CHAPTER XIII
BY THE LOVERS' BRIDGE
The usual shower of congratulations descended upon the heads of Nan andRoger when, on their return from the rose-garden, the news of theirengagement filtered through the house-party and the little bunch offriends who had "dropped in" for tea, sure of the unfailing hospitalityof Mallow Court. Those amongst the former who had deeper and moretroubled thoughts about the matter were perforce compelled to keep themin abeyance for the time being.
It was only when the visitors had departed that Kitty succeeded ingetting 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 betrayednothing.
"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 avelvet curtain, only to come sharply up against a shutter of steelconcealed beneath it.
In duty bound, however, she invited Trenby to remain for dinner, aninvitation which he accepted with alacrity, and throughout the meal Nanwas at her gayest and most sparkling. It seemed impossible to believethat all was not well with her, and if the brilliant mood were designedto prevent Penny from guessing the real state of affairs it waseminently successful. Even Lord St. John and the Seymours were almostpersuaded into the belief that she was happy in her engagement. But aseach and all of them were arguing from the false premise that thechange in Nan had been entirely due to Rooke's treatment of her, theywere inevitably very far from the truth.
That Peter was in love with Nan, Kitty was aware, but she knew nothingof that brief scene at the flat, interrupted by the delivery of Rooke'stelegram, and during which, with hardly a word spoken, Nan had suddenlyrealised that Peter loved her and that she, too, returned his love.Perhaps had any of them known of that first meeting between the two,when Peter had come to Nan's rescue in Hyde Park and helped her to herjourney's end, it might have gone far towards enlightening them, butneither Peter nor Nan had ever supplied any information on the subject.It almost seemed as though by some mental process of thoughttransference, each had communicated with the other and resolved to keeptheir secret--an invisible bond between them.
"You're not frightened, are you, Nan?" asked Roger, when the rest ofthe household had tactfully left them alone together a few minutesbefore his departure.
He spoke very gently and tenderly. Like most men, he was at his bestjust now, when he had so newly gained the promise of the woman heloved--rather humble, even a little awed at the great gift bestowedupon him, and thinking only of Nan and of what he would do to compassher happiness in the future when she should be his wife.
"No, I'm not frightened." replied Nan. "I think"--quietly--"I shall beso--safe--with you."
"Safe?"--emphatically. "I should think you would be safe! I'm strongenough to guard my wife from most dangers, I think!"
The violet-blue eyes meeting his held a somewhat weary smile. It wasbeginning already--that inevitable noncomprehension of two suchdivergent natures. They did not sense the same things--did not evenspeak the same language. Trenby took everything quite literally--theobvious surface meaning of the words, and the delicate nuances ofspeech, the significant inflections interwoven with it, meant about asmuch to him as the frail Venetian glass, the dainty porcelain figuresof old Bristol or Chelsea ware, would mean to the proverbial bull in achina-shop.
"And now, sweetheart," he went on, rather conventionally, "when willyou come to see my mother? She will be longing to meet you."
Nan shuddered inwardly. Of course she knew one always _did_ ultimatelymeet one's future mother-in-law, but the prompt and dutiful way inwhich Roger brought out his suggestion seemed like a sentence culledfrom some Early Victorian book. Certainly it was altogether alien toNan's ultra-modern, semi-Bohemian notions.
"Suppose you come to lunch to-morrow? I should like you to meet her assoon as possible."
There was something just the least bit didactic in the latter part ofthe sentence, a hint of the proprietary note. Nan recoiled from itinstinctively.
"No, not to-morrow," she exclaimed hastily. "I'm going over to seeAunt Eliza--Mrs. McBain, you know--and I can't put it off. I haven'tbeen near her for a fortnight, and she'll he awfully offended if Idon't go."
"Then it must be Tuesday," said Roger, with an air of making aconcession.
Nan felt that nothing could save her from Tuesday, and agreed meekly.At the same moment, to her unspeakable relief, Kitty looked into theroom to enquire gaily:
"Are you two still saying good-bye?"
