Out of a mist of floating uncertainty she saw her host bend towards her.
"All well, I trust?" he said kindly.
And she made a desperate effort to control her weakness and reply naturally.
"Oh, quite, quite," she said. "It is exactly what I expected." Nevertheless, she was trembling from head to foot, as if she had been dealt a stunning blow.
Had she altogether expected so prompt and obliging a reply?
Some weeks later, on an afternoon of bleak, early spring, Evelyn wandered alone on the shore where she had bidden Jim Willowby farewell. It was raining, and the sea was grey and desolate. The tide was coming in with a fierce roaring that seemed to fill the whole world.
She had a letter from Jim in her hand—his answer to her appeal for freedom; and she had sought the solitude of the shore in which to read it.
She took shelter from the howling sea-wind behind a great boulder of rock. She dreaded his reproaches unspeakably. For the past six weeks she had lived in dread of that moment. Her fingers were shaking as she opened the envelope that bore his boyish scrawl.
An enclosure fell out before she had withdrawn his letter. She caught it up hastily before the wind could take possession. It was an unmounted photograph—actually the portrait of a girl.
Evelyn stared at the roguish, laughing face with a great amazement. Then, with a haste that baffled its own ends, she sought his letter.
It began with astounding jauntiness:
"Dear Old Eve,—What a pair of superhuman idiots we have been! Many thanks for your sweet letter, which did me no end of good. I never loved you so much before, dear. Can you believe it? I am not surprised that you feel unequal to the task of keeping me in order for the rest of our natural lives. Will it surprise you to know that I had my doubts on the matter even when I wrote to suggest it? Never mind, dear old girl, I understand. And may the right man turn up soon and make you happy for the rest of your life!"I am sending a photograph of a girl who till three weeks ago was no more than a friend to me, but has since become myfiancée. Love is a wonderful thing, Eve. It comes upon you so suddenly and carries you away before you have time to realise what has happened. At least that has been my experience. There is no mistaking the real thing when it actually comes to you."I am getting on awfully well, and like the life. By the way, it was through your friend, Lester Cheveril, that I got this appointment. A jolly decent chap that! I liked him from the first. It isn't every man who will stand being told he squints without taking offence. We are hoping to get married next month. Write—won't you?—and send me your blessing. Much love—Yours ever,"James Willowby."
"Dear Old Eve,—What a pair of superhuman idiots we have been! Many thanks for your sweet letter, which did me no end of good. I never loved you so much before, dear. Can you believe it? I am not surprised that you feel unequal to the task of keeping me in order for the rest of our natural lives. Will it surprise you to know that I had my doubts on the matter even when I wrote to suggest it? Never mind, dear old girl, I understand. And may the right man turn up soon and make you happy for the rest of your life!
"I am sending a photograph of a girl who till three weeks ago was no more than a friend to me, but has since become myfiancée. Love is a wonderful thing, Eve. It comes upon you so suddenly and carries you away before you have time to realise what has happened. At least that has been my experience. There is no mistaking the real thing when it actually comes to you.
"I am getting on awfully well, and like the life. By the way, it was through your friend, Lester Cheveril, that I got this appointment. A jolly decent chap that! I liked him from the first. It isn't every man who will stand being told he squints without taking offence. We are hoping to get married next month. Write—won't you?—and send me your blessing. Much love—Yours ever,
"James Willowby."
Evelyn looked up from the letter with a deep breath of relief. It was so amazingly satisfactory. She almost forgot the emptiness of her own life for the moment in her rejoicing over Jim's happiness.
There was a little puddle of sea-water at her feet; and she climbed up to a comfortable perch on her sheltering rock and turned her face to the sea. Somehow, it did not seem so desolate as it had seemed five minutes before. This particular seat was a favourite haunt of hers in the summer. She loved to watch the tide come foaming up, and to feel the salt spray in her face.
Five minutes later, a great wave came hurling at the rock on which she sat, and, breaking in a torrent of foam, deluged her from head to foot.
She started up in swift alarm. The tide was coming in fast—much faster than she had anticipated. The shore curved inwards in a deep bay just there, and the cliffs rose sheer and unscalable from it to a considerable height.
Evelyn seldom went down to the shore in the winter, and she was not familiar with its dangers. The sea had seemed far enough out for safety when she had rounded the point nearest to the town, barely half an hour before. It was with almost incredulous horror that she saw that the waves were already breaking at the foot of the cliffs she had skirted.
She turned with a sudden, awful fear at her heart to look towards the farther point. It was a full mile away, and she saw instantly that she could not possibly reach it in time. The waves were already foaming white among the scattered boulders at its base.
Again a great wave broke behind her with a sound like the booming of a gun; and she realised that she would be surrounded in less than thirty seconds if she remained where she was. She slipped and slid down the side of the rock with the speed of terror, and plunged recklessly into a foot of water at the bottom. Before another wave broke she was dashing and stumbling among the rocks like a frenzied creature seeking safety from the remorseless, devouring monster that roared behind her.
The next five minutes of her life held for her an agony more terrible than anything she had ever known. Sea, sky, wind, and sudden pelting rain seemed leagued against her in a monstrous array against which she battled vainly with her puny woman's strength. The horror of it was like a leaden, paralysing weight. She fought and struggled because instinct compelled her; but at her heart was the awful knowledge that the sea had claimed her and she could not possibly escape.
She made for the farther point of the bay, though she knew she could not reach it in time. The loose shingle crumbled about her feet; the seaweed trapped her everywhere. She fell a dozen times in that awful race, and each time she rose in agony and tore on. The tumult all about her was like the laughter of fiends. She felt as if hell had opened its mouth, and she, poor soul, was its easy prey.
There came a moment at last when she tripped and fell headlong, and could not rise again. That moment was the culmination of her anguish. Neither soul nor body could endure more. Darkness—a howling, unholy darkness—came down upon her in a thick cloud from which there was no escape. She made a futile, convulsive effort to pray, and lost consciousness in the act.
Out of the darkness at length she came.
The tumult was still audible, but it was farther away, less overwhelming. She opened her eyes in a strange, unnatural twilight, and stared vaguely upwards.
At the same instant she became aware of some one at her side, bending over her—a man whose face, revealed to her in the dim light, sent a throb of wonder through her heart.
"You!" she said, speaking with a great effort. "Is it really you?"
He was rubbing one of her hands between his own. He paused to answer.
"Yes; it's really me," he said. And she fancied his voice quivered a little. "They told me I might perhaps find you on the shore. Are you better?"
