"Optimist!" said Kitty.
"Oh, no." The disclaimer came quickly. "Philosopher."
"I can't be philosophical, unluckily."
"My dear, we have no choice. It isn't we who move the pieces in the game."
A silence followed. Then, as Kitty vaguely murmured something about tea, St. John helped her out of the hammock, and together they strolled towards the house. They found tea in progress on the square lawn facing the sea and every one foregathered there. Nan, apparently in wild spirits, was fooling inimitably, and she bestowed a small, malicious smile on Kitty as she and Lord St. John joined the group around the tea-table.
It was a glorious afternoon. The sea lay dappled with light and shade as the sun and vagrant breezes played with it, while for miles along the coast the great cliffs were wrapt in a soft, quivering haze so that the lines and curves of their vari-coloured strata, and the bleak, sheer menace of their height, as they overhung the blue water lapping on the sands below, were screened from view.
"There are some heavenly sandwiches here," announced Nan. "That is, ifSandy has left any. Have you, Sandy?"
Sandy McBain grinned responsively. He was the somewhat surprising offspring of the union between Nan's Early Victorian aunt, Eliza, and a prosaic and entirely uninteresting Scotsman. Red-haired and freckled, with the high cheekbones of his Celtic forebears, he was a young man of undeniable ugliness, redeemed only by a pair of green eyes as kind and honest as a dog's, and by a voice of surprising charm and sweetness.
"Not many," he replied easily. "I gave you all the largest, anyway."
"Sandy says he hasn't left any," resumed Nan calmly.
"At least, only small ones. We mustn't blame him. What are they made of, Kitty? They'd beguile a fasting saint—let alone a material person like Sandy."
"Salmon paste and cress," replied Mrs. Seymour mildly.
"I bet any money its salmon and shrimp paste," declared Sandy. "And it's the vulgar shrimp which appeals."
He helped himself unostentatiously to another sandwich.
"Your eighth," commented Nan.
"It's the shrimpness of them," he murmured plaintively. "I can't help it."
"Well, draw the line somewhere," she returned. "If we're going to play duets after tea and you continue to absorb sandwiches at your present rate of consumption, you'll soon be incapable of detecting the inherent difference between a quaver and a semibreve."
"Then I shall count," said Sandy.
"No."
"Aloud," he added firmly.
"Sandy, you're a beast!"
"Not a bit. I believe I could compose a symphonic poem under the influence of salmon and shrimp sandwiches—if I had enough of them."
"You've had enough," retorted Nan promptly. "So come along and begin."
She swept him away to the big music-room, where a polished floor and an absence of draperies offered no hindrance to the tones of the beautiful Blüthner piano. Some of the party drifted in from the terrace outside as Sandy's long, boyish fingers began to move capably over the keys, extemporising delightfully.
"If he were only a little older," whispered Kitty to Lord St. John.
"Inveterate match-maker!" he whispered back.
Sandy pulled Nan down on to the music seat beside him.
"The Shrimp Symphonyin A flat minor, arranged for four hands," he announced. "Come on, Nan. Time, seven-four—"
"Sandy, don't be ridiculous!"
"Why not seven-four?"—innocently. "You have five-four. Come along.One, two, three, four, five, six, sev'n;one, two, three, four, five—"
And the next moment the two were improvising a farcical duet that in its way was a masterpiece of ingenious musicianship. Thence they passed on to more serious music until finally Sandy was persuaded to produce his violin—he had two, one of which, as he was wont to remark, "lodged" at Mallow. With the help of Penelope and Ralph Fenton, the afternoon was whiled away until a low-toned gong, reverberating through the house was a warning that it was time to dress for dinner, brought the impromptu concert to an abrupt end.
It was a soft, misty day when Trenby called to drive Nan over to the Trevithick Kennels—one of those veiled mornings which break about noon into a glory of blue sky and golden sunlight.
As she stepped into the waiting car, Roger stopped her abruptly.
"Go back and put on something thicker," he commanded. "It'll be chilly driving in this mist."
"But it's going to be hot later on," protested Nan.
"Yes, only it happens to be now that we're driving—and it will be cool again, in the evening when I bring you back."
Nan laughed.
"Nonsense!" she said and put her foot on the step of the car. Trenby, standing by to help her in, closed his hand firmly round her arm and held her back. His hawk's eyes flashed a little.
"I shan't take you unless you do as I say," he observed.
She stared at him in astonishment. Then she turned away as though to re-enter the house.
"Oh, very well," she replied airily.
Roger bit his lip, then followed her rapidly. He did not in the least like yielding his point.
"Come back, then—and catch a cold if you like!" he said ungraciously.
Nan paused and looked up at him.
"Do you think I should catch cold?"
"It's ten to one you would."
"Then I'll do as I'm bid and get an extra coat."
She went into the house, leaving Trenby rather taken aback by her sudden submission. But it pleased him, nevertheless. He liked a woman to be malleable. It seemed, to him a truly womanly quality—certainly a wifely one! Moreover, almost any man experiences a pleasant feeling of complacency when he thinks he has dominated a woman, even over so small a matter as to whether she shall wear an extra coat or not—although he generally fails to guess the origin of that attractive surrender and comfortably regards it as a tribute to his strong, masculine will-power. Few women are foolish enough to undeceive him.
"Will I do now?" asked Nan, reappearing and stepping lightly into the car.
Roger smiled approvingly and proceeded to tuck the rugs well round her. Then he started the engine and soon they were spinning down the drive which ran to the left of Mallow Court gardens towards the village. They flashed through St. Wennys and turned inland along the great white road that swept away in the direction of Trenby Hall, ten miles distant. The kennels themselves lay a further four miles beyond the Hall.
