HEDDON COURT had been purchased by a wealthy Hardacre at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and was exhibited by his grandnephew, the present occupant, as a gem of Georgian architecture. Mr. Hardacre had but a vague idea what the definition meant, but it sounded very impressive. As a matter of fact, it was a Palladian stone building, with pediments over the windows and severe rustication on the lower courses. As none of the succeeding Hardacres had any money to devote to extensions, the building had remained in its original perfection of formality, and Mr. Hardacre did well to be proud of it. The grounds had been laid out in the Italian style; but the tastes and fashions of over a hundred years had caused the classic architect's design to be practically indiscernible. A lawn with trim flower-beds, bounded by an arc of elm-trees and bordered by a circular carriage drive faced the south front. Along the east front ran a series of terraces. The highest, a foot or two below the level of the drawing-room floor, ended on the north in a porticoed temple, now used as an afternoon lounge, and incongruously furnished with rugs and frivolous wickerwork chairs and tables. The next terrace, some eight feet below, was devoted to a tennis court. A thick hedge of clipped yew and a screen of wire netting hid the lowest, the most charming of all, which, surrounded on all sides by a sloping bank and flanked on three sides by tall trees, had been delicately turfed for a bowling-green and was now used for croquet.

In this stately paradise, warmed by sunny September weather, Jimmie had already spent two or three blissful days. His only regret was the absence of Aline. She had been invited, but for reasons in which doubtless Tony Merewether had a place, she had declined the invitation. She gave Jimmie to understand that she had already had her holiday, that the house could not possibly look after itself any longer, and that she had no clothes fit to appear in among his grand friends. The last argument being unanswerable, save by contentions at which the young woman tossed a superior head, Jimmie had yielded and come down alone. His regret, however, was tempered by the reflection that Aline was probably enjoying herself after the manner of betrothed maidens, and it did not seriously affect his happiness. Either chance or the lady's own sweet courtesy towards a guest had caused him to see much of Norma. She had driven him over to Chiltern Towers, where the sittings had begun. She had walked with him to Cosford to show him the beautiful fourteenth-century church with its decorated spire. She had strolled with him up and down the croquet lawn. She had chatted with him in the morning-room yesterday for a whole rainy hour after lunch. His head was full of her beauty and condescension. It was not unnatural that they should be thrown much together. Morland's day was taken up by partridges and electors. Mr. Hardacre, honestly afraid of Jimmie, not knowing what on earth to talk to him about, and only half comprehending his conversation, kept out of his way as much as his duties as host would allow, and Mrs. Hardacre, who, though exceedingly civil, had not forgotten her defeat in the studio, felt justified in leaving his entertainment in the hands of others who professed to admire the creature. These were Norma, Morland, and Connie Deering.

This afternoon they found themselves again alone together, at tea in the classic temple at the end of the terrace. Mrs. Hardacre and Connie had driven off to pay a call, and the men were shooting over ducal turnips. Jimmie had received an invitation to join the shooting-party, but not having handled a gun since boyish days (and even then Jimmie with firearms was Morland's conception of the terror that walketh by day), and also having an appointment with the princess for a second sitting, he had declined, and Morland, when he heard of it, had clapped him on the back and expressed his fervent gratitude.

Jimmie had been narrating his morning's adventures at Chiltern Towers, and explaining the point of view from which he was painting the portrait. It was to be that of the very great lady, with the blood of the earth's great rulers in her veins. It was to be half full-length, just showing the transparent, aristocratic hands set off by rich old lace at the wrists. A certain acidity of temper betrayed by the pinched nostrils and thin lips he would try to modify, as it would be out of keeping with his basic conception. Norma listened, interested more in the speaker than in the subject, her mind occasionally wandering, as it had been wont to do of late, to a comparison of ideals. Since that half-hour's loneliness on the platform of the little Highland station, she had passed through many hours of unrest. To-day the mood had again come upon her. A talk with her mother about the great garden-party they were giving in two days' time, to which the princess and the duchess were coming, had aroused her scorn; a casual phrase of Morland's in reference to the election had jarred upon her; a sudden meeting in Cosford with Theodore Weever, and a laughing reference to the decorative wife had brought back the little shiver of fear. The only human being in the world who could settle her mood—and now she felt it consciously—was this odd, sweet-natured man who seemed to live in a beautiful world.

