The Second Fiddle

by Ethel M. Dell

A low whistle floated through the slumbrous silence and died softly awayamong the sand-dunes.The man who sat in the little wooden summer-house that faced the searaised his head from his hand and stared outwards. The signal hadscarcely penetrated to his inner consciousness, but it had vaguelydisturbed his train of thought. His eyes were dull and emotionless as hestared across the blue, smiling water to the long, straight line of thehorizon. They were heavy also as if he had not slept for weeks, andthere were deep lines about his clean-shaven mouth.Before him on the rough, wooden table lay a letter--a letter that heknew by heart, yet carried always with him. The writing upon it was firmand regular, but unmistakably a woman's. It began: "Dear Hugh," and itended: "Yours very sincerely," and it had been written to tell him thatbecause he was crippled for life the writer could no longer entertainthe idea of sharing hers with him.There had been a ring enclosed with the letter, but this he had notkept. He had dropped it into the heart of a blazing fire on the daythat he had first been able to move without assistance. He had not doneit in anger. Simply the consciousness of possessing it had been a painintolerable to him. So he had destroyed it; but the letter he had keptthrough all the dreary months that had followed that awful time. It wasall that was left to him of one whom he had loved passionately, blindly,foolishly, and who had ceased to love him on the day, now nearly a yearago, when his friends had ceased to call him by the nickname ofHercules, that had been his from his boyhood.And this was her wedding-day--a day of entrancing sunshine, of magicbreezes, of perfect June.He was picturing her to himself as he sat there, just as he had picturedher often--ah, often--in the old days.From his place near the altar he watched her coming towards him up thegreat, white-decked church. Her eyes were shining with uncloudedhappiness. Behind her bridal veil he caught a glimpse of the exquisitebeauty that chained his heart. Straight towards him the vision moved,and he--he braced himself to meet it.A sharp pang of physical pain suddenly wrung his nerves, and in a momentthe vision had passed from his eyes. He groaned and once more coveredhis face. Yes, it was her wedding-day. She was there before the altar inall the splendour of her youth and her loveliness. But he was alonewith his suffering, his broken life, and the long, long, empty yearsstretching away before him.He awoke to the soft splashing of the summer tide, out beyond thesand-dunes, and he heard again the clear, low whistle which before haddisturbed his dream.He remained motionless, and a dim, detached wonder crossed his mind. Hehad thought himself quite alone.Again the whistle sounded. It seemed to come from immediately below him.Slowly and painfully he raised himself.The next instant an enormous Newfoundland dog rushed panting into hisretreat and proceeded to search every inch of the place with violenthaste. The man on the bench sat still and watched him, but when theanimal with a sudden, clumsy movement knocked his crutches on to thefloor and out of his reach, he uttered an exclamation of annoyance.The dog gave him a startled glance and continued his headlonginvestigation. He was very wet, and he left a trail of sea waterwherever he went. Finally he bounded out as hurriedly as he had entered,and Hugh Durant was left a prisoner, the nearest of his crutches a fullyard away.He sat and stared at them with a heavy frown. His helplessness alwaysoppressed him far more than the pain he had to endure. He cursed the dogunder his breath."Oh, I am sorry!" a voice said suddenly some seconds later. "Let me getthem for you!"Durant looked round sharply. A brown-faced girl in a short, cotton dressstood in the doorway. Her head was bare and covered with short, black,curly hair that shone wet in the sunshine. Her eyes were very blue. Forsome reason she looked rather ashamed of herself.She moved forward barefooted and picked up Durant's crutches."I'm sorry, sir," she said again. "I didn't know there was any one heretill I heard Caesar knock something down."She dusted the tops of the crutches with her sleeve and propped themagainst the table."Thanks!" said Durant curtly. He was not feeling sociable--he could notfeel sociable--on that day of all days in his life's record.Yet, as if attracted by something, the girl lingered."It's lovely down on the shore," she said half shyly."No doubt," said Durant, and again his tone was curt to churlishness.Then abruptly he felt that he had been unnecessarily surly, and wonderedif he was getting querulous."Been bathing?" he asked, with a brief glance at her wet hair.She gave him a quick, friendly smile."Yes, sir," she said; and added: "Caesar and I.""Fond of the sea, eh?" said Durant.The soft eyes shone, and the man, who had been a sailor, told himselfthat they were deep-sea eyes."I love it," the girl said very earnestly.Her intensity surprised him a little. He had not expected