"Dinna greet, ma bairnie," crooned Eliza. "Ma wee bairnie, greet nae mair."
It was not till late in the afternoon of the day following upon her flight from Mallow that Nan and Peter met again. He had, so Sandy informed her, walked over to the Court in order to see Kitty.
"I think he has some private affair of his own that he wants to talk over with her," explained Sandy.
"It's about his wife, I expect," answered Nan dully. "She's had sunstroke—and is ordered home from India."
"Poor devil!" The words rushed from Sandy's lips. "How rotten everything is!" he added fiercely, with youth's instinctive revolt against the inevitableness of life's pains and penalties.
"And I've hardly mended matters, have I?" she submitted rather bitterly.
He slipped a friendly arm round her neck.
"Don't you worry any," he said, with gruff sympathy. "Mallory's fixed up everything—and it all dovetails in neatly with Kitty's saying you were staying with friends for the night. You're stayinghere—do you see? And Mallory and the mater between 'em have settled that you're to prolong your visit for a couple of days—to give more colour to the proceedings, so to speak! You'll emerge without a stain on your character!" he went on, trying with boyish clumsiness to cheer her up.
"Oh, don't, Sandy!" Her lip quivered. "I—I don't think I mind much about that. I feel as if I'd stained my soul."
"Well, if there were no blacker souls around than yours, old thing, the world would be a darned sight nicer place to live in! And that's that."
Nan contrived a smile.
"Sandy, you're rather a dear!" she said gratefully.
And then Peter came in, and Sandy hastened to make himself scarce.
A dead silence followed his hurried exit. Nan found herself trembling, and for a moment she dared not lift her eyes to Peter's face for fear of what she might read there. At last:
"Peter," she said, without looking at him. "Are you still—angry with me?"
"What makes you think I am angry?"
She looked up at that, then shrank back from the bitter hardness in his face almost as though he had dealt her a blow.
"Oh, you are—you are!" she cried tremulously.
"Don't you think most men would be in the same circumstances?"
"I don't understand," she said very low.
"No? I suppose you wouldn't," he replied. "You don't seem to understand the meaning of the word—faithfulness. Perhaps you can't help it—you're half a Varincourt! . . . Don't you realise what you've done? You've torn down our love and soiled it—made it nothing! I believed in you as I believed in God. . . . And then you run away with Maryon Rooke! One man or another—apparently it's all the same to you."
She rose and drew rather timidly towards him.
"Has it—hurt you—like that?" she said whisperingly. "You didn't mind—about Roger. Not in the same way."
"Mind?"
The word came hoarsely, and his hands, hanging loosely at his sides, slowly clenched. All the anguish of thwarting, the torture of a man who knows that the woman he loves will be another man's wife, found utterance in that one short word. Nan shivered at the stark agony in his tone. She did not attempt to answer him. There was nothing she could say. She could only stand voiceless and endure the pain-racked silence which followed.
It seemed to her that an infinity of time dragged by before he spoke again. When he did, it was in quiet, level tones out of which every atom of emotion had been crushed.
"You were pledged to Trenby," he said slowly. "That was different. I couldn't ask you to break your pledge to him, even had I been free to do so. You were his, not mine. . . . But you had given no promise to Maryon Rooke."
The incalculable reproach and accusation of those last words seemed to burn their way right into her heart. In a flash of revelation the whole thing became clear to her. She saw how bitterly she had failed the man she loved in that mad moment when she had thrown up everything and gone away with Maryon.
Dimly she acquiesced in the fact that there were excuses to be made—the long strain of the preceding months, her illness, leaving her with weakened nerves, and, finally, Roger's outrageous behaviour in the studio that day. But of these she would not speak to Peter. Had he not saved her from herself she would have wrecked her whole life by now, and she felt that, to him, she could not make excuses—however valid they might be.
She had failed him utterly—failed in that faithfulness of the spirit without which love is no more than a sex instinct. She knew it must appear like this to him, although deep within herself she was conscious that it was not really so. In her heart there was a white flame that would burn only for Peter—an altar flame which nothing could touch or defile. And the men who loved her knew it. It was this, the knowledge that the inmost soul and spirit of her eluded him, which had kept Roger's jealous anger at such a dangerous pitch.
"There is only one thing." Peter was speaking again, still in the same curiously detached tones as before. It was almost as though he were discussing the affairs of someone else—affairs which did not concern him very vitally. "There's only one more thing to be said. You've made it easier for me to do—what I have to do."
"What you have to do?" she repeated.
"Yes. I've had a cable from India. My wife is no better, and I'm going out to bring her home."
"I'm sorry she's no better," said Nan mechanically.
He murmured a formal word of thanks and then once more the dreadful silence hemmed them round. A hesitating knock sounded on the door and, after a moment's discreet delay, Sandy's freckled face peered round the doorway.
"I'm afraid you must leave now, Mallory, if you're to catch the up train," he said apologetically. "Kitty is here, waiting to drive you to the station."
Together they all three went out into the drive where Kitty was sitting behind the wheel of the car, Eliza perched skittishly on the rubbered step, talking with her. Aunt Eliza's opinion of "that red-headed body" had altered considerably during the course of the last year.
"And mind an' look in on your way back," she insisted.
Kitty nodded.
"I will. I want to talk to Nan."
"Ye'll no' be too hard on her?" besought Eliza.
Kitty laughed.
"Aunt Eliza dear, you're the biggest fraud I know! Your severity's just a pretence,"—bending forward to kiss her—"and a very thin one at that."
Then she greeted Nan precisely as though nothing had happened since they had last met, and, with a handshake all round, Mallory stepped into the car beside her and was whirled away to the station.
"It seems years since yesterday morning," said Nan, when, after Kitty's return from the station, they found themselves alone together.
For once Kitty had diverged from her usual principle, and a little jar of red stuff was responsible for the colour in her cheeks. Her eyes still blenched at the remembrance of that day and night's anxiety which she had endured alone.
"Yes," she acquiesced simply. "It seems years." And then, bit by bit, she drew from Nan the whole story of her flight from Mallow and of the violent scene which had preceded it, when Roger had so ruthlessly destroyed the portrait.
"I don't think—Peter—will ever forgive me," went on Nan, with a quiet hopelessness in her voice that was infinitely touching. "He would hardly speak to me."
The coolly aloof man from whom she had parted an hour ago did not seem as though he could ever have loved her. He had judged and condemned her as harshly as might a stranger. He was a stranger—this new, stonily indifferent Peter who had said very little but, in the few words he had spoken, had seemed to banish her out of his life and heart for ever.
