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Other documents randomly have
different content
 "He ought to be here pretty soon," said Lady Burmester. "He's coming
in his motor, by road all the way, I believe, and he promised to try and
arrive in time for the sports. I told him they were a sight he ought not to
miss."

Melicent was possessed by a most remarkable sensation, as if she were

drowning. Fortunately, for a few minutes nobody noticed her; and just as
the waters were about to close over her head, they began to recede again,
and she drew a deep breath and made a vehement effort to collect her
thoughts.

But it was not possible. He was coming. Why, why, in wonder's name,
had he changed his plainly expressed intention of keeping away?

She felt sure something must have happened to cause him to reconsider
his decision. Had he come to the conclusion that it was right that Lance
should know their story—hers and his? Had he resolved to tell it?

If so, they must have another tussle, he and she; for somehow she felt
sure that he would do nothing without giving her fair warning.

Every nerve in her quivered at the thought of seeing him. The few short
words in which he had expressed his newly-born contempt said themselves
over and over in her mind continually. How would he look? What should
she say? What would happen?

"They're judging the foals. Such funny little rats! Come and see them
run round," said Lance's voice, close to her.

She looked up at him almost pitifully, as if searching his face for visible
assurance of love. He was not looking at her, nor thinking much of her
apparently. His visit to Russia had been a pleasant experience for a clever
young fellow—he had had his fill of flattery and attention from the English
coterie at St. Petersburg. He was very fond of Millie, but the idea did cross
his mind now and then that she hardly seemed conscious enough of the
really fine match she was making. To-day, his attention was by no means
hers. It was all concentrated upon the live stock.
 She crossed the grass at his side, and stood by the rope enclosure,
among the friendly faces of the Dalesmen. There was Alfred Dow, still
unmarried, handsome as ever, if more solid; by his side, talking to him, the
demure figure of her cousin Barbara. So even the Vicarage was beginning
to march with the times! There was the farmer who was reckoned the best
judge of horse-flesh in the horse-loving shire, and who might have served
as a model for the typical John Bull, as he stood in his gaiters and beaver
hat, watching the paces of the candidates. Melicent was watching them too,
with real interest, when it seemed to her as though a touch were laid on her
heart. Without raising her eyes, she knew who had drawn near. She shivered
as she turned, and saw the Captain waiting to be greeted.

She said, "How do you do," without daring to meet his eyes; yet she
longed to know how they stood, and on what terms this man was once again
at her side.

"O, come ye in peace or come ye in war,

Or to dance at my bridal, thou young Lochinvar?"

As once before, at Lone Ash, she became sensible that he wished her to
look at him. She knew he must read the signs of confusion on her face. The
news of his coming had been too recent for her to have recovered from it.
But she could not lift her eyes. Lance's cheerful greetings more than
covered her silence; he was sincerely glad to see his friend. After a minute's
chat, however, he was called away. He was much in request that day, and
had to go off with his father and judge rams, deputing Melicent to "show
Brooke round."

Alone with Hubert, her courage turned to water. For a long minute they
two stood there, unnoticed in the crowd, holding their breath, dizzy,
overwhelmed by the mere fact of each other's presence.

He spoke at last. "You're not looking at all well," he said.

To which she naturally replied in a hurry:

 "Oh, I am particularly well, thanks, only a little tired to-day."

"How do you think I look?" he asked quietly.

She dared not refuse the challenge. Her eyes, when she lifted them, held
a piteous appeal.

But it was relief of which she was sensible as she met his gaze. It was
kind and gentle. He looked ill; so ill that she wondered that Lance had not
cried out upon him. He was like a man who has passed through some
shattering experience, she thought. There were dark marks below his eyes,
he had lost flesh, and he was pale, though so tanned that this was not
obvious. But in his face was no shadow of the contempt she had feared to
see, and had winced from the thought of.

In her relief she smiled up at him wistfully, as a child smiles at his

mother, to make sure she is no longer displeased. When he smiled in
answer, it was like sunshine breaking out over a cloudy landscape. It
brought all her heart to her lips, it made her inclined to say:

"Oh, I must tell you my doubts and fears, and how I have tortured
myself since last I saw you!"

The words were trembling on her tongue. In blind terror of self-betrayal,

she said the first safe thing that came into her head; an inquiry after the
progress at Lone Ash.

"They are roofing it," he said. "The roof goes on this week."

She coloured with pleasure.

"Oh, do tell me what the effect is! Do tell me how it looks from the road
below the gate!"

"It is beautiful!" he answered quietly. "It grips me afresh every time I

see it. Mayne, too, admires it immensely. Did you know I have had Mayne
staying with me for the past month?"
 "No, indeed; but I am glad to hear it," she cried. "He was so interested
in the house; and then, he is quite an authority on gardens, isn't he? You
must have found him a great help."

"Yes," said Hubert absently. "That's very true; he has been a great help."

She sent a sidelong glance at him, and noted afresh the marked change
in his expression. There was a look upon the mouth that went to her heart in
an indescribable way. It made her long to beg his pardon for the things she
had said to him that night. The indefensibility of her own conduct
throughout smote upon her in quite a new way. Never before in all her life
had she felt the salutary self-reproach which now reddened her cheek, tied
her tongue, and seemed to leave her helpless before him.

"Oh," she thought, "if he knew how much stronger he is when he looks
like that than when he is in one of those awful rages."

He was speaking, and she collected herself with a tremendous effort to

listen.

