He looked at her in amazement.

"You do that--for me?"

"Yes. Because you are a great artist--and a brave man!" she said, gulping. "You are not to despair. Your music is in your soul--your brain. Other people shall play it for you."

He calmed down.

"At least I am not deaf, like Beethoven," he said, trying to please her.

"That would have been worse. Do you know, last night Falloden and I had a glorious talk? He was awfully decent. He made me tell him all about Poland and my people. He never scoffed once. He makes me do what the doctor says. And last night--when it was freezing cold--he brought a rug and wrapped it round me. Think of that!"--he looked at her--half-shamefaced, half-laughing--"_Falloden!_"

Her eyes shone.

"I'm glad!" she said softly. "I'm glad!"

"Yes, but do you know why he's kind--why he's here at all?" he asked her abruptly.

"What's the good of silly questions?" she said hastily. "Take it as it comes."

He laughed.

"He does it--I'm going to say it!--yes, I am--and you are not to be angry--he does it because--simply--he's in love with you!"

Connie flushed again, more deeply, and he, already alarmed by his own boldness, looked at her nervously.

"You are quite wrong." Her tone was quiet, but decided. "He did it, first of all, because of what you did for his father--"

"I did nothing!" interposed Radowitz.

She took no notice.

"And secondly"--her voice shook a little--"because--he was sorry.

Now--now--he is doing it"--suddenly her smile flashed out, with its touch of humour--"just simply because he likes it!"

It was a bold a.s.sertion. She knew it. But she straightened her slight shoulders, prepared to stick to it.

Radowitz shook his head.

"And what am I doing it for? Do you remember when I said to you I loathed him?"

"No--not him."

"Well, something in him--the chief thing, it seemed to me then. I felt towards him really--as a man might feel towards his murderer--or the murderer of some one else, some innocent, helpless person who had given no offence. Hatred--loathing--abhorrence!--you couldn't put it too strongly. Well then,"--he began poking at the fire, while he went on thinking aloud--"G.o.d brought us together in that strange manner. By the way"--he turned to her--"are you a Christian?"

"I--I don't know. I suppose I am."

"I am," he said firmly. "I am a practising Catholic. Catholicism with us Poles is partly religion, partly patriotism--do you understand? I go to confession--I am a communicant. And for some time I couldn't go to Communion at all. I always felt Falloden's hand on my shoulder, as he was pushing me down the stairs; and I wanted to kill him!--just that!

You know our Polish blood runs hotter than yours. I didn't want the college to punish him. Not at all. It was my affair. After I saw you in town, it grew worse--it was an obsession. When we first got to Yorkshire, Sorell and I, and I knew that Falloden was only a few miles away, I never could get quit of it--of the thought that some day--somewhere--I should kill him. I never, if I could help it, crossed a certain boundary line that I had made for myself, between our side of the moor, and the side which belonged to the Fallodens. I couldn't be sure of myself if I had come upon him unawares. Oh, of course, he would soon have got the better of me--but there would have been a struggle--I should have attacked him--and I might have had a revolver. So for your sake"--he turned to look at her with his hollow blue eyes--"I kept away.

Then, one evening, I quite forgot all about it. I was thinking of the theme for the slow movement in my symphony, and I didn't notice where I was going. I walked on and on over the hill--and at last I heard a man groaning--and there was Sir Arthur by the stream. I saw at once that he was dying. There I sat, alone with him. He asked me not to leave him. He said something about Douglas, 'Poor Douglas!' And when the horrible thing came back--the last time--he just whispered, 'Pray!' and I said our Catholic prayers that our priest had said when my mother died. Then Falloden came--just in time--and instead of wanting to kill him, I waited there, a little way off, and prayed hard for myself and him!

Queer, wasn't it? And afterwards--you know--I saw his mother. Then the next day, I confessed to a dear old priest, who was very kind to me, and on the Sunday he gave me Communion. He said G.o.d had been very gracious to me; and I saw what he meant. That very week I had a hemorrhage, the first I ever had."

Connie gave a sudden, startled cry. He turned again to smile at her.

"Didn't you know? No, I believe no one knew, but Sorell and the doctors.

It was nothing. It's quite healed. But the strange thing was how extraordinarily happy I felt that week. I didn't hate Falloden any more.

It was as though a sharp thorn had gone from one's mind. It didn't last long of course, the queer ecstatic feeling. There was always my hand--and I got very low again. But something lasted; and when Falloden said that extraordinary thing--I don't believe he meant to say it at all!--suggesting we should settle together for the winter--I knew that I must do it. It was a kind of miracle--one thing after another--driving us."

His voice dropped. He remained gazing absently into the fire.

"Dear Otto"--said Constance softly--"you have forgiven him?"

He smiled.

"What does that matter? Have you?"

His eager eyes searched her face. She faltered under them.

"He doesn't care whether I have or not."

At that he laughed out.

"Doesn't he? I say, did you ask us both to come--on purpose--that afternoon?--in the garden?"

She was silent.

"It was bold of you!" he said, in the same laughing tone. "But it has answered. Unless, of course, I bore him to death. I talk a lot of nonsense--I can't help it--and he bears it. And he says hard, horrid things, sometimes--and my blood boils--and I bear it. And I expect he wants to break off a hundred times a day--and so do I. Yet here we stay.

And it's you"--he raised his head deliberately--"it's you who are really at the bottom of it."

Constance rose trembling from her chair.

"Don't say any more, dear Otto. I didn't mean any harm. I--I was so sorry for you both."

He laughed again softly.

"You've got to marry him!" he said triumphantly. "There!--you may go now. But you'll come again soon. I know you will!"

She seemed to slip, to melt, out of the room. But he had a last vision of flushed cheeks, and half-reproachful eyes.

CHAPTER XVIII

On the day following Constance's visit to the Boar's Hill cottage she wrote to Radowitz:--

"DEAR OTTO,--I am going to ask you not to raise the subject you spoke of yesterday to me again between us. I am afraid I should find my visits a pain instead of a joy, if you did so.

And Mrs. Mulholland and I want to come so much--sometimes alone, and sometimes together. We want to be mother and sister as much as we can, and you will let us! We know very well that we are poor painted things compared with real mothers and sisters. Still we should love to do our best--_I_ should--if you'll let me!"

To which Otto replied:--

"DEAR CONSTANCE,--(That's impudence, but you told me!)--I'll hold my tongue--though I warn you I shall only think the more. But you shan't have any cause to punish me by not coming. Good heavens!--if you didn't come!