CHAPTER XXXVI

WHAT CHANCED UPON THE MOORS

"What can I give thee back, O liberal And princely giver, who hast brought the gold And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold, And laid them on the outside of the wall For such as I to take or leave withal?" --SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

Lancelot had gone to Glen Royd.

Bert found that he could not stay indoors. He wandered out, through the gardens, into the long carriage drive which ran upon the side of the ravine, among the pines, with a sheer ascent on one hand, and a sheer dip on the other, down to where the trout stream rushed over its noisy bed.

He paced along the road, dark beneath the over-arching trees, till he came to the lodge and gate at the end of the wood. There was no sign of Lance returning, so he walked on, and bending to the left, came, after a climb, out upon the highroad to Fransdale. Nobody was about. He sat down upon a grassy hummock, watching the pretty horned sheep cropping the short grass about him in the fragrant evening. He was so still that the sheep grazed nearer and nearer.

He was thinking that man is strangely in the grip of circumstance.

Since that night of parting at Clunbury, he had been through deep waters. Carol, who had been so long excluded, was summoned at last. The final knock-out had been too serious for the champion to bear alone.

He had laid all the circumstances before the Bishop, and told him that he would follow his advice as to the course now to be pursued--whether he should let things go on, or make one more effort to show Melicent what he believed to be the truth, to induce her to break her engagement.

In the light of what he now heard--namely, that Melicent had almost at once recognised Bert--Mayne had little difficulty in falling in with Bert's opinion as to her reason for engaging herself to Lance. His disapproval of the said proceeding was so grave that he felt, and said, that he really thought it would be better for Bert to have nothing more to do with her.

"Incredible selfishness and duplicity," he mercilessly called it at first, till warned by Bert's rising anger that strictures upon Melicent would merely have the effect of drying up the flow of confidence.

"I began the duplicity," said Bert doggedly. "I don't see what she could do but follow suit."

"Does that excuse your further duplicity," came the answering thrust, "in proceeding to make love to her while Lance was in Russia?"

"I'm hanged if I see what the d--" A sudden pause. "I quite fail to see what other course I could have taken. They were to be married when he came back. I had got to show her before then that the thing couldn't be done. And I succeeded, within a hair's-breadth. If it hadn't been for my d--! Beg pardon! if it hadn't been for my--unfortunate temper, I should have succeeded."

"From what you tell me," the Bishop opined, "it really seems as if she does like you best, but as if her pride would not allow her to give way. The question is--Has your violence destroyed your chance finally? I think you ought to find out."

"You do?--you do? You think I might have another try?"

"Well, are you to be trusted to keep yourself in check? You know of old that when you lose your temper you have no chance at all with Millie, because she never loses hers."

Hubert grinned. "She did the other night, though."

"Do you think she said things that she will be ashamed of when she thinks them over?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then I think that should give you a hold of a new kind over her. If you can only manage to put her in the wrong, old man, and be magnanimous and forgive her--see?"

Bert's admiration was open and glowing.

"You have a genius! You ought to marry, Bishop--you ought really."

"My advice is," finally said the mentor, "that you go at once to Fransdale, and see how the land lies. See what frame of mind Millie is in. If she is scornful and gay, and wrapped up in Lance and her marriage, your course will be more difficult. If she shows you, by word or look, that she thinks she behaved ill, or wounded you, or desires your good opinion, then to my thinking you have a chance that you ought to take. You have now been disciplined by failure; you should have learnt something; and Melicent also must be wiser. For if she has any feeling at all--which, as you know, I always took leave to doubt--she must have suffered keenly during these last few months."

It was with the ring of this advice in his ears that Bert had hurled himself and his motor through England, and arrived at Fransdale, where in his rage he had vowed never to set foot more.

At the first sight of Melicent he believed that he had done right to come.

And behold, an hour later, all things were changed; the chance appearance of Otis had, as it were, altered the entire situation. Bert was no longer suppliant, but defender of Melicent's name against all comers--even against the man she was to marry.

It seemed to him that, whether she ever came to care for himself or no, she must break with Lance; for, knowing her as he did, he was sure that now she must feel that, if the engagement went on, full confession of all that had passed was imperative; and that seemed impossible.

Suspense grew and mounted in him till he felt desperate; yet still he sat there, with a kind of charmed stillness, while the quiet-coloured end of evening slowly merged in twilight.