"Oh, how gorgeous it is!" exclaimed Nan, as their road cut through a wild piece of open country where, with the sea and the tall cliffs behind them, vista after vista of wooded hills and graciously sloping valleys unfolded in front of them.
"Yes, you get some fine scenery inland," replied Trenby. "And the roads are good for motoring. I suppose you don't ride?" he added.
"Why should you suppose that?"
"Well"—a trifle awkwardly—"one doesn't expect a Londoner to know much about country pursuits."
Nan smiled.
"Are you imagining I've spent all my life in a Seven Dials slum?" she asked serenely.
"No, no, of course not. But—"
"But country people take a very limited view of a Londoner. Wedosometimes get out of town, you know—and some of us can ride and play games quite nicely! As a matter of fact I hunted when I was about six."
Roger's face lightened, eagerly.
"Oh, then I hope you're staying at Mallow till the hunting season starts? I've a lovely mare I could lend you if you'd let me."
Nan shook her head and made a hasty gesture of dissent.
"Oh, no, no. Quite honestly, I've not ridden for years—and even if I took up riding once more I should never hunt again. I think"—she shrank a little—"it's too cruel."
Trenby regarded her with ingenuous amazement.
"Cruel!" he exclaimed. "Why, it's sport!"
"Magic word!" Nan's lips curled a little. "You say it's 'sport' as though that made it all right."
"So it does," answered Trenby contentedly.
"It may—for the sportsman. But as far as the fox is concerned, it's sheer cruelty."
Trenby drove on without speaking for a short time. Then he said slowly:
"Well, in a way I suppose you're right. But, all the same, it's the sporting instinct—the cultivated sporting instinct—which has made the Englishman what he is. It's that which won the war, you know."
"It's a big price to pay. Couldn't you"—a sudden charming smile curving her lips—"couldn't you do it—I mean cultivate the sporting instinct—by polo and things like that?"
"It's not the same." Trenby shook his head. "You don't understand. It's the desire to find your quarry, to go through anything rather than to let him beat you—no matter how done or tired you feel."
"It may be very good for you," allowed Nan. "But it's very bad luck on the fox. I wouldn't mind so much if he had fair play. But even if he succeeds in getting away from you—beatingyou, in fact—and runs to earth, you proceed to dig him out. I call thatmean."
Trenby was silent again for a moment. Then he asked suddenly:
"What would you do if your husband hunted?"
"Put up with it, I suppose, just as I should put up with his other faults—if I loved him."
Roger made no answer but quickened the speed of the car, letting her race over the level surface of the road, and when next he spoke it was on some quite other topic.
Half an hour later a solid-looking grey house, built in the substantial Georgian fashion and surrounded by trees, came into view. Roger slowed up as the car passed the gates which guarded the entrance to the drive.
"That's Trenby Hall," he said. And Nan was conscious of an impishly amused feeling that just so might Noah, when the Flood began, have announced: "That's my Ark.'"
"You've never been over yet," continued Roger. "But I want you to come one day. I should like you to meet my mother."
A queer little dart of fear shot through her as he spoke.
She felt as though she were being gradually hemmed in.
"It looks a beautiful place," she answered conventionally, though inwardly thinking how she would loathe to live in a solid, square mansion of that type, prosaically dull and shut away from the world by enclosing woods.
Roger looked pleased.
"Yes, it's a fine old place," he said. "Now for the kennels."
Nan breathed a sigh of relief. She had had one instant of anxiety lest he should suggest that, instead of lunching, as arranged, from the picnic basket safely bestowed in the back of the car, they should lunch at the Hall.
Another fifteen minutes brought them to the kennels, Denman, the first whip, meeting them at the gates. He touched his hat and threw a keen glance at Nan. The Master of the Trevithick was not in the habit of bringing ladies to see the kennels, and the whip and his wife had discussed the matter very fully over their supper the previous evening, trying to guess what it might portend. "A new mistress up at the 'All, I shouldn't wonder," asserted Mrs. Denman confidently.
"Hounds all fit, Denman?" asked Trenby in quick, authoritative tones.
"Yes, sir. All 'cept 'Wrangler there—'e's still a bit stiff on that near hind leg he sprained."
As he spoke, he held open the gate for Nan to pass in, and she glanced round with lively interest. A flagged path ran straight ahead, dividing the large paved enclosure reserved for youngsters from the iron-fenced yards inhabited by the older hounds of the pack; while at the back of each enclosure lay the sleeping quarters of roofed and sheltered benches. At the further end of the kennels stood a couple of cottages, where the whips and kennelman lived.
"How beautifully clean it all is!" exclaimed Nan.
The whip smiled with obvious delight.
"If you keep 'ounds, miss, you must keep 'em clean—or they won't be 'ealthy and fit to do their day's work. An' a day's hunting is a day's work for 'ounds, an' no mistake."
"How like a woman to remark about cleanliness first of all!" laughed Roger. "A man would have gone straight to look at the hounds before anything else!"
"I'm going now," replied Nan, approaching the bars of one of the enclosures.
It seemed to her as though she were looking at a perfect sea of white and tan bodies with slowly waving sterns, while at intervals from the big throats came a murmurous sound, rising now and again into a low growl, or the sharp snap of powerful jaws and a whine of rage as a couple or more hounds scuffled together over some private disagreement. At Nan's appearance, drawn by curiosity, some of them approached her gingerly, half-suspicious, half as though anxious to make friends, and, knowing no fear of animals, she thrust her hand through the bars and stroked the great heads and necks.
"Can't we go in? They're such dear things!" she begged.
"Better not," answered Roger. "They don't always like strangers."
"I'm not afraid," she replied mutinously. "Do just open the gate, anyway—please!"
Trenby hesitated.
