When a man on a walk calls the attention of his companions to the condition of the hedges; when he notices that the road wants mending, or that the ditches are either clean or overgrown; when, moreover, he comments on the early discolouration of the leaves of certain distant trees, it can clearly be due only to one of two causes: either his conversation never rises above the level of such subjects, or else, some influence is active which has so severely shaken his composure as to leave him utterly destitute of thought.
If women divine, even half-consciously, that the latter is the reason, they are, however, patient and tolerant, where his temporary stupidity is concerned. But Stephen was not a woman, neither was Agatha half-consciously aware of the true cause of Lord Henry's transient dullness.
On the way home there was a general shuffling of the members of the party, and to Lord Henry's relief, Leonetta, Mrs. Tribe, and Guy Tyrrellsprang eagerly to his side, while Agatha, Cleopatra, and Stephen joined Denis, Vanessa, and the Incandescent Gerald in front.
Cleopatra's persistent and yet unaffected affability to Denis had now become one of the added terrors of Brineweald to this unfortunate young man, and what struck him as particularly strange was that the more animated and hilarious became the conversation behind, between Lord Henry and Leonetta, the more perfectly natural and cheerful did Cleopatra appear to grow. He had done his utmost to convey to Leonetta on the walk out that he insisted on her returning with him at her side. He hoped that the girl had seen what he himself thought he perceived—that is to say, a growing intimacy between Lord Henry and her sister,—and that this would induce her to do as he desired. Leonetta, however, was at times unaccountably dense. She had escaped from him at Sandlewood, and, to his utter bewilderment, the sound of her voice now, in animated converse with Lord Henry, seemed to leave Cleopatra entirely unperturbed.
Had Cleopatra hopes?
Truth to tell, Cleopatra had more than hopes; she was partially convinced that these were confirmed. She could be affable to Denis, she could be kind to Leonetta,—aye, she could even have embraced her worst tormentor now, and with sincere friendship, because she was supremely and profoundly happy. Even if Lord Henry did notfeel anything for her,—and his extraordinary behaviour rather invalidated that alternative,—she had at least encountered a man who rose to the standard of her girlhood's ideal, who made her feel that hitherto she had not been wrong in experiencing a faint feeling of dissatisfaction about the other men she had met, and who therefore consoled her for having waited. And, with this conviction in her heart, she was able at once to classify Denis Malster among the "impossibles." She saw now how much more her recent trouble had been the outcome of wounded vanity, than of thwarted passion, and she was able to treat her former admirer with a lavish good humour and friendliness that completely froze him.
She too caught snatches of the conversation behind. She heard how animated and hilarious it was. And, comparing it with Lord Henry's attitude not thirty minutes previously, she felt convinced that it was she this time, and not her sister, who had conquered. As she came to this conclusion, a strange thrill, utterly new and inexperienced theretofore, pervaded her whole body, until the titillation of her nerves became almost painful, and a fierce longing for the bewildering personality at her back suddenly possessed her as a conscious and uncontrollable desire.
When they were half-way out of the wood Leonetta suddenly announced that she had dropped a bangle. She and Lord Henry had been losing ground for some time, and having separated themselves from Mrs. Tribe and Guy Tyrrell, had fallen much to the rear.
"Are you sure you had it with you?"
"Absolutely certain," she exclaimed.
"Let's go back then," said Lord Henry.
They turned and began to retrace their steps along the path that led back to Sandlewood village, keeping their eyes on the ground as they went.
Suddenly a cry from Guy made them stop.
"What are you two up to?" he shouted. "You'll be late for lunch."
"All right, you go back and tell them to start without us!" cried Lord Henry. "Leonetta's lost her bangle."
Guy nodded, and continued on his way homeward with Mrs. Tribe.
"That's a nice thing!" Lord Henry observed.
"Of course, they'll think I've done it on purpose!" Leonetta rejoined, smiling roguishly.
Lord Henry smiled too. She certainly seemed to understand that her character was not incompatible with such a conclusion.
They walked on thus for about five minutes, and then suddenly Lord Henry espied the ornament lying in the mud.
"Oh, I'm so thankful to you, Lord Henry,—you've no idea!" she cried. "I should never have found it myself."
Lord Henry was facing the homeward path, and she had her back turned to it. With great care he removed the offending particles of mud fromthe recovered treasure, and then fastened it on her arm. At the same moment, at a bow-shot from him, he saw Denis approaching at a rapid pace through the wood. Evidently he was coming in the hope of finding the bangle, and behind him followed Vanessa and the Incandescent Gerald.
It seemed as if Fate itself had been active here, and had laid this unique opportunity in Lord Henry's hands. It was certainly too good to lose, and feeling perfectly certain that Denis could not know that his approach had been perceived, resolved immediately upon a drastic, but as he thought, conclusive measure.
It was unfortunate that the Incandescent Gerald, whose sole object in coming was probably his besetting desire to "do good work," as Lord Henry put it, was also in sight. But there are certain risks that a good strategist must run.
"Oh, you don't know how thankful I am!" Leonetta cried again.
Lord Henry smiled. There was no time to lose. "I think that almost deserves a kiss," he said, placing an arm round her waist.
She looked up; her expression spelt consent, and he held her for some seconds in his arms.
"Well!" she cried, releasing herself; "it seems to me I go from bad to worse."
He looked in the direction of home, and, as he feared, Vanessa, Denis, and the Incandescent Gerald had turned their backs, and were racing as hard as they could towards Brineweald Park.
"Are you sure it's quite clean?" asked Lord Henry, catching hold of her hand and examining the bangle closely, so as to retain her a few moments longer.
"What does it matter?" Leonetta cried. "Really, I'm sure it's all right."
He looked up. There was no sign of the three fugitives, and he allowed her to turn round.
"Now we must step it out, I'm afraid," he said.
Leonetta laughed gleefully. "What fun, isn't it?" she chirped. "I wonder how it fell off!"
"Simply one of those strange accidents which go to determine the course of our lives," he observed calmly. "By accidentally throwing a tennis ball further than he intended, Sir Sidney Smith was ultimately able to decide the fate of Napoleon's campaign in Syria; the British Throne was once lost by just such an accident as this, and Kellermann's charge at Marengo was of the same order."
She looked up into his thoughtful face. His self-possession was one of the most wonderful features about him.
"What do you mean?" she exclaimed. "I hardly know whether you are serious or not."