"My dear"—Kitty's accustomed vitality rose to meet the occasion. "He'll forgive you some day, when he understands. Probably only a woman could really understand what made you do it. In any case, as far as Peter's concerned, it was all so ghastly for him, coming when it did—last night! He must have felt as if the world were falling to pieces."
"Last night? Why should it have been worse last night?"
"Because he'd just had a cable from India—about ten minutes before Sandy arrived—telling him that his wife had gone mad, and asking him to fetch her home."
"Gone mad?" Nan's voice was hardly more than a whisper of horror.
"Yes. He'd had a letter a day or two earlier warning him that things weren't going right with her. You know, she's a frightfully restless, excitable woman, and after having sunstroke she was ordered to keep quiet and rest as much as possible until she was able to come home. She entirely declined to do either—rest, or come home. She continued to ride and dance and amuse herself exactly as if there were nothing the matter. Naturally, her brain became more and more excitable, and at the present moment she is practically mad. No one can manage her. So they've sent for Peter, and of course, like the angel he is, he goes. . . . I suppose it will end in his playing keeper to a half-crazed neurasthenic for the rest of his natural life. He'll be far too tender-hearted to put her in a home of any kind, however expensive and luxurious. He's—he's too idealistic for this world, is Peter!" And Kitty's voice broke a little.
Nan was silent. Her hands lay folded on her knee, but the slender fingers worked incessantly. Presently she got up very quietly and, without speaking, sought the sanctuary of her own room, where she could be alone.
She felt utterly crushed and despairing as she realised that just at the moment of Peter's greatest need she had failed him—spoiled the one thing that had counted in a life bare of happiness by robbing him of his faith and trust in the woman he loved.
If the Death-Angel had come at that moment and beckoned her to follow him, she would have gone gladly. But Death is not so kind. He does not come just because life has grown so hard and difficult to endure that we are asking for him.
Later on, when Nan came downstairs to dinner, she spoke and moved almost mechanically. Only once did she show the least interest in anything that was said, and that was when Eliza remarked with relish:
"Roger Trenby will be wishin' Isobel Carson back home! I hear Lady Gertrude keeps him dancing attendance on her from morn till night, declaring she's at death's door the while."
Sandy grinned.
"Yes, Roger 'phoned an hour ago and asked to speak to you, Nan—he'd heard you were staying here. I said you were taking a nap."
Nan smiled faintly across at him.
"Thank you, Sandy," she said. She had no wish either to see or speak to Roger just now. There was something that must be fought out and decided before he and she met again.
Aunt Eliza bustled her off early to bed that night and she went thankfully—not to sleep, but to search out her own soul and make the biggest decision of her life.
It was not till the moon-pale fingers of dawn came creeping in through the chinks betwixt blind and window that Nan lay back on her pillows knowing that for good or ill she had taken her decision.
Something of the immensity of love, its heights and depths, had been revealed to her in those tense silences she had shared with Peter, and she knew that she had been untrue to the love within her—untrue from the very beginning when she had first pledged herself to Roger.
She had rushed headlong into her engagement with him, driven by cross-currents that had whirled her hither and thither. Afterwards, when the full realisation of her love for Peter had overwhelmed her, her pride—the dogged, unyielding pride of the Davenants, whose word was their bond—had held her to her promise.
It had been a matter of honour with her. Now she was learning that utter loyalty to love involved a higher, finer honour than a spoken pledge given by a reckless girl who had thought to find safety for herself and happiness for her friend by giving it.
For Peter, that faithfulness of the spirit, of which he had spoken, alone was possible. The woman he had married had her claims upon him. But as far as she herself was concerned, Nan realised that she could yet keep her love pure and untouched, faithful to the mystic three-fold bond of spirit, soul, and body.
. . . She would never marry Roger now. To-morrow she would write and tell him so. That he would storm and rage and try to force her to retract this new decision she was well aware. But that would only be part of the punishment which she must be prepared to suffer. There would, too, be a certain amount of obloquy and gossip to be faced. People in general would say she had behaved dishonourably. But, whatever the result, she was ready to bear it. It would be a very small atonement for her sin against love!
* * * * * *
The following day she returned to Mallow Court to be greeted warmly by Kitty. Once or twice the latter glanced at her a trifle uneasily as though she sensed something different in her, but it was not until later on, over a fire lit to cheat the unwonted coolness of the evening, that Nan unburdened herself.
Kitty said very little. But she and Barry were as much lovers now as they had been the day they married, and she understood.
"I think you're right," she commented slowly.
"I know I am," answered Nan with quiet conviction. "I feel as though all this time I had been profaning our love. Now I want to keep it quite, quite sacred—in my heart. It wouldn't make any difference even if Peter ceased to care for me. It's my caring for him that matters."
"Shall you—do you intend to see Roger?"
"No. I shall write to him to-morrow. But if he still wishes to see me after that, of course I can't refuse."
"And Peter?"
"He will have gone."
Kitty shook her head.
"No. He sails the day after to-morrow. He couldn't get a berth before."
"Then"—very softly and with a quiet radiance in her eyes—"then I will write to him to-morrow—after I've written to Roger."
Nan fell silent, gazing absently into the fire. There was a deep sense of thankfulness in her heart that she would be able to heal the hurt she had done Peter before he went East to face the bitter and difficult thing which awaited his doing. A strange sense of comfort stole over her. When she had written her letter to Roger, retracting the promise she had given him, she would be free—free to belong wholly to the man she loved.
Though they might never be together, though their love must remain for ever unconsummated, still in her loneliness she would know herself utterly and entirely his.
The fishing party returned to Mallow the following morning. They were in high spirits, full of stories and cracking jokes about each other's prowess or otherwise—especially the "otherwise," although, both men united in praising Penelope's exploits as a fisherwoman.
"Beginner's luck, of course!" chaffed Barry. "It was your first serious attempt at fishing, wasn't it, Penny?"
"Yes. But it's not going to be my last!" she retorted. "And I'll take a bet with you as to who catches the most trout next time."
The advent of three people who were in complete ignorance of the happenings of the last few days went far to restore the atmosphere to normal. Amid the bustle of their arrival and the gay chatter which accompanied it, it would have been impossible for Kitty, at least, not to throw aside for the moment the anxieties which beset her and join in the general fun and laughter.
