December had brought a complete change of weather. It was within a few days of Christmas, a typical old-fashioned Yuletide with a firm white mantle of snow lying thick over the country.

Underneath the ground was iron and for two weeks all hunting had been stopped.

Craven was returning to the Towers after an absence of ten days. The motor crawled through the park for in places the frozen road was slippery as glass and the chauffeur was a cautious North-countryman whose faith in the chains locked round the wheels was not unlimited; he was driving carefully, with a wary eye for the worst patches noted on the outward run, and, beside him, equally alert, sat Yoshio muffled to the ears in an immense overcoat, a shapeless bundle.

It was early afternoon, calm and clear, and in the air the intense stillness that succeeds a heavy snowfall. The pale sun, that earlier in the day had iridised the snow, was now too low to affect the dead whiteness of the scene against which the trees showed magnified and sharply black. Here and there across the smooth surface stretching on either side of the road lay the curiously differing tracks of animals. From the back seat of the car where he sat alone Craven marked them mechanically. He knew every separate spoor and could have named the owner of each; ordinarily they would have claimed from him a certain interest but today he passed them without a second thought. He did not resent the slow progress of the car, he was in no hurry to reach the Towers. He had come to a momentous decision but shrank from the action that must necessarily follow; once at the house he knew that he would permit himself no further delay, he would put his purpose into effect at the earliest opportunity—today if possible; here there was still time—vaguely he wondered for what? Not for reflection, that was done with. He had striven with all his strength to arrive at a right determination; he had thought until reasoning became a mere repetition of fixed ideas moving in a circle and arriving always at an unvaried starting point. There seemed no consequence that he had not weighed in his mind, no issue that he had not considered. To ponder afresh would be to cover again uselessly ground that he had gone over a hundred times. Three days ago he had made his choice, he had no intention of departing from it. For good or ill the thing must go forward now. And, after all, the ultimate decision did not lie with him. Admitting it his thoughts became introspective. Throughout his deliberations he had put self on one side, there had been no question of his own wishes; now for the first time he allowed personal considerations to rise unchecked. For what did he hope? He knew the reason of his reluctance to reach the house—he desired success and yet he feared it, feared the consequences that might result, feared the strength of his own will to persevere in the course he had chosen. For him there was no other way but, merciful God, it would be hard! He set his teeth and stared at the frozen landscape with unseeing eyes. Since her outburst four weeks ago Miss Craven had not spoken again of the wish that was nearest her heart, but he knew that she was waiting for an answer, knew that that answer must be given. One way or the other. Day had succeeded day in torturing indecision. He had lived, slept with the problem, at no time was it out of his mind. In the course of the long rides that had become more frequent, obtruding during the monotonous hours spent in the estate office, the problem persisted. In the sleepless hours of the night he wrestled with it. If it had been a matter of personal inclination, if the past had not risen between them there would have been no hesitation. He would have gone to her months ago, would have begged the priceless gift that she alone could give. He wanted her, almost above the hope of salvation, and the inducement to ignore the past had been all but overpowering. He loved and desired with all the strength of the passionate nature he had inherited. He craved for her with an intensity that was anguish, that set him wondering how far the power of endurance reached, how much a man could bear. He was torn with the fierce promptings of primeval forces. To take her, willing or unwilling, despite honour, despite all that stood between them, to make her his and hold her in the face of all the world—at times the temptation had been maddening. There had been days when he had not dared to look on her, when he had drawn himself more than ever apart from the common life, fearful of himself, fearful of circumstances that seemed beyond his ordering. And the thought that another could take what he might not had engendered an insensate jealousy that was beyond reason. He did not recognise himself, he had not known the depths of his own nature. If there had been no bar, if she could have come to him willingly, if there could indeed have been for him the full ties of home—the thought was agony. Miss Craven's words had been a sword turning in an open wound. To the burden he already carried had been added this.

The future of his ward had been his problem as well as Miss Craven's. Only a little while ago a way had seemed clear, not a way to his own happiness—by his own act he had put himself beyond all possibility of that—but a way that would mean security and happiness for her who had come to mean more than life to him. For her safety he would have given his soul. The term of his guardianship was drawing to an end, in a few months his legal control over her terminated. Miss Craven who had surrendered her independence for two years would be returning to her own home, to her old life; it had seemed a foregone conclusion that Gillian would accompany her.

But the double shock in the revelation of Miss Craven's precarious state and Gillian's delicacy had been staggering. He had not been prepared for a contingency that seemed to cut the ground from under his feet. With all the will in the world his aunt was powerless to further the plan he proposed, any day might bring the Great Summons. And Gillian! The little persistent cough rang in his ears always. Gillian and poverty—by day it haunted him, he woke in the night sweating at the very thought. It was intolerable. And yet there appeared no means of escaping it—save one. For a moment, with a fierce joy, he saw fate aiding him, forcing into his hands what he yearned to gather to himself, then he recoiled from even the thought of her purity linked with the stain of his past. He had racked his brain to discover an alternative. To force upon her an adequate income that would put her beyond want and the necessity of work would be easy. To induce her to use the money thus provided he divined would be impossible, he seemed to know intuitively that her will would not give way to his. During these last weeks he had looked at her with new understanding, it seemed incredible that he had never before recognised the determination that underlay her shy gentleness. Character shone in the frank brown eyes, there was a firmness that was unmistakable in the arched lips that were the only patch of colour in her delicate face. From his wealth she would accept nothing. Would she accept him—all that he dared offer? It was no new idea, the thought had been in his mind often but always he resolutely put it from him with a feeling of abhorrence. It was an insult to her womanhood, an expedient that nothing could justify. And yet step by step he was forced back upon it—there seemed no other way to save her from herself. Days of harrassing indecision, his only thought she, brought him no nearer to a conclusion. And time was passing. He had reached a point when further deliberation was beyond his power; when all his strength seemed to turn into hopeless longing that, to the exclusion of all else, craved even the mockery of possession; when days were torment and nights a sleepless horror. Then change of scene had aided final determination. The factor of the Scotch estate had written of a sudden and unexpected difficulty for which he asked personal advice. A telegram had stopped his proposed visit to the Towers and Craven had himself gone instead to Scotland. And in the solitude of his northern home he had decided on the only course that seemed open to him. He would go to her with his poor offer, the poorest surely that ever a man made to a woman, and the rest would lie with her. But how would she receive it? He had a vision of the soft brown eyes blazing with scorn, of the slender figure he ached to hold in his arms turning from him in cold disgust, and he clenched his hands until the nails bit deep into his wet palms.

