A sudden thought had sprung into her mind, overwhelming her with its significance. The letter she had written to Roger--she couldn't send it now! Common humanity forbade that it should go. It would have to wait--wait till Roger had recovered. The disappointment, cutting across a deep and real sympathy with the injured man, was sharp and bitter.

Very slowly she made her way upstairs. The letter, which she still clasped rigidly, seemed to burn her palm like red-hot iron. She felt as though she could not unclench the hand which held it. But this phase only lasted for a few minutes. When she reached her room she opened her hand stiffly and the crumpled envelope fell on to the bed.

She stared at it blankly. That letter--which had meant so much to her--could not be sent! She might have to wait weeks--months even, before it could go. And meanwhile, she would be compelled to pretend--pretend to Roger, because he was so ill that the truth must be hidden from him till he recovered. Then, swift as the thrust of a knife, another thought followed. . . . Suppose--suppose Roger _never_ recovered? . . . What was it Sandy had said? An injury to the spine.

Did people recover from spinal injury? Or did they linger on, wielding those terrible rights which weakness for ever holds over health and strength?

Nan flung herself on the bed and lay there, face downwards, trying to realise the awful possibilities which the accident to Roger might entail for her. Because if it left him crippled--a hopeless invalid--the letter she had written could never be sent at all. She could not desert him, break off her engagement, if she herself represented all that was left to him in life.

It seemed hours afterwards, though in reality barely half an hour had elapsed, when she heard the sound of footsteps racing up the staircase, and a minute later, without even a preliminary knock, Kitty burst into the room. Her face was alight with joyful excitement. In her hand she held an open telegram.

"Listen, Nan! Oh"--seeing the other's startled, apprehensive face--"it's _good_ news this time!"

Good news! Nan stared at her with an expression of impa.s.sive incredulity. There was no good news that could come to her.

"It seems horrible to feel glad over anyone's death, but I simply can't help it," went on Kitty. "Peter has just telegraphed me that Celia died yesterday. . . . Oh, Nan, _dearest_! I'm so glad for you--so glad for you and Peter!"

Nan, who had risen at Kitty's entrance, swayed suddenly and caught at the bed-post to steady herself.

"What did you say?" she asked huskily.

"That Peter's wife is dead. That he's free"--with great tenderness--"free to marry you." She checked herself and peered into Nan's white, expressionless face. "Nan, why don't you--look glad? You _are_ glad, surely?"

"Glad?" repeated Nan vaguely. "No, I can't be glad yet. Not yet."

"You're not worrying just because Peter was angry last time he saw you?"--keenly.

"No. I wasn't thinking of that."

"Then, my dear, why not be glad--glad and thankful that nothing stands between you? I don't think you realise it! You're quite free now.

And so is Peter. Your letter to Roger has gone--poor Roger!"--sorrowfully--"it's frightfully rough luck on him, particularly just now. But still, someone always has to go to the wall in a triangular mix-up. And though I like him well enough, I love you and Peter. So I'd rather it were Roger, since it must be someone."

Nan pointed to the bed. On the gay, flowered coverlet lay the crumpled letter.

"My letter to Roger has _not_ gone," she said, speaking very distinctly. "I was on my way to post it when I found you all in the hall, discussing Roger's accident. And now--it can't go."

Kitty's face lengthened in dismay, then a look of relief pa.s.sed over it.

"Give it to me," she exclaimed impulsively. "I'll post it at once. It will catch precisely the same post as it would have done if you'd put it in the post-box when you meant to."

"Kitty! How can you suggest such a thing!" cried Nan, in horrified tones. "If--if I'd posted it unknowingly and it had reached him after the accident it would have been bad enough! But to post it now, deliberately, _when I know_, would be absolutely wicked and brutal."

There was a momentary silence. Then:

"You're quite right," acknowledged Kitty in a m.u.f.fled voice. She lifted a penitent face. "I suppose it was cruel of me to suggest it.

But oh! I do so want you and Peter to be happy--and quickly! You've had such a rotten time in the past."

Nan smiled faintly at her.

"I knew you couldn't mean it," she answered, "seeing that you're about the most tender-hearted person I know."

"I suppose you will have to wait a little," conceded Kitty reluctantly.

"At least till Roger is mended up a bit. It may not be anything very serious, after all. A man often gets a bad spill out of his car and is driving again within a few weeks."

"We shall near soon," replied Nan levelly. "Sandy said he would let us know the result of the doctor's examination."

"Well, come for a stroll in the rose-garden, then. It's hateful--waiting to hear," said Kitty rather shakily.

"Get Barry to go with you. I'd rather stay here, I think." Nan spoke quickly. She felt she could not bear to go into the rose-garden where she had given that promise to Roger which bade fair to wreck the happiness of two lives--her own and Peter's.

Kitty threw her a searching glance.

"Very well," she said. "Try to rest a little. I'll come up the moment we hear any news."

She left the room and, as the door closed behind her, Nan gave vent to a queer, hysterical laugh. Rest! How could she rest, knowing that now Peter was free--free to make her his wife--the great gates of fate might yet swing to, shutting them both out of lovers garden for ever!

For she had realised, with a desperate clearness of vision, that if Roger were incurably injured, she could not add to his burden by retracting her promise to be his wife. She must make the uttermost sacrifice--give up the happiness to which the death of Celia Mallory had opened the way--and devote herself to mitigating Roger's lot in so far as it could be mitigated. There was no choice possible to her.

Duty, with stern, sad eyes, stood beside her, bidding her follow the hard path of sacrifice which winds upward, through a blurred mist of tears, to the great white Throne of G.o.d. The words of the little song which had always seemed a link betwixt Peter and herself came back to her like some dim echo from the past.

She sank on her knees, her arms flung out across the bed. She did not consciously pray, but her att.i.tude of thought and spirit was a wordless cry that she might be given courage and strength to do this thing if it must needs be.

It was late in the afternoon when Kitty, treading softly, came into Nan's room.

"Have you been to sleep?" she asked.

"No." Nan felt as though she had not slept for a year. Her eyes were dry and burning in their sockets.

"There's very bad news about Roger," said Kitty, in the low tones of one who has hardly yet recovered from the shock of unexpectedly grave tidings. "His spine is so injured that he'll never be able to walk again. He"--she choked over the telling of it--"his legs will always be paralysed."

Nan stared at her vacantly, as though she hardly grasped the meaning of the words. Then, without speaking, she covered her face with her hands. The room seemed to be full of silence--a heavy terrible silence, charged with calamity. At last, unable to endure the burden of the intense quiet any longer, Kitty stirred restlessly. The tiny noise of her movement sounded almost like a pistol-shot in that profound stillness. Nan's hands dropped from her face and she picked up the letter which still lay on the bed and tore it into small pieces, very carefully, tossing them into the waste-paper basket.

Kitty watched her for a moment as though fascinated. Then suddenly she spoke.

"Why are you doing that? Why are you doing that?" she demanded irritably.

Nan looked across at her with steady eyes.

"Because--it's finished! That letter will never be needed now."

"It will! Of course it will!" insisted Kitty. "Not now--but later--when Roger's got over the shock of the accident."

Nan smiled at her curiously.

"Roger will never get over the consequences of his accident," she said, accenting the word "consequences." "Can you imagine what it's going to mean to him to be tied down to a couch for the rest of his days? An outdoor man, like Roger, who has hunted and shot and fished all his life?"

"Of course I can imagine! It's all too dreadful to think of! . . .

But now Peter's free, you can't--you can't mean to give him up for Roger!"

"I must," answered Nan quietly. "I can't take the last thing he values from a man who's lost nearly everything."