As he talked she listened, and her mind wandered from the subject. She thought of his life, his surroundings, of the girl whose love affair he had told her of so tenderly. She took advantage of a pause, occasioned by the handing of a second cup of tea and the judicious choosing of cake, to start the new topic.

“I suppose Aline is very happy.”

Jimmie laughed. “What put my little girl into your head?”

“I have been thinking a good deal about her since you wrote of her engagement. Is it really such an idyll?”

“The love of two sweet, clean young people is always idyllic. It is so untainted—pure as a mountain spring; There is nothing quite like it in the world.”

“When are they going to set up house together?”

“Soon, I hope.”

“You will miss her.”

“Of course,” said Jimmie, “enormously. But the thoughts of her happiness will keep me pleasant company. I shall get on all right. Meanwhile it is beautiful to see her. She does n't know that I watch, but I do. It is sweet to see her eyes brighten and her cheeks flush and to hear her laughter. It is like stepping for an enchanted moment into a fairy-tale.”

“I wish I could step into it—just for one enchanted moment,” said Norma..

“You?” asked Jimmie.

“I have never been in one in my life. I disbelieved in them till you came like an apostle of fairyland and converted me. Now I want the consolations of my faith.”

An earnest note in her voice surprised him. She did not meet his eyes.

“I don't understand you,” he said.

“I thought perhaps you would,” she answered. “You seem to understand most things.”

“You have your own—happiness.”

He hesitated on the word. A quick glance assured her of his ingenuousness. She longed to undeceive him, to shriek out her heartlessness, her contempt for herself and for her life. But pride and loyalty to Morland restrained her within bounds of sanity. She assented to his proposition with a gesture of the shapely hand that lay on the tea-table absently tracing the pattern of the cloth.

“Yes, I have that. But it isn't the fairyland of those two children. You yourself say there is nothing like it in the world. You don't know how I pine for it sometimes—for the things that are sweet and clean and untainted and pure as a mountain spring. They don't come my way. They never will.”

“You are wrong,” said Jimmie. “Love will bring them all to you—that and a perfect wedded life and little children.”

For a flash she raised her eyes and looked full into his, and for the first time the love in the man's heart surged tumultuously. It rose of a sudden, without warning, flooding his being, choking him. What it was of yearning, despair, passion, horror that he saw in her eyes he knew not. He did not read in them the craving of a starved soul for food. To him their burning light was a mystery. All that ever reached his consciousness was that it was a look such as he had never before beheld in a woman's face; and against his will and against his reason it acted like some dark talisman and unlocked floodgates. He clenched the arms of the wickerwork chair, and bit his lip hard, and stared at the ground.

Norma broke into a hard laugh, and lay back in her chair.

“You must be thinking me a great fool,” she said, in her usual mocking tones. “When a woman tries to swim in sentiment, she flounders, and either drowns or has to be lugged ignominiously to shore. She can't swim like a man. Thanks for the rescue, Mr. Padgate.”

He looked at her for a moment.

“What do you mean?” he said curtly.

“I'm back on dry land. Oh! it is safer for me. There I am protected by my little bodyguard of three—the World, the Flesh, and the Devil. I can't get on without them.”

Jimmie leaped from his chair and brought his clenched hands down to his sides in a passionate gesture.

“Stop talking like that, I say!” he cried imperiously.

Then meeting her scared and indignant glance, he bowed somewhat wide of her.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, in a tone of no great apology, and marched out of the little temple and along the gravelled walk of the terrace. Flight, or the loss of self-control, was his only alternative. What she thought of him he did not care. The sense of increasing distance from her alone brought security to his soul.

At the further end he met Mrs. Deering just back from her drive.

“Why, what is the matter, Jimmie?” she asked, twirling an idle sunshade over her pretty head, for the terrace was in deep afternoon shadow.

“Nothing,” he replied, with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “I am going for a walk before dinner.”

He left her standing, reached the highroad and pounded along it. What a fool he had been! What a mad fool he had been!

Mrs. Deering, with a puzzled expression on her face, watched him disappear. She turned and strolled down to Norma, who greeted her with a satiric smile.

