She went by way of the stream along which she and Nap had once skated hand in hand in the moonlight, and as she went she stooped now and then to gather the flowers that grew in the gra.s.s beside her path. But her face as she did it was grave and thoughtful. She did not seem to notice their fragrance.

As she neared the lake she moved more slowly, and reaching a rustic seat beneath a cedar that shadowed the entrance to the gardens she sat down, her grey eyes fixed upon the water that gurgled at her feet.

A brilliant green dragon-fly, darting meteor-like across her vision, came presently to disturb her reverie. With a slight start she awoke, and leaned forward with an odd eagerness to mark its progress. As it flashed away through the shadows a quick sigh came to her lips. It was so fair a thing, so swiftly gone.

She gathered up her flowers and rose. And in that moment she knew that she was not alone.

How she knew it she could not have said. No sound or shadow told her. No hand touched her. Yet she knew.

For a few seconds she stood motionless on the edge of the stream. Then without turning she spoke.

"Were you looking for me?"

"Yes," he said.

He came to her side. They were close--close to that spot where once he had so arrogantly claimed her friendship. To-day it seemed he had no word to utter.

For a s.p.a.ce she waited, then, finding in his silence something that disquieted her, she spoke again.

"Is all well? Why are you not with Lucas?"

"All's well," he said, but he left her second question unanswered. He was gazing down intently into the clear water.

Seconds pa.s.sed. She glanced at him once or twice, but he seemed unaware of her scrutiny. He made no movement to meet it. His dark face brooded over the stream, almost as if she were not there.

Her heart began to throb with thick, uneven strokes. What had he come to say to her? And why did he stand thus silent? There was something tragic about him, something almost terrible.

She waited beside him in wordless foreboding. Whatever was coming she felt powerless to avert. She could only brace herself to meet the inevitable.

In some fashion, though he never glanced her way, he must have been aware of her agitation, for when he spoke again there was some measure of rea.s.surance in his voice, emotionless though it was.

"I shan't alarm you," he said. "I shan't even ask you to answer me, much less to treat me kindly. But you've got to hear me, that's all. I'm not telling you for my own sake, only because Luke has ordained that you must know. I daresay you thought it strange that I should have come back so soon. It probably made you wonder."

"It did," said Anne, in a low voice.

"I knew it would." A note of grim satisfaction sounded in the rejoinder.

He jerked his head a little with a touch of the old arrogance. "Well, I am here to explain. I knew the odds were dead against me when I started--as they are to-day. All the same you are to understand that I came back when I did because I had just heard that you were free and I was mad enough to dream that in spite of everything I should one day persuade you to marry me."

He paused an instant, but he kept his eyes upon the water as if he were reading something in the crystal depths.

Anne still waited beside him, her hands clasped tightly upon her drooping flowers.

He continued very rapidly, as though he wished to have done. "That was my true reason for coming back. I don't know if I deceived you any on that point. I tried to. But anyway I didn't manage to deceive Lucas. He sees most things. He knows for instance that I--care for you"--almost angrily he flung the words--"and he thinks you ought to know it, in case"--his lips twisted into a queer smile--"you care for me. It's a preposterous idea anyway. I've told him so. But he won't be easy till I've given you the chance to trample on me. Guess he thinks I owe you that. Maybe I do. Well--you have your opportunity."

"Do you think I want--that?" Anne said, her voice very low.

His hands clenched. "I can't say," he said. "Most women would. But--if you want to know--I'd sooner be trampled. I've promised I'll play the straight game, and I'm playing it. I'm telling you the raw truth. I love you. I have it in me to make you know it. But--"

"But you love Lucas better" she said.

He nodded. "Just that. Also, Lucas is a good man. He will set your happiness first all his life. While I--while I"--he stooped a little, still staring downwards as if he watched something--"while I, Lady Carfax," he said, speaking very quietly, "might possibly succeed in making you happy, but it wouldn't be the same thing. You would have to live my life--not I yours. I am not like Lucas. I shouldn't be satisfied with--a little."

