CHAPTER XVI

But the end comes sooner than Norah has planned.

Fate will not be mocked and defied, but demands quick retribution. Even now, while the lovers are wandering idly along the moorland paths and opening their hearts in the first effulgence of their new-found happiness, grim Fate is stalking them over the heather-clad hills and is coming quickly towards the girl who has dared to defy him.

And with cruel irony, Fate chooses for Norah's undoing three instruments which should be the last in the world to bring harm to her--a dog she has petted, a man she has befriended, and a child she has loved.

The dog comes first. He is just a mongrel spaniel, a brown thing with silky ears and most beseechful eyes and a more than human memory for a friend. Oh, that memory! It means the death of love to Norah! Over the ridge of the rough ground the dog appears, ranging from side to side and nosing about in the coarse growth as a spaniel will. Then he stops, seeing the couple beneath, and raises his brown head for a glance at them.

One glance is enough. With a short excited yelp of recognition he comes tumbling down the slope and rushes towards Norah, flattening himself to the ground at her feet, wriggling and dragging his silky body forward in an ecstasy of delight, and all the time flogging the earth with a thudding tail.

"Why, Mopsey, Mopsey!" cries the girl, stooping quietly to pat him.

And then she draws back quickly, biting her lip, knowing that she has betrayed herself.

"Hallo," says Stapleton, astonished, "why, the dog seems to know you!"

Is there any escape from this trap in which Norah has allowed herself to be caught unawares? Yes, perhaps with luck. It means _lying_, but Norah realises that she must not stick at telling more untruths--if Netta is to be saved.

"And you know him, too," Stapleton adds; "where have you seen him before?"

"Most dogs like me," she answered; "I always make friends with them at once. And this one reminded me of one I used to have at home, two or three years ago. He was called Mopsey, and was so much like this dear thing that for the moment I really half thought it was my old Mopsey come to life again!"

Lies! Lies! They fall awkwardly from the girl's lips, and she hates herself for telling them. She is not accustomed to speaking the thing that is not true--_was_ not accustomed, rather, till forced into it by the mad career upon which she was persuaded to embark. And now it is not easy to step back into the old paths of honour and truth. A hateful necessity holds her in its grip. For her own sake alone she would scorn to take refuge in this lying subterfuge, even though her brief hour of love is at stake and she finds herself standing at bay, faced by the hounds of Fate. But Netta's safety is another matter, and one which unrelentingly demands that she shall pile falsehood upon falsehood.

Even so, with her assumed hardihood, Norah is not able to bring a tone of conviction into her words; they ring false, as false as they are.

Nor does this escape her companion's notice. Stapleton darts a quick glance at her, almost doubting her for a fraction of a second. Then he feels thoroughly ashamed for daring to doubt her and is more than annoyed with himself for having done so. After all, why on earth should any doubt creep into the occasion? It is not such a very strange coincidence, to come across a dog resembling one you have owned in former days, is it?

Now he is all for making honourable amends for his momentary distrust.

"There is nothing very wonderful, Norah, dear," says he, "in all dogs loving you. _They_ know--they have an instinct for recognising people who are genuine and good. You never find a dog making friends with a mean person, a coward, a liar."

Oh! Oh! Inwardly Norah cowers and shrinks beneath this stinging blow, but outwardly she has to keep a bold face and maintain at least the appearance of frankness.

"What was your own Mopsey like?" pursues the girl's lover. "Spaniels are always so intelligent; was yours?"

Norah takes refuge in stooping to fondle the dog at her feet, in order to hide her face while she proceeds to invent the life history of an entirely imaginary dog.

"Intelligent?" she laughs, "why, Mopsey was the cleverest dog that ever lived! He knew as much as most humans, and a good deal more than some! He could do anything but speak. Even from a puppy he seemed to understand everything I said to him. For instance, I only had to say 'Mopsey, go upstairs and fetch my handkerchief, I left it on the bed,' and he would go at once and bring it. But that was nothing; once, I was going out to play tennis and when I had gone about half a mile from the house I discovered that the shoes I was carrying were not my own but Netta's, so I whistled to Mopsey and told him to take them back quickly and bring me my own shoes. You will hardly believe it when I tell you that within a quarter of an hour he was with me again, bringing the right pair of shoes in his mouth! I don't suppose there ever was quite such a clever dog as my dear old Mopsey!"

No, probably there never was!

Perhaps, in her artistic effort to portray the intelligent creature of her imagination, Norah has a little overdrawn the picture: yet Stapleton, blinded with love and devotion, does not see it, and only murmurs admiringly:

"You must have been awfully----"

Exactly how Stapleton intended to conclude his sentence is never known, for he breaks it off in the middle, being interrupted by a voice which comes ringing across the heather, the voice of some man as yet unseen, concealed by the turfy hillocks.

"_Mopsey, Mopsey! Good dog, come here then, where are you? Mopsey!_"

The dog has pricked up his silken ears at the first sound of the voice. He turns his head, and then for a moment pretends not to have heard, yielding to the pleasurable lure of Norah's caressing hands. Only for a moment, though. As the cry is repeated, coming nearer this time, the dog's instinct of duty proves stronger than the rival attraction, and he bounds off up the bank in a floundering run to seek his master.

_His master!_ Norah gasps as she realises how much greater her danger is than she had fondly imagined. How could she be fool enough, she asks herself, to imagine that Mopsey's master could be very far away from Mopsey?

So now the game is up! All hope is lost, and her ingenious fabrications have been of no avail. She might have known it!

Resigning herself to her fate, she turns and looks upwards to find, as she expected, Stapleton looking down upon her in troubled wonderment.

There is something more than wonder in his handsome face, shadowed now by a look of severity, almost of anger. He is frowning, and a glance of accusation shines from his eyes:

"Why, Norah----" he begins; but proceeds no further. Once more he is interrupted.

Over the top of the bank appear two men in bluejackets' rig, stalwart young able seamen their faces glowing with the healthy buffetings of the North Sea wind and spray. At least one of them possesses this appearance to a marked degree; he has evidently spent a long sojourn up in the Northern Mists. His companion rather lacks that jolly weather-beaten look, though he too is fresh-coloured and healthy; and it is at his heels that the dog Mopsey walks--though he breaks away again at sighting Norah, and comes lolloping up to her again.

The two bluejackets check their stride on seeing an officer before them, and are about to turn respectfully aside and seek another path when Mopsey's master turns his eyes upon the girl at the officer's side--recognises her!

Then, with a leap and a run through the thick scrubby growth of furze and heather, he comes to her with outstretched hand and a smile of astonishment and welcome.

"Why, Miss," he exclaims, "who ever would have thought of seeing you here! I thought you were going to Ireland!"

Stapleton stands apart in silence, looking from one to the other, and not knowing what to make of it all. He thinks he had better watch, and listen; possibly the mystery will explain itself.

It does. He has not long to wait.

"How did you get here, Miss?" continues the sailor; "only last week, when you were staying at our house in Glasgow, you said you were going to your cousin's home in Ireland for six months--how is it that I find you here? Is your--is Miss Netta with you?"

Norah, for one brief moment, has thought wildly of brazening it out and denying that she has ever met this man; of saying that he must be mistaking her for someone else of his acquaintance. But she perceives that this course of action would avail her not at all. It is only too obvious that the man has really recognised her; besides, he has openly mentioned Netta's name. There is no escaping from such a trap as this!

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