"The effect of those middle windows, with the transoms, which we had
such doubt about, is awfully good, to my thinking. It only needs one thing."

"One thing?"

"Which I must consult you about. I have come here on purpose to talk
of it I feel, perhaps, as if my presence here may—to you—want a little
explaining. I have come because I thought I ought to. When can you give
me a few minutes?"

It was true then: there had, as she guessed, been a specific reason for his
appearance. Strangely enough, she had never thought that it would be
anything in connection with Lone Ash. Yet what more natural?

She looked alarmed. "Is it important?"

"Very."
 "You had better come over to Glen Royd to-morrow morning. I do hope
it's not—any mistake I've made?"

He hesitated.

"Well, I'm afraid that's just what it is. But I don't think it's irretrievable."

She was filled with consternation.

"Oh, don't tell me it's structural! We managed that thrust of the wall on
the north so splendidly with the buttress."

"It's nothing structural," said Hubert.

They had moved away, talking together, from the foals' enclosure, and
were crossing the grass slowly, not knowing whither they went. Sybil Ayres
approached them, with two or three gentlemen, some of her military
convalescents. She bowed to Melicent, whom she cordially disliked, and
was passing on, when one of her companions cried:

"Why, surely that must be Miss Lutwyche! How d'ye do? Didn't expect
to see me here, did you?"

And Melicent was looking into the humorous, relentless hatchet face of
Amurrica. His eye wandered over her, noting every detail of her appearance
and costume; from her to her companion; and Melicent, with her faculties
sharpened by the emergency, saw with delight that he did not recognise
Bert. Her expression did not change.

"I am afraid you are mistaken," she said politely. "I do not think we are
acquainted."

"I'm making no mistakes. My name's Otis. 'Amurrica' they used to call

me in Slabbert's Poort, as I've been explainin' to these ladies. You're Millie
Lutwyche, ain't you?"

"I am. I remember, there was someone of your name in the place. But I
do not remember that we were ever acquainted. I did not know any of the
diamond miners."
 "I'm a diamond major now," cried Amurrica, with an unpleasant laugh.
"Look here, Miss Lutwyche, we shall be obliged to refresh your memory a
little. D'you remember your father's funeral? I was there."

"The whole town was there," said Millie, with indifference. Then, with
an air of stopping the conversation, she said to Miss Ayres: "Have you been
in the tents? Is it worth while taking Captain Brooke to see the fruit?"

Then, receiving a dubious answer, she inclined her head in leave-taking,

and walked away.

As soon as they were out of earshot, she looked up at Hubert with an

altered expression—a look of comradeship—her late nervousness chased
away.

"You see! He didn't know you a bit!" she cried.

"Not a bit," he answered. "Just as big a beast as ever! But do you mind
my saying I think it was unwise to cut him? You've made him savage, and
he may be rude."

"Let him," said Millie contemptuously. "It is quite true that I never
knew him. You know, I never would speak to him. How could he be rude?"

"He might say things about you—to other people."

"Well, he can't say anything I'm ashamed of," said Millie coolly.

"You always did despise your enemies."

"Well, I haven't got any enemies now," was the careless answer.

"God grant it!" he replied, thinking of things said to him by Mrs.

Cooper and her daughters one day when he went to tennis at the Vicarage.
 CHAPTER XXXIII

CALUMNY
I? What I answered? As I live
I never fancied such a thing
As answer possible to give.
—COUNT GISMOND.

Lancelot, returning from what he called distinguishing between the

rams and the he-goats, was intercepted by Sybil Ayres.

"Oh, Mr. Burmester, it is so interesting! Here is a gentleman who knows

all about Miss Lutwyche! Not only that, but what do you think? Her brother
is his servant!"

Lance stared blankly.

"Some mistake, Miss Ayres," he said pleasantly. "Miss Lutwyche has no

brother."

"Well, if I'm tellin' lies, you can easily prove it, you know," said
Amurrica jocosely. "The young lady's got a short memory, but I daresay it
can be refreshed."

"Do let me introduce Major Otis," said Sybil. "He is so interested to

meet Miss Lutwyche's fiancé."

Otis took Lance by the hand, and shook it impressively.

"I'm proud to meet a man of generosity and insight—I say, of generosity

and insight," said he solemnly. "Insight to see that the gal's real grit, in spite
of her family; and generosity to overlook the things in her past that are
better not talked about."
 "Look here!" said Lance, in a fury. "I don't know whether this is the
latest variety of American humour, but whatever it is, it's deuced bad form,
and you'll find you had better keep your head shut in England. Kindly
choose some other subject of conversation than Miss Lutwyche, unless you
want me to punch your head."

"You could easily do that," said Otis pensively. "I'm in quite the early
stages of my convalescence. However, there's no need. Of course I
withdraw all I said. Naturally, I thought you must know all about—well,
well! Keep your hair on! Sorry I spoke. Can't say more than that, can I?
Only this one thing I must say. My boy, Arnie Lutwyche, has lived in hopes
of finding his sister when he got to England. Are you goin' to prevent his
speakin' to her?"

"There's some absurd error," said Lance, in a rage. "I tell you Miss
Lutwyche has no brothers. I also warn you, Major Otis, that there are libel
laws in England."

He raised his hat and hurried off, afraid to trust himself.

Just as he departed, Madeline and Theo, who had been for a long time
hanging around, in hopes of being introduced to some officers, ventured to
come up, and found themselves welcomed by Miss Ayres with quite
unwonted cordiality.