Trenby rose reluctantly.
"No. We were just making arrangements about Nan's coming to the Hallto 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 thelights of Roger's car speed down the drive.
At least she was her own mistress again 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 andno blood relation--a dispensation for which, at not infrequentintervals of Nan's career, Mrs. McBain had been led to thank theAlmighty effusively. Born and reared in the uncompromising tenets ofScotch Presbyterianism, her attitude towards Nan was one of rigiddisapproval--a disapproval that warred somewhat pathetically againstthe affection with which the girl's essential lovableness inspired her.For there was no gainsaying the charm of the Davenant women! But Elizastill remembered very clearly the sense of shocked dismay which, yearsago, had overwhelmed her righteous soul on learning that her onlybrother, Andrew McDermot, had become engaged to one of the beautifulDavenant sisters.
In those days the insane extravagances and lawlessness of the Davenantfamily had become proverbial. There had been only three of them leftto carry on the wild tradition--Timothy, Nan's father, who fearedneither man nor devil, but could wile a bird off a tree or a woman'sheart from her keeping, and his two sisters, whose beauty had brokenmore hearts than their kindness could ever mend. And not one of thethree had escaped the temperamental heritage which Angele de Varincourthad grafted on to a parent stem of dare-devil, reckless English growth.
The McDermots of Tarn, on the other hand, traced their descent in adirect line from one of the unbending old Scotch Covenanters of 1638,and it had always been a source of vague bewilderment to Eliza that arace sprang from so staunchly Puritan a stock should have been juggledby that inimitable trickster, Fate, into allying itself with a familyin whose veins ran the hot French blood of the Varincourts.
Perhaps old Dame Nature in her garnered wisdom could have explained theriddle. Certain it was that no sooner had Andrew McDermot set eyesupon Gabrielle Davenant--sister to that Annabel whom Lord St. John hadloved and married--than straightway the visions of his youth, in whichhe had pictured some staid and modest-seeming Scotswoman as hishelpmeet, were swept away by an overwhelming Celtic passion of love andromance of which he had not dreamed that he could be possessed.
It was a meeting of extremes, and since Gabrielle had drooped and pinedin the bleak northern castle where the lairds of Tarn had dwelt fromtime immemorial, McDermot laid even his ancestral home upon love'saltar and, coming south, had bought Trevarthen Wood, a tree-girt,sheltered house no great distance from Mallow, though further inland.
But the change was made too late to accomplish its purpose of renewingGabrielle's enfeebled health. Almost imperceptibly, with slow andkindly footsteps, Death had drawn daily nearer, until at last, quitehappily and like a little child that is tired of playing and only wantsto rest, Gabrielle slipped out of the world and her place knew her nomore.
After his wife's death, McDermot had returned to his old home inScotland and had reassumed his duties there as laird of the district,and when, later on, Death struck again, this time leaving his sisterEliza a widow in none too affluent circumstanc
es, he had presented herwith his Cornish home, glad to be rid of a place so haunted by poignantmemories.
In such wise had Mrs. McBain and Sandy come to dwell in Cornwall, andsince this, their third summer there, had brought his adored NanDavenant once more to Mallow Court on a lengthy visit, Sandy's cup ofjoy was filled to the brim.
Mrs. McBain regarded her offspring from much the same standpoint asdoes a hen the brood of enterprising ducklings which, owing to somestratagem on the part of the powers that be, have hatched out from theeggs upon which she has been conscientiously sitting in the fond beliefthat they were those of her own species.
Sandy was a source of perpetual surprise to his mother, and of notinconsiderable anxiety. How she and the late Duncan McBain of entirelyprosaic memory had contrived to produce more or less of a musicalgenius by way of offspring she had never been able to fathom. Neitherparent had ever shown the slightest tendency in that direction, and itis very certain that had such a development manifested itself, theywould have speedily set to work to correct it, regarding music--otherthan hymnal--as a lure of Satan.
