Part 8 (1/2)

Then she told him who Mildred Margrave was; how years before, when the girl's mother was very ill and it was thought she would die, the Margraves had taken the child and promised that she should be as their own and a companion to their own child; that their own child had died, and Mildred still remained with them. All this she knew from one who was aware of the circ.u.mstances. Then she went on to tell him who Mildred's mother and father were, what were Telford's relations to John Gladney and of his search for Gladney's wife.

”Now,” she said, ”you understand all. They must meet.”

”He does not know who she is?”

”He does not. He only knows as yet that she is the daughter of Mrs.

Gladney, who, he thinks, is a stranger to him.”

”You know his nature. What will he do?”

”I cannot tell. What can he do? Nothing, nothing!”

”You are sorry for him? You”--

”Do not speak of that,” she said in a choking whisper. ”G.o.d gave women pity to keep men from becoming demons. You can pity the executioner when, killing you, he must kill himself next.”

”I do not understand you quite, but all you say is wise.”

”Do not try to understand it or me. I am not worth it.”

”You are worth, G.o.d knows, a better, happier fate.”

The words came from him unexpectedly, impulsively. Indirect as they were, she caught a hidden meaning. She put out her hand.

”You have something to tell me. Speak it. Say it quickly. Let me know it now. One more shock more or less cannot matter.”

She had an intuition as to what it was. ”I warn you, dear,” he said, ”that it will make a difference, a painful difference, between us.”

”No, George”--it was the first time she had called him that--”nothing can make any difference with that.”

He told her simply, bravely--she was herself so brave--what there was to tell, that two weeks ago her husband was alive, and that he was now on his way to England--perhaps in England itself. She took it with an unnatural quietness. She grew distressingly pale, but that was all. Her hand lay clinched tightly on the seat beside her. He reached out, took it, and pressed it, but she shook her head.

”Please do not sympathize with me,” she said. ”I cannot bear it. I am not adamant. You are very good--so good to me that no unhappiness can be all unhappiness. But let us look not one step farther into the future.”

”What you wish I shall do always.”

”Not what I wish, but what you and I ought to do is plain.”

”I ask one thing only. I have said that I love you, said it as I shall never say it to another woman, as I never said it before. Say to me once here, before we know what the future will be, that you love me. Then I can bear all.”

She turned and looked him full in the eyes, that infinite flame in her own which burns all pa.s.sions into one. ”I cannot, dear,” she said.

Then she hurriedly rose, her features quivering. Without a word they went down the quiet path to the river and on toward the gates of the park where the coach was waiting to take them back to Herridon.

They did not see Mark Telford before their coach left. But, standing back in the shadow of the trees, he saw them. An hour before he had hated Hagar and had wished that they were in some remote spot alone with pistols in their hands. Now he could watch the two together without anger, almost without bitterness. He had lost in the game, and he was so much the true gamester that he could take his defeat when he knew it was defeat quietly.

Yet the new defeat was even harder on him than the old. All through the years since he had seen her there had been the vague conviction, under all his determination to forget, that they would meet again, and that all might come right. That was gone, he knew, irrevocably.

”That's over,” he said as he stood looking at them. ”The king is dead.

Long live the king!”