"Have you never heard," he pursued, "of the story of that priceless Arabian pearl, which, after it had been missing for months was ultimately returned to its owner by a bird? Meanwhile, however, the owner in question had been robbed of all he possessed, and the pearl itself would certainly have gone too, if it had not been accidentally hidden where only the bird could have found it. One day the bird was killed, the treasure was found in its nest, and the owner was restored to a state of affluence, of which, if the pearl had not originally been lost, he must have despaired till the end of his days.
"You are walking fast," said Leonetta breathlessly.
"Yes,—do you mind?"
"We shan't be so very late."
"I should prefer not to be late," said Lord Henry, "I know Sir Joseph studies punctuality."
Truth to tell, the young nobleman's imagination had for the last few minutes been busy with more vital matters than the framing of fresh contributions to the Arabian Nights' Entertainment, and he was feeling none too well at ease. It had occurred to him that his drastic action might have more disastrous effects than merely nipping Denis's passion in the bud, and he wished to rejoin the company at Brineweald at the earliest possible moment.
"I assure you, Lord Henry, that you can take it much more easily," cried Leonetta.
"Let me give you my arm," he suggested. "That will help you."
She took his arm, and he proceeded to tell her how probably a chance unpleasant word dropped by Charles I. to Lady Carlisle had ultimately led to the Grand Rebellion.
Meanwhile, Denis Malster, panting more with fury than from the violent exercise he had taken, had reached the terrace of Brineweald Park, and was looking about him for someone to whom he could confide his incriminating intelligence against Lord Henry.
"All alone?" cried Mrs. Delarayne, coming towards him. "My word, how hot you look!"
"Vanessa and Tribe are close behind," he said; "they'll be here in a minute. Where are the others?"
"Cleopatra, Agatha, Agnes, and Guy have just come in," replied the widow. "But where's Leonetta?"
"She's somewhere," he said indifferently. "Lost her bangle or something." And he passed on, making towards the smoking-room, the door of which was open.
Evidently Mrs. Delarayne was not to be his confidante, and, as he vanished behind the glass doors, she wondered what his strange manner could signify.
There was no one in the smoking-room, and he moved on into the lounge.
Sir Joseph was there, sipping anaperitifwithGuy, and sitting around them were Miss Mallowcoid and the first arrivals, still clad in their mackintoshes. They were all discussing the arrangement for some rabbit shooting in the afternoon. Sir Joseph wanted the rabbits for his men in Lombard Street.
Cleopatra and everyone looked up as Denis entered.
"Well?" enquired Guy, "did you find the bangle?"
Denis braced himself for a great effort and, smiling with as much good humour as he could muster, helped himself to a glass of sherry.
"Yes, what about the bangle?" Stephen exclaimed.
"When I last saw them," Denis observed with creditable composure, "they were too busy kissing to be able to find any bangle."
As he pronounced these words he glanced furtively at Cleopatra, but although he noticed that she winced, he was not a little surprised to see how collected and serene she remained. Did she perhaps think he was lying?
"They were what?" cried Miss Mallowcoid.
"Too busy, kissing,—kissing," Sir Joseph repeated.
The spinster rose.
"Rubbish!" cried Stephen. "He's only joking, Miss Mallowcoid."
"Of course!" interjected Mrs. Tribe.
"Well, what of it?" Sir Joseph exclaimed, "even if they were."
"But who, who were kissing?" the old spinster demanded, going up to Denis.
Denis laid his empty glass upon the tray and walked quietly out. Miss Mallowcoid evidently taking his departure as a hint, followed close behind.
In the smoking-room he turned and faced her.
"What is all this about?" she enquired.
"Well, I don't know what you think," said Denis with tremendous gravity; "but really, when a man close on forty, not only entertains a child with all kinds of unsuitable conversation, but also inveigles her into the woods alone in order to kiss her, it seems to me things have really gone far enough."
"You don't mean Lord Henry, do you?" ejaculated Miss Mallowcoid, clasping her hard white hands in horror.
"I'm sorry to say I do!" Denis rejoined just as Vanessa and the Incandescent Gerald, who had also returned home, came in through the smoking-room and vanished into the lounge.
"Oh, but this it monstrous!" cried Miss Mallowcoid. "Does her mother know?"
"No, I've said nothing," said Denis, as the gong went for lunch. "If I hadn't been pressed I shouldn't have said anything even now."
"Oh, but it was very noble of you to tell us," said Miss Mallowcoid, pondering a moment what she could do. "Very noble. Thank you, thank you, Denis!"
Meanwhile Vanessa and the Incandescent Gerald had naturally been questioned by Sir Joseph, and Lord Henry's champion, Stephen; and it was not until the Incandescent Gerald had admitted very solemnly and reluctantly that he was afraid he did see Lord Henry embrace Leonetta, that Stephen was appeased, or rather silenced.
"Well, I'm surprised, that's all," said the youth, and as he said this, Cleopatra, very pale and a little unsteady on her feet, glided quietly out of the room.
She had disbelieved it until the end. It was only when the incorruptible Gerald Tribe had admitted it that she also had been convinced.
In a few minutes the whole party, except Cleopatra, was assembled round the luncheon table. Lord Henry and Leonetta had returned, and what with her joy over her recovered bangle, and her pride in Lord Henry's recently revealed affection, few could have looked more guiltless and more free from care than the heroine of the morning's adventure.
Miss Mallowcoid ate little. Her faith in the desirability of human life in general had been rudely shaken. She therefore kept her eyes fastened sadly on the immoral couple, and wondered how two such sinful beings could eat and talk so heartily.
Lord Henry, however, was not quite as bright as his fellow sinner, for the dramatic absence of Cleopatra from the luncheon table made him feel somewhat apprehensive. From the way in which Mrs. Delarayne assured him that it was only a passingmigrainethat was keeping her daughter away, he was led to hope that it was truly only one of those curious accidents, or coincidences, concerning which he had been discoursing to Leonetta on the way home; but he was not devoid of sensitiveness, and something in the manner of all present, except Mrs. Delarayne, led him to fear the worst.
He was not at all alarmed by Denis's haggard and angry mask, for that he had expected. What he would like to have known was why Miss Mallowcoid and Sir Joseph regarded him so strangely, and why Stephen looked so sad.
Denis scarcely addressed a word to Leonetta, and whenever he was constrained to vouchsafe a laconic answer to any question from her, he glanced significantly at Miss Mallowcoid for her approval.