"Well—" He yielded unwillingly, but Nan's eyes were rather difficult to resist when they appealed. "Open the gate, then, Denman."
He stood close behind her when the gate was opened, watching the hounds narrowly, and now and again uttering an imperative, "Down, Victor! Get down, Marquis!" when one or other of the great beasts playfully leapt up against Nan's side, pawing at her in friendly fashion. Meanwhile Denman had quietly disappeared, and when he returned he carried a long-lashed hunting-crop in his hand.
Nan was smoothing first one tan head, then another, receiving eager caresses from rough, pink tongues in return, and insensibly she had moved step by step further into the yard to reach this or that hound as it caught her attention.
"Come back!" called Trenby hastily. "Don't go any further."
Perhaps the wind carried his voice away from her, or perhaps she was so preoccupied with the hounds that the meaning of his words hardly penetrated her mind. Whichever it may have been, with a low cry of, "Oh, you beauty!" she stepped quickly towards Vengeance, one of the best hounds in the pack, a fierce-looking beast with a handsome head and sullen month, who had been standing apart, showing no disposition to join the clamorous, slobbering throng at the gate.
His hackles rose at Nan's sudden movement towards him, and as she stretched out her hand to stroke him the sulky head lifted with a thunderous growl. As though at a given signal the whole pack seemed to gather round her.
Simultaneously Vengeance leaped, and Nan was only conscious of the ripping of her garments, the sudden pressure of hot bodies round her, and of a blurred sound of hounds baying, the vicious cracking of a whip, and the voices of men shouting.
She sank almost to her knees, instinctively shielding her head and throat with her arms, borne to the ground by the force of the great padded feet which had struck her. Open jaws, red like blood, and gleaming ivory fangs fenced her round. Instantaneously there flashed through her mind the recollection of something she had once been told—that if one hound turns on you, the whole pack will turn with him—like wolves.
This was death, then—death by those worrying, white-fanged mouths—the tearing of soft, warm flesh from her living limbs and afterwards the crushing of her bones between those powerful jaws.
She struck out, struggling gamely to her feet, and visioned Denman cursing and slashing at the hounds as he drove them off. But Vengeance, the untamed, heedless of the lash which scored his back a dozen times, caught at her ankle and she pitched head foremost into the stream of hot-breathed mouths and struggling bodies. She felt a huge weight fling itself upon her—Vengeance, springing again at his prey—and even as she waited for the agony of piercing fangs plunged into her flesh, Trenby's voice roared in her ears as he caught the big, powerful brute by its throat and by sheer, immense physical strength dragged the hound off her.
Meanwhile the second whip had rushed out from his cottage to render assistance and the whistling of the long-lashed hunting-crops drove through the air, gradually forcing the yelping hounds into submission. In the midst of the shouting and commotion Nan felt herself lifted up by Roger as easily as though she were a baby, and at the same moment the whirling lash of one of the men's hunting-crops cut her across the throat and bosom. The red-hot agony of it was unbearable, and as Trenby bore her out of the yard he felt her body grow suddenly limp in his arms and, glancing down, saw that she had lost consciousness.
When Nan came to herself again it was to find she was lying on a hard little horse-hair sofa, and the first object upon which her eyes rested was a nightmare arrangement of wax flowers, carefully preserved from risk of damage by a glass shade.
She was feeling stiff and sore, and the strangeness of her surroundings bewildered her—the sofa upholstered in slippery American cloth and hard as a board to her aching limbs, the waxen atrocity beneath its glass shade standing on a rickety table at the foot of the couch, the smallness of the room in which she found herself.
"Where am I?" she asked in a weak voice that was hardly more than a whisper.
Someone—a woman—said quickly: "Ah, she's coming round!" and bustled, out of the room. Then came Roger's voice:
"You're all right, Nan—all right." And she felt his big hands close round her two slender ones reassuringly. "Don't be frightened."
She raised her head to find Roger kneeling beside the sofa on which she lay.
"I'm not frightened," she said. "Only—what's happened? . . . Oh, I remember! I was in the yard with the hounds. Did one of them bite me?"
"Yes, Vengeance just caught your ankle. But we've bathed it thoroughly—luckily he's only torn the skin a bit—and now I'm going to bind it up for you. Mrs. Denman's just gone to fetch some stuff for me to bind it with. You'll be quite all right again to-morrow."
With some difficulty Nan raised herself to a sitting position and immediately caught sight of a bowl on the ground filled with an ominous-looking reddish-coloured liquid.
"Good gracious! Has my foot been bleeding like that?" she asked, going rather white.
"Bless you, no, my dear!" Mrs. Denman, a cheery-faced countrywoman, had bustled in again, with some long strips of linen to serve as a bandage. "Bless you, no! That's just a drop of Condy's fluid, that is, so's your foot shouldn't get any poison in it."
"That's right, Mrs. Denman," said Roger. "Give me that linen stuff now, and then get me some more hot water."
Nan watched him lift and skilfully bandage the slightly damaged foot. He held it carefully, as though it were something very precious, but delicate as was his handling she could not help wincing once as the bandage accidentally brushed a rather badly scratched ankle. Trenby paused almost breathlessly. The hand in which he held the white, blue-veined foot shook a little.
"Did I hurt? I'm awfully sorry." His voice was gruff. "What he wanted to do was to crush the slim, bruised foot against his lips. The very touch of its satiny skin against his hand sent queer tremors through every nerve of his big frame.
"There!" he said at last, gently letting her foot rest once more on the sofa. "Is that comfortable?"
"Quite, thanks." Then, turning to the whip's wife as she re-entered the room carrying a jug of hot water, she went on, with that inborn instinct of hers to charm and give pleasure: "What a nice, sunny room you have here, Mrs. Denman. I'm afraid I'm making a dreadful mess of it. I'm so sorry."