A bad skid that slewed the car half round broke his thoughts and in a few minutes they were at the house.

Forbes, the elderly butler who had been an under footman when Peters first came to the Towers, was waiting for him in the hall, informative with the garrulousness of an old and privileged servant. A late luncheon was waiting—he sighed patiently on hearing that it was not required—Miss Craven had gone to the Vicarage for tea; Mr. Peters was expected to dinner that night and he had telephoned in the morning to tell Mr. Craven—Craven cut him short. Peter's message could wait, only one thing seemed to matter just now.

“Where is Miss Locke?” he asked curtly. “In the studio, sir,” replied Forbes with resignation. If Mr. Barry didn't want to hear what Mr. Peters had got to say he, for one, was not going to press the matter. Mr. Barry had had his own way of doing things since the days when he sat on the pantry table kicking his heels and flourishing stolen jam under Forbes' very nose—a masterful one always, he was. And if it was a case of Miss Gillian—Forbes retired with an armful of ulster and rugs into the cloakroom to hide a sympathetic grin.

Craven crossed the hall and went into the study. He looked without interest through an accumulation of letters lying on the writing table, then threw them down indifferently. Walking to the fireplace he lit a cigarette and stood staring at the cheerful blaze. At last he raised his head and gazed with deliberation at himself in the glass over the mantle. He scowled at the stern worn face reflected in the mirror, looking curiously at its deep cut lines, at the silver patches in the thick brown hair. Then with a violent exclamation he swung abruptly on his heel, flung the cigarette into the fire and left the room. He went upstairs slowly, surprised at the feeling of apathy that had come over him. In the face of direct action the high tension of the last few weeks had snapped, leaving him dull, almost inert, and reluctance to go forward grew with every step. But at the head of the stairs his mood changed suddenly. All that the coming interview meant to him revealed itself with startling clearness. With a deep breath he caught at the rail, for he was shaking uncontrollably, and covered his face with his hand.

“God!” he whispered, and again: “God!”

Then he gripped himself and went quickly across the gallery, turning down the corridor that led to the west wing. He followed the oddly twisting passage, contorted at the whim of succeeding generations where rooms had been enlarged or abolished, passing rows of closed doors and another staircase. The corridor terminated in the room he was seeking. It had been the old playroom; at the extreme end of the wing it faced northward and westward and was well suited for the studio into which it had been converted. It was Gillian's own domain and he had never asked to visit it. As he reached the door he heard from within the shrill treble of a boy's mirth and then a low soft laugh that made his heart beat quicker. He tapped and went in and for a moment stared in amazement. He did not recognise the room, it was a totally unexpected French atelier tucked away in the corner of a typically English house.

The polished rug-laid floor, the fluted folds of toile-de-genes clothing the walls, the litter of sketches and pictures, casts and easels, the familiar lay-figure grotesquely attitudinising in a corner, above all the atmosphere carried him straight to Paris. It was the room of an artist, and a French artist. His eyes leaped to her. She was standing before a big easel looking wonderingly over her shoulder at the opening door, the brush she was using poised in her hand, her eyes wide with astonishment, a faint flush creeping into her cheeks.

In the picturesque painter's blouse, her brown hair loosely framing her face, she seemed altogether different. He could not define wherein lay the change, he had no time to discriminate, he only knew that seen thus she was a thousand times more desirable than she had ever been and that his heart cried out for her more fiercely than before. He looked at her with hungry longing, then quickly—lest his eyes should betray him—from her to her model. A boy of ten with an intelligent small brown face, a mop of black curls, and red lips parted in a mischievous smile, he stood on the raised platform with the easy assurance of a professional.

Craven shut the door behind him and came forward. She turned to meet him and the colour rushed in a crimson wave to the roots of her hair. “Monsieur ... vous etes de retour ... mais, soyez le bienvenu!” she stammered, with surprise unconsciously lapsing into the language of childhood. Then she caught herself up with a little laugh of confusion and hurried on in English: “I am so sorry ... there is nobody in but me. Will you have some tea? It is only three o'clock,” with a glance at her wrist, “but I expect you lunched early.”

“I don't want any tea,” he said bluntly. “I came to see you.” He spoke in French, mindful of two sharp ears on the platform. The colour in her face deepened painfully and her eyes fell under his steady gaze. She moved slowly back to the easel.

“If you could wait a few moments——” she murmured.

“I don't want to interrupt,” he said hastily. “Please finish your work. You don't mind if I stay? I haven't been here since I was a boy; you have changed the room incredibly. May I look round?”

She nodded assent over a tube of colour, and returned to her study.

Left to himself he wandered leisurely round the room, examining the pictures and sketches that were heaped indiscriminately. He had never before displayed any interest in her work, and was now amazed at what he saw. There was power in it that surprised him, that made him wonder what intuition had given the convent-bred girl the knowledge she exhibited. The tardy recognition of her talent strengthened his stranger feeling toward her. He went thoughtfully to the fireplace, and, from the rug, surveyed the room and its occupants. The atmosphere recalled old memories—he had studied in Paris after leaving Oxford—only one thing seemed lacking.

“May I smoke?” he asked abruptly.

Gillian turned with a quick smile.

“But, of course. What need to ask? After Aunt Caro has been here for an hour the room is blue.”