After lunch Lord Henry conveyed to Mrs. Delarayne that he would like to speak to her alone, and she followed him out on to the terrace.
"I want to see Cleopatra,—do you think I might?" he said.
"I'll go and ask her," replied the widow.
"By-the-bye," he added, "have you been told anything about Leonetta and myself in the wood this morning?"
"No," she replied, with perfect honesty.
"Well, whatever you may hear," he said, "trust entirely to me."
She smiled approvingly, and went off in search of Cleopatra.
Lord Henry joined the others. He was certainly very much relieved to hear that Mrs. Delarayne had been told nothing. Did that mean that Cleopatra also had been told nothing? He noticed, however, that as soon as he came up to the group consisting of Miss Mallowcoid, Denis, Sir Joseph, and Guy, their conversation stopped.
"Who's going rabbit-shooting?" he demanded.
"We all are!" cried Mrs. Tribe, coming towards him from another part of the terrace; "isn't it fun?"
Mrs. Tribe was the only member of the party, besides Leonetta, who was still perfectly affable to him, but even in her eyes, he thought he saw the suggestion of strained good cheer.
"May I come?" he asked.
"Of course!" cried Leonetta.
"I shall want you for a minute or two, remember, Denis," Sir Joseph observed. "Mrs. Delarayne has told you, I think."
"Yes, sir," said Denis.
At this moment Mrs. Delarayne reappeared. She looked a trifle anxious and motioned to Lord Henry to join her.
"Well?" he enquired.
"I'm afraid she must have gone home," she said. "She can't be found."
"Can't be found?" cried Lord Henry, with a note of deep alarm in his voice. Could she possibly have been among those who that morning had returned to help find the bangle, and he had not seen her, though she had seen him?
"Oh, I shouldn't worry," continued Mrs. Delarayne. "She's gone home, that's all. Don't look so dreadfully concerned!"
"Do you really think so?" he enquired. He felt uneasy notwithstanding. The coincidence, if it were a coincidence, was singular in the extreme. And yet he could not believe that Denis had told her, and Vanessa and Tribe had surely not had time to do so. He had seen them ascend the steps of the terrace. Besides,—why should they? Nevertheless, the predicament was an awkward one. He had counted on speaking to Cleopatra directly after lunch.
"Would you mind if I went to 'The Fastness'?" he asked.
"Certainly not. Go by all means," Mrs. Delarayne rejoined. "But is it as urgent as all that?"
"It's very urgent," said Lord Henry.
She scrutinised him for a moment in silence. She had always had a dark presentiment that her daughters would come between her and this man.
Lord Henry turned back into the house, fetched his hat and rain-coat, and in a moment was striding rapidly towards the Brineweald gate.
The shooting party was to leave at three o'clock, and two of the under-keepers with the ferrets were to meet them at the edge of the wood at a quarter past. It was now half-past two. Sir Joseph was enjoying his afternoon nap. Mrs. Delarayne, closeted in the library, was listening to her sister's indictment of Lord Henry, and the others were chatting on the terrace.
Denis, who had a pretty shrewd suspicion of what his interview with Sir Joseph and Mrs. Delarayne portended, looked anxiously at his watch and rose. He signed to Leonetta that he would like her to join him, but as she made no effort to move, he went over to her, and leaning over the back of her chair, whispered that he would be glad if she would take a short stroll with him.
She rose laboriously, as if he were placing himself under a tremendous obligation to her, by making her go to so much trouble; and, after assuring the others that she would not be long, followed Denis with that jerky mutinous gait in which each footfall is an angry stamp;—it is characteristic of women all the world over, when they are induced to do something of which they disapprove. For she was wondering where Lord Henry could be, and feared lest, by leaving the terrace, she would miss him when he returned.
"You know we start off at three," she said to Denis, as she caught him up.
"Yes, I know," he replied gruffly.
"Well, we haven't much time, have we?
"You're not going far, are you?"
"Only to the rose-garden," he snapped. "Don't be alarmed! I shan't keep you longer than I can help."
He lighted a cigarette. Vaguely he felt that some such subsidiary occupation might prove helpful.
"In a moment of pardonable madness," he began, "the night before last, when I rather lost my head in my passion, I made a proposition to you which I should now like to recall."
"Oh," she said.
"I don't mean that it was not sincere," he pursued, "or that I was not moved by an unalterable feeling. I mean that it was not serious enough."
"Not serious enough?" she repeated.
"No, perhaps it was not quite the right thing, either," he said. "And I'm very sorry."
"Oh, that's all right," she rejoined cheerfully.
"Well, it isn't," he observed. "Because, Leo, I seriously wanted you, and I want you still. And I ought to have asked you to become engaged to me in the proper and ordinary way, instead of what I did say."
She was silent. Her head was bowed, and she kicked one or two stones along as she walked.
He caught hold of her hand. "I want you to forget what I said the night before last," he continued, "and to ascribe it all to the madness of my feelings. I want you to say, too, that I may consider,—that from now onwards I mean,—that we are properly engaged."
Still she made no reply.
"Come, Leo, you're not hesitating, are you? Won't you marry me?"
She stopped, released her hand from his, and averted her gaze.
"Say you'll marry me, Leo! So that I can tell them in a minute or two that you have consented. Do!"
"Whatever made you think of this?" she exclaimed fretfully.
"I have been thinking of it for some time. I mean it truly," he stammered.
"But I thought you loved my sister!"
Denis retreated a step or two and regarded the girl for a moment in mystified silence.
He was staggered. This piece of brazen audacity on her part petrified him, and his face betrayed his speechless astonishment.
"I really did, Denis. I thought you loved Cleo."
"But then," he gasped, "what—what have you and I been doing all this time?"
"When?"
"Why, the day before yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that!—in fact ever since I came down here?"
"Oh, I thought you were simply having a good time," she protested, looking perfectly guileless and charming.
"Well!" he exclaimed, choking with mingled stupefaction and rage, "I've never heard anything——"
"I did really," she interrupted. "I thought you were only flirting."
"You let me go far enough to believe anything," he objected, this time with a savour of moral indignation.
"I thought it was too far to believe anything," was her retort.
"Haven't you any feeling for me, then?" he cried, utterly nonplussed.
She dug the toe of her shoe into the ground, and watched the operation thoughtfully. "Not in that way—no."
"What?—do you allow anybody to hug you then?"
"No, of course not!" she replied. "I did like you, and I like you still. But not in that way."
