PART IV
CHAPTER I
THE FREE GIFT
"I'm not quite sure that I call this fair play," said Saltash with a comical twist of the eyebrows. "I didn't expect all these developments in so short a time."
"There are no further rules to this game," said Juliet, squeezing
Columbus around his sturdy shoulders as he sat on the bench beside her.
"Whoever wins—or loses—no one has any right to complain."
She spoke without agitation, but her face was flushed, and there was something about the clasp of her arm that made Columbus look up with earnest affection.
"If that's so," said Saltash, "I can withdraw my protection without compunction."
She smiled. "No doubt you can, most puissant Rex! But it really wouldn't answer your purpose. You've nothing to gain by treachery to a friend, and it would give you a horrid taste afterwards."
He made a face at her. "That's your point of view. And what am I to say when I meet Muff and all the rest of the clan again?"
She gave a slight shrug. "Do you think it matters? They are much too busy chasing after their own affairs to give me a second thought. If I were Lady Jo, they might be interested—for half-an-hour—not a minute longer."
Saltash made a mocking sound. "I know one person whose interest would last a bit longer than that—if you were Lady Jo."
"Indeed?" said Juliet.
"Yes—indeed, ma Juliette! I met him the other day at the Club before I went North, and it may interest you to know that he is determined to find her—and marry her—or perish in the attempt."
"It doesn't interest me in the least," said Juliet.
"No? Hard-hearted as ever!" Saltash's grin was one of sheer mischief. "Well, he seemed to share the popular belief that I know where the elusive Lady Jo is to be found. I really can't think what I've done to deserve such a reputation. I was put through a pretty stiff cross-examination, I can tell you."
"I have no doubt you were more than equal to it," said Juliet.
Saltash broke into a laugh. "It was such a skilful fencing-match that I imagine we left off much as we began. But I don't flatter myself that I am cleared of suspicion. In fact it wouldn't surprise me at all to find I was being shadowed—not for the first time in my disreputable career."
"I wonder when you will marry and turn respectable," said Juliet.
He made an appalling grimace. "Follow your pious example? May heaven forbid!"
She looked at him, faintly smiling. "Wait till the real thing comes to you, Charles Rex! You won't feel so superior then."
"Do you know how old I am?" said Saltash.
"Thirty-five," said Juliet idly.
Again his brows went up. "How on earth do you know these things off-hand?"
Her grey eyes were quizzical. "You are quite young enough yet to be happy—if only the right woman turns up."
He leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head, and contemplated her with a criticism that lasted several seconds. His dark face wore its funny, monkeyish look of regret, half-wistful and half-feigned.
"I wish—" he said suddenly—"I wish I'd come down here when you first began to rusticate."
"Why?" said Juliet, with her level eyes upon him.
He laughed and sprang abruptly to his feet. "Quien sabe? I might have turned rustic too—pious also, my Juliette! Think of it! Life isn't fair to me. Why am I condemned always to ride the desert alone?"
"Mainly because you ride too hard," said Juliet. "None but you can keep up the pace. Ah!" She turned her head quickly, and the swift colour flooded her face.
"Ah!" mocked Saltash softly, watching her. "Is it Romeo's step that I hear?"
Columbus wagged his tail in welcome as Dick Green came round the corner of the Ricketts' cottage and walked down under the apple-trees to join them. He greeted Saltash with the quiet self-assurance of a man who treads his own ground. There was no hint of hostility in his bearing.
"I've been expecting you," he said coolly.
"Have you?" said Saltash, a gleam of malicious humour in his eyes. "I thought there was something of the conquering hero about you. I have come—naturally—to congratulate you on your conquest."
"Thank you," said Dick, and seated himself on the bench beside Juliet and
Columbus. "That is very magnanimous of you."
"It is," agreed Saltash. "But if I had known what was in the wind I might have carried it still further and offered you Burchester Castle for the honeymoon."
"How kind of you!" said Juliet. "But we prefer cottages to castles, don't we, Dick? We might have had the Court. The squire very kindly suggested it. But we like this best—till our own house is in order."
"Still rusticating!" commented Saltash. "I should have thought your passion for that would have been satisfied by this time. I seem to have got out of touch with you all during my stay in Scotland. I never meant to go there this year, but I got lured away by Muff and his crowd. Mighty poor sport on the whole. I've often wished myself back. But I pictured you far away on the Night Moth with Mr. and Mrs. Fielding, and myself bored to extinction in my empty castle. And so I hung on. I certainly never expected you to get married in my absence, ma Juliette. That was the unkindest cut of all. Why didn't you write and tell me?"
"I didn't even know where you were," said Juliet. "You disappeared without warning. We expected you back at any time."
"Bad excuses every one of 'em!" said Saltash. "You know you wanted to get it over before I came back. Very rash of you both, but it's your funeral, not mine. Is this all the honeymoon you're going to have?"
Juliet laughed a little. "Well, my dear Rex, it doesn't much matter where you are so long as you are happy. We spend a good deal of our time on the sea and in it. We also go motoring in the squire's little car. And we superintend the decorating of our house. At the same time Dick is within reach of the miners who are being rather tiresome, so every one—except the miners—is satisfied."
"Oh, those infernal miners!" said Saltash, and looked at Dick. "How long do you think you are going to keep them in hand?"
"I can't say," said Dick somewhat briefly. "I don't advise Lord Wilchester or any of his people to come down here till something has been done to settle them."
Saltash laughed. "Oh, Muff won't come near. You needn't be afraid of that. He's deer-stalking in the Highlands. He's a great believer in leaving things to settle themselves."
"Is he?" said Dick grimly. "Well, they may do that in a fashion he won't care for before he's much older."
"Are you organizing a strike?" suggested Saltash, a wicked gleam of humour in his eyes.
Dick's eyes flashed in answer. "I am not!" he said. "But—I'm damned if they haven't some reason for striking—if he cares as little as that!"
"How often do you tell 'em so?" said Saltash.
Juliet's hand slipped quietly from Columbus's head to Dick's arm. "May I have a cigarette, please?" she said.
