Ah, surely this was the midsummer madness of which they had spoken! It was a vision that could not last, but the wonder of it—ah, the wonder of it!—she would carry for ever in her heart.
It ended at length, but so softly, so tenderly, that, spellbound, she never knew when lingering sound became enduring silence. She awoke as it were from a long dream and knew that her heart was beating with a wild and poignant longing that was pain. Then there arose a great shouting, and instinctively she laid her hand on Fielding's arm and drew him away.
"Had enough?" he asked.
She nodded. Somehow for the moment she could find no words. She had a feeling as of unshed tears at her throat. Ah, what had moved him to play to her like that? And why did it hurt her so?
She moved back up the grassy slope still with that curious sense of pain. Something had happened to her, something had pierced her. By that strange and faun-like power of his he had reached out and touched her inmost soul, and she knew as she went away that she was changed. He had cast a glittering spell upon her, and nothing could ever be the same again.
After a space she spoke at random and Fielding made reply. With the instinct of self-defence she maintained some species of casual conversation during their stroll back to the waiting car, but she never had the vaguest recollection afterwards as to what passed between them.
She was thankful to be swooping back again through the summer night. An urgent desire for solitude was upon her. All her throbbing pulses cried out for it. Was it but yesterday—but yesterday that she had felt so safe? And now—
Later, alone in her room at the Court, she leaned from her open window seeking with an almost frantic intensity to recover the peace that had been hers. How had she lost it? She could not say. Was it the mere piping of a flute that had reft it from her? She wanted to laugh at herself, but could not. It was too absurd, too fantastic, for everyday, prosaic existence, that rhapsody of the starlight, but to her it had been pure magic. In it she had heard the call of a man's being, seeking hers, and by every hidden chord that had vibrated in answer she knew that he had not called in vain. That was the knowledge that pierced her—the knowledge that she was caught—against her will,—still wildly struggling for freedom—but caught.
It had happened so suddenly, so amazingly. Yesterday she had been free—only yesterday—Or stay! Perhaps even then the net had been about her feet, and he had known it. How otherwise had he spoken so intimately—dared so much?
She drew a long, deep breath, recalling his look, his touch, his voice. Ah! Midsummer madness indeed! But she could not stay to face it. She must go. The way was still open behind her. She would escape as she had come, a fugitive from the force that pursued her so relentlessly. She would not suffer herself to be made a captive. She would go.
Again she drew a long breath, but curiously it broke, as if a sharp spasm had gripped her heart. She stood, struggling with herself. And then suddenly she dropped upon her knees by the sill with her arms flung wide and her head with its cloudy mass of hair bowed low.
"O God! O God!" she whispered convulsively. "Save me from this! Help me to go—while I can! I am so tired—so tired!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE HONOURS OF WAR
Columbus was not accustomed to being awakened in the early June morning and taken for a scamper when the sun was still scarcely two hours up. He arose blinking at his mistress's behest, and but for her brisk urging he would have turned over again and slept. But Juliet was insistent.
"I'm going down to the shore, you old sleepy-head," she told him. "Don't you want to come?"
She herself had scarcely slept throughout the brief night, and a great yearning for the sunshine and the sea was upon her. The solitude of the beach drew her irresistibly. It was Sunday morning, and she knew that no one but herself would be up for hours. She had grown to love it so, the silence and the shining emptiness and the marvel of the sea. She could not remember any other place that had ever attracted her in the same way. It suited every mood.
There was a short cut across the park, and she and Columbus took it, hastening over the dewy grass till they reached a path that led to the cliffs and the shore. Only the larks above them and the laughing waves before, made music in this world of the early morning. The peacefulness of it was like a benediction.
"And before the Throne there was a sea of glass like unto crystal…." She found herself murmuring the words, for in that morning purity it seemed to her that the very ground beneath her feet was holy. She was conscious of a throbbing desire to reach out to the Infinite, to bring her troubled spirit to the Divine waters of healing.
She reached the shingly shore, and went down over the stones to the waves breaking in the sunlight. Yes, she was tired—she was tired; but this was peace. The tears sprang to her eyes as she stood there. What a place to be happy in! But happiness was not for her.
After a space she turned and walked along the strand till she came to the spot where she and Columbus had first sat together and played at being wrecked on a desert island. And here she sat down and put her arms around her faithful companion and leaned her head against his rough coat.
"I wish it had been true, Columbus," she said. "We were so happy just alone."
He kissed her with all a dog's pure devotion, sensing trouble and seeking to comfort. As he had told her many a time before, her company was really all his soul desired. All other interests were mere distractions. She was the only thing that counted in his world.
His earnest assurances on this point had their effect. She sat up and smiled at him through her tears.
"Yes, I know, my Christopher," she said, and kissed him between the eyes.
"But the difficulty now is, what are we going to do?"
Columbus pondered for a few seconds, and then suggested a crab-hunt.
"Excellent idea!" said Juliet, and let him go.
But she herself sat on in the early sunshine with her chin upon her hand for a long, long time.
The tide was coming in. The white-tipped waves broke in flashing foam that spread almost to her feet. The sparkle of it danced in her dreaming eyes, but it did not rouse her from her reverie.
Perhaps she was half asleep after the weary watching of the night, or perhaps she was only too tired to notice, but when a voice suddenly spoke behind her she started as if at an electric shock. She had almost begun to feel that she and Columbus were indeed marooned on this wide shore.
"Are you waiting for the sea to carry you away?" the voice said. "Because you won't have to wait much longer now."
She turned as she sat. She had heard no sound of approaching feet. The swish of the waves had covered all beside. She looked up at him with a feeling of utter helplessness. "You!" she said.
He turned behind her, slim, upright, intensely vital, in the morning light. She had an impression that he was dressed in loose flannels, and she saw a bath-towel hanging round his neck.
"You have been bathing," she said.
He laughed down at her, she saw the gleam of the white teeth in his dark face. "I say, what a good guess! You look shocked. Is it wrong to bathe on Sunday?"
And then quite naturally he stretched a hand to her and helped her to her feet.
"I've been watching you for a long time," he said. "I was only a dot in the ocean, so of course you didn't see me. I say,—tell me,—what's the matter?"
The question was so sudden that it caught her unawares. She found herself looking straight into the dark eyes and wondering at their steady kindliness. She knew instinctively that she looked into the eyes of a friend, and as a friend she spoke in answer.
