The Moon Out of Reach (Ainslee's serial)/Part 3

S Nan, who had reluctantly complied with Kitty's stern decree that she must rest in bed during the greater part of the following day, at last descended from her room, she discovered, much to her satisfaction, that her ankle had ceased to pain her. But she still felt somewhat stiff and sore after the knocking about of the previous day.

At dinner she was astonished to find that the house party had decreased by one. Ralph Fenton was absent.

“He left for town this morning by the early train from St. Wennys,” explained Kitty. “He was—was called away very suddenly,” she added blandly, in answer to Nan's surprised inquiries.

A somewhat awkward pause ensued, then everybody rushed into conversation at once, so that Nan could only guess that some contretemps must have occurred bewteen [sic] Penelope and the singer. As soon as dinner was at an end she maneuvered Kitty into a corner and demanded an explanation.

“Why has Ralph gone away?” she asked. “And why did you look so uncomfortable when I asked about him? And why did Penelope blush?”

“Could I have them one at a time?” suggested Kitty mildly.

“You can have them combined into one. Tell me, what's been happening to-day?”

“Well, I gather that Ralph has been offering his hand and heart to Penelope.”

“It seems to be epidemic,” murmured Nan, sotto voce.

“What did you say?”

“Only that it seems an odd proceeding for a newly engaged young man to go careering off to London immediately.”

“But he isn't accepted, that's just it. Penelope refused him.”

“Refused him? But—but why?” asked Nan in amazement.

“You'd better ask her yourself. Perhaps you can get some sense out of her, since you appear to be the chief stumbling block.”

“I?”

“Yes. I saw Ralph before he went away. He seemed very down on his luck, poor dear! He's been trying to persuade Penelope to say 'Yes' and to fix an early date for their wedding, as he's got the offer of a very good short tour in America—really thumping fees—and he won't accept it unless she'll marry him first and go with him.”

“Well, I don't see how that's my fault.”

“In a way it is. The only reason Penelope gave him as to why she wouldn't consent was that she will never marry as long as you need her.”

Nan digested this information in silence. Then she said quietly:

“If that's all, you can take off your sackcloth and ashes and telephone Ralph at his hotel to come back here to-morrow. I'll—I'll talk to Penelope to-night.”

Kitty stared at her in surprise.

“You seem very sure of the effect of your persuasions,” she answered.

“I am. Quite sure. It won't take me five minutes to convince Penelope that there is no need for her to remain in a state of single blessedness on my account. And now I'm going out of doors to have a smoke all by myself. You were quite right when you said I should feel everything more to-day than yesterday. Do keep people away from me, there's a good soul.”

Kitty gave her a searching glance. Except for two spots of feverishly vivid color in her cheeks, the girl's fate was very pale, and her eyes overbright, with heavy shadows under them.

“Very well,” she said kindly, “Tuck yourself up in one of the lounge chairs and I'll see that no one bothers you.”

But Nan was in no mood for a lounge chair. She paced restlessly up and down the flagged path of the quadrangular court, absorbed in her thoughts.

It seemed to her as though Fate had suddenly given her a gentle push in the direction of marriage with Roger. She knew, now, that Penny had refused Ralph solely on her account, so that she might not be left alone. If she could go to her and tell her that she herself was about to marry Trenby, then the only obstacle which stood in the way of Penelope's happiness would be removed. Last night her thoughts had swung from side to side in a ceaseless struggle of indecision, but this new factor in the matter weighted the scales heavily in favor of her marrying Trenby.

At last she made up her mind. There were two chances, two avenues which might lead away from him. Should both of these be closed against her, she would yield to the current which now seemed set to sweep her into his arms.

She would do her utmost to induce Penelope to marry Ralph Fenton, irrespective of whether she herself proposed to enter the matrimonial state or not. That was the first of her two chances. For if she succeeded in prevailing upon Penelope to retract her refusal of Ralph, she would feel that she had dealt at least one blow against the Fate which seemed to be driving her onward. The urgency of that last push toward Roger would be removed!

But if Penelope remained obdurate, to-morrow she would tell Trenby frankly that she had no love to give him, and she would insist upon his facing the fact that there had been some one else in her life who had first claim upon her heart. That would be her other chance. And if Roger, as well he might, refused to take second best, then willy-nilly she would be once more thrust forth into the troublous sea of longing and desire. But if he still wanted her—why, then she would have been quite honest with him and it would seem to be her destiny to be his wife. She would leave it at that, leave it for chance, or fate, or whatever it is that shapes our ends, to settle a matter that, swayed as she was by opposing forces, she was unable to decide for herself.

She heaved a sigh of relief. After those wretched, interminable hours of irresolution, when love, and fear of that same love, had tortured her almost beyond bearing, it was an odd kind of comfort to feel that she had given herself two chances, and, if both failed, to know that she must abide by the result.

The turmoil of her mind drove her at last, almost insensibly toward the low, wide wall facing the unquiet sea. Here she sat down, still absorbed in thought, her gaze resting absently on the incoming tide. She was conscious of a strange feeling of communion with the shifting, changing waters.

She sat very still, watching the eternal battle between sea and shore, and the sheer splendor of it laid hold of her, so that, for a little while, everything that troubled her was swept away. For the moment she felt absolutely happy.

Always the vision of anything overwhelmingly beautiful seemed to fill her soul, drawing with it the memories of all that had been beautiful in life. And watching this glory of moon and sea and shore, Nan felt oddly comforted. Maryon Rooke had no part in it, nor Roger Trenby. But her love for Peter and his for her seemed one with it. That, and music, the two most beautiful things which had entered into her life.

A bank of cloud, slowly spreading upward from the horizon, suddenly clothed the moon in darkness, wiping out the whole landscape. Only the ominous boom of the waves and the roar of the struggling beach still beat against Nan's ears.

The vision had fled and the grim realities of life closed round her once again.

Late that evening she slipped into a loose wrapper, a characteristic little garment of lace and ribbons and clinging silk, and marched down the corridor to Penelope's room. The latter was diligently brushing her hair, but at Nan's abrupt entrance she laid down the brush resignedly. She had small doubt as to the primary cause of this late visit.

“Well?” she said, a faintly humorous twinkle gleaming in the depths of her brown eyes, although there were tired shadows underneath them. “Well?”

“Yes, you dear silly woman, of course you know what I've come about,” responded Nan, ensconcing herself on the cushioned window seat.

“I'd know better if you explained.”

“Then, in six words, why have you refused Ralph Fenton?”

“Oh, is that it? Why, because I don't want to marry at present.” Penelope picked up her brush and resumed the brushing of her hair as though the matter were ended.

“So that's why you told him, as your reason for refusing him, that you wouldn't marry him as long as I needed you?”

The hair brush clattered to the floor.

“The idiot! I suppose he told Kitty?” exclaimed Penelope, making a dive after her brush.

“Yes, he did. And Kitty told me. And now I've come to tell you that I entirely decline to be a reason for your refusing to marry a nice young man like Ralph.”

Penelope was silent, and Nan, coming over to her side, slipped an arm about her shoulders.

“Dear old Penny! It was just like you, but if you think I'm going to let you make a burnt offering of yourself in that way, you're mistaken. Do you suppose, for one moment, that I can't look after myself?” she cried.

“I'm quite sure of it.”

“Rubbish! Why, I've got Kitty and Uncle David and dozens of other people to look after me!”

Penelope's mouth set itself in an obstinate line.

“I shall never marry till you do, Nan, because not one of the 'dozens' understands your—your general craziness, as well as I do.”

Nan laughed.

“That's rude, though a fairly accurate statement. But still, Penny dear, just to please me, will you marry Ralph?”

“No, I certainly won't. If I married him at all, it would be to please myself.”

“Well,” wheedled Nan, “wouldn't it please you, really?”

“We can't always do as we please.”

“Hoots, lassie! Now you're talking like Aunt Eliza.” Nan grimaced.

Mrs. McBain, Nan's “Aunt Eliza,” was a lady of Scottish antecedents and early Victorian tendencies to whom the modern woman and her methods were anathema.

Penelope continued brushing her hair serenely and vouchsafed no answer.

Nan renewed the attack.

“It amounts to this, then, that I've got to get married in order to let Ralph marry you!”

“Of course it doesn't!”

“Well, answer me this: If I were going to be married, would you give Ralph a different answer?”

“I might,” Penelope replied noncommittally.

“Then you may as well go and do it. As I am going to be married—to Roger Trenby.”

“To Roger! Nan, you don't mean it? It isn't true?”

“It is—perfectly true. Have you anything to say against it?” Nan retorted defiantly.

“Everything. He's the last man in the world to make you happy.”

“Time will decide that, In any case, he's coming on Monday for my answer. And that will be 'yes.' So you and Ralph can have your banns put up with a clear conscience, as the only just cause and impediment is now removed.”