But Nan, although she played up pluckily, so that no suspicions were aroused in the minds of the returned wanderers, was still burdened by the knowledge of what yet remained for her to do, and when the jolly clamour had abated a trifle she escaped upstairs to write her letter to Roger. It was a difficult letter to write because, though nothing he could say or do would alter her determination, she realised that in his own way he loved her and she wanted to hurt him as little as possible.
"I know you will think I am being both dishonourable and disloyal," she wrote, after she had first stated her decision quite clearly and simply. "But to me it seems I am doing the only thing possible in loyalty to the man I love. And in a way it is loyal to you, too, Roger, because—as you have known from the beginning—I could never give you all that a man has a right to expect from the women he marries. One can't 'share out' love in bits. I've learned, now, that love means all or nothing, and as I cannot give you all, it must be nothing. And of this you may be sure—perhaps it may make you feel that I have behaved less badly to you—I am not breaking off our engagement in order to marry someone else. I shall never marry anyone, now."
Nan read it through, then slipped it into an envelope and sealed it. When she had directed it to "Roger Trenby, Esq.," she leaned back in her chair, feeling curiously tired, but conscious of a sense of peace and tranquillity that had been absent from her since the day on which she had promised to marry Roger. . . . And the next day, by the shattered Lovers' Bridge, Peter had carried her in his arms across the stream and kissed her hair. She had known then, known very surely, that love had come to her—Peter loved her, and his slightest touch meant happiness so poignantly sweet as to be almost unbearable. Only the knowledge had come too late.
But now—now she was free! Though she would never know the supreme joy of mating with the man she loved, she had at least escaped the prison which the wrong man's love can make for a woman. Just as no other man than Peter would ever hold her heart, so henceforth no kiss but his would ever touch her lips. But for Peter the burden would be heavier. It would be different—harder. Could she not guess how infinitely harder? And there was nothing in the world which might avail to lighten that burden. Only, perhaps, later on, it might comfort him to know that, though in this world they could never come together, the woman he loved was his completely, that she had surrendered nothing of herself to any other man.
She picked up her letter to Roger and made her way downstairs, intending to drop it herself into the post-box at the gates of Mallow. Once it had left her hands for the close guardianship of that scarlet tablet streaked against the roadside wall she would feel more at ease.
As she turned the last bend of the stairs she came upon an agitated little group of people clustering round Sandy McBain, who had apparently only recently arrived. Her hand tightened on the banister. Why had everyone collected in the hall? Even one or two scared-looking servants were discernible in the background, and on every face sat a strange, unusual gravity. Nan felt as though someone had suddenly slipped a band round her heart and were drawing it tighter and tighter.
Nobody seemed to notice her as with reluctant, dragging footsteps she descended the remainder of the staircase. Then Ralph caught sight of her and exclaimed: "Here's Nan!" and her name ran through the group in a shocked murmur of repetition, followed by a quick, hushed silence.
"What is it?" she asked apprehensively.
Several voices answered, but only the words "Roger" and "accident" came to her clearly out of the blur of sound.
"What is it?" she repeated. "What has happened?"
"There's been an accident," began Barry awkwardly. "Lady Gertrude—"
"Is she killed?"—in shocked tones.
"No, no. But she had another attack this morning—heart, or temper—and as the doctor was out when they 'phoned for him, she sent Roger rushing off post-haste in the car to find him and bring him along. And"—he hesitated a little—"I'm afraid he's had rather a bad smash-up."
Nan's face went very white, and half-unconsciously her grip tautened round the letter she was holding, crushing it together.
"Do you mean—in the car?" she asked in a queer, stiff voice.
"Yes." It was Sandy who answered her, "He'd just swerved to avoid driving over a dog and the next minute a kiddy ran out from the other side of the road, right in his path, and he swerved again, so sharply that the car ran up the side of the hedge and overturned.
"And Roger?"
Sandy's face twisted and he looked away.
"He was—underneath the car," he said at last, reluctantly.
Nan took a step forward and laid a hand on his arm. She had read the meaning of that quick contraction of his face.
"You were there!" She spoke more as though stating a fact than asking a question. "You saw it!"
"Yes," he acknowledged. "We got him out from under the car and carried him home on a hurdle. Then I found the doctor, and he's with him now."
"I'd better go right across and see if I can help," said Nan impulsively.
"No need. Isobel will be back this afternoon—I've wired her. And they've already 'phoned for a couple of trained nurses. Besides, Lady Gertrude's malady vanished the minute she heard Roger was injured. I think"—with a brief smile—"her illness was mostly due to the fact that Isobel was away, so of course she wanted to keep Roger by her side all the time. Lady G. must always have a 'retinue' in attendance, you know!"
A general smile acknowledged the truth of Sandy's diagnosis, but it was quickly smothered. The suddenness and gravity of the accident which had befallen Roger had shocked them all.
"What does the doctor say?" asked Penelope.
"He hasn't said anything very definite yet," replied Sandy. "He's afraid there's some injury to the spine, so he's wired for a Plymouth consultant. When he comes, they'll make a thorough examination."
"Ah!" Nan drew in her breath sharply.
"I suppose we shall hear to-night?" said Kitty. "The Plymouth man will get here early this afternoon."
"I'll come over and let you know the report," answered Sandy. "I'm going back to Trenby now, to see if I can do any errands or odd jobs for them. A man's a useful thing to have about the place at a time like this."
Kitty nodded soberly.
"Quite right, Sandy. And if there's anything we can any of us do to help, 'phone down at once."
A minute later Sandy was speeding back to the Hall as fast as the "stink-pot" could take him.
"It's pretty ghastly," said Kitty, as she and Nan turned away together."Poor old Roger!"
"Yes," replied Nan mechanically. "Poor Roger."
A sudden thought had sprung into her mind, overwhelming her with its significance. The letter she had written to Roger—she couldn't send it now! Common humanity forbade that it should go. It would have to wait—wait till Roger had recovered. The disappointment, cutting across a deep and real sympathy with the injured man, was sharp and bitter.
Very slowly she made her way upstairs. The letter, which she still clasped rigidly, seemed to burn her palm like red-hot iron. She felt as though she could not unclench the hand which held it. But this phase only lasted for a few minutes. When she reached her room she opened her hand stiffly and the crumpled envelope fell on to the bed.