"Don't mention it, miss. 'Tis only a drop of water to clear away, and it's God mercy you weren't killed, by they savage 'ounds."
Nan bestowed one of her delightful smiles upon the good woman, who, leaving the hot water in readiness; hurried out to tell her husband that if Miss Davenant was going to be mistress of the Hall, why, then, 'twould be a lucky day for everyone concerned, for a nicer, pleasanter-spoken young lady—and she just come round from a faint and all!—she never wished to meet.
Nan put her hand up to her throat.
"Something hurts here," she said in a troubled voice. "Did one of the hounds leap up at my neck?"
"No," replied Trenby, frowning as his eyes rested on the long red wealstriping the white flesh disclosed by the Y-shaped neck of her frock."One of those dunder-headed fools cut you with his whip by mistake.I'd like to shoot him—and Vengeance too!"
With a wonderfully gentle touch he laid a cloth wrung out in hot water across the angry-looking streak, and repeated the process until some of the swelling went down. At last he desisted, wiping dry the soft girlish throat as tenderly as a nurse might wipe the throat of a baby.
More than a little touched, Nan smiled at him.
"You're making a great fuss of me," she said. "After all, I'm not seriously hurt, you know."
"No," he replied briefly. "But you might have been killed. For a moment I thought youweregoing to be killed in front of my eyes."
"I don't know that it would have mattered, very much if I had been," she responded indifferently.
"It would have mattered to me." His voice roughened again: "Nan—Nan—"
He broke off huskily and, casting a swift glance at his face, she realised that the tide which had been gradually rising throughout the foregoing weeks of close companionship had suddenly come to its full and that no puny effort of hers could now arrest and thrust it back.
Roger had risen to his feet. His face was rather white as he stood looking down at her, and the piercing eyes beneath the oddly sunburnt brows held a new light in them. They were no longer cold, but burned down upon her with the fierce ardour of passion.
"What is it?" she whispered. The words seemed wrung from her against her will.
For a moment he made no answer, and in the pulsing silence which followed her low-breathed question Nan was aware of a swiftly gathering fear. She would have to make a decision within the next few moments—and she was not ready for it.
"Do you know"—Roger spoke very slowly—"Do you know what it would have meant to me if you had been killed just now?"
Nan shook her head.
"It would have meant the end of everything."
"Oh, I don't see why!" she responded quickly.
"Don't you?" He stooped over her and took her two slight wrists in his. "Then I'll tell you. I love you and I want you for my wife. I didn't intend to speak so soon—you know so little of me. But this last hour! . . . I can't wait any longer. I want you, Nan, I want you so unutterably that I won'ttakeno."
She tried to rise from the sofa. But in an instant his arms were round her, pressing her back, tenderly but determinedly, against the cushions.
"No, don't get up! See, I'll kneel here beside you. Tell me, Nan, when will you marry me?"
She was silent. What answer could she give him—she who had found one man's love vain and betwixt whom and the man she really loved there was a stern barrier set?
At her silence a swift fear seized him.
"Nan," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "Nan, is it—no good?" Then, as she still made no answer, he let his arms fall heavily to his side.
"God!" he muttered. And his eyes held a blank, dazed look like those of a man who has just received a blow.
Nan caught him by the arm.
"No, no, Roger!" she cried quickly. "Don't look like that! I didn't mean—"
The sudden expression of radiance that sprang into his face silenced the remainder of the words upon her lips—the words of explanation that should have been spoken.
"Then you do care, after all! Nan, there's no one else, is there?"
"No," she said very low.
He stretched out his arms and drew her gently within them, and for a moment she had neither the heart nor the courage to wipe that look of utter happiness from his face by telling him the truth, by saying blankly: "I don't love you."
He turned her face up to his and, stooping, kissed her with sudden passion.
"My dear!" he said, "my dear!" Then, after a moment:
"Oh, Nan, Nan, I can hardly believe that you really belong to me!"
Nan could hardly believe it either. It seemed just to havehappenedsomehow, and her conscience smote her. For what had she to give in return for all the love he was offering her? Merely a little liking of a lonely heart that wanted to warm itself at someone's hearth, and beyond that a terrified longing to put something more betwixt herself and Peter Mallory, to double the strength of the barrier which kept them apart. It wasn't giving Trenby a fair deal!
"Roger," she said, at last, "I don't think I'd better belong to you. No, listen!"—as he made a sudden movement—"I must tell you. Thereissomeone else—only we can't ever be more than friends."
Roger stared, at her with the dawning of a new fear in his eyes. When he spoke it was with a savage defiance.
"Then don't tell me! I don't want to hear. You're mine now, anyway."
"I think I ought—" she began weakly.
But he brushed her scruples aside.
"I'm not going to listen. You've said you'll marry me. I don't want to hear anything about the other men who were. I'm the man who is. And I'm going to drive you straight back to Mallow and tell everybody about it. Then I'll feel sure of you."
Faced by the irrevocableness of her action, Nan was overtaken by dismay. How recklessly, on the impulse of the moment, she had bartered her freedom away! She felt as though she were caught in the meshes of some net from which there was no escaping. A voice inside her head kept urging: "Time!Time!Give me time!"
"Please, Roger," she began with unwonted humility. "I'd rather you didn't tell people just yet."
But Trenby objected.
"I don't see that there's anything gained by waiting," he said doggedly.
"Time! . . .Time!" reiterated the voice inside Nan's head.
"To please me, Roger," she begged. "I want to think things over a bit first."
"It's too late to think things over," he answered jealously. "You've given me your promise. You don't want to take it back again?"
"Perhaps, when you know everything, you'll want me to."
"Tell me 'everything' now, then," he said grimly, "and you'll soon see whether I want you to or not."