"I have had rather a worrying night. I came out for a little fresh air.
It was such a perfect morning."
"And you hoped you would have the place to yourself and be able to cry it off in comfort," he said. "I wouldn't have interfered for the world if I hadn't been afraid that you were going to drown yourself into the bargain. And I really couldn't bear that. There are limits, you know."
She laughed a little in spite of herself. "No, I have no intention of drowning myself. I am not so desperate as that."
He smiled at her whimsically. "It happens sometimes unintentionally.
Let's climb up to the next shelf and sit down!"
Her hand was still in his. He kept it to help her up the tumbling stones to a higher ridge of shingle.
"Will this do?" he asked her. "May I stay for a bit? I'll be very good."
"You always are good," said Juliet, as she sat down.
"No? Really? You don't mean that? Well, it's awfully kind of you if you do, but it isn't true." He dropped down beside her and offered her his cigarette-case. "I can be—I have been—a perfect devil sometimes."
"Yes. I know," she said, as she chose a cigarette.
"Oh, you know that, do you? How do you know?" He was watching her closely, but as the faint colour mounted to her face, his eyes fell. "No, don't tell me! It doesn't matter. Wait while I get you a match!"
He struck one and held it first for her and then for himself, his brown hand absolutely steady. Then he turned with a certain resolution and fixed his eyes upon the gleaming horizon.
"It was kind of you to come round to the sing-song last night," he said, after a pause. "I hope it wasn't that that made you sleep badly."
"I enjoyed it," said Juliet, ignoring the last remark. "Your performance was wonderful. I should think you are tired after it."
"That sort of thing doesn't tire me," he said. "There's no difficulty about it when it goes with a swing and everybody is out to make it a success. I shall get you to sing next time."
She shook her head. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Green."
"Why not?" He turned and looked at her again, his hand shading his eyes.
She hesitated.
"Do you mind telling me?" he said gently. "There is a reason of course?"
"Yes." Yet she smoked her cigarette in silence after the word as though there were nothing more to be said.
He sat motionless, still with his hand over his eyes. At last "Juliet," he said, his voice very low, "am I being—a nuisance to you?"
She looked at him swiftly. He had uttered the name so spontaneously that she wondered if he realized that he had made use of it.
He went on before she could find words to answer him. "I'm not a bounder. At least I hope not. But—yesterday—last night—I hadn't got such a firm hold on myself as usual. I began by being furiously angry—you remember the episode at the gate—and that weakened my self-control. Then—when I knew you were standing there listening—temptation came to me, and I hadn't the strength to resist. You knew, didn't you? You understood?"
She nodded mutely.
"Will you forgive me?" he said.
She was silent. How could she tell him what that wild passion of music had done to her?
He went on after a moment. "I hope you'll try anyway, because I never meant to offend you. Only somehow I felt possessed. I had to reach you—or die. But I didn't mean to hurt you. My dear, you do believe that, don't you? My love is more than a selfish craving. I can do without you. I will—since I must. But I shall go on loving you—all my life."
His voice was still very low, but it had steadied. He spoke with the strong purpose of a man secure in his own self-mastery. He loved her, but he made no demand upon her. He recognized that his love entitled him to no claim. He even asked her forgiveness for having revealed it to her.
And suddenly the hot tears welled again in Juliet's eyes. She could not speak in answer, but in a moment she stretched her hand to his.
He took it and held it close. "Don't cry!" he said gently. "I'm not worth it. I've been a fool—no, not a fool to love you, but a three times idiot to lose hold of myself like this. There! It's over. I'm not going to bother you any more. And you're not going to let yourself be bothered. What? You're not going to run away because of me, are you? Promise me you won't!"
Her fingers closed upon his. It was almost involuntarily. "I don't think
I ought to stay," she whispered.
"I knew that was it!" He bent towards her. "Juliet! I say, please, dear, please! If one of us must go, it must be I. But there is no need. Believe me, there is no need. I've got myself in hand. I won't come near you—I swear—if you don't wish it."
"But—suppose—suppose—" Her voice broke. She drew her hand free and covered her face. "Oh, it's all so hopeless!" she sobbed. "I ought to have managed—better."
"No, no!" In a flash his arm was round her, strong and ready; he drew her to rest against his shoulder. "There's nothing to cry about really—really! If you knew how I loathe myself for making you cry! But listen! Nobody knows. Nobody's going to know. What happened last night is between you and me alone. Only you had the key. It isn't going to make any difference in your life. You'll go on as you were before. You'll forget I ever dared to intrude on you. What, darling? What? Yes, you will forget. Of course you'll forget. I'll see to it that you do. I'll—I'll—"
"Oh, stop!" Juliet said, and suddenly her face was turned upwards on his shoulder, her forehead was against his neck. "You're making the biggest mistake of your life!"
"What?" he said, and fell abruptly silent and so tensely still that she thought even his heart must have been arrested on the word.
For a long, long second she also was motionless, rigidly pressed to him, then with an odd little fluttering sigh she began to withdraw herself from the encircling arm. "I've dropped my cigarette," she said.
"Juliet!" He stooped over her; his face was close to hers. "Am I mad? Or am I dreaming? Please make me understand! What is the mistake I have made?"
She did not look at him, but he saw that her tears were gone and she was faintly, tremulously smiling. "That cigarette—" she murmured. "It really isn't safe to leave it. I don't like—playing with fire."
He bent lower. "We've got to risk something," he said, and with a swiftness of decision that she had not expected he took her chin and turned her face fully upwards to his own.
The colour rushed in vivid scarlet to her temples. She met his eyes for one fleeting second then closed her own with a gasp and a blind effort to escape that was instantly quelled. For he kissed her—he kissed her—pressing his lips to hers closely and ever more closely, as a man consumed with thirst draining the cup to the last precious drop.
When he let her go, she was burning, quivering, tingling from head to foot as if an electric current were coursing through and through her. And the citadel had fallen. She made no further attempt to keep him out.
But he did not kiss her a second time. He only held her against his heart. "Ah, Juliet—Juliet!" he said, and she felt the deep quiver of his words. "I've got you—now! You are mine."
She was panting, wordless, thankful to avail herself of the shelter he offered. She leaned against him for many seconds in palpitating silence.
For so long indeed was she silent that in the end misgiving pierced him and he felt for the downcast face. But in a moment she reached up and took his hand in hers, restraining him.
"Not again!" she whispered. "Please not again!"