"Oh, do come here! Miss Lutwyche is your cousin, isn't she?" she cried.
"You must be introduced to an old friend of hers!"

The girls listened spellbound to the piquant story of the presence in

England of a Boer boy who was Millie's brother. "A regular, sulky Boer,"
giggled Sybil, "who only speaks very broken English."

They looked at each other.

"Why," said Madeline, "then I expect the Major could tell us all about
Millie before she came to England—what we have always wanted to know
—how she got her arm broken, and so on."
 "I can tell you that, certainly. She broke her arm scrambling out through
a skylight to meet her lover, when her stepmother had locked her in."

"That we can easily believe," cried Theo. "Father sent her away from
the Vicarage for that very same thing—getting out of her bedroom window
at night! And then she tried to fix the blame on Gwen."

Sybil Ayres listened with eyes starting from her head.

"Do you suppose Mr. Burmester knows all this?" she cried.

"If he don't, he oughter," said Otis, whose English was apt to fray, as it
were, when he grew familiar or confidential. "The person that told him
would be doin' him a kindness. Look here! I ought to know something
about that gal, since I was engaged to marry her, with her mother's
consent."

"To marry her! She was only sixteen!" cried Theo.

"We were short of gals in Slabbert's Poort," said Amurrica, with that
irresistible dry grin which always fascinated people. "But the day her father
was buried, Mestaer, the feller she was carryin' on with, picked a quarrel
with me, fought me, pounded me into a jelly, and carried off my gal that
night."

Madeline grew very red. The seriousness of this accusation was more
than she had contemplated. After all, Melicent was a Cooper!

"You must mean he tried to carry her off," she said faintly.

Major Otis took out the cigar he was smoking—one of General Ayres'
best—and touched her sleeve lightly with one finger.

"Cousin of yours?" He looked round at Sybil with raised eyebrows.

"Better not. This pretty young English lady don't know the sorter thing her
cousin came out of."

"Having gone so far, you ought to speak out, I think," said Madeline.
 He shook his head, and looked sympathetic.

"This young lady is going to be married, I hear—to make what's called a

good match?"

They all assented.

"Well then, why spoil her chances?" He shrugged his shoulders and
replaced his cigar.

"Why, there are the Burmesters to think of," cried Sybil Ayres
indignantly. "And the Helstons, whom she has deceived all these years."

"That's so," said Amurrica slowly. "That's so, certainly."

"You had better tell us what you know; we are her cousins," said Theo.

"Well, what I'm tellin' you now, I'm prepared to swear to, before any
magistrate in this county," he replied, as if reluctantly. "It's simply this.
Mestaer carried off Millie Lutwyche to his house and kept her there. After
some days he deserted her, went off and enlisted—and the chaplain chipped
in, and sent her home to her friends. Arnie Lutwyche will tell you all
whether that's true or not, and you must decide whether Burmester ought to
be told."

Madeline and Theo stood looking at one another.

"And she pretended to be so honest, and so disgusted with us for doing

things on the quiet!" gasped Madeline at last. "Father ought to be told. Go,
Theo, tell him to come at once and hear what Major Otis has to say."

Meanwhile Lance, in white heat, made his way to where his party were
standing.

"Melicent," he said, "do you know there's a brute of a chap called Otis
here to-day—a fellow that was notorious in Africa for all kinds of rascality
—telling everybody that he knows you, and has got a brother of yours over
here with him as his servant. What does he mean by such cheek?"
 Melicent turned quickly to him. "What does he say? He has one of the
Lutwyche boys here?"

"The Lutwyche boys? Who are they?" cried Lance, in stupefaction.

"Why, Tante Wilma's children," said Millie disgustedly; "my half-

brothers and sisters."

There was a silence. Lady Burmester turned a look of blank

astonishment upon Mrs. Helston.

"Do I understand that Lance will have a family of half Boer brothers-in-
law?" she said.

"But I thought you knew my father married a Boer woman after my

mother died. I thought everyone knew it," said Millie. "Surely Mr. Mayne
told you; he knows all about it. It was he who got me away from Tante
Wilma after my father died."

Lance cleared his throat.

"Perhaps," he said, "before I again encounter Major Otis, it will be as

well for you to give me further family information."

"It would have been better had it been given before," echoed his mother,
very stiffly.

Melicent dared not look at Bert. She held up her little head proudly.

"I was under the impression that everyone knew," she said. "Pater and
Mater certainly do, and I assumed they had told you long ago. Please
believe that I have never had the least intention of sailing under false
colours."

There flashed across Lancelot's mind a memory of a chance word

spoken by Harry Helston the first time he saw Melicent upon Tod's Trush:
"It's not a pretty story, and I daresay would do the poor child no good in a
narrow, provincial circle?"
 There were passages in Millie's life of which he knew nothing, but of
which, apparently, the odious Otis knew much. It was a rankling thought.

Captain Brooke broke the silence.

"There is one consolation," he observed coolly. "Otis is such a

wholesale liar, he'll soon get found out. It might be doing him a kindness if
I gave him a hint to keep himself in the background. I know enough about
him to make General Ayres regret his hospitality. Whatever you do, keep
clear of him, Lady Burmester. If I may count myself enough your friend to
give you a hint, avoid being introduced to the fellow. He's not fit to mix
with ladies."

"Really, Captain Brooke? I am extremely obliged," said Lady Burmester

gratefully.

"Keep clear of the Ayres party, mother," said Lance. "Brooke's right,
he's a beast. Come, Melicent, I am going to start the sports now."

