CHAPTER XXXIITHE AWAKENINGBright eyes, the brightest he believed he had ever seen, greeted Allan. Eyes so kind, so bright and so tender that he knew before ever a word had been spoken that he had not offended, that Kathleen was not angry with him, not hurt.He felt a great wave of relief and then the feeling passed and gave place to wonder, because in some subtle way Kathleen had changed. To others she was still the Kathleen he knew and loved and respected, but to him she had become another being, her eyes were misty and soft and tender, for him, there was a rich, rare colour in her cheeks. He felt his own heart respond. As they were passing into lunch he touched her hand—why?There was no reason for it, it was just the impulse of the moment, yet he felt that he must do it, so he did and she turned and looked at him and it seemed to him that the colour deepened in her cheeks and the look in her eyes was more tender than ever.And the touch of that little hand of hers made his heart leap. This was no mere friendship, this was no mere liking, no symptom of respect. He wondered at himself, wondered at its meaning and as a result he failed to hear Lord Gowerhurst, who was addressing himself particularly to Allan.As a matter of fact Lord Gowerhurst, departing on the morrow, found himself woefully short of money. He was not in the cue to approach Sir Josiah and a timely loan of a comparatively small sum from Allan, a mere fifty or even twenty-five, would be agreeable to his lordship. Later on Sir Josiah's money bags must be properly besieged, with all due form and with a regard to detail for which there was no time at the moment."If, therefore, you could give me ah—ten minutes—some time most convenient to yourself, my dear Allan—" said his lordship with unwonted humility."Of course, delighted!" Allan murmured, and was thinking of Kathleen all the time.Had he ever appreciated her properly? Had he ever realised the exquisite beauty of her face, a beauty that was spiritual, was of expression rather than of mere form and mould of feature. How sweetly gracious she was, how charming, not even the loquacious and boresome Coombe aroused irritability in her—how his old father worshipped her—what a strange, yet perfect understanding there seemed to be between them, the old City man of business, of plebeian origin and this young and gracious well born lady. Yet they were so obviously and so certainly friends, good, close, true friends, with a mutual understanding and a mutual love for one another.So Allan did not make the most agreeable of companions at that meal and his lordship felt uneasy."I wonder if the fellow suspects I'm going to ask a small loan, a mere trifle till I get back to town? Confound it, it's deuced unpleasant for a man in my position to—er—place himself under an obligation to a mere stripling like this! I can't ask Scarsdale, there's something deuced standoffish about the fellow; I almost wish I hadn't taken Scarsdale up again, I've got an idea that Scarsdale lets bygones rankle. By George, though, I did give him a dressing down in those days, and by George he deserved it—asked for it—begad, and got it too!"Just for a moment Allan had an opportunity for a word with Kathleen when lunch was over."You—you are not angry with me?""Angry?"Was she a woman of twenty-nine almost, or only a maiden of nineteen that suddenly her eyes dropped before his, that suddenly a deep rich colour came flaming her face."Kathleen—Kathleen!" He caught her hand, he was suddenly in a strange tremble, and then in on them burst Mr. Coombe."Wistaria, not westeria, Jobson, my boy, if you'd done the gardening I've done at Tulse Hill—I—I beg pardon!" stammered Mr. Coombe, taken aback.Kathleen smiled. "You are quite right, Mr. Coombe, it is wistaria!" she said."I've got one over my house at Tulse Hill," said Mr. Coombe, "with a stem, if you'll believe me, as thick as my body!" Which was an exaggeration, as Mr. Coombe's body was of no ordinary thickness.Allan turned away."Oh, I forgot—" he said, and his eyes and Kathleen's met. "I saw Mrs. Hanson at her gate as I passed and she says if you can spare her granddaughter this evening, Kathleen, she would be glad.""I will send Betty," Kathleen said, "though the old woman was not very kind to her, still she is old and alone. Yes, I will see that Betty goes!"His lordship secured his quiet ten minutes with Allan."Most foolish and stupid of me, forgot to bring my cheque book, I can't think what possessed me—I assure you, Allan, I was astounded at my oversight. Of course one can draw a cheque on a sheet of note paper, but my Bank don't like it—no, they don't like it, sir—and so—so——""I shall be only too pleased to be of service to you," said Allan promptly, so promptly that his lordship was a little taken aback.Yet Allan seemed so ready, so willing—it would be a shameful waste of opportunity to make the