They had indeed done their best for Sandy himself in that respect,negativing firmly his desire for proper musical tuition, with theresult that now, at twenty years of age, he was a musician spoiltthrough lack of training. Most of his pocket-money in early days hadbeen expended upon surreptitious violin lessons, and he had frequentlypractised for hours out of doors in the woods, at a distance from thehouse which secured the parental ear from outrage.
Since her husband's death, however, Eliza, chiding herself the whilefor her weakness, had yielded to a pulsing young enthusiasm that wouldnot be denied, and music of a secular nature was permitted atTrevarthen--unchecked though disapproved.
Thus it came about that on the afternoon of Nan's visit Sandy was to befound zealously absorbed in the composition of a triumphal march. Theblare of trumpets, the swinging tramp of marching men and thethunderous roll of drums--this last occurring very low down in thebass--were combining to fill the room with joyful noise when there camea light tap at the open French window and Nan herself stood poised onthe threshold.
"Hullo, Sandy, what's that you're playing?"
Sandy sprang off the music stool, beaming with delight, and, seizingher 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 Dminor or not. Listen."
Nan obeyed, gave her opinion, and finally subsided rather listlesslyinto a low arm-chair.
"Give me a cigarette, Sandy. It's an awfully tiring walk here. IsAunt 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, Mrs. Petherick at the lodge would confide theinformation that we'd had tea alone together to Miss Penwarne at thePost Office, and in half an hour the entire village would be all agogto know when the subsequent elopement was likely to occur."
Sandy grinned. He had proposed to Nan several times already, only tobe 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. Then,blowing out the flame, he enquired:
"Does that apply when she's only three years his senior?"
"Oh, Sandy, I'm aeons older than you. A woman always is.Besides"--her words hurrying a little--"I'm engaged already."
"Engaged?"
He dropped the dead match he was still holding and stared out of thewindow 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 intime and no sound escaped. Turning to Nan, he spoke with a gravitythat sat strangely on him.
"Old girl, I hope you'll be very happy--the happiest woman in theworld." But there was a look of dissatisfaction in his eyes which hadnothing whatever to do with his own disappointment. He had known allalong that he had really no chance with her.
"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 voicetook on a note of earnestness--"if you're ever in need of a pal---I'mhere, mind."
Nan was conscious of a sudden sharp pain--like the stab of a nerve.The memory of just such another pledge swept over her: "I think Ishould always know if you were in trouble--and I should come." Only ithad been uttered by a different voice--the quiet, drawling voice ofPeter Mallory.
"Thank you, Sandy dear. I won't forget."
There was a faint weariness in her tones, despite the smile whichaccompanied them. Sandy's nice green eyes surveyed her critically,noting the slight hollowing of the outline of her cheek and the littletired droop of her lips as the smile faded.
"I tell you what it is," he said, "you're fagged out, tramping overhere 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 thetea paraphernalia. Sandy turned abruptly to the piano, thrumming out afew desultory minor chords which probably gave his perturbed young soula certain amount of relief, while Nan sat gazing with a half-maternal,half-humorous tenderness at the head of flaming red hair which hadearned him his sobriquet.
"Weel, so ye've come to see me at last--or is it Sandy that you'recalling on?"
The door had opened to admit Mrs. McBain--a tall, gaunt woman withiron-grey hair and shrewd, observant eyes that glinted with the greyflash of steel.
Nan jumped up at her entrance.
"Oh, Aunt Eliza? How are you? I should have been over to see youbefore, but there always seems to be something or other going on atMallow."
"I don't doubt it--in yon house of Belial," retorted Mrs. McBain,presenting a chaste cheek to Nan's salute. The young red lips pressedagainst the hard-featured face curved into a smile. Nan was no whit inawe of her aunt's bitter tongue, and it was probably for this veryreason that Mrs. McBain could not help liking her. Most sharp-spokenpeople appreciate someone who is not afraid to stand up to them, andNan and Mrs. McBain had crossed swords in many a wordy battle.