He turned to her immediately and his fire died down. He offered her his cigarette-case in silence.
Juliet took one, faintly smiling. "Do you know," she said to Saltash, "it was Dick's cigarettes that first attracted me to him? When I landed on this desert island, I had only three left. He came to the rescue—most nobly, and has kept me supplied ever since. I don't know where he gets them from, but they are the best I ever tasted."
"He probably smuggles 'em," said Saltash, offering her a match.
"No, I don't," said Dick, rather shortly. "I get them from a man in town. A fellow I once met—Ivor Yardley, the K. C.—first introduced me to them. I get them through his secretary who has some sort of interest in the trade."
A sudden silence fell. Juliet's cigarette remained poised in the act of kindling, but no smoke came from her lips. She had the look of one who listens with almost painful intentness.
The flame of the lighted match licked Saltash's fingers, and he dropped it. "Pardon my clumsiness! Let's try again! So you know Yardley, do you?" He flung the words at Dick. "Quite the coming man in his profession. Rather a brute in some ways, cold-blooded as a fish and wily as a serpent, but interesting—distinctly interesting. When did you meet him?"
"Early this year. I consulted him on a matter of business. I have no private acquaintance with him." Dick was looking straight at Saltash with a certain hardness of contempt in his face. "You evidently are on terms of intimacy with him."
"Oh, quite!" said Saltash readily. "He knows me—almost as well as you do. And I know him—even better. I was saying to Juliette just now that I believe he shares the general impression that I have got Lady Jo Farringmore somewhere up my sleeve. She did the rabbit trick, you know, a week or two before the wedding, and because I was to have been the best man I somehow got the blame. Wonder if he'd have blamed you if you'd been there!"
Dick stiffened. "I think not," he said.
"Not disreputable enough?" laughed Saltash.
"Not nearly," said Juliet, coming out of her silence. "Dick has rather strong opinions on this subject, Charles, so please don't be flippant about it! Will you give me another match?"
He held one for her, his eyebrows cocked at a comical angle, open derision in the odd eyes beneath them. Then, her cigarette kindled, he sprang up in his abrupt fashion.
"I'm going. Thanks for putting up with me for so long. I had to come and see you, Juliette. You are one of the very few capable of appreciating me at my full value."
"I hope you will come again," she said.
He bowed low over her hand. "If I can ever serve you in any way," he said, "I hope you will give me the privilege. Farewell, most estimable Romeo! You may yet live to greet me as a friend."
He was gone with the words with the suddenness of a monkey swinging off a bough, leaving behind him a silence so marked that the fall of an unripe apple from the tree immediately above them caused Columbus to start and jump from his perch to investigate.
Then Juliet, very quiet of mien and level of brow, got up and went to Dick who had risen at the departure of the visitor. She put her hand through his arm and held it closely.
"You are not to be unkind to my friends, Richard," she said. "It is the one thing I can't allow."
He looked at her with some sternness, but his free hand closed at once upon hers. "I hate to think of you on terms of intimacy with that bounder," he said.
She smiled a little. "I know you do. But you are prejudiced. I can't give up an old friend—even for you, Dick."
He squeezed her hand. "Have you got many friends like that, Juliet?"
She flushed. "No. He is the only one I have, and—"
"And?" he said, as she stopped.
She laid her cheek with a very loving gesture against his shoulder. "Ah, don't throw stones!" she pleaded gently. "There are so few of us without sin."
His arm was about her in a moment, all his hardness vanished. "My own girl!" he said.
She held his hand in both her own. "Do you know—sometimes—I lie awake at night and wonder—and wonder—whether you would have thought of me—if you had known me in the old days?"
"Is that it?" he said very tenderly. "And you thought I was sleeping like a hog and didn't know?"
She laughed rather tremulously, her face turned from him. "It isn't always possible to bury the past, is it, however hard we try? I hope you'll make allowances for that, Dick, if ever I shock your sense of propriety."
"I shall make allowances," he said, "because you are the one and only woman I worship—or have ever worshipped—and I can't see you in any other light."
"How dear of you, Dicky!" she murmured. "And how rash!"
"Am I such an unutterable prig?" he said. "I feel myself that I have got extra fastidious since knowing you."
She laughed at that, and after a moment turned with impulsive sweetness and put her cigarette between his lips. "You're not a prig, darling. You are just an honourable and upright gentleman whom I am very proud to belong to and with whom I always feel I have got to be on my best behaviour. What have you been doing all this time? I should have come to look for you if Saltash hadn't turned up."
Dick's brows were slightly drawn. "I've been talking to Jack," he said.
"Jack!" She opened her eyes. "Dick! I hope you haven't been quarrelling!"
He smiled at her anxious face, though somewhat grimly. "My dear, I don't quarrel with people like Jack. I came upon him at the school. I don't know why he was hanging round there. He certainly didn't mean me to catch him. But as I did so, I took the opportunity for a straight talk—with the result that he leaves this place to-morrow—for good."
"My dear Dick! What will the squire say?"
"I can manage the squire," said Dick briefly.
She smiled and passed on. "And Jack? What will he do?"
"I don't know and I don't care. He's the sort of animal to land on his feet whichever way he falls. Anyhow, he's going, and I never want to speak or hear of him again." Dick's thin lips came together in a hard, compelling line.
"Are you never going to forgive him?" said Juliet.
His eyes had a stony glitter. "It's hardly a matter for forgiveness," he said. "When anyone has done you an irreparable injury the only thing left is to try and forget it and the person responsible for it as quickly as possible. I don't thirst for his blood or anything of that kind. I simply want to be rid of him—and to wipe all memory of him out of my life."
"Do you always want to do that with the people who injure you?" said Juliet.
He looked at her, caught by something in her tone. "Yes, I think so.
Why?"
"Oh, never mind why!" she said, with a faint laugh that sounded oddly passionate. "I just want to find out what sort of man you are, that's all."
She would have turned away from him with the words, but he held her with a certain dominance. "No, Juliet! Wait! Tell me—isn't it reasonable to want to get free of anyone who wrongs you—to shake him off, kick him off if necessary,—anyway, to have done with him?"
