It was about four o\'clock, and in spite of what Leonard said, not much cooler than at noon. The sun scorched on the hay-grass, drawing out of it a drowsy perfume, which a faint, hot breeze scattered into the hedges. The trees scarcely moved, and their shadows were rusted with the curling sorrel. Clumps of dog-roses and elder flowers splashed the bushes with sudden pinks and whites, while vetches trailed their purples less startlingly in the hedgerows.

Janey walked fast, and every now and then she ran for little sprints. Her breath sobbed in her throat, her eyes were fixed and her hands clenched. She climbed recklessly over gates, and plunged through copses; her hair was soon almost on her shoulders, flying from her face in wisps, straggling round her ears; her face became flushed and moist with the heat—she tore her sleeve, and scraps of bramble hung on her skirt. What woman but Janey would have rushed to confront a faithless lover in such a state? But even now, when almost any one would have realised how much depended on her appearance, she was careless and oblivious. She did not feel in the least dismayed at the start given by the servant who admitted her, nor, later, by her own reflection in a mirror in the study.

It was the same little book-lined room in which[Pg 214] she had had tea with Quentin on her first visit to Redpale. There was the glorious Eastern rug which he had said "had her tintings—her browns and whites and reds." There was the big pewter jar that had then held chrysanthemums, but held roses now. They were delicate white roses, faintly, sweetly scented. Janey went over to them and laid her hot face against them. She could hardly tell why, but they seemed to bring into the room an alien atmosphere. Quentin had never given her white roses—as a matter of fact he had given her scarcely any garden flowers, except chrysanthemums—he had once said that only wild flowers were for wild things. She thought of bunches of buttercups, of broom with bursting pods, of hazel sprays and tawny grasses. Now she suddenly wished that he would give her a white rose. She took one out of the jar, and was trying to fasten it in her breast when footsteps sounded outside the room.

She turned deadly pale, and dropped the rose. For the first time she felt that she had been foolish to come. Quentin might be angry with her, for her coming would rouse his father\'s suspicions. Her hurry and desperation might prejudice him against her. In an unaccustomed qualm she realised that she was flushed, dishevelled and perspiring. She felt at a disadvantage, and drew back as the door opened, seeking the shadows by the hearth.

"Janey!"

He stood in the doorway, his hand on the latch, his chin thrust forward, his pale face bright in the[Pg 215] gleaming afternoon. His youth struck her with a sudden appeal—his youth and delicacy, both emphasised in the soft yellow light—and a sob tore up through her breast.

"Oh ..." she said, and moved towards him.

He shut the door.

"Oh, I\'m sorry I came!" she cried.

He did not speak, but came forward, stopping abruptly a few feet away.

"Janey—I want to explain...."

"Explain...." She had not thought there would be any explanation needed—or, if needed, possible.

"Yes—I ought to have written, but I couldn\'t, somehow—or rather, I wrote you a dozen letters, and tore them all up."

She wondered why she felt so calm.

"I—I asked my father to call and see you."

"You mean to say—he knows?"

"Yes."

"Oh, my God!"

Her calmness staggered, and all but collapsed. For the first time her doubts gave way to even bitterer realisation. This confession to Quentin\'s father, this betrayal of the secret she had spent her health and happiness for four years to keep, made her grasp what an hour ago had seemed beyond the reach even of credulity.

"Quentin—why did you tell him?—how could you!—after all we\'ve suffered...."

"I—I—I was desperate, Janey, I had to tell some one, and he was so sympathetic—much more than I\'d expected."

[Pg 216]

"When did you tell him?"

"The night I came back from town."

"After the—the rest was settled?"

He nodded.

"Quentin, have you told her?" She was accepting the impossible quite meekly now.

"No, no!—I can\'t tell her."

She waited a moment for what she thought the inevitable entreaty not to betray him. Thank God!—it did not come.

"She would never forgive you," she said slowly. "Young girls don\'t."

"And you, Janey...."

She drew back from him.

"You can\'t ask me that now."

"Why?"

"Well—well, can\'t you see I hardly realise things as yet. An hour ago I preferred to doubt my own senses rather than doubt you. Now——"

"You doubt me."

"No, I don\'t doubt you. I\'m convinced—that you\'re a cad."

Her voice, clear at the beginning of the sentence, had sunk almost to a whisper. He shrank back, wincing before her gentleness.

