eemed to fling at the blank
face of the old mirror.

It was his act of defiance, but through his exultation he caught the
whisper--it might again have been conveyed to him through the shrill
shivering notes of the "Valse Triste"--"Tell her--tell her--now. Trust
her. Dear son, trust Me . . . it must be so in the end."

"Now," he heard her say, "I can stand it all."

"When you came into this room weeks ago," she went on, "I loved you;
from the very first instant. Now I do not mind what any one can do."

"I too loved you from the first instant."

"You were so grave. I tried at first not to think of you as a person at
all because I thought that it was safer, and then gradually, although I
fought against you, I could not keep you out. You drove your way in. You
understood so wonderfully the things that I wanted you to understand.
Then Rupert and mother drove me to want you more and more. I thought
that you liked me, but I didn't know. . . ." Then with a little shiver
she clung to him, pressing close to him. "Oh! hold me, hold me safe."

The room was now gathering to itself that dusk that gave it its
strangest air. The fire had fallen low and only shone now in the
recesses of the high fireplace with a dull glimmer. Amongst the shadows
it seemed that the Presence was gravely waiting. As Olva held Margaret
in his arms he felt that he was fighting to keep her.

In the dark hollow of the mirror he thought that he saw the long white
road, the mists, the little wood and some one running. . . .

It seemed to him that Margaret was not there, that the room was dark and
very heavy, that some bell was ringing in his ear. . . . Then about
him a thousand voices were murmuring: "Tell her--tell her--tell her the
truth."

With a last effort he tried to cry "I will not tell her."

His lips broke on her name "Margaret." Then, with a little sigh,
tumbling forward, he fainted.

CHAPTER XIII

MRS. CRAVEN

1

Afterwards, lying in his easy chair before his fire, he was allowed a
brief and beautiful respite. It was almost as though he were already
dead--as though, consciously, he might lie there, apart from the world,
freed from the eternal pursuit, at last unharassed, and hold, with both
hands, that glorious certainty--Margaret.

He had a picture of her now. He was lying where he had tumbled, there on
the floor with the silver trays and boxes, the odd tables, the gimcrack
chairs all about him. Slowly he had opened his eyes an