Maisie had changed her name twice since then--a sufficient proof! The poor fellow was demented. Everything that he had done bore the hall-mark of insanity. He had owned that he had been deranged to within a month ago. Everything that he had said might be quite true. He probably had been the dead man's friend and in love with Maisie at the time of her first marriage. The misfortunes that had befallen him had exaggerated his love into mania--a mania which the news of Gervis and then of Lockwood had rendered active. He felt an immense compa.s.sion for the man.

There, save for the grace of G.o.d, sat himself. But what was to be done?

Already Maisie was overdue. Not a second could be wasted. He must humor him and get him out of the house, if a scene was to be prevented.

And all the time the stranger had been watching him--following his thoughts, no doubt. He spoke again. "Don't you agree with me? It would be d.a.m.ned awkward if Pollock came back."

Tabs forced a smile. "I'm not so sure that I do. She never loved any one but her first husband. She's told me so. The other two---- I don't believe she herself knows how they happened. They were soldiers. They weren't long for this world. She didn't want to do them out of anything." He glanced at his watch. "By Jove, and I've not dined yet!

I'm afraid I must be off. How about you? I'd be awfully glad if you'd take dinner with me."

The man jumped to his feet, so that Tabs rose with him. But once they were on their feet an amused expression of cunning came into his eyes.

It told Tabs plainly that he had seen through the strategy. He shook his head. "Very good of you. But I'm waiting for Maisie." He held out his hand. It was evident that he was determined to take Tabs at his word.

"We'll meet again, perhaps. What you've just said piques my curiosity.

Before you go, there's one more question. In your opinion what would Maisie's att.i.tude be if Pollock did come back?"

Tabs was instantly aware that he had made a false move. His bluff had been called. He'd made it impossible for himself to prolong his call; at the same time he didn't dare to leave this man behind in the house. It wasn't Maisie that he was thinking of now--he could warn her as she entered the Court--it was Porter. A madman was capable of anything; and yet, confound the chap's deceptiveness, he didn't look mad. There was only one chance of delaying his departure: at all costs he must involve him in an argument.

"If Pollock came back! Curious that you should suggest that! I've sat in this room and discussed the possibility with Mrs. Lockwood by the hour.

For the past two months--that's as long as I've known her--I've been helping her to live as though he might come back."

The man's coolness instantly vanished. His excitement grew well-nigh beyond control. "You're not going. Sit down. You've got to explain." He rapped out his sentences in short, quick jerks. His voice had become harsh and imperative. "You can't have any idea what this means to me.

It's ridiculous. Why should you, a living man, help her, when she's so beautiful, to save herself for a dead man? She didn't save herself in the case of Gervis and Lockwood."

With a sigh of relief Tabs reseated himself. The man sank down beside him, crowding against him on the couch. His anxiety was sharp-pointed as a dagger. "Quick," he urged.

"I don't know that I can be quick." Tabs spoke leisurely. He paused, trying to think what he should say next. "Here it is in a nutsh.e.l.l. Mrs.

Lockwood, as we both know, is a more than ordinarily charming woman.

She's the kind who, without being able to prevent herself, draws men.

There are women like that. Her three marriages, all taking place so close together gave her a reputation---- You're a man of the world; you'll understand that I'm not trying to say anything derogatory. But three matrimonial adventures in such rapid succession gave her a reputation for lightness. She was young and pretty. She longed to live life. You can't blame her. For a woman life isn't a very full affair without a man. And yet there aren't many men who would be willing to choose a wife with three previous husbands to her credit. It would seem too much like a week-end experiment, without the option of parting when the week was ended. So here was the injustice of her social situation; without having committed a solitary indiscretion, she was damaged goods--debarred from matrimony, yet coveted by men. Do you realize the temptation----"

The man half rose in his irritation. "You're not answering my question."

The violence in his tone was unmistakeable. "What I've got to find out is, what put you up to persuading her to live as though Pollock were not dead?"

"I was coming to that." Tabs spoke rea.s.suringly. "Beneath all her gayety I found, when I began to know her, that she was desperate--desperate to live in the sunshine and mortally afraid of shadows. At the least hint of shadows she grew reckless. She believed that her happiness was in the past. So I taught her to play a game--a game that has often saved me from despair. It was just this--to act as though all the goodness one has known still lies ahead; in her case this meant living as though the man whom she had loved were not dead, but waiting for her round some future corner. So that was why---- But I think I've answered your question."