She stared at it blankly. That letter—which had meant so much to her—could not be sent! She might have to wait weeks—months even, before it could go. And meanwhile, she would be compelled to pretend—pretend to Roger, because he was so ill that the truth must be hidden from him till he recovered. Then, swift as the thrust of a knife, another thought followed. . . . Suppose—suppose Rogerneverrecovered? . . . What was it Sandy had said? An injury to the spine. Did people recover from spinal injury? Or did they linger on, wielding those terrible rights which weakness for ever holds over health and strength?
Nan flung herself on the bed and lay there, face downwards, trying to realise the awful possibilities which the accident to Roger might entail for her. Because if it left him crippled—a hopeless invalid—the letter she had written could never be sent at all. She could not desert him, break off her engagement, if she herself represented all that was left to him in life.
It seemed hours afterwards, though in reality barely half an hour had elapsed, when she heard the sound of footsteps racing up the staircase, and a minute later, without even a preliminary knock, Kitty burst into the room. Her face was alight with joyful excitement. In her hand she held an open telegram.
"Listen, Nan! Oh"—seeing the other's startled, apprehensive face—"it'sgoodnews this time!"
Good news! Nan stared at her with an expression of impassive incredulity. There was no good news that could come to her.
"It seems horrible to feel glad over anyone's death, but I simply can't help it," went on Kitty. "Peter has just telegraphed me that Celia died yesterday. . . . Oh, Nan,dearest! I'm so glad for you—so glad for you and Peter!"
Nan, who had risen at Kitty's entrance, swayed suddenly and caught at the bed-post to steady herself.
"What did you say?" she asked huskily.
"That Peter's wife is dead. That he's free"—with great tenderness—"free to marry you." She checked herself and peered into Nan's white, expressionless face. "Nan, why don't you—look glad? Youareglad, surely?"
"Glad?" repeated Nan vaguely. "No, I can't be glad yet. Not yet."
"You're not worrying just because Peter was angry last time he saw you?"—keenly.
"No. I wasn't thinking of that."
"Then, my dear, why not be glad—glad and thankful that nothing stands between you? I don't think you realise it! You're quite free now. And so is Peter. Your letter to Roger has gone—poor Roger!"—sorrowfully—"it's frightfully rough luck on him, particularly just now. But still, someone always has to go to the wall in a triangular mix-up. And though I like him well enough, I love you and Peter. So I'd rather it were Roger, since it must be someone."
Nan pointed to the bed. On the gay, flowered coverlet lay the crumpled letter.
"My letter to Roger hasnotgone," she said, speaking very distinctly. "I was on my way to post it when I found you all in the hall, discussing Roger's accident. And now—it can't go."
Kitty's face lengthened in dismay, then a look of relief passed over it.
"Give it to me," she exclaimed impulsively. "I'll post it at once. It will catch precisely the same post as it would have done if you'd put it in the post-box when you meant to."
"Kitty! How can you suggest such a thing!" cried Nan, in horrified tones. "If—if I'd posted it unknowingly and it had reached him after the accident it would have been bad enough! But to post it now, deliberately,when I know, would be absolutely wicked and brutal."
There was a momentary silence. Then:
"You're quite right," acknowledged Kitty in a muffled voice. She lifted a penitent face. "I suppose it was cruel of me to suggest it. But oh! I do so want you and Peter to be happy—and quickly! You've had such a rotten time in the past."
Nan smiled faintly at her.
"I knew you couldn't mean it," she answered, "seeing that you're about the most tender-hearted person I know."
"I suppose you will have to wait a little," conceded Kitty reluctantly. "At least till Roger is mended up a bit. It may not be anything very serious, after all. A man often gets a bad spill out of his car and is driving again within a few weeks."
"We shall near soon," replied Nan levelly. "Sandy said he would let us know the result of the doctor's examination."
"Well, come for a stroll in the rose-garden, then. It's hateful—waiting to hear," said Kitty rather shakily.
"Get Barry to go with you. I'd rather stay here, I think." Nan spoke quickly. She felt she could not bear to go into the rose-garden where she had given that promise to Roger which bade fair to wreck the happiness of two lives—her own and Peter's.
Kitty threw her a searching glance.
"Very well," she said. "Try to rest a little. I'll come up the moment we hear any news."
She left the room and, as the door closed behind her, Nan gave vent to a queer, hysterical laugh. Rest! How could she rest, knowing that now Peter was free—free to make her his wife—the great gates of fate might yet swing to, shutting them both out of lovers garden for ever!
For she had realised, with a desperate clearness of vision, that if Roger were incurably injured, she could not add to his burden by retracting her promise to be his wife. She must make the uttermost sacrifice—give up the happiness to which the death of Celia Mallory had opened the way—and devote herself to mitigating Roger's lot in so far as it could be mitigated. There was no choice possible to her. Duty, with stern, sad eyes, stood beside her, bidding her follow the hard path of sacrifice which winds upward, through a blurred mist of tears, to the great white Throne of God. The words of the little song which had always seemed a link betwixt Peter and herself came back to her like some dim echo from the past.
She sank on her knees, her arms flung out across the bed. She did not consciously pray, but her attitude of thought and spirit was a wordless cry that she might be given courage and strength to do this thing if it must needs be.
It was late in the afternoon when Kitty, treading softly, came intoNan's room.
"Have you been to sleep?" she asked.
"No." Nan felt as though she had not slept for a year. Her eyes were dry and burning in their sockets.
"There's very bad news about Roger," said Kitty, in the low tones of one who has hardly yet recovered from the shock of unexpectedly grave tidings. "His spine is so injured that he'll never be able to walk again. He"—she choked over the telling of it—"his legs will always be paralysed."
Nan stared at her vacantly, as though she hardly grasped the meaning of the words. Then, without speaking, she covered her face with her hands. The room seemed to be full of silence—a heavy terrible silence, charged with calamity. At last, unable to endure the burden of the intense quiet any longer, Kitty stirred restlessly. The tiny noise of her movement sounded almost like a pistol-shot in that profound stillness. Nan's hands dropped from her face and she picked up the letter which still lay on the bed and tore it into small pieces, very carefully, tossing them into the waste-paper basket.
Kitty watched her for a moment as though fascinated. Then suddenly she spoke.
"Why are you doing that? Why are you doing that?" she demanded irritably.
Nan looked across at her with steady eyes.
"Because—it's finished! That letter will never be needed now."
"It will! Of course it will!" insisted Kitty. "Not now—but later—when Roger's got over the shock of the accident."
Nan smiled at her curiously.