She tried to sit up, and he helped her, keeping his arm about her shoulders. She found herself lying on a ledge of rock high up in the slanting wall of a deep and narrow cave. She knew the place well, and had always avoided it with instinctive aversion. It was horribly eerie. The rocky walls were wet with the ooze and slime of the ages. There was a trickle of spring-water along the ridged floor.
Evelyn closed her eyes dizzily. The marvel of the man's presence was still upon her, but the horror of death haunted her also. She would rather have been drowned outside on the howling shore than here.
"The sea comes in at high tide," she murmured shakily.
Lester Cheveril, crouching beside her, made undaunted reply.
"Yes, I know. But it won't touch us. Don't be afraid!"
The assurance with which he spoke struck her very forcibly; but something held her back from questioning the grounds of his confidence.
"How did you get here?" she asked him instead.
"I saw you from the corner of the bay," he said. "It was before you left your rock. I climbed round the point over the boulders. I thought at the time that there must be some way up the cliff. Then I saw you start running, and I knew you were cut off. I yelled to you, but I couldn't make you hear. So I had to give chase."
His arm tightened a little about her.
"I am sorry you were scared," he said. "Are you feeling better now?"
She could not understand him. He spoke with such entire absence of anxiety. In spite of herself her own fears began to subside.
"Yes, I am better," she said. "But—tell me more. Why didn't you go back when you saw what had happened?"
"I couldn't," he said simply. "Besides, even if they launched the lifeboat, the chances were dead against their reaching you. I thought of a rope, too. But that seemed equally risky. It was a choice of odds. I chose what looked the easiest."
"And carried me here?" she said.
The light, shining weirdly in upon his face, showed her that he was smiling.
"I couldn't stop to consult you," he said. "I saw this hole, and I made for it. I climbed up with you across my shoulder."
"You are wonderfully strong," she said, in a tone of surprise.
He laughed openly.
"Notwithstanding my size," he said. "Yes; I'm fairly muscular, thank Heaven."
Evelyn's mind was still working round the problem of deliverance.
"We shall have to stay here for hours," she said, "even if—if——"
He interrupted her with grave authority.
"There is no 'if,' Miss Harford," he said. "We may have to spend some hours here; but it will be in safety."
"I don't see how you can tell," she ventured to remark, beginning to look around her with greater composure notwithstanding.
"Providence doesn't play practical jokes of that sort," said Cheveril quietly. "Do you know I have come from the other end of the earth to see you?"
She felt the burning colour rush up to her temples, yet she made a determined effort to look him in the face. His eyes, keen and kindly, were searching hers, and she found she could not meet them.
"I—I don't know what brought you," she said, in a very low voice.
She felt the arm that supported her grow rigid, and guessed that he was putting force upon himself as he made reply.
"Let me explain," he said. "You sent me a cablegram which said, 'Please cancel engagement.' Naturally that had but one meaning for me—you and Jim Willowby had got the better of your difficulties, and were going to be married. In the capacity of friend, I received the news with rejoicing. So I cabled back 'Delighted.' Soon after that came a letter from Jim to tell me you had thrown him over. Now, why?"
She answered him with her head bent:
"I found that I didn't care for him quite in that way."
Cheveril did not speak for several seconds. Then, abruptly, he said:
"There is another fellow in the business."
She made a slight gesture of appeal, and remained silent.
He leaned forward slowly at length, and laid his hand upon both of hers.
"Evelyn," he said very gently, "will you tell me his name?"
She shook her head instantly. Her lips were quivering, and she bit them desperately.
He waited, but no word came. Outside, the roaring of the sea was terrible and insistent. The great sound sent a shudder through the girl. She shrank closer to the cold stone.
He pulled off his coat and wrapped it round her. Then, as if she had been a child, he drew her gently into his arms, and held her so.
"Tell me—now," he said softly.
But she hid her face dumbly. No words would come.
It seemed a long while before he spoke again.
"That cable of yours was a fraud," he said then. "I was not—I am not—prepared to release you from your engagement except under the original condition."
"I think you must," she said faintly.
He sought for her cold hands and thrust them against his neck. And again there was a long silence, while outside the sea raged fiercely, and far below them in the distance a white streak of foam ran bubbling over the rocky floor.
Soon the streak had become a stream of dancing, storm-tossed water. Evelyn watched it with wide, fascinated eyes. But she made no sign of fear. She felt as if he had, somehow, laid a quieting hand upon her soul.
Higher the water rose, and higher. The cave was filled with dreadful sound. It was almost dark, for dusk had fallen. She felt that but for the man's presence she would have been wild with fear. But his absolute confidence wove a spell about her that no terror could penetrate. The close holding of his arms was infinitely comforting to her. She knew with complete certainty that he was not afraid.
"It's very dark," she whispered to him once; and he pressed her head down upon his breast and told her not to look. Through the tumult she heard the strong, quiet beating of his heart, and was ashamed of her own mortal fear.
It seemed to her that hours passed while she crouched there, listening, as the water rose and rose. She caught the gleam of it now and then, and once her face was wet with spray. She clung closer and closer to her companion, but she kept down her panic. She felt that he expected it of her, and she would have died there in the dark, sooner than have disappointed him.
At last, after an eternity of quiet waiting, he spoke.
"The tide has turned," he said. And his tone carried conviction with it.
She raised her head to look.
A dim, silvery light shone mysteriously in revealing the black walls above them, the tossing water below. It had been within a foot of their resting-place, but it had dropped fully six inches.
Evelyn felt a great throb of relief pass through her. Only then did she fully realise how great her fear had been.
"Is that the moon?" she asked wonderingly.
"Yes," said Cheveril. He spoke in a low voice, even with reverence, she thought. "We shall be out of this in an hour. It will light us home."
"How—wonderful!" she said, half involuntarily.
Cheveril said no more; but the silence that fell between them was the silence of that intimacy which only those who have stood together before the great threshold of death can know. Many minutes passed before Evelyn spoke again, and then her words came slowly, with hesitation.
"You knew?" she said. "You knew that we were safe?"
"Yes," he answered quietly; "I knew. God doesn't give with one hand and take away with the other. Have you never noticed that?"
"I don't know," she answered with a sharp sigh. "He has never given me anything very valuable."
"Quite sure?" said Cheveril, and she caught the old quizzical note in his voice.
She did not reply. She was trying to understand him in the darkness, and she found it a difficult matter.
There followed a long, long silence. The roar of the breaking seas had become remote and vague.