It was growing dark when at last he saw figures moving along the path that led up on the other side of the ridge from Glen Royd--two figures, indistinct at first in the dusk, then clearer. It was Lancelot and Melicent walking together. Bert felt dizzy.

Then he had lost! They were reconciled! They moved slowly along, and he saw that Lance was pushing her bicycle.

He rose and obliterated himself hastily behind a craggy boulder.

They both turned into the road leading to the carriage drive of the Grange, which was also a short cut to the lower parts of Fransdale. They passed in complete silence, and he watched them along the white track of road until they were lost in the shadows of the wood.

A light glimmered out in the lodge window. It was the only sign of human life within his ken.

Lance must be bringing her back to dine, and intending to cycle home with her afterwards. He lit a match and looked at his watch. A quarter to eight. He could not meet them. He realised that he must have time.

He had done what he believed to be right--told the truth, as far as he thought it permissible, to wipe away from his conscience the stain of his treachery to Lance. And the result was that they were reconciled, and he was left in outer darkness. He knew that he had not expected it.

His misery was too great for him to reflect at present. He could not tell what he should do. He plunged down the hill-side with no thought at first but to walk, to get away, to move fast, to fight down some overwhelming bitterness of darkness which was clutching him.

At the bottom of the valley by the mill he turned and hastened up stream by the fishing-path among the thick trees. Careless of his direction, he walked on until he was at the head of Ilbersdale, and had emerged from the woods upon the open, broken moor that lay at the feet of Fransdale. There he lifted up his eyes, and saw far above him, perched upon the very verge of the precipice, the lights of Ilberston Church and Vicarage.

He thought of Mr. Hall. It occurred to him to wonder whether this man, whose personality had impressed him, as it impressed most people, would have help or counsel for him. Anyhow, to breast that hill was something to attempt--something that chimed in with his mood just then.

It was choir practice night, and the church door being open, the sound of the sweet Cleveshire voices floated out over the uplands, and made articulate the beauty of the night.

Hubert pushed his way hurriedly, yet not fast, because heedlessly, over the broken ground, with which he was not familiar. There were short cuts, but in the dusk he did not find them. Several times he was brought up short by hollow ravines or boggy ground, and it was long before he struck the road that leads up to the steep verge.

He had been walking for nearly two hours when at last he found himself at the top. The full moon was up, and was flooding the moors with silver. The prospect was grand. On the horizon line the Three Howes stood up black against the radiance--the prehistoric burial-place of forgotten chiefs. At his back the white crosses that mark the resting-places of the Dalesmen glimmered among the neatly shorn grass of the churchyard.

He sat upon the low wall, gazing out over the silent waste. The church was in darkness now, and closed; the village beyond showed but few lights. The lamp over the Vicarage door beamed steadily upon the night, and showed a lady's bicycle leaning against the Vicarage garden wall. Surely the little brown basket on the handle-bars was familiar to him? Surely he had seen that same machine leaning against the trees of the plantation at Lone Ash?

He sprang from his seat and went up close. It was Melicent's bicycle. Then she herself was within! She had not gone to dine with the Burmesters; she had come straight up here to Mr. Hall. A wave of excitement passed over Hubert. Should he go in, and let the priest hear both sides of the question? What had happened--what had passed between her and Lance? If he had not played the coward, and run away, he would have known by now. As he hesitated, the Vicarage door opened. He saw Mr. Hall stand in the light, with the girl beside him. For the second time that night he drew back and hid himself.

"Don't ride the steep bit to-night," he heard Mr. Hall say, as he lit her lamp.

"I know every inch of the way; it's really quite safe," was the characteristic response.

"I shall feel more comfortable if you promise me. It is late for you to be returning alone, but I cannot come with you; I must go on to poor old Martha Hirst."

Millie's little laugh sounded sad. "You needn't be nervous about me on these moors at night."

"I don't think I need, or I would not let you go; but the moon is glorious. Good-night, and God bless you!"

She mounted, and rode swiftly away, past the church, along the little level bit of road that came before the steep dip over the mountain-side. The brief dialogue had decided Bert. Mr. Hall was not at leisure, and Millie was riding home late, alone. His place was to follow her. He had ascertained that there was a footpath which was far shorter than the windings she must go down with her cycle. If she were going to walk the steep bit, he thought he could overtake her when she dismounted to walk up the next ascent.