amount so small as he had originally intended."If—if—er—a couple of hundred wouldn't put you to inconvenience——""With pleasure," Allan said. "I'll send Howard over to Stretton in the car, he'll be able to get to the Bank just in time."Never in the whole course of his experience, and it had been large, had his lordship had such a request granted with such alacrity and willingness."My dear Allan, 'pon my soul now, 'pon my soul, it is very good of you—I take a pleasure, sir, a pleasure in being under an obligation to you, even though it is only a temporary one. You're a good fellow, Allan, a deuced generous, open-handed good fellow and—and I honour you, sir, and your father too, and it's a pleasure and a relief to me, be Gad, to think that my girl has entered your family—a family of—of gentlemen, be gad!""Poor old chap!" Allan thought. "It must be hard for a man in his position and of his rank to have to lower himself and demean himself to borrow money—" He sighed, and then smiled in wonder at himself that he should feel so kindly towards Lord Gowerhurst, for whom he had previously felt nothing but aversion and contempt.But then Lord Gowerhurst was Kathleen's father and for some reason to-day that made just all the difference in the world to Allan. So, having lent Lord Gowerhurst two hundred pounds, Allan resolved that he would say nothing to his own father about it.Custance claimed Allan that afternoon and when Custance had done with him there was barely time to reach home and dress for dinner, so he did not see Kathleen till they met at the dinner table. And to-night she was looking her loveliest and her best. Even Coombe remarked her heightened colour and tried to pay her a clumsy compliment on her looks and meeting Lord Gowerhurst's cold stare when half way through his speech, faltered and broke down and burst into profuse perspiration.But Kathleen smiled on him and thanked him and told him in a little confidential whisper, that highly pleased Coombe, that she was getting to be an old, old woman. In less than eighteen months she would be thirty years of age, and though she had not found a grey hair as yet, no doubt she soon would."Old, my dear—" said Mr. Coombe, and then blushed crimson, "I beg your pardon——""You have nothing to beg my pardon for—Sir Josiah's friends are mine—and if one of them is kind enough to call me my dear, it only proves that he likes me and I like to be liked, Mr. Coombe, by my friends!""And so you are, so you are, and as for getting old, never, you'll never be old, you'll be young to the last day of your life, if you live to be eighty, and please God you will!" And Mr. Coombe turned deliberately and stared Lord Gowerhurst full in the face with an expression that said as plain as words—"If you don't like the way I am behaving and if you don't like my paying compliments to your daughter—then you can go to the deuce and go as soon as you like, my Lord, and be hanged to you!"Among that company of gentlemen Harold Scarsdale was inconspicuous. That he was better bred than Mr. Coombe and Mr. Jobson was obvious, that he could talk a good deal better than any of them Allan at least knew, but it pleased Scarsdale to hold his tongue and keep himself much in the background. From that background he watched Kathleen and the more he watched the less did he seem to understand her.He remembered the passion of the old days, he remembered that scene by the lake only two short days ago, how during those two days had she changed. She greeted him with a friendly smile, she held out her hand to him, she wished him good morning and good night and talked to him of trivial, every day things, listening with interest to the few remarks he made and that was all.But she was a woman and he knew little of women, but had read much and so had obtained a false impression. She was clever, she was hiding her feelings and doing it successfully. When the time came, and it would come, then she would fling all pretence to the winds, she would be his, he would open his arms to her, the ten years of hunger would be ended.To-night he sat in his corner and listened to everyone and said little, but he was watchful and presently he saw Allan go out and, waiting for a time, Scarsdale too rose and sauntered to the window and stepped out into the garden.Allan, however, had not gone to the garden. He remembered that Betty was going to her grandmother's to-night.She would be sure to leave the old woman's cottage by nine. He counted on that. He wanted to see her, he wanted to see how she had taken what her grandmother would say to her, he wanted to know that Betty would realise how sensible the arrangement was and how it would be for her own good and happiness in the long run. She was young, a mere child, in some far away little village she would begin a new life, unmolested by Abram Lestwick, the terror of his presence and his pretensions