Nan was fighting desperately to gain time. She needed it more than anything—time to think, time to weigh the pros and cons of the matter, time to decide. The past was pulling at her heart-strings, filling her with a sudden terror of the promise she had just given Roger.
"I can't tell you anything now," she said rather breathlessly. "I did try—a little while ago, and you wouldn't listen. You—youmustgive me a few days—you must! If you don't, I'll say 'no' now—at once!" her voice rising excitedly.
She was overwrought, strung up to such a pitch that she hardly knew what she was saying. She had been through a good deal in the last hour or two and Trenby realised it. Suddenly that grim determination of his to force her promise, to bind her his here and now, yielded to an overwhelming flood of tenderness.
"It shall be as you wish, Nan," he said very gently. "I know I'm asking everything of you, and that you're frightened and upset to-day. I ought not to have spoken. And—and I'm a lot older than you."
"Oh, it isn't that," replied Nan hastily, fearing he might be feeling sore over the disparity in their respective ages. She did not want him to be hurt about things that would never have counted at all had she loved him.
"Well, if I wait till Monday—that's four days—will that do?" he asked.
"Yes. I'll tell you then."
"Thank you"—very simply. He lifted her hands to his lips. "And remember," he added desperately, "that I love you, Nan—you're my whole world."
He paced the short length of the room and back, and when he came to her side again, every trace of emotion was wiped out of his face.
"Now I'm going to take you back home. Mrs. Denman"—smiling faintly—"says she'll put 'an 'assock' in the car for your damaged leg to rest on, so with rugs and that coat you were so averse to bringing I think you'll be all right."
He went to the table and poured out something in a glass.
"Drink that," he said, holding it towards her. "It'll warm you up."
Nan sniffed at the liquid in the glass and tendered it back to him with a grimace.
"It's brandy," she said. "I hate the stuff."
"You'll drink it, though, won't you?"—persuasively.
"No," shaking her head. "I can't bear the taste of it."
"But it's good for you." He stood in front of her, glass in hand."Come, Nan, don't be foolish. You need something before we start.Drink it up."
He held it to her lips, and Nan, too proud to struggle or resist like a child, swallowed the obnoxious stuff. As Trenby drove her home she had time to reflect upon the fact that if she married him there would be many a contest of wills between them. He roused a sense of rebellion in her, and he was unmistakably a man who meant to be obeyed.
Her thoughts went back to Peter Mallory. Somehow she did not think she would ever have found it difficult to obeyhim.
Kitty and her husband were strolling together on the terrace whenTrenby's car purred up the drive to Mallow.
"You're back very early!" exclaimed Kitty gaily. "Did you get bored stiff with each other, or what?" Then, as Roger opened the car door and she caught sight of Nan's leg stretched out in front of her under the rugs and evidently resting upon something, she asked with a note of fear in her voice: "Is Nan hurt? You've not had an accident?"
Roger hastily explained what had occurred, winding up:
"She's had a wonderful escape."
He was looking rather drawn about the month, as though he, too, had passed through a big strain of some kind.
"I'm as right as rain really," called out Nan reassuringly. "If someone will only unpack the collection of rugs and coats I'm bundled up with, I can hop out of the car as well as anybody."
Barry was already at the car side and as he lifted off the last covering, revealing beneath a distended silk stocking the bandaged ankle, he exclaimed quickly:
"Hullo! This looks like some sort of damage. Is your ankle badly hurt, old thing?"
"Not a bit—nothing but a few scratches," she answered. "Only Mrs. Denman insisted on my driving back with my leg up, and it would have broken her heart if I hadn't accepted her ''assock' for the journey."
She stepped rather stiffly out of the car, for her joints still ached, and Barry, seeing her white face and the heavy shadows beneath her eyes, put a strong, friendly arm round her shoulders to steady her.
"You've had a good shaking up, my dear, anyway," he observed with concern in his voice. "Look, I'm going to help you into the hall and put you on the big divan straight away. Then we'll discuss what's to be done with you," he added, smiling down at her.
"You won't let them keep me in bed, Barry, will you?" urged Nan as he helped her up the steps and into the great hall, its ancient panelling of oak gleaming like polished ebony in the afternoon sunlight.
Barry pulled thoughtfully at his big fair moustache.
"If Kitty says 'bed,' you know it'll have to be bed," he answered, his eyes twinkling a little.
Nan subsided on to the wide, cushioned divan.
"Nonsense!" she exclaimed crossly, "You don't stay in bed because you've scratched your ankle."
"No. But you must remember you've had a bit of a shock."
By this time Kitty and Roger had joined them, overhearing the last part of the conversation.
"Ofcourseyou'll go to bed at once," asserted Kitty firmly. "Will you give her a hand upstairs, Barry?"
"You see?" said Barry, regarding the patient humorously. "Come along,Nan! Shall I carry you or will you hobble?"
"I'llwalk," returned Nan with emphasis.
"Bed's much the best place for you," put in Roger.
He followed her to the foot of the staircase and, as he shook hands, said quietly:
"Till Monday, then."
"Where's Penelope?" asked Nan, as Barry assisted her upstairs with a perfectly unnecessary hand under her arm, since—as she curtly informed him—she had "no intention of accomplishing two faints in one day."
"Penelope is out with Fenton—need you ask?" And Barry chuckled good-humouredly. "Kitty fully expects them to return an engaged couple."
"Oh, I do hope they will!" cried Nan, bubbling up with the instantaneous feminine excitement which generally obtains when a love-affair, after seeming to hang fire, at last culminates in abonâ fideengagement. "Penny has kept him off so firmly all this time," she continued. "I can't think why, because it's perfectly patent to everybody that they're head over ears in love with each other."