"Are you applying the name of Belial to poor old Barry?" enquired Sandywith interest. "I don't consider he's half earned it."
"Barry Seymour's a puir weak fule and canna rule his ain hoose," camethe curt answer.
Mrs. McBain habitually spoke as excellent English as only a Scotswomancan, but it pleased her on occasion to assume the Doric--much as aduchess may her tiara.
"Barry's a dear," protested Nan, "and he doesn't need to play at beingmaster in his own house."
"I'm willing to believe you. That red-headed body is mistress andmaster too."
Sandy grinned.
"I consider that remark eminently personal. The hue of one's hair is amisfortune, not a fault," he submitted teasingly. "In Kitty you mustat least allow that the red takes a more pleasing form than it doeswith me."
Mrs. McBain sniffed.
"You'll be tellin' me next that her hair's the colour God made it," sheobserved indignantly.
Sandy and Nan broke into laughter.
"Well, mine is, anyway," said the former. "It would never have beenthis colour if I'd had a say in the matter."
Eliza surveyed her offspring with disfavour.
"It's an ill thing, Sandy McBain, to question the ways of the Almightywho made you."
"I don't. It's you who seem far more disposed to disparage thecompleted article than I." He beamed at her seraphically.
Eliza's thin lips relaxed into an unwilling smile. Sandy wa
s asequally the joy of her heart as he was the flagellation of herconscience.
"Well, I'll own you're the first of the McBains to go daft over music."
She handed a cup of tea to Nan as she spoke. Then asked;
"And how's your uncle, St. John?"
"He's at Mallow, too. We all are--Penelope and Uncle David, and RalphFenton--"
"And who may Mr. Fenton be? I've never met him--have I, Sandy?"
"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 matterof unavailing regret to him that owing to his parents' prejudiceagainst music and musicians he had been debarred from earning a livingin like manner with his long, capable fingers. Eliza saw the shadow,and her brows contracted in a slight frown. Vaguely she was beginningto realise some small part of the suffering which the parentalrestriction had imposed upon her son--the perpetual irritation of athwarted longing which it had entailed. But she had not yet advancedsufficiently along the widening road of thought to grasp the pitiful,irreparable waste it had involved of a talent bordering on genius.
She pursed her lips obstinately together.
"There'll come no blessing with money that's earned by merepleasuring," 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 drily.
Nan laughed, colouring a little.
"Perhaps I should work harder if Uncle David didn't spoil me so. Youknow he's increased my allowance lately?"
Eliza snorted indignantly.
"I always kent he was mair fulish than maist o' his sex."
"It's rather an endearing kind of foolishness," remarked Sandy.
His mother eyed him sharply.
"We're not put into the world to be endearing," she retorted, "but todo our duty."
"It might be possible to combine both," suggested Sandy.
"Well, you're not the one to do it," she answered grimly. "And what'sPenelope doing?" she continued, turning to Nan. "She's more sense thanthe rest of ye put together, for all she's so daft about music."
"Penelope," said Sandy solemnly, "is preparing to enter upon the dutiesand privileges of matrimony."
"What may you mean by that?"
Sandy stirred his tea while Eliza waited impatiently for his answer.
"She's certainly 'walking out,'" he maintained.
"And that's by no means the shortest road to matrimony," snapped Eliza."My cook's been walking out with the village carpenter ever since shecame to St. Wennys, but she's no nearer a wedding ring than she wastwelve months ago."
"I think," observed Sandy gravely, "that greater success will attendPenelope's perambulations. Kitty was so cock-a-hoop over it that shecouldn't refrain from 'phoning the good news on Sunday morning. Imeant to tell you when you came back from church, but clean forgot."
"And who's the man?"