He spoke irritably, and Melicent silently walked away with him,

conscious of a burning, fiery resentment against him, his mother, herself,
and Fate generally.

Her pride was cruelly wounded, and her conscience reiterated, "Serve
you right!" She knew that had she really loved Lancelot she would have
known no peace until she had told him all about Hubert. She ought to have
done so. Now some kind of explanation was unavoidable. It was impossible
but that Lance should return to the subject. She now felt certain that Otis
would tell everybody who would listen some garbled version of her flight
from her stepmother's house. Vaguely she began to realise how far it was in
his power to injure her; and she knew that, had Lance been in possession of
the actual facts, he would have had no power to injure her at all. She had
left her lover in the position of being unable to contradict effectively
anything that might be said.

The figure she must cut was not a dignified one. If she broke off the
engagement, it could but seem that she did so because she was found out,
and dreaded further revelations. If she confessed to Lance, he must feel that
she did so only because concealment was no longer practicable, to say
nothing of the suspicions which she must arouse by the mere fact of not
having spoken before. She saw that, whatever she did, she must lower
herself, perhaps fatally, in the eyes of her lover. She positively shrank from
the abyss before her. She could not see how she could avoid public
humiliation, and what was worse, she must sink in the eyes of the Helstons
too. They had loved, shielded, trusted her. She had wilfully gone her own
way, keeping from them all that most nearly concerned her, locking her
heart, hiding it away from them....

It was human nature that, at the moment, Lance's regard should seem to
her more precious than ever before. No woman is ready to resign her lover
because she has ceased to be pleasing in his sight.

She stood by his side, watching, with eyes that swam in tears, the great
raw-boned Dalesmen slouching round the sloping, bumpy course with
limbs all abroad, yet keeping up a pace that was undeniable, as they
completed lap after lap of the walking race, which was the great event of
the day, a professional champion from another county being entered for it.

Outwardly she maintained her pride and spirit. She smiled and chatted
to Lance so naturally that he began to forget his uneasiness.

"Curious," he observed to her presently, "that I never heard of your

father's children."

"Vrouw Lutwyche cast me off," said Millie. "She repudiated me. I never
expected to hear of her again. They are well-to-do; there seemed no reason
why they should trouble themselves; they only wanted to be rid of me."

"Still, they are your father's children."

"Oh," she said, in her hardest voice, "I suppose so; but nobody could
think it. They are all Boer, through and through. I could not love them. I am
a cold person, as you know. I should have told you of them, if I had not
made quite sure you knew."

He did not reply for a moment; when he did, what he said startled her.
 "It at least shows how far we have been from perfect confidence."

She looked at him astonished, taken aback. He was studying the race
card.

The invitations to the wedding were actually written. It seemed to

Melicent that her marriage was as final a thing as the fact that autumn
follows summer. She was frightened, shaken.

"Surely," she faltered, "perfect confidence is a thing that comes by

degrees?"

"I think it ought to come before marriage, don't you?" said Lance.

She felt as if he had opened an oubliette at her feet. How could she tell
him what ought to be told? But evidently she must either do that or lose
him. She firmly believed that, in his wholesome, out-of-doors life, were no
dark corners concealed from her.

However far she was from passion, she liked Lance dearly. The idea of
his contempt was extremely painful.

All her life she had prided herself upon her honesty!

And her attempt to assert her independence of spirit had led her into this
impasse!

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE DISCOMFITURE OF OTIS

"We build with strength the deep tower-wall
That shall be shattered thus and thus.
 And fair and great are court and hall;
But how fair—this is not for us,
Who know the lack that lurks in all.

"... the years

Interpret everything aright,
And crown with weeds our pride of towers,
And warm our marble through with sun,
And break our pavements through with flowers,
With an Amen when all is done."
—MRS. MEYNELL.

Sybil Ayres, who was animated by a very lively desire to pay out
Lancelot for being about to marry someone else, manœuvred repeatedly to
approach the Burmester party, and fling her fire-brand into their midst. But
in some unaccountable way they seemed to elude her. After a time she
appealed to Captain Brooke, who happened to be passing by.

"Captain Brooke, do persuade Miss Lutwyche to come this way! Her

brother is here, and wants to see her."

"What, one of the Boer boys? He had better go and call upon her to-
morrow at Glen Royd, I should think. This is a public sort of meeting-place;
and as you see, she is leaving the ground now with Lady Burmester's party."

"It looks just as if Miss Lutwyche was avoiding him," tittered Miss
Ayres.

"It is Major Otis whom they are all avoiding, by my advice," said the
Captain gravely.

"Because he knows all about Miss Lutwyche's African life? That looks
as if there were something to be ashamed of, doesn't it?" said the girl
impertinently.

"Not on that account, but because—you will pardon my speaking so of

the General's guest—with my consent, no woman of my acquaintance
should speak to such a man."
 "Captain Brooke!"

"I will say the same to Otis himself, if you wish. He has no business in
any gentleman's house, and he knows it. Whatever he told me, I should be
sure was a lie, merely because Otis said it."

"But—but—" stammered Sybil, crimson, "the vicar says that all Major
Otis tells him is borne out by his own knowledge, only the real facts were
kept from him by Mr. Mayne. The Major says he is prepared to swear
before any magistrate that all he says is true."

"Then he has actually presumed to make charges against Miss

Lutwyche?" asked the Captain, his eyes like blue fire. "You can tell him
from me that wilful perjury's a serious matter in England."