Barry, who could have hazarded a very fair idea as to the reason why from odd scraps of information on the subject elicited from his wife, was silent a moment. Finally he said slowly:
"I shouldn't ask Penelope anything about it when she comes in, if I were you. If matters aren't quite settled between them yet, it might upset everything again."
Nan paused outside the door of her bedroom.
"But, my dear old Barry, what on earth is there to upset? There's no earthly obstacle to their marrying that I can see!"
As she spoke she felt a sudden little qualm of apprehension. It was purely selfish, as she told herself with a twinge of honest self-contempt. But what should she do without Penelope? It would create a big blank for her if her best friend left her for a home of her own. Somehow, the inevitable reaction of Penelope's marriage upon her own life had not occurred to her before. It hurt rather badly now that the thought had presented itself, but she determined to ignore that aspect of the matter firmly.
"Well, I hope theywillcome back engaged," she declared. "Anyway, I won't say a word till one or other of them announces the good news."
"Better not," agreed Barry. "I think part of the trouble is this big American tour Fenton's been offered. It seems to have complicated matters."
There came a light footstep on the staircase and Kitty swished round the bend. Barry and Nan started guiltily apart, smiling deprecatingly at her.
"Nan, you ought to be in bed by now!" protested Kitty severely. "You're not to be trusted one minute, Barry, keeping her standing about talking like this."
She shoo'd her big husband away with a single wave of her arm and marshalled Nan into the bedroom. In her hand she carried a tray on which was a glass of hot milk.
"There," she continued, addressing Nan. "You've got to drink that while you're undressing, and then you'll sleep well. And you're not to come down to-morrow except for dinner. I'll send your meals up—you shan't be starved! But you must have a thorough rest."
"Oh, Kitty!" Nan's exclamation was a positive wail of dismay.
Kitty cheerfully dismissed any possibility of discussion.
"It's quite settled, my dear. You'll be feeling it all far worse to-morrow than to-day. So get into bed now as quickly as possible."
"This milk's absolutely boiling," complained Nan irritably. "I can't drink it."
"Then undress first and drink it when you're in bed. I'll brush your hair for you."
It goes without saying that Kitty had her way—it was a very kind-hearted way—and before long Nan was sipping her glass of milk and gratefully realising the illimitable comfort which a soft bed brings to weary limbs.
"By the way, I've some news for you," announced Kitty, as she sat perched on the edge of the bed, smoking one of the tiny gold-tipped cigarettes she affected.
"News? What news?"
"Well, guess who's coming here?"
Nan named one or two mutual friends, only to be met by a triumphant negative. Finally Kitty divulged her secret.
"Why, Peter Mallory!"
The glass in Nan's hand jerked suddenly, spilling a few drops of the milk.
"Peter?" She strove to keep all expression out of her voice.
"Yes. He finds he can come after all. Isn't it jolly?"
"Very jolly."
Nan's tones were so non-committal that Kitty looked at her with some surprise.
"Aren't you pleased?" she asked blankly. She was relying tremendously on Peter's visit to restore Nan to normal, and to prevent her from making the big mistake of marrying Roger Trenby, so that the lukewarm reception accorded to her news gave her a qualm of apprehension lest his advent might not accomplish all she hoped.
"Of course I'm pleased!" Nan forced the obviously expected enthusiasm into her affirmative, then, swallowing the last mouthful of milk with an effort, she added: "It'll be topping."
Kitty took the glass from her and with an admonishing, "Now try and have a good sleep," she departed, blissfully unconscious of how effectually she herself had just destroyed any possibility of slumber.
Peter coming! The first thrill of pure joy at the thought of seeing him again was succeeded by a rush of apprehension. She felt herself caught up into a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. The idea of marriage with Roger Trenby seemed even more impossible than ever with the knowledge that in a few days Peter would be there, close beside her with that quiet, comprehending gaze of his, while every nerve in her body would be vibrating at the mere touch of his hand.
In the dusk of her room, against the shadowy background of the blind-drawn windows, she could visualise each line of his face—the level brows and the steady, grey-blue eyes under them—eyes that missed so little and understood so much; the sensitive mouth with those rather tired lines cleft each side of it that deepened when he smiled; the lean cheek-bones and squarish chin.
She remembered them all, and they kept blotting out the picture of Roger as she had so often seen him—big and bronzed by the sun—when he came striding over the cliffs to Mallow Court. The memory was like a hand holding her back from casting in her lot with him.
And then the pendulum swung back and she felt that to marry—someone, anyone—was the only thing left to her. She was frightened of her love for Peter. Marriage, she argued, would be—mustbe—a shield and buckler against the cry of her heart. If she were married she would be able to stifle her love, crush it out, behind those solid, unyielding bars of conventional wedlock.
The fact of Peter's own marriage seemed to her rather dream-like. There lay the danger. They had never met until after his wife had left him, so that her impression of him as a married man was necessarily a somewhat vague and shadowy one.
But there would be nothing vague or shadowy about marriage with Trenby! That Nan realised. And, utterly weary of the persistent struggle in her heart, she felt that it might cut the whole tangle of her life once and for all if she passed through the strait and narrow gate of matrimony into the carefully shepherded fold beyond it. After all, most women settled down to it in course of time, whether their husbands came up to standard or not. If they didn't, the majority of wives contrived to put up with the disappointment, and probably she herself would be so fully occupied with the putting up part of the business that she would not have much time in which to remember Peter.
But perhaps, had she known the inner thoughts of those women who have been driven into the "putting up" attitude towards their husbands, she would have realised that memories do not die so easily.
As Nan, who had reluctantly complied with Kitty's stern decree that she must rest in bed during the greater part of the following day, at last descended from her room, she discovered, much to her satisfaction, that her ankle had ceased to pain her. But she still felt somewhat stiff and sore after the knocking about of the previous day.