it in one who,to judge by her dress, must be a child of the humble fisher-folk. Hisinterest began to awaken."You live near here?" he questioned.She pointed a brown hand towards the sand-dunes."On the shore, sir," she said. "We hear the waves all night.""So do I," said Durant, and his voice was suddenly sharp with a pain hecould not try to silence. "All night and all day."She did not seem to notice his tone."You live in the cottage on the cliff?" she asked.He nodded."I came last week," he said. "I hadn't seen the sea for nearly a year. Iwanted to be alone. And--so I am.""All alone?" she queried quickly.He nodded again."With my servant," he said. He repeated with a certain doggedness: "Iwanted to be alone."There was a pause. The girl was standing in the doorway. Her dog wasbasking in the sunshine not a yard away. She looked at the cripple withthoughtful eyes."I live alone, too," she said. "That is--Caesar and I."That successfully aroused Durant's curiosity."You!" he said incredulously.She put up her hand with a quick movement and pushed the short curlsback from her forehead."I am used to it," she said, with an odd womanly dignity. "I have beenpractically alone all my life."Durant looked at her closely. She spoke in a very low voice, but therewere rich notes in it that caught his attention."Isn't that very unusual for a girl of your age?" he said.She smiled again without answering. A blue sunbonnet dangled on her arm.In the silence that followed she put it on. The great dog arose at theaction, stretched himself, and went to her side. She laid her hand onhis head."We play hide-and-seek, Caesar and I," she said, "among the dunes."Durant took his crutches and stumbled with difficulty to his feet. Thelower part of his body was terribly crippled and weak. Only the broadshoulders of the man testified to the splendid strength that had oncebeen his, and could never be his again as long as he lived. He saw thegirl turn her head aside as he moved. The sunbonnet completely hid herface. A sharp spasm of pain set his own like a stone mask.Suddenly she looked round."Will you--will you come and see me some day?" she asked him shyly.Her tone was rather of request than invitation, and Durant was curiouslytouched. He had a feeling that she awaited his reply with eagerness.He smiled for the first time."With pleasure," he said courteously, "if the path is easy and thedistance not too great for my powers.""It is quite close," she said readily, "hardly a stone's throw fromhere--a little wooden cottage--the first you come to.""And you live quite alone?" Durant said."I like it best," she assured him."Will you tell me your name?" he asked."My name is Molly," she answered quietly."Nothing else?" said Durant with a puzzled frown."Nothing else, sir," she said, with her air of womanly dignity.He made no outward comment, but inwardly he wondered. Was this oddlittle, dark-haired creature some nameless waif of the sea brought up onthe charity of the fisher-folk, he asked himself.She stood aside for him to pass, drawing Caesar out of his way. Hestopped a moment to pat the dog's head. And so standing, leaning uponhis crutches, he suddenly and keenly looked into the olive-tinted facethat the sunbonnet shadowed."Sorry for me, eh?" he said, and he uttered a laugh that was short andvery bitter.She bent down over the dog."Yes, I am sorry," she said, almost under her breath.Bending lower, she picked up something that lay on the ground betweenthem."You dropped this," she said.He took it from her with a grim hardening of the mouth. It was theletter he had received from his fiancee a year ago. But his eyes neverleft the face of the girl before him."I wonder--" he said abruptly, and stopped.There was a pause. The girl waited, her hand nervously caressing theNewfoundland's curls. She did not raise her eyes, but the lids flutteredstrangely."I wonder," Durant said, and his voice was suddenly kind, "if I mightask you to do something for me."She gave him a swift glance."Please do!" she murmured."This letter," he said, and he held it out to her."I should like it torn up--very small."She took the envelope and hesitated. Durant was watching her. There wasunmistakable mastery in his eyes."Go on!" he said briefly.And with a quick, startled movement, she obeyed. The letter flutteredaround them both in tiny fragments. Hugh Durant looked on with a hard,impassive face, as he might have looked on at an execution.The girl's hands were shaking. She glanced at him once or twiceuncertainly.When the work of destruction was accomplished she made him a nervouscurtsey and turned to go.Durant's face softened a second time into a smile."Thank you--Molly," he said, and he put his hand to his hat though shewas not looking at him.And afterwards he stood among the fragments of his letter and watchedtill both the girl and the dog were out of sight.Twenty-four hours later Hugh Durant stood on the sandy shore and tappedwith his crutch on the large, flat stone that was set for a step on thethreshold of the little, wooden cottage behind the sand