"Roger will never get over the consequences of his accident," she said, accenting the word "consequences." "Can you imagine what it's going to mean to him to be tied down to a couch for the rest of his days? An outdoor man, like Roger, who has hunted and shot and fished all his life?"
"Of course I can imagine! It's all too dreadful to think of! . . .But now Peter's free, you can't—you can't mean to give him up forRoger!"
"I must," answered Nan quietly. "I can't take the last thing he values from a man who's lost nearly everything."
Kitty grasped her by the arm.
"Do you mean," she said incredulously, "do you mean you're going to sacrifice Peter to Roger?"
"It won't hurt Peter—now—as it would have done before." Nan spoke rather tonelessly. "He's already lost his faith and trust in me. The worst wrench for him is over. I—I think"—a little unevenly—"that I'm glad now he thought what he did—that he couldn't find it in his heart to forgive me. It'll make it easier for him."
"Easier? Yes, if you actually do what you say you will. But—you're deliberately taking away his happiness, robbing him of it, even though he doesn't know he's being robbed. Good heavens, Nan!"—harshly—"Did you ever love him?"
"I don't think you want an answer to that question," returned Nan gently. "But, you see, I can't—divide myself—between Peter and Roger."
"Of course you can't! Only why sacrifice both yourself and Peter toRoger? It isn't reasonable!"
"Because I think he needs me most. Just picture it, Kitty. He's got nothing left to look forward to till he dies! Nothing! . . . Oh, I can't add to what he'll have to bear! He's so helpless!"
"You'll have plenty to bear yourself—tied to a helpless man of Roger's temper," retorted "Kitty.
"Yes"—soberly—"I think—I'm prepared for that."
"Prepared?"
"Yes. It seems to me as though I've known all afternoon that this was coming—that Roger might be crippled beyond curing. And I've looked at it from every angle, so as to be quite sure of myself." She paused. "I'm quite sure, now."
The quiet resolution in her voice convinced Kitty that her mind was made up. Nevertheless, for nearly an hour she tried by every argument in her power, by every entreaty, to shake her decision. But Nan held her ground.
"I must do it," she said. "It's useless trying to dissuade me. It's so clear to me that it's the one thing I must do. Don't any anything more about it, Kitten. You're only wearing yourself out"—appealingly. "I wish—I wish you'd try tohelpme to do it! It won't be the easiest thing in the world"—with a brief smile that was infinitely more sad than tears—"I know that."
"Help you?" cried Kitty passionately. "Help you to ruin your life, and Peter's with it? No, I won't help you. I tell you, Nan, you can't do this thing! Youshall notmarry Roger Trenby!"
Nan listened to her patiently. Then, still very quietly:
"I must marry him," she said. "It will be the one decent thing I've ever done in my life."
The next morning at breakfast only one letter lay beside Nan's plate. As she recognised Maryon Rooke's small, squarish handwriting, with its curious contrasts of heavy downstrokes and very light terminals, the colour deepened in her cheeks. Her slight confusion passed unnoticed, however, as everyone else was absorbed in his or her individual share of the morning's mail.
For a moment Nan hesitated, conscious of an intense disinclination to open the letter. It gave her a queer feeling of panic, recalling with poignant vividness the day when she and Maryon had last been together. At length, somewhat dreading what it might contain, she opened it and began to read.
"I've had a blazing letter from young Sandy McBain, which has increased my respect for him enormously," wrote Maryon. "I've come to the conclusion that I deserve all the names he called me. Nan, how do you manage to make everyone so amazingly devoted to you? I think it must be that ridiculously short upper lip of yours, or your 'blue-violet' eyes, or some other of your absurd and charming characteristics.
"I shall probably go abroad for a bit—to recover my self-respect. I'm not feeling particularly proud of myself just now, and it always spoils my enjoyment of things if I can't be genuinely pleased with my ego. Don't cut me when next we meet, if fortune is ever kind enough to me to let us meet again. Because, for once in my life, I'm really sorry for my sins.
"I believe that somewhere in the ramshackle thing I call my soul, I'm glad Sandy took you away from me. Though there are occasional moments when I feel murderous towards him.
"Yours
Nan laid down the closely-written sheet with a half-smile, half-sigh—could one ever regard Maryon Rooke without a smile overtaken by a sigh? The letter somewhat cheered her, washing away what remained of bitterness in her thoughts towards him. It was very characteristic of the man, with its intense egotism—almost every sentence beginning with an "I"—and its lightly cynical note. Yet beneath the surface flippancy Nan could read a genuine remorse and self-reproach. And in some strange way it comforted her a little to know that Maryon was sorry. After all, there is something good even in the worst of us.
"Had a nice letter, Nan?" asked Barry, looking up from his own correspondence. "You're wearing a smile of sorts."
"Yes. It was—rather a nice letter. Good and bad mixed, I think," she answered.
"Then you're lucky," observed Kitty. There was a rather frightened look in her eyes. "We'll go into your study after breakfast, Barry. I want to consult you about one of my letters. It's—it's undiluted bad, I think."
Barry's blue eyes smiled reassuringly across at her. "All right, old thing. Two heads are generally better than one if you're up against a snag."
Half an hour later she beckoned him into the study.
"What's the trouble?" He slipped an arm round her shoulders. "Don't look like that, Kitten. We're sure to be able to put things right somehow."
She smiled at him rather ruefully.
"It's you who'll have to do the putting right, Barry—and it'll be a hateful business, too," she replied.
"Thanks," murmured Barry. "Well, what's in the letter that's bothering you?"
"It's from Peter," burst out Kitty. "He's going straight off to Africa—to-morrow! Celia, of course, will be buried out in India—her uncle has cabled him that he'll arrange everything. And Peter has had the chance of a returned berth in a boat that sails to-morrow, so he proposes to get his kit together and start at once."
"I should have thought he'd have started at once—in this direction," remarked Barry drily.
"He would have done, I expect, only he's so bitter over Nan's attempt to run away with Maryon Rooke that he's determined to bury himself in the wilds. If he only knew what she'd gone through before she did such a thing, he'd understand and forgive her. But that's just like a man! When the woman he cares for acts in a way that's entirely inconsistent with all he knows of her, he never thinks of trying to work backwards to find out thecause. The effect's enough for him! Oh!"—with a sigh—"I do think Peter and Nan are most difficult people to manage. If it were only that—just a lovers' squabble—one might fix things up. But now, just when every obstacle in the world is removed and they could be happily married, Nan must needs decide that it's her duty to marry Roger!"