"All right. I won't," he said. "Not yet anyhow. But speak to me! Tell me it's all right! You're not frightened?"
"I am—a little," she confessed.
"Not at me! Juliet!"
"No, not at you. At least," she laughed unsteadily. "I'm not quite sure. You—you—I think you must let me go for a minute—to get back my balance."
"Must I?" he said.
She lifted the hand she had taken and laid it against her cheek. "I've got—a good deal to say to you, Dick," she said. "You've taken me so completely by storm. Please be generous now! Please let me have—the honours of war!"
"My dear!" he said.
He let her go with the words, and she clasped her hands about her knees and looked out to sea. She was still trembling a little, but as he sat beside her in unbroken silence she grew gradually calmer, and presently she spoke without any apparent difficulty.
"You've taken a good deal for granted, Dick, haven't you? You don't know me very well."
"Don't I?" he said.
"No. You've been—dreadfully headlong all through." She smiled faintly, with a touch of sadness. "You've skipped all the usual preliminaries—which isn't always wise. Don't you teach your boys to look before they leap?"
"When there's time," he said. "But you know, dear, you gave the word for—the final plunge."
She nodded slowly once or twice. "Yes. But I didn't expect quite—quite—Well, never mind what I expected! The fact remains, we haven't known each other long enough. No, I know we can't go back now and begin again. But, Dick, I want you—and it's for your sake as much as for my own—I want you, please, to be very patient. Will you? May I count on that?"
He put out his hand to her and gently touched her shoulder. "Don't talk to me like a slave appealing to a sultan!" he said.
She made a little movement towards him, but she did not turn. "I don't want to hurt you," she said. "But I'm going to ask of you something that you won't like—at all."
"Well, what is it?" he said.
"I want you—" she paused, then turned and resolutely faced him—"I want you to be—just friends with me again," she said.
His eyes looked straight into hers. "In public you mean?" he said.
"In private too," she answered.
"For how long?" Swiftly he asked the question, his eyes still holding hers with a certain mastery of possession.
She made a slight gesture of pleading. "Until you know me better," she said.
His brows went up. "That's not a business proposition, is it? You don't really expect me to agree to that. Now do you?"
"Ah! But you've got to understand," she said rather piteously. "I'm not in the least the sort of woman you think I am. I'm not—Dick, I'm not—a specially good woman."
She spoke the words with painful effort, her eyes wavered before his. But in a moment, without hesitation, he had leapt to the rescue.
"My darling, don't tell me that! I can see what you are. I know! I know! I don't want your own valuation. I won't listen to it. It's the one point on which your opinion has no weight whatever with me. Please don't say any more about it! It's you that I love—just as you are. If you were one atom less human, you wouldn't be you, and my love—our love—might never have been."
She sighed. "It would have saved a lot of trouble if it hadn't, Dick."
"Don't be silly!" he said. "Is there anything else that matters half as much?"
She was silent, but her look was dubious. He drew suddenly close to her, and slipped his hand through her arm.
"Is there anything else that really matters at all, Juliet? Tell me! I've got to know. Does—Robin matter?"
She started at the question. It was obviously unexpected. "No! Of course not!" she said.
"Thank you," he said steadily. "I loved you for that before you said it."
She laid her hand upon his and held it. "That's—one of the things I love you for, Dick," she said, with eyes downcast. "You are so—splendidly—loyal."
"Sweetheart!" he said softly. "There's no virtue in that."
Her brows were slightly drawn. "I think there is. Anyway it appeals to me tremendously. You would stick to Robin—whatever the cost."
"Well, that, of course!" he said. "I flatter myself I am necessary to
Robin. But with Jack it is otherwise. I've kicked him out."
"Dick!" She looked at him in sharp amazement.
He smiled, a thin-lipped smile. "Yes. It had to be. I've put up with him long enough. I told him so last night."
"You—quarrelled?" said Juliet.
"No. We didn't quarrel. I gave him his marching orders, that's all."
"But wasn't he very angry?"
"Oh, pshaw!" said Dick. "What of it?"
She was looking at him intently, for there was something merciless about his smile. "Do you always do that, I wonder," she said, "with the people who make you angry?"
"Do what?" he said.
"Kick them out." Her voice held a doubtful note.
He turned his hand upwards and clasped hers. "My darling, it was a perfectly just sentence. He deserved it. Also—though I admit I have only thought of this since—it's the best thing that could happen to him. He can make his own way in life. It's high time he did so. I didn't kick him out because I was angry with him either."
"But you were angry," she said. "You were nearly white-hot."
He laughed. "I kept my hands off him anyhow. But I can't be answerable for the consequences if anyone sets to work to bait Robin persistently. It's not fair to the boy—to either of us."
"Do you think Robin might do him a mischief?" she asked.
"I think—someone might," he answered grimly. "But never mind that now! You don't regard Robin as a just cause and impediment. What's the next obstacle? My profession?"
"No," she said instantly and emphatically. "I like that part of you.
There's something rather quaint about it."
His quick smile flashed upon her. "Oh, thanks awfully! I'm glad I'm quaint. But I didn't know it was a quality that appealed to you. I've been laying even odds with myself that I'd make you have me in spite of it."
She coloured a little. "It doesn't really count one way or the other with me, Dick, any more than it would count with you if I hawked stale fish in the street for cat's meat. You see I haven't forgotten that pretty compliment of yours. But—"
"But?" he said, frowning whimsically. "We'll have the end of that sentence, please. It's the very thing I want to get at. What is the 'but'?"
She hesitated.
"Go on!" he commanded.
"Don't be a tyrant, Dick!" she said.
"My beautiful princess!" He touched her shoulder with his lips. "Then don't you—please—be a goose! Tell me—quick!"
"And if I can't tell you, Dick? If—if it's just an instinct that says, Wait? We've been too headlong as it is. I can't—I daren't—go on at this pace." She was almost tearful. "I must have a little breathing-space indeed. I came here for peace and quietness, as you know."
He broke into a sudden laugh. "So you did, dear. You were playing hide-and-seek with yourself, weren't you? I'll bet you never expected to find the other half of yourself in this remote corner, did you? Well, never mind! Don't cry sweetheart—anyhow till you've got a decent excuse. I don't want to rush you into anything against your will. Taken properly, I'm the meekest fellow in creation. But we must have things on a sensible footing. You see that, don't you?"
"If we could be just friends," she said.