But the moonlight was growing brighter. The dark cave was no longer a place of horror.
"Shall we go?" Evelyn suggested at last.
He peered downwards.
"I think we might," he said. "No doubt your people will be very anxious about you."
They climbed down with difficulty, till they finally stood together on the wet stones.
And there Cheveril reached out a hand and detained the girl beside him.
"That other fellow?" he said, in his quiet, half-humorous voice. "You didn't tell me his name."
"Oh, please!" she said tremulously.
He took her hands gently into his, and stood facing her. The moonlight was full in his eyes. They shone with a strange intensity.
"Do you remember," he said, "how I once said to you that I was romantic enough to like to see a love affair go the right way?"
She did not answer him. She was trembling in his hold.
He waited for a few seconds; then spoke, still kindly, but with a force that in a measure compelled her:
"That is why I want you to tell me his name."
She turned her face aside.
"I—I can't!" she said piteously.
"Then I hold you to your engagement," said Lester Cheveril, with quiet determination.
Her hands leapt in his. She threw him a quick uncertain glance.
"You can't mean that!" she said.
"I do mean it," he rejoined resolutely.
"But—but—" she faltered. "You don't really want to marry me? You can't!"
He looked grimly at her for a moment. Then abruptly he broke into a laugh that rang and echoed exultantly in the deep shadows behind them.
"I want it more than anything else on earth," he said. "Does that satisfy you?"
His face was close to hers, but she felt no desire to escape. That laugh of his was still ringing like sweetest music through her soul.
He took her shoulders between his hands, searching her face closely.
"And now," he said—"now tell me his name!"
Yet a moment longer she withstood him. Then she yielded, and went into his arms, laughing also—a broken, tearful laugh.
"His name is—Lester Cheveril," she whispered. "But I—I can't think how you guessed."
He answered her as he turned her face upwards to meet his own.
"The friend who stands by sees many things," he said wisely. "And Love is not always blind."
"But you—you weren't in love," she protested. "Not when——"
He interrupted her instantly and convincingly.
"I have always loved you," he said.
And she believed him, because her own heart told her that he had spoken the truth.
"He hasn't proposed, then?"
"No; he hasn't." A pause; then, reluctantly: "I haven't given him the opportunity."
"Violet! Do you want to starve?"
The speaker turned in his chair, and looked at the girl bending over the fire, with a quick, impatient frown on his handsome face. They were twins, these two, the only representatives of a family that had been wealthy three generations before them, but whose resources had dwindled steadily under the management of three successive spendthrifts, and had finally disappeared altogether in a desperate speculation which had promised to restore everything.
"You don't seem to realise," the young man said, "that we are absolutely penniless—destitute. Everything is sunk in this Winhalla Railway scheme, up to the last penny. It seemed a gorgeous chance at the time. It ought to have brought in thousands. It would have done, too, if it had been properly supported. But it's no good talking about that. It's just a gigantic failure, or, if it ever does succeed, it will come too late to help us. Just our infernal luck! And now the question is, what is going to be done? You'll have to marry that fellow, Violet. It's absolutely the only thing for you to do. And I—I suppose I must emigrate."
The girl did not turn her head. There was something tense about her attitude.
"I could emigrate too, Jerry," she said, in a low voice.
"You!" Her brother turned more fully round. "You!" he said again. "Are you mad, I wonder?"
She made a slight gesture of protest.
"Why shouldn't I?" she said. "At least, we should be together."
He uttered a grim laugh, and rose.
"Look here, Violet," he said, and took her lightly by the shoulders. "Don't be a little fool! You know as well as I do that you weren't made to rough it. The suggestion is so absurd that it isn't worth discussion. You'll have to marry Kenyon. It's as plain as daylight; and I only wish my perplexities were as easily solved. Come! He isn't such a bad sort; and, anyhow, he's better than starvation."
The girl stood up slowly and faced him. Her eyes were wild, like the eyes of a hunted creature.
"I hate him, Jerry! I hate him!" she declared vehemently.
"Nonsense!" said Jerry. "He's no worse than a hundred others. You'd hate any one under these abominable circumstances!"
She shuddered, as if in confirmation of this statement.
"I'd rather do anything," she said; "anything, down to selling matches in the gutter."
"Which isn't a practical point of view," pointed out Jerry. "You would get pneumonia with the first east wind, and die."
"Well, then, I'd rather die." The girl's voice trembled with the intensity of her preference. But her brother frowned again at the words.
"Don't!" he said abruptly. "For Heaven's sake, don't be unreasonable! Can't you see that it's my greatest worry to get you provided for? You must marry. You can't live on charity."
Her cheeks flamed.
"But I can work," she began. "I can——"
He interrupted her impatiently.
"You can't. You haven't the strength, and probably not the ability either. It's no use talking this sort of rot. It's simply silly, and makes things worse for both of us. It's all very well to say you'd rather starve, but when it comes to starving, as it will—as it must—you'll think differently. Look here, old girl: if you won't marry this fellow for your own sake, do it for mine. I hate it just as much as you do. But it's bearable, at least. And—there are some things I can't bear."
He stopped. She was clinging to him closely, beseechingly; but he stood firm and unyielding, his young face set in hard lines.
"Will you do it?" he said, as she did not speak.
"Jerry!" she said imploringly.
He stiffened to meet the appeal he dreaded. But it did not come. Her eyes were raised to his, and she seemed to read there the futility of argument. She remained absolutely still for some seconds, then abruptly she turned from him and burst into tears.
"Don't! don't!" he said.
He stepped close to her, as she leaned upon the mantelpiece, all the hardness gone from his face. Had she known it, the battle at that moment might have been hers; for he would have insisted no longer. He was on the brink of abandoning the conflict. But her anguish of weeping possessed her to the exclusion of everything else.
"Oh, Jerry, go away!" she sobbed passionately. "You're a perfect beast, and I'm another! But I'll do it, I'll do it—for your sake, as I would do anything in the world, though it's quite true that I'd rather starve!"
And Jerry, rather pale, but otherwise complete master of himself, patted her shoulder with a hasty assumption of kindly approval; and told her that he had always known she was a brick.
"Heaven knows I don't aspire to be any particular ornament to society," said Dick Kenyon modestly. "Never have; though I've been pretty well everything else that you can think of, from cow-puncher to millionaire. And I can tell you there's a dashed deal more fun in being the first than the last of those. Still, I think I could make you comfortable if you would have me; though, if you don't want to, just say so, and I'll shunt till further notice."