“What have you been doing to Jimmie?” asked Mr. Deering.

“I have been giving him lessons in worldly wisdom.”

“Poor dear! They seem to have disagreed with him.”

Norma shrugged her shoulders. “That's his affair, not mine.”

“You don't mean to say that you and Jimmie have quarrelled?” laughed Connie. “How delightful! I've always wanted to quarrel with Jimmie just for the pleasure of kissing and making friends. But it has been impossible. Is it serious?”

“I hope not,” Norma answered; and then after a pause, “Oh, Connie, I'm afraid I've been a positive brute.”

Which evidence of a salutary conviction of her own wrongdoing shows that Jimmie's amazing shout of command had not aroused within her any furious indignation. Indeed, after the first moment of breathless astonishment, she had expressed an odd, almost amusing thrill of admiration for the man who had dared address her in that fashion. It was only a small feminine satisfaction in the knowledge that by going away he would punish himself for his temerity that had restrained her from summoning him back. As soon as he was out of call, she reproached herself for misconduct. She could have strangled the wanton devil that had prompted her cynical speech. And yet the same devil had saved an embarrassing situation. Wedded life and little children! If she had spoken what was trembling on her lips, how could she have looked the man in the face again? Her sex was revolting against that very prospect, was clamouring wildly for she knew not what. She dared not betray herself.

She greeted him smilingly in the drawing-room before dinner, as if nothing had occurred, and chatted pleasantly with Morland over his day's fortunes. Jimmie observed her with a sigh of relief. He had passed the last two hours greatly agitated; he had trembled lest he had revealed to her his soul's secret, and also lest his unmannerliness had given unpardonable offence. In any case, now he saw himself forgiven, and breathed freely. But he remained unusually silent during dinner, and spent most of the evening in the billiard-room with Mr. Hardacre.

That gentleman, joining the ladies later, fell into conversation with his daughter.

“How long is Padgate going to stay?” he asked, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief.

“Till the princess has completed her sittings, I suppose,” said Norma.

“I wish she'd be quick. I don't know what to do with the fellow. Does n't shoot, can't play billiards worth a cent, and does n't seem to know anybody. It's like talking to a chap that does n't understand your language. I've just been at it. Happened to say I'd like to go to Rome again. He fetches a sigh and says so should he. 'Some of the best wild-duck shooting in the world,' I said. He stared at me for a moment as if I were an escaped lunatic. Now, what on earth should a reasonable being go to that beastly place for except to shoot wild-duck on the marshes?”

Norma laughed the little mocking laugh that always irritated her father.

“You need n't be afraid of not entertaining Mr. Padgate. He must have enjoyed the conversation hugely.”

“Damme—if the fellow is laughing at me—” he began.

“He would not be the very fine gentleman that he is,” said Norma. “Where is he now?”

“Morland relieved guard in the billiard-room, when the post came in,” growled Mr. Hardacre, who shrank from crossing swords with his daughter, and indeed with anybody. “He is happy enough with Morland.”

At that particular moment, however, there was not overmuch happiness in the billiard-room. A letter from Aline had been accompanied by one for “David Rendell, Esquire” which she had enclosed. Morland read it, and crushed it angrily into the pocket of his dinner-jacket, and began to knock the balls about in an aimless way. Jimmie watched him anxiously and, as he did not speak, unfolded his own letter from Aline. Suddenly he rose from the divan where he had been sitting and approached the table.

“There is something here that you ought to know, Morland. A man has been enquiring for you at my house.”

“Well, why should n't he?” asked Morland, making a savage shot.

“He enquired for David Rendell.”

Morland threw down his cue.

“Well?”

“I am afraid Aline, who is a miracle of sagacity as a general rule, has made a mess of it. You mustn't be angry with my poor little girl. Her head is full of sweeter things.”

“What has she done?” Morland asked impatiently.

“I'll read: 'I told him that Mr. Rendell was a friend of yours, and gave him your present address. He muttered something about a false name and went away without thanking me.'”

“Good God!” cried Morland, “what damned fools women are! Did she say what kind of a man he was?”

Jimmie looked through the letter, and finding the passage, read: “'An odd-looking creature, like a mad Methodist parson!'”