"I haven't said it was unreasonable," she said, but she was trembling as she spoke and her face was averted.
"Look at me!" he said. "What? Am I such a monster as all that? Juliet,—my dear, don't be silly! What are you afraid of? Surely not of me!"
She turned her face to him with a quivering smile. "No! I won't be silly, Dick," she said. "I'll try to take you as I find you and—make the best of you. But, to be quite honest, I am rather afraid of the hard side of you. It is so very uncompromising. If I ever come up against it—I believe I shall run away!"
"Not you!" he said, trying to look into the soft, down-cast eyes. "Or if you do you'll come back again by the next train to see how I am bearing up. I've got you, Juliet!" He lifted her hand, displaying it exultantly, closely clasped in his. "And what I have—I hold!"
"How clever of you!" said Juliet, and with a swift lithe movement freed herself.
His arms went round her in a flash. "I'll make you pay for that!" he vowed. "How dare you, Juliet? How dare you?"
She resisted him for a second, or two, holding him from her, half-mocking, half in earnest. Then, as his hold tightened, encompassing her, she submitted with a low laugh, yielding herself afresh to him under the old apple-tree, in full and throbbing surrender to his love.
But when at last his hold relaxed, when he had made her pay, she took his hand and pressed a deep, deep kiss into his palm. "That is—a free gift, Dicky," she said. "And it is worth more than all the having and holding in the world."
CHAPTER II
FRIENDSHIP
It was on a misty evening of autumn that Vera Fielding entered her husband's house once more like a bride returning from her wedding-trip. There was something of the petted air of a bride about her as she came in on the squire's arm throwing her greetings right and left to the assembled servants, and certainly there was in her eyes more of the shining happiness of a bride than they had ever held before. Her face was flushed with a pretty eagerness, and the petulant lines about her mouth were far less apparent than of old. Her laugh had a gay spontaneous ring, and though her voice still had a slightly arrogant inflection it was not without softer notes when she addressed the squire.
"I feel as if we had been away for years and years," she said to him, as they stood together before the blazing fire in the drawing-room. "Isn't it strange, Edward? Only three months in reality, and such a difference!"
He was lifting the heavy coat from her shoulders, but she turned with it impulsively and caught him round the neck.
"My dear!" he said, and clasped her coat and all.
"It is going to last, isn't it?" she said, her breath coming quickly.
"You promised—you promised—to love me just as much if I got well!"
He kissed her with reassuring tenderness. "Yes, my girl, yes! It's going to last all right. We're going to make a happy home of it, you and I."
She clung to him for a few seconds, then broke away with a little laugh.
"You'll have to hunt this winter, Edward. You're getting stout."
"And shoot too," said the squire. "There promises to be plenty of birds.
We'd better have a party if you feel up to it."
She looked at him with kindling eyes. "I'm up to anything. I should love it. Do you think Lord Saltash would come?"
"We must certainly ask him," said, the squire. "But you're not to work too hard, mind! That's an order. Let people look after themselves!"
"I'll get Juliet to come and help me," she said. "She must have lots of spare time. By the way, they'll be here to dine in another hour. I must go and dress."
"Have some tea first!" he said. "They won't mind waiting."
She slipped her hand through his arm. "Come and have it upstairs! It really is late. We'll have a cosy time together afterwards—when they're gone."
He smiled upon her indulgently. They had grown very near to one another during their cruise in the Night Moth. To him also their home-coming held something of bridal gladness. He had never seen her so glowing with happiness before. The love that shone in her eyes whenever they met his own stirred him to the depths. He had never deemed her capable of such affection in the old days. It had changed his whole world.
They went upstairs together closely linked. They entered Vera's room from which she imperiously dismissed her maid. They sat down on the couch beside the fire.
"Do you remember that awful day when we quarrelled about Dick Green?" said Vera suddenly.
He kept her hand in his. "Don't!" he said. "Don't remind me of it!"
Her laugh had in it a thrill that was like a caress. "Wasn't I a pig, Edward? And weren't you a tyrant? I haven't seen you in one of your royal rages since. I always rather admired them, you know."
"I know you hated me," he said, "and I'm not surprised."
She made a face at him. "Silly! I didn't. I thought you the finest monster I had ever seen. So you were—quite magnificent." She put up a hand and stroked his iron-grey hair. "Well, we shan't quarrel about young Green any more," she said.
"I wonder," said the squire, not looking at her.
"I don't." She spoke with confidence. "I'm going to be tremendously nice to him—not for Juliet's sake—for yours."
"Thank you, my dear," he said, with an odd humility of utterance that came strangely from him. "I shall appreciate your kindness. As you know—I am very fond of Dick."
"You were going to tell me why once," she said.
He took her hand and held it for a moment. "I will tell you to-night," he said.
The maid came in again with a tea-tray, and they had no further intimate talk. The squire became restless and walked about the room while he drank his cup. When he had finished, he went away to his own, and Vera was left to dress.
Her maid was still putting the final touches when there came a low knock at the door. She turned sharply from her mirror.
"Is that you, Juliet? Come in! Come in!"
Quietly the door opened, and Juliet entered.
"My dear!" said Vera, and met her impulsively in the middle of the room.
"I had to come up," Juliet said. "I hope you don't mind, but neither Dick nor I can manage to feel like ordinary guests in this house."
She was smiling as she spoke. The white scarf was thrown back from her hair. The gracious womanliness of her struck Vera afresh with its charm.
She held her and looked at her. "My dear Juliet, it does me good to see you. How is Dick? And how is Columbus?"
"They are both downstairs," Juliet said, "and one is working too hard and the other not hard enough. I had to bring dear Christopher. You don't mind?"
"Of course not, my dear. I would have sent him a special invitation if I had thought. Come and take off your coat! We got in rather late or I should have been downstairs to receive you."
"Tell me how you are!" Juliet said. "I don't believe I have ever seen you looking so well."