removed for ever from her mind. And far away amid new surroundings, she would surely forget in time—perhaps not at once—yet in time, all those strange happenings and that strange tie that had drawn Betty and himself so closely together.Allan was not vain, he did not for one moment believe that it was his own personality that had attracted Betty, or that he himself—the man he was now, had ever awakened any feelings of tenderness and love in that little heart.It was the glamour, the strange mystery, the unsolvable mystery, those visions that she—and he too—had seen, that dimly uncertain memory of 'something' that had been, in the buried and unknown past; it was that that had appealed to her as of course it had appealed to him.So Allan lighted his pipe and strolled away down the dusky road and strangely enough had not gone ten paces before he was thinking of Kathleen, rather than of her he had come to meet.* * * * *Mrs. Hanson sat upright on her stiff old chair, her hands were folded primly on her narrow lap, her eyes were fixed in an unwavering stare on the closed door.She was expecting Betty, she had been expecting the girl for the past hour. For an hour Mrs. Hanson had sat there listening for coming footsteps but hearing only the steady persistent 'tick-tock' of the long cased clock.During that hour Mrs. Hanson had been thinking, she had been asking of herself questions, and as the minutes passed the stern old face grew graver and grimmer.Why should he be willing to give to Betty and herself such a mort of money. Why should he be wishful of sending Betty to some far off place. Why should Mr. Allan Homewood interest himself in the very least with the future of Betty Hanson at all?Questions that Mrs. Hanson could not answer satisfactorily."A very pleasant and outspoken young gentleman he du seem—and yet——" Mrs. Hanson shook her head. "And yet——"But the long expected footsteps were sounding, there came a tapping on the door. That in itself was unfamiliar. In the old days Betty lifted the latch and came in.Betty came to-night as a visitor, and Mrs. Hanson realised the difference."Come in," she said, and rose stiffly to receive her visitor. Betty came in nervously; she looked at her grandmother, hesitated and then came forward and offered a soft cheek."You will hev had your tea?""Yes grandmother.""Will you be seated?"Betty sat down, her nervousness increasing.Mrs. Hanson stared at the childish pretty face, it was the face of most perfect innocence, yet Mrs. Hanson looked with eyes of suspicion."The weather be holding up," she remarked, she was a woman who never came straight to the matter in hand, as Betty well knew."Grandmother 'ee sent for I?"It was like carrying the war into the enemy's camp."True I did send for 'ee," Mrs. Hanson frowned."I hev had from young Mr. Allan Homewood an offer with which I be greatly surprised.""From—from——" the colour deepened in the pretty cheeks, a fact that Mrs. Hanson's keen eyes did not miss."And why pray should 'ee blush at the mention of the gentleman's name.""I bean't blushing, grandmother.""And now 'ee be lying as well, Betty Hanson."Betty hung her head."Very distrustful and uneasy I be in my mind, very distrustful. Betty Hanson, look me in the eye and answer me this: what be there between 'ee and Mr. Allan Homewood?""Oh! oh grandmother—there——" Betty was silent, she pressed her hands against her breast. "Be-between I and Mr. Homewood grandmother, what—what should there be?""There should be nothing Miss, but there be! there be, I see it. What be he to thee?""Nothing, nothing, nothing. Oh grandmother, why do 'ee worry I so? I wish—I wish—I hadn't come!""If so be as your mind were at rest and your conscience clear, Betty Hanson, 'ee wouldn't hev said that! Now answer, answer me and speak the truth for I be your dead father's mother and your only living relative I be. What be Mr. Allan Homewood to 'ee?""Nothing," the girl whispered, "he bain't nothing to I—nothing, and if anyone hev told 'ee contrairywise he be a liar!""The truth I will hev! nor shall 'ee leave this place——"Mrs. Hanson rose, she crossed the room to the door and turned the ponderous key. "The truth will I hev before I shall allow 'ee to depart, what be Mr. Allan Homewood of Homewood Manor House, to 'ee, Betty Hanson?"Betty did not answer. She sat with bowed head, she wrung and twisted her hands."I—I did see he—of nights of moonlight—nights in—in the old garden," she whispered.Mrs. Hanson bristled, she sat upright: "'Ee did see him of nights in the old garden! Oh! shame on 'ee shame——"So this be the meaning of your perilous bad conduct, slipping away out of the cottage of nights to—to meet—a man, a man! Terribul deceitful and deceiving 'ee've been all this while, terribul and shameful and perilous Betty Hanson.""'Twasn't a man I went to see," Betty cried, "Grandmother 'twere no man.""No man and 'ee said with your own lips——""Grandmother, 'ee can never, never understand—it—were a—a ghost——"Mrs. Hanson fell back on her chair, her black eyes blazed in indignation."'Ee've said enough, either 'ee be daft or the greatest liar as I ever did hear on, a Ghost! 