It was thus that he made his proposal to the girl of his choice; and no one, hearing it, would have guessed that beneath his calm, even phlegmatic, exterior, the man was in a ferment of anxiety. He spoke with a slight nasal twang that seemed to emphasise his deliberation, and his face was mask-like in its composure. Of beauty he had none.
His eyes were extraordinarily blue, but the lids drooped over them so heavily that his expression was habitually drowsy, even stolid. In build, he was short and thick-set, like a bulldog; and there seemed to be something of a bulldog's strength in the breadth of his chest, though there was no hint of energy about him to warrant its development.
The girl he addressed did not look at him. She sat perfectly still, with her hands fast clasped together, and her eyes, wide and despairing, fixed upon the fire in front of her. She was wondering desperately how long she could possibly endure it. Yet his last words were somehow not what she had expected from this man whose manner always seemed to hint that at least half of creation was at his sole disposal. They expressed a consideration on his part that she had been far from anticipating. He waited for an interval of several seconds for her to speak. He was standing up on the hearthrug, his ill-proportioned figure thrown into strong relief by the firelight behind him. At last, as she quite failed to answer him, he drew a pace nearer to her.
"Don't mind me, Miss Trelevan," he said, in a drawl so exaggerated that she thought it must be intentional. "Take your time. There's no hurry. I've always thought it was a bit hard on a woman to expect her to answer an offer of marriage offhand. Perhaps you'd rather write?"
"No," she said, rather breathlessly. "No!" Then, after a pause, still more breathlessly: "Won't you sit down?"
He stepped away from her again, to her infinite relief, and sat down a couple of yards away.
There ensued a most painful silence, during which the battle in the girl's heart raged fiercely. Then at length she took her resolution in both hands, and faced him. He was not looking at her. He sat quite still, and she fancied that his eyes were closed; but when she spoke he turned his head, and she realised that she had been mistaken.
"I can give you your answer now," she said, making the greatest effort of her life. "It is—it is—yes."
She rose with the words, almost as if in preparation for headlong flight. But Dick Kenyon kept his seat. He leaned forward a little, his blue eyes lifted to her face.
"Your final word, Miss Trelevan?" he asked her, in his cool, easy twang.
She wrung her hands together with an unconscious gesture of despair.
"Yes," she said; and added feverishly: "of course."
"You think you've met the right man?" he pursued, his tone one of gentle inquiry, as if he were speaking to a child.
She nodded. She was white to the lips.
"Yes," she said again.
He got up then with extreme deliberation.
"Well," he said, a curious smile flickering about his mouth, "that's about the biggest surprise I've ever had. And I don't mind telling you so. Sure now that you're not making a mistake?"
She uttered a little laugh that sounded hysterical.
"Oh, don't!" she said. "Don't! I have given you my answer!"
"And I'm to take you seriously?" questioned Kenyon. "Very well. I will. But you mustn't be frightened."
He stretched out a steady hand, and laid it on her shoulder. She quivered at his touch, but she did not attempt to resist.
"Don't be scared," he said very gently. "I know I'm as ugly as blazes; at least, I've been told so, but there's nothing else to alarm you if you can once get over that."
There was a note of quaint raillery in his voice. He did not try to draw her to him. Yet she was conscious of a strength that did battle with her half-instinctive aversion—a strength that might have compelled, but preferred to attract.
Unwillingly, at length, she looked at him, meeting his eyes, good-humouredly critical, watching her.
"I am not frightened," she said, with an effort. "It's only that—just at first—till I get used to it—it feels rather strange."
There was unconscious pleading in her voice. He took his hand from her shoulder, looking at her with his queer, speculative smile.
"I don't want to hustle you any," he said. "But if that's all the trouble, I guess I know a remedy."
Violet drew back sharply.
"Oh, no!" she said. "No!"
She was terrified for the moment lest he should desire to put his remedy to the test. But he made no movement in her direction, and another sort of misgiving assailed her.
"Don't be vexed," she said unsteadily. "I—I know I'm despicable. But I shall get over it—if you will give me time."
"Bless your heart, I'm not vexed," said Kenyon. "I'm only wondering, don't you know, how you brought yourself to say 'Yes' to me. But no matter, dear. I'm grateful all the same."
He held out his hand to her, and she laid hers nervously within it. She could not meet his eyes any longer.
Kenyon stooped and put his lips to her cold fingers.
"Jove!" he said softly. "I'm in luck to-day."
And after that he sat down again, and began to behave like an ordinary visitor.
"Great Scotland!" said Jerry.
He looked up from a letter, and gazed at his sister with starting eyes.
"Oh, what?" she exclaimed in alarm.
He sprang up impetuously, and went round the table to her. They were breakfasting in the tiny flat which was theirs for but three short months longer.
"Guess!" he said. "No, don't! I can't wait. It's the family luck, old girl, turned at last! It's the original gorgeous chance again with a practical dead certainty pushing behind. It's the Winhalla Railway turning up trumps just in time."
And, with a whoop that might have been heard from garret to basement, Jerry swept his sister from her chair, and waltzed her giddily round the little room till she cried breathlessly for mercy.
"Oh, but do tell me!" she gasped, when he set her down again. "I want to understand, Jerry. Don't be so mad. Tell me exactly what has happened!"
"I'll tell you," said Jerry, sitting down on the tablecloth. "It's a letter from Gardner—my broker and man of business generally—written last night to tell me that one of these swaggering capitalists has got hold of the Winhalla Railway scheme, and is going to make things hum. Shares are going up already; and they'll run sky high by the end of the week. It's bound to be all right. It was always sound enough. It only wanted capital. He doesn't tell me the bounder's name, but that's no matter. I don't want to go into partnership. I shall sell, sell, sell, at the top of the boom. Gardner's to be trusted. He'll know—and then—and then——"
"Yes; what does it mean?" the girl broke in. "I want to know exactly, Jerry!"
"Mean?" he echoed, his hands upon her shoulders. "It means emancipation, wealth, everything we've lost back again, and more to it! Now do you understand?"
She gasped for breath. She had turned very pale.
"Oh, Jerry!" she said tragically. "Jerry, why didn't this happen before?"
He stared at her for a moment. Then, as understanding came to him, he frowned with swift impatience.
"Oh, that must be broken off!" he said. "You can't marry that fellow now. Why should you?"
Violet shook her head hopelessly.
"I've promised," she said; "promised to marry him at the end of next month."
Jerry jumped up impulsively.
