Later on Sara, in sober reflection, endorsed what had appeared at the time to be a whimsical, quixotic proceeding on her part. She brought herself completely to the point where she could view her action with complacency. At first, there was an irritating, nagging fear that Mr. Wrandall had been genuinely soul-sacrificing in his effort to defend her; that his decisive falsehood was a sincere declaration of loyalty to her and not the transparent outburst of one actuated by a sort of fanatical selfishness, in that he dreaded the further dragging in the dust of the name of Wrandall, and all that in spite of his positive belief that she was being wrongly, unfairly attacked. She knew that her father-in-law had no doubt in his mind that she could successfully combat any charge Smith might bring against her; that her innocence would prevail even in the opinion of the scheming detective. But behind all this was the Wrandall conclusion that a skin was to be saved, and that skin the one which covered the Wrandall pride.
His lie was not glorifying. She even consented that it might be the first deliberate falsehood this honourable, discriminating gentleman had told in all his life. At the moment, he may have been actuated by a motive that deceived him, but even unknown to him the Wrandall self-interest was at work. He was not lying for her, but for the Wrandalls! And she would have to remain his debtor all her life because of that amiable falsehood!
She intuitively felt the force of that secret motive almost the instant it found expression, and she resented it even as she applauded it in the first wave of inward enthusiasm. She might have marked it down to his credit, and loved him a little for it, had not his rather distorted integrity impelled him to confess his transgression to the lawyers, whereas it was perfectly plain that they appreciated his distortion of the truth without having it explained to them in so many words. That virtuous little speech of his was all-illuminating; it let in a great light and laid bare the weakness that was too strong for him.
Her abrupt change of front, her suddenly formed resolve to pay the man his price, was the result of a natural opposition to the elder Wrandall. She acted hastily, even ruthlessly, in direct contradiction to her original intentions, but she now felt that she had acted wisely. There could be no doubt in the mind of the keen-witted Smith that Mr. Wrandall had lied; his lips therefore were sealed, not by the declaration, but by her own surprising offer to remunerate.
When she told Hetty what she had done, the girl, who had been tortured by doubts and misgivings, threw herself into her arms and sobbed out her gratitude.
"I could die for you, Sara. I could die a thousand deaths," she cried.
"Oh, I dare say Smith is quite delighted," said Sara carelessly. "He had come up against a brick wall, don't you see. He could go no further. There was but one thing for him to do and he did it. He had no case, but he felt that he ought to be paid just the same. Mr. Wrandall would never have paid him, he was sure of that. His game failed. He thinks better of me now than he ever did before, and I have made a friend of him, strange as it may appear."
"Oh, I hope so."
Sara stroked her cheek gently. "Don't be afraid, Hetty. We are quite safe."
Hetty secretly gloated over that little pronoun 'we.' It spelt security.
"And wasn't it splendid of Mr. Wrandall to say what he did?" she mused, lying back among the cushions with a sigh of relaxation.
Sara did not at once reply. She smiled rather oddly.
"It was," she said succinctly. "I am sure Leslie will go into raptures over his father's decline and fall."
"Must he be told?" in some dismay.
"Certainly. Every son should know his own father," she explained, with a quiet laugh.
The next day but one was overcast. On cloudy, bleak days Hetty Castleton always felt depressed. Shadowless days, when the sun was obscured, filled her with a curious sense of apprehension, as if when the sun came out again he would not find the world as he had left it. She did not mope; it was not in her nature. She was more than ever mentally alert on such days, for the very reason that the world seemed to have lapsed into a state of indifference, with the sun nowhere to be seen. There was a queer sensation of dread in knowing that that great ball of fire was somewhere in the vault above her and yet unlocated in the sinister pall that spread over the skies. Her fancy ofttimes pictured him sailing in the west when he should be in the east, dodging back and forth in impish abandon behind the screen, and she wondered at such times if he would be where he belonged when the clouds lifted.
Leslie was to return from the wilds on the following day. Early in the morning Booth had telephoned to enquire if she did not want to go for a long walk with him before luncheon. The portrait was finished, but he could not afford to miss the morning hour with her. He said as much to her in pressing his invitation.
"To-morrow Leslie will be here and I shan't see as much of you as I'd like," he explained, rather wistfully. "Three is a crowd, you know. I've got so used to having you all to myself, it's hard to break off suddenly."
"I will be ready at eleven," she said, and was instantly surprised to find that her voice rang with new life, new interest. The greyness seemed to lift from the view that stretched beyond the window; she even looked for the sun in her eagerness.
It was then that she knew why the world had been bleaker than usual, even in its cloak of grey.
A little before eleven she set out briskly to intercept him at the gates. Unknown to her, Sara sat in her window, and viewed her departure with gloomy eyes. The world also was grey for her.
They came upon each other unexpectedly at a sharp turn in the avenue. Hetty coloured with a sudden rush of confusion, and had all she could do to meet his eager, happy eyes as he stood over her and proclaimed his pleasure in jerky, awkward sentences. Then they walked on together, a strange shyness attending them. She experienced the faintness of breath that comes when the heart is filled with pleasant alarms. As for Booth, his blood sang. He thrilled with the joy of being near her, of the feel of her all about him, of the delicious feminine appeal that made her so wonderful to him. He wanted to crush her in his arms, to keep her there for ever, to exert all of his brute physical strength so that she might never again be herself but a part of him.