"What do you mean—not in that way?" he demanded a little angrily.
"Oh, I don't know," she replied, beginning to swing her arms with boredom; "I mean that I hadn't looked upon you as a possible husband, I suppose."
He flushed with vexation.
"Why not?" he enquired in scolding tones.
She glanced into his face for the first time during the interview. She saw the bloated look of mortified vanity in his eyes, and she was a trifle nauseated.
"Let's be getting back," she suggested.
He turned reluctantly in the direction of the house.
"You have not spoken the truth, Leo," he remarked in the tense manner of one who is making a violent effort to moderate his fury.
"I'm certainly trying to," she said.
"Shall I tell you the truth?" he snarled.
"No—please don't!"
He was silent for a moment, swallowing down his wrath.
"It's that man!" he said at last. "That's who it is. If I had asked you three days ago you would—you would have consented. It's that man!"
She cast a glance askance at him. He was boiling with mortification now, and perhaps nothing makes even the noblest features look more mean than the smart of a rebuff.
"I'm sure I don't know what you're driving at," she said calmly.
He laughed bitterly. But his cheeks were pricking him, and the garden danced before his eyes.
"It's Lord Henry, of course," he sneered. "He has conquered your affections meanwhile."
"Don't be ridiculous!" she said.
"Well, shall I go and tell him for you this minute that you are perfectly indifferent to him?"
She made an effort to compose her features. "You can if you like," she replied.
"No, that wouldn't suit your little game, would it?"
"I have no little game," she snapped.
"No, it's big game,—the son of a marquis!"
They were at the foot of the terrace. He had succeeded in infuriating her. Her eyes shot fire and she stamped her foot. "That's simply vulgar!" she cried, loud enough for those on the terrace to hear. "You're vulgar!"
He retreated hastily to the steps that led to the drawing-room, whence he regarded her with a malevolent scowl. He could have said so much more to her, so many more wounding things. It was intolerable to be called "vulgar," when one had controlled one's wrath as he had done.
Meanwhile she, bracing herself for a dignified entrée, walked slowly up the steps, and faced the others who were just about to move off to the woods.
"Why, I haven't a gun!" she exclaimed, as she joined them.
"Here you are!" said Stephen. "I've brought one for you."
She smiled gratefully at him. "That was thoughtful of you," she said.
And Stephen, feeling somehow that, since her affair with Lord Henry that morning, Leonetta had gone over at one step to that vast majority of worldly females who, in his boyish imagination, appeared to him mistresses of the great secrets of life, blushed slightly and turned his head away.
Sir Joseph, having risen from his post-prandial snooze and found Mrs. Delarayne, had led that lady to the drawing-room, and was now engaged in trying to convince her of the general wisdom of all that she had been hearing from her sister.
"I tell you, my dear Edith," he said, "that I have considerable difficulty in believing that your Lord Henry is the great man you say he is."
"Of course you have," she cried. "It is always difficult to believe that a really great man could ever deign to cross our threshold, much less shake hands with us! We feel we are too mediocre for that!"
"I don't mean that!" he said, shaking his head helplessly, although he had not understood her real meaning.
"Joseph,"—Mrs. Delarayne began seriously,—"shall I tell you what it is? You are jealous."
He laughed uproariously. "Oh, Edith, it takes you to say a thing like that! Absurd! Absurd!" Then he added seriously. "But really, I have heard things about Lord Henry that have compelled me to lose my respect for him."
"Who told you?"
"Denis, for one."
"Denis is jealous too!" cried the widow.
"Now, my dear, do be reasonable! Are we all jealous of Lord Henry then?"
"I should think it most highly probable—yes."
"Well, anyway," Sir Joseph continued, frowning darkly, "Denis assured me on his oath,—on his oath, understand, that Lord Henry, this son of a noble marquis, this wonderful nerve specialist, this reformer of the world, this——"
"Yes, all right, Joseph. You don't shine at that sort of oratory. What has Lord Henry done?"
"He has not only constantly engaged Leonetta in unsuitable conversation, but to-day, he actually kissed her!"
Mrs. Delarayne laughed. "I told you Denis was jealous," she exclaimed. "Knights errant always are. I've always suspected that St. George was jealous of the dragon."
Nevertheless, while Sir Joseph's slow brain was working this out, she snatched a moment to ponder how her noble young friend could possibly have found it necessary to go to such unexpected extremes.
"Don't be unfair, Edith," Sir Joseph objected. "Denis was quite right to tell us. Lord Henry is much too old to kiss a child like Leonetta."
"You mean he is just old enough."
The baronet waved his hands in a mystifiedmanner before him. "I cannot understand you," he replied.
It was at this point that Denis burst in upon them.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "you wanted to discuss something with me, I believe," he added, addressing Sir Joseph.
"Yes, we did,—that is to say, Mrs. Delarayne," stammered the baronet. He was always a little uncomfortable when he felt constrained to be amiable to one of his staff.
"We both wished to speak to you, Denis," said Mrs. Delarayne. "Sit down, will you."
Denis sat down and folded his arms,—a position Mrs. Delarayne had never seen him assume before.
"It is about Leonetta," she added.
"Oh, yes," said Denis. He was completely dazed. He had just felt that "one touch of nature" which nowadays sets the whole world's teeth on edge,—Eve completely and cheerfully unscrupulous, Eve wild and untamed, cruel and heartless while her deepest passions are still unengaged,—and he felt like one bewitched.
"We wish to ask you," began Sir Joseph pompously.
"Please let me speak," interrupted the widow. "We have noticed,—nobody could have helped noticing,—that since you have been down here you have been paying my daughter Leo unusually marked attention."
"But surely you have also noticed—" Denis objected.
"One moment!" cried Mrs. Delarayne. "I do not say that Leo isn't attractive. I know she's exceedingly attractive,—so attractive that, I understand, even Lord Henry appears to have fallen a victim to her charm."
"Yes, and perhaps you have also heard—" the young man muttered with some agitation.
"I have heard everything," said the widow. "All I suggest is, that since Leo is still a child, and has not perhaps the strength to bear a heavy heart strain as easily as a girl of Cleopatra's age, we should like any attitude you choose to adopt towards her to be made perfectly plain from the start. Do you understand, Denis? I don't wish to be unfriendly."
"I can assure you," protested Denis, who had been rendered none too comfortable by the sting in Mrs. Delarayne's last remarks, "that all along I have always been in deadly earnest, I have always——"
"Hush!" cried the masterful matron. "I don't want to hear now what your sentiments are. All I want you to do is to be quite plain to my little daughter. Do you want to become engaged to her, or not?"