"But that's soon arranged," he declared. "Leave it to me. I'll explain."
"How can you?" questioned Violet.
"I shall put it on a purely business footing," he returned airily. "Don't you worry yourself. He isn't the sort of chap to take it to heart. You know that as well as I do. Perhaps it might be as well to wait till the end of the week and make sure of things, though, before I say anything."
But at this point Violet gave him the biggest surprise he had ever known. She sprang to her feet with flashing eyes.
"Indeed you won't, Jerry!" she exclaimed. "You will tell him to-day—this morning—and end it definitely. Never mind what happens afterwards. I won't carry the dishonourable bargain to that length. I've little enough self-respect left, but what there is of it I'll keep!"
"Heavens above!" ejaculated Jerry, in amazement. "What's the matter now? I was only thinking of you, after all."
"I know you were," she answered passionately. "But you're to think of something greater than my physical welfare. You're to think of my miserable little rag of honour, and do what you can for that, if you really want to help me!"
And with that she went quickly from the room and left him to breakfast alone.
He marvelled for a little at her agitation, and then the contents of the letter absorbed him again. He had better go and see Gardner, he reflected; and then, if the thing really seemed secure, he would take Dick Kenyon on his way back—perhaps lunch with him, and explain matters in a friendly way. There was certainly nothing for Violet to make a fuss about. He was quite fully convinced that the fellow wouldn't care. Marriage was a mere incident to men of his stamp.
So, cheerily at length, having disposed of his breakfast, he rose, collected his correspondence, which consisted for the most part of bills, and, whistling light-heartedly, took his departure.
"Now," said Dick Kenyon, in his easy, self-assured accents, "sit down right there, sonny, and tell me what's on your mind."
He pressed Jerry into his most comfortable chair with hospitable force.
Jerry submitted, because he could not help himself, rather than from choice. Patronage from Dick Kenyon was something of an offence to his ever-ready pride.
As for Dick, he had not apparently the smallest suspicion of any latent resentment of this nature in his visitor's mind. He brought out a box of choice cigars, and set them at Jerry's elbow. They had just lunched together at Kenyon's rooms; and it had been quite obvious to the latter that Jerry had been preoccupied throughout the meal.
Having furnished his guest with everything he could think of to ensure his comfort, he proceeded deliberately to provide for his own.
Jerry was not quite at his ease. He sat with the unlighted cigar between his fingers, considering with bent brows. Kenyon looked at him at last with a faint smile.
"If I didn't know it to be an impossibility," he said, "I should say you were shying at something."
Jerry turned towards him with an air of resolution.
"Look here, Kenyon," he said, in his slightly superior tones, "I have really come to talk to you about your engagement to my sister."
He paused, aware of a change in Kenyon's expression, but wholly unable to discover of what it consisted.
"What about it?" said Kenyon.
He was on his feet, searching the mantelpiece for an ash-tray. His face was turned from Jerry, but could he have seen it fully, it would have told him nothing.
Jerry went on, with a strong effort to maintain his ease of manner:
"We've been thinking it over, and we have come to the conclusion that perhaps, after all, it was a mistake. In short, my sister has thought better of it; and, as she is naturally sensitive on the subject, I undertook to tell you so, I don't suppose it will make any particular difference to you. There are plenty of girls who would jump at the chance of marrying your millions. But, of course, if you wish it, some compensation could be made."
Jerry paused again. He had placed the matter on the most businesslike footing that had occurred to him. Of course, the man must realise that he was a rank outsider, and would understand that it was the best method.
Kenyon heard him out in dead silence. He had found the ash-tray, but he did not turn his head. After several dumb seconds, he walked across the room to the window, and stood there. Finally he spoke.
"I don't suppose," he said, in his calm, expressionless drawl, "that you have ever had a cowhiding in your life, have you?"
"What?" said Jerry.
He stared at Kenyon in frank amazement. Was the man mad?
"Never had a cowhiding in your life, eh?" repeated Kenyon, without moving.
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Jerry.
Kenyon remained motionless.
"I mean," he said calmly, "that I've thrashed a man to a pulp before now for a good deal less than you have just offered me. It's my special treatment for curs. Suits 'em wonderfully. And suits me, too."
Jerry sprang to his feet in a whirl of wrath, but before he could utter a word Kenyon suddenly turned.
"Go back to your sister," he said, in curt, stern tones, "and tell her from me that I will discuss this matter with her alone. If she intends to throw me over, she must come to me herself and tell me so. Go now!"
But Jerry stood halting between an open blaze of passion and equally open discomfiture. He longed to hurl defiance in Kenyon's face, but some hidden force restrained him. There was that about the man at that moment which compelled submission. And so, at length, he turned without another word, and walked straight from the room with as fine a dignity as he could muster. By some remarkable means, Dick Kenyon had managed to get the best of the encounter.
Not the next day, nor the next, did Violet Trelevan summon up courage to face her outraged lover, and ask for her freedom. Jerry did not tell her precisely what had passed, but she gathered from the information he vouchsafed that Kenyon had not treated the matter peaceably. She wondered a little how Jerry had approached it, and told herself with a beating heart that she would have to take her own line of action.
Nevertheless, for a full week she did nothing, and at the end of that week the flutter in the Winhalla Railway shares had subsided completely, and all Jerry's high hopes were dead. From day to day he had tried to console himself and her with the reflection that a speculation of that sort was bound to fluctuate, but, in the end, when the shares went down to zero, he was forced to own that he had been too sanguine. It had been but the last flicker before extinction. The capitalist had evidently thought better of risking his money on such a venture.
"And I was a gaping, weak-kneed idiot not to sell for what I could get!" he told his sister. "But it's just our luck. I might have known nothing decent could ever happen to us!"
It was on that evening, when the outlook was at its blackest, that Violet wrote at last, without consulting Jerry, to the man in whose hands lay her freedom.
It was a short epistle, and humbly worded, for she realised that this, at least, was his due.
"I want you," she wrote, "to forgive me, if you can, for the wrong I have done you, and to set me free. I accepted you upon impulse, I am ashamed to say, for the sake of your money. But the shame would be even greater if I did not tell you so. I do not know what view you will take, but my own is that, in releasing me, you will not lose anything that is worth having."
The answer to this appeal came the next day by hand:
"May I see you alone at your flat at five o'clock?"
She had not expected it, and she felt for an instant as if a master hand had touched her, sending the blood tingling through her veins like fire. She sent a reply in the affirmative; and then set herself to face the longest day she had ever lived through.