"Well, I'm quite willing to be friends." He laughed into her eyes. "Why so distressful? Don't you like the prospect?"
She drew his hand down into her lap and held it between her own, looking gravely down at it. "Dick!" she said.
His smile passed. "Well, dear? What is it? You're not going to be afraid of me?"
She did not answer him. "I want you to leave me free a little longer," she said.
"But you are not free now," he said.
She threw him a brief, half-startled glance. "I don't mean that," she said rather haltingly. "I mean I want you—not to ask any promise of me—not to insist upon any bond between us—not to—not to—expect a formal engagement—until,—well, until—"
"Until you are ready to marry me," he suggested quietly.
A quick tremor went through her. "That won't be for a long time," she said.
"How long?" he said.
"I don't know. Dick. I haven't the least idea. I had almost made up my mind never to marry at all."
"Really?" he said. "Do you know, so had I. But I changed it the moment I met you. When did you change yours?"
She laughed, but without much mirth. "I'm not sure that—"
"No, don't you say that to me!" he interrupted. "It's not cricket. You are—quite sure, though you rather wish you weren't. Isn't that the position? Honestly now!"
"Honestly," she said, "I can't be engaged to you yet."
"All right," he said unexpectedly. "You needn't call it that if you don't want to. Facts are facts. We may not be engaged, but we are—permanently—attached. We'll leave it at that."
Again swiftly she glanced towards him. "No, but, Dick—"
"Yes, but, Juliet—" His hand moved suddenly, imprisoning both of hers. "You can't get away," he said, speaking very rapidly, "any more than I can. If you put the whole world between us, we shall still belong to each other. That is irrevocable. It isn't your doing, and it isn't mine. It's a Power above and beyond us both. We can't help ourselves."
He spoke with fierce earnestness, a depth of concentration, that gripped her just as his music had gripped her the night before. She sat motionless, bound by the same spell that had bound her then. She did not want to meet his eyes, but they drew irresistibly. In the end she did so.
For a space not reckoned by time she surrendered herself to a mastery that would not be denied. She met the kindling flame of his worship, and was strangely awed and humbled thereby. She knew now beyond all question that this man was not as most men. He came to her with the first, untainted offering of his love. No other woman had been before her in that inner sanctuary which he now flung wide for her to enter. There was a purity, a primitive simplicity, about his passion which made her realize that very clearly. He was no boy. He had lived a life of hard self-discipline and had put his youth behind him long since. But he brought all the intensity of a boy's adoration to back his manhood's strength of purpose, and before it she was impotent and half-afraid. The men of her world had all been of a totally different mould. She was accustomed to cynicism and the half-mocking homage of jaded experience. But this was new, this was wonderful—a force that burned and dazzled her, yet which attracted her irresistibly none the less, thrilling her with a rapture that had never before entered her life. Whatever the risk, whatever the penalty, she was bound to go forward now.
She spoke at last, her eyes still held by his. "I think you are right. We can't help it. But oh. Dick, remember that—remember that—if ever there should come a time when you wish you had done—otherwise!"
"If ever I do what?" he said. "Do you mind saying that again?"
She shook her head. "But I'm not laughing. Dick. You've carried me out of my depth, and—I'm not a very good swimmer."
"All right, darling," he said. "Lean on me! I'll hold you up."
She clasped his hand tightly. "You will be patient?" she said.
He smiled into her anxious face. "As patient as patient," he said. "That,
I take it, means I'm not to tell anybody, does it?"
She bent her head. "Yes, Dick."
"All right," he said. "I won't tell a soul without your consent. But—" he leaned nearer to her, speaking almost under his breath—"when I am alone with you, Juliet—I shall take you in my arms—and kiss you—as I have done to-day."
Again a swift tremor went through her. She looked at him no longer. "Oh, but not—not without my leave," she said.
"You will give me leave," he said.
She was silent for a space. He was drawing her two hands to him, and she tried to resist him. But in the end he had his way, and she yielded with a little laugh that sounded oddly passionate.
"I believe you could make me give you anything," she said.
"But you can't give me what is mine already," he made quiet answer, as he pressed the two trembling hands against his heart. "That is understood, isn't it? And when you are tired of working for your living, you will come to me and let me work for you."
"Perhaps," she said, with her head bent.
"Only perhaps?" he said.
His voice was deeply tender. He was trying to look into the veiled eyes.
"Only perhaps?" he said again.
She made a little movement as if she would free herself, but checked it on the instant. Then very slowly she lifted her face to his, but she did not meet his look. Her eyes were closed.
"Some day," she said with quivering lips,—"some day—I will."
He took her face between his hands, and held it so as if he waited for something. Then, after a moment, "Some day—wife of my heart!" he said very softly, and kissed the eyes that would not meet his own.
PART III
CHAPTER I
BIRDS OF A FEATHER
The annual flower-show at Fairharbour was one of the chief events of the district, and entailed such a gathering of the County as Vera Fielding would not for worlds have missed. It also entailed the donning of beautiful garments which was an even greater attraction than the first.
She had not been well during the sultry weather that had prevailed throughout the early part of June, and Fielding had been considering the advisability of taking her away for a change. But though her energy for many of the amusements which she usually followed with zest had waned with the lassitude that hot weather had brought upon her, she had set her heart upon attending the flower-show, and, in obedience to the new policy which Juliet by every means in her power persuaded him to pursue, the squire had somewhat impatiently yielded the point. The show was to take place in the grounds of Burchester Park. It was an immense affair, and everyone of any importance was sure to attend.
Juliet herself would gladly have stayed away, but Mrs. Fielding, partly as a natural consequence of her poor health and chiefly from a selfish desire to feel herself an object of solicitude, would not hear of leaving her behind. As Dick had predicted, she had come to lean upon Juliet, and her dependence became every day more pronounced. At times she was even childishly exacting, and though Juliet still maintained her right to direct her own movements, she found her liberty considerably curtailed.
If she went down to the shore with Robin she usually met with a querulous, and sometimes tearful, reception on her return, and though she steadily refused to admit that there was any reason on Vera's part for assuming this attitude, it influenced her none the less. Moreover, Vera could be genuinely pathetic upon occasion, and there was no disputing the fact that she stood in need of care—such care as only a woman could give.
"I don't want a nurse," she would say plaintively. "I only want companionship and sympathy. Motoring is my only consolation, and I can't go motoring alone."