Penelope was silent.

“You ought to be rather pleased with me than otherwise,” insisted Nan.

When at length Penelope replied, it was with a certain gravity.

“My dear, matrimony is one of the affairs of life in which it is fatal to accept second best. You can do it in hats and frocks, that's merely a matter of appearance, although you'll never get quite the same satisfaction out of them. But you can't do it in boots and shoes. You have to walk in those, and the second best wear out at once. Matrimony is the boots and shoes of life.”

“Well, at least it's better to have the second quality—than to go barefoot.”

“I don't think so. Nan, do wait a little. Don't, in a fit of angry pique over Maryon Rooke, go and bind yourself irrevocably to some one else.”

“Penny, the bluntness of your methods is deplorable. Instead of insinuating that I am accepting Roger as a , it would be more seemly if you would congratulate me and—wish me luck.”

“I do—oh, I do. But, my dear”

“No buts, please. Surely, I know my own business best! I assure you, Roger and I will be a model couple, an example, probably, to you and Ralph! You'll—you'll say 'yes' to him to-morrow when he comes back again, won't you, Penny?”

“He isn't coming back to-morrow.”

“I think he is.” Nan smiled. “You'll say 'yes,' then?”

“And would you marry Roger in any case—whether I accepted Ralph or not?” Penelope asked, looking straight into her eyes.

Nan lied courageously.

“I should marry Roger in any case,” she answered quietly.

A long silence ensued. Presently Nan broke it, her voice a little sharpened by the tension of the moment.

“So when Ralph comes back you'll be—kind to him, Penny? You'll give him the answer he wants?”

Penelope's face was hidden by a curtain of dark hair. After a moment, an affirmative came softly from behind the curtain.

With a sudden impulse, Nan threw her arms around her and kissed her.

“Oh, Penny! Penny! I do hope you'll be very happy!” she exclaimed in a stifled voice; then slipped from the room like a shadow, very noiselessly and swiftly, to lie on her own bed hour after hour, staring up into the blackness with wide, tearless eyes until sheer bodily exhaustion conquered the tortured spirit which could find neither rest nor comfort, and at last she slept.

Except for Trenby's telephone calls, inquiring as to Nan's progress, Saturday passed uneventfully enough, until the evening. Then, through the clear summer dusk, Kitty discerned the Mallow car returning from the station, whither it had been sent to meet Ralph's train, and, as she hurried down the drive, Ralph himself sprang out and came eagerly to her side.

“You angelic woman!” he exclaimed fervently. “How did you manage it? Will she—will she really”

“I think she will,” answered Kitty, smiling, “so you needn't worry. But I'm not the dea ex machina to whom you owe the 'happy ending.' Nan managed it in some incomprehensible way of her own.”

“Then blessed be Nan!” said Ralph piously, as he opened the door of the car for her to enter. Two minutes' further driving brought them to the house.

Following his hostess' instructions, Ralph remained outside, and as Kitty entered the great hall alone a white-clad figure suddenly sought to escape by a farther door.

“Come back, Penny,” called Kitty, a hint of kindly mischief in her voice. “You'll just have half an hour to yourselves before the dressing bell rings. Afterward we shall expect to see you both, clothed and in your right minds, at dinner.”

The still look of happiness that had dwelt all day in Penelope's eyes broke suddenly into radiance. She turned back hesitatingly, looking, all at once, absurdly young and a little frightened, this tall, stately Penelope, while her eyes held the troubled shyness of a little child.

Kitty laid a gentle hand on her arm.

“Run along, my dear,” she said, suddenly feeling a thousand years old as she saw Penelope standing, virginal and sweet, at the threshold of the gate through which she herself had passed with happy footsteps years ago.

“Run along, my dear. And give Ralph my blessing.”

It was not until the next day, toward the end of lunch, that Ralph shot his bolt from the blue. Other matters, which seemed almost too good to be true in the light of Penelope's unqualified refusal of him three days ago, had occupied his mind to the exclusion of everything else. It was Kitty who inadvertently touched the spring which let loose the bolt.

“What's the news in town, Ralph?” she asked. “Surely you gleaned something, even though you were only there for a single night.”

“Would I dare to come back to you without the latest?” he returned, laughing. “The very latest is that Maryon Rooke is to be married.”

A silence followed, as though a bomb-shell had descended in their midst and scattered the whole party to the four winds of heaven.

Then Kitty, making a desperate clutch at her self-possession, remarked rather superficially:

“Surely that's not true! I thought Maryon was far too confirmed a bachelor to be beguiled into the holy bonds.”

“It's perfectly true,” returned Fenton. “First-hand source. I ran across Rooke himself and it was he who told me. They're to be married very shortly, I believe.” There was another awkward silence.

“So old Rooke will be in the cart with the rest of us poor married men,” observed Barry, whose lazy blue eyes had yet contrived to notice that Nan's slim fingers were nervously occupied in crumbling her bread into small pieces.

“In the car, rather,” responded Ralph. “The lady is fabulously wealthy, I believe. Former husband a steel magnate or something of the sort.”

“Well, that will help Maryon in his profession,” said Nan with a quiet composure that was rather astonishing.

“Yes, presumably that's why he's marrying her,” replied Ralph. “It can't be a case of love at first sight.”

“Isn't she pretty, then?” asked Penelope.

“Plain as a pikestaff,” he declared with emphasis. “I've met her once or twice—Lady Beverley.”

It appeared from the chorus which followed that every one present knew her more or less.

“I should think she is plain!” exclaimed Kitty heartily.

“Yes, she'd need to be very well gilded,” commented her husband.

“You're all rather severe, aren't you?” suggested Lord St. John. “After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder,”

“Not with an artist,” asserted Nan promptly. “He can't see beauty where there isn't any.”

To the depths of her soul she felt that this was true, and inwardly she recoiled violently from the idea of Maryon's marriage. She had been bitterly hurt by his treatment of her, but, to a certain extent, she had been able to envisage the whole affair from his point of view and to understand it. Nan refused to blame Maryon simply because he had not married her. But she could not forgive him for deliberately seeking to fascinate her when, in his own heart, he must have known that he would always ultimately place his art before love.

And that he should marry Lady Beverley, a thoroughly commonplace woman hung round with the money her late husband had bequeathed her, Maryon's very antithesis in all that pertained to the beautiful—this sickened her. It seemed to her that Maryon was yielding his birthright in exchange for a mess of pottage. She felt that his projected marriage with Lady Beverley was like the sale of a soul.

When lunch was over, the whole party adjourned to the terrace for coffee, and as soon as she decently could Nan escaped into the rose garden, there to wrestle with the thoughts to which Ralph's carelessly uttered news bed given rise.

They were rather bitter thoughts. She was aware of an odd sense of loss, for, whatever may have come between them, no woman ever quite believes that the man who has once loved her will marry another woman. Whether it happens early or late, it is always somewhat of a shock.

Nan was conscious of feeling deserted. Maryon had gone completely out of her life; Peter, the man she loved, could never come into it; and the only man who strove for entrance was, as Penelope had said, the last man in the world to make her happy.

Nevertheless, it seemed as if Fate was forcing her toward Roger, so that she might escape from forbidden love and the desperate fear and pain of it.

And then she saw him coming. It seemed almost as if her thoughts had drawn him. He was walking swiftly over the grassy slopes of the park, too eager to follow the winding carriageway.

Nan paused in the middle of the rose garden, where a stone sundial stood, gray and weather-beaten, its warning motto half obliterated by the tender touches of the years.

Rather nervously, while she waited for Trenby to join her, she traced the ancient lettering with a slim forefinger. He crossed the lawn rapidly, pausing beside her, and, without looking up, she read aloud the grim couplet graven round the dial.

“That's a nice, cheery motto,” commented Trenby lightly. “They must have been a lugubrious lot in the good old days!”

“They weren't so afraid of facing the truth as we are,” Nan answered musingly. “I wonder why we always try to shut our eyes against the fact of death? It's there, waiting for us round the corner all the time.”

“But there's life and love to come first,” flashed out Roger.

Nan looked at him thoughtfully.

“Not for every one,” she said, then added suddenly: “Why are you here to-day, Roger? I told you to come on Monday.”

“I know you did. But—I couldn't wait. It was horrible, Nan, just getting a few words through the phone about you. I had to see for myself how you were.”

His eyes sought her throat where the lash of the hunting crop had waled it. The mark had almost disappeared. With a sudden, passionate movement he caught her in his arms and pressed his lips against the faint scar.

“Nan!” he said hoarsely. “Nan, say 'yes!' Say it quickly!”

She drew away from him, freeing herself from the clasp of his arms.

“I'm not sure it is 'yes.' You must hear what I have to say first. You wouldn't listen the other day. But to-day, Roger, you must—you must.”