At dinner she was astonished to find that the house-party had decreased by one. Ralph Fenton was absent.
"He left for town this morning, by the early train from St. Wennys Halt," explained Kitty. "He was—was called away very suddenly," she added blandly, in answer to Nan's surprised enquiries.
A somewhat awkward pause ensued, then everybody rushed into conversation at once, so that Nan could only guess that some contretemps must have occurred between Penelope and the singer of which she was in ignorance. As soon as dinner was at an end she manoeuvred Kitty into a corner and demanded an explanation.
"Why has Ralph gone away?" she asked. "And why did you look so uncomfortable when I asked about him? And why did Penelope blush?"
"Could I have them one at a time?" suggested Kitty mildly.
"You can have them combined into one. Tell me, what's been happening to-day?"
"Well, I gather that Ralph has been offering his hand and heart toPenelope."
"It seems to be epidemic," murmured Nansotto voce.
"What did you say?"
"Only that it seems an odd proceeding for a newly-engaged young man to go careering off to London immediately."
"But he isn't engaged—that's just it. Penelope refused him."
"Refused him? But—but why?" asked Nan in amazement.
"You'd better ask her yourself. Perhaps you can get some sense out of her—since you appear to be the chief stumbling-block."
"Yes. I saw Ralph before he went away. He seemed very down on his luck, poor dear! He's been trying to persuade Penelope to say yes and to fix an early date for their wedding, as he's got the offer of a very good short tour in America—really thumping fees—and he won't accept it unless she'll marry him first and go with him."
"Well, I don't see how that's my fault."
"In a way it is. The only reason Penelope gave him as to why she wouldn't consent was that she will never marry as long as you need her."
Nan digested this information in silence. Then she said quietly:
"If that's all, you can take off your sackcloth and ashes and phoneRalph at his hotel to come back here to-morrow. I'll—I'll talk toPenelope to-night."
Kitty stared at her in surprise.
"You seem very sure of the effect of your persuasions," she answered dubiously.
"I am. Quite sure. It won't take me five minutes to convince Penelope that there is no need for her to remain in a state of single blessedness on my account. And now, I'm going out of doors to have a smoke all by myself. You were quite right"—smiling briefly—"when you said I should feel everything more to-day than yesterday. Do keep people away from me, there's a good soul."
Kitty gave her a searching glance. But for two spots of feverishly vivid colour in her cheeks, the girl's face was very pale, and her eyes over-bright, with heavy shadows underlying them.
"Very well," she said kindly. "Tuck yourself up in one of the lounge chairs and I'll see that no one bothers you."
But Nan was in no mood for a lounge chair. Lighting a cigarette, she paced restlessly up and down the flagged path of the quadrangular court, absorbed in her thoughts.
It seemed to her as though Fate had suddenly given her a gentle push in the direction of marriage with Roger. She knew now that Penny had refused Ralph solely on her account—so that she might not be left alone. If she could go to her and tell her that she herself was about to marry Trenby, then the only obstacle which stood in the way of Penelope's happiness would be removed. Last night her thoughts had swung from side to side in a ceaseless ding-dong struggle of indecision, but this new factor in the matter weighted the scales heavily in favour of her marrying Trenby.
At last she made up her mind. There were two chances, two avenues which might lead away from him. Should both of these be closed against her, she would yield to the current of affairs which now seemed set to sweep her into his arms.
She would use her utmost persuasions to induce Penelope to marry Ralph Fenton, irrespective of whether she herself proposed to enter the matrimonial state or not. That was the first of her two chances. For if she succeeded in prevailing upon Penelope to retract her refusal of Ralph, she would feel that she had dealt at least one blow against the fate which seemed to be driving her onward. The urgency of that last push towards Roger would be removed! Then if Penelope remained obdurate, to-morrow she would tell Trenby frankly that she had no love, but only liking, to give him, and she would insist upon his facing the fact that there had been someone else in her life who had first claim upon her heart. That would be her other chance. And should Roger—as well he might—refuse to take second best, then willy-nilly she would be once more thrust forth into the troublous sea of longing and desire. But if he still wanted her—why, then she would have been quite honest with him and it would seem to be her destiny to be his wife. She would leave it at that—leave it for chance, or fate, or whatever it is that shapes our ends, to settle a matter that, swayed as she was by opposing forces, she was unable to decide for herself.
She heaved a sigh of relief. After those wretched, interminable hours of irresolution, when love, and fear of that same love, had tortured her almost beyond bearing, it was an odd kind of comfort to feel that she had given herself two chances, and, if both failed, to know that she must abide by the result.
The turmoil of her mind drove her at last almost insensibly towards the low, wide wall facing the unquiet sea. Here she sat down, still absorbed in her thoughts, her gaze resting absently on the incoming tide below. She was conscious of a strange feeling of communion with the shifting, changeful waters.
As far as eye could see the great billows of the Atlantic, silver-crested in the brilliant moonlight, came tumbling shoreward, breaking at last against the inviolate cliffs with a dull, booming noise like the sound of distant guns. Then came the suction of retreat, as the beaten waves were hurled backwards from the fierce headlands in a grey tumult of surging waters, while the big stones and pebbles over which they swirled clashed and ground together, roaring under the pull of the outgoing current—that "drag" of which any Cornish seaman will warn a stranger in the grave tones of one who knows its peril.
To right and left, at the foot of savage cliffs black against the silver moonlight, Nan could see the long combers roll in and break into a cloud of upflung spray, girdling the wild coast with a zone of misty, moonlit spray that must surely have been fashioned in some dim world of faëry.
