“My dear Derry, I’ve said my say. You ought to have lived two thousand years ago, and Euripides would have immortalized you in a tragedy.”
The eyes of the two men clashed; but Power repressed the imminent request for an explanation of that cryptic remark. He dared not ask what Dacre had in mind. His comment might have been a chance shaft; but it fell dangerously near the forbidden territory of Nancy’s close-veiled secret. When next he spoke, it was to give a motorist’s account of the mishaps of the road.
A week passed. Dacre’s house lay halfway up a wooded comb, or valley, and the Valescure castle stood on a bold tor that thrust itself bluntly into the sea. Unless the occupants of each place were on friendly terms, they might dwell in the same district and not meet once in a year. By taking a rough path they were barely three-quarters of a mile apart; but the only practicable carriage-road covered three miles or more. Dacre’s interests lay with the fisher-folk at the foot of the comb or among the woods and heather of Dartmoor Forest, rolling up into the clouds behind his abode, while the great folk of the castle seldom came his way, unless Lord Valescure happened to be in residence, when the two forgathered often.
But Dacre was right when he hinted at the tragic inevitableness of his friend’s life. They had strolled into the rectory for tea, and were chatting with their hostess about a forthcoming charity fête, when a motor rumbled to the door, and Nancy Marten appeared, a radiant vision in the muslin and flower-decked hat of summer.
“How kind of you to come!” said the rector’s wife, rising to greet the girl. “Lady Valescure said she was sure I might write and seek your help for our village revel. She said all sorts of nice things about you, and now I know they are true.”
So Power was introduced to “Miss Marten,” and the girl gave him one of those shy yet delightfully candid glances which he remembered so well in her mother’s eyes.
“Didn’t I meet you recently in the corridor of a hotel at Bournemouth?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Then you will be surprised to hear that you rather startled me. I thought you were about to fall, and was on the point of catching your arm when you walked away. Then I saw you had a slight limp, and it was that which had probably caused my stupid notion. Wouldn’t you have been tremendously astonished if a giddy young person had clutched you suddenly and implored you not to drop at her feet?”
“Yet I can well imagine any man, especially a younger sprig than myself, being moved to some such act of homage.”