Part 3 — CHAPTER X THE ESCORT

She stood before him speechlessly. His hand had fallen from her arm. The gate swung to with a clang, and they remained facing one another while the wind swept the shore below them and an incongruous scent of roses wafted down from the garden above.

It was so like The Old Bean, she thought later, not to ask her what she was doing in that strange place, merely to announce his intention of taking her back. It dawned on her as she stood there, that he probably meant to carry out that intention with her consent or without it, so uncompromising was his attitude. His face she could not see with any distinctness, and she reflected with some relief that he could not see hers either. He was not an imaginative person, and she hoped that he had not fully realized her discomfiture. She made a determined effort to cover it.

"How clever of you to find me!" she said.

"It was rather," said The Old Bean. "I've had a considerable hunt."

"And you've only just got here?" she said.

"No," said The Old Bean. "I got here yesterday."

That surprised her, though she tried not to be surprised. "Where are you staying?" she asked.

"I'm putting up at this place," he said, with a nod towards the hotel that was now giving forth points of light in the darkness.

"You spent last night here?" she questioned.

"Yes," said The Old Bean.

"But why didn't we meet before?" she asked, puzzled.

"I kept out of your way," he explained.

"Why?" she asked.

"I wanted to find out something," said The Old Bean.

Somehow that pierced her; she felt herself tingle all over. "What did you want to find out?" she demanded.

He did not answer, and she found his silence unbearable.

"I suppose you wanted to know if I'm still respectable or not!" she flung at him, standing fiercely upright as one braced for attack.

"No," said The Old Bean quietly. "I just wanted to know if you were married yet."

She caught her breath; it was like a stab through the heart. "I'm not then!" she declared with a kind of fiery vehemence that seemed to consume herself. "So now you know!"

"Thank you," said The Old Bean courteously. "I am glad to know."

"Why?" she stormed, finding his calm acceptance of the situation intolerable. "Why are you glad? What business is it of yours—or anyone's?"

She was quivering from head to foot as she asked the question. All the agony of shame that she had suffered in anticipation of her return to the old life and the old familiar faces was not equal to this. The intensity of it was such that she almost wanted to scream, though she did not expect him to understand, even wildly hoped that he could not. It was more endurable that he should deem her basely ungrateful than suspect the fiery torture that he had somehow managed to inflict.

And then, to her utter amazement he broke in upon her turmoil with a quiet remark that completely altered the trend of her thoughts.

"If you ask me," he said, "I should say it isn't anyone's business but mine. But you may think otherwise. I daresay you will."

He said the last sentence as one making a concession to a recognized weakness which would in the end be overcome. She remembered that in earlier days she had observed a tendency in him to this method of treating difficulties. It had amused her then. It did not amuse her now.

"How can you possibly pretend it is your business?" she said, aware too late that in saying it she exposed a vulnerable point. "You are only a friend after all."

"Yes, exactly that," said The Old Bean, and with the words he drove his lance straight into the weak spot before she could attempt to cover it. "I am a friend. There's no pretense about that anyway. I'm glad you admit it."

"It doesn't mean anything," said Rosemary hastily.

"It does to me," said The Old Bean, with absolute simplicity. "And that's why I've come to take you home."

"Oh!" said Rosemary, and after a moment's rapid thought: "But I was coming in any case. I mean, I'd decided to go back."

He accepted the statement in his usual direct way. Being sincere himself, he seemed to take it for granted that he would meet with sincerity in others. "That's so much the better," he said, and again she had a feeling that his own decision upon that point had been made before he had acquainted himself with hers. "And the sooner the better, I should say. When can you start?"

That took her by surprise afresh. It did not seem to go quite naturally with the general leisureliness of his attitude. He had waited twenty-four hours before announcing himself, and now he was apparently prepared for instant action. She had never credited The Old Bean with a vast amount of energy, and for some reason she felt inclined to resent this revelation of it.

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "I've got to talk to—to Dick first."

"I'll talk to him," said The Old Bean, "while you're getting ready."

"You!" said Rosemary, still further startled though hardly knowing wherefore. "I don't suppose he'd listen to you."

"Oh yes, he would," said The Old Bean. "He'd have to."

She stood and stared at him in the darkness. Then she shivered. "Do you know who he is?" she said.

"Yes, I know," said The Old Bean. "I found that out before I left England. Shall we go in and find him? You're cold."

He made a move as if to walk up the path, but Rosemary stood still. Her two hands were pressed tightly against her breast.

"Suppose he won't listen to you!" she said in a low voice. "Suppose he won't let me go with you!"

"Isn't that rather absurd?" asked The Old Bean in mild surprise.

She shook her head vehemently. "No, it isn't absurd. I can't go without his consent—after all he has done for me."

"I will get his consent," said The Old Bean patiently.

"You!" she said again, a ring of desperation in her voice. "You don't know what you're up against."

"It's you who don't know that," said The Old Bean unexpectedly, and with the words suddenly, amazingly, he took her by the shoulders and held her. "You talk about not being able to get away from that loafer up there," he said. "What about me? Think you can get away from me?"

It was as if a thunderbolt had fallen at her feet. Rosemary gave a gasp and shut her eyes. It was the most astounding thing that had ever happened to her. A short time before she would have said that nothing could ever surprise her again, and now once more the whole world seemed toppling around her. She made a feeble effort to set her hands against the broad chest and hold herself from him—an effort that was instantly and compellingly defeated.