Tabs rose from the couch and limped over to the empty fireplace. He stood there beneath the portrait of Lady Dawn, supporting himself with one arm against the mantel. The room was beginning to fill with dusk.

Beyond the threshold of the open window, the rockery-garden was still vaguely golden. The little pond was a silver mirror.

Perhaps two minutes had elapsed. Uncertainly the stranger struggled to his feet. He moved towards the door, halted and came slowly back. He looked very spent, and slim, and wasted in the gathering shadows. As Tabs gazed down at him, he noticed that his face was prodigiously solemn.

"I don't mind now." He swallowed like a small boy getting rid of his emotion. "I don't mind Gervis or Lockwood any longer; it's as though they'd never happened. And I don't feel hard to her, the way I might have. I'm glad you told her about things being round the corner. Because I'm Pollock. I have come back."

Tabs stared at him. He was deeply moved. To humor him in his delusion seemed the height of callousness. Yet what else was possible under the circ.u.mstances?

"Of course you're Pollock," he a.s.sured him gently. "One wouldn't recognize you from your portraits, but I ought to have guessed."

The man caught the deception in his tone. He lifted up his puzzled gray eyes. "You don't---- No, I see you don't. You don't believe me. Yet I am Pollock."

"My dear chap," Tabs said it coaxingly, "I don't see why you should think I doubt you. I'm quite certain you're Pollock--Reggie Pollock, the first of all the aces: the man who brought down the Zeppelin over Brussels. You see I know all about you. Your picture was in the papers.

I've told you that you were expected. So why----"

The front door was heard to open and close. There was the sound of Maisie's voice. They stood rigidly listening in the semi-darkness.

Neither of them spoke or stirred. As she entered, a shaft of light from the hall preceded her. Quietly Tabs placed himself between her and the stranger. The stranger made no motion to thwart him; he stood like one turned to stone. Just across the threshold she halted, leaning forward slightly and peering through the shadows.

"Why, Tabs," she laughed, "how romantic of you to sit waiting for me in the twilight!"

Tabs came forward as though he were about to push her back. "I'm not alone, Mrs. Lockwood----"

"I know. Porter told me. But why are you standing in my way?" She laughed again. A shiver of fear cut short her laughter. "What's the matter? I don't see your friend. Why don't you introduce----"

"He's not my friend. He says he's yours."

"Then all the more reason---- Why are you acting strangely? No, please let me into my own room, Tabs."

He had put out his arm to prevent her. Without warning the stranger advanced into the shaft of light. She saw him and fell back screaming, covering her eyes. With a vehemence that was unexpected, he pushed Tabs aside and clasped her to him. "Maisie darling, don't be afraid. I'm real. I know everything. And I don't mind----"

At sound of his voice, she uncovered her eyes. His face was close to hers. The fixed look of terror left her.

Putting out her hands timidly, she ran her fingers along the scar in his forehead. "They've hurt you. Poor you! My Reggie! Oh, my lover, they've hurt you!"

She buried her head against his shoulder and fell to weeping pa.s.sionately.

II

Neither of them had seen him go. He had tiptoed past them like a ghost and out into the summer night. The sky was luminous with the dust of stars. A sleepy wind was blowing.

He jumped into his car and sped away, making such haste that one might have thought he was pursued. He wheeled to the left in the direction that led to the Surrey hills. It was the direction he had taken with Terry on that March morning when she had met him at the station. He was making a discovery: that there is no tragedy more difficult to contemplate with charity than the sight of other people's happiness.

Their follies we can tolerate and view even with compa.s.sion; but their joys are unendurable. Joy separates men with impa.s.sable barriers. It transfigures beggars into Lazaruses lying at rest in Abraham's bosom. We view them from afar off and their contentment increases the burning of our torment. No man has yet discovered how to share his joy. Only a G.o.d could say, "My joy I give unto you."

They had not seen him go. That was the neglect that rankled. Even though they had seen him, they would not have cared; they would have done nothing to delay him. They were past all caring. Like tired ships, having weathered many storms, they had furled their sails in the harbor of desire. He had slipped by them like a demon vessel, all canvas spread, out-going on his endless voyage.