"I haven't felt so well for years," Vera declared. "But I have promised Edward all the same to go up to town and see his pet doctor and make sure that the cure is complete. Personally I am quite sure. But Edward is such a dear old fusser. He won't be satisfied with appearances."
She laughed on an indulgent note, and Juliet smiled in sympathy.
"Well, you've given him good cause for that, haven't you? And you enjoyed the cruise? I am so glad you had good weather."
"It was gorgeous," said Vera. "I must write and tell Lord Saltash. He has given me the time of my life. Have you seen anything of him by the way?"
"Only once," said Juliet. "He came over to congratulate us. But that is some time ago. He may be at the other end of the world by this time."
"No, I think not," Vera said. "I believe he is in England. Was he—at all upset by your marriage, Juliet?"
Juliet laughed a little. "Oh, not in the least. He keeps his heart in a very air-tight compartment I assure you. I have never had the faintest glimpse of it."
"But you are fond of him," said Vera shrewdly.
"Oh yes, quite fond of him," Juliet's eyes had a kindly softness. "I have never yet met the woman who wasn't fond of Charles Rex," she said.
"Does—your husband like him?" asked Vera.
Juliet shook her head quizzically. "No. Husbands don't as a rule."
"Something of a poacher?" questioned Vera.
"Oh, not really. Not since he grew up. I believe he was very giddy in his youth, and then a girl he really cared for disappointed him. So the story runs. I can't vouch for the truth of it, or even whether he ever seriously cared for her. But he has certainly never been in earnest since."
"What about Lady Joanna Farringmore?" said Vera suddenly.
Juliet was standing before the fire. She bent slightly, the warm glow softly tinging her white neck. "I should have thought that old fable might have died a natural death by this time," she said.
Vera gave her a sharp look. There was not actual distaste in Juliet's tone, yet in some fashion it conveyed the impression that the subject was one which she had no desire to discuss.
Vera abandoned it forthwith. "Suppose we go downstairs," she said.
They went down to find Dick and Columbus patiently waiting in the hall. Vera's greeting was brief but not lacking in warmth. The thought of Juliet married to the schoolmaster had ceased to provoke her indignation. She even admitted to herself that in different surroundings Dick might have proved himself to possess a certain attraction. She believed he was clever in an intellectual sense, and she believed it was by this quality that he had captivated Juliet. The fiery force of the man, his almost fierce enthusiasms, she had never even seen.
But she was immediately aware of a subtle and secret link between the two as they all met together in the genial glow of the fire. Dick's eyes that flashed for a second to Juliet and instantly left her, told her very clearly that no words were needed to establish communion between them. They were in close sympathy.
She gave Dick a warmer welcome than she had ever extended to him before, and found in the instant response of his smile some reason for wonder at her previous dislike. Perhaps contact with Juliet had helped to banish the satire to which in the old days she had so strongly objected. Or perhaps—but this possibility did not occur to her—he sensed a cordiality in the atmosphere which had never been present before.
When the squire came down they were all chatting amicably round the fire, and he smiled swift approval upon his wife ere he turned to greet his guests.
"Hullo, Dick!" he said, as their hands met. "Still running the same old show?"
"For the present, sir," said Dick.
They had not met since the occasion of Dick's and Juliet's marriage when the squire had come over immediately before the sailing of the Night Moth to be present, and to give her away. He had been very kind to them both during the brief hour that he had spent with them, and the memory of it still lingered warmly in Juliet's heart. She had grown very fond of the squire.
There were no awkward moments during that dinner which was more like a family gathering than Juliet had thought possible. The change in Vera amazed her. She was like a traveller who after long and weary journeying in shady places had come suddenly into bright sunshine. And she was younger, more ardent, more alive, than Juliet had ever seen her.
The same change was visible, though not so noticeable, in the squire. He too had come into the sun, but he trod more warily as one who—though content with the present—was by no means certain that the fair weather would last. His manner to his wife displayed a charming blend of tenderness and self-restraint; yet in some fashion he held his own with her, and once, meeting Juliet's eyes, he smiled in a way that reminded her of the day on which she had dared to give him advice as to the best means of securing happiness.
Dick was apparently in good spirits that night, and he was plainly at his ease. Having taken his cue from his hostess, he devoted himself in a large measure to her entertainment, and all went smoothly between them. When she and Juliet left the table she gave him a smiling invitation to come and play to them.
"I haven't brought the old banjo," he said, "but I'll make my wife sing.
She is going to help me this winter at the Club concerts."
"Brave Juliet!" said Vera, as she went out. "I wouldn't face that crowd of roughs for a king's ransom."
"She has nothing to be afraid of," said Dick with quick confidence. "I wouldn't let her do it if there were any danger."
"They seem to be in an ugly mood just now," said the squire.
"Yes, I know." Dick turned back to him, closing the door. "But, taken the right way, they are still manageable. There is just a chance that we may keep them in hand if that fellow Ivor Yardley can be induced to see reason. The rest of the Wilchester crew don't care a damn, but he has more brains. I'm counting on him."
"How are you going to get hold of him?" questioned Fielding.
"I suppose I must go up to town some week-end. I haven't told Juliet yet. Unlike the average woman, she seems to have a holy hatred of London and all its ways. So I presume she will stay behind."
"Perhaps we could get him down here," suggested the squire.
Dick gave him a swift look. "I've thought of that," he said.
"Well?" said Fielding.
Dick hesitated for a moment. "I'm not sure that I want him," he said. "He and Saltash are friends for one thing. And there are besides—various reasons."
"You don't like Saltash?" said the squire.
Dick laughed a little. "I don't hate him—though I feel as if I ought to.
He's a queer fish. I don't trust him."
"You're jealous!" said Fielding.
Dick nodded. "Very likely. He has an uncanny attraction for women. I wanted to kick him the last time we met."
"And what did Juliet say?"
"Oh, Juliet read me a lecture and told me I wasn't to. But I think the less we see of each other the better—if I am to keep on my best behaviour, that is."
"It's a good thing someone can manage you," remarked Fielding. "Juliet is a wonderful peacemaker. But even she couldn't keep you from coming to loggerheads with Jack apparently. What was that fight about?"