“You're not going to take back your promise?” he demanded jealously.

“It wasn't quite a promise, was it?” she said gently. “But it's for you to decide, when you know everything.”

“Then I'll decide now,” he answered quickly. “I want you, Nan, how I want you! I don't care anything at all about the past. I don't want to know anything about it!”

“But you must know,” she insisted steadily. “Perhaps when you know, you won't want me.”

“I shall always want you.”

A pause followed. Then Nan, with an effort, said quietly:

“Do you want to marry a woman who has no love to give you?”

He drew a step nearer.

“I'll teach you how to love,” he said unevenly. “I'll make you love me—love me as I love you.”

“No, no,” she answered. “You can't do that, Roger. You can't.”

His face was white, his hawk's eyes were blazing down on her as if to read her inmost thoughts.

“What do you mean? Is there—any one else?” he asked,

“Yes.” The answer came very low.

“And you care for him?”

She nodded.

“But we can never be anything to each other,” she said, still in that same low, emotionless voice.

“Then—then you'd grow to care for me!”

“No. I shall never care for any one else. That love has burned up everything—like a fire.” She paused. “You don't want to marry an empty grate, do you?” she asked, with a sudden, desperate laugh.

Roger's arm drew her closer.

“Yes, I do. And I'll light another fire there, and by its warmth we'll make our home together. I won't ask much, Nan dear, only to be allowed to love you and make you happy. And in time, in time, I'll teach you to love me in return and to forget the past. Only say yes, sweetheart! I'll keep you so safe—so safe!”

The tender comprehension of his answer to Nan's half-desperate question fell like balm on her sore heart.

“I'll keep you safe!”

It was safety she wanted most of all, the safety of some stronger barrier between herself and Peter. Once she was Roger's wife she knew she would be well guarded. The barrier would be too high for her to climb, even though Peter called to her from the other side.

A momentary terror at giving up her freedom assailed her, and for an instant she wavered. Then she remembered her bargain with Fate—that if, finally, Roger were willing to take her when he knew everything, she would marry him.

Her hand crept out and slid into his big palm.

“Very well, Roger,” she said quietly. “If, knowing every thing, you still want me, I'll marry you.”

And as his arms crushed her close to him she seemed to hear a distant sound like the closing of a door—the door of the forbidden might-have-been.

The usual shower of congratulations descended upon the heads of Nan and—Roger when, on their return from the rose garden, the news of their engagement filtered through the house party and the little group of friends who had come in for tea. It was only when the visitors had departed that Kitty succeeded in getting Nan alone for a few minutes,

“Are you quite—quite happy, Nan?” she asked somewhat wistfully.

Nan's eyes met hers with a blankness of expression which betrayed nothing.

“Yes, thank you. What a funny question to ask!” she responded promptly.

And Kitty felt as though she had laid her hand on the soft folds of a velvet curtain, only to come sharply up against a shutter of steel concealed beneath it.

She invited Trenby to remain for dinner, an invitation which he accepted with alacrity, and throughout the meal Nan was her gayest and most sparkling self. It seemed impossible to believe that all was not well with her. Even Penny and the Seymours were almost persuaded into the belief that she was happy in her engagement. But, as each and all of them were arguing from the false premise that the change in Nan had been entirely due to Rooke's treatment of her, they were inevitably very far from the truth.

“You're not frightened, are you, Nan?” asked Roger, when the rest of the household had tactfully left them alone a few minutes before his departure.

He spoke very gently and tenderly. Like most men, he was at his best just mow, when he had so newly gained the promise of the woman he loved. He was rather humble, even a little awed at the great gift bestowed upon him.

“No, I'm not frightened,” replied Nan quietly. “I think I shall be so—safe with you.”

“Safe? I should think you would be safe!” he declared emphatically. “I'm strong enough to guard my wife from most dangers, I think!”

The violet-blue eyes which met his held a somewhat weary smile. It was beginning already—that inevitable non-comprehension of two such divergent natures. They did not sense the same things, did not even speak the same language.

“And now, sweetheart,” he went on, “when will you come to see my mother? She will be longing to meet you.”

Nan shuddered inwardly. Of course, she knew one always did ultimately meet one's future mother-in-law, but the prompt and dutiful way in which Roger brought out his suggestion seemed like a sentence culled from some early Victorian book. Certainly, it was altogether alien to Nan's ultramodern, semi-bohemian notions.

“Suppose you come to lunch to-morrow? I should like you to meet her as soon as possible.”

There was just a hint of the proprietary note in the latter part of the sentence. Nan recoiled from it instinctively.

“No, not to-morrow!” she exclaimed hastily. “I'm going over to see Aunt Eliza, Mrs. McBain, you know, and I can't put it off. I haven't been near her for a fortnight, and she'll be awfully offended if I don't go.”

“Then it must be Tuesday,” said Roger, with an air of making a concession.

Nan felt that nothing could save her from Tuesday, and so she agreed meekly. At the same moment, to her unspeakable relief, Kitty looked into the room to inquire gayly:

“Are you two still saying good-by?”

Trenby rose reluctantly.

“No. We were just making arrangements about Nan's coming to the Hall to meet my mother. We've fixed it all up, so I must be off now.”

It was with a curious sense of freedom regained that Nan watched the lights of Roger's car disappear down the drive. At least she would be her own mistress till Tuesday!

Although Nan had conferred the brevet rank of aunt upon Eliza McBain, the latter was in reality only the sister of an uncle by marriage and no blood relation—a dispensation for which, at not infrequent intervals of. Nan's career, Mrs. McBain had been led to thank the Almighty effusively.

Mrs. McBain had been left a widow in none too affluent circumstances, and her brother, Andrew McDermot, who had married Gabrielle Davenant—sister to Annabel, Lord St. John's wife, whom he still mourned—presented her with his Cornish home after the death of his own wife. This was the third summer Mrs. McBain and her son had spent in Cornwall, and, since it brought Nan Davenant once more to Mallow Court on a lengthy visit, Sandy's cup of joy was filled to the brim.

Sandy was a source of perpetual surprise to his mother, and of not inconsiderable anxiety. How she and the late Duncan McBain had contrived to produce more or less of a musical genius by way of offspring she had never been able to fathom. Indeed, they both regarded music, other than hymnal, as a lure of Satan.

They had negatived firmly Sandy's desire for proper musical tuition, with the result that now, at twenty years of age, he was a musician spoiled through lack of training. Most of his pocket money in early days had been expended upon surreptitious violin lessons, and he had frequently practiced for hours in the woods, at a distance from the house which secured the parental ear from outrage,

Since her husband's death, however, Eliza, chiding herself the while for her weakness, had yielded to a pulsing young enthusiasm that would not be denied, and music of a secular nature was permitted at Trevarthen, unchecked, though disapproved.

Thus it came about that, on the afternoon of Nan's visit, Sandy was zealously absorbed in the composition of a triumphal march. The blare of trumpets, the swinging tramp of marching men and the thunderous roll of drums were filling the room with joyful noise when there came a light tap at the open French window and Nan herself stood poised on the threshold.

“Hullo, Sandy, what's that you're playing?”

Sandy sprang off the music stool, beaming with delight, and, seizing her by both arms, drew her rapturously into the room.

“You're the very person I want!” he exclaimed without further greeting. “It's a march, and I don't know whether I like this modulation into D minor or not. Listen.”

Nan obeyed, gave her opinion, and finally subsided rather listlessly into a low armchair.

“Give me a cigarette, Sandy. It's an awfully tiring walk here. Is Aunt Eliza in? I hope she is, because I want some tea.”

“She is. But I'd give you tea if she wasn't.”

“And set the whole of St. Wennys gossiping! It wouldn't be proper, boy.”

“Oh, yes, it would. I count as a kind of cousin, you know.”

“All the same, in half an hour the entire village of St. Wennys would be all agog to know when the elopement was likely to occur.”

Sandy grinned. He had proposed to Nan several times already, only to be good-naturedly turned down.

“I'd supply a date with pleasure,”

Nan shook her head at him.

“A man may not marry his grandmother.”

He struck a match and held it while she lit her cigarette.

“Does that apply when she's only three years his senior?” he inquired.

“Oh, Sandy, I'm æons older than you. A woman always is. Besides, I'm engaged already,” she ended abruptly.

“Engaged?”

He dropped the dead match he was holding and stared out of the window a moment. Then, squaring his shoulders, he said quietly:

“Who's the lucky beggar?”

“Roger Trenby.”

Sandy's lips pursed themselves to whistle, but he checked himself in time and no sound escaped. Turning to Nan, he spoke with a gravity that sat strangely on him.

“Old girl, I hope you'll be very happy—the happiest woman in the world.” But there was a look of dissatisfaction in his eyes which had nothing whatever to do with his own disappointment.