"Oh, Captain Brooke, do you really think that what he says about Miss
Lutwyche is untrue? Because the vicar is gone to lay the matter before Sir
Joseph. He felt it his duty. Major Otis says Miss Lutwyche, if asked, can't,
and won't deny it."

"Deny what?" asked Brooke, in a tone that, as Sybil afterwards

declared, sent cold shivers down her back.

"If—if it's true, Miss Lutwyche ought not— But I couldn't possibly tell
you!"

"Yet you could listen," he broke in. "You could stand by while that
coward dared to mishandle the name of a girl you have known for years!
You could believe his vile accusations! Well, now, he has chosen to do this
thing in public, and I'll make him regret it to the last day he lives. I'll just
trouble Major Otis to repeat his lies to me! Excuse plain speaking. But I
know this man, and you don't."

The Burmester party, including the vicar and the Helstons, were just
driving away as he strode with his long, firm stride, across the field to
where the Major stood, a cluster of eager listeners around him. His hand
rested on the shoulder of a big, slouching boy, swarthy, with high cheek-
bones and little black eyes, who seemed about as unlike what one would
imagine Melicent's brother as anything could be.

"This boy can tell you it's all true," he was saying, "and so could
Mestaer, if he hadn't got shot as a spy later on, in the campaign."

"I knew Mestaer," said the Captain, in a carrying voice. "Perhaps the
fact may serve as an introduction between us, Major. Now you tell me,
straight out, the truth about him and Miss Lutwyche, just as you have been
telling these friends of ours, will you?"

Eager faces, wearing expressions of various kinds, pressed nearer as

Otis, wholly unsuspicious, repeated his version of Millie's flight from her
father's house.

Alfred Dow was close to Bert; Mrs. Cooper and her daughters not far
off.

The Captain listened with perfect calmness. When it was done, he said
quietly: "That all?"

"That's all; and if I were Burmester, I'd think it enough," he said,

laughing brutally.

"Well," said Bert, "then my turn comes. You have had no scruple in
saying this abominable thing out before ladies, which alone might have
opened their eyes as to the kind of refuse you are; so I have no scruple in
telling you, before ladies, that you lie. You lie, sir, as a Boer traitor might be
expected to do. Yes, grin! Show them all the false teeth you wear in place of
those Mestaer knocked down your throat on the day you laid your plans
against Miss Lutwyche! Hold your tongue! You've had your innings this
afternoon; now I'm going to have mine! You lied again when you said
Mestaer was shot. He is alive, as you probably know. What you don't know
is that he is in England. The Bishop of Pretoria is in England too. Both
these witnesses can prove the untruth of your story, as you know; and I both
can and will produce them—not here, but in open court, unless you confess
yourself a malicious liar, and offer a public apology. If you don't withdraw
every word you have said against Miss Lutwyche this afternoon, you shall
pay such swingeing damages as shall exhaust the last of the loot you stole
when you were in the Boer Irish Brigade, before the taking of Kroonstadt.
Ha, you see, I know!"

He had spoken without a pause. The white intensity of his rage had
carried him along, and the silent sympathy of the excited audience seemed
to make itself felt. Amurrica had several times tried to break in, but in vain.
But now he uttered a howl of rage, and fuming, turned to those about him.

"He thinks to frighten me! He thinks he can— By the—— Who are you,
sir? Who are you to take up the cudgels for this young lady?"

"I have the privilege to be a friend of Miss Lutwyche," said Hubert,

raising his hat as he spoke with a quiet grace which gave the effect of
saluting her name. "I also know the Orange Colony like the palm of my
hand. There's not a man in that colony that would believe you on your oath.
If I allowed this gathering to disperse without knowing you for the
scoundrel you are, I should be failing in my duty to this country. Ladies and
gentlemen, you have heard the slander uttered by this renegade. I shall now
tell you the truth, in as few words as possible. Miss Lutwyche was left an
orphan at the age of sixteen, in a Boer village which a year or two before
had got filled with sweepings from other parts of Africa, come there in
search of diamonds. This man, who had long cast eyes on her, paid her
stepmother a sum of money to hand her over to him on her father's death.
But Mr. Mayne, the chaplain, had been left her guardian, which interfered
with their design. Mayne had to go away on urgent business connected with
the will. In his absence it was plotted that Otis should go through a form of
marriage with the girl at the hands of the Boer Predikant. But, as they knew
the indomitable spirit of Miss Lutwyche, the Boer woman thrashed her
within an inch of her life to reduce her to a proper state of submission. In
escaping from her torturers, she fell down a ladder, and dislocated her arm.
That seems to have frightened them somewhat, for they let her creep away
to her garret to die. Mestaer, who had been asked by Mayne to keep watch,
went to the house, found her lying in a pool of blood, and carried her to his
home. Where else could he have taken her? He put her in charge of his
housekeeper, fetched a doctor at once, and mounted guard until Mayne's
return, when he went off to the war. Now, you ask that boy there, whether
this is true or no. Here, boy! did your mother sjambok your sister?"

All eyes were turned upon the uncouth lad. He lifted his eyes to his
questioner with a very curious look; he did not seem to notice Otis, who
still kept a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Yes, she did," he replied sulkily.

"Was it done at Otis's suggestion?"

Here the boy shook off the Major's touch, and stood up.

"Yes; to make her go quiet; only mother was drunk, and she done too
much."

There was a kind of growl all round among the listening Dalesmen. Otis
grew green, and clenched his fist.