And then the squire would draw her aside and beg her to bear with Vera's whims as far as possible since loneliness depressed her and she was the only person he knew whose company did not either tire her out or irritate her beyond endurance. It was not an easy position, but Juliet filled it to the best of her ability and with no small self-sacrifice.
Yet in a sense it made her life the simpler, for she was still at that difficult stage when it is easier to stand still than to go forward. She saw Green when he came to the house, but they had not been alone together since the morning on the shore when her love had betrayed her. She had a feeling that he was biding his time. He had promised to be patient, and she knew he would keep his promise. Also, his time, like hers, was very fully occupied. Till the holidays came he would not have much liberty, and in her secret soul Juliet was thankful that this was so. For the present it was enough for her to hold this new joy close, close to her heart, to gaze upon it only in solitude,—a gift most precious upon which no other eyes might look. It was enough for her to feel the tight grasp of his hand when they met, to catch for an instant the quick gleam of understanding in his glance, the sudden flash of that smile which was for her alone. These things thrilled her with a gladness so strangely sweet that there were times when she marvelled at herself, and sometimes, trembling, wondered if it could possibly last. For nought in life had ever before shone so golden as this perfect dream. The very atmosphere she breathed was subtly charged with its essence. She was absurdly, superbly happy.
"I believe this place suits you," the squire said to her once. "You look years younger than when you came."
She received the compliment with her low, soft laugh. "I am—years younger," she said.
He gave her a sharp look. "You are happy here? Not sorry you came?"
"Oh, not in the least sorry," said Juliet.
He nodded. "That's all right. You've done Vera a lot of good. She's getting almost docile. But as soon as this flower-show business is over, I want you to use all your influence to get her away. We'll go North and see if we can get a little strength into her." Again he looked at her shrewdly. "You won't mind coming too?"
"But of course not," said Juliet. "I shall love it."
He was on his way out of the room, but a sudden thought seemed to strike him and he lingered. "Shall I make Green come to the flower-show with us?" he asked.
"I shouldn't," said Juliet quietly. "He probably wouldn't have time, and certainly Mrs. Fielding wouldn't want him."
He frowned. "Would you like him?" he asked abruptly.
"I?" She met his look with a baffling smile. "Oh, don't ask him on my account! I am quite happy without a cavalier in attendance."
And Fielding went out, looking dissatisfied. But when the day arrived and they were on the point of departure he surprised them both by the sudden announcement that Green was to be picked up at the gates. It was a Saturday afternoon, and for once he was at liberty.
"Oh, really, Edward!" Mrs. Fielding protested. "Now you've spoilt everything!"
"On the contrary," smiled the squire. "I have merely completed the party."
"I'm sure Miss Moore doesn't want him!" she declared petulantly.
"I am afraid Miss Moore will have to put up with him nevertheless," said
Fielding, unperturbed. "For he is coming."
"You always do your best to spoil my pleasure," Vera flung at him.
Juliet saw the squire's mouth take an ominous downward curve, but to her relief he kept his temper in check. He was driving the car himself which was an open one. Somewhat grimly he turned to Juliet. "I hope you have no objection to sharing the back-seat with Mr. Green?"
She felt her pulses give a swift leap at the question, but with a hasty effort she kept down her rising colour. "Of course not!" she said.
He gave her a brief smile of approval. "Then you will sit in front with me, Vera. That is settled. Let us have no more argument!"
"It's too bad!" Vera declared stormily on the verge of indignant tears.
"My dear," he said, "don't be silly! Has it never occurred to you that I may like to have my wife to myself occasionally?"
It evidently had not, for Vera gave him a look of sheer amazement and yielded the point as if she had no breath left for further discussion.
He settled her in her place, and tucked the rug around her with more than usual care. As he finished, she leaned forward and touched his shoulder with a slightly uncertain smile.
He glanced up. "All right?"
"Quite, thank you," she said.
And Juliet in the back-seat drew a breath of relief. The squire was becoming quite an adept at the game.
They shot down the avenue at a speed that brought them very rapidly in sight of the gates. A figure was waiting there, and again Juliet was conscious of the hard beating of her heart. Then she knew that the car was stopping, and looked forth with an impersonal smile of welcome.
He came forward, greeted the squire and Mrs. Fielding, and in a moment was getting in beside her.
"Good afternoon, Miss Moore!" he said.
She gave him her hand and felt his fingers close with a spring-like strength upon it, while his eyes laughed into hers. Then the car was in motion again, and he dropped into the seat.
"By Jove, this is a treat!" he said. "I had the greatest difficulty in the world to get away, made Ashcott take my place. It isn't a very important match, and he's a better bowler than I am anyway."
"Do you want any rug?" she said, still battling to keep back the overwhelming flush of gladness from her face.
He accepted her offer at once, and in a moment his hand had caught and imprisoned hers beneath its shelter.
She made a sharp movement to free herself, and the blush she had so valiantly resisted flamed over face and neck as she felt his hold tighten as sharply, and heard him laugh at her impotence. But he went on talking as though nothing had happened, considerately covering her agitation, and to her relief neither Fielding nor his wife looked round till it had subsided.
It was barely half-an-hour's run to Burchester Park which was thrown open to the public for the great occasion. The Castle also was open on that day, and visitors thronged thither from every quarter.
A long procession of conveyances stood outside the great iron gates of the Park, but the squire, owing to an acquaintanceship with Lord Saltash's bailiff, held a permit that enabled him to drive in. They went up the long avenue of firs that led to the great stone building, but ere they reached it the strains of a band told them that the flower-show was taking place in an open space on their right close to the entrance to the terraced gardens which occupied the southern slope in front of the house.
Fielding ran the car into a deep patch of shade beside the road, and stopped. "We had better get out here," he said.
Juliet's hand slipped free. Dick threw her a smile and jumped out.
"Will the car be all right?" he said, as he turned to help her down.
"Oh, right enough," the squire said. "There is no traffic along here."
"I am hoping to go into the house," said Vera. "But I suppose it will be crammed with people."
"We'll do the flower-show first anyhow," said Fielding.
He led the way with her, and it seemed quite natural to Juliet that Green should fall in beside her. It was a cloudless day, and she had an almost childish feeling of delight in its splendour. She was determined to enjoy herself to the utmost.
They entered the first sweltering tent and in the throng she felt again the touch of Dick's hand at he came behind. "We mustn't lose each other," he said, with a laugh.