“But we're pals, Nan, pals just the same?” he went on.

She slipped her hand into his.

“Pals always, Sandy,” she replied.

“Thank you,” he said simply.. “And remember, Nan”—the boyish voice took on a note of earnestness—“if you're ever in need of a pal, I'm here, mind.”

Nan was conscious of a sudden, sharp pain like the stab of a nerve. The memory of another pledge swept over her: “I think I should always know if you were in trouble—and I should come.” Only it had been uttered by a different voice, the quiet, drawling voice of Peter Mallory.

“Thank you, Sandy dear. I won't forget.”

But there was a faint weariness in her tones, despite her smile. Sandy's green eyes surveyed her critically, noting the slight hollowing of the outline of her cheek and the little, tired droop of her lips as the smile faded.

“I tell you what,” he said, “you're fagged out, tramping over here in all this heat. I'll ring and tell them to hurry up tea.” But before he could reach the bell a servant entered, bringing in the tea paraphernalia.

“Weel, so ye've come to see me at last, or is it Sandy you're calling on?”

The door had opened to admit Mrs. McBain, a tall, gaunt woman with iron-gray hair and shrewd, observant eyes that glinted with the gray flash of steel.

Nan jumped up at her entrance.

“Oh, Aunt Eliza? How are you? I should have been over to see you before, but there always seems to be something or other going on at Mallow.”

“I don't doubt it, in yon house of Belial,” retorted Mrs. McBain, presenting a chaste cheek for Nan's salute. The soft red lips pressed against the hard-featured face curved into a smile. Nan was no whit in awe of her aunt's bitter tongue, and it was probably for this very reason that Mrs. McBain could not help liking her.

“And how's your uncle, St. John?” she asked.

“He's at Mallow, too. We all are—Penelope and Uncle David and Ralph Fenton.”

“And who may Mr. Fenton be? I've never met him, have I, Sandy?” Mrs. McBain handed a cup of tea to Nan as she spoke.

“No. He's a well-known singer Kitty's recently admitted into the fold.”

“Do you mean he earns his living by singing at concerts?”

“Yes. And a jolly good living, too.”

A shadow fell across Sandy's pleasant, freckled face. It was a matter of unavailing regret to him that, owing to his parents' prejudice against music and musicians, he had been debarred from earning a living in like manner with his long, capable fingers.

His mother saw the shadow and pursed her lips obstinately together.

“There'll come no blessing with money that's earned by mere pleasuring,” she averred.

“If you only knew what hard work it means to be a successful musician, Aunt Eliza, you'd be less drastic in your criticism,” interposed Nan with warmth.

Eliza's shrewd eyes twinkled.

“You work hard, don't you, my dear?” she observed dryly.

Nan laughed, coloring a little.

“Perhaps I should work harder if Uncle David didn't spoil me so. You know he's increased my allowance lately?”

Eliza snorted indignantly.

“What's Penelope doing?” she asked suddenly. “She's more sense than the rest of ye put together, for all she's so daft about music.”

“Penelope,” said Sandy solemnly, “is preparing to enter upon the duties and privileges of matrimony.”

“And who's the man?” Eliza waited impatiently for his answer.

“Penelope's young man? Oh, Ralph Fenton, the fellow who makes 'pleasuring' pay so uncommonly well. He's been occupying an ignominious position at the wheels of Penelope's chariot ever since they both came to Mallow. I think Kitty Seymour would make a matrimonial agent par excellence. Young men and maidens introduced under the most favorable circumstances and no fee when suited!” Sandy flourished his arms expressively.

“And if she could find a good, sensible lassie to tak' ye in hand, Sandy McBain, I'd no be grudgin' a fee.”

“No good, mother of mine. I lost my heart to Nan here too long ago, and now,” he averred with a lightness of tone that effectually concealed his feelings, “not to be outdone by Penny, she herself has gone and got engaged. So I shall live and die alone.”

“And what like is the man ye've chosen?” demanded Eliza, turning to Nan. “Not another of these music-daft creatures, I hope?”

“I think you'll quite approve, Aunt Eliza,” answered Nan with becoming meekness. “I'm engaged to marry Roger Trenby.”

“Well, I hope ye'll be happier than maist o' the married folks I ken. Eh! But Roger's picked a stick for his own back!” She chuckled,

Nan smiled.

“Do you think I'll be so bad to live with, then?”

“'Tisn't so much that you'll be bad with intent. But you're that Varincourt woman's own great-granddaughter. Not that ye can help it, and I'm no blamin' ye for it. But 'tis wild blood!”

Nan rose, laughing, and kissed her aunt.

“After such a snub as that, I think I'd better take myself off! It's really time I started, as I'm walking.”

“Let me run you back in the car,” suggested Sandy eagerly.

“No, thanks. I'm taking the short cut home through the woods.”

At the gates of Trevarthen Sandy, who had accompanied her down the drive, stopped abruptly.

“Nan,” he said quietly, “is it quite O. K. about your engagement? You'll be really happy with Trenby?”

Nan paused a moment. Then she spoke, very quietly and with a touch of cynicism quite foreign to the fresh, sweet outlook upon life which had been hers before she had met Maryon Rooke.

“I don't suppose I should be really happy with any one, Sandy. I want too much. But it's quite O. K. and you needn't worry.”

With a parting nod she started off along the ribbon of road which wound its way past the gates of Trevarthen Wood. Presently she turned aside from the road and, scrambling through a gap in a stone wall, plunged into the cool shadows of the woods. A heavy fain had fallen during the night, and Nan found her progress far from swift, for the surface of the ground was sticky and sodden. She was not quite sure of the way back to Mallow through the woods. She had been told that somewhere there ran a tiny river which she must cross by means of a footbridge and then ascend the hill on the opposite side.

“And after that,” Barry had told her, “you can't lose yourself if you try.” But prior to that it seemed a very probable contingency. She was beginning to weary of plodding over the boggy land when, at last, from somewhere below came the sound of running water.

Nan bent her steps hopefully in that direction, A few minutes later she came to the head of a deep-bosomed. Nan made her way down the coomb's steep side with feet that slipped and slid on the wet, shelving banks of mossy grass. But at length she reached the level of the water, and here her progress became more sure. Farther on, she knew, must be the footbridge which Barry had described, probably beyond the sharp curve which lay just ahead of her.

She rounded the bend, then stopped abruptly, startled at seeing the figure of a man standing by the bank of the river. He had his back toward her and seemed engrossed in his thoughts. Instantly, however, as though subconsciously aware of her approach, he turned.

Nan stood quite still as he came toward her, limping a little. She felt that if she moved she must surely stumble and. fall. The beating of her heart thundered in her ears, and for a moment the river and the steep sides of the coomb and the figure of Peter Mallory himself all seemed to grow dim and vague, as though seen through a thick mist.

“Nan!”

The dear, familiar voice, with an ineffable tenderness in its slow drawl, reached her above the thrumming beat of her heart.

“Peter—oh, Peter!”

Her voice failed her, but the next moment they were shaking hands conventionally.

“I didn't know you were coming to-day,” she said, making a fierce effort to regain composure.

“I wired Kitty on the train. Hasn't she had the telegram?”

“Yes, I expect so. Only I've been out all afternoon, so knew nothing about it. And now I've lost my way!”

“Lost your way!”

“Yes. I expected to find a footbridge round the corner.”

“It's round the next one. I sent the car on with my kit, and thought I'd walk up from the station. So we're both making for the same bridge. It's only about two minutes' walk from here.”

They strolled on side by side, Peter rather silent, and each of them vibrantly conscious of the other's nearness. Suddenly Mallory pulled up and a quick exclamation broke from him as he pointed ahead.

“The bridge is gone!”

Nan's eyes followed the direction of his hand. Here the river ran more swiftly, and, swollen by last night's storm of wind and rain, it had swept away the frail old footbridge which spanned it. Only a few decayed sticks and rotten wooden stumps remained of what had once been known as the Lovers' Bridge, the trysting place of who shall say how many lovers in the days of its wooden prime?

Peter stood looking down at the scattered fragments of the bridge with an odd kind of gravity in his eyes. It seemed a piece of trenchant symbolism that the Lovers' Bridge should break when he and Nan essayed to cross it. There was a slight, whimsical smile, which held something of pain, on his lips when he turned again to Nan.

“I shall have to carry you across,” he said.

She shook her head.

“No, thanks. You might drop me. I can wade over.”

“It's too deep for you to do that. I won't let you drop.”

But Nan still hesitated. She was caught by sudden panic. She felt that she couldn't let Peter—Peter, of all men in the world—carry her in his arms!

“It isn't so deep higher up, is it?” she suggested. “I could wade there.”

“No, it's not so deep, but the river bed is very stony. You'd cut your feet.”