dunes.He had reached the place with much difficulty, persevering with adoggedness characteristic of him; and there were great drops on hisforehead though the afternoon was cloudy and cool.A quick step sounded in answer to his summons, and in a moment hishostess appeared at the open door."Why didn't you come straight in?" she said hospitably.She was dressed in lilac print. Her sleeves were turned up to theelbows, and she wore a big apron with a bib. He noticed that her feetwere no longer bare.He took off his hat as he answered."Perhaps I might have been tempted to do so," he said, "if I had feltequal to mounting the step without assistance.""Oh!" She pulled down her sleeves hastily. "Will you let me help you?"she suggested shyly.Durant's eyes were slightly drawn with pain. Nevertheless they were veryfriendly as he made reply."Do you think you can?" he said.She took his hat from him with an anxious smile, and then the crutchthat he held towards her."Tell me exactly what to do!" she said in her sweet, low voice. "I amvery strong.""If I may put my arm on your shoulder," Durant said, "I think it can bemanaged. But say at once if it is too much for you!"Her face was deeply flushed as she bent from the step to give him thehelp he needed."Bear harder!" she said, as he leant his weight upon her. "Bear muchharder!"There was an odd little quiver in her voice, but, slight as she was, shesupported him with sturdy strength.The door opened straight into the tiny cottage parlour. A large wickerchair, well cushioned, stood in readiness. As Durant lowered himselfinto it, he saw that the girl's eyes were brimming with tears."I've hurt you!" he exclaimed."No, no!" she said, and turned quickly away. "You didn't bear nearlyhard enough."He laughed a little, though his teeth were clenched."You're a very strong woman, Molly," he said."Oh, I am," she answered instantly. "Now shall you be all right while Igo to fetch tea?""Of course," he said. "Pray don't make a stranger of me!"She disappeared into the room at the back of the cottage, and he wasleft alone. The great dog came in with stately stride and lay down athis feet.Durant sat and looked about him. There was little to attract the eye inthe simple furnishing of the tiny room. There was a small bookcase inone corner, but it was covered by a red curtain. Two old-fashioned Dutchfigures stood on the mantelpiece on each side of a cheap little clockthat seemed to tick at him almost resentfully. The walls were tintedgreen and bore no pictures or decoration of any sort. There was a plainwhite tablecloth on the table, and in the middle stood a handleless jugfilled with pink and white wild roses, freshly gathered. There was nocarpet. The floor was strewn with beach sand.All these details Durant took in with keen interest. Nothing could haveexceeded the simplicity of this dwelling by the sea. There had obviouslybeen no attempt at artistic arrangement. Cleanliness and a neatnessalmost severe were its only characteristics."I hope you like toasted scones, sir," said Molly's voice in thedoorway.He looked round to see her come forward with the tea-tray."Nothing better," he said lightly, "particularly if you have made themyourself."She set down her tray and smiled at him. Her short, curling hair gaveher an almost elfish look."I've been so busy getting ready," she said childishly. "I've never hada gentleman to tea before.""That is a very great honour for me," said Durant.Molly looked delighted."I think the honour is mine," she said in her shy voice. "I am justgoing to fetch the wooden chair out of the kitchen."She departed hastily as if embarrassed, and Durant smiled to himself. Itwas wonderful how the oppression had been lifted from his spirit sincehis meeting with this lonely dweller on the shore.When Molly reappeared, he saw that she had assumed a dignity worthy ofthe occasion. She sat down behind the brown teapot with a serious face.He waited for her to lead the conversation, and the result was completesilence for some seconds.Then she said suddenly:"Have you been sitting in the summer-house again?""No," said Durant."I am glad of that," said Molly."Why?" he asked.She hesitated."Isn't it rather a lonely place?" she said.He smiled faintly."You know I came here to be lonely, Molly," he said."Yes; you told me," said Molly, and he fancied that he heard her sigh."Are you never lonely?" he asked in a kindly tone."Often," she said. "Often."She was pouring the tea as she spoke. Her head was slightly bent."And so you took pity on me?" said Durant.She shook her head suddenly and vigorously."It wasn't that, sir," she said in a very low voice. "I--Iwanted--someone--to speak to.""I see," said Durant gently. He added after a moment: "Do you know, I amglad I chanced to be that someone."She smiled at him over the teapot."You weren't pleased--at first," she said. "You were angry. I heard yousaying--""What?" said Durant.He looked across at her and laughed naturally, spontaneously, for thefirst time.Molly had forgotten to be either embarrassed or dignified."I don't know what it