For another ten minutes he watched her in silence, free to look as he would, for her back was toward him and in his position before the fire he was beyond the range of the little model's inquisitive black eyes.

Then she laid palette and brushes on a near table and stepped back, frowning at what she had done until a smile came slowly to chase the creases from her forehead. She spoke without moving, still looking at the canvas: “That is all for to-day, Danny. The light has gone.”

The small boy stretched himself luxuriously, and descending from the platform, joined her and gazed with evident interest at his portrait. He peered in unconscious but faithful imitation of her own critical attitude, his head slanted at the same angle as hers. “It's coming on,” he announced solemnly, and Craven guessed from the girl's laugh that it was a repetition of some remark heard and stored up for future use. The boy grinned in response, and slipping behind her went to the table where she had laid her tools. “Can I clean palut?” he asked hopefully, his hand already half-way to the coveted mass of colour.

“Not to-day, thanks, Danny.”

“Shall I fetch th' dog, Miss?” more hopefully. Gillian turned to him quickly.

“He bit you last time.”

Danny wriggled his feet and his small white teeth flashed in a wide smile. “He won't bite I again,” he said confidently. “Mammy said 'twas 'cos he loved you and hated to have folks near you. She said I was to whisper in his ear I loved you too, 'cos then he wouldn't touch me. Dad he says 'tis a damned black devil,” he added with candid relish and a sidelong glance of mischief at his employer.

Gillian laughed and gave his shoulder a little pat.

“I'm afraid he is,” she admitted ruefully. The boy threw his head back. “I ain't afeard o' he,” he said stoutly. “Shall I fetch 'im?”

“I think we'll leave him where he is, Danny,” she said gravely, as if in confidence. “He's probably very happy. Now run away and come again on Saturday.” She waved a paint-stained rag at him and turned again to the picture. Obediently he started towards the door, then hesitated, glancing irresolutely at Craven, and tip-toed back to the easel.

“Them things in the drawer,” he muttered sepulchrally, in a voice not intended to reach the ears of the rather awe-inspiring personage on the hearthrug. Gillian whipped round contritely. “Danny, I forgot them!” she apologised, and tweaking a black curl went to a bureau and produced a square cardboard box. Danny tucked it under his arm with murmured thanks and a duck of the head, and crossing the room noiselessly went out, closing the door behind him softly. Craven came slowly to her. She moved to give him place before the easel. Craven looked at the small alert brown face, the odd black eyes dancing with almost unearthly merriment, the red lips curving upward to an enigmatical smile, and his wonder and admiration grew.

“Who is he?” he asked curiously, puzzled by a likeness he seemed to recognise dimly and yet was unable to place.

“Danny Major—the son of one of your gamekeepers,” said Gillian; “his mother has gipsy blood in her.”

Craven whistled. “I remember,” he said, interested. “Old Major was head-keeper. Young Major lost his heart to a gipsy lass and his father kicked him out of doors. Peters, as usual, smoothed things over and kept the fellow on at his job, in spite of a great deal of opposition—he had seen the girl and formed his own opinion. I asked once or twice and he said that it had turned out satisfactorily. So this is the son—he's a rum-looking little beggar.”

Gillian was cleaning brushes at the side table. “He's the terror of the neighbourhood,” she said smiling, “but for some reason he is a perfect angel when he comes here. It isn't the chocolates,” she added hastily as she saw a fleeting smile on his face, “he just likes coming. And he tells me the most wonderful things about the woods and the wood beasties.”

“He would,” said Craven significantly, “it's in the blood. What's this?” he asked, pointing to a smaller board propped face inward against the big canvas. For a moment she did not answer and the colour flamed into her face again. She put the brushes away, and wiping her fingers on a cloth, lifted the board and gave it into his hands.

“It's Danny as I see him,” she said in an odd voice. And, looking at it, Craven realised that the cleverness of the painted head on the large canvas paled to mediocrity beside the brilliance of the sepia sketch he held. It was the same head—but marvellously different—set on the body of a faun. The dancing limbs were pulsing with life, the tiny hoofs stamping the flower-strewn earth in an ecstasy of movement; the head was thrown forward, bent as though to catch a distant echo, and among the tossing curls showed two small curving horns; to the enigmatical smile of the original had been added a subtle touch of mockery, and the wide eyes held a look of mystical knowledge that was uncanny. Craven held it silently, it seemed an incredible piece of work for the girl to have conceived. And, beside him, she waited nervously for his verdict, with close-locked twitching fingers. He had never come before, had never shown any interest in the work that meant so much to her. She was hungry for his praise, fearful of his censure. If he saw nothing in it now but the immature efforts of an amateur! Her heart tightened. She drew a little nearer to him, her eyes fixed apprehensively on his intent face, her breath coming quickly. At length he replaced the sketch carefully. “You have a wonderful talent,” he said slowly. A little gasp of relief escaped her and her lips trembled in spite of all efforts to keep them steady. “You like it?” she whispered eagerly, and was terrified at the awful pallor that overspread his face. For a moment he could not speak. The words, the intonation! He was back again in Japan, looking at the painting of a lonely fir tree clinging to a jutting sea-washed cliff—the faintest scent of oriental perfume seemed stealing through the air. He drew his hand across his eyes. “Merciful God ... not here ... not now!” he prayed in silent agony. Then with a desperate effort he mastered himself and turned to the frightened girl with a forced smile. “Forgive me—I've a beastly headache—the room went spinning round for a minute,” he said jerkily, wiping the moisture from his forehead. She looked at him gravely. “I think you are very tired, and I don't believe you had any lunch,” she said with quiet decision. “I'm going to make some coffee. Aunt Caro says my coffee drinking is more vicious than her smoking,” she went on, purposely giving him time to recover himself, and crossing the room she collected little cups and a small brass pot. “Any how it's the real article, and in spite of what she says Aunt Caro doesn't scorn it. She comes regularly to drink my cafe noir with her after-lunch cigarette.”