"I do most earnestly," said the young man, "but——"
"But what?" growled Sir Joseph sternly.
"She now says she has no feeling whatever for me," Denis explained.
The baronet turned upon his secretary, scowled,and then regarded Mrs. Delarayne in astonishment. "No feeling whatever?" he repeated.
"Has she actually told you this?" Mrs. Delarayne demanded with tell-tale eagerness.
"Yes, this minute," Denis replied. "I can hardly believe it," he added with the usual ingenuousness of all vain people. "I can only think that a momentary infatuation for Lord Henry, who has spared no pains to——"
"Do you mean that you have asked her to marry you and she's refused?" Sir Joseph enquired, observing the young man's painful discomfiture.
"Yes, this very minute."
"Quite positively?" Mrs. Delarayne demanded.
"As far as I can make out—yes," Denis replied. He was so completely bewildered by the rebuff, that the incredulity of his two seniors made it seem all the more impossible to him.
"'Pon my soul!" Sir Joseph exclaimed, utterly abashed.
He could get no further. The prospects of getting Mrs. Delarayne's daughters married appeared to grow gloomier and gloomier.
"Then that's settled, you see, Sir Joseph," Mrs. Delarayne remarked. She had been induced to have this interview with Denis against her will. Her sister and the baronet had prevailed over her better judgment, and now that she saw the issue of it was to be more satisfactory than she could possibly have hoped, she had difficulty in concealing her pleasure.
At this point the report of a fire-arm made them all turn in the direction of Sandlewood.
"They seem to have got a rabbit before reaching the woods," Sir Joseph observed. "That sounded extraordinarily near."
Mrs. Delarayne was silent. She was obviously making an effort not to appear too highly gratified by the news she had heard, and was regarding Denis thoughtfully,—her eyebrows slightly raised, and her fingers drumming lightly on the arms of her chair.
"Well, then," she repeated, "I'm afraid that's settled,—isn't it, Sir Joseph?"
Another report was heard, and Sir Joseph rose.
"I wonder what the deuce they're doing!" he exclaimed going to the window.
"Probably got a stray rabbit, or a hare, on their way," suggested Denis.
Sir Joseph turned from the window to face his secretary.
"That's very odd. So she refused you?" he said.
"Absolutely."
"But you shouldn't despair over one refusal," he exclaimed, casting a glance full of meaning at Mrs. Delarayne. "A man doesn't lie down under one reverse of that sort."
He chuckled, and glanced backwards and forwards, first at his secretary and then at Mrs. Delarayne, hoping she would understand his profound implication.
"You must 'ave more perseverance," he added.
Denis remembered the word "vulgar." He remembered the concentrated fury and contempt that the flapper had put into the expression, and he instinctively felt that it was hopeless.
"I think what I should like to do," he said, "is to leave here, if you will allow me to; finish my holiday elsewhere, and see whether, meanwhile, a change may not come over Leonetta. If it doesn't, then there's an end of it."
"You mean to leave here at once?" enquired the baronet.
"Yes," interposed Mrs. Delarayne; and then she proceeded to explain to Sir Joseph what Denis meant, and declared his scheme to be eminently dignified and proper. It met with her entire approval.
A discussion followed as to the best way of explaining to the others the reason of Denis's sudden departure, and various suggestions were made. Sir Joseph volunteered to be able to account for the young man's absence on the score of business. Denis himself inclined to the view that some family trouble would provide the best excuse. His mother might be ill. But Mrs. Delarayne, anxious above all to avoid the sort of explanation that might provoke dangerous sympathies for Denis in any female heart, agreed that a business excuse would be best.
It was therefore decided that Sir Joseph would receive a sudden summons from London, thatDenis would be dispatched to attend to the business, and that what happened after that the rest of the party would not need to be told.
All at once a commotion on the terrace, in which the clamour of a score of different voices, all making different suggestions at the same time, mingled with the sound of heavy footfalls, caused the party in the drawing-room to repair to the scene of the disturbance.
"What on earth's the matter?" cried Mrs. Delarayne aghast, as she beheld the group advancing slowly from the top of the steps. "Anybody hurt?"
"Yes," said Agatha coming towards her, and looking very much agitated. "Stephen has been shot in the shoulder."
"Nothing serious!" shouted the injured youth, as he came forward on the arms of Guy and the Incandescent Gerald.
"Has a doctor been sent for?" Sir Joseph demanded.
"Yes, one of the under-keepers went to the garage, and a car left a moment ago," said Agatha.
"But how did it happen?" cried Mrs. Delarayne shrilly.
"Lord Henry did it," said Miss Mallowcoid, nodding her head resentfully, as if to imply to her sister that now there could no longer be any question as to who had been right all this time in regard to their estimate of the young nobleman.
"Lord Henry?" Mrs. Delarayne repeated, utterly confused.
"Yes, he did it by accident," Mrs. Tribe explained.
"Lord Henry!" the baronet ejaculated under his breath. "Damn Lord Henry!" And Mrs. Delarayne, Miss Mallowcoid, and Denis regarded him each in their own peculiar way.
Stephen was laid on Mrs. Delarayne'schaise-longueon the terrace. Brandy was fetched and Mrs. Delarayne knelt down beside him. His shoulder was already neatly bandaged, but his torn shirt, his waistcoat, and his sleeve, were saturated with blood.
"Is it painful, dear lad?" Mrs. Delarayne enquired.
"No, not so very," he replied.
"He only says that, of course!" Miss Mallowcoid averred in a whisper to Sir Joseph. "But you can see he's in agony." The spinster was evidently desirous of making the case look as black as possible.
"Who bandaged him up like that?" Sir Joseph asked of Guy.
"Lord Henry."
Sir Joseph tossed his head. It seemed as if he must never hear the last of that name. "But where is he?" he enquired.
"I can't think," said Mrs. Tribe. "As soon as he had sent someone after a doctor and bandaged Stephen up, he ran away from us."
Sir Joseph repeated "ran away from you," with an air of complete mystification, and Miss Mallowcoid raised her brows more than ever, as if to imply that she, at least, expected nothing else.
"Yes," added Leonetta, "he left us and went in the direction of 'The Fastness'."
"I wonder where that jackass has gone for a doctor?" exclaimed the baronet after a while. "Did you see the car go?"
