PAGE 26
An Unpardonable Liar
by
She turned and looked him full in the eyes, that infinite flame in her own which burns all passions into one. “I cannot, dear,” she said.
Then she hurriedly rose, her features quivering. Without a word they went down the quiet path to the river and on toward the gates of the park where the coach was waiting to take them back to Herridon.
They did not see Mark Telford before their coach left. But, standing back in the shadow of the trees, he saw them. An hour before he had hated Hagar and had wished that they were in some remote spot alone with pistols in their hands. Now he could watch the two together without anger, almost without bitterness. He had lost in the game, and he was so much the true gamester that he could take his defeat when he knew it was defeat quietly. Yet the new defeat was even harder on him than the old. All through the years since he had seen her there had been the vague conviction, under all his determination to forget, that they would meet again, and that all might come right. That was gone, he knew, irrevocably.
“That’s over,” he said as he stood looking at them. “The king is dead. Long live the king!”
He lit a cigar and watched the coach drive away, then saw the coach in which he had come drive up also and its passengers mount. He did not stir, but smoked on. The driver waited for some time, and when he did not come drove away without him, to the regret of the passengers and to the indignation of Miss Mildred Margrave, who talked much of him during the drive back.
When they had gone, Telford rose and walked back to the ruined abbey. He went to the spot where he had first seen Mrs. Detlor that day, then took the path up the hillside to the place where they had stood. He took from his pocket the ring she had given back to him, read the words inside it slowly, and, looking at the spot where she had stood, said aloud:
“I met a man once who imagined he was married to the spirit of a woman living at the north pole. Well, I will marry myself to the ghost of Marion Conquest.”
So saying, he slipped the ring on his little finger. The thing was fantastic, but he did it reverently; nor did it appear in the least as weakness, for his face was, strong and cold. “Till death us do part, so help me God!” he added.
He turned and wandered once more through the abbey, strayed in the grounds, and at last came to the park gates. Then he walked to the town a couple of miles away, went to the railway station and took a train for Herridon. He arrived there some time before the coach did. He went straight to the View House, proceeded to his room and sat down to write some letters. Presently he got up, went down to the office and asked the porter if Mrs. John Gladney had arrived from London. The porter said she had. He then felt in his pocket for a card, but changed his mind, saying to himself that his name would have no meaning for her. He took a piece of letter paper and wrote on it, “A friend of your husband brings a message to you.” He put it in an envelope, and, addressing it, sent it up to her. The servant returned, saying that Mrs. Gladney had taken a sitting room in a house adjacent to the hotel and was probably there. He took the note and went to the place indicated, sent in the note and waited.
When Mrs. Gladney received the note, she was arranging the few knick-knacks she had brought. She read the note hurriedly and clinched it in her hand. “It is his writing–his, Mark Telford! He, my husband’s friend! Good God!”