"Penelope's young man? Oh, Ralph Fenton, the fellow who makes'pleasuring' pay so uncommonly well. He's been occupying anignominious position at the wheels of Penelope's chariot ever sincethey both came to Mallow. I think Kitty Seymour would make amatrimonial agent _par excellence_--young men and maidens introducedunder the most favourable circumstances and _no_ fee whensuited!"--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"--with a lightness of tone that effectually concealed hisfeelings--"not to be outdone by Penny, she herself has gone and gotengaged. So I shall live and die alone."
"And what like is the man ye've chosen?" demanded Eliza, turning toNan. "Not another of these music-daft creatures, I hope?"
"I think you'll quite approve, Aunt Eliza," answered Nan with abecoming meekness. "I'm engaged to marry Roger Trenby."
"Well, I hope ye'll be happier than maist o' the married folks I ken.Eh!"--with a chuckle--"but Roger's picked a stick for his own back!"
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 thatVarincourt woman's own great-grand-daughter. 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'sreally 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."
Sandy accompanied her down the drive. At the gates he 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 ofcynicism quite foreign to the fresh, sweet outlook upon life which hadbeen hers before she had ever met Maryon Rooke.
"I don't suppose I should be really happy with anyone, Sandy. I wanttoo 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 woundits way past the gates of Trevarthen Wood, and then, dipping into thevalley, climbed the hill beyond and lost itself in the broad highway oflight which shimmered from the western sky. Presently she turned asidefrom the road and, scrambling through a gap in a stone wall, plungedinto the cool shadows of the woods. A heavy rain had fallen during thenight, soaking the thirsty earth, and the growing green things were allresponsively alive and vivid once again, while the clean, pleasantsmell of damp soil came fragrantly to her nostrils.
Though she tramped manfully along, Nan found her progress far fromswift, for the surface of the ground was sticky and sodden after therain. Her boots made soft little sucking sounds at every step. Norwas she quite sure of her road back to Mallow by way of the woods. Shehad been instructed that somewhere there ran a tiny river which shemust cross by means of a footbridge, and then ascend the hill on theopposite side. "And after that," Barry had told her, "you can't loseyourself if you try."
But prior to that it seemed a very probable contingency, and she wasbeginning to weary of plodding over the boggy land, alternately slappedby outstanding branches or--when a little puff of wind racedoverhead--drenched by a shower of garnered raindrops from some treewhich seemed to shake itself in the breeze just as a dog may shakehimself after a plunge in the sea, and with apparently the sameintention of wetting you as much as possible in the process.
At last from somewhere below came the sound of running water, and Nanbent her steps hopefully in its direction. A few minutes' furtherwalking brought her to the head of a deep-bosomed coombe, and the meresight of it was almost reward enough for the difficulties of thejourney. A verdant cleft, it slanted down between the hills, the treeson either side giving slow, reluctant place to big boulders,moss-bestrewn and grey, while athwart the tall brown trunks whichcrowned it, golden spears, sped by the westering sun, tremulouslypierced the summer dusts.
Nan made her way down the coombe's steep side with feet that slippedand slid on the wet, shelving banks of mossy grass. But at length shereached the level of the water and here her progress became more sure.Further on, she knew, must be the footbridge which Barry haddescribed--probably beyond the sharp curve which lay just ahead of her.She rounded the bend, then stopped abruptly, startled at seeing thefigure of a man standing by the bank of the river. He had his backtowards her and seemed engrossed in his thoughts. Almost instantly,however, as though subconsciously aware of her approach, he turned.
Nan stood quite still as he came towards her, limping a l
ittle. Shefelt that if she moved she must surely stumble and fall. The beatingof her heart thundered in her ears and for a moment the river, and thesteep sides of the coombe, and the figure of Peter Mallory himself allseemed to grow dim and vague as though seen through a thick mist.
"Nan!"
The dear, familiar voice, with an ineffable tenderness in its slowdrawl, reached her even through the thrumming beat of her heart.
"Peter--oh, Peter--"
Her voice failed her, and the next moment they were shaking handsconventionally just as though they were two quite ordinary people withwhom love had nothing to do.