Dirk's brows contracted. "It wasn't a fight, sir," he said shortly. "I've never fought Jack in my life. He did an infernal thing, and I made him quit, that's all."
"What did he do?" asked the squire. Then as Dick made a gesture of refusal: "Damn it, man, he was in my employment anyway! I've a right to know why he cleared out."
Dick pushed back his chair abruptly and rose. He turned his back on the squire while he poked the blazing logs with his foot. Then: "Yes, you've a perfect right to know," he said, speaking jerkily, his head bent. "And of course I always meant to tell you. It won't appeal to you in the least. But Juliet understands—at least in part. He was responsible for—my boy's death. That's why I made him go."
It was the first time that he had voluntarily spoken of Robin since the day that he and Juliet had followed him to his grave. He brought out the words now with tremendous effort, and having spoken he ceased to kick at the fire and became absolutely still.
The squire sat at the table, staring at him. For some seconds the silence continued, then irritably he broke it.
"Well? Go on, man! That isn't the whole of the story. What do you mean by—responsible? He didn't shove him over the cliff, I suppose?"
"No," Dick said. "He didn't do that. I almost wish he had. It would have been somehow—more endurable."
Again he became silent, and suddenly to the squire sitting frowning at the table there came a flash of intuition that told him he could not continue. He got up sharply, went to Dick, still frowning, and laid an impulsive arm across his shoulders.
"I'm sorry, my lad," he said.
Dick made a slight movement as if the caress were not wholly welcome, but after a moment he reached up and grasped the squire's hand.
"It hit me pretty hard," he said in a low voice, not lifting his hand. "Juliet just made it bearable. I shall get over it, of course. But—I never want to see Jack again."
Again for a space he stopped, then with a sudden fierce impatience jerked on.
"You may remember saying to me once—no; a hundred times over—that I should never get anywhere so long as I kept my boy with me—never find success—or happiness—never marry—all that sort of rot. It was rot. I always knew it was. I've proved it. She would have come to me in any case. And as for success—it doesn't depend on things of that sort. I've proved that too. But he—Jack—got hold of the same infernal parrot-cry. Oh, I'm sorry, sir," he glanced upwards for a second with working lips. "I can't dress this up in polite language. Jack said to my boy Robin what you had said to me. And he—believed it—and so—made an end."
He drew his breath hard between his teeth and straightened himself, putting Fielding's arm quietly from his.
"Good God!" said Fielding. "But the boy was mad! He never was normal. You can't say—"
"Oh, no, sir." With grim bitterness Dick interrupted. "He just took the shortest way out, that's all. He wasn't mad."
"Committed suicide!" ejaculated the squire.
Dick's hands were clenched. "Do you call it that," he said, "when a man lays down his life for his friends?"
He turned away with the words as if he could endure no more, and walked to the end of the room.
Fielding stood and watched him dumbly, more moved than he cared to show. At length, as Dick remained standing before a bookcase in heavy silence, he spoke, his tone an odd mixture of peremptoriness and persuasion.
"Dick!"
Dick jerked his head without turning or speaking.
"Are you blaming me for this?" the squire asked.
Dick turned. His face was pale, his eyes fiercely bright. "You, sir! Do you think I'd have sat at your table if I did?"
"I don't know," the squire said sombrely. "You're fond of telling me I have no claim on you, but I have—for all that. There is a bond between us that you can't get away from, however hard you try. You think I can't understand your feelings in this matter, that I'm too sordid in my views to realize how hard you've been hit. You think I'm only pleased to know that you're free from your burden, at last, eh, Dick, and that your trouble doesn't count with me? Think I've never had any of my own perhaps?"
He spoke with a half-smile, but there was that in his voice that made Dick come swiftly back to him down the long room; nor did he pause when he reached him. His hand went through the squire's arm and gripped it hard.
"I'm—awfully sorry, sir," he said. "If you understand—you'll forgive me."
"I do understand, Dick," the squire said with great kindness. "I know I've been hard on you about that poor boy. I'm infernally sorry for the whole wretched business. But—as you say—you'll get over it. You've got Juliet."
"Yes, thank God!" Dick said. "I don't know how I should endure life without her. She's all I have."
The squire's face contracted a little. "No one else, Dick?" he said.
Dick glanced up. "And you, sir," he amended with a smile. "I'm afraid I'm rather apt to take you for granted. I suppose that's the bond you spoke of. I haven't—you know I haven't—the least desire to get away from it."
"Thank you," Fielding said, and stifled a sigh. "Life has been pretty damnable to us both, Dick. We might have been—we ought to have been—much more to each other."
"There's no tie more enduring than friendship," said Dick quickly. "You and I are friends—always will be."
Fielding's eyes had a misty look. "The best of friends, Dick lad," he said. "But will—friendship—give me the right to offer you help without putting up your pride? I don't want to order your life for you, but you can't go on with this village domini business much longer. You were made for better things."
"Oh, that!" Dick said, and laughed. "Yes, I'm going to chuck that—but not just at once. Listen, sir! I have a reason. I'll tell you what it is, but not now, not yet. As to accepting help from you, I'd do that to-morrow if I needed it, but I don't. I've no pride left where you are concerned. You're much too good to me and I'm much too grateful. Is that quite clear?"
He gave the squire a straight and very friendly look, then wheeled round swiftly at the opening of the door.
They were standing side by side as Vera threw it impatiently wide. She stood a second on the threshold staring at them. Then: "Are you never coming in?" she said. "I thought—I thought—" she stammered suddenly and turned white. "Edward!" she said, and went back a step as if something had frightened her.
Dick instantly went forward to her. "Yes, Mrs. Fielding. We're coming now," he said. "Awfully sorry to have kept you waiting. We've had things to talk about, but we've just about done. You're coming, aren't you, sir? Take my arm, I say! You look tired."
He offered and she accepted almost instinctively. Her hand trembled on his arm as they left the room, and he suddenly and very impulsively laid his own upon it.
It was a protective impulse that moved him, but a moment later he adjusted the position by asking a favour of her—for the first time in the whole of their acquaintance.