'ee wicked deceitful maid, a ghost indeed!""Grandmother, 'ee could never, never understand. I'll try and make 'ee, but I know——" Betty shook her head, "'ee never will. 'Twasn't Allan——""Allan," Mrs. Hanson lifted her two hands."'Twasn't Allan, I did see in the old garden, but a ghost I see him and others, fine ladies and gentlemen all in strange clothing, Grandmother, and Allan he were for ever digging, he in his old brown suit wi' the brass buckles to his shoes and——""Betty Hanson, stop, stop, this minit; not another word will I sit here and listen to, I hev made up my mind."This day, this man, this Allan, as 'ee do so shamelessly call him, made an offer to me. A fine offer that I did greatly mistrust. 'Tis this—take the child—away he said, take her far away, don't worrit her wi' Abram Lestwick, and I will allow 'ee and her tu, the thirty-five shillings a week, the same as Abram's money and a cottage all for nothin' so as 'ee du take she far away from Homewood.""Oh! oh! he said that?""Aye he did, my maid, which du mean as he be tired of 'ee, tired, 'ee hear me, tired as men du tire of women like 'ee."Betty lifted her head slowly, she looked at the grandmother and her pretty face blazed with sudden anger. She rose:"Grandmother, 'ee be a wicked woman, a bad despiteful wicked woman. What 'ee hev said, shames 'ee more, more than it does me, shames 'ee, and—and——" she broke down suddenly, she sank back sobbing on to the chair, she rocked to and fro. "'Ee could never, never understand 'twasn't Allan, yet 'twas Allan and I know he were something to I, something very, very dear and precious he were to I. But oh! oh! 'ee could never understand.""I du understand this," Mrs. Hanson said, "I do understand that 'ee shall marry Abram Lestwick. An honest and upright man, and 'ee shall never take money from him as 'ee du most shamelessly call Allan, never, nor I. Money taken from he would choke me, 'twould spring up like the tares and choke me."Mrs. Hanson pointed a bony finger at the girl."'Ee shall marry Abram Lestwick a good man and honest, 'ee shall become his wife. I hev said it, and I say it again and I shall listen to no more of this nonsense, and as for Mr. Allan Homewood for all he be a frank and outspoken gentleman and lib'ral wi' his money, I would take shame to myself to accept of anything from he, nor allow 'ee to do likewise. Marry Abram Lestwick 'ee shall——""I never will," Betty leaped up, her face convulsed, "I never will, I bain't your grand-darter any more, I bean't nothing to 'ee, I wunt listen to 'ee! I wunt! I be free, free—and——" she turned and darted to the door, she wrenched at the heavy old key and turned it, just as Mrs. Hanson rose and came stiffly to prevent her.But Betty, younger and more active succeeded, she tore the door open and in the open doorway turned:"I bain't your grand-darter anymore! I be free of 'ee, I wunt marry Abram Lestwick, I—I'll be—damned if I du.""Stop!" Mrs. Hanson said in a voice of thunder, but Betty did not, she turned and fled into the night and the old woman unable to pursue stood there shaking and quivering with honest indignation."De-fiant her be, perilous defiant and hev soiled her lips wi' foul and unseemly words, her henceforth be no granddarter of mine. From this moment I du renounce she."Sobbing, panting, her little heart labouring, down the road sped Betty, and then suddenly she saw him coming, slowly towards her, and to him she ran with eager outstretched hands and a little cry of joy."O Allan, Allan be 'ee come to meet I? O Allan, I be all upset and put about, I be——""Betty—why Betty child, what is it, what has—come," he added as she clung to his hand sobbing like a broken hearted child."Be kind to me, be kind to me, for I be all broken hearted," she pressed her tear-stained face against his sleeve."Allan, I be all broken hearted. Her be harsh and cruel wi' me, and said—said things—things—Oh!" she pressed her face tightly to his sleeve, to hide the hot flush of shame that came to her."Hush little girl, hush," he said, "don't cry, did your grandmother tell you what I suggested about—about you and her going away——?""She told me—she told me, and she said she wouldn't hev it, she said that I must marry Abram.""You never shall, Betty, don't cry, I swear before Heaven you never shall, trust me, rely on me in this, for rather than that, I would kill the man, kill him with my two hands. Betty, you hear me?""Aye I hear 'ee; say it again Allan, say it over again, say as 'ee would kill he, rather than I should marry he.""I mean it, and it shall never be, and your grandmother then will not agree to my plan. Well, it does not matter, you