Morland uttered an exclamation of anger and apprehension. His brow grew black, and his florid comely features coarsened into ugliness.

“I thought so. It could n't have been any one else. He was the only person who knew. She has given me away nicely. The devil only knows what will happen.”

Jimmie leant up against the table and folded his arms, and looked at Morland moving restlessly to and fro and giving vent to his anger.

“Who is this man you seem to be so afraid of?” he asked quietly.

Morland stopped upon the unpleasant word, then shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, I suppose I am afraid of him. One can't reckon upon anything that he might or might not do. He's like a mad cat. I've seen him. So have you.”

“I?”

“Yes—that socialist maniac you dragged me to hear one Sunday in Hyde Park.”

“Whew!” said Jimmie. He remembered the look in the orator's eyes, his crazy, meaningless words, his fierce refusal to enter into friendly talk; also Morland's impatient exclamation and abrupt departure as soon as they had learned the man's name.

“He's as mad as a hatter,” he said. “If he should take it into his head to come down here and make a row, there will be the deuce to pay,” said Morland.

Jimmie reflected for a moment. The man, with his wild talk of maidens lashed to the chariot-wheels of the rich, must have been tortured by the sense of some personal wrong.

“How does he come into the story?” he asked. “You had better tell me.”

“The usual way. Oh, I wish to God I had never got into this mess! A man of position is an infernal fool to go rotting about after that sort of thing. Oh, don't you see? He had a crazy passion for her, was engaged to her—he was mad then. When I came along, he had to drop it, and he has been persecuting her ever since—divided between the desire to marry her in spite of everything, and to murder me. That's why I had the assumed name and false address. I would n't have let you in for this bother, but I could n't go and run the risk of being blackmailed at a confounded little stationer's shop up a back street. He has been trying to get on my track all the time—and now he's succeeded, thanks to Aline. Why the devil could n't she hold her tongue?”

“Because she is an innocent child, who has never dreamed of evil,” said Jimmie.

Morland walked about the room, agitated, for a few moments, then halted.

“Oh, yes, I know, Jimmie. She is n't to blame. Besides, the mischief is done, so it's no use talking.”

“Were you thinking of any such possibility in the summer when you asked me to help you?” said Jimmie. Morland cast a quick, hopeful glance at his friend.

“Something of the sort. One never knows. You were the only man I could rely on.”

“Does this man know you by sight?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Then what are you so afraid of? Look here, my dear old boy,” he said cheerily, “you are being frighted by false fire. If it is only a question of dealing with the man when he comes here—that is, supposing he does come—which is very unlikely, I will tackle him as the only person who knows anything about David Rendell. I'll tell him David Rendell is in Scotland or Honolulu.”

“He is on the track of the false name,” said Morland, uneasily. “Aline mentions that.”

“He is bound to come to me first,” said Jimmie. “I'll fix him. We'll get on capitally together. There's a freemasonry between lunatics. Leave it all to me.”

“Really?” cried Morland, in great eagerness.

“Of course,” said Jimmie. “Let us go upstairs.”

They passed out of the billiard-room in silence. On their way to the drawing-room Morland murmured in a shamefaced way his apologia. He was just at the beginning of his electoral campaign. It was his own county. He was hand in glove with the duchess, sovereign lady of these parts, and she never forgave a scandal. “Besides,” he added, “to quote your own words, it would break Norma's heart.” Also, employing the limited vocabulary of his class and type, he reiterated the old assurance that he had not been a beast. He had done all that a man could to make amends. If Jimmie had not loved him so loyally, he would have seen something very pitiful in these excuses; but convinced that Morland had atoned as far as lay in his power for his fault, he trembled for the happiness of only those dear to him.

Norma met them on the drawing-room landing.

“I was coming down to see what had become of you,” she said.

“I have been the culprit. I restore him to you,” laughed Jimmie. He entered the room and closed the door. The betrothed pair stood for a moment in an embarrassed silence. She laid a hesitating hand on his sleeve.

“Morland—” she said diffidently. “I was really wanting to have a little talk with you. Somehow we don't often see one another.”

Morland, surprised at the softness in her voice, led her back to the billiard-room.