"Yes," whispered Leonetta, "the car left long before we had brought Stephen here. We wanted it to drop him first, but he insisted on walking."
Then in the distance the sound of a familiar motor-horn was heard, and through the trees could be seen the glittering brass-work of a car. The baronet's head chauffeur in smart mufti was driving,—he had been caught just as he was setting out for an evening in Folkestone,—and the car darted along the drive, and gracefully took all the corners in a manner that gladdened the hearts of the anxious spectators on the terrace.
A grating of wheels on the ground, a spasmodic lunge forward, and the vehicle stopped dead at the foot of the steps.
An elderly gentleman descended from the car.
"Thank goodness!" cried Mrs. Delarayne, "it's Dr. Thackeray!"
It is now necessary to turn the clock back about three quarters of an hour, in order to follow the movements of Lord Henry from the moment when he left the terrace of Brineweald Park.
It was a sure instinct that made him lose no time in trying to discover Cleopatra's whereabouts; for, from the very first, the coincidence of her sudden indisposition, following upon his behaviour with Leonetta in the wood that morning, had struck him as a little too strange to be accepted without suspicion. She had looked so well the whole morning, and had appeared to be enjoying the walk quite as much as any of the others. Knowing, moreover, the passionate girl she was, he could only fear the worst if she had been told anything; and, since any disaster that might follow would be due to a miscalculation on his part, he felt it incumbent upon him to do everything in his power to repair the mistake he had made.
In that brief moment in the woods with Leonetta, he had wished to achieve but one object,—to show Denis plainly and finally that Leonetta could not be his. He wished so unmistakably to register this fact upon Denis's mind, that he felt it would simplify matters enormously if that young man could, with his own eyes, see something which, while it would abate his ardour, would also show him how easy and how devoid of dignity had been the game he had been playing for the last fortnight at Brineweald.
The sudden return of Denis to help to find the bangle had been the opportunity. Unfortunately, Lord Henry felt that he had not reckoned sufficiently with two possibilities, each of which, in itself, was serious enough: on the one hand, Denis'sreturn to Brineweald long before himself, and on the other, the confirmation that Vanessa and Tribe might offer to Denis's report, if Denis chose to tell. First of all, in the few seconds he had had to consider the matter, it had struck him as extremely improbable that Denis would either have the time or the inclination to tell Cleopatra direct, before he himself had had a chance of speaking to her; and, secondly, he had doubted whether Vanessa and Tribe could actually have seen him embracing Leonetta.
In these circumstances he had taken the risk which he felt he was entitled to take in war; but apparently,—at least so he feared,—he had miscalculated. He had failed to take into account Denis's mad fury, and the extremes to which this might possibly drive him.
He had not once been mistaken in his estimate of the kind of human life with which he was experimenting; for he had correctly anticipated the probable effects that the knowledge of his action would have upon Cleopatra. He had, however, certainly staked upon luck, and, this time, it appeared to have turned against him.
Thus he was tormented by the gravest qualms as he made his way to "The Fastness," and when Wilmott informed him that Miss Cleopatra had not been seen since she had gone with the rest of Mrs. Delarayne's party in Sir Joseph's car, early that morning, his worst fears were confirmed.
"Would you mind looking all over the house?"he said. "It is just possible she may have come in without your noticing."
The girl obeyed and even invited him to join in the search. Their efforts, however, revealed no trace of Cleopatra.
Lord Henry was at his wits' end. He began to be filled by a secret feeling of guilt, a feeling that he had gone too far. He had been foolhardy; he had exceeded his duty. Nothing remained to fortify him, in his present tragic dilemma, but the conviction that he had acted all along as if the affair, far from being a matter simply for Cleopatra's family, had been his personal business, his intimate concern.
He thought of the beach. It did not strike him as probable that the girl would have gone thither in her solitary despair. However, he wished to allow for every possible chance. He therefore went to the grocer's at Brineweald and telephoned to Stonechurch, to the establishment that provided hot sea-baths on the front. Had they heard of any disaster among the bathers on the beach during the last two hours? Had any disaster been reported from the lonely portions of the shore? Would someone please go out to enquire? In a few minutes he received a reassuring reply, and he left the shop. In his present state of mind, however, even if he had been told that she had attempted suicide in the waves and been rescued, at least this intelligence would have provided something definite to which to cling, and he would have felt almost grateful.
He enquired of one or two cottagers whether they had seen the elder Miss Delarayne at all that day; but again his efforts were entirely fruitless.
Her rescue might be a matter of minutes, perhaps of seconds, and yet it seemed as if he could do nothing. Never had he gazed upon a peaceful village street with feelings of such tumultuous woe. Helplessness and impotence are intolerable at any time, but they are the cruellest torture when a dear human life seems to be at stake.
It occurred to him that she might have gone to Sandlewood, which was the nearest station, and where the stationmaster would be sure to have seen her. She might already have taken the train in the London direction, or to Shorncliffe or Folkestone. In any case he was so deeply convinced that her disappearance portended tragedy, that he began to wonder whether he ought not at once to inform the police.
Had he been less involved in the affair, himself, he would have done so immediately; but his hopes of finding some trace of her at Sandlewood station induced him to wait. If he failed again, he would inform the authorities.
Thus resolved, he returned as quickly as possible to Brineweald Park, in order to take advantage of the shortest cut to Sandlewood, and it was just as he was on the point of crossing the fringe of the wood, that he saw about a hundred and fifty yards to his left, the whole of the shooting party pick upthe under-keepers, and proceed in the same direction as himself.
There was not a sound among the trees. The air was still. The ground was moist with the recent rain, and as he strode silently along one of the narrow footpaths, he could not help from time to time glancing half-shamefully at the sublimely careless party in the distance, on whom he feared, through his high-handed action of the morning, some grief or disgrace was almost bound to descend before nightfall.
He noticed that Leonetta, with her customary eagerness and high spirits, kept a few paces ahead of the rest, and that she constantly looked about in all directions, as if in search of something or somebody. He half feared that she would catch sight of him, and he therefore repeatedly stooped, or halted behind any opportune screen of brambles, until she turned her head in another direction. These manœuvres unfortunately materially delayed his progress; while, owing to the fact that he was compelled to keep his eye constantly on the other party, he could not pick his way as nicely as he would have liked.
Then, all at once, just as he saw Stephen, who was apparently trying to catch Leonetta up, dart ahead, there was a loud report, and the youth fell forward as if killed.