The midsummer madness was upon her, and, without looking at him she squeezed the fingers that gripped her arm.
In a moment his voice spoke in her ear. "Look here! Let's get away! Let's get lost! It's the easiest thing in the world. We can't all hang together in this crowd."
This was quite evident. The great marquee was crammed with people, and already Fielding was piloting his wife to the opening at the other end.
"We must just look round," murmured Juliet, "for decency's sake."
"All right, my dear, look!" he said. "And when you've quite finished we'll go out by the way we came and explore the gardens."
She threw him a glance that expressed acquiescence and a certain mead of amused appreciation. For somehow Dick Green in his blue serge and straw hat managed to look smarter if less immaculate than any of the white-waistcoated band of local magnates around them. So—for decency's sake—she prowled round the tent with Dick at her shoulder, admiring everything she saw and forgetting as soon as she had admired. She told herself that it was a day of such supreme happiness as could not come twice in any lifetime, and because of it she lingered, refusing to hasten the moment for which Dick had made provision.
"Haven't you had enough of it?" he said, at last.
And she answered him with a quivering laugh. "No, not nearly. I'm spinning out every single second."
"Ah, but they won't wait," he said. "Come! I think we're safely lost now.
Let us go!"
She turned obediently from a glorious spread of gloxinias, and he made a way for her through the buzzing crowd to the entrance. When Dick spoke with the voice of authority, it was her pleasure to submit.
She felt her pulses tingle as she followed him, to be alone with him again, to feel herself encompassed by the fiery magic of his love, to yield throbbing surrender to the mastery that would not be denied. Yet when he turned to her outside in the hot sunshine with the blaring band close at hand she almost shrank away, she almost voiced a pretext for continuing their unprofitable wandering through the stifling tents. For, strangely, though he smiled at her, there was about him in that moment a quality that went near to scaring her. Something untamed, something indomitable, looked out at her from his glittering eyes. It was almost like a challenge, as if he dared her to dispute his right.
"That's better," he said, drawing a deep breath. "Now we can get away."
"We shan't get away from the people," she said.
He threw a rapid glance around. "Yes, we shall—with any luck. Come along! I know the way. There's a little landing-stage place down by the lake. We'll go there. There may even be a boat handy—if the gods are kind."
The gods were kind. They skirted the terraced gardens, which were not open to the public, and plunged down a winding walk through a shrubbery that led somewhat sharply downwards, away from the noise and the crush into cool green depths of woodland through which at last there shone up at them the gleam of water.
Juliet was panting when at length her guide paused. "My darling, what a shame!" he said. "But hang on to me! There are some steps round the corner, and they may be slippery. We'll soon be down now, and there's not a soul anywhere. Look! There's a fairy barque waiting for us!"
She caught sight of a white skiff, lying in the water close to the bank. As he had predicted, the final descent was a decided scramble, but he held her up until the mossy bank was reached; and would have held her longer, but with a little breathless laugh she released herself.
"My shoes are ruined," she remarked.
As they were of light grey suède, and the precipitous path they had travelled was a mixture of clay and limestone the ruin was palpable and very thorough. Dick surveyed them with compunction.
"I say, they're wet through! You must take them off at once. Get into the boat!"
"No, no!" She laughed again with more assurance. "I am not going to take them off. We couldn't dry them if I did, and I should never get them on again. Do you think we ought to get into the boat? Suppose the owner came along?"
"The owner? Lord Saltash, do you mean?" He scoffed at the idea. "Do you really imagine he would come within a hundred leagues of the place on such a day as this. No, he is probably many salt miles away in that ocean-going yacht of his. Lucky dog!"
"Oh, do you envy him?" she said.
He gave her a shrewd glance. "Not in the least. He is welcome to his yacht—and his Lady Jo—and all that is his."
"Dick!" She made a swift gesture of repudiation. "Please don't repeat that—scandal—again!"
He raised his brows with a faintly ironical smile. "Are you still giving her the benefit of the doubt?" he said. "I imagine no one else does."
The colour went out of her face. She stood quite motionless, looking not at him but at a whirl of dancing gnats on the gold-flecked water beyond him.
"She went to Paris," she said, in the tone of one asserting a fact that no one could dispute.
"So did he," said Green. "The yacht went round to Bordeaux to pick him up afterwards. I understand that he was not alone."
She turned on him in sudden anger. "Why do you repeat this horrible gossip? Where do you hear it?"
He held out his hand to her. "Juliet, I repeat it, because I want you to know—you have got to know—that she is unworthy of your friendship, and—you shall never touch pitch with my consent. I have heard it from various sources,—from Ashcott, from the agent here, Bishop, and others. My dear, you have always known her for a heartless flirt. You broke with her because she jilted the man she was about to marry. Now that she has gone to another man, surely you have done with her!"
He spoke without anger, but with a force and authority that carried far more weight. Juliet's indignation passed. But she did not touch the outstretched hand, and in a moment he bent and took hers.
"Now I've made you furious," he said.
She looked at him somewhat piteously, assaying a smile with the lips that trembled. "No, I am not furious. Only—when you talk like that you make me—rather uneasy. You see, Lady Jo and I have always been—birds of a feather."
"Don't," he said, and suddenly gripped her hand so that she gasped with pain. "Oh, did I hurt you, sweetheart? Forgive me. But I can't have you talk like that—couple yourself with that woman whose main amusement for years has been to break as many hearts as she could capture. Forget her, darling! Promise me you will! Come! We're not going to let her spoil this perfect day."
He was drawing her to him, but she sought to resist him, and even when his arms were close about her she did not wholly yield. He held her to him, but he did not press for a full surrender.
And—perhaps because of his forbearance—she presently lifted her face to his and clung to him with all her quivering strength. "Just for to-day, Dick!" she whispered tremulously. "Just for to-day!"
Their lips met upon the words. And, "For ever and ever!" he made passionate answer, as he held her to his heart.
CHAPTER II
SALTASH
The sunshine was no less bright or the day less full of summer warmth when they floated out upon the lake a little later. But Juliet's mood had changed. She leaned back on Dick's coat in the stern of the boat, drifting her fingers through the rippling water with a thoughtful face. Once or twice she only nodded when Dick spoke to her, and he, bending to his sculls, soon fell silent, content to watch her while the golden minutes passed.