"Her duty?"
"Yes." And Kitty plunged forthwith into a detailed account of all that had happened.
"Good old Nan! She's a well-plucked 'un," was Barry's comment when she had finished.
"Of course it's splendid of her," said Kitty. "Nan was always an idealist in her notions—but in practice it would just mean purgatory. And I won'tlether smash up the whole of her own life, and Peter's for an ideal!"
"How do you propose to prevent it, m'dear?"
"I propose thatyoushould prevent it."
"I? How?"
Kitty laid an urgent hand on his arm.
"You must go over to Trenby and see Roger."
"See Roger? My dear girl, he won't be able to see visitors for days yet."
"Oh, yes, he will," replied Kitty. "Isobel Carson rang up just now to ask if Nan would come over. It appears that, barring the injury to his back, he escaped without a scratch. He didn't evenknowhe was hurt till he found he couldn't use his legs. Of course, he'll be in bed. Isobel says he seems almost his usual self, except that he won't let anyone sympathise with him over his injury. He's just savage about it."
Barry made no answer. He reflected that it was quite in keeping with all be knew of the man for him to bear in silence the shock of knowing that henceforward he would be a helpless cripple. Just as a wild animal, mortally hurt, seeks solitude in which to die, so Roger's arrogant, primitive nature refused to tolerate the pity of his fellows.
"Well," queried Barry grudgingly. "If I do see him, what then?"
"You must tell him that Peter is free and make him release Nan from her engagement. In fact, he must do more than that," she continued emphatically. "In her present mood Nan would probably decline to accept her release. He must absolutelyrefuseto marry her."
"And supposing he doesn't see doing that?"
Kitty's lip curled.
"In the circumstances, I should think that any man who cared for a woman and who wasn't a moral and physical coward, would see it was the one and only thing he could do."
Her husband remained silent.
"You'll go, Barry?"
"I don't care for interfering in Trenby's personal affairs. Poor devil! He's got enough to bear just now!"
Sudden tears filled Kitty's eyes. She pitied Roger from the bottom of her heart, but she must still fight for the happiness of Nan and Peter.
"I know," she acquiesced unhappily. "But, don't you see, if he doesn't bear just this, too, Nan will have to endure a twofold burden for the rest of her life. Oh, Barry!"—choking back a sob—"Don't fail me! It's a man's job—this. No woman could do it, without making Roger feel it frightfully. A man so hates to discuss any physical disablement with a woman. It hurts his pride. He'd rather ignore it."
"But where's the use?" protested Barry. "If Peter is off to-morrow to the back of beyond, you're still no further on. You've only made things doubly hard for that poor devil up at the Hall without accomplishing anything else."
"Peter won't go to-morrow," asserted Kitty. "I've settled that. I wired him to come down here—I sent the wire the minute after breakfast. He'll be here to-night."
"Pooh! He'll take no notice of a telegram like that! A man doesn't upset the whole of his plans to go abroad because a pal in the country wires him 'to come down'!"
"Precisely. So I worded my wire in a way which will ensure his coming," replied Kitty, with returning spirit.
Barry looked, at her doubtfully.
"What did you put on it?"
"I said: 'Bad accident here. Come at once.' I know that will bring him. . . . And it has the further merit of being the truth!" she added with a rather shaky little laugh.
"That will certainly bring him," agreed Barry, a brief flash of amusement in his eyes. It was so like Kitty to dare a wire of this description and chance how her explanation of it might be received by the person most concerned. "But suppose Trenby declines point-blank to release Nan?" he pursued. "What will you do then—with Peter on your hands?"
"Well, at least Peter will understand what Nan is doing and why she's doing it. Given that he knew the whole truth, I think he'd probably run away with her. I knowIshould—if I were a man! Now, will you go and see Roger, please?"
"I suppose I shall have to. But it's a beastly job." Barry's usually merry eyes were clouded.
"Beastly," agreed Kitty sympathetically. "But it's got to be done."
Ten minutes later she watched her husband drive away in the direction of Trenby Hall, and composed herself to wait patiently on the march of events.
* * * * * *
Barry looked pitifully down at the big, helpless figure lying between the sheets of the great four-poster bed. Except for an unwonted pallor and the fact that no movement of the body below the waist was visible, Roger looked very much as usual. He waved away the words of sympathy which were hovering on Barry's lips.
"Nice of you to come so soon," he said curtly. "But, for God's sake, don't condole with me. I don't want condolences and I won't have 'em." There was a note in his voice which told of the effort which his savage self-repression cost him.
Barry understood, and for a few minutes they discussed, things in general, Roger briefly describing the accident.
"Funny how things happen," he observed. "I suppose I'm about as expert a driver as you'd get. There was practically nothing I couldn't do with a car—and along come a dog and a kiddy and flaw me utterly in two minutes. I've had much nearer shaves a dozen times before and escaped scot-free."
They talked on desultorily for a time. Then suddenly Roger asked:
"When's Nan coming to see me? I told Isobel to 'phone down to Mallow this morning."
"You're hardly up to visitors," said Barry, searching for delay. "I don't suppose I ought to have come, really."
Roger looked at him with eyes that burned fiercely underneath his shaggy brows.
"I'm as right as you are—except for my confounded back," he answered. "I've not got a scratch on me. Only something must have struck me as the car overturned—and a bit of my spinal anatomy's gone phut."
"You mayn't be as badly injured as you think," ventured Barry. "Some other doctor might give you a different report."
"Oh, he's quite a shining light—the man who came down here. Spine's his job. And his examination was thorough enough. There's nothing can be done. My legs are useless—and I'm a strong, healthy man who may live to a ripe old age."
He turned his head on the pillow and Barry saw him drag the sheet between his teeth and bite on it. He crossed to the window, giving the man time to regain his self-command.
"Well, what about Nan?" Roger demanded at last harshly. "When's she coming?"
Barry faced round to the bed again.
"I came to talk to you about Nan," he replied with reluctance. "But—"
"Talk away, then!"
"Well, it's very difficult to say what I have to tell you. You see,Trenby, this ghastly accident of yours makes a difference in—"
Roger interrupted with a snarl. His arms waved convulsively.
"Lift me up," he commanded. "I can't do it myself. Prop me up a bit against the pillows. . . . Oh, get on with it, man!" he cried, as Barry hesitated. "Nothing you do can either help or hurt me. Lift me up!"
Obediently Barry stooped and with a touch as strong as a man's and as tender as a woman's, lifted Roger into the desired position.