will be perhaps happier without her, I shall find some place where neither your grandmother nor Abram Lestwick will trouble you, with people who will be good and kind to you and will make your life happy. Your future shall be protected, too.""Let me stay. Let me stay here, and bide with 'ee, don't, don't send me away from 'ee Allan, don't 'ee send me away.""Hush," he said. "Hush," he was bitterly disappointed, he had thought all arranged, and now—but her pitiful crying wrung his heart, poor little maid, poor dear little soul, he put his arm about her and tried to soothe and quiet her."Betty, Betty, don't cry, don't cry, it hurts me to hear you cry and child, try and understand how—how impossible it all is. There is no other way, you yourself will see it and understand it presently.""Don't send me away from 'ee for I shall die, I shall die if 'ee do." She was nestling close to him, holding his hand in both her own, pressing it against her wet cheek.Supposing someone should happen down the road and what more likely—oh no, this would never do."Come, Betty! Come, be brave, we must talk of this."Not far away was the little green gate, and he drew her towards it and in the deep shadows of the wall a man flattened himself against the brickwork and held his breath as they passed him so closely, that he might have stretched out his hand and touched them as they went, a man who was shaking strangely with passion and whose eyes gleamed from the dark shadows. And then the little green door opened and took them and Abram Lestwick stepped into the roadway."Pleasant spoken," he said. "Aye, pleasant spoken he be. Pleasant spoken!" He repeated the words a score of times, he went to the green door and his hands worked with it. He fingered the heavy old nail heads with which it was studded."Very, very pleasant spoken he be—robbing me of she—robbing—robbing——." He scratched at the paint with his nails, then muttering to himself, turned away and went down the road.Allan led Betty into the garden, he led her along the path between the tall yews and as they walked he spoke to her. It was difficult, yet it must be done. His heart yearned to her in pity—the spell of her, the fascination of her was on him, but he fought against it—her childlike weeping set him longing to take her in his arms, to comfort her, hold her, kiss her tears away, for the weeping of women and of children always affected him greatly."Betty, don't cry, Betty listen to me. Be reasonable, be sensible my dear, listen——.""O Allan, oh sir, that you—that you of all should turn against thy Betty."His Betty—what memories the words awakened, memories of this same garden, of a little maid in quaint mob cap, with pretty mittened hands and eyes all ashine with love—for him—Thy Betty, that maid had said as she, by his side, had said it but a moment ago—His Betty!Perhaps the devil walked with them that night along the path under the dark yews, perhaps he tapped Allan on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.Allan turned to her suddenly, he gripped her wrists, he tore her hands away from her face, his voice was harsh, as unlike his own voice as voice could be."Listen, you—you must—this—this cannot go on. What the past held, God knows—yet whatever it held, it cannot and shall not influence the future. I have a wife, I am bound in honour to her, in honour to you, Betty. Hush, leave off crying, you hear me?"She was frightened by the stern authority in his voice and left off her whimpering."What I am doing, what I want to do is for your own sake, and for mine because you are young and well nigh friendless and very beautiful, because I too am young and—and afraid, yes afraid—Betty.""Oh Allan, of—of me?""Yes of you, and for you Betty, I want you to be happy and, dear, I want happiness myself. This old garden, the garden here about us has meant so much to us both, better dear that you should go and never see it again, for then in time you will forget, and the love you speak of is not real, it cannot be real, it is born of dreams Betty and like a dream it will pass.""Why—why when I du love——""You know why, because I have a wife, because I love her and honour her and would sooner cut off my hand than cause her one moment of shame, of pain or unhappiness."He bent nearer to her, he could see her face glimmering white so near to his, so tempting, yet he was not tempted."It means her happiness, do you know why—because—and God knows that I speak without vanity, but very humbly, because I believe that she loves me—how could I hurt her through you, would you hurt her?""I would die for her!" She wrenched her hands free from his, she stood before him."I—I will think of all as 'ee have said to I, sir, and I—I will try and bring myself to thy way of thinking and I—I will try and bring myself to—oh no, no! I can't, I can't!" She broke down, sobbing wildly, then suddenly gained control