The lake was long and narrow, surrounded by woodland trees with coloured water-lilies floating here and there upon its surface—a fairy spot, mysterious, green as emerald. The music of the band sounded distant here, almost like the echoes of another world. They reached the middle of the lake, and Dick suffered his sculls to rest upon the water, sending feathery splashes from their tips that spread in widening circles all around them.
As if in answer to an unspoken word, Juliet's eyes came up to his. She faintly smiled. "Have you brought that woodland pipe of yours?" she asked.
He smiled back at her. "No, I am keeping that for another occasion."
She lifted her straight brows interrogatively, without speaking.
He answered her still smiling, but with that in his voice that brought the warm colour to her face. "For the day when we go away, together, sweetheart, and don't come back."
Her eyes sank before his, but in a moment or two she lifted them again, meeting his look with something of an effort. "I wonder, Dick," she said slowly, "I wonder if we ever shall."
He leaned towards her. "Are you daring me to run away with you?"
She shook her head. "I should probably turn into something very hideous if you did, and that would be—rather terrible for both of us."
"That's a parable, is it?" He was still looking at her keenly, earnestly.
She made a little gesture of remonstrance, as if his regard were too much for her. "You can take it as you please. But as I have no intention of running away with you, perhaps it is beside the point."
He laughed with a hint of mastery. "Our intentions on that subject may not be the same. I'll back mine against yours any day."
She smiled at his words though her colour mounted higher. After a moment she sat up, and laid a hand upon his knee. "Dick, you're getting too managing—much. I suppose it's the schoolmaster part of you. I daresay you find it gets you the upper hand with a good many, but—it won't with me."
His hand was on hers in an instant, she thrilled to the electricity of his touch. "No—no!" he said. "That's just the soul of me, darling, leaping all the obstacles to reach and hold you. You're not going to tell me you have no use for that?"
"But you promised to be patient," she said.
"Well, I will be. I am. Don't look so serious! What have I done?"
His eyes challenged her to laughter, and she laughed, though somewhat uncertainly. "Nothing—yet, Dick. But—I don't feel at all sure of you to-day. You make me think of a faun of the woods. I haven't the least idea what you will do next."
"What a mercy I've got you safe in the boat!" he said. "I didn't know you were so shy. What shall I do to reassure you?"
His hand moved up her wrist with the words, softly pushing up the lacy sleeve, till it found the bend of the elbow, when he stooped and kissed the delicate blue veins, closely with lips that lingered.
Then, his head still bent low, very tenderly he spoke. "Don't be afraid of my love, sweetheart! Let it be your—defence!"
She was sitting very still in his hold save that every fibre of her throbbed at the touch of his lips. But in a moment she moved, touched his shoulder, his neck, with fingers that trembled, finally smoothed the close black hair.
"Why did you make me love you?" she said, and uttered a sharp sigh that caught her unawares.
He laughed as he raised his head. "Poor darling! You didn't want to, did you? Hard lines! I believe it's upset all your plans for the future."
"It has," she said. "At least—it threatens to!"
"What a shame!" He spoke commiseratingly. "And what were your plans—if it isn't impertinent of me to ask?"
She smiled faintly. "Well, marriage certainly wasn't one of them. And I'm not sure that it is now. I feel like the girl in Marionettes—Cynthia Paramount—who said she didn't think any women ought to marry until she had been engaged at least six times."
"That little beast!" Dick sat up suddenly and returned to his sculls.
"Juliet, why did you read that book? I told you not to."
Her smile deepened though her eyes were grave. She clasped her fingers about her knees. "My dear Dick, that's why. It didn't hurt me like The Valley of Dry Bones. In fact I was feeling so nice and superior when I read it that I rather enjoyed it."
Dick sent the boat through the water with a long stroke. His face was stern. After a moment Juliet looked at him. "Are you cross with me because I read it, Dick?"
His face softened instantly. "With you! What an idea!"
"With the man who wrote it then?" she suggested. "He exasperates me intensely. He has such a maddeningly clear vision, and he is so inevitably right."
"And yet you persist in reading him!" Dick's voice had a faintly mocking note.
"And yet I persist in reading him. You see, I am a woman, Dick. I haven't your lordly faculty for ignoring the people I most dislike. I detest Dene Strange, but I can't overlook him. No one can. I think his character studies are quite marvellous. That girl and her endless flirtations, and then—when the real thing comes to her at last—that unspeakable man of iron refusing to take her because she had jilted another man, ruining both their lives for the sake of his own rigid code! He didn't deserve her in any case. She was too good for him with all her faults." Juliet paused, studying her lover's face attentively. "I hope you're not that sort of man, Dick," she said.
He met her eyes. "Why do you say that?"
"Because there's a high-priestly expression about your mouth that rather looks as if you might be. Please don't tell me if you are because it will spoil all my pleasure! Give me a cigarette instead and let's enjoy ourselves!"
"You'll find the case in my coat behind," he said. "But, Juliet, though I wouldn't spoil your pleasure for the world, I must say one thing. If a woman engages herself to a man, I consider she is bound in honour to fulfil her engagement—unless he sets her free. If she is an honourable woman, she will never free herself without his consent. I hold that sort of engagement to be a debt of honour—as sacred as the marriage vow itself."
"Even though she realizes that she is going to make a mistake?" said
Juliet, beginning to search the coat.
"Whatever the circumstances," he said. "An engagement can only be broken by mutual consent. Otherwise, the very word becomes a farce. I have no sympathy with jilts of either sex. I think they ought to be kicked out of decent society."
Juliet found the cigarettes and looked up with a smile. "I think you and Dene Strange ought to collaborate," she said. "You would soon put this naughty world to rights between you. Now open your mouth and shut your eyes, and if you're very good I'll light it for you!"
There was in her tone, despite its playfulness, a delicate finality that told him plainly that she had no intention of pursuing the subject further, and, curiously, the man's heart smote him for a moment. He felt as if in some fashion wholly inexplicable he had hurt her.
"You're not vexed with me, sweetheart?" he said.
She looked at him still smiling, but her look, her smile, were more of a veil than a revelation. "With you! What an idea!" she said, softly mocking.
"Ah, don't!" he said. "I'm not like that, Juliet!"
She held up the cigarette. "Quite ready? Ah, Dick! Don't—don't upset the boat!"
For the sculls floated loose again in the rowlocks. He had her by the wrists, the arms, the shoulders. He had her, suddenly and very closely, against his heart. He covered her face with his kisses, so that she gasped and gasped for breath, half-laughing, half-dismayed.