They uttered commonplaces. The spell was on them. It would lift, but for the moment they were powerless to struggle against it. At length he saw the colour fade from her cheeks; her eyes were able to meet his without the look in them that all men love. Then he seemed to get his feet on the ground again, and a strange, ineffably sweet sense of calm took possession of him.
"I must paint you all over again," he said, suddenly breaking in on one of her remarks. "Just as you are to-day,—an outdoor girl, a glorious outdoor girl in—"
"In muddy boots," she laughed, drawing her skirt away to reveal a shapely foot in an American walking shoe.
He smiled and gave voice to a new thought. "By Jove, how much better looking our American shoes are than the kind they wear in London!"
"Sara insists on American shoes, so long as I am with her. I don't think our boots are so villainous, do you?"
"Just the same, I'm going to paint you again, boots and all. You—"
"Oh, how tired you will become of me!"
"Try me!"
"Besides, you are to do Sara at once. She has consented to sit to you. She will be wonderful, Mr. Booth, oh, how wonderful!"
There was no mistaking the sincerity of this rapt opinion.
"Stunning," was his brief comment. "By the way, I've hesitated about asking how she and Mr. Wrandall came out with the detective chap."
Her face clouded. "It was so perfectly ridiculous, Mr. Booth. The man is satisfied that he was wrong. The matter is ended."
"Pure blackmail, I'd call it. I hope it isn't ended so far as she is concerned. I'd have him in jail so quick his—"
"She's tender-hearted, and sensitive. No real harm has been done. She refuses to prosecute him."
"You can't mean it."
"If you knew her as I do, you would understand."
"But her lawyer, what had he to say about it? And Mr. Wrandall? I should have thought they—"
"I believe they quite approve of what she has done. Nothing will come of it."
He walked on in silence for a couple of rods. "I have a feeling they will never know who killed Challis Wrandall," he said. "It is a mystery that can't be solved by deduction or theory, and there is nothing else for them to work on, as I understand the case. The earth seems to have been generous enough to swallow her completely. She's safe unless she chooses to confess, and that isn't likely. To be perfectly frank with you, Miss Castleton, I rather hope they never get her. He was something of a beast, you know."
She was looking straight ahead. "You used the word generous, Mr. Booth. Do you mean that she deserves pity?"
"Without knowing all the circumstances, I would say yes. I've had the feeling that she was more sinned against than sinning."
"Would you believe that she acted in self-defence?"
"It is quite possible."
"Then, will you explain why she does not give herself up to the authorities and assert her innocence? There is no proof to the contrary." She spoke hurriedly, with an eagerness which he mistook for doubt.
"For one reason, she may be a good woman who was indiscreet. She may have some one else to think of besides herself. A second reason: she may lack moral courage."
"Moral courage!"
"It is one thing to claim self-defence and another thing to get people to believe in it. I suppose you know what Leslie thinks about it?"
"He has not discussed it with me."
"He believes his brother deserved what he got."
"Oh!"
"For that reason he has not taken an active part in hounding her down."
She was silent for a long time, so long indeed that he turned to look at her.
"A thoroughly decent, fair-minded chap is Leslie Wrandall," he pronounced, for want of something better to say. "Still, I'm bound to say, I'm sorry he is coming home to-morrow."
The red crept into her cheeks again.
"I thought you were such pals," she said nervously.
"I expect to be his best man if he ever marries," said he, whacking a stone at the road-side with his walking stick. Then he looked up at her furtively and added, with a quizzical smile: "Unless something happens."
"What COULD happen?"
"He MIGHT marry the girl I'm in love with, and, in that case, I'd have to be excused."
"Where shall we walk to this morning?" she asked abruptly. He had drawn closer to her in the roadway. "Is it too far to the old stone mill? That's where I first saw you, if you remember."
"Yes, let us go there," she said, but her heart sank. She knew what was coming. Perhaps it were best to have it over with; to put it away with the things that were to always be her lost treasures. It would mean the end of their companionship, the end of a love dream. She would have to lie to him: to tell him she did not love him.
One would go many a fruitless day in quest of a more attractive pair than they as they strode swiftly down the shady road. They lagged not, for they were strong and healthy, and walking was a joy to them, not an exercise. She kept pace beside him, with her free stride; half a head shorter than he, she did not demand it of him that he should moderate his stride to suit hers. He was tall and long-limbed, but not camel-like in his manner of walking, as so many tall men are apt to be. His eyes were bright with the excitement that predicted a no uncertain encounter, although he had no definite purpose in mind. There was something singularly wistful, unfathomable, in her velvety blue eyes that gave him hope, he knew not why.
Coming to the jog in the broad macadam, they were striking off into the narrow road that led to the quaint old mill, long since abandoned in the forest glade beyond, when their attention was drawn to a motor-car, which was slowing down for the turn into Sara's domain. A cloud of dust swam in the air far behind the machine.
A bare-headed man on the seat beside the driver, waved his hand to them, and two women in the tonneau bowed gravely. Both Hetty and Booth flushed uncomfortably, and hesitated in their progress up the forest road.