She sat very still, watching the eternal battle between sea and shore, and the sheer splendour of it laid hold of her, so that for a little while everything that troubled her was swept away. For the moment she felt absolutely happy.
Always the vision, of anything overwhelmingly beautiful seemed to fill her soul, drawing with it the memories of all that had been beautiful in life. And watching this glory of moon and sea and shore, Nan felt strangely comforted. Maryon Rooke had no part in it, nor Roger Trenby. But her love for Peter and his for her seemed one and indivisible with it. That, and music—the two most beautiful things which had entered into her life.
. . . A bank of cloud, slowly spreading upward from the horizon, suddenly clothed the moon in darkness, wiping out the whole landscape. Only the ominous boom of the waves and the roar of the struggling beach still beat against Nan's ears.
The vision had fled, and the grim realities of life closed round her once again.
Late that evening she slipped into a loose wrapper—a very characteristic little garment of lace and ribbons and clinging silk—and marched down the corridor to Penelope's room. The latter was diligently brushing her hair, but at Nan's abrupt entrance she laid down the brush resignedly. She had small doubt as to the primary cause of this late visit.
"Well?" she said, a faintly humorous twinkle gleaming in the depths of her brown eyes, although there were tired shadows underneath them. "Well?"
"Yes, you dear silly woman, of course you know what I've come about," responded Nan, ensconcing herself on the cushioned window seat.
"I'd know better if you were to explain."
"Then—in his words—why have you refused Ralph Fenton?"
"Oh, is that it?"—indifferently. "Because I don't want to marry—at present." And Penelope picked up her brush and resumed the brushing of her hair as though the matter were at an end.
"So that's why you told him—as your reason for refusing him—that you wouldn't marry him as long as I needed you?"
The hair-brush clattered to the floor.
"The idiot!—I suppose he told Kitty?" exclaimed Penelope, making a dive after her brush.
"Yes, he did. And Kitty told me. And now I've come to tell you that I entirely decline to be a reason for your refusing to marry a nice young man like Ralph."
Penelope was silent, and Nan, coming over to her side, slipped an arm about her shoulders.
"Dear old Penny! It was just like you, but if you think I'm going to let you make a burnt-offering of yourself in that way, you're mistaken. Do you suppose"—indignantly—"that I can't look after myself?"
"I'm quite sure of it."
"Rubbish! Why, I've got Kitty and Uncle David and oh! dozens of people to look after me!"
Penelope's mouth set itself in an obstinate line.
"I shall never marry till you do, Nan . . . because not one of the 'dozens' understand your—your general craziness as well as I do."
Nan laughed.
"That's rude—though a fairly accurate statement. But still, Penny dear, just to please me, will you marry Ralph?"
"No"—with promptitude—"I certainly won't. If I married him at all, it would be to please myself."
"Well," wheedled Nan, "wouldn't it please you—really?"
"We can't always do as we please in this world."
Nan grimaced.
"Hoots, lassie! Now you're talking like Aunt Eliza."
Penelope continued brushing her hair serenely and vouchsafed no answer.
Nan renewed the attack.
"It amounts to this, then—that I've got to get married in order to letRalph marry you!"
"Of course it doesn't!"
"Well, answer me this: If I were going to be married, would you giveRalph a different answer?"
"I might"—non-committally.
"Then you may as well go and do it. As Iamgoing to be married—toRoger Trenby."
"To Roger! Nan, you don't mean it? It isn't true?"
"It is—perfectly true. Have you anything to say against it?"—defiantly.
"Everything. He's the last man in the world to make you happy."
"Time will decide that. In any case he's coming on Monday for my answer. And that will be 'yes.' So you and Ralph can have your banns put up with a clear conscience—as the only just cause and impediment is now removed."
Penelope was silent.
"You ought to be rather pleased with me than otherwise," insisted Nan.
When at length Penelope replied, it was with a certain gravity.
"My dear, matrimony is one of the affairs of life in which it is fatal to accept second best. You can do it in hats and frocks—it's merely a matter of appearances—although you'll never get quite the same satisfaction out of them. But you can't do it in boots and shoes. You have to walk in those—and the second best wear out at once. Matrimony is the boots and shoes of life."
"Well, at least it's better to have the second quality—than to go barefoot."
"I don't think so. Nan, do wait a little. Don't, in a fit of angry pique over Maryon Rooke, go and bind yourself irrevocably to someone else."
"Penny, the bluntness of your methods is deplorable. Instead of insinuating that I am accepting Roger as apis-aller, it would be more seemly if you would congratulate me and—wish me luck."
"I do—oh, I do, Nan. But, my dear—"
"No buts, please. Surely I know my own business best? I assure you,Roger and I will be a model couple—an example, probably, to you andRalph! You'll—you'll say 'yes' to him to-morrow when he comes backagain, won't you, Penny?"
"He isn't coming back to-morrow."
"I think he is." Nan smiled. "You'll say 'yes' then?"
Penelope looked at her very straightly.
"Would you marry Roger in any case—whether I accepted Ralph or not?" she asked.
Nan lied courageously.
"I should marry Roger in any case," she answered quietly.
A long silence ensued. Presently Nan broke it, her voice a little sharpened by the tension of the moment.
"So when Ralph comes back you'll be—kind to him, Penny? You'll give him the answer he wants?"
Penelope's face was hidden by a curtain of dark hair. After a moment an affirmative came softly from behind the curtain.
With a sudden impulse Nan threw her arms round her and kissed her.
"Oh, Penny! Penny! I do hope you'll beveryhappy!" she exclaimed in a stifled voice. Then slipped from the room like a shadow—very noiselessly and swiftly—to lie on her bed hour after hour staring up into the blackness with wide, tearless eyes until sheer bodily exhaustion conquered the tortured spirit which could find neither rest nor comfort, and at last she slept.