of herself. "I will not—not trouble thee any more, sir.""Betty, listen," he put his hands on her shoulders and held her. "Take time, take time, think this over, to-day is Monday, in three days, not before three days, you will make up your mind, Betty, come to me—here in this place—in three days—on Thursday night at this hour, come and tell me then, child, that you will be wise and sensible.""I—I will come to 'ee here in three days——" she said slowly, "and then I will tell 'ee, sir, what I shall do,—in three days—good night!" She turned away, standing there he heard her go and heard a strange little moaning noise coming back to him from out the darkness as she went.So, after waiting a time, he too turned towards the house and passed down the wide flagged pathway, and the man on the stone bench by the sundial let him pass unchallenged.CHAPTER XXXIIIBY THE LAKELord Gowerhurst made an affecting little speech, for the time of parting had come. Sir Josiah's big car, all spick and span, with the respectable Bletsoe at the wheel, was waiting outside the hall door, so too was Mr. Coombe's automobile, which seemed to require some of its owner's attention at the last moment, for Mr. Coombe was only visible as to his legs and feet, the rest of him being out of sight under his car."This visit, a trifling thing perhaps to you, my love, has been to me like an oasis, a green and fragrant oasis be-gad, an the desert of my life! I am leaving my dear, dear daughter——" his lordship turned his fine eyes upwards and his voice shook with noble emotion. "I am leaving my dear, dear daughter surrounded by love and happiness, I am leaving her in her pretty little home——." He spoke of the place as though it were a cottage, to impress Messrs. Cutler and Jobson with the idea of his own magnificence—"and I——" he sighed, "I go back to my quiet humdrum life, my poor chambers, my loneliness! Often and often as I sit alone in my rooms, I shall picture you and this home of yours to myself. I am an old man, an old man my dear, and my time—may not be long——." He sighed deeply, there were tears in those fine eyes of his. Kathleen was very patient, she knew her father's love for these tender, meaningless speeches, she bore with them as she bore with him, with a sweet untiring patience.But he had done at last, he had taken his place in Sir Josiah's car, Sir Josiah was seated beside him, Mr. Coombe's arrangements and re-arrangements were complete, his oil-smeared countenance was beaming, "All aboard!" he cried. "All aboard! You're coming with me this time, Cutler, eh? We'll shew 'em the way, my boy!""Good-bye, Allan, my lad, good-bye and thank 'ee, thank 'ee for a very happy time and good-bye, Lady Kathleen, and thank you too for a time as I shan't forget in a hurry!"Jobson tried to make a little speech, but broke down through nervousness.But Kathleen saved him all embarrassment. "It's been splendid having you and when you are gone I shall miss you all terribly, terribly, and you must all promise to come again soon, very soon, Mr. Jobson, and you Mr. Coombe, and you Mr. Cutler!""Just ask me, my Lady, just give me the chance, that's all!" shouted Mr. Coombe—"Don't forget my telephone number, City double three double five one four——""I think, sir," said Bletsoe, "as we'd best let Mr. Coombe get away with his little lot first, we won't want their dust all the time, nor yet have him trying to pass us every two minutes.""Quite right!" said Sir Josiah. "Yes, by all means allow Mr. Coombe to get away!""I shall feel no personal grief if Mr. Coombe gets entirely away!" said his lordship. He did not like motoring, but the lift that Sir Josiah had offered him had been accepted. It meant that he would not have to purchase a ticket to Town."Good-bye father, good-bye dear Sir Josiah!"Kathleen had clambered on to the running board of the car like any young girl for a last kiss. His lordship disapproved of exhibitions of affection before menials, he waved a white hand."Good-bye, dear child!" But Sir Josiah was not to be deprived of his kiss."It's all right, Bletsoe!" he said at last with a sigh, "I think Mr. Coombe has got well away."They had stayed late, would have stayed later, but for his lordship's anxiety to be back in town. As it was, the sun was near its setting, the sweet mellow glow of the evening was on the earth, and the distances were purple against the red and yellow sky.They stood in the roadway, waving, Allan and Kathleen and Scarsdale. She could have wished that he had gone with them and mentally took herself to task for her lack of hospitality.And now the white dust whirled up by the stout tyres of Sir Josiah's car, blotted it out. It was gone and Kathleen slipped her hand through Allan's arm.Scarsdale saw it. It was done so spontaneously, it seemed so natural that it angered him, his face stiffened. She had married the fellow for money, for nothing