The man was Leslie Wrandall. His mother and sister were in the back seat of the touring car.
"Why—why, it was Leslie," cried Booth, looking over his shoulder at the rapidly receding car. "Shall we turn back, Miss Castleton?"
"No," she cried instantly, with something like impatience in her voice. "And spoil our walk?" she added in the next breath, adding a nervous little laugh.
"It seems rather—" he began dubiously.
"Oh, let us have our day," she cried sharply, and led the way into the by-road.
They came, in the course of a quarter-of-an-hour, to the bridge over the mill-race. Beyond, in the mossy shades, stood a dilapidated, centurion structure known as Rangely's Mill, a landmark with a history that included incidents of the revolutionary war, when eager patriots held secret meetings inside its walls and plotted under the very noses of Tory adherents to the crown.
Pausing for a few minutes on the bridge, they leaned on the rail and looked down into the clear, mirror-like water of the race. Their own eyes looked up at them; they smiled into their own faces. And a fleecy white cloud passed over the glittering stream and swept through their faces, off to the bank, and was gone for ever.
Suddenly he looked up from the water and fixed his eyes on her face. He had seen her clear blue eyes fill with tears as he gazed into them from the rail above.
"Oh, my dear!" he cried. "What is it?"
She put her handkerchief to her eyes as she quickly turned away. In another instant, she was smiling up at him, a soft, pleading little smile that went straight to his heart.
"Shall we start back?" she asked, a quaver in her voice.
"No," he exclaimed. "I've got to go on with it now, Hetty. I didn't intend to, but—come, let us go up and sit on that familiar old log in the shade of the mill. You must, dear!"
She suffered him to lead her up the steep bank beyond and through the rocks and rotten timbers to the great beam that protruded from the shattered foundations of the mill. The rickety old wheel, weather-beaten and sad, rose above them and threatened to topple over if they so much as touched its flimsy supports.
He did not release her hand after drawing her up beside him.
"You must know that I love you," he said simply.
She made no response. Her hand lay limp in his. She was staring straight before her.
"You DO know it, don't you?" he went on.
"I—God knows I don't want you to love me. I never meant that you should—" she was saying, as if to herself.
"I suppose it's hopeless," he said dumbly, as her voice trailed off in a whisper.
"Yes, it is utterly hopeless," she said, and she was white to the lips.
"I—I shan't say anything more," said he. "Of course, I understand how it is. There's some one else. Only I want you to know that I love you with all my soul, Hetty. I—I don't see how I'm going to get on without you. But I—I won't distress you, dear."
"There isn't any one else, Brandon," she said in a very low voice. Her fingers tightened on his in a sort of desperation. "I know what you are thinking. It isn't Leslie. It never can be Leslie."
"Then,—then—" he stammered, the blood surging back into his heart—"there may be a chance—"
"No, no!" she cried, almost vehemently. "I can't let you go on hoping. It is wrong—-so terribly wrong, You must forget me. You must—"
He seized her other hand and held them both firmly, masterfully.
"See here, my—look at me, dearest! What is wrong? Tell me! You are unhappy. Don't be afraid to tell me. You—you DO love me?"
She drew a long breath through her half-closed lips. Her eyes darkened with pain.
"No. I don't love you. Oh, I am so sorry to have given you—"
He was almost radiant. "Tell me the truth," he cried triumphantly. "Don't hold anything back, darling. If there is anything troubling you, let me shoulder it. I can—I will do anything in the world for you. Listen: I know there's a mystery somewhere. I have felt it about you always. I have seen it in your eyes, I have always sensed it stealing over me when I'm with you—this strange, bewildering atmosphere of—"
"Hush! You must not say anything more," she cried out. "I cannot love you. There is nothing more to be said."
"But I know it now. You do love me. I could shout it to—" The miserable, whipped expression in her eyes checked this outburst. He was struck by it, even dismayed. "My dearest one, my love," he said, with infinite tenderness, "what is it? Tell me!"
He drew her to him. His arm went about her shoulders. The final thrill of ecstasy bounded through his veins. The feel of her! The wonderful, subtle, feminine feel of her! His brain reeled in a new and vast whirl of intoxication.
She sat there very still and unresisting, her hand to her lips, uttering no word, scarcely breathing. He waited. He gave her time. After a little while her fingers strayed to the crown of her limp, rakish panama. They found the single hat-pin and drew it out. He smiled as he pushed the hat away and then pressed her dark little head against his breast. Her blue eyes were swimming.
"Just this once, just this once," she murmured with a sob in her voice. Her hand stole upward and caressed his brown cheek and throat. Tears of joy started in his eyes—tears of exquisite delight.
"Good God, Hetty, I—I can't do without you," he whispered, shaken by his passion. "Nothing can come between us. I must have you always like this."
"Che sara, sara," she sighed, like the breath of the summer wind as it sings in the trees.
The minutes passed and neither spoke. His rapt gaze hung upon the glossy crown that pressed against him so gently. He could not see her eyes, but somehow he felt they were tightly shut, as if in pain.
"I love you, Hetty. Nothing can matter," he whispered at last. "Tell me what it is."
She lifted her head and gently withdrew herself from his embrace. He did not oppose her, noting the serious, almost sombre look in her eyes as she turned to regard him steadfastly, an unwavering integrity of purpose in their depths.