Craven dropped down heavily on the broad cushioned window seat, his hands clasped over his throbbing temples, fighting to regain his shaken nerve. And yet there was a great hope dawning. For the first time the threatening vision had failed to materialise, and the fact gave him courage. If a time should come when it would definitely cease to haunt him! He could never forget, never cease to regret, but he would feel that in the Land of Understanding the hapless victim of his crime had forgiven the sin that had robbed her of her young life.

And as he grew calmer he began to be conscious that in the room where he sat there was a restfulness that he had not felt in any other part of the house since his return to Craven Towers. It was acting on him curiously and he wondered what it portended. And as he pondered it Gillian came to him with a cup of coffee in either hand.

“Monsieur est servi,” she said with a little laugh. She seemed to have suddenly overcome shyness as if, in her own domain, the first surprise of his visit over, her surroundings gave her confidence. Or, perhaps, the womanliness that had been called out to meet his passing weakness had set her on another plane. All signs of giddiness had left him and, with her usual intuition, she did not trouble him with questions. For the first time she found it easy to speak to him, and talked as she would have done to Peters. She spoke of his northern visit and, following his lead, of her work, freely and without embarrassment. Every moment the restraint that had been between them seemed growing less. She marvelled that she had ever found him unapproachable and wondered, contritely, if her shyness had been alone to blame. She had been always constrained and silent with him—small wonder that he had avoided her, she thought humbly. Yet how could it have been otherwise? The tie between them, the wonderful generosity he had shown, the aloofness he had maintained, had made it impossible for her to view him as an ordinary human being. She owed him everything and passionate recognition and a sense of her indebtedness had grown with equal fervour. She had almost worshipped him. He had taken her from a life that had grown unbearable, he had given her the opportunity to follow the career for which she longed. She could never repay him, she found it difficult to put into words even to herself just what she felt towards him. From the first she had raised him to the empty pedestal vacated by that fallen idol, her father. And out of hero-worship had grown love, at first the exalted devotion of an immature girl, adoration that was purely sexless and selfless—a mystical love without passion, spiritual. He had appeared to her as a being of another sphere and, mentally, she had knelt at his feet as to a patron saint. But with her own development love had expanded. She realised that what she felt for him was no longer childish adoration, but a greater, more wonderful emotion. She had grown to a full understanding of her own heart, the divinity had become a man for whose love she yearned. But she loved hopelessly as she loved deeply, she had no thought that her love could be returned. His proximity had always troubled her, and to-day as she sat on the window seat beside him she was conscious of a greater unrest than she had ever before felt, and her heart throbbed painfully with the vague formless longings, inexplicable and frightening, that stirred within her until it seemed impossible that her agitation could pass unnoticed. Shyness fell on her again, the ready words faltered, and gradually she became silent. Craven took the empty coffee cups and replaced them on the table by the fire. Going back to the window he found her kneeling up on the cushioned seat, her hands clasped before her, looking out at the white world. The childish attitude that seemed in keeping with the artist's blouse and tumbled hair made her look singularly young. He stood beside her, so close that he almost touched her shoulder, and his eyes ranged hungrily over the whole slim beauty of her, lingering on the little bent brown head, the soft curve of her girlish bosom, until the yearning for her grew intolerable and the restraint he put upon himself took all his resolution. The temptation to gather her into his arms was almost more than he could resist, he folded them tightly across his chest—he could not trust them. He could barely trust himself. The unwonted intimacy, the subtle torture of her nearness set his pulses leaping madly. The blood beat in his head, his body quivered with the passionate longing, the fierce desire that rushed over him. In the agony of the moment only the elemental man existed, and he was sensible alone of the burning physical need that rose above all higher purer sentiment. To hold her crushed against his throbbing heart, to bury his face in the fragrance of her soft hair, to kiss her lips till she should beg his mercy—there seemed no greater joy on earth. He wanted her as he had wanted nothing in his life before. And yet, if he gained what he had come to ask he knew that what he suffered now would be as nothing to what he would have to endure. To know her his wife, bound in every sense to him—and to turn his face from the happiness that by all laws was his! Had he the strength? Almost it seemed that he had not. He was only human—and there was a limit to human endurance. If circumstances proved too hard.... The sound of a little smothered cough checked his thoughts abruptly. He realised that in self-commiseration he had lost sight of the purpose of his visit. It was only she who mattered; her health, her happiness that must be considered. He cursed himself and searched vainly for words to express what he must say. And the more he thought the more utterly speech evaded him. Then chance aided. She coughed again and with a little impatient gesture rose to her feet.

“Aunt Caro has decided to go to Cimiez for the rest of the winter—because of my cough. She settled it while you were away. I don't want to go, my cough is nothing. I wouldn't exchange this”—pointing to the snow-clad park—“for all the warmth and sunshine of the Riviera. I want to store up all the memories I can. You don't know how I have learned to love the Towers.” It was as if the last words had escaped unintentionally for she flushed and turned again abruptly to the darkening window. His heart gave a sudden leap but he did not move.

“Then why leave it?” he asked brusquely.

She leaned her forehead on the frosting glass and her eyes grew misty.

“You know,” she said softly, and her voice trembled. “In all the world I have only my—my talent and my self-respect. If I were to do what you and Aunt Caro, in your wonderful generosity, propose—oh, don't stop me, you must listen—I should only have my talent left. Can't you see, can't you understand that I must work, that I must prove my self-respect? For all that you have done, for all that you have given me I have tried to thank you—often. Always you have stopped me. Do you grudge me the only way in which I can show my gratitude, the only way in which I can prove myself worthy of your esteem?” Her voice broke in a little sob. Then she turned to him quickly, her hands out-stretched and quivering. “If I could only do something to repay——” she cried, with a passionate earnestness he had never heard in her before. He caught at the opening that offered. “You can,” he said quietly, “but it is so big a thing—it would more than swamp the debt you think you owe me.”

