Doris stopped just outside the drawing-room door and searched his face keenly, while she whispered:
“And the threats—of exposure. Oh, I heard that. I couldn’t help it—Cyril—”
He glanced down at her quickly.
“Hush, Doris.”
Something she saw in his expression changed her resolution to question him. The mystery which she had felt to hang about him since he had said he was a coward had deepened. Something told her that she had been treading on forbidden ground and that in obeying him she served his interests best, so she led the way into the drawing-room, where they made their adieux.
Byfield had already gone and Sandys and Lady Joyliffe were just getting into their wraps.
“You’ll meet me here at ten?” their hostess was asking of Constance Joyliffe.
“If I’m not demolished by a Zeppelin in the meanwhile,” laughed the widow.
“Or the Yellow Dove,” said Jacqueline Morley. “I’m sure he alights on the roofs of the Parliament Houses.”
“You’ll be safe in Scotland at any rate, Constance. We’re quite too unimportant up there to be visited by engines of destruction—” she laughed meaningly. “That is—always excepting Jack Sandys.”
Sandys looked self-conscious, but Lady Joyliffe merely beamed benignly.
“It will really be quite restful, I’m sure,” she said easily. “Is Cyril going to be at Ben-a-Chielt?”
Hammersley awoke from a fit of abstraction.
“Quite possible,” he murmured, “gettin’ to be a bit of a hermit lately. Like it though—rather.”
“Cyril hasn’t anyone to play with,” said Betty Heathcote, “so he has taken to building chicken-houses.”
“Fearfully absorbin’—chicken-houses. Workin’ ’em out on a plan of my own. You’ll see. Goin’ in for hens to lay two eggs a day.” And then to Kipshaven, “So the submarines can’t starve us out, you know,” he explained.
“I don’t think you need worry about that,” said the Earl dryly, moving toward the door.
Doris Mather went upstairs for her wraps and when she came down she found Hammersley in his topcoat awaiting her. As they went down the steps into the waiting limousine her companion offered her his arm. Was it only fancy that gave her the impression that his glance was searching the darkness of the Park beyond the lights of the waiting cars with a keenness which seemed uncalled for on so prosaic an occasion? He helped her in and gave the direction to the chauffeur.
“Ashwater Park, Stryker, by way of Hampstead—and hurry,” she heard him say, which was surprising since the nearer way lay through Harlenden and Harrow-on-Hill. The orders to hurry, too, save in the stress of need, were under the circumstances hardly flattering to her self-esteem. But she remembered the urgent look in his eyes in the hall when he had silenced her questions and sank back in the seat, her gaze fixed on the gloom of Hyde Park to their left, waiting for him to speak. He sat rigidly beside her, his hands clasped about his stick, his eyes peering straight before him at the back of Stryker’s head. She felt his restraint and a little bitterly remembered the cause of it, buoyed by a hope that since he had thought it fit to enact a lie, the whole tissue of doubts which assailed her might be based on misconception also. That he was no coward she knew. More than one instance of his physical courage came back to her, incidents of his life before fortune had thrown them together and she only too well remembered the time when he had jumped from her car and thrown himself in front of a runaway horse, saving the necks of the occupants of the vehicle. He had lied to her. But why—why?
She closed her eyes trying to shut out the darkness and seek the sanctuary of some inner light, but she failed to find it. It seemed as though the gloom which spread over London had fallen over her spirit.
“The City of Dreadful Night,” she murmured at last. “I can’t ever seem to get used to it.”
She heard his light laugh and the sound of it comforted her.
“Jolly murky, isn’t it? I miss that fireworks Johnny pourin’ whiskey over by Waterloo Bridge—and Big Ben. Doesn’t seem like London. All rot anyway.”
“You don’t think there’s danger,” she asked cautiously.
He hesitated a moment before replying. And then, “No,” he said, “not now.”
Silence fell over them again. It was as though a shape sat between, a phantom of her dead hopes and his, something so cold and tangible that she drew away in her own corner and looked out at the meaningless blur of the sleeping city. Her lips were tightly closed. She had given him his chance to speak, but he had not spoken and every foot of road that they traversed seemed to carry them further apart. The end of their journey—! Was it to be the end … of everything between them?
After a while that seemed interminable she heard his voice again.
“I suppose you think I’m an awful rotter.”
She turned her head and tried to read his face, but he kept it away from her, toward the opposite window. The feeling that she had voiced to Betty Heathcote of wanting to “mother” him came over her in a warm effusion.
“Nothing that you can say to me will make me think you one, Cyril,” she said gently.
“Thanks awf’ly,” he murmured. And after a pause, “I am though, you know.”
She leaned forward impulsively and laid a hand on his knee.
“No. You’re acting strangely, but I know that there’s a reason for it. As for your being a coward”—she laughed softly—“it’s impossible—quite impossible to make me believe that.”
He laid his fingers over hers for a moment.
“Nice of you to have confidence in a chap and all that, but appearances are against me—that’s the difficulty.”
“Why are they against you? Why should they be against you? Because you—” She stopped, for here she felt that she was approaching dangerous ground. Instead of parleying longer, she used her woman’s weapons frankly and leaning toward him put an arm around his neck and compelled him to turn his face to hers. “Oh, Cyril, won’t you tell me what this mystery is that is coming between us? Won’t you let me help you? I want to be in the sunlight with you again. It can’t go on this way, one of us in the dark and the other in the light. I have felt it for weeks. When I spoke to you tonight about going to France it was in the hope that you might give me some explanation that would satisfy me. My heart is wrapped up in the cause of England, but if the German blood in you is calling you away from your duties as an Englishman, tell me frankly and I will try to forgive you, but don’t let the shadow stay over us any longer, Cyril. I must know the truth. What is the mystery that hangs over you and makes–”
“Mystery?” he put in quickly. “You’re a bit seedy, Doris. Thinkin’ too much about the war. Nothin’ mysterious about me.” He turned his head away from her again. “People don’t like my sittin’ tight—here in England,” he said more slowly, “when all the chaps I know are off to the front. I—I can’t help it. That’s all.”
“But it’s so unlike you,” she pleaded. “It’s the sporting thing, Cyril.”
“I want you to believe,” he put in slowly, “it isn’t the kind of sport I care for.”
“I won’t believe it. I can’t. I know you better than that.”
“That’s the trouble,” he insisted. “I’m afraid you don’t know me at all.”
“I don’t know you tonight,” she said sadly. “It almost seems as though you were trying to get rid of me.”
He clasped her tightly in his arms and kissed her gently.
“God forbid,”