"Mrs. Fielding, please, after to-day—give me the privilege of numbering myself among your friends!"
She looked at him oddly, seeking to cover her agitation with a quivering assumption of her old arrogance. But something in his face deterred her. It was not this man's way to solicit favours, and somehow, since he had humbled himself to ask, she had it not in her to refuse.
"Very well, Dick," she said, faintly smiling. "I grant you that."
"Thank you," he said, and gently released her hand.
It was the swiftest and one of the most complete victories of his life.
CHAPTER III
CONFESSION
It was nearly two hours later that Vera sitting alone before her fire turned with a slight start at the sound of her husband's step in the room beyond. She was wearing a pale silk dressing-gown and her hair hung in a single plait over her shoulder, giving her a curiously girlish look. The slimness of her figure as she leaned among the cushions accentuated the fragility which her recent illness had stamped upon her. Her eyes were ringed with purple, and they had a startled expression that the sound of the squire's step served to intensify. At the soft turning of the handle she made a movement that was almost of shrinking. And when he entered she looked up at him with a small pinched smile from which all pleasure was wholly absent.
He was still in evening dress, and the subdued light falling upon him gave him the look of a man still scarcely past his prime. He stood for a moment, erect and handsome, before he quietly closed the door behind him and moved forward.
"Still up?" he said.
Again at his approach she made a more pronounced movement of shrinking.
"But, I've been waiting for you," she said rather hopelessly.
He came to her, stood looking down at her, the old bitter frown struggling with a more kindly expression on his face. He was obviously waiting for something with no pleasant sense of anticipation.
But Vera did not speak. She only sat drawn together, her fingers locked and her eyes downcast. She was using her utmost strength to keep herself in hand.
"Well?" he said at length, a faint ring of irritation in his voice, "Have you nothing to say to me now I have come?"
Her lips quivered a little. "I don't think—there is anything to be said," she said. "I knew—I felt—it was too good to last."
"It's over then, is it?" he said, the bitterness gaining the upper hand because of the misery at his heart. "The indiscretions of my youth have placed me finally beyond the pale. Is that it?"
She gripped her hands together a little more tightly. "I think you have been—you are—rather cruel," she said, her voice very low. "If you had only—told me!"
He made a gesture of exasperation. "My dear girl, for heaven's sake, look at the thing fairly if you can! How long have I known you well enough to let you into my secrets? How long have you been up to hearing them? I meant to tell you—as you know. I've been on the verge of it more than once. It wasn't cowardice that held me back. It was consideration for you."
She glanced at him momentarily. "I see," she said in that small quivering voice of hers that told so little of the wild tumult within her.
"Well?" he said harshly. "And that is my condemnation, is it? Henceforth
I am to be thrust outside—a sinner beyond redemption. Is that it?"
Her eyelids fluttered nervously, but she did not raise them again. She leaned instead towards the fire. Her shoulders were bent. She looked crushed, as if her vitality were gone, and yet so slender, so young, in her thin wrap. He clinched his hands with a sharp intake of the breath, and his frown deepened.
"So you won't speak to me?" he said. "It's beyond words, is it? It's to be an insurmountable obstacle to happiness for the rest of our lives? We go back to the old damnable existence we've led for so long! Or perhaps—" his voice hardened—"perhaps you think we should be better apart? Perhaps you would prefer to leave me?"
She flinched at that—flinched as if he had struck her—and then suddenly she lifted her white face to his, showing him such an anguish of suffering as he had not suspected.
"Oh, Edward," she said, "why did this have to happen? We were so happy before."
That pierced him—the utter desolation of her—the pain that was too deep for reproach. He bent to her, all the bitterness gone from his face.
"My dear," he said in a voice that shook, "can't you see how I loathe myself—for hurting you—like this?"
And then suddenly—so suddenly that neither knew exactly how it happened—they were linked together. She was clinging to him with a rush of piteous tears, and he was kneeling beside her, holding her fast pressed against his heart, murmuring over her brokenly, passionately, such words of tenderness as she had never heard from him before. When in the end she lifted her face to kiss him, it was wet with tears other than her own, and somehow that fact did more to ease her own distress than any consolation he could find to offer.
She slipped her arm about his neck and pressed her cheek to his. "I'm thankful I know," she told him tremulously. "Oh, Edward darling, don't—don't keep anything from me ever again! If I'd only known sooner, things might have been so different. I feel as if I have never known you till now."
"Have you forgiven me?" he said, his grey head bent.
She turned her lips again to his. "My dear, of course—of course!" And in a lower voice, "Will you—tell me about her? Did she mean very much to you?"
His arm tightened about her. "My darling, it's nearly twenty-three years ago that she died. Yes, I loved her. But I've never wanted her back. Her life was such an inferno." He paused a moment, then as she was silent went on more steadily. "She was eighteen and I was twenty-two when it began. I was home for a summer vacation, and she had just come to help her aunt as infant teacher at the school. All the men were wild about her, but she had no use for any of 'em till I come along. We met along the shore or on the cliffs. We met constantly. We loved each other like mad. It got beyond all reason—all restraint. We didn't look ahead, either of us. We were young, and it was so infernally sweet. I'm not offering any excuse—only telling you the simple truth. You won't understand of course."
She pressed closer to him. "Why shouldn't I understand?"