“Tell me,” she whispered urgently as he paused.

He turned from her eager questioning face with acute embarrassment. He hated himself, he hated his task, only the darkness of the room seemed to make it possible.

“Gillian,” he said, with constrained gravity. “I came to you to-day deliberately to ask you what I believe no man has any right to ask a woman. I have tried all the afternoon to tell you. Something you said just now makes it easier. You say you love the Towers—do you love it well enough to stay here as its mistress, on the only terms that I can offer?”

The look of incredulous horror that leaped into her startled eyes made him realise suddenly the interpretation that might be put upon his words. He caught her hands almost roughly. “Good heavens, child, not that!” he cried aghast. “What do you take me for? I am asking you to marry me—but not the kind of marriage that every woman has the right to expect. If I could offer you that, God knows how willingly I would. But there has been that in my life which comes between me and the happiness that other men can look forward to. For me that part of life is over. I have only friendship to offer. I know I am asking more than it seems possible for you to grant, more, a thousand times more than I ought to ask you—but I do ask it, most earnestly. If you can bring yourself to make so great a sacrifice, if you can accept a marriage that will be a marriage only in name——”

She shuddered from him with a bitter cry. “You are offering me charity!” she wailed, struggling to free her hands. But he held them firmer. “I am asking you to take pity on a very lonely man,” he said gently. “I am asking you to care for a very lonely house. You have brought sunshine into the Towers, you have brought sunshine into the lives of many people living on the estate. I am asking you to stay where you are so much wanted—so much—loved.”

Then he let her go and she walked unsteadily to the fireplace. She stood for a moment, her fingers working convulsively, staring into the smouldering embers, and then sank into a chair, for her limbs were shaking under her. He followed slowly and stooped to stir the fire to a blaze. Covertly she looked at him as the red light illuminated his face and scalding tears gathered in her eyes. And, curiously, it was not wholly of herself that she was thinking. She was envying, with a feeling of hopeless intolerable pain, that other woman whom he had loved. For his words could only have meant one thing, and the great sorrow she had imagined seemed all at once explained. She wondered what manner of woman she had been, if she had died—or if she had proved unworthy. And the last thought roused a sudden fierce resentment—how could a woman who had won his love throw it back at his feet, unwanted! The envious tears welled over and she brushed them furtively away. Then her thoughts turned in compassion to him. Through death or faithlessness love had brought no joy to him—he suffered as she was suffering now. She looked at the silver threads gleaming in his hair, at the deep lines in his face and the pain in her eyes gave place to a wonderful tenderness. She had prayed for a chance to show her gratitude; if what he asked could bring any alleviation to his life, if her presence could bring any sort of comfort to his loneliness, was not even that more than she had ever dared to hope? That he should turn to her was understandable. He had men friends in plenty, but women he openly and undisguisedly avoided. He had grown used to her presence at the Towers, a marriage such as he proposed would call for no great alteration in the daily routine to which he had become accustomed. If by doing this she could in any way repay....

The replenished fire was filling the room with soft flickering light, it cast strange shadows on the curtained walls and revealed the girl's strained white face pitilessly. Craven had risen and was standing looking down on her. She grew aware of his scrutiny and flinched, the hot blood rolling slowly, painfully over her face and neck. He spoke abruptly, as if the words were forced from him:

“But I want you to realise fully what this marriage with me would mean, for it is a very big sacrifice I am asking of you. Whatever happened, you would be bound to me. If”—his voice faltered momentarily—“if you were sometime to meet a man—and love him—you would be my wife, you would not be free to follow your heart.”

She stared straight before her, her hands clasped tight around her knees, shivering slightly. “I shall never—want to marry—in that way,” she said in a strangled voice. He smiled sadly. “You think that now—you are very young,” he argued, “but we have the future to think of.”

She did not answer and in the silence that ensued he wondered what had induced him to put forward an argument that might defeat his purpose. In any other case it would have been only the honourable thing to do, but in this it was a risk he should not have taken. He moved impatiently. Then suddenly he leaned forward and laid his hands on her shoulders, drawing her gently to her feet.

“Gillian!”

Slowly she raised her head. The touch of his hands was almost more than she could bear, but she steadied her trembling lips and met his gaze bravely as he spoke again.

“If you will agree to this—this mariage de convenance, I will do all that lies in my power to make your life happy. You will be free in everything. I ask nothing but that you will look on me as a friend to whom you can always come in any difficulty or any trouble. You will be complete mistress of yourself, your time, your inclinations. I will not interfere with you in any way.”

She searched his face, trying to read what lay behind his inscrutable expression. His eyes were kind, but there was in them a curious underlying gleam that she could not understand. And his voice puzzled her. She was bewildered, torn with conflicting doubts. Sensitively she shrank from his inexplicable suggestion, she could see no reason for his amazing proposal save an extraordinary generosity that filled her with gratitude and yet against which she revolted.

“You are doing this in pity!” she cried miserably.

“Before God I swear that I am not,” he said, with unexpected fierceness that startled her, and the sudden painful gripping of the strong hands on her shoulders made her for the first time aware of his strength. She thought of it wonderingly. If it had been otherwise, if he had loved her, how gladly she would have surrendered to it. It would have stood between her and the unknown world that loomed sometimes in spite of her confidence with a sinister horror on which she dared not dwell. In the safety of his arms she would never have known fear, his strength would have shielded her through life. And, in a lesser degree, his strength might still be hers to turn to, if she would. A new conception of the future she had planned rushed over her, the confidence she had felt fell suddenly away, leaving fear and dread and a terror of loneliness. His touch had destroyed her faith in herself. It had done more. In some subtle way it seemed to her he had by his touch claimed her. And with his hands still pressing her shoulders she felt a strange inability to oppose him. He had sworn that it was not pity that dictated his offer. He had said that love did not exist for him. What then could be his motive? She could find none.