"Dick, how—how disgraceful of you! Dick, you mustn't! Someone—someone will see us!"
"Let them!" he said, grimly reckless. "You brought it on yourself. How dare you tell me I'm like a high priest? How dare you, Juliet?"
"I daren't," she assured him, her hand against his mouth, restraining him. "I never will again. You're much more like the great god Pan. There, now do be good! Please be good! I am sure someone is watching us. I can feel it in my bones. You're flinging my reputation to the little fishes. Please, Dick—darling,—please!"
He held the appealing hand and kissed it very tenderly. "I can't resist that," he said. "So now we're quits, are we? And no one any the worse. Juliet, you'll have to marry me soon."
She drew away from his arms, still panting a little. Her face was burning. "Now we'll go back," she said. "You're very unmanageable to-day. I shall not come out with you again for a long time."
"Yes—yes, you will!" he urged. "I shouldn't be so unmanageable if I weren't so—starved."
She laughed rather shakily. "You're absurd and extravagant. Please row back now, Dick! Mr. and Mrs. Fielding will be wondering where we are."
"Let 'em wonder!" said Dick.
Nevertheless, moved by something in her voice or face, he turned the boat and began to row back to the little landing-stage. Juliet rescued the cigarettes from the floor, and presently placed one between his lips and lighted it for him. But her eyes did not meet his during the process, and her hand was not wholly steady. She leaned back in the stern and smoked her own cigarette afterwards in almost unbroken silence.
"Don't you want a water-lily?" Dick said to her once as they drew near a patch.
She shook her head. "No, don't disturb them! They're happier where they are."
"Impossible!" he protested. "When they might be with you!"
She raised her eyes to his then, and looked at him very steadily. "No, that doesn't follow, Dick," she said.
"I think it does," he said. "Never mind if you don't agree! Tell me when you are coming to sing at one of my Saturday night concerts at High Shale!"
"Oh, I don't know, Dick." She looked momentarily embarrassed. "You know we are going away very soon, don't you?"
"Where to?" he said.
"I don't know. Either Wales or the North. Mrs. Fielding needs a change, and I—"
"You're coming back?" he said.
"I suppose so—some time. Why?" She looked at him questioningly.
He leaned forward, his black eyes unswervingly upon her. "Because—if you don't—I shall come after you," he said, with iron determination.
She laughed a little. "Pray don't look so grim! I probably shall come back all in good time. I will let you know if I don't, anyway."
"You promise?" he said.
"Of course I promise." She flicked her cigarette-ash into the water. "I won't disappear without letting you know first."
"Without letting me know where to find you," he said.
She glanced over his shoulder as if measuring the distance between the skiff and the landing-stage. "No, I don't promise that. It wouldn't be fair. But you will be able to trace me by Columbus. He will certainly accompany the cat's-meat cart wherever it goes. Oh, Dick! There's someone there—waiting for us!"
He also threw a look behind him. "Shall I put her about? I don't see anyone, but if you wish it—"
"No, no, I don't! Row straight in! There is someone there, and you'll have to apologize. I knew we were being watched."
Juliet sat upright with a flushed face.
Dick began to laugh. "Dear, dear! How tragic! Never mind, darling! I daresay it's no one more important than a keeper, and we will see if we can enlist his sympathy."
He pulled a few swift strokes and the skiff glided up to the little landing-stage. He shipped the sculls, and held to the woodwork with one hand.
"Will you get ashore, dear, and I'll tie up. There's no one here, you see."
"No one that matters," said a laughing voice above him, and suddenly a man in a white yachting-suit, slim, dark, with a monkey-like activity of movement, stepped out from the spreading shadow of a beech.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Dick, startled.
"Hullo, sir! Delighted to meet you. Madam, will you take my hand?
Ah—et tu, Juliette! Delighted to meet you also."
He was bowing with one hand extended, the other on his heart. Juliet, still seated in the stern of the boat, had gone suddenly white to the lips.
She gasped a little, and in a moment forced a laugh that somehow sounded desperate. "Why, it is Charles Rex!" she said.
Dick's eyes came swiftly to her. "Who? Lord Saltash, isn't it? I thought so." His look flashed back to the man above him with something of a challenge. "You know this lady then?"
Two eyes—one black, one grey—looked down into his, answering the challenge with gay inconsequence. "Sir, I have that inestimable privilege. Juliette, will you not accept my hand?"
Juliet's hand came upwards a little uncertainly, then, as he grasped it, she stood up in the boat. "This is indeed a surprise," she said, and again involuntarily she gasped. "Rumour had it that you were a hundred miles away at least."
"Rumour!" laughed Lord Saltash. "How oft hath rumour played havoc with my name! Not an unpleasant surprise, I trust?"
He handed her ashore, laughing on a note of mockery. Charles Burchester, Lord Saltash, said to be of royal descent, possessed in no small degree the charm not untempered with wickedness of his reputed ancestor. His friends had dubbed him "the merry monarch" long since, but Juliet had found a more dignified appellation for him which those who knew him best had immediately adopted. He had become Charles Rex from the day she had first bestowed the title upon him. Somehow, in all his varying—sometimes amazing—moods, it suited him.
She stood with him on the little wooden landing-stage, her hand still in his, and the colour coming back into her face. "But of course not!" she said in answer to his light words, laughing still a trifle breathlessly. "If you will promise not to prosecute us for trespassing!"
"Mais, Juliette!" He bent over her hand. "You could not trespass if you tried!" he declared gallantly. "And the cavalier with you—may I not have the honour of an introduction?"
He knew how to jest with grace in an awkward moment. Dick realised that, as, having secured the boat, he presented himself for Juliet's low-spoken introduction.
"Mr. Green—Lord Saltash!"
Saltash extended a hand, his odd eyes full of quizzical amusement. "I've heard your name before, I think. And I believe I've seen you somewhere too. Ah, yes! It's coming back! You are the Orpheus who plays the flute to the wild beasts at High Shale. I've been wanting to meet you. I listened to you from my car one night, and—on my soul—I nearly wept!"
Dick smiled with a touch of cynicism. "Miss Moore was listening that night too," he said.
"Yes," Juliet said quickly. "I was there."
Saltash looked at her questioningly for a moment, then his look returned to Dick. "I am the friend who never tells," he observed. "So it was—Miss Moore—you were playing to, was it? Ah, Juliette!" He threw her a sudden smile. "I would I could play like that!"