He leaned his head against her. "God bless you, my dear! You're very good to me—far better than I deserve. I was a blackguard, I know. But I never meant to let her down. That was almost as much her doing as mine—poor little soul! We were found out at last, and there was a fearful row with my people. I wanted to take her away then and there, and marry her. But she wouldn't hear of it—neither would her aunt—a hard, proud woman! I didn't know then—no one knew—that she was expecting a child, or I'd have defied 'em all. Instead, she urged and entreated me to go away for a few weeks—give her time to think, she said. I hoped even then that she would give in and come to me. But the next thing I knew, she was married to a brute called Green—skipper of a filthy little cargo-steamer, who had been after her for some time. She went with him on one or two short voyages. Heaven knows what she endured in that time. Then the baby was born—Dick. They called him a seven-months child. But I knew—I guessed at once. One day I met her—told her so. I saw then—in part—what her life was like. She was terrified—said Green would kill her if he ever found out. The man was a great hulking bully—a drunkard perpetually on shore. He used to beat her as it was. She implored me not to come up against him, and—for her sake alone—I never did. Then—it was nearly a year after—he went off on a voyage and didn't come back. The boat was reported lost with all hands. I think everyone rejoiced so far as he was concerned. She went back to work at the school, supporting herself and the child. I never induced her to accept any help from me, but gradually, as the years went on and my uncle died and I became my own master, I got into the position of intimate friend. I was allowed to interfere a bit in Dick's destinies. But for a long, long while she permitted no more than that. I don't know exactly what made me stick to her. I used to go away, but I always came back. I couldn't give her up. And at last—twelve years after Green's disappearance—I won her over. She promised to marry me. The very day afterwards, that scoundrel Green came back! And her martyrdom began again."
"Oh, Edward, my dear!" Vera's hand went up to his face, stroking, caressing. The suppressed misery of his voice was almost more than she could bear. "How you suffered!" she whispered.
He was silent for a moment or two, controlling himself. "It's over now," he said then. "Thank God, it's a long time over! She died—less than a year after—when Jack and Robin were born. Her husband fell over the cliff on the same night in a fit of drunkenness and was killed. That's all the story. You know the rest. I'm sorry—I'm very sorry—I hadn't the decency to tell you before we married."
"You—needn't be sorry, dear," she said very gently.
He looked at her. "Do you mean that, Vera? Do you mean it makes no difference to you?"
She met his eyes with a shining tenderness in her own that gave her a womanliness which he had never seen in her before. "No," she said, "I don't mean that. I mean that I'm glad nothing happened to—to prevent my marrying you. I mean—that I love you ten times more for telling me now."
He gathered her impulsively close in his arms, kissing her with lips that trembled. "My own girl! My own generous wife! I'll make up to you," he vowed. "I'll give you such love as you've never dreamed of. I've been a brute to you often—often. But that's over. I'll make you happy now—if it kills me!"
She laughed softly, with a quivering exultation, between his kisses. "That wouldn't make me happy in the least. And I don't think you will find it so hard as that either. You've begun already—quite nicely. Now that we understand each other, we can never make really serious mistakes again."
Thereafter, they sat and talked in the firelight for a long time, closely, intimately, as friends united after a long separation. And in that talk the last barrier between them crumbled away, and a bond that was very sacred took its place.
In the end the striking of the clock above them awoke Vera to the lateness of the hour. "My dear Edward, it's to-morrow morning already! Wouldn't it be a good idea to go to bed?"
"Of course," he said. "You must be half dead. Thoughtless brute that I am!" He let her go out of his arms at last, but in a moment paused, looking at her with an odd wistfulness. "You're sure you've forgiven me? Sure you won't think it over and find you've made a mistake?"
Her hands were on his shoulders. Her eyes looked straight into his. "I am quite sure," she said.
He began to smile. "What makes you so generous, I wonder? I never thought you had it in you."
She leaned towards him, a great glow on her face which made her wonderful in his sight. "Oh, my dear," she said, "I never had before. But I can afford to be generous now. What does the past matter when I know that the present and the future are all my own?"
His smile passed. He met her look steadfastly. "As long as I live," he said, "so shall it be."
And the kiss that passed between them was as the sealing of a vow.
CHAPTER IV
COUNSEL
Juliet and Columbus sat in a sheltered nook on the shore and gazed thoughtfully out to sea. It was a warm morning after a night of tempest, and the beach was strewn with seaweed after an unusually high tide.
Columbus sat with a puckered brow. In his heart he wanted to be pottering about among these ocean treasures which had a peculiar fascination for his doggy soul. But a greater call was upon him, keeping him where he was. Though she had not uttered one word to detain him, he had a strong conviction that his mistress wanted him, and so, stolidly, he remained beside her, his sharp little eyes flashing to and fro, sometimes watching the great waves riding in, sometimes following the curving flight of a sea-gull, sometimes fixed in immensely dignified contemplation upon the quivering tip of his nose. His nostrils worked perpetually. The air was teeming with interesting scents; but not one of them could lure him from his mistress's side while he sensed her need of him. His body might be fat and bulging, but his spirit was a thing of keen perceptions and ardent, burning devotion, capable of denying every impulse save the love that was its mainspring.
Juliet was certainly very thoughtful that day. She also was watching the waves, but the wide brow was slightly drawn and the grey eyes were not so serene as usual. She had the look of one wrestling with a difficult problem. The roar of the sea was all about her, blotting out every other sound, even the calling of the gulls. Her arm encircled Columbus who was pressed solicitously close to her side. They had been sitting so, almost without moving, for over half-an-hour.
Suddenly Columbus turned his head sharply, and a growl swelled through him. Juliet looked round, and in a moment she had started to her feet. A man's figure, lithe and spare, with something of a monkey's agility of movement, was coming to her over the stones. They met in a shelving hollow of shingle that had been washed by the sea.
"Oh, Charles!" she said impulsively. "It is good of you to come!"
He glanced around him as he clasped her hand, his ugly face brimming with mischief. "It is rather—considering the risk I run. I trust your irascible husband is well out of the way?"
She laughed, though not very heartily. "Yes, he has gone to town. I didn't want him to. I wish I had stopped him."
He looked at her shrewdly. "You've got an attack of nerves," he observed.
She still sought to smile—though the attempt was a poor one. "To be quite honest—I am rather frightened."
"Frightened!" He pushed a sudden arm around her, looking comical and tender in the same moment. "And so you sent for me! Then it's Ho for the Night Moth, and when shall we start?"
She gave him a small push as half-hearted as her laugh had been. "Don't talk rubbish, please, Charles—if you don't mind! I don't see myself going on the Night Moth with the sea like that; do you?"
"Depends," he said quizzically. "You might be persuaded if the devil were behind you."
