air--even her words would tripeach other up in her anxiety to get out a description. And then HelstonVarne would decide to himself that it was just as well he wasstrong-headed beyond the ordinary, for anything approaching the perfectcharm of this girl at his side, he, with a large and varied experienceof every conceivable shade and phase of life, had certainly neverencountered.
She was so natural, so intensely and confidingly natural--and thereinlay a large measure of her charm. There was not a grain ofself-consciousness about her, and she talked to him throughout as thoughshe had known him all her life. It was not often he had struck anythingapproaching such an experience. So the morning wore on--fled, rather--all too quickly for him at any rate; for he was enjoying this experienceas he could not quite remember ever having enjoyed an experience before.
They were near home now, threading a narrow keeper's path, through thethick covert. Once she laid a light hand on his sleeve to stop him, asa cuckoo suddenly gurgled forth his joyous call right overhead, so near,in fact, as to be almost startling.
"Look. There he is. You can see him," she whispered, gazing upward."Ah, he's gone," as the bird dashed away. "But, did you notice--he'sgot the treble note. I don't like that. When they get on the treblenote it means that we'll soon hear no more of them."
"Well, now you've told me something I didn't know. Yes--I noticed thetreble call, but I'll be hanged if I've ever noticed it before."
Melian laughed--that clear, rich, joyous laugh of hers. Incidentally hehad noticed that before.
"And I've actually been able to tell you some thing you never knewbefore. You! Well, Mr Varne, I do feel proud.--Wait--look."
Again she laid a restraining hand upon his sleeve. They had reached thepond head, and on the long expanse of glowing surface the perfectreflection of the tossing greenery overhanging it lay outlined as thoughcut in silver. A waterhen with her brood was swimming across, and atthe shrill, grating croak of the parent bird, alarmed by humanproximity, a dozen tiny black specks rushed with hysteric flappingsthrough the surface to bunch around her.
"Aren't they sweet?" whispered Melian. "Such jolly little black things!I've caught them two or three times when we've been out in the boatfishing, but they get so horribly scared that I've never done it again.I'm so fond of all these birds and beasts, you know, that I hate tothink I am bothering any of them."
Helston Varne merely bent his head in assent. Curiously enough, justthen he did not feel as if he could say anything. A wave of thought--orwas it a consciousness--such as he never remembered to have experiencedbefore, had come over him. He just let her talk, and was content towatch her. He wanted to absorb this picture and carry it away with himin his mind's eye; and somehow the idea of having to go away at all, fora long period at any rate, had suddenly become utterly distasteful tohim.
He watched her, radiant, animated, lighthearted. He remembered theirtalk on the road in the evening's dusk, on the last occasion of hisvisit. He had intended to revert to it, to find out whether he could doanything to help in relieving her mind. But now, looking at her, theidea seemed out of place. She seemed so utterly happy, lighthearted,and without a care.
And she? She had wished for his presence so that she could put to himthe matters that were troubling her, yet now that it was here, somehowor other she could not. But as they wandered homeward through theshaded woodland path, she told him something about her past experiences,and he listened sympathetically, careful not to betray that he alreadyknew all that she was telling him. Then--for the path skirted thepond--they came to the scene of the midnight rescue in the ice; andsuddenly Melian stopped, for an idea had struck her.
"Mr Varne," she said, her eyes fixed full upon his face. "Do you knowthat the police suspected my uncle of killing the man he had justsaved?"
"Yes. I know."
"I ask you--_you_--had they the slightest reason for that suspicion?"
"Why do you ask it?"
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose it's because you are you; and if any onecan see through a thing, you can."
"Thanks greatly for that compliment. I shall treasure it," he answered,glad of the pretext for turning a lighter vein on to what was becomingsomewhat tense. "Wait now,"--seeing a spasm of disappointment begin toflit over her face, at the fancied consciousness that she was not beingtaken seriously. "What I was going to say is this: All tragicalhappenings of this nature, involving mystery, are bound to convey acertain element of suspicion. Very well then. This affair answersexactly to these conditions. The local police, therefore, did no morethan their duty in watching it. But they have now realised the futilityof doing so any longer."
Melian looked up quickly.
"Have they?" she said.
"Yes. You may take it from me."
A breath of relief escaped her, but it was not wholehearted relief.This assuredly did not escape her companion's keen perception.
"Tell me another thing," she said swiftly, and again looking him full inthe face. "I hardly like to ask it, but I will. Was it not theinvestigation of this--mystery, that brought you down here in the firstinstance?"
This was hitting straight out and no mistake. But Helston Varne did notfor a moment hesitate.
"Yes. It was," he said.
"Ah!"
For a moment neither spoke. She was still looking him straight in theface, but what she read there was hardly disquieting.
"And--what conclusion have you arrived at?" she went on, slowly.
"The conclusion that I might just as well have remained away--but forone thing."
The relief which had sprung to her animated, speaking face, died downsuddenly.
"And--that one thing?"
"That one thing? Why, then I should never have met you; should neverhave known such a delightful time as I have enjoyed this morning forinstance."
That killed the tragic element in the atmosphere. Melian broke into apeal of clear, wholehearted laughter, not more than a third due toreaction, for she had a very complete sense of humour. Her companionwas smiling too, perfectly at ease and natural, as though he had stateda mere obvious fact. There was no consciousness of having paid apointed compliment about his manner, nor any manifestation of a desireto carry it further.
"Well--it's very nice of you to say so," answered the girl, all her easylightheadedness apparently restored, "because I thought I'd been talkingyour head off all the time we've been out; and if it wasn't that we seemto have a lot of ideas in common, should have thought I'd been boringyou to death. But, here we are at home again, and--I don't care howsoon old Judy turns on lunch. Do you?"
"Candidly, I don't. This gorgeous country air makes all that way."
It is not strange that, seated opposite each other at table, in thecool, old-world room, the June sunlight slanting through the creeperswhich partly shaded the wide open window, Helston Varne should have lethis imagination run riot. In fact, he was picturing to himself thisgirl, in her uncommon beauty, her complete naturalness, her quick,unfeigned interest in everything, her grace of movement even in thesmallest of things--seated thus with him--always. Albeit those who knewhim--even the very few who really knew him--would have reckoned itstrange. For since his salad days he could not call to mind any womanhe had ever been acquainted with who could be capable of calling up sucha suggestion. And the two of them were there alone together; the glowof sunlight outside, the fragrant breaths of glorious summer wafting infrom without. Even a straggling wasp or two winnowing down over thetable, was not unwelcome, as a sure guarantee that summer was here:rich, glowing, vernal, English summer.
He talked to her--easy, very contented with the hour--and interested hermore and more. He told her a few strange, out of the way, bizarreexperiences--and the girl listened, almost entranced. This was the sortof thing that appealed, and she contrasted it with the boredom ofcommonplace, which she was as capable of appreciating--on the wrongside--as she was of appreciating these cullings from a life of action;of keen, intricate, intellectual
unravellings of strange occurrencesalmost unimaginable in their surroundings of weird mystery. Yet he sotalked in no wise for the sake of talking, or to glorify himself, butsimply and solely because it interested her; and to see that face lit upwith vivid interest was sheer enjoyment to Helston Varne at that stage.And the little black fluffy kitten, as though cunningly appreciating thesituation, was taking its toll, jumping up first upon one, then upon theother, nibbling daintily at this or that tidbit bestowed upon it, quiteunrestrained by Melian, who had always set her face against spoiling it.
"What a life you must have had," she said. "But--what made you take toit?"
"I don't know. The sheer sporting instinct, I