She sat alone during the afternoon, striving desperately to nerve herself for the ordeal. But strive as she might, the fact remained that she was horribly, painfully frightened. There was something about this man which it seemed futile to resist, something that dominated her, something against which it hurt her to fight.
She heard his ring punctually upon the stroke of five, and she went herself to answer it.
He greeted her with his usual serenity of manner.
"All alone?" he asked, as he followed her into the little drawing-room in which he had proposed to her so short a time before.
She assented nervously.
"Jerry went into the city. He won't be back yet."
"That's kind of you," said Kenyon quietly.
She did not ask him to sit down. They faced each other on the hearthrug. The strong glare of the electric light showed him that she was very pale.
Abruptly he thrust out his hand to her.
"You must forgive me for bullying your brother the other day," he said. "Really, he deserved it."
She glanced up quickly.
"Jerry doesn't understand," she said.
He kept his hand outstretched though she did not take it.
"I don't understand, either," he said.
"Do you really want to shake hands with me?" she murmured, her voice very low.
"I want to hold your hand in mine, if I may," he answered simply. "I think it will help to solve the difficulty. Thank you! Yes; I thought you were trembling. Now, why, I wonder?"
She did not answer him. Her head was bent.
"Don't!" he said gently. "There is no cause. Didn't I tell you I would shunt if you didn't want me?"
Still she was silent, her hand lying passive in his.
"Come!" he said. "I want to understand, don't you know. That note of yours. You say in it that you accepted me for the sake of my money. Even so. But I reckon that is more a reason for sticking to me than for throwing me over."
He paused, but her head only drooped a little lower.
"Doesn't that reason still exist?" he asked her, point blank.
She shivered at the direct question, but she answered it.
"Yes; it does. And that's why I'm ashamed to go on."
"Why ashamed?" he asked. "How do you know my reason for wanting to marry you is as good since I never told you what it was?"
She looked up then, suddenly and swiftly, and caught a curious glint in the blue eyes that watched her.
"I do know," she said, speaking quickly, impulsively. "And that's why—I can't bear—that you should despise me."
"Ah!" he said. "Do you really care what an outsider like myself thinks of you?"
The colour flamed suddenly in her white face, but he went on in his quiet drawl as if he had not seen it:
"If I thought it was for your happiness, believe me, I would set you free. But, so far, you haven't given me any reason that could justify such a step. Can't you think of one? Honestly, now?"
She shook her head. Her eyes were full of blinding tears.
"What is it, then?" urged Kenyon. And suddenly his voice was as soft as a woman's. "Has the right man turned up unexpectedly, after all? Is it for his sake?"
"Oh, don't!" she cried passionately. "Don't! You hurt me!"
And, turning sharply from him, she hid her face, and broke into anguished weeping.
Kenyon stood quite still for perhaps ten seconds; then he moved close to her, and put his arm round the slight, sobbing figure.
She did not start or attempt to resist him.
"There, there!" he whispered soothingly. "I knew there was a reason. Don't cry, dear! It will be all right—all right. Never mind the beastly money. There's going to be a big boom in the Winhalla Railway shares, and you'll make your fortune over it. Yes; I know all about that. A friend told me. There's a big capitalist pushing behind. They have gone down this week, but they are going to rise like a spring tide next. And then—you'll be free to marry the right man, eh, dear? I sha'n't stand in your way. I'll even come and dance at the wedding, if you'll have me."
She uttered a muffled laugh through her tears, and turned slightly towards him within the encircling arm.
"I hope you will," she murmured. "Because—because—" She broke off, and became silent.
Dick Kenyon's arm did not slacken.
"If you could make it convenient to finish that sentence of yours, I'd be real grateful," he observed, at length.
She lifted her face from her hands, and looked him in the eyes. Her own were shining.
"Because," she said unsteadily, "I couldn't marry the right man—if you weren't there."
He looked straight back at her without a hint of emotion in his heavy eyes.
"Quite sure of that?" he asked.
And she laughed again tremulously as she made reply.
"Quite sure, Dick," she said softly, "though I've only just found it out."
Jerry, tearing in a little later, brimful of city news, noticed that his sister's face was brighter than usual, but failed, in his excitement, to perceive a visitor in the room, the visitor not troubling himself to rise at his entrance.
"News, Vi!" he shouted. "Gorgeous news! The Winhalla Railway is turning up trumps! The shares are simply flying up. I told Gardner I'd sell at fifty, but he says they are worth holding on to, for they'll go above that. He vows they're safe. And who do you think is the capitalist that's pushing behind? Why, Kenyon!"
He broke off abruptly at this point as Kenyon himself arose leisurely with a serene smile and outstretched hand.
"Exactly—Kenyon!" he said. "But if you think he's a rank bad speculator like yourself, sonny, you're mistaken. I didn't make my money that way, and I don't reckon to lose it that way either. But Gardner's right. Those shares are safe. They aren't going down again ever any more."
He turned to the girl on his other side, and laid his free hand on her shoulder.
"And I guess you'll forgive me for distressing you," he said, "when I tell you why I did it."
"Well, why, Dick?" she questioned, her face turned to his.
"I just thought I'd like to know, dear," he drawled, "if there wasn't something bigger than money to be got out of this deal. And—are you listening, Jerry?—I found there was!"
The Poor Relation hoisted one leg over the arm of his chair, and gazed contemplatively at the ceiling.
"Now, I wonder whom I ought to scrag for this," he mused aloud.
A crumpled newspaper lay under his hand, a certain paragraph uppermost that was strongly scored with red ink. He had read it twice already and after a thoughtful pause he proceeded to read it again.
"A marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between Cecil Mordaunt Rivington and Ernestine, fourth daughter of Lady Florence Cardwell."
"Why Ernestine, I wonder?" murmured the Poor Relation. "Thought she was still in short frocks. Used to be rather a jolly little kid. Wonder what she thinks of the arrangement?"
A faint smile cocked one corner of his mouth—a very plain mouth which he wore no moustache to hide.
"And Lady Florence! Ye gods! Wonder what she thinks!"
The smile developed into a snigger, and vanished at a breath.
"But it's really infernally awkward," he declared. "Ought one to go and apologise for what one hasn't done? Really, I don't know if I dare!"
Again, as one searching for inspiration, he read the brief paragraph.
"It looks to me, Cecil Mordaunt, as if you are in for a very warm time," he remarked at the end of this final inspection. "Such a time as you haven't had since you left Rugby. If you take my advice you'll sit tight like a sensible chap and leave this business to engineer itself. No good ever came of meddling."