"You shall pay for this!" he muttered to the boy.

"Had Otis paid your mother to arrange the matter?" went on Bert
relentlessly.

"Yes."

"And this is the cur," said Hubert, between his teeth, "who has dared to
slander a young innocent girl before you all this day."

Otis was literally foaming at the mouth. His mortification was choking
him.

"I said what was true!" he screamed. "Mestaer did carry her off! I said
no more! She was in his house! That's all I said."

"Yes, and that's what you'll go to hell for saying!" shouted Dow,
cracking a formidable whip he held, and stamping with excitement. "It isn't
a sjambok, Captain, but let me lay it round him once or twice! Let me just
give him the feel of it! Do now!"
 Bert waved him back.

"If it wasn't for his health," he said, "I would be inclined to let you do as
you liked with him. But he's ill, Dow, and he mustn't be touched. But if
there's a soul present will let him inside his doors after this, I shall be
surprised. You're a discredited traitor," he said fiercely to the livid Otis.
"How you got your commission is one of the many mysteries of the late
campaign. Having come through so far, you might have had the common
decency to lie low and keep your poisonous tongue quiet!"

Otis appealed, gasping in his rage, to General Ayres; but the General
turned his back upon him.

"We took our convalescents on trust," he said coldly. "That trust the War
Office has betrayed. I will send your luggage to any address you like to give
me."

"But look here—is this justice, bare justice? His word against mine,
that's all you've got, except for this lying little Boer—"

"We all know and respect Captain Brooke," said the General, bowing to
Hubert. "I may add, we all know and admire Miss Lutwyche." He raised his
hat, as Hubert had done. "Gentlemen, may I venture to suggest—three
cheers for Miss Lutwyche?"

The field rang again. The hurrahs rolled away across the Dale, and
Brenda remarked, as they drove silently."

"That must have been a close race! Hark, how they are cheering the
winner!"

* * * * * * * *

"You rat—you little viper!" hissed Amurrica, as he hastened, with Arnie

at his side, to get the dog-cart from the farm where it was put up, and drive
away from the scene of his disgrace, "why in thunder did you give me away
like that?"
 It was a long time before the sullen answer came:

"Always was afraid of him."

"Afraid of me?"

"No fear," said Arnie, with a laugh. "Not much. But I always have been
feared of Bert Mestaer."

"What?" Otis gave a kind of jump into the air. "Mestaer? That? Mestaer
coming the county gentleman? And I never knew it! You little devil, why
didn't you tell me?"

"Thought you'd know him."

Otis stood still in the dusty lane. He went from red to pale, and almost
to purple again.

"If he thinks he's done with me, he makes a mistake, that's all," he
growled; and he snarled like a wild beast.

CHAPTER XXXV

CONFESSION
"Well, I have played and lost. But that is best.
Where was my right to win and keep such glory?
Now I will let the book of living rest.
Closed is my story."
—ALICE HERBERT.
 Hubert's motor traversed the distance from the sports to Ilbersdale at a
rate so far beyond the police limit as to make limits seem ridiculous.

On his way he encountered Mr. Cooper, pushing his bicycle up hill. The
seething excitement which had gripped him that afternoon had not yet
expended itself; and he pulled up.

"Good evening, Vicar. Just a word! I hope you have not been to the
Burmesters with any of those awful lies about your niece that Otis was
getting off his chest in that field?"

The vicar assumed his most stony aspect. His cold eye said eloquently,
"Beware!" Aloud his reply was: "I fear I do not understand you, Captain
Brooke."

"Sorry; it's my slang makes me difficult to follow. I drop into it when

I'm excited. You see, I happen to know all about Otis, and I've just been
enlightening the bystanders a bit. There isn't enough of him left to make a
War Office clerk! They've hissed him off the ground, General Ayres has
washed his hands of him, and I've given him twelve hours to choose
between a libel action and a written apology."

"It is a—surely—a somewhat extraordinary proceeding on your part to

talk of libel actions on behalf of a young lady who has her own relatives to
protect her," said the vicar, fastening, in the whirl of his mind, upon a
breach of conventionalities which he might legitimately resent.

"Her own relatives didn't seem to me to be doing much protecting this

afternoon," observed Bert drily. "However, Mrs. Cooper and your daughters
will be able to tell you all about it. They saw the brute knocked out of
time."

The vicar began to be anxious to get home.

"I fancy you are under a misapprehension," he said. "I have just been to
Ilbersdale to correct a misunderstanding. I own I was disturbed this
afternoon to find that Mr. and Mrs. Helston had allowed the engagement
between Mr. Burmester and my niece to take place, without informing the
bridegroom's relatives of the serious family disabilities of the bride. I was
anxious to assure Lady Burmester that, had the affair rested with me, I
should have been quite frank; but that I naturally imagined that Miss
Lutwyche's adopted parents had supplied all the facts."

"That was very thoughtful of you. But if you were, as you say, in
possession of the facts, how is it that you did not contradict the horrible
misstatements made by Otis up at the field?"

The vicar grew still more stony.

"I have never been made acquainted with the exact truth concerning my
niece's injuries at the time of her father's death."

"Injuries?" echoed Bert. "Injuries, indeed! But I've seen her righted. She
was the darling of the Dale before; she'll be its idol now! Did you hear them
cheering her?"

The vicar stood amazed. "Cheering my niece?"

Hubert laughed mischievously.

"And who may you be, to have the intimate knowledge which I lack
concerning this young lady?" inquired the vicar.