"Thanks." Roger blurted out the word ungraciously. "Well, what about Nan?" he went on, scowling. "I suppose you've come to ask me to let her off? That's the natural thing! Is that it?" he asked sharply.
"Yes," answered Barry simply. "That's it."
Rogers face went white with anger.
"Then you may tell her," he said, pounding the bed with his fist to emphasise his words, "tell her from me that I haven't the least intention of releasing her. She's a contemptible little coward even to suggest it. But that's a woman all over!"
"It's nothing of the sort," returned Barry, roused to indignation by Roger's brutal answer. He spoke with a quiet forcefulness there was no mistaking. "Nan knows nothing whatever about my visit here, nor the purpose of it. On the contrary, had she known, I'm quite sure she would have tried to prevent my coming, seeing that she has made up her mind to marry you as soon as you wish."
"Oh, she has, has she?" Roger paused grimly. A moment later he broke out: "Then—then—what the devil right have you to interfere?"
"None," said Barry gravely. "Except the right of one man to remind another of his manhood—if he sees him in danger of losing it."
The thrust, so quietly delivered, went home. Roger bit his under lip and was silent, his eyes glowering.
"So that's what you think of me, is it?" he said at last, sullenly.
The look in Barry's eyes softened the stern sincerity of his reply.
"What else can I think? In your place a man's first thought should surely be to release the woman he loves from the infernal bondage which marriage with him must inevitably mean."
"On the principle that from him who hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath, I suppose?" gibed the bitter voice from the bed.
"No," answered Barry, with simplicity. "But just because if you love a woman you can't possibly want to hurt her."
"And if she loved you, a woman couldn't possibly want to turn you down because you've had the damnedest bad luck any man could have."
"But does she love you?" asked Barry. "I know—and you know—that she doesnot. She cares for someone else."
Roger made a sudden, violent movement.
"Who is it? She has never told me who it was. I suppose it's that confounded cad who painted her portrait—Maryon Rooke?"
Barry smile a little.
"No," he answered. "The man she loves is Peter Mallory."
"Mallory!"—in blank astonishment. Then, swiftly and with a gleam of triumph in his eyes: "But he's married!"
"His wife has just died—out in India."
There was a long pause. Then:
"Sothat'swhy you came?" sneered Roger. "Well, you can tell Nan that she won't marry Peter Mallory with my consent. I'll never set her free to be another man's wife"—his dangerous temper rising again. "There's only one thing left to me in the world, and that's Nan. And I'll have her!"
"Is that your final decision?" asked Barry. He was beginning to recognise the hopelessness of any effort to turn or influence the man.
"Yes"—with a snarl. "Tell Nan"—derisively—"that I shall expect my truly devoted fiancée here this afternoon."
It was late in the afternoon when the Mallow car once more purred up to the door of Trenby Hall and Nan descended from it. She was looking very pale, her face like a delicate white cameo beneath the shadow of her hat, while the clinging black of her gown accentuated the slender lines—too slender, now—of her figure. She had not yet discarded her mourning for Lord St. John, but in any case she would have felt that gay colours could have no part in to-day.
Kitty had told her of Barry's interview with Trenby and of its utter futility, and, although Nan had been prepared to sacrifice her whole existence to the man who had suffered so terrible an injury, she was bitterly disappointed that he proposed exacting it from her as a right rather than accepting it as a free gift.
If for once he could have shown himself generous and offered to give her back her freedom—an offer she would have refused to accept—how much the fact that each of them had been willing to make a sacrifice might have helped to sweeten their married life! Instead, Roger had forced upon her the realisation that he was unchanged—still the same arrogant "man with the club" that he had always been, insisting on his own way, either by brute force or by the despotism of a moral obligation which was equally compelling.
But these thoughts fled—driven away by a rush of overwhelming sympathy—when her eyes fell on the great, impotent hulk of a man who lay propped up against his pillows. A nurse slipped past her in the doorway and paused to whisper, as she went:
"Don't stay too long. He's run down a lot since this morning. I begged him not to see any more visitors to-day, but he insisted upon seeing you."
The nurse recalled very vividly the picture of her patient when she had endeavoured to dissuade him from this second interview—his white, rather drawn face and the eyes which blazed feverishly at her beneath their penthouse brows.
"You've got to let me see my best girl to-day, nurse," he had said, forcing a smile. "After that you shall have your own way and work your wicked will on me."
And the nurse, thinking that perhaps a visit from his "best girl" might help to allay the new restlessness she found in him, had yielded, albeit somewhat reluctantly.
"Oh, Roger!" With a low cry of dismay Nan ran to the bed and slipped down on her knees beside it.
"It's a rotten bit of luck, isn't it?" he returned briefly.
She expected the fierce clasp of his arms about her and had steeled herself to submit to his kisses without flinching. But he did not offer to kiss her. Instead, pointing to a chair, he said quietly:
"Pull up that chair—I'm sorry I can't offer to do it for you!—and sit down."
She obeyed, while he watched her in silence. The silence lasted so long that at last, finding it almost unbearable, she broke it.
"Roger, I'm so—so grieved to see you—like this." She leaned forward in her chair, her hands clasped tightly together. "But don't give up hope yet," she went on earnestly. "You've only had one specialist's opinion. He might easily be wrong. After a time, you may be walking about again as well as any other man. I've heard of such cases."
"And I suppose you're banking on the hope that mine's one of them, so that you'll not be tied to a helpless log for a husband. Is that it?"
She shrank back, hurt to the core of her. If he were to be always like this—prey to a kind of ferocious suspicion of every word and act of hers, then the outlook for the future was dark indeed. The burden of it would be more than she could bear.
Roger, seeing her wince, gestured apologetically.
"I didn't mean quite all that," he said quickly. "I'm rather like a newly-caged wild beast—savage even with its keeper. Still, any woman might be forgiven for preferring to marry a sound man rather than a cripple. You're ready to go on with the deal, Nan?"
"Yes, I'm ready," she answered in a low voice.
"Have you realised all it means? I'm none too amiable at the best of times"—grimly. "And my temper's not likely to improve now I'm tied by the leg. You'll have to fetch and carry, and put up with all the whims and tantrums of a very sick man. Are you really sure of yourself?"
"Quite sure."
His hawk's eyes flashed over her face, as though he would pierce through the veil of her grave and tranquil expression.
"Even though Peter Mallory's free to marry you now?" he demanded suddenly.
