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!"

He lit a cigar and watched the coach drive away, then saw the coach in which he had come drive up also and its pa.s.sengers mount. He did not stir, but smoked on. The driver waited for some time, and when he did not come drove away without him, to the regret of the pa.s.sengers and to the indignation of Miss Mildred Margrave, who talked much of him during the drive back.

When they had gone, Telford rose and walked back to the ruined abbey. He went to the spot where he had first seen Mrs. Detlor that day, then took the path up the hillside to the place where they had stood. He took from his pocket the ring she had given back to him, read the words inside it slowly, and, looking at the spot where she had stood, said aloud:

"I met a man once who imagined he was married to the spirit of a woman living at the north pole. Well, I will marry myself to the ghost of Marion Conquest."

So saying, he slipped the ring on his little finger. The thing was fantastic, but he did it reverently; nor did it appear in the least as weakness, for his face was, strong and cold. "Till death us do part, so help me G.o.d!" he added.

He turned and wandered once more through the abbey, strayed in the grounds, and at last came to the park gates. Then he walked to the town a couple of miles away, went to the railway station and took a train for Herridon. He arrived there some time before the coach did. He went straight to the View House, proceeded to his room and sat down to write some letters. Presently he got up, went down to the office and asked the porter if Mrs. John Gladney had arrived from London. The porter said she had. He then felt in his pocket for a card, but changed his mind, saying to himself that his name would have no meaning for her. He took a piece of letter paper and wrote on it, "A friend of your husband brings a message to you." He put it in an envelope, and, addressing it, sent it up to her.

The servant returned, saying that Mrs. Gladney had taken a sitting room in a house adjacent to the hotel and was probably there. He took the note and went to the place indicated, sent in the note and waited.

When Mrs. Gladney received the note, she was arranging the few knick-knacks she had brought. She read the note hurriedly and clinched it in her hand. "It is his writing--his, Mark Telford! He, my husband's friend! Good G.o.d!"

For a moment she trembled violently and ran her fingers through her golden hair distractedly, but she partly regained her composure, came forward and told the servant to show him into the room. She was a woman of instant determination. She drew the curtains closer, so that the room would be almost dark to one entering from the sunlight. Then she stood with her back to the light of the window. He saw a figure standing in the shadow, came forward and bowed, not at first looking closely at the face.

"I have come from your husband," he said. "My name is Mark Telford"--

"Yes, I know," she interrupted.

He started, came a little nearer and looked curiously at her. "Ida--Ida Royal!" he exclaimed. "Are you--you--John Gladney's wife?"

"He is my husband."

Telford folded his arms, and, though pale and haggard, held himself firmly. "I could not have wished this for my worst enemy," he said at last "Gladney and I have been more than brothers."

"In return for having"--

"Hush!" he interrupted. "Do you think anything you may say can make me feel worse than I do? I tell you we have lain under the same blankets month in, month out, and he saved my life."

"What is the message you bring?" she asked.

"He begs you to live with him again, you and your child. The property he settled on you for your lifetime he will settle on your child. Until this past few days he was himself poor. To-day he is rich--money got honestly, as you may guess."

"And if I am not willing to be reconciled?"

"There was no condition."

"Do you know all the circ.u.mstances? Did he tell you?"

"No, he did not tell me. He said that he left you suddenly for a reason, and when he wished to return you would not have him. That was all. He never spoke but kindly of you."

"He was a good man."

"He is a good man."

"I will tell you why he left me. He learned, no matter how, that I had not been married, as I said I had."

She looked up, as if expecting him to speak. He said nothing, but stood with eyes fixed on the floor.