"Hubert Brooke, late Captain in Lacy's Brigade," laughed Bert, as he

drove away.

Mr. Cooper pursued his road, in much wrath and discomfiture. His
reception at Ilbersdale had affronted him, his encounter with Bert
bewildered him. He remounted the bicycle which he was pushing at the
time of his meeting, and rode home with what speed he might.

By the Vicarage gate two men were awaiting him—Otis and the
unattractive Boer boy. Evidently they meant to speak with him.

Otis approached with the easy confidence and winning smile that he
could assume at will. He begged pardon for troubling, but he had
unthinkingly mixed himself up in what looked to him like a local scandal of
formidable dimensions, and he had come to the vicar for advice. Mr.
Cooper's anger was not altogether proof against the insidious appeal. He
was used to being ignored and left out of things, and, to one whose own
idea of his own importance, both socially and parochially, was enormous,
the way this man approached him was a salve to a wound always more or
less smarting.

After a short parley, understanding that Otis had material facts to

communicate, he invited him in.

Mrs. Cooper and her daughters were at tea; and there was a flutter of
consternation among them for they had seen the exit of Otis from the
Fransdale sports. Mrs. Cooper became unspeakably coy, blushing like a
girl, and dismissing her brood, with their tea half done, on the flimsiest of
pretexts.

"This is not surprisin', Mrs. Cooper," said Otis sadly. "I was a stranger
up there, and nobody knew me. It was my word against that of a bad and
dangerous man, who is sailin' among you all under false colours. These
young ladies heard him givin' me the lie up there. In justice, I should like to
have them hear what I want to tell you now. You may have heard Mr.
Mayne or Miss Lutwyche talk of the man Mestaer?"

"Yes, yes," gasped Madeline, at the door. "She had one letter from him
after she got here—you remember, mother, the letter she would not show
you. She said he wanted to marry her!"

"She wouldn't show you his letter?" slowly said Otis, standing by the
table, and turning his hat round in his hand as if on the point of taking
leave. "Has she ever told you that he goes now under the name of Brooke?"

"What's that you say?" sharply asked the vicar.

"He's well disguised," replied Otis. "He bluffed me, I own it. But Arnie
here, he knew him from the first; didn't you, boy?"

Arnold looked at the three tall, full-blown girls, blushed admiringly and
assented.
 Surprise deprived them all of speech.

"Now, I'm told," said Otis, "that this fine Captain Brooke is buildin'
himself a house, and that Miss Lutwyche is his—architect." He gave a little
chuckle, "Excuse me: I really got to laff," he drawled humorously. "The
idea of him an' his architect is a bit too thick—eh?"

"Miss Lutwyche is duly qualified," began the vicar, in his stateliest

manner.

"Do I doubt it? No, sir! But I hear she has been stayin' down in the
shires with him pretty near all summer, gettin' this house ready while her
lover's in Russia. Now, I couldn't help just wonderin'—we really couldn't
help it, Arnie and me—whether young Burmester knows that Brooke's her
old lover."

"Why, do you think she knows?" cried Theo excitedly.

Otis bent on her the sliest, most waggish look, and slowly closed one
eye.

"Dear young ladies, you live in Arcadia," he said. "You remind me of

three hedge-roses; an' you're doubtless as simple as you're sweet. But your
cousin, Miss Lutwyche, she wasn't born yesterday, you know. She knows a
thing or two, you may take my word for that."

The vicar was silent, struggling with mortification. That day he had
broken through his lifelong rule to do nothing hurriedly. He had gone
straight from hearing Otis's revelations to be first with Lady Burmester. He
felt sure that what was said must ultimately come to her ears. He thought
his duty was plain.

But if he had only waited! If he had only gone to Millie, armed with this
fact! If he could have charged her with knowing who Bert was, and
concealing her knowledge, how differently things might have gone!

He looked at his wife, who seemed to be still blushing. She rose from
table.
 "As you say, Mr. Otis," said she, with archness which was unutterably
comic upon her middle-aged, substantial personality, "my dear girls are
very unsophisticated. They have been carefully brought up, as English girls
usually are. I will leave you to discuss this serious matter with Mr. Cooper,
and take them away. Come, my darlings."

* * * * * * * *

Meanwhile Bert drove straight to the Grange, inquired for Lance, and
found him alone in the smoking-room, sunk in profound gloom and a large
arm-chair.

"Burmester," he said abruptly, "I've come to talk to you—to tell you

something that will perhaps sever our friendship for ever. Confession is
good, they say; but I funk mine." He sank down in the opposite chair,
drawing out his cigar-case. "I funk it; make it as easy as you can, old man."

Lance was not smoking. He lifted a haggard young face from the depths
of his chair.

"Sorry," he said nervously, "but fact is, I'm feeling a bit off—
preoccupied. I must own I'm not in a sympathetic mood."

"It's about that—same thing. My confession touches the spot," said

Hubert.

"What are you talking about?"

"You are upset because you find scandal busy with the name of ... your
... the girl you love. And because you feel she hasn't been open with you.
You don't doubt her, but you feel there are things you should have known,
which she has kept back. Is that so?"