She had made up her mind to tell him a part of the truth. "Brandon, I am Hetty Glynn."
He started, not so much in surprise as at the abruptness with which she made the announcement.
"I have been sure of it, dear, from the beginning," he said quietly.
Then her tongue was loosed. The words rushed to her lips. "I was Hawkright's model for six months. I posed for all those studies, and for the big canvas in the academy. It was either that or starvation. Oh, you will hate me—you must hate me."
He laid his hand on her hair, a calm smile on his lips. "I can't love and hate at the same time," he said. "There was nothing wrong in what you did for Hawkright. I am a painter, you know. I understand. Does—does Mrs. Wrandall know all this?"
"Yes—everything. She knows and understands. She is an angel, Brandon, an angel from heaven. But," she burst forth, "I am not altogether a sham. I AM the daughter of Colonel Castleton, and I AM the cousin of all the Murgatroyds,—the poor relation. It isn't as if I were the scum of the earth, is it? I AM a Castleton. My father comes of a noble family. And, Brandon, the only thing I've ever done in my life that I am really ashamed of is the deception I practised on you when you brought that magazine to me and faced me with it. I did not lie to you. I simply let you believe I was not the—the person you thought I was. But I deceived you—"
"No, you did not deceive me," he said gently. "I read the truth in your dear eyes."
"There are other things, too. I shall not speak of them, except to repeat that I have not done anything else in all my life that I should be ashamed of." Her eyes were burning with earnestness. He could not but understand what she meant.
Again he stroked her hair. "I am sure of that," he said.
"My mother was Kitty Glynn, the actress. My father, a younger son, fell in love with her. They were married against the wishes of his father, who cut him off. He was in the service, and he was brave enough to stick. They went to one of the South African garrisons, and I was born there. Then to India. Then back to London, where an aunt had died, leaving my father quite a comfortable fortune. But his old friends would have nothing to do with him. He had lived—well, he had made life a hell for my mother in those frontier posts. He deserted us in the end, after he had squandered the fortune. My mother made no effort to compel him to provide for her or for me. She was proud. She was hurt. To-day he is in India, still in the service, a martinet with a record for bravery on the field of battle that cannot be taken from him, no matter what else may befall. I hear from him once or twice a year. That is all I can tell you about him. My mother died three years ago, after two years of invalidism. During those years I tried to repay her for the sacrifice she had made in giving me the education, the—" She choked up for a second, and then went bravely on. "Her old manager made a place for me in one of his companies. I took my mother's name, Hetty Glynn, and—well, for a season and a half I was in the chorus. I could not stay there. I COULD not," she repeated with a shudder. "I gave it up after my mother's death. I was fairly well equipped for work as a children's governess, so I engaged myself to—"
She stopped in dismay for he was laughing.
"And now do you know what I think of you, Miss Hetty Glynn?" he cried, seizing her hands and regarding her with a serious, steadfast gleam in his eyes. "You are the pluckiest, sandiest girl I've ever known. You are the kind that heroines are made of. There is nothing in what you've told me that could in the least alter my regard for you, except to increase the love I thought could not be stronger. Will you marry me, Hetty?"
She jerked her hands away, and held them clenched against her breast.
"No! I cannot. It is impossible, Brandon. If I loved you less than I do, I might say yes, but—no, it is impossible."
His eyes narrowed. A grey shadow crept over his face.
"There can be only one obstacle so serious as all that," he said slowly. "You—you are already married."
"No!" she cried, lifting her pathetic eyes to his. "It isn't that. Oh, please be good to me! Don't ask me to say anything more. Don't make it hard for me, Brandon. I love you—I love you. To be your wife would be the most glorious—No, no! I must not even think of it. I must put it out of my mind. There IS a barrier, dearest. We cannot surmount it. Don't ask me to tell you, for I cannot. I—I am so happy in knowing that you love me, and that you still love me after I have told you how mean and shameless I was in deceiving—"
He drew her close and kissed her full on the trembling lips. She gasped and closed her eyes, lying like one in a swoon. Soft, moaning sounds came from her lips. He could not help feeling a vast pity for her, she was so gentle, so miserably hurt by something he could not understand, but knew to be monumental in its power to oppress.
"Listen, dearest," he said, after a long silence; "I understand this much, at least: you can't talk about it now. Whatever it is, it hurts, and God knows I don't want to make it worse for you in this hour when I am so selfishly happy. Time will show us the way. It can't be insurmountable. Love always triumphs. I only ask you to repeat those three little words, and I will be content. Say them."
"I love you," she murmured.
"There! You are mine! Three little words bind you to me for ever. I will wait until the barrier is down. Then I will take you."
"The barrier grows stronger every day," she said, staring out beyond the tree-tops at the scudding clouds. "It never can be removed."
"Some day you will tell me—everything?"
She hesitated long. "Yes, before God, Brandon, I will tell you. Not now, but—some day. Then you will see why—why I cannot—" She could not complete the sentence.
"I don't believe there is anything you can tell me that will alter my feelings toward you," he said firmly. "The barrier may be insurmountable, but my love is everlasting."
"I can only thank you, dear, and—love you with all my wretched heart."
"You are not pledged to some one else?"
"No."