“You wouldn't lie to me?” she whispered, tormented with doubt, “you wish this—this marriage—truly?”

He looked at her steadily.

“I wish it, truly,” he said firmly.

“You would let me go on with my work?” she faltered, fighting for time.

“I have said that I would not interfere with you in any way, that you would be free in everything,” he answered, and as if in earnest of the freedom promised his hands slipped from her.

The fire had died down again, and the room was almost dark, he could hardly see her where she stood. He waited, hoping she would speak, then abruptly: “Can you give me an answer, Gillian?”

He heard the quick intake of her breath, felt her trembling beside him.

“Oh, if you would give me time,” she murmured entreatingly. “I want to think. It means so much.”

“Take all the time you wish,” he said, and went quietly away. And his going brought a sudden desolation. She longed to call him back, to promise what he asked, to yield without further struggle. But uncertainty held her. Motionless she stood staring through the darkness at the dim outline of the door that had closed behind him, her breast heaving tumultuously, until tears blinded her and with a gasping sob she slipped to the floor. She had never dared to hope that he could love her, but the truth from his own lips was bitter. And for a time the realisation of that bitterness deadened all other feeling. Overwrought with the emotion of the last few hours, her nerves strained to breaking point, she was unable to check the tide of grief that shook her to the very depths of her being. With her face hidden in the soft rug, her outflung hands clenching convulsively, she wept in an abandonment of sorrow.

If he had never spoken, if he had never made this strange proposal but had maintained until the end the detached reserve that had seemed to set so wide a gulf between them, it would have been easier to bear. He would have passed out of her life, inscrutable as he had always been. But with his change of attitude, in the intimacy of the few hours they had spent alone, she had seen him with new eyes. The mysterious unapproachable guardian had gone for ever, and in his place was a very human man revealing characteristics she had never imagined to exist, showing an interest and a gentleness she had never suspected. He had exhibited a similarity of tastes and ideas that agreed extraordinarily with her own, he had talked as to a comrade. The companionship had been very sweet—very sorrowful. She could never think of him again as he had been, and the new conception of him gave a poignant stab to her grief. In the brief happiness of the afternoon she had had a fleeting vision of what might have been “if he had loved me,” she moaned, and it seemed to her that she had never known until now the real depth of her own love. What she had felt before was not comparable with the overwhelming passion that the touch of his hands had quickened. It swept her like a raging torrent, carrying her beyond the limit of her understanding, bringing with it strange yearnings that, half-understood, she shuddered from, ashamed.

Torn with emotion she wept until she had no tears left, until the hard racking sobs died away and her tired sorrow-shaken body lay still. For the moment, exhausted, her agony of mind was dulled and time was non-existent. She did not move or lift her head from the tear-wet rug. A great weariness seemed to deaden all faculty. The minutes passed unnoticed. Then some latent consciousness stirred in her brain and she looked up startled.

It was quite dark and she realised, shivering, that the room had grown very cold. The calm afternoon had given place to a stormy night and heavy gusts of wind were sweeping round the angle of the house, shrieking and whistling eerily; from the window came the soft swish swish of dry hard snow beating against the panes. She started to her feet. She had no idea of the hour but she knew it must be late. Perhaps the dinner gong had already sounded and, missed, somebody might come in search of her. She shrank from being found thus. Feeling her way to a lamp she turned the switch and the soft light flooding the room made her wince. A glance at her watch showed that she had still a few moments in which to gain her room unobserved.

She felt oddly lightheaded and her feet dragged wearily. The tortuous passage had never seemed so interminable, the succession of closed doors appeared unending. Reaching her own room she collapsed on to a sofa that was drawn up before the fire, her head aching, her limbs shivering uncontrollably, worn out with emotion. Exhausted in mind and body she seemed unable even to frame a thought logically or coherently—only an interrupted medley of unconnected ideas chased through her tired brain until her temples throbbed agonisingly. She knew that sometime she would have to rouse herself, that sometime a decision would have to be made, but not now. Now she could only lie still and make no effort. She was angry with herself, contemptuous of her weakness. She had disdained nerves, she was humiliated now by her present lack of control. But even self-scorn was a passing thought from which she turned wearily.

One fact only remained, clear and distinct from the confusion in her mind—he did not love her. He did not love her. It hurt so. She hid her face in the pillows, writhing with the shame the knowledge of her own love brought her. The deep booming of the dinner gong awoke her to the necessity of some kind of action. She rang the bell that hung within reach of her hand and, by the maid who answered her summons, sent her excuses to Miss Craven, pleading a headache for remaining upstairs.

A few minutes later Mary, grim-visaged and big-hearted, appeared with a tray, headache remedies and multifarious messages from the dining room. She bathed the girl's aching head, brushing the tumbled brown hair and piling it afresh into a soft loose knot. Grumbling gently at the long hours of work to which she attributed the unusual indisposition, she took full advantage of the rare opportunity of rendering personal attention and fussed to her heart's content, stripping off the stained overall and substituting a loose velvet wrapper; and then stood over her, a kindly martinet, until the light dinner she had brought was eaten. Afterwards she packed pillows, made up the fire, and administered a particularly nauseous specific emanating from a homeopathic medicine chest that was her greatest pride, and then took herself away, still mildly admonishing.

Gillian leaned back against the cushions with a feeling of greater ease and restfulness. Food had given her strength and under Mary's ministrations her mental poise had steadied. She would not let herself dwell on the question that must before long be settled, Miss Craven would be coming soon, and until she had been and gone no definite settlement could be attempted.

She lay looking at the fire, endeavouring to keep her mind a blank. It was odd to be alone, she missed the familiar black form lying on the hearth-rug, but tonight she could not bear even Mouston's presence, and Mary had taken a request to Yoshio, to whose room the dog had been banished from the studio, that he would keep him until the morning.

A tap at the door and Miss Craven appeared, anxious and questioning.