Horrified, Lord Henry halted like one suddenly frozen to the ground. He saw Leonetta rush forward and lean over the fallen youth. He thenobserved her rise again just as the others came up.
Then another shot was fired, and this time, although apparently the shooter had missed his aim, Lord Henry quickly seized the whole tragic meaning of what had occurred.
He was nothing if not a quick thinker. It was clear to him now, particularly in view of all he knew, that whoever had fired that first shot had meant to hit Leonetta. It was also abundantly clear that the second shot was a second attempt because the first had failed, and concluding from the sound that the assailant would be somewhere between him and the shooting party, he swerved without any further hesitation, sharply to the left, and ran as hard as he could in the direction of the group that had now gathered round Stephen. He dodged the trees and undergrowth as well as he could, and tried as he proceeded to scan all the intervening ground.
He knew Cleopatra was reported to be a good shot; he had little doubt, therefore, as to who the assailant was; but as he tore through the undergrowth he was too much appalled by the thought of the tragic development he had just witnessed, to think with anything but consternation on behalf of the creature who, during the past week, had become so dear to him.
He was not a bow-shot from the shooting party, however, when all of a sudden, at a distance of a couple of yards from him, crouching behind atangle of bushes, her face deathly white, and her hands struggling to adjust the fire-arm she held in such a position as to do herself some mortal injury, he espied Cleopatra,—Cleopatra now a dangerous murderess.
He dashed madly towards her, stooped to snatch her weapon, a rook-rifle, from her, and swinging it high in the air, flung it back among the bushes and bracken he had just crossed.
"Are you mad!" he cried.
But there was no response. The girl had fallen back in a swoon, and a twitching of her fingers showed that even now her half-conscious mind was busy trying to find the trigger of the deadly rook-rifle.
A rapid examination revealed the fact that she was quite uninjured, and concluding that she could be safely left where she was for a few minutes, he ran off again in the direction of the wounded or murdered man.
As to what happened after that, the reader has already been informed.
Lord Henry, feeling too deeply relieved by the sight of Stephen's slight wound, to be able altogether to conceal his triumphant joy, declared that the whole thing had been an accident caused by his unpardonable ignorance of a rook-rifle; and fortunately, owing to the excitement occasioned by Stephen's wound and the dressingof it, the other members of the party were not too critical in their acceptance of his story.
He dressed the wound with frantic speed, glancing constantly into the woods to his left as he did so; muttered a few comforting words and prayers for forgiveness to the boy on whose friendship he thought he could count, and after having been assured that one of the keepers had gone to the garage to order a car to be sent for the doctor, to the complete astonishment of all present, he apologised and ran back into the woods again.
Lord Henry could have flown amid the foliage of the trees, he could have leaped from branch to branch,—aye, he could have pranced from the tip of each leaf of bracken on his way,—so elated did he feel that now, at least, the worst was over, the worst was known, and what remained to be done was within the compass of his own powers, and free from any treacherous element of luck or accident.
But his joy at the comparatively harmless outcome of Cleopatra's action was nothing compared to his delight at that action itself, and even the knowledge that he had read her character aright did not gratify him as completely as the positive realisation that such characters as hers still existed. It was chiefly this fact that dazzled him, and almost choked him with a sensation of all too abundant ecstasy.
"One touch of Nature!" Yes, indeed; and in England of the twentieth century it was terrifying in its intensity. Those tame people who talked glibly of "Nature" and of "a return to Nature," as if this were something they could contemplate with blissful equanimity, imagined belike that Nature was all humming bees, smiling meadows,nodding blooms and sporting butterflies, the Nature of the most successful Victorian poets. It was their back-parlour misinterpretation and belittlement of Nature that made these modern Philistines worship her. Even the most sanguine could hardly suspect them of having the courage, the good blood and the taste, to worship Nature as she really was,—Nature with all her intoxicating joys, staggering immorality and tragic passions.
Thus did Lord Henry meditate as he picked his way eagerly back to the spot where Cleopatra lay, and for the first moment that day he began to feel proud of his work at Brineweald.
When he reached the girl again she was just recovering consciousness, and, as her frightened eyes began to take in the scene about her, and recognised him, he noticed that she shuddered.
He knelt down and took her hand, but she shrank from him with a look of such concentrated terror that he allowed her fingers to slip slowly away.
"My poor dear girl!" he murmured, wiping the beads of perspiration from her brow. "My poor brave Cleo!"
Her teeth chattered a little, and again the frightened look entered her tired eyes, and she appeared to swoon once more.
He threw off his rain-coat and laid it on her, supported her head on his knee, and waited thus for some time.
After a little while, however, it occurred to himthat someone might come across them if they remained so close to the house, and picking up his charge, he penetrated further into the wood in the direction of the morning's walk.
The movement seemed to restore Cleopatra a little, and laying her down on a gentle slope, he succeeded in making her sip a little brandy from his flask.
"You are breathing too quickly," he said. "You have just had a most terrific shaking and your head is agitated. Try breathing more slowly and deeply, as if nothing had happened; and soon your body will be persuaded that nothing has happened."
He spoke sternly, but with just that modicum of tenderness which made his words at once a command and an entreaty.
"Try it," he said again. "Breathe as if nothing had happened." He held her hand, and gazed sympathetically into her face. "As a matter of fact," he added, "so little has happened that it's not worth while being agitated about it."
She looked about as if in search of someone.
"It's all right," he said, "no one can find us here. We are a long way from where I first came across you."
She closed her eyes, and seemed to be trying to do as he directed, for her nostrils dilated as if in an effort to breathe deeply. He wished she would speak. He dreaded that her mind might be unhinged.
"When you are well enough to walk," he said, "we shall go to Sandlewood. We'll have some tea or dinner there, and then you can get back to 'The Fastness' after dark and go straight to bed. That will be excellent, and nobody will be any the wiser."
Patiently he waited while her breathing became by degrees more normal, and faint traces of returning colour began to fleck her cheeks. He still held her hand, and now and again he would press it gently as an earnest of his sympathy. It seemed a long and anxious wait, and as his will and desire for her return to strength grew more intense, he hoped that she was profiting from his silent co-operation with her struggle for recovery.
Suddenly her eyes opened, and she looked anxiously round.
"It's all right," he repeated, "you are not where you were when I first found you. We have moved since then."
"Where are the others?" she gasped, the terrified look returning to her eyes.