"That's all I want to know," he said, with a deep breath. "I thought it might be—Leslie."
"No, no!" she cried out, and he caught a note of horror in her voice.
"Does—does he know this—this thing you can't tell me?" he demanded, a harsh note of jealousy in his voice.
She looked up at him, hurt by his tone. "Sara knows," she said. "There is no one else. But you are not to question her. I demand it of you."
"I will wait for you to tell me," he said gently.
Sara had kept the three Wrandalls over for luncheon.
"My dear," said Mrs. Redmond Wrandall, as she stood before Hetty's portrait at the end of the long living-room, "I must say that Brandon has succeeded in catching that lovely little something that makes her so—what shall I say?—so mysterious? Is that what I want? The word is as elusive as the expression."
"Subtle is the word you want, mother," said Vivian, standing beside Leslie, tall, slim and aristocratic, her hands behind her back, her manner one of absolute indifference. Vivian was more than handsome; she was striking.
"There isn't anything subtle about Hetty," said Sara, with a laugh. "She's quite ingenuous."
Leslie was pulling at his moustache, and frowning slightly. The sunburn on his nose and forehead had begun to peel off in chappy little flakes.
"Ripping likeness, though," was his comment.
"Oh, perfect," said his mother. "Really wonderful. It will make Brandon famous."
"She's so healthy-looking," said Vivian.
"English," remarked Leslie, as if that covered everything.
"Nonsense," cried the elder Mrs. Wrandall, lifting her lorgnette again. "Pure, honest, unmixed blood, that's what it is. There is birth in that girl's face."
"You're always talking about birth, mother," said her son sourly, as he turned away.
"It's a good thing to have," said his mother with conviction.
"It's an easy thing to get in America," said he, pulling out his cigarette case. "Have a cigarette, mother? Sara?"
"I'll take one, Les," said Vivian. She selected one and passed the case on to her mother. Sara shook her head.
"No, thanks," she said.
Mrs. Redmond Wrandall laid her cigarette down without attempting to light it, a sudden frostiness in her manner. Vivian and Leslie blew long plumes of smoke from the innermost recesses of their lungs.
"Nerves?" asked Vivian mildly.
"I don't like Leslie's brand," explained Sara.
"They're excellent, I think," said Mrs. Wrandall, and thereupon accepted a light from Leslie.
"Well, let's be off," said he, somewhat irritably. "Tell Miss Castleton we're sorry to have missed her."
It was then that Sara prevailed upon them to stop for luncheon. "She always takes these long walks in the morning, and she will be disappointed if she finds you haven't waited—"
"Oh, as for that—" began Leslie and stopped, but he could not have been more lucid if he had uttered the sentence in full.
"Why didn't you pick her up and bring her home with you?" asked Sara, as they moved off in the direction of the porch.
"She seemed to be taking Brandy out for his morning exercise," said he surlily. "Far be it from me to—Umph!"
Sara repressed the start of surprise. She thought Hetty was alone.
"She will bring him in for luncheon, I suppose," she said carelessly, although there was a slight contraction of the eyelids. "He is a privileged character."
It was long past the luncheon hour when Hetty came in, flushed and warm. She was alone and she had been walking rapidly.
"Oh, I am so sorry to be late," she apologised, darting a look of anxiety at Sara. "We grew careless with time. Am I shockingly late?"
She was shaking hands with Mrs. Redmond Wrandall as she spoke. Leslie and Vivian stood by, rigidly awaiting their turn. Neither appeared to be especially cordial.
"What is the passing of an hour, my dear," said the old lady, "to one who is young and can spare it?"
"I did not expect you—I mean to say, nothing was said about luncheon, was there, Sara?" She was in a pretty state of confusion.
"No," said Leslie, breaking in; "we butted in, that's all. How are you?" He clasped her hand and bent over it. She was regarding him with slightly dilated eyes. He misinterpreted the steady scrutiny. "Oh, it will all peel off in a day or two," he explained, going a shade redder.
"When did you return?" she asked. "I thought to-morrow was—"
"Leslie never has any to-morrows, Miss Castleton," explained Vivian. "He always does to-morrow's work to-day. That's why he never has any troubles ahead of him."
"What rot!" exclaimed Leslie.
"Where is Mr. Booth?" inquired Sara. "Wouldn't he come in, Hetty?"
"I—I didn't think to ask him to stop for luncheon," she replied, and then hurried off to her room to make herself presentable.
"Don't be long," called out Sara.
"We are starving," added Vivian.
"Vivian!" exclaimed her mother, in a shocked voice.
"Well, I am," declared her daughter promptly.
"You know you NEVER eat anything in the middle of the day," said her mother, frowning. As Sara was paying no attention to their remarks, Mrs. Wrandall was obliged to deliver the supplemental explanation to Leslie, who hadn't the remotest interest in the matter. "She's so silly about getting fat."
Hetty was in a state of nervous excitement during the luncheon. The encounter with Booth had not resulted at all as she had fancied it would. She had betrayed herself in a most disconcerting manner, and now was more deeply involved than ever before. She had been determined at the outset, she had failed, and now he had a claim—an incontestable claim against her. She found it difficult to meet Sara's steady, questioning gaze. She wanted to be alone.
