"What do you mean? Is there--anyone else?"

"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--"

"No. I shall never care for anyone else again. That love has burnt up everything--like a fire." She paused. "You don't want to marry--an empty grate, do you?" she asked, with a sudden desperate little 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!"

What magic is it teaches men how to answer the women they love--endows them with a quickness of perception denied them till the flame of love flares up within them, and doubly denied them should that flame burn low behind the bars of matrimony? Surely it must be some cunning wile of old Dame Nature's--whose chief concern is, after all, the continuation of the species. She it is who knows how to deck the peac.o.c.k in fine feathers to the undoing of the plain little peahen, to crown the stag with the antlers of magnificence so that the doe's velvet eyes melt in adoration. And shall not the same wise old Dame know how to add a glamour to the sons of men when one of them goes forth to seek his mate?

Had Roger been just his normal self that afternoon--his matter-of-fact, imperceptive self--he would never have known how to answer Nan's half-desperate question, and the rose-garden might have witnessed a different ending to the scene. But Mother Mature was fighting on the side of this man-child of hers, whispering her age-old wisdom into his ears, and the tender comprehension of his answer fell like balm on Nan's sore heart.

"I'll keep you safe!"

It was safety she craved most of all--the safety of some stronger barrier betwixt herself and Peter. Once she were 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 of giving up her freedom a.s.sailed her, and for an instant she wavered. Then she remembered her bargain with Fate--and 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 everything--you still want me . . . I'll marry you."

And as his arms closed round her, crushing her in his embrace, she seemed to hear a distant sound like the closing of a door--the door of the forbidden might-have-been.

CHAPTER XIII

BY THE LOVERS' BRIDGE

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 bunch of friends who had "dropped in" for tea, sure of the unfailing hospitality of Mallow Court. Those amongst the former who had deeper and more troubled thoughts about the matter were perforce compelled to keep them in abeyance for the time being.

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.

In duty bound, however, she invited Trenby to remain for dinner, an invitation which he accepted with alacrity, and throughout the meal Nan was at her gayest and most sparkling. It seemed impossible to believe that all was not well with her, and if the brilliant mood were designed to prevent Penny from guessing the real state of affairs it was eminently successful. Even Lord St. John 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.

That Peter was in love with Nan, Kitty was aware, but she knew nothing of that brief scene at the flat, interrupted by the delivery of Rooke's telegram, and during which, with hardly a word spoken, Nan had suddenly realised 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 her journey's end, it might have gone far towards enlightening them, but neither Peter nor Nan had ever supplied any information on the subject.

It almost seemed as though by some mental process of thought transference, each had communicated with the other and resolved to keep their secret--an invisible bond between them.

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

He spoke very gently and tenderly. Like most men, he was at his best just now, when he had so newly gained the promise of the woman he loved--rather humble, even a little awed at the great gift bestowed upon him, and thinking only of Nan and of what he would do to compa.s.s her happiness in the future when she should be his wife.

"No, I'm not frightened." replied Nan. "I think"--quietly--"I shall be so--safe--with you."

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

The violet-blue eyes meeting his held a somewhat weary smile. It was beginning already--that inevitable noncomprehension of two such divergent natures. They did not sense the same things--did not even speak the same language. Trenby took everything quite literally--the obvious surface meaning of the words, and the delicate nuances of speech, the significant inflections interwoven with it, meant about as much to him as the frail Venetian gla.s.s, the dainty porcelain figures of old Bristol or Chelsea ware, would mean to the proverbial bull in a china-shop.

"And now, sweetheart," he went on, rather conventionally, "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 ultra-modern, semi-Bohemian notions.

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

There was something just the least bit didactic in the latter part of the sentence, a hint of the proprietary note. 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 he 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 agreed meekly.

At the same moment, to her unspeakable relief, Kitty looked into the room 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 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 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 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. Born and reared in the uncompromising tenets of Scotch Presbyterianism, her att.i.tude towards Nan was one of rigid disapproval--a disapproval that warred somewhat pathetically against the affection with which the girl's essential lovableness inspired her.

For there was no gainsaying the charm of the Davenant women! But Eliza still remembered very clearly the sense of shocked dismay which, years ago, had overwhelmed her righteous soul on learning that her only brother, Andrew McDermot, had become engaged to one of the beautiful Davenant sisters.