CHAPTER XII

THE DOUBLED BARRIER

Except for one of Trenby’s frequent telephone calls, enquiring as to Nan’s progress, Saturday passed uneventfully enough until the evening.  Then, through the clear summer dusk Kitty discerned the Mallow car returning from the station whither it had been sent to meet Ralph’s train.

Hurrying down the drive, she saw Ralph lean forward and speak to the chauffeur who slowed down to a standstill, while he himself sprang out and came eagerly to her side.

“You angelic woman!” he exclaimed fervently.  “How did you manage it?  Will she—­will she really—­”

“I think she will,” answered Kitty, smiling.  “So you needn’t worry.  But I’m not the dea ex machina to whom you owe the ‘happy ending.’  Nan managed it—­in some incomprehensible way of her own.”

“Then blessed be Nan!” said Ralph piously, as he opened the door of the car for her to enter.  Two minutes’ further driving brought them to the house.

Following his hostess’s instructions, Ralph remained outside, and as Kitty entered the great hall, alone, a white-clad figure suddenly made as though to escape by a further door.

“Come back, Penny,” called Kitty, a hint of kindly mischief in her voice.  “You’ll just get half an hour to yourselves before the dressing-bell rings.  Afterwards we shall expect to see you both, clothed and in your right minds, at dinner.”

The still look of happiness that had dwelt all day in Penelope’s eyes woke suddenly into radiance, just as you may watch the calm surface of the sea, when the tide is at its full, break into a hundred sparkling ripples at the vivifying touch of a wandering breeze.

She turned back hesitatingly, looking all at once absurdly young and a little frightened—­this tall and stately Penelope—­while a faint blush-rose colour ran swiftly up beneath the pallor of her skin, and her eyes—­those nice, humorous brown eyes of hers that always looked the world so kindly and honestly in the face—­held the troubled shyness of a little child.

Kitty laid a gentle hand on her arm.

“Run along, my chicken,” she said, suddenly feeling a thousand years old as she saw Penelope standing, virginal and sweet, at the threshold of the gate through which she herself had passed with happy footsteps years ago—­that gate which opens to the wondering fingers of girlhood, laid so tremulously upon love’s latch, and which closes behind the woman, shutting her into paradise or hell.

“Run along, my chicken. . . .  And give Ralph my blessing!”

* * * * * *

It was not until the next day, towards the end of lunch, that Ralph shot his bolt from the blue.  Other matters—­which seemed almost too good to be true in the light of Penelope’s unqualified refusal of him three days ago—­had occupied his mind to the exclusion of everything else.  Nor, to give him his due, was he in the least aware that he was administering any kind of shock, since he was quite ignorant as to the actual state of affairs betwixt Nan and Maryon Rooke.