"I suppose you have heard nothing recent from poor Lord Murgatroyd," Mrs. Wrandall was saying to her, in a most sympathetic tone.
Hetty scarcely grasped the importance of the remark. She looked rather blankly at their guest.
Sara stepped into the breach. "What do the morning despatches say, Mrs. Wrandall?"
"He is sinking rapidly, I fear. Of course, his extreme age is against him. How old is he, Miss Castleton?"
"I—I haven't the remotest idea, Mrs. Wrandall," said the girl. "He is very, very old."
"Ninety-two, the Sun says," supplied Vivian.
There was an unaccountable silence.
"I suppose there is—ah—really no hope," said Mrs. Redmond Wrandall at last.
"I fear not," said Hetty composedly. "Except for the heirs-at-law."
Mrs. Wrandall sat up a little straighter in her chair. "Dear me," she said.
"They've been waiting for a good many years," commented Hetty, without emotion. "Of course, Mrs. Wrandall, you understand that I am not one of those who will profit by his death. The estate is entailed. I am quite outside the walls."
"I did not know the—ah—"
"My father may come in for a small interest. He is in England at present on furlough. But there are a great many near relatives to be fed before the bowl of plenty gets to him."
"Dear, dear!" murmured Mrs. Wrandall, quite appalled by her way of putting it. Leslie looked at her and coughed. "What a delicious dressing you have for these alligator pears, Sara," she went on, veering quickly. "You must tell me how it is made."
After luncheon, Leslie drew Sara aside.
"I must say she doesn't seem especially overjoyed to see me," he growled. "She's as cool as ice."
"What do you expect, Leslie?" she demanded with some asperity.
"I can't stand this much longer, Sara," he said. "Don't you see how things are going? She's losing her heart to Booth."
"I don't see how we can prevent it."
"By gad, I'll have another try at it—to-night. I say, has she said—anything?"
"She pities you," said she, a malicious joy in her soul. "That's akin to something else, you know."
"Confound it all, I don't want to be pitied!"
"Then I'd advise you to defer your 'try' at it," she remarked.
"I'm mad about her, Sara. I can't sleep, I can't think, I can't—yes, I CAN eat, but it doesn't taste right to me. I've just got to have it settled. Why, people are beginning to notice the change in me. They say all sorts of things. About my liver, and all that sort of thing. I'm going to settle it to-night. It's been nearly three weeks now. She's surely had time to think it over; how much better everything will be for her, and all that. She's no fool, Sara. And do you know what Vivian's doing this very instant over there in the corner? She's inviting her to spend a fortnight over at our place. If she comes,—well, that means the engagement will be announced at once."
Sara did not marvel at his assurance in the face of what had gone before. She knew him too well. In spite of the original rebuff, he was thoroughly satisfied in his own mind that Hetty Castleton would not be such a fool as to refuse him the second time.
"It is barely possible, Leslie," she said, "that she may consider Brandon Booth quite as good a catch as you, and infinitely better looking at the present moment."
"It's this beastly sunburn," he lamented, rubbing his nose gently, thinking first of his person. An instant later he was thinking of the other half of the declaration. "That's just what I've been afraid of," he said. "I told you what would happen if that portrait nonsense went on for ever. It's your fault, Sara."
"But I have reason to believe she will not accept him, if it goes so far as that. You are quite safe in that direction."
"'Gad, I'd hate to risk it," he muttered. "I have a feeling she's in love with him."
Vivian approached. "Sara, you must let me have Miss Castleton for the first two weeks in July," she said serenely.
"I can't do it, Vivian," said the other promptly. "I can't bear the thought of being alone in this big old barn of a place. Nice of you to want her, but—"
"Oh, don't be selfish, Sara," cried Vivian.
"You don't know how much I depend on her," said Sara.
"I'd ask you over, too, dear, if there weren't so many others coming. I don't know where we're going to put them. You understand, don't you?"
"Perfectly," said her sister-in-law, smiling.
"But I've been counting on—Hetty."
"I say, Sara," broke in Leslie, "you COULD go up to Bar Harbour with the Williamsons at that time. Tell her about the invitation, Vivie."
"It isn't necessary," said Sara coldly. "I scarcely know the Williamsons." She hesitated an instant and then went on with sardonic dismay: "They're in trade, you know."
"That's nothing against 'em," protested he. "Awfully jolly people—really ripping. Ain't they, Viv?"
"I don't know them well enough to say," said Vivian, turning away. "I only know we're all snobs of the worst sort."
"Just a minute, Viv," he called out. "What does Miss Castleton say about coming?" It was an eager question. Much depended on the reply.
"I haven't asked her," said his sister succinctly. "How could I, without first consulting Sara?"
"Then, you don't intend to ask her?"
"Certainly not."
"Oh, I'll fix it up with Sara," said he confidently.
"Eh, Sara?"
"I'd suggest that you 'fix it up' with Miss Castleton," said Sara pointedly.
Vivian shot a swift glance over her shoulder at her sister-in-law, and then broke into a good-humoured laugh. She joined Hetty and Mrs. Redmond Wrandall.
"Sometimes I feel that I really like Vivian," observed Sara, as much to herself as to Leslie. "She's above the board, at least."
"Disagreeable as the devil at times, though," said he, biting his lip.