"They went back to the house over an hour ago," he replied.
"Is he dead? Did I kill him?" she demanded defiantly.
"Dead? No! He's not even badly wounded," he answered.
"Where was he wounded?"
"In the shoulder,—a slight flesh wound."
Her face became slightly flushed, and he rose and faced her.
"Don't move unless you want to," he muttered. "But I should prefer to go a little further away. I think it would be a good thing."
"Move away?—is any one after us?" she cried frantically.
"No, no. No one is after us. But I think you would be better alone with me for a while anyway, and if we can walk a little further on, we shall be off everybody's track."
She made an effort to rise. He assisted her, and leaning heavily on his arm she walked with him slowly towards Sandlewood. It was after six. Neither spoke until the village was in sight, and then he asked if she knew of any place in it where they could dine. "Not that it really matters," he added, "because we don't want anything very substantial."
She said that she supposed the inn would be the best place.
To the inn they therefore went, and while the innkeeper's wife prepared tea for them and boiled a few eggs, they walked over to the village church.
"Stephen has a flesh wound, no more, in the shoulder. Nobody else is hurt," he said as they sauntered along. "I have dressed the wound, and a doctor has been fetched. He was actually able to walk to the house. I told them it was an accident, that I was not skilled in the use of rook-rifles. Of course they believed me. Why shouldn't they? I want you to promise not to show me up. It wasall my fault, and I may surely be allowed to come out of it with only an accident against my name?"
"I don't care who knows. I don't care what happens!" Cleopatra exclaimed hoarsely. "You needn't imagine I want you to shield me. I did it on purpose, and they must know I did it on purpose."
Lord Henry frowned. "Yes, quite so," he continued. "You have suffered so much of late that you disbelieve in anything but unhappiness. You feel it must be interminable. It was all my fault. You fancy that you are alone, with a bitter hostile world arrayed against you. And since the world is your enemy, what do you care what the enemy thinks of you? Very natural too! That is what you feel. If only, if only, Leonetta had not been so slow in walking home this morning! It was hard luck on me that you should have been driven to this, because I was aiming at something so very different. However, it seems even harder luck that you should imagine that you were driven to it by me. But fancy! only a flesh wound in the shoulder, and it's all over! God! how thankful I am. And they must believe it was my accident. For did I not come to do you good, and had I not succeeded?"
"Better have left me alone," exclaimed the girl with a bitter smile. "I wish I could go away. I want to leave this hateful place!"
"Wherever you go, whatever you do, understand," said Lord Henry, "I am going to stickclose to you. So don't imagine you can drive me away."
She stopped a moment. They had reached the churchyard, and she extended an arm to the nearest tree to steady herself.
"Why don't you leave me?" she demanded. "Can't you see that I have been tormented enough? I hate everything and everybody! I want to forget; I want to be alone."
Lord Henry was silent and led the way back to the inn.
"You are doing what hundreds have done before you," he observed after a while, "and always with disastrous results. You are condemning a man unheard. Until this morning I was your friend, your most useful ally here. You knew it, you felt it. I did everything in my power to bring about a change in the balance of advantages, which was all in your favour. You saw the proof of this. You drew strength from the very change I created. You know you did; you cannot deny it. I worked with zeal and with effect. God! if I worked with the same zeal for all my patients I should be dead in a fortnight."
"Well?" she cried.
"Then you were told something by third parties,—something that seemed to destroy in an instant all the careful work of my three days here. You believed that there was only one interpretation of this thing, and that was that my purpose all along had been so hazy and my nature so capricious andirresponsible that I had suddenly resolved to reverse the whole of the elaborate machinery which I had set in motion to re-establish your health and spirits;—and what for?—in order, if you please, to win the flattering smile of a mere child! Do you imagine that even my love for your wonderful mother would ever have allowed me to right-about-wheel all of a sudden in that ridiculous fashion? Come, Cleopatra, be reasonable."
She averted her gaze, and her eyes began to well with tears.
"No, you have known the thing to happen before, and therefore you were the more readily convinced that it had happened again. You had no faith because your faith had been cruelly broken. But, believe me, although I did this action this morning chiefly on your account and Leonetta's, and partly also on account of a great friend of mine whom you do not yet know, I swear I should never have undertaken it if I had dreamt for an instant that it was going to cost you as much as a single tear."
The girl put her handkerchief to her eyes. "I'm afraid I don't understand," she said. "It all seems so mysterious. I only know that, one after another, you all seem to go the same way."
Lord Henry sighed. "Come," he said, offering her his arm again; "let me make myself clear to you."
But she was too convulsed with sobs to move. The situation was certainly difficult.
He waited, and looked for a while away from her.
"Besides," she cried at last, "you don't really know what I wanted to do, otherwise—otherwise—Oh! it's too dreadful!"
He swung round. "I know everything," he rejoined.
"You can't really want to keep me beside you then."
He smiled sadly. "And why not, in all conscience!"
She wiped her eyes quickly and frowned darkly at him.
"Lord Henry, are you fooling me?" she ejaculated. "Don't you know that a moment ago I was intent only on one thing, and that was——"
She choked and could go no further.
He walked up to her and laid a hand on her arm. "I tell you I know everything," he repeated.
"You pretend that you know," she sneered.
He smiled and bowed his head. "If you mean," he suggested, "that two hours ago you were firing from that ambush with the definite intention of doing Leonetta some mortal injury, I need hardly say——"
"Yes," she said fiercely, "I do mean that."
"Of course I knew that," he observed. "Don't imagine I had any doubt about that. When I first came up to you I was convinced of it. What else could you have been doing?"
She scrutinised him intently. "Well, then?" she stammered.
"If only you will be good enough to walk back to the inn with me," he said, again offering her his arm, "I'll explain everything to you."
"All right, walk on!" she said, declining his proffered assistance.
And then, as they walked, he began to unfold to her his reasons for his behaviour with Leonetta in the woods that morning. He explained how he had reckoned that he would be back in time to tell her first, and that had it not been for the fury of Denis's indignation, he would certainly have succeeded.
They reached the inn and repaired to the bar parlour, and over the frugal meal he continued his explanation. She listened intently, raised an objection from time to time, which he deftly parried, and thus gradually the whole story was made plain to her. She revived visibly under the effects of the refreshment, and the precise and convincing manner of his narrative; and when at last the complete chain of consequence had been revealed to her, he left her very much recovered while he went in search of some vehicle to convey them back to "The Fastness."