In those days the insane extravagances and lawlessness of the Davenant family had become proverbial. There had been only three of them left to carry on the wild tradition--Timothy, Nan's father, who feared neither man nor devil, but could wile a bird off a tree or a woman's heart from her keeping, and his two sisters, whose beauty had broken more hearts than their kindness could ever mend. And not one of the three had escaped the temperamental heritage which Angele de Varincourt had grafted on to a parent stem of dare-devil, reckless English growth.

The McDermots of Tarn, on the other hand, traced their descent in a direct line from one of the unbending old Scotch Covenanters of 1638, and it had always been a source of vague bewilderment to Eliza that a race sprang from so staunchly Puritan a stock should have been juggled by that inimitable trickster, Fate, into allying itself with a family in whose veins ran the hot French blood of the Varincourts.

Perhaps old Dame Nature in her garnered wisdom could have explained the riddle. Certain it was that no sooner had Andrew McDermot set eyes upon Gabrielle Davenant--sister to that Annabel whom Lord St. John had loved and married--than straightway the visions of his youth, in which he had pictured some staid and modest-seeming Scotswoman as his helpmeet, were swept away by an overwhelming Celtic pa.s.sion of love and romance of which he had not dreamed that he could be possessed.

It was a meeting of extremes, and since Gabrielle had drooped and pined in the bleak northern castle where the lairds of Tarn had dwelt from time immemorial, McDermot laid even his ancestral home upon love's altar 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 renewing Gabrielle's enfeebled health. Almost imperceptibly, with slow and kindly footsteps, Death had drawn daily nearer, until at last, quite happily and like a little child that is tired of playing and only wants to rest, Gabrielle slipped out of the world and her place knew her no more.

After his wife's death, McDermot had returned to his old home in Scotland and had rea.s.sumed his duties there as laird of the district, and when, later on, Death struck again, this time leaving his sister Eliza a widow in none too affluent circ.u.mstances, he had presented her with his Cornish home, glad to be rid of a place so haunted by poignant memories.

In such wise had Mrs. McBain and Sandy come to dwell in Cornwall, and since this, their third summer there, had brought his adored Nan Davenant once more to Mallow Court on a lengthy visit, Sandy's cup of joy was filled to the brim.

Mrs. McBain regarded her offspring from much the same standpoint as does a hen the brood of enterprising ducklings which, owing to some stratagem on the part of the powers that be, have hatched out from the eggs upon which she has been conscientiously sitting in the fond belief that they were those of her own species.

Sandy was a source of perpetual surprise to his mother, and of not inconsiderable anxiety. How she and the late Duncan McBain of entirely prosaic memory had contrived to produce more or less of a musical genius by way of offspring she had never been able to fathom. Neither parent had ever shown the slightest tendency in that direction, and it is very certain that had such a development manifested itself, they would have speedily set to work to correct it, regarding music--other than 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 the result that now, at twenty years of age, he was a musician spoilt through lack of training. Most of his pocket-money in early days had been expended upon surrept.i.tious violin lessons, and he had frequently practised for hours out of doors in the woods, at a distance from the house which secured the parental ear from outrage.

Since her husband's death, however, Eliza, chiding herself the while for her weakness, had yielded to a pulsing young enthusiasm that would not be denied, and music of a secular nature was permitted at Trevarthen--unchecked though disapproved.

Thus it came about that on the afternoon of Nan's visit Sandy was to be found zealously absorbed in the composition of a triumphal march. The blare of trumpets, the swinging tramp of marching men and the thunderous roll of drums--this last occurring very low down in the ba.s.s--were combining to fill the room with joyful noise when there came a light tap at the open French window and Nan herself stood poised on the threshold.

"Hullo, Sandy, what's that you're playing?"

Sandy sprang off the music stool, beaming with delight, and, seizing her 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 D minor or not. Listen."

Nan obeyed, gave her opinion, and finally subsided rather listlessly into a low arm-chair.

"Give me a cigarette, Sandy. It's an awfully tiring walk here. Is Aunt 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 the information that we'd had tea alone together to Miss Penwarne at the Post Office, and in half an hour the entire village would be all agog to know when the subsequent elopement was likely to occur."

Sandy grinned. He had proposed to Nan several times already, only to be 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 the window 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 in time and no sound escaped. Turning to Nan, he spoke with a gravity that sat strangely on him.

"Old girl, I hope you'll be very happy--the happiest woman in the world." But there was a look of dissatisfaction in his eyes which had nothing whatever to do with his own disappointment. He had known all along 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 voice took on a note of earnestness--"if you're ever in need of a pal---I'm here, 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 I should always know if you were in trouble--and I should come." Only it had been uttered by a different voice--the quiet, drawling voice of Peter Mallory.

"Thank you, Sandy dear. I won't forget."

There was a faint weariness in her tones, despite the smile which accompanied them. Sandy's nice green eyes surveyed her critically, noting the slight hollowing of the outline of her cheek and the little tired droop of her lips as the smile faded.

"I tell you what it is," he said, "you're f.a.gged out, tramping over here 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 the tea paraphernalia. Sandy turned abruptly to the piano, thrumming out a few desultory minor chords which probably gave his perturbed young soul a certain amount of relief, while Nan sat gazing with a half-maternal, half-humorous tenderness at the head of flaming red hair which had earned him his sobriquet.

"Weel, so ye've come to see me at last--or is it Sandy that you're calling on?"

The door had opened to admit Mrs. McBain--a tall, gaunt woman with iron-grey hair and shrewd, observant eyes that glinted with the grey flash of steel.

Nan jumped up at her entrance.

"Oh, Aunt Eliza? How are you? I should have been over to see you before, but there always seems to be something or other going on at Mallow."

"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 pressed against the hard-featured face curved into a smile. Nan was no whit in awe of her aunt's bitter tongue, and it was probably for this very reason that Mrs. McBain could not help liking her. Most sharp-spoken people appreciate someone who is not afraid to stand up to them, and Nan and Mrs. McBain had crossed swords in many a wordy battle.