was," she said; "I only know what it soundedlike.""And that made you want to speak to me?" said Durant.The brown face opposite to him looked impish. Yet it seemed to him thatthere was sadness in her eyes."It didn't frighten me away," she said."It would need to be a very timid person to be frightened at me now,"said Hugh Durant quietly.She opened her eyes wide, and looked as if she were about to protest.Then, changing her mind, she remained silent."Yes," he said. "Please say it!"She shook her head without speaking.But he persisted. Something in her silence aroused his curiosity."Am I really formidable, Molly?" he asked.She rose to take his empty cup, and paused for a moment at his side,looking down at him."I don't think you realise how strong you are," she said enigmatically.He laughed rather drearily."I am gauging my weakness just at present," he said.And then, glancing up, he saw quick pain in her eyes, and abruptlyturned the conversation.Later, when he took his leave, he stood on her step and looked out tothe long, grey line of sea with a faint, dissatisfied frown on his face."You're not afraid--living here?" he asked her at the last moment."What is there to fear?" said Molly. "I have Caesar, and there are othercottages not far away.""Yes, I know," he said. "But at night--when it's dark--"A sudden glory shone in the girl's pure eyes."Oh, no, sir," she said. "I am not afraid."And he departed, hobbling with difficulty up the long, sandy slope.At the top he paused and looked out over the grey, unquiet sea. Thedissatisfaction on his face had given place to perplexity and a faint,dawning wonder that was like the birth of Hope.* * *During the long summer days that followed, that strange friendship,begun at the moment when Hugh Durant's life had touched its lowest pointof suffering and misery, ripened into a curiously close intimacy.The girl was his only visitor--the only friend who penetrated behind thebarrier of loneliness that he had erected for himself. He had sought theplace sick at heart and utterly weary of life, desiring only to be leftalone. And yet, oddly enough, he did not resent the intrusion of thisoutsider, who had openly told him that she was sorry.She visited him occasionally at his hermitage, but more frequently shewould seek him out in his summer-house and take possession of him therewith a winning enchantment that he made no effort to resist. Sometimesshe brought him tea there; sometimes she persuaded him to return withher to her cottage on the shore.The embarrassment had wholly passed from her manner. She was eager andingenuous as a child. And yet there was something in her--a depth offeeling, a concentration half-revealed--that made him aware of herwomanhood. She was never confidential with him, but yet he felt herconfidence in every word she uttered.And the life that had ebbed so low turned in the man's veins and beganto flow with a steady, rising surge of which he was only vaguelyconscious.Molly had become his keenest interest. He had ceased to think withactual pain of the woman who had loved his strength, but had shrunk inhorror from his weakness. His bitterness had seemed to disperse with thefragments of her torn letter. It was only a memory to him now--scarcelyeven that."This place has done me a lot of good," he said to Molly one day. "Ihave written to my friend Gregory Mountfort to come and see me. He is mydoctor."She looked up at him quickly. She was sitting on her doorstep and theAugust sunlight was on her hair. There were wonderful glints of goldamong the dark curls."Shall you go away, then?" she asked."I may--soon," he said.She was silent, bending over some work that she had taken up. The manlooked down at the bowed head. The old look of perplexity, of wonder,was in his eyes."What shall you do?" he said abruptly.She made a startled movement, but did not raise her eyes."I shall just--go on," she said, in a voice that was hardly audible."Not here," he said. "You will be lonely."There was an unusual note of mastery in his voice. She glanced up, andmet his eyes resolutely for a moment."I am used to loneliness," she said slowly."But you don't prefer it?" he said.She bent her head again."Yes, I prefer it," she said.There followed a pause. Then abruptly Durant asked a question."Are you still sorry for me?" he said."No," said Molly.He bent slightly towards her. Movement had become much easier to him oflate."Molly," he said very gently, "that is the kindest thing you have eversaid."She laughed in a queer, shaky note over her work.He bent nearer."You have done a tremendous lot for me," he said, speaking very softly."I wonder if I dare ask of you--one thing more?"She did not answer. He put his hand on her shoulder."Molly," he said, "will you marry me?""No," said Molly under her breath."Ah!" he said. "Forgive me for asking!"She looked up at him then with that in her eyes which he could notunderstand."Mr. Durant," she said, steadily, "I thank you very much, and itisn't--that. But I can only be your friend.""Never anything more, Molly?" he said, and he smiled at her, verygently, very kindly, but without tenderness."No, sir," Molly said in the same steady tone. "Never anything more."