CHAPTER XXI

It marked ten minutes to twelve on the tower of the ancient chantry church of Darnaston as Blanche Farrow walked across the village green and past the group of thatched cottages composing the pretty hamlet which looks so small compared with its noble house of God.  But, though she was early, the man she was to meet was evidently already there, for a big, mud-stained motor-car was drawn up in the lane which runs to the left of the church.

Feeling more and more apprehensive, she knew not of what, she walked up the path between the graves, and then suddenly she saw Mark Gifford—­his spare, still active-looking figure framed in the stone porch, his plain, but pleasant, intelligent-looking face full of a grave welcome.

He stepped out of the porch and gripped her hand in silence.

She felt that he was deeply stirred, stirred as she had never known him to be—­excepting, perhaps, on that occasion, years and years ago, when he had first asked her to be his wife.

Still holding her hand in that strong grasp, he drew her within the porch.  “I’m so grateful to you for having come,” he said.  “I hope you didn’t think what I did very odd?”

“I did think it just a little odd.”

She was trying to smile—­to be her usual composed self.

“I couldn’t come to Wyndfell Hall,” he said abruptly, “for a reason which you will soon know.  But I had to see you, and, by a bit of luck, I suddenly remembered this splendid old church.  I passed by here once on a walking tour, years and years ago.  It’s the sort of place people come a long way to see; so, if we are found here together—­well, we might have met by accident.”

“As it is, we have met by appointment,” she said quietly.

She was feeling more and more frightened.  Mark now looked so set, so grim.

“Would you rather stay out here,” he asked, “or shall we go into the church?”

“I’d rather stay out here.  What is it, Mark?  Don’t keep me in suspense.”

They were standing, facing one another; he had let go her hand at last.

“What I’ve come to tell you will give you, I fear, a great shock,” he began slowly, “for it concerns someone to whom I believe you to be deeply attached.”

He looked away from her for the first time.

“Then it is Bubbles!” she cried, dismayed.  “What on earth has the child done?”

He turned and again looked into her face, now full of a deeply troubled, questioning anxiety.  “Bubbles Dunster?” he exclaimed.  “Good heavens, no!  It’s nothing to do with Bubbles.”

A look of uncontrollable relief came over her eyes and mouth.

“Who is it, Mark?  You credit me with a warmer heart than I possess—­”

But he remained silent, and she said quickly:  “Come!  Who is it, Mark?”

“Can’t you guess?” he asked harshly.  And, as she shook her head, he added, in a slow, reluctant tone:  “I’ve always supposed you to be really attached to Lionel Varick.”