Jan did not answer. They walked on in silence, and Peter looked at the moon.

"I think," he said, "you've always had a pretty clear idea why I came home from India ... haven't you?"

"It was time for your leave," Jan said nervously. "It isn't good to stay out there too long."

"I shouldn't have taken leave this year, though, if it hadn't been for you."

"You've always been kind and helpful to me ... I hope it hasn't been very ... inconvenient."

Peter laughed, and stopped in the middle of the road.

"I'm fond of fencing," he said lightly, "and free play's all very well and pretty; but I've always thought that the real thing, with the b.u.t.tons off the foils, must have been a lot more sport than anything we get now."

Again Jan was silent.

"You've fenced with me, Jan," he said slowly, "ever since I turned up that day unexpectedly. Now, I want a straight answer. Do you care at all, or have you only friendship for me? Look at me; tell me the truth."

"It's all so complicated and difficult," she faltered, and her eyes fell beneath Peter's.

"What is?"

"This caring--when you aren't a free agent."

"Free fiddlestick! You either care or you don't--which is it?"

"I care a great deal too much for my own peace of mind," said Jan.

"I am quite satisfied," said Peter. And if Mr. With.e.l.ls had seen what happened to the "sensible" Miss Ross just then, his neatly-brushed hair would have stood straight on end.

In the road, too!

CHAPTER XXVII

AUGUST, 1914

"No," said Jan, "it would be like marrying a widow ... with enc.u.mbrances."

"But you don't happen to be a widow--besides, if you were, and had a dozen enc.u.mbrances, if we want to get married it's n.o.body's business but our own."

Peter spoke testily. He wanted Jan to marry him before he went back to India in October, and if he got the billet he hoped for, to follow him, taking the two children out, early in November.

But Jan saw a thousand lions in the way. She was pulled in this direction and that, and though she knew she had got to depend on Peter to--as she put it--"a dreadful extent," yet she hesitated to saddle him with her decidedly explosive affairs, without a great deal more consideration than he seemed disposed to allow her.

Hugo, for the present, was quiet. He was in Guernsey with his people, and beyond a letter in which he directly accused Peter Ledgard of abducting Tony when his father was taking him to visit his grandparents, Jan had heard nothing.

By Peter's advice she did not answer this letter. But they both knew that Hugo was only waiting to make some other and more unpleasant demonstration than the last.

"You see," Jan began again, "I've got so many people to think of. The children and Meg and the house and all the old servants.... You mustn't hustle me, dear."

"Yes, I see all that; but I've got _you_ to think of, and if we're married and anything happens to me you'll get your pension, and I want you to have that."

"And if anything happened to me, you'd be saddled with the care of two little children who've got a thoroughly unsatisfactory father, who can always make life hateful for them and for you. No, Peter, it wouldn't be fair--we must wait and see how things work out."

"At present," Peter said gloomily, "it looks as if things were working out to a fair bust-up all round."

This was on the 30th of July.

Peter went up to London, intending to return on the first to stay over the Bank Holiday, but he did not come. He wanted to be within easy reach of recalling cablegram.

Meg got a wire from Miles on Sat.u.r.day: "Try to come up for to-morrow and Monday I can't leave town must see you."

And half an hour after it, came a note from Squire Walcote, asking her to accept his escort, as he and Lady Mary were going up to the Grosvenor, and hoped Meg would be their guest.

It was during their stay in London that Lady Mary and the Squire got the greatest surprise of their whole lives.

Miles, looking bigger than ever in uniform, rushed in and demanded an interview with Meg alone in their private room. He showed her a special licence, and ordered, rather than requested, that she should marry him at once.

"I can't," she said, "it's no use asking me ... I _can't_."

"Listen; have you any objection to me?"

Meg pulled a little away from him and pretended to look him up and down.

"No ... in fact ... I love every bit of you--especially your boots."

"Have you thought how likely it is that I may not come back ... if there's war?"

"Don't!" said Meg. "Don't put it into words."

"Then why won't you marry me, and let me feel that, whether I'm killed or not, I've had the thing I wanted most in this world?"

"Dear, I can't help it, but I feel if I married you now ... you would never come back ... but if I wait ... if I don't try to grasp this wonderful thing too greedily ... it will come to us both. I _daren't_ marry you, Miles."

"Suppose I'm all smashed up ... I couldn't ask you then ... suppose I come back minus an arm or a leg, or blind or something?"

"If the least little bit of you comes back, I'll marry that; not you or anyone else could stop me then."

"You'd make it easier all round if you'd marry me now...."

"That's it ... I don't want it to be easier. If I was your wife, how could I go on being nurse to those children?"

"I wouldn't stop you--you could go back to Miss Ross and do just exactly what you're doing. I agree with you--the children are cheery----"

Meg shook her head. "No; if I was your wife, it wouldn't do. As it is ... the nursemaid has got her soldier, and that's as it should be."