"And you think that is all I can offer him?" she said.

He made a sharp gesture of repudiation. "I have no theories on that subject. I believe you would satisfy him. I believe--ultimately--you would both find the happiness we are all hunting for."

"And you?" Anne said, her voice very low.

He straightened himself with a backward fling of the shoulders, but still he did not look at her. "I, Lady Carfax!" he said grimly. "I don't fit into the scheme of things anyway. I was just pitchforked into your life by an accident. It's for you to toss me out again."

Anne was silent. She stood with her face to the sinking sun. She seemed to be gathering her strength.

At last, "What will you do?" she asked in the same hushed voice. "Where will you go?"

He turned slowly towards her. "I really don't know. I haven't begun to think."

His eyes looked deeply into hers, but they held no pa.s.sion, no emotion of any sort. They made her think with a sudden intolerable stab of pain of that night when he had put out the fire of his pa.s.sion to receive her kiss. He had told her once that that kiss was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him. Did he remember it now, she wondered, as she met those brooding eyes, still and dark and lonely as they had been then, unfathomable as a mountain pool. She did not fear to meet them. Only a vast, surging pity filled her soul. She understood him so well--so well.

"Nap," she said tremulously, "what can I say to you? What can I do?"

He put out a quiet, unfaltering hand and took hers. "Don't be too good to me," he said. "Don't worry any on my account. If you do, maybe Luke will notice and misunderstand. He's so d.a.m.nably shrewd." A brief smile crossed his face. "I'll tell you what to do, Lady Carfax, and when it's done you'll feel better. Come with me now to Lucas--it's his own idea--and tell him you've no use for me. Put it how you like. Women can always do these things. Make him know that he comes first with you still and always will. Tell him you know all the truth and it hasn't made you change your mind. Tell him you'd rather belong to a man you can trust. He'll believe you, Anne. We all do."

He spoke insistently. He had begun to draw her towards the path. But as they reached it, his hand fell from hers. He walked beside her, close beside her, but not by word or touch did he seek further to persuade her.

And Anne walked steadily forward as one in a dream. It was the only thing to do, since he had told her plainly that he desired it, since with both of them Luke must for ever come first. He had drawn them together, he had linked their hands, but he stood between them to do it, and neither of them would suffer him to go.

She supposed they would be friends again, she and Nap. She did not fear that he would ever again cross the boundary line. His love for his brother ran like a purifying current through his veins. It was the one streak of greatness in him. Its very selflessness made it stronger than his love for her. She knew with a certainty that nought could ever shake that he would be true to Lucas, that never again by word or sign would he betray that for which he had not scrupled to play her false.

And because she was a woman and understood him she forgave him this. For she knew that the greater loyalty had done for him that which she had failed to do. She knew that in uttermost self-sacrifice Nap Errol, the savage, the merciless, the treacherous, had found his soul.

So side by side in silence they went back to the house.

The evening was very still; pa.s.sing in from the terrace they seemed to enter an enchanted palace wherein nothing stirred.

"He may be asleep," Nap said. "Shall I go first?"

She a.s.sented without speaking. Somehow the spell of silence seemed to hold her also.

Tawny Hudson was on guard as usual in the outer room. He looked up with resentful eyes as they entered, but he said nothing. The door into his master's room stood half open. Nap paused at it a moment to listen. He turned to Anne, and she fancied just for a second that there was a shade of anxiety on his face. But it was gone instantly, if indeed it had been there.

"Follow me in a minute," he said, "if I don't come back."

And with that he glided through the narrow s.p.a.ce and pa.s.sed from sight.

A minute later, absolute silence reigning, Anne softly pushed back the door and entered.

She found Nap crouched motionless with outflung arms across the foot of the bed.

And drawing nearer, she saw that Lucas Errol was lying asleep with his face to the sky, all the lines of pain smoothed utterly away, and on his lips that smile which some call the Stamp of Death, and others the shining reflection of the Resurrection Glory which the pa.s.sing soul has left behind.