"That's precisely it," said Lance hurriedly. "I oughtn't to talk to you
about it—about her. But there must be some kind of understanding between
me and her if—if things are to go on. I feel a brute, to talk like this, but I am
all abroad, so to speak. We have had a very unpleasant scene here. Old
Cooper turned up, and said there were wild rumours flying about, on the
authority of those who claimed to have known her in Africa, to the effect
that she, Melicent, had got out of her bedroom window and gone with a
man called Mestaer, and that she had been in his house three or four weeks.
He said he came to Melicent for an authoritative contradiction. He wished
to be able to refute the story; thought he had a right to ask for the exact
facts."

He leaned forward, running his hands up through his hair.

Hubert sat very still. "And what did she say?"

"... Said it was true."

There was a pause. "Not as if she meant it?" asked Hubert tentatively.

"She was very angry. She looked splendid. She said that it was at her
uncle's own request that she had kept silence—that when she first came to
England she was anxious to tell him everything, but was forbidden to
mention the subject. If we wanted to know the truth we could write to the
Bishop: he knew. Then she got up and took her leave, and went off with the
Helstons. Of course I know this is a cock-and-bull story; but I feel ... I
ought to have been told."

"Yes," agreed his friend, "you ought to have been told."

"One thing I do wish," said Lance, clenching his fists, "that I had that
man Mestaer here to strangle."

"Well, if all our wishes could be as easily granted," said Hubert. "I'm
Mestaer."

Lance bounded from his seat, then sank back, as red as fire.

"Is this a time for your rotting?"

"No rotting here. I told you it would mean the breaking of our
friendship very likely. I am Hubert Mestaer. I took the name of Brooke
because it was English, and my mother's, and I wished to live in England
and be English. May I go on, or are you too angry to hear me?"
 Lance rose to his feet again. He stared blankly for a minute or two, then
his eyes suddenly blazed.

"You're Mestaer! Good God! Then you're the man that knows! You can
tell me ... what happened that night!"

"Yes; I can tell you: and I will. Mayne knows, she knows, I know.
Nobody else."

A shiver ran through Lancelot; he seemed on the brink of a hundred

questions; he choked them back.

"Speak, can't you?" he said.

Hubert spoke. He told his story from the beginning, making Melicent's
attitude towards himself throughout quite clear. He did not dwell on his own
feelings, but made it no secret that he had come to England solely in the
hope of being able to obtain her regard.

Lancelot listened to it all, as to information respecting some girl whom

he had never known.

"That she should have undergone all this, and never told me a word!"

"I can see where her difficulty came in," said Bert "Before she engaged
herself to you, she had guessed who I am. That altered everything. If you
can see what I mean, it turned the past into the present. She could not speak
to you of Mestaer without adding that he was here, in England, under
another name. That would have been giving me away—"

"Why couldn't she warn you that she should speak?"

"She never confessed to me that she knew. She tried to avoid intimacy."

"You ought to have told me yourself!" cried Lance.

"Well, until she engaged herself to you, it was certainly no concern of

yours," said Hubert bluntly. "Do you suppose that what you are feeling now
is anything like as bad as what I felt about you, when I heard you had
carried off the only thing that made life worth living to me?"

Lance paced the room restlessly.

"Is that still the same?" he cried. "Do you still care about her?"

"It's chronic," said Bert calmly. "There's only one woman in my world.
She might have Boer relations on every bush for aught I should care.
Nothing she could do, nothing anybody could say of her, would make any
difference to me."

"But—then—when she's my wife?" stammered Lance.

"When she's—your wife I shall never see her any more," said Bert
quietly. "It wouldn't be safe."

"Safe? No! But am I safe now?" cried the young man bitterly. "I don't
understand. What is the situation at this moment between you and her?"

Bert folded his arms tight, hunching himself together as if to keep

control over his temper.

"That's a question, surely, that you must ask her to answer," he said, in a
colourless voice.

Lance uttered an exclamation of rage.

"You ought to know without asking," went on Hubert presently. "Does

she love you? Surely you must know that, If she does ... I'm out of it, you
see."

Lancelot paused in his pacing. He leaned against the window-frame

staring out Hubert had touched the weak spot. He knew that he had
persuaded Millie into the engagement, had ever since continued to assure
her that she was happy, or that, if not, she certainly would be. He knew that,
were he sure of her love, distrust would be impossible to him. He was not
sure. He did distrust her. He was madly, wildly jealous of Hubert. Crossing
to where he sat, he seized his shoulder, shaking him violently.
 "When she promised to marry me, did she know who you are?"

"Yes."

"Then it's all right! It must be! She said she liked me better than
anybody else."

"If she said so, it was true."

"She's—she's not like most girls, you see. She's a cold nature—"

"Is she?"

Hubert closed his eyes, thinking of the lips that had clung to his, the
eyes that had looked into his, the hands that had trembled beneath his, as
they stood together in the chalky pit He got up suddenly: he had had about
as much as he could stand.

At the moment a footman entered, with a note on a salver.

"From her," said Lance, very white, as the man left the room.

"Breaking it off," said Hubert, relighting his cold cigar with a shaking
hand.

Lance read it

"Just so. She declines to give any kind of explanation of the statements
made by Mr. Cooper. She prefers to consider the engagement at an end." He
stood silent a moment, the note crumpled in his hand. "I'll go to her," he
said unsteadily. "I've simply got to have it out with her! When she hears that
I know—that you have told me"—he was half-way to the door. Then he
stopped, as if choked. "When I think that I have never known all this! When
I think that I have been shut out from her confidence, and that you—you—
have known all the time! When I think that I've been away in Russia and
you two, with this common memory between you, have been together! Day
after day! Over that confounded house-building! I feel that I have good
ground to consider myself hardly used."