"Don't hurt me, Old Bean!" she begged weakly, as his arms crushed her to him. "Don't hurt me!"

"Hurt you!" he said, and in his voice was a deep quiver that seemed to set her whole body vibrating. "I'll kill you if you ever try to play this game again. But no one else shall ever touch a hair of your precious head. That I swear! Now kiss me!"

But she hid her face low on his breast, in shamed avoidance, hearing the firm beat of his heart, and strangely thankful for the warmth of his sheltering arms. "What must you think of me?" she whispered inarticulately.

His hand was feeling for her face. There was something quite indomitable about The Old Bean that night. He strode over every obstacle. "I'll tell you when you've kissed me," he said.

Again feebly she sought to resist him, but he would not be resisted. He had his way, and lifting her face to his he kissed her over and over again until, strangely, her shame slipped from her. Her arms went round his neck and she kissed him in return....

"Though I don't know why I should!" she whispered a little later. "Old Bean, what made you—do it?"

"What made me?" he said. "You made me, of course. Do you think you're going to belong to any other man but me? Just listen to me, Rosemary! I've tracked you all this way because I want you, and I mean to have you. We'll be married out here as soon as ever I can fix it up, and we'll be married again when we get back to England just to make sure."

"Oh!" said Rosemary, and drew a long breath. "That would satisfy—everybody."

"So long as it satisfies you, that's all that matters," he told her bluntly. "I'm not out to please the rest of the world. They can all jolly well take a back seat, and Ravencombe with 'em. It's you—and only you—that matters."

Rosemary gave a gasp. There was substantial comfort in this; but something within her—something which had developed only during that day of suffering—made her begin to withdraw from his sheltering arms.

"That's all very well, Old Bean," she said. "And I'm very, very grateful to you, because goodness only knows why you should want to marry me. But I know of a very big reason why you shouldn't. It's the reason that made me run away from Bode, and has kept me away all this time."

"I thought you said you were going back," said The Old Bean, firmly frustrating her effort to release herself.

"I know—I was." Rosemary's voice trembled a little. "But only because I realized I ought to, and—and—because I wanted—I so wanted—Aunt Bobby."

"Well, I shan't keep you away from her," said The Old Bean. "In fact, it'll be easier for you—tons easier—if you go back with me."

"Oh, but that isn't what I mean," said Rosemary. "It's something quite different—something I don't know how to tell you. You've been thinking all this time that I ran away just for an adventure—a lark. But it wasn't, Old Bean; it really wasn't! It was because of something I heard—something about myself." Her voice became choked; she paused to master her distress.

"I say, don't cry!" said The Old Bean, drawing her closer.

"I'm not!" whispered Rosemary resolutely. "But I've got to tell you—now. You'd better let me go, Old Bean, before—before it's too late."

"There's only one thing on earth would make me do that," he said with decision.

"What's that?" she asked faintly.

He answered her with some force. "Being quite sure that you yourself personally wanted it. If you can't tell me that—and I'm pretty sure you can't—you needn't tell me anything else."

That moved her; she clasped the arm that she had sought to slacken. "Old Bean, you are a brick!" she said shakily. "But I'm going to tell you all the same, because I couldn't let you marry me without knowing. It wouldn't be right. It's just this—just this. I'm not what you think I am—what I always used to think I was myself. I'm—I'm one of those dreadful creatures that are born when they ought not to be. I don't know who my father was. My mother—my mother—" she broke off; it was useless to struggle any longer—-"I can't say it!" she sobbed. "You'll have to understand without."

"Oh, poor little darling!" said The Old Bean, and held her passionately close. "Stop crying! Stop crying, I tell you! I don't care a twopenny damn! What on earth does it matter when you know I love you? Who was the brute that told you?"

She clung to him. "Dick—Lord Ravencombe," she whispered. "He knows it must have been so, because he says there never was a brother. And he's very bitter about it, because, you see, he—he loved her."

"Loved who?" questioned The Old Bean, bewildered.

"Her—Aunt Bobby—long ago." Rosemary poured the words rapidly into his ear. The relief of having a confidant was indescribable. "She sent him away. He didn't know why. But he loves her still, and he ought to go back to her. I've told him so. Perhaps he will."

"He can go to blazes for all I care," said The Old Bean. "He'd no right to tell you that. He's a skunk."

"Oh no, he isn't!" she protested. "Truly he isn't! He didn't really mean to tell me. It just came out. And then I—I was so shocked—and idiotic—that I begged him to take me away there and then."

"Oh, I see," said The Old Bean, somewhat mollified. "You didn't really care for him then?"

"Oh no, never, really," Rosemary assured him. "I did let him kiss me—just at the first—the night of the Ball. But never since! He's never wanted to since, Old Bean."

"He's got more decency than I gave him credit for," remarked The Old Bean, kissing her himself as one who had the right. "Well, that's all settled then, isn't it? We're going to be married straight away."

"If—if you're sure it doesn't make any difference," said Rosemary tremulously.

"It does make a difference," he asserted. "It makes me all the keener to have you and protect you. No one will dare to say a word against you when you are my wife."

Her arm slipped round his neck again. "What'll you do if they do?" she said.

"Do!" said The Old Bean, blood-thirstily. "I'll murder them!"

She laid her cheek to his with a great sigh. "Oh, it is jolly of you to say that!" she said.