At the lower end of the steep hill, if you followed the road, you came to a stone bridge; and here the Ilba flowed more silently, and deep pools harboured many a fat trout. Trees arched over the road, growing by the water-side; and under them were inky shadows.

Melicent's lamp gleamed brightly, but not bright enough to show the wire fastened across the road. She was riding fast, with the impetus of the long hill just negotiated, and she checked herself with difficulty as the figure of a man detached itself from the shadow, waving his arms and crying, "Stop! Danger! You'll fall!"

"What is the matter?" she cried, putting on her brakes and just managing to alight "You!"--she stopped short, recognising Amurrica.

"We were gettin' ready for someone else," said Amurrica drily. "This is an unexpected pleasure. Are you ridin' alone?"

"You see that I am."

"Our friend's gone home another way then, seemin'ly. But as you're here, let's make the most of it. Give us a kiss, little Millie."

"Don't be a cad, Amurrica!" said Millie, with a most unlooked-for gentleness. "I don't know why you stopped me, but I am glad you did, for there are things I want to say to you. Is my brother here?"

"Yes," said Arnie, slouching out from the gloom.

"Amurrica," said Millie earnestly, "first of everything, I want to beg your pardon. You were very cruel to me in the old days, but I have been shown to-day that it was my fault. I was hard and insolent. If I had been a different kind of girl, perhaps you'd not have wanted to injure me?"

Amurrica stood staring. Was this Millie? "What yer givin' us?" he growled.

"I want to say I am sorry," said the girl steadily. "I was hard and insolent to you again to-day. I provoked you to try and do me harm. But I--didn't know you had Arnie with you. I--I remember Arnie when he was a dear little curly-headed baby. I never was good to him. I was always--disagreeable. Arnie, I--am--so--sorry! I want to say--forgive me!"

Her voice broke. She turned her head away and drew out a handkerchief. Amurrica was stricken dumb. That Millie could humble herself--that Millie could cry--these incidents had seemed to him utterly out of the range of the things that happen. He had nothing to say. Arnie giggled awkwardly.

"Amurrica," said Millie earnestly, laying a hand on his sleeve, "you would have been a better man if you had known better women. I am one that helped to make you worse, because I never appealed to the good in you. There was only one of us who did the right thing all through; and that was Bert. He saved me then, and to-day he has saved me again. He has done more for me this day than I could ever tell anybody. Oh, Amurrica, we ought to be so ashamed of ourselves--you and I!"

Amurrica, during this remarkable interview, had been like one bereft of his usual faculties.

"Well, I'm d--d!" he said at last. "What kind of palaver's this? Mestaer's playin' his own hand, same as I am--him an' his bloomin' millions! Thought I didn't know him! Thought he was safe, did he? Bless his kind heart, he'll find out that I'm goin' to get even with him--if not one way, then another!"

A thought went like lightning through Millie's brain.

"Are you waiting here for him?"

They did not answer.

"What makes you think he will come this way?"

"He went up there," said Arnie.

"Up there? Up that hill? He's not there now; I've just come from there."

"Hist!" said Otis.

They all heard a footstep, clear in the night stillness, swinging down the hill at a steady run.

"If it is he, Amurrica, now is your time to make it up," urged Millie, and her heart began to beat faster, and sweet, wild thoughts surged up within her at the thought that she was hearkening her lover's approaching feet.

"I'll make it up, no fear!" was the muttered reply, as Otis, who was standing behind her, gripped her firmly by both elbows, pinioning her in his strong hold, and backing into the deepest shadow on the farther side of the bridge, under the trees. "Hold her!" he gasped to Arnie; "hold tight, we've only a minute!"

The inky darkness, rendered blacker by contrast with the white wash of moonlight on the road in front, held the struggling group invisible. Had Millie had an inkling of her captor's plan she would have screamed, but intent upon her peace-making desires, she still wished to try gentle methods. Before she realised his intentions, Otis had rammed a handkerchief forcibly against her mouth, and swiftly wound the feather boa she wore round and round her head, forming a most excellent impromptu gag. He was reckless now, and cared only for his revenge, consequences had faded out of sight. Millie, sensible in a flash of her own helplessness and Bert's danger, fought with all her strength.