* * *"Well," said Gregory Mountfort on the following day, "this place hasdone wonders for you, Hugh. You're a different man.""I believe I am," said Hugh.He spoke with his eyes upon a bouquet of poppies and corn that had beenleft at his door without any message early that morning. It was eloquentto him of a friendship that did not mean to be lightly extinguished, buthis heart was heavy notwithstanding. He had begun to desire somethinggreater than friendship."Physically," said Mountfort, "you are stronger than I ever expected tosee you again. You don't suffer much pain now, do you?""No, not much," said Durant.He turned to stare out of his open window at the sunlit sea. His eyeswere full of weariness."Look here," the doctor said. "You're not an invalid any longer. Ishould leave this place if I were you. Go abroad! Go round the world!Don't stagnate any longer! It isn't worthy of you."Hugh Durant shook his head."It's no good trying to float a stranded hulk, dear fellow," he said."Don't attempt it! I am better off where I am.""You ought to get married," his friend returned brusquely. "You weren'tcreated for the lonely life.""I shall never marry," Durant said quietly.And Mountfort was disappointed. He wondered if he were still vexing hissoul over the irrevocable.He had motored down from town, and in the afternoon he carried hispatient off for a thirty-mile spin. They went through the depths of thecountry, through tiny villages hidden among the hills, through longstretches of pine woods, over heather-covered uplands. But though it didhim good, Durant was conscious of keenest pleasure when, returning, theyran into view of the sea. He felt that the shore and the sand-dunes werehis own peculiar heritage.Mountfort steered for the village scattered over the top of the cliff.Durant had persuaded him to remain for the night, and he had to send atelegram. They puffed up a steep, winding hill to the post-office, andthe doctor got out."Back in thirty seconds," he said, as he walked away.Hugh was in no hurry. It was a wonderfully calm evening. The sea lookedlike a sheet of silver, motionless, silent, immense. The tide was verylow. The sand-dunes looked mere hummocks from that great height. Myriadsof martens were circling about the edge of the cliff, which wasprotected by a crazy wooden railing. He sat and watched them withoutmuch interest. He was thinking chiefly of that one cottage on the shorea hundred feet below, which he knew so well.He wondered if Molly had been to the summer-house to look for him; andthen, chancing to glance up, he caught sight of her coming towards himfrom the roadside. At the same instant something jerked in the motor,and it began to move. It was facing up the hill, and the angle was asteep one. Very slowly at first the wheels revolved, and the car movedstraight backwards as if pushed by an unseen hand.Hugh realised the danger in a moment. The road curved sharply not adozen yards behind him, and at that curve was the sheer precipice of thecliff. He was powerless to apply the brakes, and he could not even throwhimself out. The sudden consciousness of this ran through him piercingas a sword-blade.In every pulse of his being he felt the intense, the paralysing horrorof violent death. For the first awful moment he could not even call forhelp. The sensation of falling headlong backwards gripped his throatand choked his utterance.He made a wild, ineffectual movement with his hands. And then he heard aloud cry. A woman's figure flashed towards him. She seemed to swoop asthe martens swooped along the face of the cliff. The car was runningsmoothly towards that awful edge. He felt that it was verynear--horribly near; but he could not turn to look.Even as the thought darted through his brain he saw Molly, wide-eyed,frenzied, clinging to the side of the car. She was in the act ofspringing on to it, and that knowledge loosened his tongue.He yelled to her hoarsely to keep away. He even tried to thrust herhands off the woodwork. But she withstood him fiercely, with a strengththat agonised and overcame. In a second she was on the step, where sheswayed perilously, then fell forward on her hands and knees at his feet.The car continued to run back. There came a sudden jerk, a crash ofrending wood, a frightful pause. The railing had splintered. They wereon the brink. Hugh bent and tried to take her in his arms.He was strung to meet that awful plunge; he was face to face with death;but--was it by some miracle?--the car was stayed. There, on the veryedge of destruction, with not an inch to spare, it stood suddenlymotionless, as if checked by some mysterious, unseen force.As complete understanding returned to him, Hugh saw that the woman athis feet had thrown herself upon the foot brake and was holding itpressed down with both her rigid hands.