With which practical reflection he rose to fill and light a briar pipe, his inseparable companion, before grappling with his morning correspondence.
This lay in a neat pile at his elbow, and after a ruminative pause devoted to the briar pipe, he applied himself deliberately to its consideration.
The first two he examined and tossed aside with a bored expression. The third seemed to excite his interest. It was directed in a nervous, irregular hand that had tried too hard to be firm, and had spluttered the ink in consequence. The envelope was of a pearly grey tint. The Poor Relation sniffed at it, and turned up his nose.
Nevertheless, he opened the missive with a promptitude that testified to a certain amount of curiosity.
"Dear Knight Errant," he read, in the same desperate handwriting. "Do you remember once years ago coming to the rescue of a lady in distress who was chased by a bull? The lady has never forgotten it. Will you do the same again for the same lady to-day, and earn her undying gratitude? If so, will you confirm the statement in theMorning Postas often and as convincingly as you can till further notice? I wonder if you will? I do wonder. I couldn't ask you if you were anything but poor and a sort of relation as well.—Yours,in extremis,
"Ernestine Cardwell.
"P.S.—Of course, don't do it if you would really rather not."
"Thank you, Ernestine!" said the Poor Relation. "That last sentence of yours might be described as the saving clause. I would very much rather not, if the truth be told; which it probably never will be. As you have shrewdly foreseen, the subtlety of your 'in extremis' draws me in spite of myself. I have seen youin extremisbefore, and I must admit the spectacle made something of an impression."
He read the letter again with characteristic deliberation, lay back awhile with pale blue eyes fixed unswervingly upon the ceiling, and finally rose and betook himself to his writing-table.
"Dear Lady in Distress," he wrote. "I am pleased to note that even poor relations have their uses. As your third cousin removed to the sixth or seventh degree, I shall be most happy to serve you. Pray regard me as unreservedly at your disposal. Awaiting your further commands.—Your devoted
"Knight Errant."
This letter he directed to Miss Ernestine Cardwell and despatched by special messenger. Then, with a serene countenance, he glanced through his remaining correspondence, stretched himself, yawned, looked out of the window, and finally sauntered forth to his club.
"Ye gods! I should think Lady Florence is feelin' pretty furious. The fellow hasn't a penny, and isn't even an honourable. I thought all her daughters were to be princesses or duchesses or ranees or somethin' imposin'."
Archie Fielding, gossip-in-chief of the Junior Sherwood Club, beat a rousing tattoo on the table, and began to whistle Mendelssohn's "Wedding March."
"Wonder if he will want me to be best man," he proceeded. "It'll be the seventh time this season. Think I shall make a small charge for my services for the future. Not to poor old Cecil, though. He's always hard-up. I wonder what they'll live on. I'll bet Miss Ernestine hasn't been brought up on cheese and smoked herrings."
"Which is Ernestine?" asked another member, generally known at the club as "that ass Bray." "The little one, isn't it; the one that laughs?"
"The cheeky one—yes," said Archie. "I saw her ridin' in the Park with Dinghra the other day. Awful brute, Dinghra, if he is a rajah's son."
"Shocking bounder!" said Bray. "But rich—a quality that covers a multitude of sins."
"Especially in Lady Florence's estimation," remarked Archie. "She's had designs on him ever since Easter. Ernestine is a nice little thing, you know, but somehow she hangs fire. A trifle over-independent, I suppose, and she has a sharp tongue, too—tells the truth a bit too often, don't you know. I don't get on with that sort of girl myself. But I'll swear Dinghra is head over ears, the brute. I'd give twenty pounds to punch his evil mouth."
"Yes, he's pretty foul, certainly. But apparently she isn't for him. I'm surprised that Cecil has taken the trouble to compete. He's kept mighty quiet about it. I've met him hardly anywhere this season."
"Oh, he's a lazy animal! But he always does things on the quiet; it is his nature to. He's the sort of chap that thinks for about twenty years, and then goes straight and does the one and only thing that no one else would dream of doin'. I rather fancy, for all his humdrum ways, he would be a difficult man to thwart. I'd give a good deal to know how he got over Lady Florence, though. He has precious little to recommend him as a son-in-law."
At this point some one kicked him violently, and he looked up to see the subject of his harangue sauntering up the room.
"Are you talking about me?" he inquired, as he came. "Don't let me interrupt, I beg. I know I'm an edifying topic, eh, Archibald?"
"Oh, don't ask me to praise you to your face," said Archie, quite unperturbed. "How are you, old chap? We are all gapin' with amazement over this mornin's news. Is it really true? Are we to congratulate?"
"Are you referring to my engagement?" asked the Poor Relation, pausing in the middle of the group. "Yes, of course it's true. Do you mean to say you were such a pack of dunderheads you didn't see it coming?"
"There wasn't anything to see," protested Archie. "You've been lyin' low, you howlin' hypocrite! I always said you were a dark horse."
The Poor Relation smiled upon him tolerantly.
"Can't you call me anything else interesting? It seems to have hurt your feelings rather, not being in the know. I can't understand your not smelling a rat. Where are your wits, man?"
He tapped Archie's head smartly with his knuckles, and passed on, the smile still wrinkling his pale eyes and the forehead above them from which the hair was steadily receding towards the top of his skull.
Certainly the gods had not been kind to him in the matter of personal beauty, but a certain charm he possessed, notwithstanding, which procured for him a well-grounded popularity.
"You'll let me wish you luck, anyway, Rivington," one man said.
"Rather!" echoed Archie. "I hope you'll ask me to your weddin'."
"All of you," said the Poor Relation generously. "It's going to be a mountainous affair, and Archie shall officiate as best man."
"When is it to take place?" some one asked.
"Oh, very soon—very soon indeed; actual date not yet fixed. St. George's, Hanover Square, of course; and afterwards at Lady Florence Cardwell's charming mansion in Park Lane. It'll be a thrilling performance altogether." The Poor Relation beamed impartially upon his well-wishers. He seemed to be hugely enjoying himself.
"And whither will the happy pair betake themselves after the reception?" questioned Archie.
"That, my dear fellow, is not yet quite decided."
"I expect you'll go for a motor tour," said Bray.
But Rivington at once shook his head.
"Nothing of that sort. Couldn't afford it. No, we shall do something cheaper and more original than that. I've got an old caravan somewhere; that might do. Rather a bright idea, eh, Archie?"
"Depends on the bride," said Archie, looking decidedly dubious.