“Then I suppose you'll have to carry me,” she agreed at last with obvious reluctance.

“I promise I won't drop you,” he assured her quietly.

He gathered her up into his arms, and as he lifted her the rough tweed of his coat brushed her cheek. Then, holding her very carefully, he stepped down from the bank into the stream and began to make his way across.

Nan had no fear that he might let her fall. The arms that held her felt pliant and strong as steel, and their clasp about her filled her with a strange, new ecstasy that thrilled her from head to foot. It frightened her.

“Am I awfully heavy?” she asked, nervously anxious to introduce some element of commonplace.

And Peter, looking down at the delicately angled face which lay against his shoulder, drew his breath sharply.

“No,” he answered briefly. “You're not heavy.”

There was that in his gaze which brought the warm color into her face. Her lids fell swiftly, veiling her eyes, and she turned her face quickly toward his shoulder. All that remained visible was the edge of the little hat she wore and, below this, a dusky sweep of hair, dark against her white skin.

He went on in silence, conscious in every fiber of his being of the supple body gathered so close against his own, of the young, sweet, clean-cut curve of her cheek, and of the warmth of her hair against his shoulder. He jerked his head aside, his mouth set grimly, and crossed quickly to the other bank of the river.

As he let her slip to the ground, steadying her with his arms, he bent swiftly and, for an instant, his lips just brushed her hair. Nan scarcely felt the touch of his kiss, it fell so lightly, but she sensed it through every nerve of her. Standing in the twilight, shaken and clutching wildly after her self-control, she knew that if he touched her again, or took her in his arms, she would yield helplessly, gladly!

Peter knew it, too, knew that the merest thread of courage and self-respect kept them apart. Forcing his voice to an impersonal, level tone, he said practically:

“It's getting late. Come on, little pal, we must make up time, or they'll be sending out a search party for us from Mallow.”

It was late in the evening before Nan and Peter found themselves together again. Every one was standing about in the big hall exchanging good nights and last snippets of talk before taking their several ways to bed. Peter drew Nan a little to one side.

“Nan, is it true that you're engaged to Trenby?” he asked.

“Quite true.” She had to force the answer to her lips. Mallory's face was stern.

“Why didn't you tell me this afternoon?”

“I—I couldn't, Peter,'” she said under her breath. “I couldn't.”

His face still wore that white, unsmiling look. But he drew Nan's shaking hands between his own and held them very gently as he put his next question.

“You don't care for him.” It was more an assertion than a question, though it demanded a reply.

“No.”

“Then, for God's sake, don't make the same hash of your life as I made of mine. Believe me, Nan”—his voice was rough—“it's far worse to be married to some one you don't love than to remain unmarried all your days.”

“I am very glad to meet you, my dear.”

The frosty voice entirely failed to confirm the sense of the words as Lady Gertrude Trenby bent forward and imprinted a somewhat chilly kiss on Nan's cheek.

Nan shrank sensitively and glanced upward to see if there was anything in her future mother-in-law's face which might serve to contradict the coldness of her greeting. But there was nothing. It was a stern, aquiline type of face, with a thin-lipped mouth and hard, obstinate chin, and the iron-gray hair, dressed in a high, stiff fashion, seemed to emphasize its severity.

The chilly welcome, then, was intentional, not the result of shyness or a natural awkwardness with strangers. Lady Gertrude was perfectly composed, and Nan felt an inward conviction that the news of Roger's engagement had not met with her approval. Perhaps she resented the idea of relinquishing the reins of government at Trenby Hall in favor of a daughter-in-law. It was quite possible. Few mothers enjoy being relegated to the position of dowager.

As Nan replied conventionally to Lady Gertrude's greeting, some such thoughts as these flashed fugitively through her mind, and with them came a rather tender, girlish determination to make the transition as easy as possible for the older woman when the time came for it. Somewhat absorbed in her own thoughts, she followed her hostess into a stiff, formal-looking drawing-room.

As she entered the room, Nan suddenly longed for the dear, comfortable intimacy of the paneled hall at Mallow. Behind her back she made a desperate little gesture to Roger to follow her, but he shook his head laughingly and went off in another direction, thinking in his unsubtle way that this was just the occasion fer his mother and his future wife to get well acquainted.

He felt sure that Nan's charm would soon overcome the various objections which Lady Gertrude had raised to the engagement when he had first confided his news to her. She had not minced matters.

“But, my dear Roger, from all I've heard, Nan Davenant is a most unsuitable woman to be your wife. For one thing, she is, I believe, a professional pianist.” The thin lips seemed to grow still thinner as they propounded the indictment.

Most people, nowadays, would have laughed outright, but Roger regarded his mother's objection as quite a normal and reasonable one. It must be overcome in this particular instance, that was all.

“But, of course, Nan will give up everything of that kind when she's my wife,” he asserted confidently.

“Roger has rather taken me by surprise with the news of his engagement,” said Lady Gertrude, after she and Nan had exchanged a few labored platitudes. “Do you think you will be happy with him? We live a very simple country existence here, you know.”

To Nan the use of the word “we” sounded rather ominous.

“Oh, I like country life very much,” she replied. “After all, you can always vary the monotony by running up to town or going abroad, can't you?”

“I don't think Roger cares much for traveling about. He is extremely attached to his home. We have always made everything so easy and comfortable for him here, you see,” responded Lady Gertrude, with a certain significance.

Nan surmised that she was intended to infer that it would be her duty to make everything “easy and comfortable” for him in the future! She almost smiled. Most of the married men she knew were kept busy seeing that everything was made easy and comfortable for their wives.

“Still,” continued Lady Gertrude, “there could be no objection to your making an occasional trip to London.”

The “occasional trip to London” sounded bleakly in Nan's ears. Still, she argued, Lady Gertrude would only be her mother-in-law, and she was sure she could “manage” Roger.

Nan found it increasingly difficult to sustain her side of the conversation with Lady Gertrude. The latter's old-fashioned views clashed violently with her own modern ones, and there seemed to be no mutual ground upon which they could meet, and Nan was rebelliously conscious of the older woman's efforts to dominate her. It was an inexpressible relief when at last their tête-à-tête was interrupted.

Through the closed door Nan could hear Roger's voice. He was evidently engaged in cheerful conversation with some one in the hall outside, and a moment later the door opened and Nan could see his head and shoulders towering above those of a woman who preceded him into the room.

“Isobel, my dear!”

For the first time since the beginning of their interview Nan heard Lady Gertrude's voice soften. Turning to Nan she continued, still in the same affectionate tone of voice:

“This is my niece, Isobel Carson, though she is really more like a daughter to me.”

“So it seems that we shall be sisters!” put in the newcomer lightly. “Really”—her quick, birdlike glance included every one in the room—“our relationships will get rather mixed up, won't they?”

She held out a clawlike little hand for Nan to shake, and its tense and energetic grip was somewhat surprising. She was a small, dark creature, with bright, restless brown eyes set in a somewhat sallow face, its sallowness the result of several husband-hunting years spent in India, where her father had held a post in the Indian civil service.

It would have been difficult to guess her exact age. She owned to thirty-four, and a decade ago, when she had first joined her father in India, she must have possessed a certain elfish prettiness of her own. Now, thanks to those years spent under a tropical sun, she was a trifle faded and passée looking.

The conversation became general for a few minutes, then Lady Gertrude drew her son toward a French window opening on to the garden, immaculately laid out. Eventually she and Roger passed out of the room to discuss, with immense seriousness, the shortcomings of the gardener as exemplified in the shape of one of the geranium beds.

“You won't like it here!” observed Isobel Carson bluntly, when the two girls were left alone.

“Why shouldn't I?” Nan smiled.

“Because you won't fit in at all. You'll be like a rocket battering about in the middle of a set piece.”

Isobel lacked neither brains nor observation, though she had been wise enough to conceal both these facts from Lady Gertrude.

“Don't you like it here, then?”

Isobel regarded her thoughtfully, as though speculating how far she dared be frank.

“Of course I like it. But it's with me,” she replied rather grimly. “When my father died I was left with very little money and no special training. Result—I spent one hateful year as nursery governess to a couple of detestable brats. Then Aunt Gertrude invited me here on a visit, and that visit has been prolonged to the present moment. She finds me very useful, you know,” she added cynically.

“Yes, I suppose she does,” answered Nan, with some embarrassment. She felt no particular desire to hear a résumé of Miss Carson's past life. There was something about the girl which repelled her.

But, as though she sensed the other's distaste to the trend the conversation had taken, Miss Carson switched briskly to something else, and by the time Lady Gertrude returned with Roger, suggesting that they should go to lunch, Nan had forgotten the odd feeling of repulsion which Isobel had first aroused in her, and had come to regard her as “quite a nice little thing who had had rather a rotten time.”

