"A coward! You mean that he did not show his sufferings!" she exclaimed.

"That does not mean that he did not suffer. Oh! I have heard him in the night when he thought that he was alone, I have heard his agony. And that is the end!"

She turned and faced the little stone church on the hill, the rudely enclosed churchyard, in the far corner of which was still visible the bare heap of mould.

"He felt it coming, he felt the strength pa.s.s from him day by day,--he, who had never known what it was to live, who had never known the days of riches or success or power. There he lies,--G.o.d knows for what purpose, to what end!"

Deane walked for a little way in silence. It seemed to him that the girl's bitterness was scarcely reasonable. Yet he realized that at such a time reason loses its power.

"His last days, at least, were as comfortable as possible."

"Comfortable!" she exclaimed scornfully. "He lived in h.e.l.l!"

"You are not blaming me, by any chance?" Deane asked quietly.

She turned upon him, and the mask seemed suddenly raised. There blazed into her eyes a great fire. There trembled in the notes of her voice a wonderful pa.s.sion. Her form seemed to dilate. They were walking now upon the top of the d.y.k.e, and she seemed to have been suddenly transformed into something vengeful, some grim representation of Fate.

"Blame you!" she cried. "I tell you that I hate all you smug, successful, phrase-making men, who succeeded where he failed. What are you that he was not? He was brave, he worked hard, he was honest, courageous, he was all that a man should be. If you were ever these things you at least were not more, and to you comes wealth and easy days, honor, a long, peaceful future. London--the world--is full of you, grubbing your way through life, thinking what magnificent creatures you are, opening your pockets to help with your alms those who have fallen, those who, if there was justice upon the earth, should be in your places!"

"This is unreasonable," Deane declared coldly.

"Unreasonable! Who said it was anything else?" she cried. "What reason is there in life, in death, in success or failure? Can you tell me the laws by which life is ruled, can you find them anywhere, at the base of any man's success or another's failure? Reasonable, indeed! One man swims and another drowns. Who can tell why? One man grows rich, another starves, and as often as not it is the clever man who starves and the fool who grows rich. There is no reason in those things. There is no reason in my hate for you and all those who have lived easy lives, and who go on living them while he--lies there!"

She turned back once more and pointed with outstretched hand towards the little church. The wind blew her skirts about her,--disturbed for once the trim, uncompromising arrangement of her hair. The color had come into her cheeks at last. Deane wondered why he had never before thought her beautiful!

"I am sorry you are feeling like this," he said. "I did what I could for your brother."

"Be silent!" she interrupted fiercely. "You did what you could! To insure your own safety you sent him on a desperate, unworthy mission--to worm his way into the confidence of a drunkard, to steal for you, to be your jackal. What did you care what the consequences might be! What did you care, so long as your own reputation and wealth were saved! He was to be one other--my poor Basil--one other of those to be crushed beneath the great wheels!"

"It is not fair," replied Deane, "to make such statements. Your brother knew his risks, and he took them."

"Knew his risks!" she repeated. "You mean that because you were on your feet when he was on the ground, you would make use of him like any other lump of mud you would spurn with your foot if you had not found a use for it. He did your bidding, poor fool, but where he failed, I succeeded. You have to deal with me now, and I think that it is my turn to make terms!"

Deane looked at her curiously. "At last," he said, "you are going to admit your possession of that little doc.u.ment?"

"At last," she admitted, "I am going to tell you that I have it!"

"And to name your price?" he asked.

There was a queer little sound in her throat, like an unnatural laugh.

"My price! Yes, that is another matter!"

CHAPTER XII

A STRANGE BETROTHAL

Southward, through the country lanes whose hedges were still wreathed with late honeysuckle, on to the great mainroad, Deane's car was driven through the night,--always southward, till the lights of the great city flared before them up into the sky. Deane himself, for hour after hour, had sat back in his corner, buried in thought. His companion was even more invisible, but as the end of the journey drew near he roused himself with an effort, turned on the electric light which hung down from the roof of the car, lit a cigarette, and, bending forward, looked into the half-hidden face of the girl who was reclining by his side.

"My dear fiancee," he said, "we are nearing London. Won't you rouse yourself and give me your further orders?"

She sat up, with a little yawn. "Let down the windows, please," she said. "We will have some fresh air in for a few minutes."

He obeyed her at once. The sweet midnight air through which they were rushing was like a douche of cold water upon her face.

"How far are we from London?" she asked.

"Less than twenty miles. Unless we are stopped, we shall certainly be there in half-an-hour."

"Why did you disturb me?" she asked.

"To know your wishes."

"You had better leave me at one of the small hotels in the west end,"

she said. "I daresay you can think of one at which you are known. In the morning, please come and see me and bring some money. I shall want to engage a companion and a maid, and to buy some clothes."

Deane looked at her curiously. Her manner was perfectly natural.

"Anything else?" he asked calmly.

"I don't think so," she answered.

"You mentioned the fact, I believe," he continued, "that you were--that you had done me the honor--that you were, in fact, my fiancee."

"Well?" she murmured.

"Under those circ.u.mstances," he continued, "don't you think--"

His hand rested for a moment upon hers. She drew it at once away. "No, I think not!" she answered.

"I have not had much experience," he went on, "in being engaged, but it seemed to me that there were certain privileges which belonged to that state."

"You are perfectly well aware," she answered, "that ours is not an engagement of that sort. You know something about the world in which the men marry for position and the women for money, don't you? You can look upon our engagement as being of that order. I marry you because it is the only way I can make you pay your debt. I have given you notice from the first. I mean to gain everything I can, and to give nothing."

"Nothing?" he repeated.

"As little as possible," she answered. "As a matter of fact, you are singularly indifferent to me. You simply represent the things I desire, the things which are owing to me, the things which were owing to--to him. I marry you to acquire them. You marry me because you must."

"Well," he said, "ours promises to be a novel matrimonial experience."

"Not at all," she answered.

"You have been reading too many novels," he declared. "People really don't marry in this sort of way at all. There is always a pretence of sentiment about it. If not, for very shame's sake, they try to cultivate it."

"Then we," she answered, "will remain exceptions."

"Do you dislike me?" he asked.