The light, firm steps came on fast. They were round the corner. Hubert hastened in the moon's full radiance to the darkness where the trap lay for him. Just before he reached the fatal spot, a sound came to the trained ear of the scout--a muffled, indeterminate sound, which was not running water, nor the sound of feet upon a hard road.

Full in the light he stood, a brave target for a bullet; and even as he paused, before he had drawn a breath, there was the report of a revolver, a cry of some kind, a sound of scuffling, a splashing as of someone wading in water; and silence.

He stood bewildered. The idea that somebody had tried to shoot him never suggested itself. He thought it must be poachers, though the report did not sound like a rifle shot, and there were no woods quite near. He at once started to run on and see what had happened; and at once tripped and fell, caught by the unseen wire.

Having fallen with some impetus, he came to the ground heavily; and regained his feet with quite a new impression of some danger imminent, though still he never dreamed that the entanglement had been set for him. His heart flew to Melicent. What of her? She must but a moment ago have passed the spot. His first action was to pull out matches and strike a light. Holding the wax vesta low, he moved slowly forward; and there, on the right hand, in the deep shadow, a motionless form lay upon the ground. A little farther on, a bicycle stood against the wall. Stooping over the girl he saw that his fears were true. It was Melicent who lay there; and beside her, among the grass, he stumbled upon a hard object, which proved to be a revolver. He pocketed this, and stretching out his arms to her--"Millie!" he cried despairingly. He thought at first that she was lying on her face; and experienced a shock of a quite peculiar kind of horror, on finding her head wrapped about with choking feathers. He snatched her into his arms, raising her from the ground; as he did so, a second revolver slipped from her left hand, where she had grasped it, apparently by the muzzle. In the dark he could see nothing; and there overswept him that maddening sense of helplessness which is the worst thing a man can feel. He bore her out from the fatal shadow into the moonlight, laid her upon the thymy turf, and with trembling fingers cut away the brutal gag from her drawn face. Then he saw wet blood upon his sleeve, glistening in the light.

Was she dead? That was the one question. He satisfied himself that she breathed, that her heart beat. Whether the shot had entered her head or her body, he could not say. She was very still; was she dying there, under his eyes, passive, unconscious of his presence--of all the things there were to say, which must for ever rest unsaid? ... His head was whirling. Millie gagged! Millie shot! By whom, and for what conceivable reason?

The bleeding came from the left arm, which was cruelly mangled, the flesh below the elbow being actually singed by the shot. The pistol must have gone off while actually in her hand. Mechanically he began to slit away the white silk sleeve with his pocket-knife, while he wondered dully what he should do, how best help her. If she were going to die, there were just two things for him; to kill the man that killed her, and then to blow out his own brains. He thought she was growing cold....

What could he do? To leave her was impossible; and they were far from help. To carry her to Ilbersdale Grange, or to carry her back up the hill to the Vicarage, seemed equally impracticable. As he turned the question over in his mind, he heard a sound--a rustling, quite near. Turning his head, he looked straight into the eyes of Arnie Lutwyche, who, dripping, had emerged from the river under the bridge, and was creeping towards him on hands and knees.

Quick as thought, Bert pulled out a revolver and covered him. The boy at once knelt up, raising his hands. His face wore a look of terror.

"Is she dead?" he whispered.

"So," said Bert, through his teeth; "what do you know of this butchery?"

"It was Otis. He was out after you. She fought with him, and got hold of the pistol," panted Arnie, in his unaccustomed English.

"I don't believe a word you say. If Otis meant murder he wouldn't have brought a witness along."

"There were two pistols," said Arnie, gulping down a sob. "Did you find the one I threw down?"

"Yes--what of it?"

"There were to be two shots. I was to swear you fired first, and he only in self-defence. Let me get you some water, and tell me where to run for a doctor."

There was sense in this proposition, and after a moment's rapid thought, Bert availed himself of it. There was practically no doubt that Otis was off; he wasted no time in questioning or upbraiding the boy. Tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, he scrawled a note to Helston, telling him what had happened, and asking him to bring a conveyance of some kind at once, and to send Arnie on for the doctor. Meanwhile Arnie had brought his straw hat full of water, and the moment he received his instructions, set off running fast along the road.

Bert was alone again with the girl.

