Kitty grasped her by the arm.

"Do you mean," she said incredulously, "do you mean you're going to sacrifice Peter to Roger?"

"It won't hurt Peter--now--as it would have done before." Nan spoke rather tonelessly. "He's already lost his faith and trust in me. The worst wrench for him is over. I--I think"--a little unevenly--"that I'm glad now he thought what he did--that he couldn't find it in his heart to forgive me. It'll make it easier for him."

"Easier? Yes, if you actually do what you say you will. But--you're deliberately taking away his happiness, robbing him of it, even though he doesn't know he's being robbed. Good heavens, Nan!"--harshly--"Did you ever love him?"

"I don't think you want an answer to that question," returned Nan gently. "But, you see, I can't--divide myself--between Peter and Roger."

"Of course you can't! Only why sacrifice both yourself and Peter to Roger? It isn't reasonable!"

"Because I think he needs me most. Just picture it, Kitty. He's got nothing left to look forward to till he dies! Nothing! . . . Oh, I can't add to what he'll have to bear! He's so helpless!"

"You'll have plenty to bear yourself--tied to a helpless man of Roger's temper," retorted "Kitty.

"Yes"--soberly--"I think--I'm prepared for that."

"Prepared?"

"Yes. It seems to me as though I've known all afternoon that this was coming--that Roger might be crippled beyond curing. And I've looked at it from every angle, so as to be quite sure of myself." She paused.

"I'm quite sure, now."

The quiet resolution in her voice convinced Kitty that her mind was made up. Nevertheless, for nearly an hour she tried by every argument in her power, by every entreaty, to shake her decision. But Nan held her ground.

"I must do it," she said. "It's useless trying to dissuade me. It's so clear to me that it's the one thing I must do. Don't any anything more about it, Kitten. You're only wearing yourself out"--appealingly.

"I wish--I wish you'd try to _help_ me to do it! It won't be the easiest thing in the world"--with a brief smile that was infinitely more sad than tears--"I know that."

"Help you?" cried Kitty pa.s.sionately. "Help you to ruin your life, and Peter's with it? No, I won't help you. I tell you, Nan, you can't do this thing! You _shall not_ marry Roger Trenby!"

Nan listened to her patiently. Then, still very quietly:

"I must marry him," she said. "It will be the one decent thing I've ever done in my life."

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

ROGER'S REFUSAL

The next morning at breakfast only one letter lay beside Nan's plate.

As she recognised Maryon Rooke's small, squarish handwriting, with its curious contrasts of heavy downstrokes and very light terminals, the colour deepened in her cheeks. Her slight confusion pa.s.sed unnoticed, however, as everyone else was absorbed in his or her individual share of the morning's mail.

For a moment Nan hesitated, conscious of an intense disinclination to open the letter. It gave her a queer feeling of panic, recalling with poignant vividness the day when she and Maryon had last been together.

At length, somewhat dreading what it might contain, she opened it and began to read.

"I've had a blazing letter from young Sandy McBain, which has increased my respect for him enormously," wrote Maryon. "I've come to the conclusion that I deserve all the names he called me. Nan, how do you manage to make everyone so amazingly devoted to you? I think it must be that ridiculously short upper lip of yours, or your 'blue-violet'

eyes, or some other of your absurd and charming characteristics.

"I shall probably go abroad for a bit--to recover my self-respect. I'm not feeling particularly proud of myself just now, and it always spoils my enjoyment of things if I can't be genuinely pleased with my ego.

Don't cut me when next we meet, if fortune is ever kind enough to me to let us meet again. Because, for once in my life, I'm really sorry for my sins.

"I believe that somewhere in the ramshackle thing I call my soul, I'm glad Sandy took you away from me. Though there are occasional moments when I feel murderous towards him.

"Yours

"MARYON."

Nan laid down the closely-written sheet with a half-smile, half-sigh--could one ever regard Maryon Rooke without a smile overtaken by a sigh? The letter somewhat cheered her, washing away what remained of bitterness in her thoughts towards him. It was very characteristic of the man, with its intense egotism--almost every sentence beginning with an "I"--and its lightly cynical note. Yet beneath the surface flippancy Nan could read a genuine remorse and self-reproach. And in some strange way it comforted her a little to know that Maryon was sorry. After all, there is something good even in the worst of us.

"Had a nice letter, Nan?" asked Barry, looking up from his own correspondence. "You're wearing a smile of sorts."

"Yes. It was--rather a nice letter. Good and bad mixed, I think," she answered.

"Then you're lucky," observed Kitty. There was a rather frightened look in her eyes. "We'll go into your study after breakfast, Barry. I want to consult you about one of my letters. It's--it's undiluted bad, I think."

Barry's blue eyes smiled rea.s.suringly across at her. "All right, old thing. Two heads are generally better than one if you're up against a snag."

Half an hour later she beckoned him into the study.

"What's the trouble?" He slipped an arm round her shoulders. "Don't look like that, Kitten. We're sure to be able to put things right somehow."

She smiled at him rather ruefully.

"It's you who'll have to do the putting right, Barry--and it'll be a hateful business, too," she replied.

"Thanks," murmured Barry. "Well, what's in the letter that's bothering you?"

"It's from Peter," burst out Kitty. "He's going straight off to Africa--to-morrow! Celia, of course, will be buried out in India--her uncle has cabled him that he'll arrange everything. And Peter has had the chance of a returned berth in a boat that sails to-morrow, so he proposes to get his kit together and start at once."

"I should have thought he'd have started at once--in this direction,"

remarked Barry drily.

"He would have done, I expect, only he's so bitter over Nan's attempt to run away with Maryon Rooke that he's determined to bury himself in the wilds. If he only knew what she'd gone through before she did such a thing, he'd understand and forgive her. But that's just like a man!

When the woman he cares for acts in a way that's entirely inconsistent with all he knows of her, he never thinks of trying to work backwards to find out the _cause_. The effect's enough for him! Oh!"--with a sigh--"I do think Peter and Nan are most difficult people to manage.

If it were only that--just a lovers' squabble--one might fix things up.

But now, just when every obstacle in the world is removed and they could be happily married, Nan must needs decide that it's her duty to marry Roger!"

"Her duty?"

"Yes." And Kitty plunged forthwith into a detailed account of all that had happened.

"Good old Nan! She's a well-plucked 'un," was Barry's comment when she had finished.

"Of course it's splendid of her," said Kitty. "Nan was always an idealist in her notions--but in practice it would just mean purgatory.

And I won't _let_ her smash up the whole of her own life, and Peter's for an ideal!"