"Peter!" The word came in a shrinking whisper. She threw out her hands appealingly. "Roger, can't we leave the past behind? We've each a good deal"—her thoughts flew back to that dreadful episode in the improvised studio—"a good deal to forgive. Let us put the past quite away—on the top shelf"—with a wavering little laugh—"and leave it there. I've told you I'm willing to be your wife. Let's start afresh from that. I'll marry you as soon as you like."
After a long pause:
"I believe you really would!" said Roger with a note of sheer wonderment in his voice.
"I've just said so."
"Well, my dear"—he smiled briefly—"thank you very much for the offer, but I'm not going to accept it."
"Not going to accept it!" she repeated, utterly bewildered. "But you can't—you won't refuse!"
"I can and I do—entirely refuse to marry you."
Nan began to think his mind was wandering.
"No," he said, detecting her thought. "I'm as sane as you are. Come here—a little closer—and I'll tell you all about it."
Rather nervously, Nan drew nearer to him.
"Don't be frightened," he said with a strange kindness and gentleness in his voice. "I had a visitor this morning who told me some unpalatable truths about myself. He asked me to release you from your engagement, and I flatly refused. He also enlightened my ignorance concerning Peter Mallory and informed me he was now free to marry you. That settled matters as far as I was concerned! I made up my mind I would never give you up to another man." He paused. "Since then I've had time for reflection. . . . Reflection's a useful kind of thing. . . . Then, when you came in just now, looking like a broken flower with your white face and sorrowful eyes, I made a snatch at whatever's left of a decent man in this battered old frame of mine."
He paused and took Nan's hand in his. Very gently he drew the ring he had given her from her finger.
"You are quite free, now," he said quietly.
"No, no!" Impulsively she tried to recover the ring. "Let me be your wife! I'm willing—quite, quite willing!" she urged, her heart overflowing with tenderness and pity for this man who was now voluntarily renouncing the one thing left him.
"But Mallory wouldn't be 'quite willing,'" replied Roger, with a twisted smile. "Nor am I. And an unwilling bridegroom isn't likely to make a good husband!"
Nan's mouth quivered.
"Roger—" she began, but the sob in her throat choked into silence the rest of what she had meant to say. Her hands went out to him, and he took them in his and held them.
"Will you kiss me—just once, Nan?" he said. "I don't think Mallory would grudge it me."
She bent over him, and for the first time unshrinkingly and with infinite tenderness, laid her lips on his. Then very quietly she left the room.
She was conscious of a sense of awe. First Maryon, and now, to an even greater degree, Roger, had revealed some secret quality of fineness with which no one would have credited them.
"I shall never judge anyone again," she told Kitty later. "You can't judge people! I shall always believe that everyone has got a little patch of goodness somewhere. It's the bit of God in them. Even Judas Iscariot was sorry afterwards, and went out and hanged himself."
She was thankful when she came downstairs from Roger's bedroom to find that there was no one about. A meeting with Lady Gertrude at the moment would have been of all things the most repugnant to her. With a feeling of intense thankfulness that the thin, steel-eyed woman was nowhere to be seen, she stepped into the car and was borne swiftly down the drive. At the lodge, however, where the chauffeur had perforce to pull up while the lodge-keeper opened the gates, Isobel Carson came into sight, and common courtesy demanded that Nan should get out of the car and speak to her. She had been gathering flowers—for Roger's room, was Nan's involuntary thought—and carried a basket, full of lovely blossoms, over her arm.
In a few words Nan told her of her interview with Roger.
Isobel listened intently.
"I'm glad you were willing to marry him," she said abruptly, as Nan ceased speaking. "It was—decent of you. Because, of course, you were never in love with him."
"No," Nan acknowledged simply.
"While I've loved him ever since I knew him!" burst out Isobel. "But he's never looked at me, thought of me like that! Perhaps, now you're out of the way—" She broke off, leaving her sentence unfinished.
Into Nan's mind flashed the possibility of all that this might mean—this wealth of wasted love which was waiting for Roger if he cared to take it.
"Would you marry him—now?" she asked.
"Marry him?" Isobel's eyes glowed. "I'd marry him if he couldn't move a finger! I love him! And there's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for him."
She looked almost beautiful in that moment, with her face irradiated by a look of absolute, selfless devotion.
"And I wouldn't rest till he was cured!" The words came pouring from her lips. "I'd try every surgeon, in the world before I'd give up hope, and if they failed, I'd try what love—just patient, helpful love—could do! One thinks of a thousand ways which might cure when one loves," she added.
"Love is a great Healer," said Nan gently. "I'm not sure thatanything'simpossible if you have both love and faith." She paused, her foot on the step of the car. "I think—I think, some day, Roger will open the door of his heart to you, Isobel," she ended softly.
She was glad to lean back in the car and to feel the cool rush of the air against her face. She was tired—immensely tired—by the strain of the afternoon. And now the remembrance came flooding back into her mind that, even though Roger had released her, she and Peter were still set apart—no longer by the laws of God and man, but by the fact that she herself had destroyed his faith and belief in her.
She stepped wearily out of the car when it reached Mallow. She was late in returning, and neither Kitty nor Penelope were visible as she entered the big panelled hall. Probably they had already gone upstairs to dress for dinner.
As she made her way slowly towards the staircase, absorbed in rather bitter thoughts, a slight sound caught her ear—a sudden stir of movement. Then, out of the dim shadows of the hall, someone came towards her—someone who limped a little as he came.
"Nan!"
For an instant her heart seemed to stop beating. The quiet, drawling voice was Peter's, no longer harsh with anger, nor stern with the enforced repression of a love that was forbidden, but tender and enfolding as it had been that moonlit night amid the ruins of King Arthur's Castle.
"Peter! . . . Peter! . . ."
She ran blindly towards him, whispering his name.
How it had happened she neither knew nor cared—all that mattered was that Peter was here, waiting for her! And as his arms closed round her, and his voice uttered the one word: "Beloved!" she knew that every barrier was down between them and that the past, with all its blunders and effort and temptations, had been wiped out.
Presently she leaned away from him.
"Peter, I used to wonderwhyGod kept us apart. I almost lost my faith—once."
Peter's steady, blue-grey eyes met hers.
"Beloved," he said, "I think we can see why, even now. Isn't our love . . . which we've fought to keep pure and clean . . . been crucified for . . . a thousand times better and finer thing than the love we might have snatched at and taken when it wasn't ours to take?"