“Only a headache?—my dear, I don't believe it!” she protested, plumping down on the side of the sofa and clutching at her hair, that sure sign of perturbation. “You've never had a headache like this before. You've been working too hard. You were painting all the morning and they tell me you worked throughout the afternoon and had no tea. Gillian, dear, when will you learn sense? I don't at all approve of you having tea sent to the studio only when you ring for it. Young people require regular meals and as often as not neglect 'em; young artists are the worst offenders—you needn't contradict me, I know all about it. I did it myself.” She patted the clasped hands lying near her and scrutinised the girl more closely. “You're as pale as a ghost and your eyes are too bright. Did Mary take your temperature? No?—the woman must have lost her senses. I'll telephone to Doctor Harris to come and see you in the morning. If you looked a fraction more feverish I'd send for you to-night, storm or no storm. Peter braved it, open car as usual. He sent his love. Barry turned up from Scotland this afternoon. He looks very tired—says he had a bothering time and a wretched journey—Gillian!” she cried sharply as the girl slid from the sofa on to her knees beside her and raised a quivering piteous face.

“Aunt Caro, I'm not ill,” the words came in tumbling haste, “there's nothing bodily the matter with me—I'm only dreadfully unhappy. I know Mr. Craven is back—he came to me in the studio this afternoon. He asked me to marry him,” the troubled voice sank to a whisper, “and I—I don't know what to do.”

“My dear.” The tenderness of Miss Craven's tone sent a strangling wave of emotion into Gillian's throat. “Aunt Caro, did you know? Do you wish it too?” she murmured wistfully.

Unwilling to admit a previous knowledge which would be difficult to explain, Miss Craven temporised. “I very greatly hoped for it,” she said guardedly; “you and Barry are all I have to care for, and you are both so—alone. I know you think of a very different life, I know you have dreams of making a career for yourself. But a career is not all that a woman wants in her life; it can perhaps mean independence and fame, it can also mean great loneliness and the loss of the full and perfect happiness that should be every woman's. You mustn't judge all cases by me. I have been happy in my own way but I want a greater, richer happiness for you, dear. I want for you the best that the world can give, and that best I believe to be the shelter and the safety of a man's love.”

The brown head dropped on her knee. “You are thinking of me—I am thinking of him,” came a stifled whisper.

Miss Craven stroked the soft hair tenderly. “Then why not give him what he asks, my dear,” she said gently. “He has known sorrow and suffering. If through you, he can forget the past in a new happiness, will you not grant it him? Oh, Gillian, I have so hoped that you might care for each other; that, together, you might make the Towers the perfect home it should be, a home of mutual trust and love. You and Barry and, please God, after you—your children.” She choked with unexpected emotion and brushed the mist from her eyes impatiently.

And at her knee Gillian knelt motionless, her lip held fast between her teeth to stop the bitter cry that nearly escaped her, her heart almost bursting. The picture Miss Craven's words called up was an ideal of happiness that might have been. The suffering that reality promised seemed more than she could contemplate. What happiness could come from such a travesty? The strange yearnings she had experienced seemed suddenly crystallised into form, and the knowledge was a greater pain than she had known. What she would have gone down to the gates of death to give him he did not require—the unutterable joy that Miss Craven suggested would never be hers. She searched for words, for an explanation of her silence that must seem strange to the elder woman. Miss Craven obviously knew nothing of the unusual conditions attached to his proposal, her words proved it, and Gillian could not tell her. She could not betray his confidence even if she had so wished. If she could but speak frankly and show all her difficulty to the friend who had never yet failed in love and sympathy——She sought refuge in prevarication. “How can I marry him?” she cried miserably. “You don't know anything about me. I'm not a fit person to be his wife—my antecedents——”

“Bother your antecedents!” interrupted Miss Craven, with a somewhat shaky laugh. “My dearest girl, Barry isn't going to marry them, he's going to marry you. They can have been anything you like or imagine but it does not alter the fact that their daughter is the one woman on earth I want for Barry's wife.” She stooped and gathered the girl into her arms.

“Gillian, can you give us, Barry and me, this great happiness?”

Gently Gillian disengaged herself and rose slowly to her feet. She made a little helpless gesture, swaying as she stood. “What can I say?” she said brokenly. “Do you think it means nothing to me! Don't you know that what I already owe you and Mr. Craven is almost more than I can bear, that I would give my life for either of you? But this—oh, you don't understand—I can't tell you—I can't explain——” She dropped back on the sofa and her voice came muffled and entreatingly from among the silken cushions, “If you knew how I long to repay you for your wonderful goodness, if you knew what your love has meant to me! Oh, dearest, I'd give the world to please you! But I don't know what to do, I don't know what is honest—and you can't help me, nobody can help me. I've got to settle it myself. I've got to think——”

Miss Craven guessed the crying need for solitude conveyed in the last faltering words and rose in obedience to the unspoken request. She stood for a moment, looking tenderly down on the slim prostrate figure, and a fear that grew momentarily stronger came to her that in her endeavour to bring happiness to these two lives she had blundered fatally. She had been a fool, rushing in. And with almost a feeling of dismay she realised it was beyond her ability now to stay what she had put in motion. She was as one who, having wantonly released some complex mechanism, stands aghast and powerless at the consequence of his rashness. And yet, despite the seeming setback to her hopes, the conviction that had urged her to this step was still strong in her; she still had faith in its ultimate achievement. She touched the girl's shoulder in a quick caress. “You are worn out, child. Go to bed and rest now, and think to-morrow,” she said soothingly.

For long after she left the room Gillian lay without moving. Then with a long shuddering sigh she sat up. She tried to concentrate on the decision she must make but her thoughts, ungovernable, dwelt persistently on the unknown woman whom she had convinced herself he must have loved, and the passionate envy she had felt before swept her again until the pain of it sent a whispered prayer to her lips for strength to put it from her. Huddled on the side of the sofa, her head supported on her hands, she stared fixedly into the fire as if seeking in the leaping flames the answer to the problem that confronted her. Then in her agony of mind inaction became impossible and she rose and paced the room with hurried nervous tread.

