He
stood as bespoke. She stood too, and stood watching him with her hand on
the gong. After a pause of a couple of seconds she said gravely:

'One other thing I should wish to say, and I mean it. Understand me
clearly, that I mean it! You must not come again into my grounds without
my special permission. I shall not allow my liberty to be taken away, or
restricted, by you. If there be need at any time to come to the house,
come in ceremonious fashion, by the avenues which are used by others. You
can always speak to me in public, or socially, in the most friendly
manner; as I shall hope to be able to speak to you. But you must never
transgress the ordinary rules of decorum. If you do, I shall have to
take, for my own protection, another course. I know you now! I am
willing to blot out the past; but it must be the whole past that is wiped
out!' She stood facing him; and as he looked at her clear-cut aquiline face,
her steady eyes, her resolute mouth, her carriage, masterly in its self-
possessed poise, he saw that there was no further hope for him. There
was no love and no fear. 'You devil!' he hissed. She struck the gong; her aunt entered the room. 'Oh, is that you, Auntie? Mr. Everard has finished his business with
me!' Then to the servant, who had entered after Miss Rowly:

'Mr. Everard would like his carriage. By the way,' she added, turning to
him in a friendly way as an afterthought, 'will you not stay, Mr.
Everard, and take lunch with us? My aunt has been rather moping lately;
I am sure your presence would cheer her up.' 'Yes, do stay, Mr. Everard!' added Miss Rowly placidly. 'It would make a
pleasant hour for us all.' Leonard, with a great effort, said with conventional politeness:

'Thanks, awfully! But I promised my father to be home for lunch!' and he
withdrew to the door which the servant held open. He went out filled with anger and despair, and, sad for him, with a
fierce, overmastering desire--love he called it--for the clever, proud,
imperious beauty who had so outmatched and crushed him. That beautiful red head, which he had at first so despised, was
henceforth to blaze in his dreams. CHAPTER XXIII--THE MAN


On the _Scoriac_ Harold An Wolf, now John Robinson, kept aloof from every
one. He did not make any acquaintances, did not try to. Some of those
at table with him, being ladies and gentlemen, now and again made a
polite remark; to which he answered with equal politeness. Being what he
was he could not willingly offend any one; and there was nothing in his
manner to repel any kindly overture to acquaintance. But this was the
full length his acquaintanceship went; so he gradually felt himself
practically alone. This was just what he wished; he sat all day silent
and alone, or else walked up and down the great deck that ran from stem
to stern, still always alone. As there were no second-class or steerage
passengers on the _Scoriac_, there were no deck restraints, and so there
was ample room for individual solitude. The travellers, however, were a
sociable lot, and a general feeling of friendliness was abroad. The
first four days of the journey were ideally fine, and life was a joy. The
great ship, with bilge keels, was as steady as a rock. Among the other passengers was an American family consisting of Andrew
Stonehouse, the great ironmaster and contractor, with his wife and little
daughter. Stonehouse was a remarkable man in his way, a typical product of the
Anglo-Saxon under American conditions. He had started in young manhood
with nothing but a good education, due in chief to his own industry and
his having taken advantage to the full of such opportunities as life had
afforded to him. By unremitting work he had at thirty achieved a great
fortune, which had, however; been up to then entirely invested and
involved in his businesses. With, however, the colossal plant at his
disposal, and by aid of the fine character he had won for honesty and
good work, he was able within the next ten years to pile up a fortune
vast even in a nation where multi-millionaires are scattered freely. Then
he had married, wisely and happily. But no child had come to crown the
happiness of the pair who so loved each other till a good many years had
come and gone. Then, when the hope of issue had almost passed away, a
little daughter came. Naturally the child was idolised by her parents,
and thereafter every step taken by either was with an eye to her good. When the rigour of winter and the heat of summer told on the child in a
way which the more hardy parents had never felt, she was whirled away to
some place with more promising conditions of health and happiness. When
the doctors hinted that an ocean voyage and a winter in Italy would be
good, those too were duly undertaken. And now, the child being in
perfect health, the family was returning before the weather should get
too hot to spend the summer at their chalet amongst the great pines on
the slopes of Mount Ranier. Like the others on board, Mr. and Mrs.
Stonehouse had proffered travellers' civilities to the sad, lonely young
man. As to the others, he had shown thanks for their gracious courtesy;
but friendship, as in other cases, did not advance. The Stonehouses were
not in any way chagrined; their lives were too happy and too full for
them to take needless offence. They respected the young man's manifest
desire for privacy; and there, so far as they were concerned, the matter
rested. But this did not suit the child. Pearl was a sweet little thing, a real
blue-eyed, golden-haired little fairy, full of loving-kindness. All the
mother-instinct in her, and even at six a woman-child can be a
mother--theoretically, went out towards the huge, lonely, sad, silent
young man. She insisted on friendship with him; insisted shamelessly,
with the natural inclination of innocence which rises high above shame. Even the half-hearted protests of the mother, who loved to see the child
happy, did not deter her; after the second occasion of Pearl's seeking
him, as she persisted, Harold could but remonstrate with the mother in
turn; the ease of the gentle lady and the happiness of her child were
more or less at stake. When Mrs. Stonehouse would say:

'There, darling! You must be careful not to annoy the gentleman,' Pearl
would turn a rosy all-commanding face to her and answer:

'But, mother, I want him to play with me. You must play with me!' Then,
as the mother would look at him, he would say quickly, and with genuine
heartiness too:

'Oh please, madam, do let her play with me! Come, Pearl, shall you ride
a cock-horse or go to market the way the gentleman rides?' Then the
child would spring on his knee with a cry of delight, and their games
began. The presence of the child and her loving ways were unutterably sweet to
Harold; but his pleasure was always followed by a pain that rent him as
he thought of that other little one, now so far away, and of those times
that seemed so long since gone.