Old Mrs. Maynard, sweeping her brick floor with wide-open door through which the April sunlight streamed gloriously, nodded to herself a good many times over the doings of the night. A very discreet creature was Mrs. Maynard, faithful to the very heart of her, but she would not have been mortal had she not been intensely curious to know what were the circumstances that had led Vivian Caryl to bring to her door that shrinking, exhausted girl who still lay sleeping in the room above.
When Doris awoke in response to her deferential knock, only the reticence of the trained servant greeted her. The motherliness of the night before had completely vanished.
Doris was glad of it. She had to steel herself for the coming interview with Caryl; she had to face the result of her headlong actions with as firm a front as she could assume. She needed all her strength, and she could not have borne sympathy just then.
She thanked Mrs. Maynard for her attentions and saw her withdraw with relief. Then, having nibbled very half-heartedly at the breakfast provided, she arose with a great sigh, and began to prepare for whatever might lie before her.
Dressed at length, she sat down by the open window to wait--and wonder.
The click of the garden gate fell suddenly across her meditations, and she drew back sharply out of sight. He was entering.
She heard his leisurely footfall on the tiles and then his quiet voice below. Her heart began to thump with thick, uncertain beats. She was horribly afraid.
Yet when she heard the old woman ascending the stairs, she had the courage to go to the door and open it.
Mr. Caryl was in the parlour, she was told. He would be glad to see her at her convenience.
"I will go to him," she said, and forthwith descended to meet her fate.
He stood by the window when she entered, but wheeled round at once with his back to the light. She felt that this did not make much difference. She knew exactly how he was looking--cold, self-contained, implacable as granite. She had seldom seen him look otherwise. His face was a perpetual mask to her. It was this very inscrutability of his that had first waked in her the desire to see him among her retinue of slaves.
She went forward slowly, striving to attain at least a semblance of composure. At first it seemed that he would wait for her where he was; then unexpectedly he moved to meet her. He took her hand into his own, and she shrank a little involuntarily. His touch unnerved her.
"You have slept?" he asked. "You are better?"
Something in his tone made her glance upwards, catching her breath. But she decided instantly that she had been mistaken. He would not, he could not, mean to be kind at such a moment.
She made answer with an assumption of pride. She dared not let herself be natural just then.
"I am quite well. There was nothing wrong with me last night. I was only tired."
He suffered her hand to slip from his.
"I wonder what you think of doing," he said quietly. "Have you made any plans?"
The hot blood rushed to her face before she was aware of it. She turned it sharply aside.
"Am I to have a voice in the matter?" she said, her voice very low. "You did not think it worth while to consult me last night."
"You were scarcely in a fit state to be consulted," he answered gravely. "That is why I postponed the discussion. But I was then--as I am now--entirely at your disposal. I will take you back to your people at once if you wish it."
She made a quick, passionate gesture of protest, and moved away from him.
"Have you any alternative in your mind?" he asked.
She remained with her back to him.
"I shall go away," she said, a sudden note of recklessness in her voice. "I shall travel."
"Alone?" he questioned.
"Yes, alone." This time her voice rang defiance. She wheeled round quivering from head to foot. "But for you," she said, "but for your unwarrantable interference I should never have been placed in this hateful, this impossible, position. I should have been with my friends in London. It would have been my wedding-day."
The attack was plainly unexpected. Even Caryl was taken by surprise. But the next moment he was ready for her.
"Then by all means," he said, "let me take you to your friends in London. Doubtless your chivalrous lover has found his way thither long ere this."
She stamped like a little fury.
"Do you think I would marry him--now? Do you think I would marry any one after--after what happened last night? Oh, I hate you--I hate you all!"
Her voice broke. She covered her face, with tempestuous sobbing, and sank into a chair.
Caryl stood silent, biting his lip as if in irresolution. He did not try to comfort her.
After a while, her weeping still continuing, he leant across the table.
"Doris," he said, "leave off crying and listen to me. I know it is out of the question for you to marry that scoundrel whom I had the pleasure of thrashing last night. It always has been out of the question. That is one reason why I have been keeping such a hold upon you. Now that you admit the impossibility of it, I set you free. But you will be wise to think well before you accept your freedom from me. You are in an intolerable position, and I am quite powerless to help you unless you place yourself unreservedly in my hands and give me the right to protect you. It means a good deal, I know. It means, Doris, the sacrifice of your independence. But it also means a safe haven, peace, comfort, if not happiness. You may not love me. I never seriously thought that you did. But if you will give me your trust--I shall try to be satisfied with that."
Love! She had never heard the word on his lips before. It sent a curious thrill through her to hear it then. She had listened to him with her face hidden, though her tears had ceased. But as he ended, she slowly raised her head and looked at him.
"Are you asking me to marry you?" she said.
"I am," said Caryl.
She lowered her eyes from his, and began to trace a design on the table-cloth with one finger.
"I don't want to marry you," she said at length.
"I know," said Caryl.
She did not look up.
"No, you don't know. That's just it. You think you know everything. But you don't.
For instance, you think you know why I ran away with Major Brandon. But you don't. You never will know--unless I tell you, probably not even then."
She broke off with an abrupt sigh, and leant back in her chair.
"One thing I do thank you for," she said irrelevantly. "And that is that you didn't take me back to Rivermead last night. Have they, I wonder, any idea where I am?"
"I left a message for your cousin before I left," Caryl said.
"Oh, then he knew--?"
"He knew that I had you under my protection," Caryl told her grimly. "I did not go into details. It was unnecessary. Only Flicker knew the details. I marked him down in the afternoon, after the incident at luncheon."
She opened her eyes.
"Then you guessed--?"
"I knew he did not find the missing glove under the table," said Caryl quietly. "I did not need any further evidence than that. I knew, moreover, that you had not devoted the whole of the previous afternoon to your correspondence. I was waiting for your cousin in the conservatory when you joined Brandon in the garden."
"And you--you were in the conservatory last night when I went through. I--I felt there was someone there."
"Yes," he answered. "I waited to see you go."
"Why didn't you stop me?"
For an instant her eyes challenged his.
He stood up, straightening himself slowly.
"It would not have answered my purpose," he told her steadily.
She stood up also, her face gone suddenly white.
"You chose this means of--of forcing me to marry you?"
"I chose this means--the only means to my hand--of opening your eyes," he said. "It has not perhaps been over successful. You are still blind to much that you ought to see. But you will understand these things better presently."
"Presently?" she faltered.
"When you are my wife," he said.
She flashed him a swift glance.
"I am to marry you then?"
He held out his hand to her across the table.
"Will you marry me, Doris?"
She hesitated for a single instant, her eyes downcast. Then suddenly, without speaking, she put her hand into his, glad that, notwithstanding the overwhelming strength of his position, he had allowed her the honours of war.