This was the impression Lady Gertrude's niece contrived to make on most people. It suited her very well and secured her many gifts and pleasures which would not otherwise have come her way. She had accepted Lady Gertrude's invitation to stay at Trenby Hall rather guardedly, in the first instance, but when, as the visit drew toward its end, her aunt had proposed that she should make her home there altogether she had jumped at the offer.

She speedily discovered that she and Trenby had many tastes in common and, with the sharp instinct of a woman who has tried hard to achieve a successful marriage and failed, there appeared to her no reason why in this instance “something should not come of it,” to use the time-honored phrase which so delicately conveys so much. And except for the fact that Nan Davenant was staying at Mallow something might have come of it! Since community of tastes is responsible for many a happy and contented marriage.

Throughout the time she had lived at Trenby Hall, Isobel had contrived to make herself almost indispensable to Roger. It was Isobel who found all the things which, manlike, he so constantly mislaid, who tramped over the fields with him, interesting herself in all his outdoor sports.

There seemed small likelihood of Roger's going far afield in search of a wife, so that Isobel had not apprehended much danger to her hopes, more especially as she had a shrewd idea that Lady Gertrude would look upon the marriage with the selfish approval of a woman who gains a daughter without losing the services of a niece who is “used to her ways.”

Lady Gertrude and Isobel had never been frequent visitors at Mallow, and it had so happened that neither they nor Roger had chanced to meet Nan Davenant during her former visits there.

Now that she had seen her, Isobel's ideas were altogether bouleversé. Never for a single instant would she have imagined that a woman of Nan's type—artistic, emotional, elusive—could attract a man like Roger Trenby. The fact remained, however, that Nan had succeeded where she had failed, and Isobel's dreams of a secure future had come tumbling about her ears. She realized bitterly that love is like quicksilver, running this way or that at its own sweet will, and rarely into the channel we have ordained for it.

The first person whom Nan encountered on her return from Trenby Hall was Mrs. Seymour. The latter's eyebrows lifted quizzically.

“Well?” she asked. “How did it go.”

“It didn't 'go' at all!” answered Nan. “I was enveloped in an atmosphere of severe disapproval. In fact, I think Lady Gertrude considers I require quite a long course of training before I'm fitted to be Roger's wife.”

“Nonsense!” Kitty smiled broadly.

“Seriously,” Nan nodded. “Apparently the kind of wife she really wants for him is a combination of the door-mat and fetch-and-carry person who always stays at home and performs her wifely and domestic duties in a spirit of due subservience.”

“She'll live and learn, then, my dear, when she has you for a daughter-in-law,” commented Kitty dryly.

“I think I'm a bit fed up with 'in-laws,'” returned Nan a trifle wearily. “I'll go out and walk it off. Or, better still, lend me your bike, Kitty, and I'll spin over to Tintagel. By the time I've climbed up to King Arthur's Castle I'll be better.”

“But, my dear, it's five o'clock already! You won't have time to go there before dinner.”

“Yes, I shall,” persisted Nan. “Half an hour to get there, an hour for the castle, half an hour to come back, and then just time enough to skip into a dinner frock. I must go, really, Kitten,” she went on, with a note of urgency in her voice. “That appalling visit to Trenby Hall has got into my system, and I want to blow the germs away.” She gesticulated expressively.

“All right, you ridiculous person, take my bicycle, then,” replied Kitty good-humoredly. “But what will you do when you have to live there?”

“Why, I shall alter it completely, of course. I foresee myself making the Hall 'livable in' throughout the first decade of my married existence!” She made a small grimace of disgust.

A few minutes later Nan was speeding along the road to Tintagel, the cool air, salt with brine from the incoming tide, tingling against her face.

In less than the stipulated half hour she had reached the village. Leaving her cycle at a cottage, Nan set out briskly on foot down the steep hill that led to the shore. She was conscious of an imperative need for movement. She must either cycle or walk or climb in order to keep at bay the nervous dread with which her visit to Trenby had inspired her. It had given her a picture of Roger's home and surroundings; a brief, enlightening glimpse as to the kind of life she might look forward to when she married him.

It was all very different from what she had anticipated. Even Roger himself seemed different in the environment of his home, less spontaneous, less of the adoring lover. Lady Gertrude's influence appeared to dominate the whole house and every one in it. But, as Nan realized, she had given her promise to Roger, and too much hung on that promise for her to break it now: Penelope's happiness and her own desire to shut herself away in safety, to bind herself so that she could never again be free.

Her unexpected meeting with Peter the previous evening had shown her, once and for all, the imperative need for this. The clasp of his hand, the strong hold of his arms about her as he bore her across the stream, the touch of his lips against her hair—the memory of these things had been with her all night. She had tried to thrust them from her, but they refused to be dismissed.. More than once she had buried her hot face in the coolness of the pillows, conscious of a sudden, tremulous thrill that ran like fire through her veins.

And she was sure that Peter, too, knew they stood on dangerous quicksands. This morning, beyond a briefly worded greeting at breakfast, he had hardly spoken to her, carefully avoiding her, though without seeming to do so, until her departure to Trenby Hall made it no longer necessary. She hoped he would not stay long at Mallow. It would be unbearable to meet him day after day, to feel his eyes resting upon her with the same cool gravity to which he had compelled them this morning, to pretend that he and she meant no more to one another than any other chance guests at a country house.

Nan's thoughts drove her swiftly down the steep incline which descended to the cove and, arriving at the foot, she stopped, as every one must, to obtain the key of the castle from a near-by cottage. The old woman who gave her the key, accepting a shilling in exchange with voluble gratitude, impressed upon her the urgent necessity for returning it on her way back.

“If you please, lady, I've lost more than one key with folks forgettin' to return them,” she explained.

“I won't forget,” Nan assured her, and forthwith started to make her way to the top of the great promontory on which stands all that remains of King Arthur's Castle, the fallen stones of an ancient chapel, and a ruined wall inclosing a grassy space where sheep browse peacefully.

Quitting the cottage and turning to the left, she bent her steps toward a footbridge spanning a gap in the side of the cliff, and, pausing at the bridge, let her eyes rest musingly on the great, mysterious opening picturesquely known as Merlin's Cave.

For a while Nan loitered on the bridge, gazing at the wild beauty of the scene. Perhaps the magic of old Merlin's enchantments still lingered there, for as Nan stood silently absorbing the mysterious glamour of the place, the petty annoyances of the day, the fret of Lady Gertrude's unwelcoming reception of her, seemed to dwindle into insignificance. They were only external things, after all. They could not mar the loveliness of this mystic, legend-haunted corner of the world.

At length, with a faint sigh of regret, she crossed the bridge and walked slowly up a path which appeared to be little more than a rough track hewn out of the rocky side of the cliff itself, uneven and strewn with loose stones. Nan picked her steps gingerly. At the top of the track her way turned sharply at right angles to where a narrow ridge, so narrow that two people could not walk on it abreast, led to Tintagel Head. It was like a slender bridge connecting what the Cornish folk generally speak of as “the Island” with the mainland.

Nan proceeded to cross the ridge. She was particularly sure-footed as a rule, her supple body balancing itself instinctively. But to-day, for the first time, she felt suddenly nervous as she neared the crag and, glancing downward, caught sight of the sullen billows thundering far below on either side. Perhaps the events of the day had frayed her nerves more than she knew. It was only by an effort that she dismissed the unaccustomed sensation of malaise which had assailed her and determinedly began the ascent to the castle by way of a series of primitively rough-hewn steps. They were slippery and uneven and guarded only by a light hand rail that seemed almost to quiver in her grasp as, gripped by another unexpected rush of fear, Nan caught at it in feverish haste.

She stood quite still, suddenly panic-stricken. Here, halfway up the side of the steep promontory, the whole immensity of the surrounding height and depth came upon her in a terrifying flash of realization. She felt like a fly on the wall of some abysmal depth, only without the fly's powers of adhesion.

Very carefully she twisted her body sideways, intending to retrace her steps, but in an instant the sight of the surging waters, miles and miles below, as it seemed, sent her crouching to the ground. She could not go back! She felt as though her limbs were paralyzed, and she knew that if she attempted to descend some incalculable force would drive her straight over the edge, hurtling helplessly to the foot of those rugged cliffs.

For a moment she closed her eyes, Only by dogged force of will could she retain her present position, half crouching, half lying on the ill-matched steps. It almost seemed as though some power were drawing her, compelling her to relax her muscles and slide down, down into those awful depths. Then the memory of a half caught phrase she had overheard flashed across her mind: “If you feel giddy, always look up, not down.” As though in obedience to some inner voice, she opened her eyes and looked up to where, only a few battered steps above, she could see the door of the castle.

