pity?" he asked.
"Haven't you heard?" she cried. "Why, this afternoon poor little Toots—Madge Saunderson's dog—fell into the mill-stream."
"Thank God!" ejaculated the Barrister, brutally.
"Oh, I know he wasn't an attractive dog!" she said.
"Attractive!" he interrupted. "Why, the little beast's snorts reverberated through the house!"
"But still," she continued, firmly, "I don't think Mr. Benton should have let it drown before his eyes without raising a finger to save it. He stood stock-still on the bank—hesitating; and then it was too late. Of course, I suppose it was a little dangerous." She shrugged a delightful pair of shoulders gracefully. "I don't think most men would have hesitated." She glanced at the Rising Barrister as she spoke, and if he failed to alter the "most men" to his own advantage the fault was certainly not hers. It struck him suddenly that pink gave a most attractive lighting effect.
"Er—perhaps not," he murmured. "Still, I expect he was quite right, you know. One—er—should be very careful what one says in cases of this sort."
Which was why a few minutes later he retailed the story to the Celebrated Actor, over a sherry-and-bitters.
"The faintest tinge of the yellow streak," he said, confidentially. "There was something or other in France—I don't exactly recall it at this moment. I know I heard something."
But the Celebrated Actor flatly refused to agree. "I don't know anything about France," he said, firmly. "I know a lot about that dog. If a suitable occasion arises, I shall publicly propose a vote of thanks to young Benton. Would you believe me, sir, only yesterday, when outlining my part in my new play to Lady Vera and one or two others, the little brute bit me in the ankle! True, I had inadvertently trodden on it, but——" He waved a careless hand, as if dismissing such a trifling cause.
From all of which it will be seen what the general feeling in the house was towards Peter Benton on the night in question. And Peter, a very discerning young man, was not slow to realize it. At first it had amused him; after a while he had become annoyed. More or less a stranger in the locality, he had not known the depth of the mill-stream; and he frankly admitted to himself that he had hesitated to go into that black, swirling water, not a stone's throw from the mill itself, in order to save a dog. He had hesitated, and in a second it had been too late. The dog had flashed past him, and he had watched it disappear over the fall by the wheel. It was only later that to him the additional reason of the dog's extreme age and general ill-health presented itself. And the additional reason had not added to his popularity with the animal's mistress.
He quite saw her point of view: he was annoyed because no one apparently saw his. And he was far too proud to attempt any explanation—apart from seeing the futility of it. He could imagine the cold answer—"Doubtless you were perfectly right. Poor little Toots is dead now. Shall we consider the incident closed?"
Savagely he kicked the turf on the lawn outside the window where they were dancing. For three in succession Sybil had had Captain Seymour as her partner, and Peter had hoped——
"Oh, hang that horrible little dog!" he muttered to himself, striding viciously away into the garden.
A brilliant moon was shining, flooding the country with a cold white light, in which things stood out almost as clearly as by day. Half a mile away an unfinished factory chimney, still with its scaffolding round it, rose sheer and black against the sky. Around it new works were being erected, and for a while Peter stood motionless, gazing at the thin column of bricks and mortar.
Only that morning he had watched men at work on it, with almost a shudder. They looked like so many flies crawling over the flimsy boards, and he had waited while one workman had peered nonchalantly over the edge of his plank and indulged in a wordy warfare with the man below. It seemed that unless the latter mended his ways he would shortly receive a brick on his blinking nut; but it was the complete disregard for their dizzy height that had fascinated Peter. He could imagine few professions which he would less sooner join than that of steeplejack. And yet the funny thing was that on the occasions when he had flown he had not noticed any discomfort at all.
Presumably there was some scientific reason for it—something which would account for the fact that, though he could fly at twenty times the height of St. Paul's without feeling giddy, on the occasion when he had looked over the edge of that great dome from the little platform at the top he had been overcome with a sort of dreadful nausea and had had to go back quickly.
"Why, Peter, what are you doing here all alone?" A voice behind him made him look round.
For a moment the dog episode had gone out of his mind, and, with a quick smile, he took a step towards the speaker. "Why, Sybil," he said, "how topping you look! Isn't it a glorious night?" And then suddenly he remembered, and stopped with a frown.
"Peter," said the girl, quietly, "I want to hear about this afternoon from you, please."
"Haven't you heard all there is to be heard?" he answered, a little bitterly. "Miss Saunderson's dog fell into the mill-stream. I failed to pull it out: to be strictly accurate, I failed to attempt to pull it out. That's all there is to it."
They faced one another in the moonlight, and after a while the girl spoke again. "That's not like you. Peter. Why did you let it drown?"
"Because," said the man, deliberately, "I did not consider I was called on to risk my life to save a dog. Even poor little Toots," he added, cynically.
"Supposing it had been a child, Peter?" said the girl, gravely.
"My God!" answered the man, very low. "As bad as that, is it? Oh, my God!"
"They're saying things, Peter: all these people are saying things."
The man thrust his hands into his pockets, and stared with brooding eyes at the black, lifeless chimney.
"Saying I'm a coward, are they?" He forced the words out. "What do you think, Sybil?"
The girl bit her lip, and suddenly put her hand on his arm. "Oh, Peter," she whispered, "it wasn't like you—not a bit!"
"You think," he said, dispassionately, "that I should have been justified—more, that I ought to have jumped into the mill-stream in flood to save that dog?"
But the girl made no answer: she only looked miserably at the man's averted face.
"I don't know," she said at length. "I don't know. It's so—so difficult to know what to say."
Gently Peter Benton removed her hand from his arm. "That is quite a good enough answer for me, Sybil." He faced her gravely. "The thing is unfortunate, because I was going to ask you—to-night——" His jaw set and he turned away for a moment. Then he faced her again. "But never mind that now: the situation, as they say in Parliament, does not arise. I would like you, however, to know that I do not think about the matter at all. For one brief second this afternoon I did think about it; for the fraction of a minute I had made up my mind to go in after the dog. And then I realized how utterly unjustifiable such an action would be. Since that moment—as I say—I have not thought about the matter at all."
"And supposing it had been Ruffles?" asked the girl, slowly.
For a while the man hesitated. Then: "My decision would have been the same," he answered, turning on his heel.