"Eh? Think so? We shall have to talk it over." The Poor Relation subsided into a chair, and stretched himself with a sigh. "There are such a lot of little things to be considered when you begin to get married," he murmured, as he pulled out his pipe.
"Some one wanting you on the telephone, sir," announced one of the club attendants at his elbow, a few minutes later.
"Eh? Who is it? Tell 'em I can't be bothered. No, don't. I'm coming."
Laboriously he hoisted himself out of his chair, regretfully he knocked the glowing tobacco out of his pipe, heavy-footed he betook him to the telephone.
"Hullo!"
"Oh!" said a woman's voice. "Is that you?"
"Yes. Who do you want?"
"Mr. Rivington—Cecil Mordaunt Rivington." The syllables came with great distinctness. They seemed to have an anxious ring.
"Yes, I'm here," said the owner of the name. "Who are you?"
"I'm Ernestine. Can you hear me?"
"First-rate! What can I do for you?"
There was a pause, then:
"I had your letter," said the voice, "and I'm tremendously grateful to you. I was afraid you might be vexed."
"Not a bit of it," said Rivington genially. "Anything to oblige."
"Thanks so much! It was great cheek, I know, but I've had such a horrid fright. I couldn't think of any other way out, and you were the only possible person that occurred to me. You were very kind to me once, a long time ago. It's awfully decent of you not to mind."
"Please don't!" said Rivington. "That sort of thing always upsets me. Look here, can't we meet somewhere and talk things over? It would simplify matters enormously."
"Yes, it would. That is what I want to arrange. Could you manage some time this afternoon? Please say you can!"
"Of course I can," said Rivington promptly. "What place?"
"I don't know. It must be somewhere right away where no one will know us."
"How would the city do? That's nice and private."
A faint laugh came to his ear. "Yes; but where?"
Rivington briefly considered.
"St. Paul's Cathedral, under the dome, three o'clock. Will that do?"
"Yes, I'll be there. You won't fail?"
"Not if I live," said Rivington. "Anything else?"
"No; only a million thanks! I'll explain everything when we meet."
"All right. Good-bye!"
As he hung up the receiver, a heavy frown drove the kindliness out of his face.
"What have they been doing to the child?" he said. "It's a pretty desperate step for a girl to take. At least it might be, it would be, if I were any one else."
Suddenly the smile came back and drew afresh the kindly, humorous lines about his eyes.
"She seems to remember me rather well," he murmured. "She certainly was a jolly little kid."
The afternoon sunlight streamed golden through the cathedral as Cecil Rivington passed into its immense silence. He moved with quiet and leisurely tread; it was not his way to hurry. The great clock was just booming the hour.
There were not many people about. A few stray footsteps wandered through the stillness, a few vague whispers floated to and fro. But the peace of the place lay like a spell, a dream atmosphere in which every sound was hushed.
Rivington passed down the nave till he reached the central space under the great dome. There he paused, and gazed straight upwards into the giddy height above him.
As he stood thus calmly contemplative, a light step sounded on the pavement close to him, and a low voice spoke.
"Oh, here you are! It's good of you to be so punctual."
He lowered his eyes slowly as if he were afraid of giving them a shock, and focussed them upon the speaker.
"I am never late," he remarked. "And I am never early."
Then he smiled kindly and held out his hand.
"Hullo, Chirpy!" he said. "It is Chirpy, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is Chirpy. But I never expected you to remember that."
"I remember most things," said Rivington.
His pale eyes dwelt contemplatively on the girl before him. She was very slim and young, and plainly very nervous. There was no beauty about Ernestine Cardwell, only a certain wild grace peculiarly charming, and a quick wit that some people found too shrewd. When she laughed she was a child. Her laugh was irresistible, and there was magic in her smile, a baffling, elusive magic too transient to be defined. Very sudden and very fleeting was her smile. Rivington saw it for an instant only as she met his look.
"Do you know," she said, colouring deeply. "I thought you were much older than you are."
"I am fifty," said Rivington.
But she shook her head.
"It is very good of you to say so."
"Not at all," smiled Rivington. "You, I fancy, must be about twenty-one. How long since the bull episode?"
"Oh, do you remember that, too?" She uttered a faint laugh.
"Vividly," said Rivington. "I have a lively memory of the fleetness of your retreat and the violence of your embrace when the danger was over."
She laughed again.
"It was years and years ago—quite six, I should think."
"Quite, I should say," agreed Rivington. "But we have met since then, surely?"
"Oh yes, casually. But we are not in the same set, are we? Some one once told me you were very Bohemian."
"Who was it? I should like to shoot him!" said Rivington.
At which she laughed again, and then threw a guilty glance around.
"I don't think this is a very good place for a talk."
"Not if you want to do much laughing," said Rivington. "Come along to the tea-shop round the corner. No one will disturb us there."
They turned side by side, and began to walk back. The girl moved quickly as though not wholly at her ease. She glanced at her companion once or twice, but it was not till they finally emerged at the head of the steps that she spoke.
"I am wondering more and more how I ever had the impertinence to do it."
"There's no great risk in asking a poor relation to do anything," said Rivington consolingly.
"Ah, but I did it without asking." There was an unmistakable note of distress in her quick rejoinder. "I was at my wits' end. I didn't know what on earth to do. And it came to me suddenly like an inspiration. But I wish I hadn't now, with all my heart."
Rivington turned his mild eyes upon her.
"My dear child, don't be silly!" he said. "I am delighted to be of use for a change. I don't do much worth the doing, being more or less of a loafer. It is good for me to exercise my ingenuity now and then. It only gets rusty lying by."
She put out her hand impulsively and squeezed his.
"You're awfully nice to me," she said. "It's only a temporary expedient, of course. I couldn't ask you first—there wasn't time. But I'll set you free as soon as I possibly can. Have people been talking much?"
"Rather! They are enjoying it immensely. I have had to go ahead like steam. I've even engaged a best man."
She threw him a startled look.
"Oh, but——"
"No, don't be alarmed," he said reassuringly. "It's best to take the bull by the horns, believe me. The more fuss you make at the outset, the quicker it will be over. People will be taking us for granted in a week."
"You think so?" she said doubtfully. "I can't think what mother will say. I don't dare think."
"Is your mother away, then?"
"Yes, in Paris for a few days. I couldn't have done it if she had been at home. I don't know quite what I should have done." She broke off with a sudden shudder. "I've had a horrid fright," she said again.
"Come and have some tea," suggested Rivington practically.