CHAPTER VII

THE SECOND WARNING

Rupert’s description of Kellerton Old Park, though unflattering, was not far removed from the truth.  The thistles in the drive that wound from the deserted lodge to the house itself certainly were abnormally high, so high that Mordaunt at once decided to abandon the car inside the great wrought-iron gates that had been the pride of the place for many years.

“That nice little donkey of yours would come in useful here,” he observed, as he handed his fiancee to the ground.

She tucked her hand engagingly inside his arm.  “Ah! but isn’t the park lovely?  And look at all those rabbits!  No, no, Cinders!  You mustn’t!  Trevor, you do like it?”

“I like it immensely,” he answered.

His eyes looked out over the wide, rough stretch of ground before him that was more like common land than private property, dwelt upon a belt of trees that crowned a distant rise, scanned the overgrown carriage-road to where it ended before a grey turret that was half-hidden by a great cedar, finally came back to the sparkling face by his side.

“So this is to be our—­home, Chris?” he said.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she said proudly.  “Oh, Trevor, you don’t know what it means to me to feel it isn’t going to be sold after all.”

He smiled.  “I understood it was going to be sold and presented to my wife for a wedding-gift.”

She turned her face up to his.  “Trevor, you don’t think I’m ungrateful too, do you?”

“My darling,” he said, “I think that gratitude between you and me is out of place at any time.  Remember, though I give you this and a thousand other things, you are giving me—­all you have.”

She pressed his arm shyly.  “It doesn’t seem very much, does it?” she said.

He laid his hand upon hers.  “You can make it much,” he said very gently.

“How, Trevor?”

“By marrying me,” he said.

“Oh!” Her eyes fell instantly, and he saw the hot colour rise and overspread her face.  “Oh, but not yet!” she said, almost imploringly.  “Please, not yet!”

His own face changed a little, hardened almost imperceptibly, but he gave no sign of impatience.  “In your own time, dear,” he said quietly.  “Heaven knows I should be the last to persuade you against your will.”

“Aunt Philippa is always worrying me about it,” she told him, with a catch in her voice.  “And I—­I—­after all, I’m only twenty-one.”

“What does she worry you for?” he said, a hint of sternness in his voice.

She glanced at him nervously.  “Because—­because I’ve no money.  She says—­she says—­”

“Well, dear, what does she say?”

“I don’t want to tell you,” whispered Chris.

“I think you had better,” he said.

“Yes—­I suppose so.  She says that as I am bringing you nothing, I have no right to—­to keep you waiting—­that beggars can’t be choosers, and—­and things like that.”