After the Wrandalls had departed, Sara took Hetty off to her room. The girl knew what was coming.
"Hetty," said the older woman, facing her after she had closed the door of her boudoir, "what is going on between you and Brandon Booth? I must have the truth. Are you doing anything foolish?"
"Foolish? Heaven help me, no! It—it is a tragedy," cried Hetty, meeting her gaze with one of utter despair.
"What has happened? Tell me!"
"What am I to do, Sara darling? He—he has told me that he—he—"
"Loves you?"
"Yes."
"And you have told him that his love is returned?"
"I couldn't help it. I was carried away. I did not mean to let him see that I—"
"You are such a novice in the business of love," said Sara sneeringly. "You are in the habit of being carried away, I fear."
"Oh, Sara!"
"You must put a stop to all this at once. How can you think of marrying him, Hetty Glynn? Send him—"
"I do not intend to marry him," said the girl, suddenly calm and dignified.
"I am to draw but one conclusion, I suppose," said the other, regarding the girl intently.
"What do you mean?"
"Is it necessary to ask that question?"
The puzzled expression remained in the girl's eyes for a time, and then slowly gave way to one of absolute horror.
"How dare you suggest such a thing?" she cried, turning pale, then crimson. "How dare you?"
Sara laughed shortly. "Isn't the inference a natural one? You are forgetting yourself."
"I understand," said the girl, through pallid lips. Her eyes were dark with pain and misery. "You think I am altogether bad." She drooped perceptibly.
"You went to Burton's Inn," sententiously.
"But, Sara, you must believe me. I did not know he was—married. For God's sake, do me the justice to—"
"But you went there with him," insisted the other, her eyes hard as steel. "It doesn't matter whether he was married—or free. You WENT."
Hetty threw herself upon her companion's breast and wound her strong young arms about her.
"Sara, Sara, you must let me explain—you must let me tell you everything. Don't stop me! You have refused to hear my plea—"
"And I still refuse!" cried Sara, throwing her off angrily. "Good God, do you think I will listen to you? If you utter another word, I will—strangle you!"
Hetty shrank back, terrified. Slowly she moved backward in the direction of the door, never taking her eyes from the impassioned face of her protector.
"Don't, Sara, please don't!" she begged. "Don't look at me like that! I promise—I promise. Forgive me! I would not give you an instant's pain for all the world. You would suffer, you would—"
Sara suddenly put her hands over her eyes. A single moan escaped her lips—a hoarse gasp of pain.
"Dearest!" cried Hetty, springing to her side.
Sara threw her head up and met her with a cold, repelling look.
"Wait!" she commanded. "The time has come when you should know what is in my mind, and has been for months and months. It concerns you. I expect you to marry Leslie Wrandall."
Hetty stopped short.
"How can you jest with me, Sara?" she cried, suddenly indignant.
"I am not jesting," said Sara levelly.
"You—you—really mean—what you have just said?" The puzzled look gave way to one of revulsion. A great shudder swept over her.
"Leslie Wrandall must pay his brother's debt to you."
"My God!" fell from the girl's stiff lips. "You—you must be going mad—mad!"
Sara laughed softly. "I have meant it almost from the beginning," she said. "It came to my mind the day that Challis was buried. It has never been out of it for an instant since that day. Now you understand."
If she expected Hetty to fall into a fit of weeping, to collapse, to plead with her for mercy, she was soon to find herself mistaken. The girl straightened up suddenly and met her gaze with one in which there was the fierce determination. Her eyes were steady, her bosom heaved.
"And I have loved you so devotedly—so blindly," she said, in low tones of scorn. "You have been hating me all these months while I thought you were loving me. What a fool I have been! I might have known. You COULDN'T love me."
"When Leslie asks you to-night to marry him, you are to say that you will do so," said Sara, betraying no sign of having heard the bitter words.
"I shall refuse, Sara," said Hetty, every vestige of colour gone from her face.
"There is an alternative," announced the other deliberately.
"You will expose me to—him? To his family?"
"I shall turn you over to them, to let them do what they will with you. If you go as his wife, the secret is safe. If not, they may have you as you really are, to destroy, to annihilate. Take your choice, my dear."
"And you, Sara?" asked the girl quietly. "What explanation will you have to offer for all these months of protection?"
Her companion stared. "Has the prospect no terror for you?"
"Not now. Not since I have found you out. The thing I have feared all along has come to pass. I am relieved, now that you show me just where I truly stand. But, I asked: what of you?"
"The world is more likely to applaud than to curse me, Hetty. It likes a new sensation. My change of heart will appear quite natural."
"Are you sure that the world will applaud your real design? You hate the Wrandalls. Will they be charitable toward you when the truth is given out? Will Leslie applaud you? Listen, please: I am trying to save you from yourself, Sara. You will fail in everything you have hoped for. You will be more accursed than I. The world will pity me, it may even forgive me. It will listen to my story, which is more than you will do, and it will believe me. Ah, I am not afraid now. At first I was in terror. I had no hope of escape. All that is past. To-day I am ready to take my chances with the big, generous world. Men will try me, and men are not made of stone and steel. They punish but they do not avenge when they sit in jury boxes. They are not women! Good God, Sara, is there a man living to-day who could have planned this thing you have cherished all these months? Not one! And all men will curse you for it, even though they send me to prison or to the—chair. But they will not condemn me. They will hear my story and they will set me free. And then, what of you?"