"I didn't know you were coming to-day," she said, making a fierceeffort 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 nothingabout 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 thoughtI'd walk up from the station. So we're both making for the samebridge. It's only about two minutes' walk from here."
They strolled on side by side, Peter rather silent, and each of themvibrantly conscious of the other's nearness. Suddenly Mallory pulledup and a quick exclamation broke from him as he pointed ahead.
"We're done! The bridge is gone!"
Nan's eyes followed the direction of his hand. Here the river ran moreswiftly, and swollen by last nights storm of wind and rain, it hadswept away the frail old footbridge which spanned it. Only a fewdecayed sticks and rotten wooden stumps remained of what had once beenknown as the Lovers' Bridge--the trysting place of who shall say howmany lovers in the days of its wooden prime?
Somehow a tinge of melancholy seemed to hang about the few scraps ofwreckage. How many times the little bridge must have tempted men andmaidens to linger of a summer evening, dreaming the big dreams ofyouth--visions which the spreading wings of Time bear away into theLand of Lost Desires. Perhaps some kind hand garners them--thosetender, wonderful, courageous dreams of our wise youth and keeps themsafely for us against the Day of Reckoning, so that they may weight thescales a little in our favour.
Peter stood looking down at the scattered fragments of the bridge withan odd kind of gravity in his eyes. It seemed a piece of trenchantsymbolism that the Lovers' Bridge should break when he and Nan essayedto cross it. There was a slight, whimsical smile, which held somethingof pain, on his lips when he turned to her again.
"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 feltthat she couldn't let Peter--Peter, of all men in the world--carry herin his arms!
"It isn't so deep higher up, is it?" she suggested. "I could wadethere."
"No, it's not so deep, but the river bed is very stony. You'd cut yourfeet to pieces."
"Then I suppose you'll have to carry me," she agreed at last, withobvious 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 tweedof his coat brushed her cheek. Then, holding her very carefully, hestepped down from the bank into the stream and began to make his wayacross.
Nan had no fear that he might let her fall. The arms that held herfelt pliant and strong as steel, and their clasp about her filled herwith a strange, new ecstasy that thrilled her from head to foot. Itfrightened her.
"Am I awfully heavy?" she asked, nervously anxious to introduce someelement of commonplace.
And Peter, looking down at the delicately angled face which lay againsthis shoulder, drew his breath hard.
"No," he answered briefly. "You're not heavy."
There was that in his gaze which brought the warm colour into her face.Her lids fell swiftly, veiling her eyes, and she turned her facequickly towards his shoulder. All that remained visible was the edgeof the little turban hat she wore and, below this, a dusky sweep ofhair against her white skin.
He went on in silence, conscious in every fibre of his being of thesupple 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 hisshoulder. He jerked his head aside, his mouth set grimly, and crossedquickly to the other bank of the river.
As he let her slip to the ground, steadying her with his arms abouther, 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 shesensed it through every nerve of her. Standing in the twilight, shakenand clutching wildly after her self-control, she knew that if hetouched her again or took her in his arms, she would yieldhelplessly--gladly!
Peter knew it, too, knew that the merest thread of courage andself-respect kept them apart. His arms strained at his sides. Forcinghis voice to an impersonal, level tone, he said practically:
"It's getting late. Come on, little pal, we must make up time, orthey'll be sending out a search party for us from Mallow."
It was late in the evening before Nan and Peter found themselves alonetogether again. Everyone was standing about in the big hall exchanginggood nights and last snippets of talk before taking their several waysto 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 facewas rather 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'sshaking hands between his own and held them very gently as he put hisnext question.
"You don't care for him." It was more an assertion, than a question,though it demanded a reply.
"No."
His grasp of her hands tightened.
"Then, for God's sake, don't make the same hash of your life as I madeof mine. Believe me, Nan"--his voice roughened--"it's far worse to bemarried to someone you don't love than to remain unmarried all yourdays."
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