To do what was right—to do what was honourable; to conquer the clamorous self that cried out for acceptance of this semblance of happiness that was offered. To bear his name, to have the right to be near him, to care for him and for his interests as far as she might. To be his wife—even if only in name. Dear God, did he know how he had tempted her? But she had no right. The crushing burden of debt she owed rose like an unsurpassable mountain between her and what she longed for. Only by repayment could she keep her self-respect. The dreams of independence, the place she had thought to make for herself in the world, the re-establishing of her father's name—could she forego what she had planned? Was it not a nobler aim than the gratification of self that urged the easier way? Yet would it be the easier way? Was she not really in her heart shrinking from the difficulty and sadness that this loveless marriage would bring? Was it not cowardice that prompted a supposed nobility of thought that now appeared ignoble? She wrung her hands in desperation. Had she no courage or steadfastness at all? Was the weakness of purpose that had ruined her father's life to be her curse as it had been his?

She felt suddenly very young, very inexperienced. Her early training that had denied the exercise of individual responsibility and had inculcated a passivity of mind that precluded self-determination had bitten deeper than she knew. Her life since leaving the convent had been smooth and uneventful, there had been no occasion to practise the new liberty of thought and action that was hers. And now before a decision that would be so irrevocable, that would involve her whole life—and not hers alone—she felt to the full the disability of her upbringing. Alone she must make her choice and she shrank from the burden of responsibility that fell upon her. She had nobody to turn to for counsel or advice. In her loneliness she longed for the solace of a mother's tenderness, the shelter of a mother's arms, and bitterness came to her as she thought of the parents who had each in their turn abandoned her so callously. She had been robbed of her birthright of love and care. She was alone in the world, alone to fight her own battles, alone in the moment of her direst need.

Then all at once she seemed to see in the trend of her thoughts only a supreme selfishness that had lost sight of all but personal consideration. Was her love of so little worth that in thought for herself she had forgotten him? He had asked her to pity his loneliness—and she had had only pity for herself. Her lips quivered as she whispered his name in an agony of self-condemnation.

Coming back slowly to the fireside she slipped to the floor and leaned her head against the sofa listening to the storm that beat with increasing violence against the house, and the roar of the tempest without seemed in strange agreement with the tumult that was raging in her heart. The words he had used came back to her. Did it really lie in her power to lessen the loneliness of his life? To give him what he asked—was not that, after all, the true way to pay her debt? With a little sob she bowed her head on her hands.... An hour later she rose stiffly, cramped with long sitting, and moving nearer to the fire chafed her cold hands mechanically. Her face was very sad and her wide eyes heavy with unshed tears. She drew a long sobbing breath. “Because I love him,” she murmured. “If I didn't love him I couldn't do it.” A thought that brought new hope came to her. She loved him so deeply, might not her love, she wondered wistfully, perhaps some day be strong enough to heal the wound he had sustained—strong enough even to compel his love? Then doubt seized hold on her again. Would she, in the limited scope that she would have, find opportunity—would he ever allow her to get near enough to him?... She flung her hands out in passionate appeal.

“Oh, God! if this thing that I am doing is wrong, if it brings sorrow and unhappiness, let me be the only one to pay!”

A sudden longing to make retraction impossible came over her. She looked anxiously at her watch. Was it too late to go to him to-night? Only when she had told him would she be sure of herself. Her word once given there could be no withdrawal.

It was nearly midnight but she knew he rarely left his study until later. Peters would be gone, he was methodical in his habits and retired punctually at eleven o'clock with a regularity that was unvarying. She was sure of finding him alone. She dared not wait until the morning, she must go now while she had the courage. Delay might bring new doubts, new uncertainty. Impulsively she started towards the door, then paused on a sudden thought that sent the warm blood in a painful wave to her face. Would he misunderstand, think her unwomanly, attribute her hasty decision to a sordid desire for material gain, for the ease that would be hers, for the position that his name would give? It was the natural thought for him who offered so much to one who would give nothing in return. And not for him alone—in the eyes of the world she would be only a little adventuress who had skilfully seized the opportunity that circumstance had given to advantage herself. But the world did not matter, she thought with scornful curling lip, it was only in his eyes that she desired to stand well. Then with quick shame she knew that the sentiments she had ascribed to him were unworthy, the outcome only of her own strained imagination, and she put them from her. She went quickly to the gallery, dimly lit from a single lamp left alight in the hall below—left for Craven as she knew. Silence brooded over the great house. The storm that earlier had beat tempestuously against the dome as if striving to shatter the massive glass plates that opposed its fury had blown itself out and glancing upward Gillian saw the huge cupola shrouded with snow that gleamed palely in the soft light. The stillness oppressed her and odd thoughts chased through her mind. She looked to right and left nervously and in a sudden inexplicable panic sped down the wide staircase and across the shadowy hall until she reached the study door. There she halted with wildly beating heart, panting and breathless. It was a room which she had never before entered, and an almost paralysing shyness made her shake from head to foot. Nerving herself with a strong effort she tapped with trembling fingers and, at the sound of an answering voice, went in.

Strength seemed all at once to leave her. Physically and mentally exhausted, a feeling of unreality supervened. The strange room swam before her eyes. As in a dream she saw him start to his feet and come swiftly to her across a seemingly unending length of carpet that billowed and wavered curiously, his big frame oddly magnified until he appeared a very giant towering above her; as in a dream she felt him take her ice-cold hands in his. But the warm strong grasp, the grave eyes bent compellingly on her, dragged her back from the shuddering abyss into which she was sinking. Far away, as though coming from a great distance, she heard him speaking. And his voice, gentler than she had ever known it, gave her courage to whisper, so low that he had to bend his tall head to catch the fluttering words, the promise she had come to give.