She herself wondered how long it would last, this unnatural calm. It came to her quite easily, she did not have to fight for it, and yet the general sensation was of being under an an?sthetic. She only half realised her surroundings, this horrible new earth on which she was wandering homeless; her emotions seemed dull and inadequate to the situation—it would be a relief if she could feel more.

[Pg 217]

Then suddenly feeling came—it came in a tide, a tempest, a whirlwind. It shook her like an earthquake and blasted her like a furnace. She staggered sideways, as a great gloom darkled on her eyes. Then the shadows parted, and she saw Quentin\'s face, half turned away—pale, fragile, sullen, the face of a boy—of a boy in despair.

"Quentin!" she cried. "Oh, my boy—my little boy! You aren\'t going to behave like a cad."

"But I am a cad, my dear Janey."

He spoke brutally, in the stress of feeling.

"Oh, Quentin!—Quentin!"

She was losing not only her calm, but her dignity—yet she did not heed it. She sprang towards him, seized his hands, and gasped her words close to his ear, as unconsciously he turned his head from her.

"Quentin, you can\'t forsake me—not now—not after all I\'ve given you—you can\'t, you can\'t! You loved me so much—you love me still. You can\'t have stopped loving me all of a sudden like this. And if you love me, you can\'t forsake me. Quentin, I shall die if you forsake me."

"Janey—let me explain. I can\'t explain if you\'re so frenzied. Oh, Janey, don\'t faint."

She fell back from him suddenly, and he caught her in his arms.

The soft weight of her, her warmth, the familiar scent of her hair and her tumbled gown, snatched him back into departing days. He suddenly lost his self-command, or rather his sense of the present. He clasped her to him, and kissed her and kissed her—as eagerly, passionately and tenderly as[Pg 218] ever in Furnace Wood. She did not resist or shrink, her eyes were closed, and she lay back a dead weight in his arms, drinking her last despairing draught of happiness.... His clasp grew tighter—oh, that he would crush the life out of her as she lay there under his lips!...

Then suddenly he dropped his arms, and they staggered back from each other, piteously conscious once more of the present and its doom.

"Janey, Janey ... I can\'t—I mustn\'t love you."

"But you do love me——"

She sank into a chair, and covered her face.

"Yes—I love you. But it\'s in byways of love. Can\'t you understand?"

She shook her head.

"Don\'t you see that, all through, my love for you has been unworthy—the worst in me?..."

She tried to speak, but her words were unintelligible.

"You and I have never been happy together——"

"Never?..."

"Yes—at times. But it was a blasting, scorching happiness—there was no peace in it. We doubted each other."

"I never doubted you."

"Yes, you did. When I said good-bye to you before going to London, you made me promise never to forget how much I\'d loved you."

"But it wasn\'t you I doubted then. I doubted fate, chance, God, anything you like—but not you."

She had recovered her self-control, and her voice was hard and even.

"Oh, don\'t, Janey!"

[Pg 219]

"Why not?—why should I spare you? You haven\'t spared me."

"You mustn\'t think I intended you to—to hear things in this way. I\'d meant to give you an explanation first. But the news leaked out——"

"Well, you can give me an explanation now."

"I\'ll try—but it will be very difficult," he said falteringly. "You\'re like a flood to me—I feel giddy and helpless when I\'m with you. I don\'t think I\'ll ever be able to make you understand. I wish you hadn\'t come like this—I wish——"

"Please go on, Quentin."

Her manner disconcerted him. He could not understand her alternations between hysteria and stolid calm.

"You mustn\'t think I don\'t realise I\'ve behaved like a skunk. But I don\'t want to dwell on it—it would only be putting mud on my face to make you pity me—but I do ask you to try to understand me.... Janey, I\'ve done this for your good as well as mine. You shared the misery and ruin of my love. In saving myself, I\'ve saved you too. Janey, Janey—don\'t you see that our love was nothing but a rotten sickness of the soul?"

He looked at her anxiously, but her face was expressionless as wood.

"You and I have always been more or less wretched together, and though at first I felt our unhappiness was doing us good—strengthening us and purifying us—of late I felt it was doing us harm, it was disorganising and unmanning us...."

[Pg 220]

He paused—even an outburst of fury or denial would have been welcome.

"............