else, why did she find it necessary to make such pretence with him? It was mere acting, he knew that, yet he felt she over-acted the part and she fell a little in his estimation, though his love for her and desire of her was no less than before.A man with bent head trudged past them down the road, he lifted his hand to his hat and touched it as he went, yet never gave them a glance. His hand, having reached his hat, remained with it for some moments, his fingers fumbling at the brim, then he was gone."Who was that?" Kathleen asked.Allan hesitated for a moment."A man named Lestwick—he is——""Oh I know, so that is the man, Allan! I can understand that child's feeling, I don't like him, I don't like him, there is something about him——"Kathleen's eyes followed the black figure down the road. "I don't know why," she said, "it may be unjust and probably is, but I—I seemed to feel a chill, a sense of dislike, of distaste as he passed us by!""Poor wretch, he is to be pitied since Kathleen dislikes him!" Scarsdale said and a note of irony and sarcasm crept into his voice, which she detected in a moment and her cheeks flushed a little."I am sorry," she said gently, "I may be mistaken, I hope I am, one is often mistaken in one's likes and dislikes, it is not well to trust too much to instinct!""What did she mean?" Scarsdale wondered, but he said nothing and they went back into the house, the house that seemed strangely deserted and silent.When the friends, whose pleasant voices have sounded in the rooms, have gone their ways, like them much or little as we may, there is always a sense of loneliness and desertion about the place. Who can tell if the hospitable door will ever open to them again? Noisy Mr. Coombe and embarrassed Mr. Jobson—we have no great affection for them perhaps, yet because they were here a while ago and the place seems empty without them, we can spare them a passing regret, we can admit to ourselves that we miss them just a little."You will find it a little dull now, I am afraid Harold," Kathleen said."I shall not find it dull here!""Dull——" when she was near, perhaps that was what his words meant to convey, but Allan, who heard them, noticed no double meaning, no particular tenderness underlying the words."Allan must neglect Mr. Custance a little now and give you more of his time.""If you say that then you will make me feel that I am not wanted. I should hate to think that you regard me as a person who must be entertained. If I thought that my presence here, Homewood, made the very smallest difference to your arrangements, then I should want to leave you at once!""And I hope that you won't think of leaving for a long while to come," said Allan heartily."But you must—must give him a little more time, Allan," Kathleen said presently. "He is your guest——""But your old friend, dear, you and he have far more to talk about than he and I could have! You have the past to dig in!" He smiled.The past—how little he knew! Her heart smote her. She ought to have told him and yet, after all, how little was there to tell? The man she had loved had come back and she had discovered that she had lived in a fool's paradise, that she had not loved the man, but rather had loved her love for him, had idealised it and had made of it the sweetest, holiest and best thing in her life. And now at last with eyes open and clear, she could see that her gold had been tinsel after all, her flowers so fresh and glorious and beautiful had been but poor counterfeits of paper or coloured rag, the hero so noble, so brave, so unselfish and splendid, whose image she had enshrined in her heart was after all but a very ordinary man, very weak and selfish and lacking all those fine qualities with which in her heart she had endowed her childhood's knight.And now the guests were gone, all but Harold Scarsdale—and how she wished that he too had gone with the others—She and Allan were alone and the time had come to tell him that wonderful news!And because the time had come, there came to Kathleen a thousand fears. There came too a strange sense of modesty, a shrinking that would not be there if only he loved her. If only he loved her—would he be glad, glad and proud, or would he be sorry and disappointed, worst of all perhaps he would be indifferent! And that would be the hardest, the cruelest thing of all to bear.Yet she must tell him.To-night, yes to-night, and yet when to-night came she—coward-like—put it off."To-morrow," she said, "I will tell him in the sunshine in the garden, so that I may watch his face and know—know without spoken words what his thoughts and feelings are——"So to-night she lay sleepless beside him, torturing herself with those fears that come to a woman who loves, torturing herself till at last her nerves were all unstrung and she could lie here no longer. So she rose softly, not to waken him, and went to the window and