From the door, before he left, he had looked back. The room was a-silver with twilight. The garden beyond was still vaguely golden. The pond glimmered darkly like a magic mirror. The murmur of London wove patterns on the silence. From the hall across the silver of the dusk, an intrusive shaft of light pointed like a finger at those two entranced, who had refound the peace that time had scattered.

Even though Pollock had not returned, he himself could never have married her. There are violations of the austerity of the soul which the urgings of the flesh cannot accomplish. In the vivid flash of reality that had visited him he knew that now. He was angry--bitterly angry. But his anger was not for her; it was for himself. He could be so audaciously prophetic in the affairs of others. He could advise them and well-nigh compel them to conserve themselves for kingdoms of whose coming there was neither the slightest hope nor warning. His penetrating optimism could foresee the daringly incredible, so that it almost seemed in the case of Maisie that his optimism had created out of the incredible a fact. He could work these miracles of restraint for others; himself he could not restrain. His road ran straight as destiny, yet any lazy kingdom of mildness in a woman's eyes was capable of luring him aside. In his abas.e.m.e.nt he lost all faith in his self-knowledge. Hadn't he always been the victim of an imagination which had tricked mere liking into a resemblance to pa.s.sion? He strutted, gestured, despaired till he almost persuaded himself that he was the part he was acting. But had he the faintest conception of what real love meant? Hadn't he always acted a part? Yes, even in the case of Terry!

His saner judgment intervened. He hadn't always been like that. Where had the point of departure started? He traced back the weakness till he came to the moment when he had permitted his sense of justice to be over-ruled by a woman. It had started with Maisie, when he had allowed her to persuade him to hide the truth from Lady Dawn.

He jammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a sudden halt. To go and tell her must be the first step in his redemption. Till that was done the curse of the dead man would follow him. It seemed to him now, as he looked back, that through all the spring and summer the shadow of Lord Dawn had crept behind him. He would go at once. He would go that night.

He knew where he could find her. He would set out like a pilgrim of long ago through the moon-drenched, hay-scented sweetness of the country.

His vision turned outwards. He realized for the first time where he had halted. He was within sight of Richmond Park, outside _The Star and Garter Hotel_, the old haunt of merry-makers, which had now become a permanent hospital for the mutilated. There were lights to mark the windows of men who suffered. As he watched, some leaped up; others were snapped out. He could hear in memory the starchy rustling of nurses and the creaking of springs as the patients turned. There were men in there without arms and legs and faces; he had shared their danger and he had been spared. Surely the G.o.d who had covered him with His mantle, had had some plan--some design of goodness for him!

Far below in a curving streak of blessedness the Thames ran silvered by the moonlight. He could see the clumped shadows of woods and the flicker of ripples striking fire against the banks. More distantly London glowed--a golden flower cupped in the hollowed hand of night. Holding his breath he listened to the loudness of the quiet. Subtle ecstasies drifted to him, fluttering like moths against the windows of his mind--"lilies like thoughts, roses like words, in the sweet brain of June." _There was a design._ Maisie had found her kingdom. Was it too much to expect that round some future turning G.o.d had another kingdom waiting?

III

He drove back to London by the directest route. He would have to get supper before he made a start. By the time he had done that, packed his bag, and refilled his tank it would be close on midnight. Dawn Castle lay somewhere down in Gloucestershire. He knew the road as far as Oxford; after that his ideas were vague.

He was a little daunted by the thought of Lady Dawn. Everything that he had heard about her, including his first meeting with her, had served to daunt him. He pictured her as a woman with a conscience clear-cut as a cameo--a woman, infallible and unsubdued, impatient of foolishness and gentle in her spirit with the cold tranquillity of a landscape under ice. How would she receive him, coming out of nowhere, unheralded and unexplained? And how could he explain the urgency that had compelled him to come to her? It was a delicate task that he had set himself, this seeking out a woman with whom he was unacquainted, that he might tell her that her husband had not hated her when he died. What concern was it of his, she might well ask. If she chose to be hostile, there were no arguments by which he could defend his interference. His sole justification was his deep-rooted conviction that he was doing right.