* * *"Yes; but who taught her where to look for the brake?" said Mountforttwo hours later.The excitement was over, but the subject fascinated Mountfort. The girlhad sprung away and disappeared down one of the cliff paths directlyHugh had been extricated from danger. Mountfort was curious about her,but Hugh was uncommunicative. He had no answer ready to Mountfort'squestion. He scarcely seemed to hear it.Barely a minute after its utterance he reached for his crutches and gotupon his feet."I am going down to the shore," he said. "I shan't sleep otherwise.You'll excuse me, old fellow?"Mountfort looked at him and nodded. He was very intimate with Hugh."Don't mind me!" he said.And Hugh went out alone in the summer dusk.The night was almost ghostly in its stillness. He went down the windingpath that he knew so well without a halt. Far away the light of asteamer travelled over the quiet water. The sea murmured drowsily as thetide rose. It was not quite dark.Outside her cottage-door he stopped and tapped upon the stone. The doorstood open, and as he waited he heard a clear, low whistle behind him onthe dunes. She was coming towards him, the great dog Caesar bounding byher side. As she drew near he noticed again how slight she was, andmarvelled at her strength.She reached him in silence. The light was very dim. He put out his handto her, but somehow he could not utter a word."I knew it must be you," she said. "I--I was waiting for you."She put her hand into his; but still the man stood mute. No words wouldcome to him.She looked at him uncertainly, almost nervously. Then--"What is it?" she asked, under her breath.He spoke at last but not to utter the words she expected."I haven't come to say, 'Thank you,' Molly," he said. "I have come toask why.""Oh!" said Molly.She was startled, confused, almost scared, by the mastery that underlaythe gentleness of his tone. He kept her hand in his, standing there,facing her in the dimness; and, cripple as he was, she knew him for astrong man."I have come to ask," he said--"and I mean to know--why yesterday yourefused to marry me."She made a quick movement. His words astounded her. She felt inclined torun away. But he kept her prisoner."Don't be afraid of me, Molly!" he said half sadly. "You had a reason.What was it."She bit her lip. Her eyes were full of sudden tears."Tell me!" he said.And she answered, as if he compelled her:"It was because--because you don't love me," she said with difficulty.She felt his hand tighten upon hers."Ah!" he said. "And that was--the only reason?"Molly was trembling."It was the only reason that mattered," she said in a choked voice.He leant towards her in the dusk."Molly," he said. "Molly, I worship you!"She heard the deep quiver in his voice, and it thrilled her from head tofoot. She began to sob, and he drew her towards him."Wait!" she said, "Oh, wait! Come inside, and I'll tell you!"He went in with her, leaning on her shoulder."Sit down!" whispered Molly. "I'm going to tell you something.""Don't cry!" he said gently. "It may be something I know already.""Oh, no, it isn't!" she said with conviction.She stood before him in the twilight, her hands clasped tightlytogether."Do you remember a girl called Mary Fielding?" she said, with a piteouseffort to control her voice. "She used to be the friend of--of--yourfiancee, Lady Maud Belville, long ago, before you had your accident."He nodded gravely."I remember her," he said."I don't suppose you ever noticed her much," the girl continued shakily."She was uninteresting, and always in the background.""I should know her anywhere," said Durant with confidence."No, no," she protested. "I'm sure you wouldn't. You--you never gave hera second thought, though she--was foolish enough--idiotic enough--to--tocare whether you did or not.""Was she?" he said softly. "Was she? And was that why she came to liveamong the sand-dunes and cut off her hair and wore printdresses--and--and made life taste sweet to me again?""Ah! You know now!" she said, with a sound that was like laughterthrough tears.He held out his arms to her."My darling," he said. "I knew on the first day I saw you here."She knelt down beside him with a quick, impulsive movement."You--knew!" she gasped incredulously.He smiled at her with great tenderness."I knew," he said, "and I wondered--how I wondered--what you had comefor!""I only came to be a friend," she broke in hastily, "to--to try to helpyou through your bad time.""I guessed it must be that," he said softly over her bowed head, "whenyou said 'No' to me yesterday.""But you didn't tell me you cared," protested Molly."No," he said. "I was so horribly afraid that you might take me out ofpity, Molly.""And I--I wasn't going to be second fiddle!" said Molly waywardly.She resisted him a little as he turned her face upwards, but he had hisway. There was a quiver of laughter in his voice when he spoke again."You could never be that," he said. "You were made to lead theorchestra. Still, tell me why you did it, darling! Make me understand!"And Molly yielded at length with her arms about his neck."I loved you!" she said passionately. "I loved you!"

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