Sara stood perfectly rigid, regarding this earnest reasoner with growing wonder.
"My dear," she said, "you would better be thinking of yourself, not of me."
"Why, when I tell my story, the world will hate you, Sara Wrandall. You have helped me, you have been good to me, no matter what sinister motive you may have had in doing so. It is my turn to help you."
"To help me!" cried Sara, astonished in spite of herself.
"Yes. To save you from execration—and even worse."
"There is no moral wrong in marriage with Leslie Wrandall," said Sara, returning to her own project.
"No moral wrong!" cried Hetty, aghast. "No, I suppose not," she went on, a moment later. "It is something much deeper, much blacker than moral wrong. There is no word for it. And if I marry him, what then? Wherein lies your triumph? You can't mean that—God in Heaven! You would not go to them with the truth when it was too late for him to—to cast me off!"
"I am no such fool as that. The secret would be for ever safe in that event. My triumph, as you call it, we will not discuss."
"How you must hate me, to be willing to do such an infamous thing to me!"
"I do not hate you, Hetty."
"In heaven's name, what do you call it?"
"Justification. Listen to me now. I am saying this for your good sense to seize and appreciate. Would it be right in me to allow you to marry any other man, knowing all that I know? There is but one man you can in justice marry: the one who can repair the wreck that his own blood created. Not Brandon Booth, nor any man save Leslie Wrandall. He is the man who must pay."
"I do not intend to marry," said Hetty.
"But Leslie will marry some one, and I intend that it shall be you. He shall marry the ex-chorus girl, the artist's model, the—the prostitute! Wait! Don't fly at me like that! Don't assume that look of virtuous horror! Let me say what I have to say. This much of your story shall they know, and no more. They will be proud of you!"
Hetty's eyes were blazing. "You use that name—you call me THAT—and yet you have kissed me, caressed me—loved me!" she cried hoarse with passion.
"He will ask you to-night for the second time. You will accept him. That is all."
"You must take back what you have just said to me—of me,—Sara Wrandall. You must unsay it! You must beg my pardon for THAT!"
"I draw no line between mistress and prostitute."
"But I—"
"Enough!"
"You wrong me vilely! You must let me—"
"I have an excellent memory, and it serves me well."
Hetty suddenly threw herself upon the couch and buried her face in her arms. Great sobs shook her slender frame.
Sara stood over her and watched for a long time with pitiless eyes. Then a queer, uneasy, wondering light began to develop in those dark, ominous eyes. She leaned forward the better to listen to the choked, inarticulate words that were pouring from the girl's lips. At last, moved by some power she could not have accounted for, she knelt beside the quivering body, and laid her hand, almost timorously, upon the girl's shoulder.
"Hetty,—Hetty, if I have wronged you in—in thinking that of you,—I—I—" she began brokenly. Then she lifted her eyes, and the harsh light tried to steal back into them. "No, no! What am I saying? What a fool I am to give way—"
"You have wronged me—terribly, terribly!" came in smothered tones from the cushions. "I did not dream you thought that of me."
"What was I to think?"
Hetty lifted her head and cried out: "You would not let me speak! You refused to hear my story. You have been thinking this of me all along, holding it against me, damning me with it, and I have been closer to you than—My God, what manner of woman are you?"
Sara seized her hands and held them in a fierce, tense grip. Her eyes were glowing with a strange fire.
"Tell me—tell me now, on your soul, Hetty;—were you—were you—"
"No! No! On my soul, no!"
"Look into my eyes!"
The girl's eyes did not falter. She met the dark, penetrating gaze of the other and, though dimmed by tears, her blue eyes were steadfast and resolute. Sara seemed to be searching the very soul of her, the soul that laid itself bare, denuded of every vestige of guile.
"I—I think I believe you," came slowly from the lips of the searcher. "You are looking the truth. I can see it. Hetty, Hetty, I—I don't understand myself. It is so—so overwhelming, so tremendous. It is so incredible. Am I really believing you? Is it possible that I have been wrong in—"
"Let me tell you everything," cried the girl, suddenly throwing her arms about her.
"Not now! Wait! Give me time to think. Go away now. I want to be alone." She arose and pushed the girl toward the door. Her eyes were fixed on her in a wondering, puzzled sort of way, and she was shaking her head as if trying to discredit the new emotion that had come to displace the one created ages ago.
Slowly Hetty Castleton retreated toward the door. With her hand on the knob, she paused.
"After what has happened, Sara, you must not expect me to stay with you any longer. I cannot. You may give me up to the law, but—"
Some one was tapping gently on the door.
"Shall I see who it is?" asked the girl, after a long period of silence.
"Yes."
It was Murray. "Mr. Leslie has returned, Miss Castleton, and asks if he may see you at once. He says it is very important."
"Tell him I will be down in a few minutes, Murray."
After the door closed, she waited until the footman's steps died away on the stairs.
"I shall say no to him, Sara, and I shall say to him that you will tell him why I cannot be his wife. Do you understand? Are you listening to me?"
Sara turned away without a word or look of response.
Hetty quietly opened the door and went out.