There was a huge lump rising upon one side of her forehead--he guessed it to be the result of a silencing blow from a brutal fist. Possibly it was merely the effect of her fall to the ground. This it was, he hoped, which was rendering her unconscious. He felt about carefully among the long hair, and could find no trace that a bullet had struck her head, nor was there any mark upon the white silk blouse she wore. He bathed her forehead with her own little handkerchief; he knew where to look for it, in her sleeve; he knew every little habit which was hers. For so long he had been garnering up his deep knowledge of her--for this? It was all to be in vain? The thing was so preposterous that he laughed.

This white brow, over which he passed the cold water, was his treasure-house. That it could be empty was a thing manifestly impossible.

Everything was quiet about them in the glorious night A little wind shivered among the trees that overhung the bridge. He pulled off his coat, tucking it carefully about her. As he did so, she opened her eyes, looking fully at him.

Almost immediately she took in the whole situation, and spoke.

"You're safe," she said contentedly.

She was always wonderful; but this was the crowning point of all the sensations she had ever given him. Through the wild exultation that filled him, he, as usual, thought first of her. For her sake he must be very calm.

"Oh, I'm all right," he said, in scorn of any idea of danger to himself. "But what about you?"

She smiled, a smile that lit up all her face and danced in her eyes. Directly he saw it, he knew she could have no vital hurt. The imp of mischief was in it.

"Bert, I've done it," she said.

"Done what?" he asked uncertainly.

"Moved the mountain."

He began to think she was wandering.

"Have you really?" he asked, absorbed in the play of her dimples in the moonlight, and realising that there were possibilities in her smile that he had by no means fully appreciated hitherto, connoisseur though he believed himself to be.

"I think I know what happened," she said. "I wrestled for the revolver, and it went off. I believe it shot me! I saw you come running, and stop short in the road, and I couldn't scream because he had gagged me.... Is that what happened?"

"Yes--exactly."

"Well, then," in tones of exultation--"well, then, Captain Mestaer Brooke, I have saved your life!"

"At what cost, Millie? At what cost?"

"Did you think about the cost when you saved mine?"

"Ah, that was such a different thing!"

"Why was it a different thing?"

"You know! Because I loved you."

She closed the eyes into which he would persistently gaze.

"Well," she said, "now that we are quits, now that you too have a burden of gratitude to carry about, I feel ever so much happier, or at least I should, only--Hubert, you don't know how fearfully my arm hurts!"

"I know it must! I can do so little for it until help comes! I daren't leave you here alone--"

"Oh, no; don't!"

"What is the very nearest house?"

"A mile away at least. Don't go! I'll lie here till someone finds us."

"You need not do that. Arnie has taken a note to Glen Royd."

"Arnie? Oh, I am glad of that." She closed her eyes and panted.

"Will you let me try carrying you a little way? Every step would bring us nearer to relief. If it shakes you, I could put you down. May I try?"

"I am heavier than I was in Africa."

"I am stronger than I was in Africa--tough as leather."

"Oh, you always were strong! But never mind. We're quits now! You can't stand there any more, saying: 'Just look how you treat the man that saved your life!'"

"Millie! When have I ever said so?"

"You did--you did--you did! You have never left off saying it for one single minute for the last five years."

He broke into a laugh that was a little tremulous. "Millie, what do you mean?"

"Oh, you know what I mean. That has always been the trouble, hasn't it? You have always known what I meant. You knew, that day the water spouted out. I didn't. It seemed so impertinent of you to know more about me than I knew myself. But now ... I think it may be rather restful ... to think you know the worst of me! You know it all, you see ... even about the scars on my back."

He made some kind of incoherent exclamation. He had always meant to succeed; but now that this amazing success was his, he could not believe in it. A wild idea came to him that his bliss, like the dread sword of Damocles, was poised above his head by a hair; that in an instant it might fall, and irretrievable ruin would result. He was too exalted to try to think out how it had come about that this girl was his at last. She was injured--he could not say how deeply; she was in pain, and he was distracted with anxiety. He was unable to grasp the idea of happiness. Afterwards, when he looked back upon it, he believed that the underlying idea of his mood was that of greatness. All triviality seemed to be washed away from life, and he trod the paths of a vast experience as the Greeks trod the tragic stage, raised up on cothurns. It was best, he saw, that joy should come thus sublimated by grief. If it was to be transient, he should still have had it. He had lived indeed; he had seen the Vision of the Grail. Life was a sacrament henceforward.