If she could only make it! Rising cautiously to her knees she crawled up one more step and rested a moment, digging her fingers into the crevices of the rock and finding a precarious foothold against a projecting ledge. Keeping her eyes fixed upon the door, she scrambled up a few inches farther, then paused again, exhausted with the strain.

Two more steps remained. Two more desperate efforts, while she fought the hideous temptation to look downward. For an instant she almost lost all knowledge of what she was doing. Guided only by instinct—the instinct of self-preservation—her eyes still straining painfully in that inforced upward gaze, she at last reached the door.

With a strangled sob of relief she knelt against it and inserted the big iron key, turning it in the lock with numbed fingers. The heavy door opened and Nan clung to it with both hands till it had swung back sufficiently to admit her. Then, from the security of the castle itself, she pushed it to and locked it on the inside, thrusting the key into the pocket of her sports coat.

She was safe! Around her were the walls of the ancient castle, walls that seemed almost part of the solid rock itself, standing between her and that horrible abyss below! Her limbs gave way suddenly and she toppled over in a dead faint, lying in a little, crumpled heap at the foot of the wall.

It was very quiet up there within King Arthur's Castle. No one would come again to-night to disturb the supreme stillness. The wan cry of the gulls drifted eerily across the sea. Once an inquiring sheep approached the slim, motionless body lying there, and sniffed at it, then moved away again. Meanwhile, the golden disk of the sun dropped steadily lower in the sky.

“Nan's very late.”

Mrs. Seymour made the statement rather blankly. Dinner had been announced and every one was in the hall near the great hearth fire. The summer day had chilled to a cool evening, and the ruddy flicker of the flames diffused a cheery warmth,

“Perhaps Lady Gertrude is keeping her to dinner,” said Lord St. John. “It's very probable.” As he spoke he held out his hands to the fire, withered old hands that looked, somehow, frailer than their wont.

Kitty shook her head.

“No. She—I don't think she enjoyed her visit overmuch, and when she came back she went out cycling—to 'work it off,' she said.”

“Where did she go?” inquired Penelope.

“To Tintagel. I told her she wouldn't have time enough to get there and back before dinner. Never mind; we'll begin and I'll order something to be kept hot for her.”

Accordingly, they all adjourned to the dining room and dinner proceeded in its usual leisurely fashion, although the gay chatter that generally accompanied it was absent. Every one was conscious of a certain uneasiness.

“I wish young Nan would come back,” remarked Barry at last. A shade of anxiety clouded his lazy blue eyes. “I hope she's not come a cropper down one of these confounded hills.”

He voiced the restless feeling of suspense which was beginning to pervade the whole party.

“What time did she start, Kit?” he went on.

“About five o'clock, I should think, or soon after.”

“Then she'd have had loads of time to get back by now.”

The general tension took the form—of a sudden silence. Then Peter Mallory spoke very quietly.

“She didn't propose going up to the castle, did she?” In spite of its quietness his voice had a certain clipped sound that drove home the significance of his question.

“Yes, she did. But she's as sure-footed as a deer.” Kitty tried to reassure herself. “We all went up the other day, and Nan was by far the best climber among us.”

Almost simultaneously Peter and Barry were on their feet.

“Something may have happened, all the same,” said Barry with concern. “She might have sprained her ankle or—or anything.”

He turned to the servant nearest him.

“Tell Atkinson to bring the car around, and to be quick about it.”

“Very good, sir.” And the man disappeared on his errand.

In a moment the thought that a possible accident might have befallen Nan broke up the party. Kitty and Penelope hurried off in quest of rugs and sandwiches and brandy—anything that might be of service, while the men drew together, conversing in low voices while they waited for the car.

“You'll find her, Barry?” St. John's voice shook a little. “You'll bring her back safe?”

“I'll bring her back.” Barry laid kindly hands on the old man's shoulders. “Don't worry. I expect she's only had some trifling mishap. Burst a tire, probably, and is walking back.”

St. John's look of acute anxiety relaxed a little.

“I hope so,” he muttered; “I hope so.”

A servant opened the door.

“The car's waiting, sir.”

“Good.” Barry strode into the hall, Mallory following him.

“Barry, I must go with you,” he said.

In the blaze of the electric light the two men gazed hard into each other's eyes. Then Barry nodded.

“Right. I'll leave the chauffeur behind and drive myself. We must have plenty of room at the back in case Nan's hurt.” He paused, then held out his hand. “I'm damned sorry, old man.”

“I suppose Kitty told you?”

“Yes. She told me.”

“I think I'm rather glad you know,” said Peter simply.

Then, hurrying into their coats, they ran out to the car and were tearing along the road a moment later.

The old woman who kept the keys of the castle rose from her supper as the “honk, honk” of a motor horn broke on her startled eyes. People didn't come to visit the castle at this time of night! But the pur [sic] of the engine outside her cottage, and the long beams of light flung seaward by the headlights, brought her quickly to the door.

“We want a key—for the castle,” shouted Barry while, to expedite matters, Peter sprang out of the car and went to the door of the cottage.

“The key!” he cried out.

She extended her hand.

“Ah, I knew I'd missed one,” she said, shaking a lean forefinger at him reprovingly. “So 'twas you run off with it! I'm obliged to you fer bringing it again, sir. I couldn't rightly remember whether twas a young lady or gentleman who'd had it. There's so many comes for a key and”

“It was a lady. She's up there now, we think. And I want another key to get in with. She may have been taken ill.”

Peter's curt explanation stemmed her ready stream of talk abruptly. Snatching the key which she took down from a peg on the wall, he returned to the car with it. Barry was still sitting behind the steering wheel. He bent forward as Peter approached.

“You go,” he said with a bluntness that masked an infinite understanding. “Here's the brandy flask. If you want help, blow that hooter.” He had detached one of the horns from the car. “If not, well, I shall just wait here till you come back.”

The tide was at its full when Peter began the ascent to King Arthur's Castle, the sea a vast stretch of quivering silver fringed with a mist of flying spray. In the strange, sharp lights and shadows cast by the round moon overhead, the great crags of the promontory jutted out like the turrets of some ancient fortress, blackly etched against the tender, irresolute blue of the sky.

But Peter went on unheedingly. The mystic charm had no power to hold him to-night. The only thing that mattered was Nan—her, safety. Was she lying hurt somewhere within the crumbling walls of the castle? Or had she missed her footing and plunged headlong into that sea which boomed incessantly against the cliffs? It wasn't scenery that mattered. It was life—and death!

Swiftly he mounted to the castle door, looking from side to side as he went for any trace which might show that Nan had passed this way. As he climbed the last few feet he shouted her name: “Nan! Nan!” But there was no answer. Only the sea thundered below and a startled gull flew out from a cranny, screaming as it flew.

Mallory's hands shook a little as he thrust the key into the heavy lock. Practically all that remained of hope lay behind that closed door. Then, as it opened, a great cry broke from him, hoarse with relief from the pent-up agony of the last hour.

She lay there like a child asleep, snuggled against the wall, one arm curved behind her head, pillowing it. At the sound of his voice she stirred, opening bewildered, startled eyes. In an instant he was kneeling beside her.

“Don't be frightened, Nan. It's I—Peter. Are you hurt?”

“Peter?” She repeated the name dreamily, and her voice held a caress in its soft tones.

Mallory bit back a groan. To hear her speak his name on that little note of happiness hurt incredibly.

“Nan, wake up!” he urged gently.

She woke then, came back to a full sense of her surroundings.

“You, Peter?” she murmured in surprise. Then, making an effort to sit up, she cried out sharply and sank back against the wall.

“Where are you hurt?” asked Mallory with quick anxiety.

She shook her head at him, smiling reassuringly,

“I'm not hurt. I'm only stiff. You'll have to help me up, Peter.”

He stooped and raised her, and at last she stood up, ruefully rubbing the arm which had been curled behind her while she slept.

“My arm's gone to sleep. It's all pins and needles!” she complained.

Peter had brought an extra wrap for her, which he wrapped carefully around her.

“And now tell me what possessed you to go to sleep up here,” he demanded

In a few words she related what had happened.

“Afterward,” she ended, “I suppose I must have fainted. Oh!” She shivered at the remembrance. “It was simply ghastly! I've never felt giddy in my life before, and hope I never may again! It's just as if the bottom of the world had fallen out and left you hanging in mid-air! I knew I couldn't face the climb down again, so—so I just went to sleep. I thought some of you would be sure to come to look for me.”

“You knew I would come,” he said, a sudden, deep insistence in his voice. “Nan, didn't you know it?”

She lifted her head.

“Yes. I think—I think I knew you would come, Peter,” she answered unsteadily.

The moonlight fell full upon her, upon a white, strained face with eyes that looked bravely into his, refusing to shirk the ultimate significance which underlay his question.