"What! In your company!" Her laugh was more normal this time; she gave his arm a kindly touch and put it from her.
"But I'm as meek as a lamb," protested Saltash.
She met his look with friendly eyes. "Yes, I know—a lamb in wolf's clothing—rather a frisky lamb, Charles, but comparatively harmless. If I hadn't realized that—I shouldn't have asked you to come."
"I like your qualification," he said. "With whom do I compare thus favourably? The redoubtable Dick?"
The colour came swiftly into her face and he laughed, derisively but not unkindly.
"It's a new thing for me—this sort of job. Are you sure my lamb-like qualities will carry me through? Do you know, dear, I've never seen you look so amazing sweet in all my life before? I never knew you could bloom like this. It's positively dangerous."
He regarded her critically, his head on one side, an ardour half-mocking, half-genuine, in his eyes.
Juliet uttered a sigh. "I feel a careworn old hag," she said. "My own fault of course. Things are in a nice muddle, and I don't know which way to turn."
"One slip from the path of rectitude!" mocked Saltash. "Alas, how fatal this may prove!"
She looked away from him. "Do you always jeer at your friends when they are in trouble?" she said somewhat wearily.
"Always," said Saltash promptly. "It helps 'em to find their feet—like lighting the fire when the chimney-sweep's boy got stuck in the chimney. It's a priceless remedy, my Juliette. Nothing like it."
"I shall begin to hate you directly," remarked Juliet with her wan smile.
He laughed, not without complacence. "Do you good to try. You won't succeed. No one ever does. I gather the main trouble is that Dick has gone to town when you didn't want him to. Husbands are like that sometimes, you know. Are you afraid he won't come back—or that he will?"
"He will come back—to-day," she said. "You know—or perhaps you don't know—there is going to be a concert to-night for the miners. He is going to talk to them afterwards. He has gone up to-day to see—Ivor Yardley."
"What ho!" said Saltash. "This is interesting. And what does he hope to get out of him?"
"I don't know," she said. "I had no idea who he was going to see till yesterday evening. Mr. Ashcott came in and they were talking, and the name came out. I am not sure that he wanted me to know—though I don't know why I think so."
"And so you sent me an S.O.S.!" said Saltash. "I am indeed honoured!"
She turned towards him very winningly, very appealingly. "Charles Rex, I sent for you because I want a friend—so very badly. My happiness is in the balance. Don't you understand?"
Her deep voice throbbed with feeling. He stretched out a hand to her with a quick, responsive gesture that somehow belied the imp of mischief in his eyes. "Bien, ma Juliette! I am here!" he said.
"Thank you," she said very earnestly. "I knew I could count on you—that you would not withdraw your protection when once you had offered it."
"Would you like my advice as well?" he questioned.
She met his quizzing look with her frank eyes. "What is your advice?" she said.
He held her hand in his. "You haven't forgotten, have you, the sole condition on which I extended my protection to you? No. I thought not. We won't discuss it. The time is not yet ripe. And, as you say, the Night Moth in this weather, though safe, might not be a very comfortable abiding-place. But—don't forget she is quite safe, my Juliette! I should like you to remember that."
He spoke with a strange emphasis that must in some fashion have conveyed more than his actual words, for quite suddenly her throat worked with a sharp spasm of emotion. She put up her hand instinctively to hide it.
"Thank you," she said. "If I need—a city of refuge—I shall know which way to turn. Now for your advice!"
"My advice!" He was looking at her with those odd, unstable eyes of his that ever barred the way to his inner being. "It depends a little on the condition of your heart—that. When it comes to this in an obstacle race, there are three courses open to you. Either you refuse the jump and drop out—which is usually the safest thing to do. Or you take the thing at full gallop and clear it before you know where you are. Or you go at it with a weak heart and come to grief. I don't advise the last anyway. It's so futile—as well as being beastly humiliating."
She smiled at him. "Thank you, Charles! A very illuminating parable! Well, I don't contemplate the first—as you know. I must have a try at the second. And if I smash,—it's horribly difficult, you know—I may smash—" Sudden anguish looked at him out of her eyes, and a hard shiver went through her as she turned away. "Oh, Charles!" she said. "Why did I ever come to this place?"
He made a frightful grimace that was somehow sympathetic and shrugged his shoulders. "If you smash, my dearly-beloved, your faithful comrade will have the priceless privilege of picking up the pieces. Why you came here is another matter. I have sometimes dared to wonder if the proximity of my poor castle—No? Not that? Ah, well then, it must be that our destinies are guided by the same star. To my mind that is an even more thrilling reflection than the other. Think of it, my Juliette, you and I—helplessly kicking like flies in the cream-jug—being drawn to one another, irresistibly and in spite of ourselves, even leaving some of our legs behind us in the desperate struggle to be calm and reasonable and quite—quite moral! And then a sudden violent storm in the cream-jug, and we are flung into each other's unwilling arms where we cling for safety till the crack of doom when all the milk is spilt! It's no use fighting the stars, you know. It really isn't. The only rational course is to make the stars fight for you."
He peered round at her to see how she was taking his foolery; and in a moment impulsively she wheeled back, the distress banished from her face, the old steadfast courage in its place.
"Oh, Charles, thou king of clowns!" she said. "What a weird comforter you are!"
"King of philosophers you mean!" he retorted. "It's taken me a long while to achieve my wisdom. I don't often throw my pearls about in this reckless fashion."
She laughed. "How dare you say that to me? But I suppose I ought to be humbly grateful. I am as a matter of fact intensely so."
"Oh, no!" he said. "Not that—from you!"
His eyes dwelt upon her with a sort of humorous tenderness; she met them without embarrassment. "You've done me good, Charles," she said. "Somehow I knew you would—knew I could count on you. You will go on standing by?"
He executed a deep bow, his hand upon his heart. "Maintenant et toujours, ma Juliette!" he assured her gallantly. "But don't forget the moral of my parable! When you jump—jump high!"
She nodded thoughtfully. "No, I shan't forget. You're a good friend,
Charles Rex."
"I may be," said Saltash enigmatically.