"Oh, I am so thirsty!" gasped Melicent

He suddenly remembered that he carried in his pocket the flask that he used when travelling. There was still a little wine and water left in it, and he poured it out. Seating himself beside her, he carefully drew her up, propping her weight against him, and held the cup to her lips.

When she had drunk, they sat on so, in silence.

"Mr. Hall has been telling me how it has all been my fault," she said, after a pause. "He has told me how vain and selfish I am, and how I take all and give nothing. Poor Lance! I never gave him anything, Bert--not even a kiss. I did give you one, didn't I?"

"Yes, thank God!"

To his amazement, she begun to bubble and murmur with laughter.

"But Mr. Hall didn't know I was going to meet my chance! Oh, Bert, it's so wonderful! I don't think you quite realise that Otis meant to kill you! He did, really! Don't you want to thank me for saving your life so nicely? Do thank me, just to make it seem real!"

The chest that pillowed her head heaved mightily. He forced an answer, but the effort broke him down.

"How could I thank you for saving mine ... if it was at the expense of yours?" He bent down his cheek upon her hair, and sobbed helplessly.

"I'm not dead, Bert, dear," she whispered.

"No; but you're in awful pain. Do you think I don't know? I can see you are chatting on like this, just to make me think you're not suffering! I can't bear it, Millie--I can't indeed! I am going to carry you a little way. Put your other arm round my neck; I'll raise you as slowly as I can. There! Did that shake you? I'll walk a few steps, and if the discomfort's too great, you must tell me."

It seemed to him that, as he moved along, his soul ran the gamut of all human emotion. Death and Life brushed sable and silver wings over him as he trod, and the glowing rose of Love warmed and lighted all things like the white heat of a furnace. Clear before him lay the picture of the former time when this very thing had happened. His memory of his feelings on that occasion was tinged with pity and contempt. What had he then known, or understood, of Love or Life?

Now at last he knew the value of both. The rapture and the insecurity swayed him to and fro like the motion of a pendulum. He had the gravest apprehensions about Melicent's injuries. The shattered arm was the same that had been dislocated five years before. He feared serious complications.

"Millie, Millie," he murmured, "is it very bad?"

Her face was pressed against his neck; he could hear her gasping breath. She gave a little moan, as if to intimate that she heard, but could not answer. After a minute, she began to whisper, as though to herself:

"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow, I will fear no evil.... I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.... Bert! ... Is the fish-pond full?"

He followed the rapid transition of her mind.

"Quite full, and the water as clear as glass. The lilies are planted already."

He had kept on a steady, slow pace for some time, and was feeling rather done, when she whispered, begging him to stop a little. He chose a lump of heathery turf, and sat down with her upon his knees, cradling her as comfortably as he could. So he had sat in Africa!

"Oh, that is good! That is rest!" she sighed; and after a pause--"Bert, you know I love you, don't you?"

Her eyes were wide open, searching his face. For a moment he forgot his devouring anxieties, and was sensible only of the rapture.

"Yes, I know," he answered solemnly, returning her deep gaze.

"I loved you that day, of course; but truly, Bert, I didn't know it. I thought I did right to send you away. Oh, what a beast I was to you that night! I thought if I stood firm that once, it would be over, and you would let me go. But you never did. Bert, if I am going to die--"

He clashed in harshly, in furious repudiation of the idea. "To die, you little fool? You're not going to die!"

She laughed weakly. "Oh, Bert! You'll never improve, will you?"

"I can't," he brought out, with anguish. "I can't say pretty names. You're--so much more to me than dear. You're ... life itself!--my life! How can you be going to die?"

"Well, I feel ... most strange: as if I were coming away out of my body. I feel as if I could float. I want--you know--'to swim in lucid shallows, just eluding water-lily leaves.' ... The lilies are planted already. I keep wishing to be there, in the house; don't you?"

He could not follow this. "What house?" he asked her gently.

"Lone Ash. I should like to die there."

"You shall live there, Millie, please God!"

The words were a passionate appeal. Stooping, he gathered her to him, drawing her close, close against his heart, and laid his lips on hers. She answered his kiss, and then he felt her limbs relax. A blessed unconsciousness had come to relieve her pain.

Far along the road he heard the distant beat, beat, of approaching horse's feet.

* * * * * * * *

The serious accident to Miss Lutwyche gave Brenda the best reason in the world for cancelling wedding invitations.