With a stifled exclamation he swept her up into his arms and his mouth met hers in the first kiss that had ever passed between them—a kiss which held infinite tenderness and the fierce passion that is part of love and a foreshadowing of the pain of separation.

“My beloved!” He held her a little away from him so that he might look into her face. “Say that you love me, Nan!” he begged with a swift, passionate eagerness.

“Why, Peter—Peter, you know it,” she cried tremulously. “It doesn't need telling, dear. Only—it's forbidden.”

“Yes,” he assented gravely. “It's forbidden us. But now, just this once, let us have a few moments when there's no need to pretend we don't care, when we can be ourselves!”

“No—no!” she cried breathlessly.

“It's not much to ask, five minutes together out of the whole of life! Roger can't grudge them. He'll have you—always.” His arms closed jealously round her.

“Yes—always,” she repeated. With a sudden, choked cry she clung to him despairingly.

“Peter, sometimes I feel I can't bear it! Oh, why were we allowed to care like this?”

“God knows!” he muttered.

He released her abruptly, then, and began pacing up and down savagely, like some caged beast. Nan stood staring out over the moon-washed sea with eyes that saw nothing. The five minutes they had snatched together from the rest of life were slipping by, each one a moment of bitter and intolerable anguish.

Presently Peter swung around and came to her side. But he did not touch her. His face looked drawn, and his eyes burned smolderingly, like fire half quenched.

“Nan, if I didn't care so much I'd ask you to go away with me. I—don't quite know what life will be like without you—hell, probably. But at least it's going to be my own little hell and I'm not going to drag you down into it. I'm bound irrevocably. And you're bound, too. You can't play fast and loose with the promise you've given Trenby. So we've just got to face it.” He broke off abruptly. His hands were clenched at his sides. Even Nan hardly realized the effort his restraint was costing him.

“What—what do you mean, Peter?” she asked haltingly.

“I mean that I'm going away, that I mustn't see you any more.”

A cry fled from her lips, denying, supplicating, and at the desolate sound of it a tremor ran through his limbs. It was as though his body fought and struggled against the compelling spirit within it.

“We mustn't meet again,” he went on steadily.

“Not meet—ever—do you mean?” There was something piteous in the young, shaken voice.

“Never, if we can help it. We must go separate ways, Nan.”

She tried to speak, but her lips moved soundlessly. Only her eyes, meeting his, held a mute agony that tortured him. All at once his self-control gave way, and the passion of love and longing against which he had been fighting swept aside the barriers which circumstance had placed about it. His arms went round her, holding her close while he rained kisses on her throat and lips and eyes, fierce, desperate kisses that burned against her face. And Nan kissed him back, yielding up her soul upon her lips, knowing that after this last passionate farewell there could be no more giving or receiving. Only a forgetting.

At last they drew apart from one another, though Peter's arms still held her but tenderly, as if for the last time.

“This is good-by, dearest of all,” he said presently.

“Yes,” she answered gravely. “I know.”

“Heart's beloved, try not to be too sad,” he went on. “Try to find happiness in other things. We can never be together, never be more than friends, but I shall be your lover always, always, Nan, through this world into the next.”

Her hand stole into his.

“As I am yours, Peter.”

It was as though a solemn pledge had passed between them, a spiritual troth which nothing in this world could either touch or tarnish. Neither Peter's marriage nor the rash promise Nan had given to Roger could impinge on it. It would carry them through the complexities of this world to the edge of the world beyond.

Some time passed before either of them spoke again, Then Peter said quite simply:

“We must go home, dear.”

She nodded, and together, hand if hand, they descended from the old castle which must have witnessed so many loves and griefs and partings in King Arthur's time, keeping them secret in its bosom, as it would keep secret this later farewell.

They were very silent on the way back. Just at the end, before they turned the corner where the car awaited them, Peter spoke to her again, taking both her hands in his for the last time and holding them in a firm, steady clasp.

“Don't forget, Nan, what we said just now. We can each remember that—our troth. Hang on to it—hard—when life seems a bit more uphill than usual.”

Nan woke the next day to find the sunlight pouring into her room. She had slept far into the morning, the deep, dreamless slumber of utter mental and physical exhaustion. And now, waking, she stared about her bewilderedly, unable at first to recall where she was or what had happened.

But that blessed lack of realization did not last for long. Almost immediately the recollection of all that had occurred yesterday rushed over her with stunning force. Only a few hours before she had said good-by for the rest of life to the man she loved. Possibly, at some distant time, they might chance to meet, but they would meet merely as acquaintances, never again as lovers. Triumphing in spirit over the desire of the heart, they had taken their farewell of love, bowed to the destiny which had made of that love a forbidden thing.

But last night, even through the anguish of farewell, they had been unconsciously upheld by a feeling of exaltation, that strange ecstasy of sacrifice which sometimes fires frail human beings to live up to the god that is within them.

To-day the inevitable reaction had succeeded, and only the bleak, bitter facts remained. Nan faced them squarely, though it called for all the pluck of which she was possessed. Peter had gone, and throughout the years that stretched ahead she saw herself traveling through life step by step with Roger, till, at last, merciful death would step in, taking one or the other of them away. She shivered a little. She wanted to live first, to gather up the joy of life with both hands.

Her thoughts were suddenly scattered by the sound of the opening door and the sight of Mrs. Seymour's inquiring face peeping round it.

“Awake?” queried Kitty.

With a determined effort Nan pulled herself together, prepared to face the world as it was and not as she wanted it to be. She answered promptly:

“Yes. And hungry, please. May I have some breakfast?”

“Good child!” murmured Kitty approvingly. “As a matter of fact, your brekkie is coming hard on my heels.” She gestured, as she spoke, toward the trim maid who had followed her into the room carrying an attractive-looking breakfast tray. When she had taken her departure, Kitty sat down and gossiped while Nan did her best to appear as hungry as she had rashly implied she was.

Somehow, she must manage to throw dust in Kitty's keen eyes, and a simulated appetite made quite an excellent beginning. She was determined that no one should ever know that she wasn't happy in her engagement to Roger. She owed him that much, at least. So when Kitty, making an effort to speak quite naturally, mentioned that Peter had been obliged to return to town unexpectedly she accepted the news with an assumption of naturalness as good as Kitty's own.

Nan's engagement to Roger Trenby progressed along conventional lines. Letters of congratulation poured in upon them both, and Kitty grew unmistakably bored by the number of her friends in the neighborhood who, impelled by curiosity concerning the future mistress of Trenby Hall, suddenly discovered that they owed a call at Mallow and that the present moment was an opportune time to pay it.

Nan herself was keyed up to a rather high pitch these days, and it was difficult for those who were watching her with the anxious eyes of friendship to gauge whether she was happy or not. From the moment of Mallory's departure, she flung herself with zest into each day's amusement, behaving precisely as though she hadn't a care in life, playing about with Sandy and flirting so exasperatingly with Roger that, although she wore his ring, he never felt quite sure of her.

Kitty used every endeavor to get the girl to herself for half an hour, hoping that she might be able to extract the truth from her. But Nan had developed an extraordinary elusiveness and she skillfully avoided tête-à-tête talks with any one but Roger. Moreover, there was that in her manner which utterly forbade even the delicate probing of a friend. The Nan who was wont to be so frank and ingenuous seemed, all at once, to have retired behind an impenetrable wall of reticence.

Meanwhile Fenton and Penelope had decided to admit none but a few intimate friends into the secret of their engagement.

“We shall be married so soon that it isn't worth while facing a barrage of congratulations over such a short engagement,” Ralph observed sagely.

They were radiantly happy in love with each other in such a delightfully frank and bare-faced manner that every one at Mallow regarded them with gentle amusement and loved them for being lovers.

Nothing pleased Nan more than to persuade them to sing that quaintly charming old song, “The Keys of Heaven,” the words of which hold such a tender, whimsical understanding of the feminine heart. Perhaps the refusal of the coach and four black horses “as black as pitch,” and of all the other good things wherewith the lover in the song seeks to embellish his suit, was not rendered with quite as much emphasis as it should have been. One might almost have suspected the lady of a desire not to be too discouraging in her denials. But the final verse lacked nothing in interpretation.

Passionate and beseeching, as the lover makes his last appeal, offering the greatest gift of all, Ralph's glorious baritone entreated:

Then Penelope's eyes would glow with a lovely inner light, as though the beautiful possibilities of that journey through life together were envisioned in them, and her voice would deepen and mellow till it seemed to hold all the laughter and tears and all the kindness and tender gayety and exquisite solicitude of love.

Sometimes, as she was playing the accompaniment, Nan's own eyes would fill unexpectedly with tears and the black and white notes of the piano would run together into an oblong blur of gray.

For, though Peter had given her the keys of his heart, that night of moon and sea at Tintagel, she might never use them to unlock the door of heaven.