stared out into the glory of the brilliant night.Somewhere far away was her father, probably playing cards in his Club or billiards. How idle were those fine sentimental touching speeches of his, how little she believed in them! She drew her thoughts away from her father, they followed old Sir Josiah instead.How fine and good and noble he was, how sincere and honest! And what he was, she knew that Allan was too, generous and honourable, kind of heart, true—true as steel! What wonder then that she should love him, that her love for him should awaken—Her thoughts were interrupted, from the dark shadows in the garden below there came in the stillness of the night a little moaning, sobbing cry. Kathleen was startled.She was a woman and therefore not without superstition, what good, honest, tender woman has not some trace of superstition in her mind? Just for a moment Kathleen held her breath and listened intently. Again she heard the sound and at the same time a light footfall and then, watching, she saw a little figure come creeping from out the shadows into the white path of the moon.Betty—she knew the child in an instant—Betty out at this hour, Betty in some sore trouble, crying to herself! She had a mind to call softly to the girl, yet did not, for fear of waking him. So she sat for a moment or so and watched the girl go slowly down the paved pathway and then Kathleen made up her mind. She rose, she thrust her white feet into slippers, she threw a dressing gown on and went creeping down the silent stairs.Softly she drew back a bolt and turned a key and opened a door that gave on to the garden.The radiant light of the moon flooded the place, all save under the tall yews, where the shadows lay blackly. But of the girl she could see nothing, yet had noted the way she had gone.Like a ghost herself, a very lovely spirit all in white, her little woollen slippers making never a sound on the old flagged pavement, she sped on her way.The moaning sobbing cry had awakened every sympathy in her heart, she was filled with womanly tenderness and pity. "Poor child, poor pretty child!" she thought and so hurried on, looking eagerly for the little lonely figure. Then presently Kathleen paused, she stood still, she had meant to call softly to Betty, yet did not, for she heard the moaning and crying near at hand now."Afraid—oh afraid—terribul, terribul afraid I be!" the broken voice whispered. "But I must. Oh, I must, I hev made up my mind to it and I must!"Half a dozen noiseless steps and Kathleen saw her. The girl stood on the brink of the pool, her hands clasped over her breast."Afraid, oh terribul, terribul afraid I be!" she whispered and repeated the words again and again. Then she thrust out one bare foot and touched the inky water with it and drew back with a low cry of fear."But I must, I must, 'tis all there be left for I to du now! I must, for he does not want me and I can't, oh I can't du what he wishes me, so I must!—I—I be coming to 'ee my little stone maid, perhaps 'ee always knowed as I would come to 'ee one day—I be coming now, I be coming now! It seems as 'ee always meant something to me, little stone maid standing there, seems to me now as 'ee always called to me to come and I be coming now—now——" She stretched out her hands and suddenly uttered a stifled shriek for she felt strong tender arms about her, felt herself dragged back from the water's edge and then all in a moment she was sobbing out her breaking heart on Kathleen's breast.For many minutes Kathleen let the girl weep on unrestrainedly, for she knew it for the better way. Let her shed her tears, since she could, and when they were passed the little troubled heart would be all the easier for them.So with Kathleen's arms about her, Betty wept softly, clinging to the other woman as to one to whom she looked for love and help and protection and did not look in vain.And then, little by little, Kathleen drew her away from the pool, drew her presently to the stone bench beside the sundial and made her sit beside her."Why Betty, why were you going to do that—that wicked thing?" Kathleen whispered. "No, child, keep your face against my breast, tell me while I hold you! You are safe with me, little Betty, you know that, child, don't you?""Oh safe—safe wi' 'ee, safe wi' 'ee!" the girl moaned."Why did you wish to do that?""There were nothing left for I to du. Oh I didn't want to, for I were afraid, most terribul afraid—I were, but—but it seemed I must, 'twas as if the little stone maid were calling to I, just—just as she used to call to I of moonlight nights when I were in my grandmother's cottage, but—but 'twas different then—then I had not seen him, only—only in my dreams!""Seen him?" Kathleen asked softly."Allan!" the girl said simply and for the moment seemed to forget that it was Allan's wife who held her in her arms."Allan?""I did see him here, here in the old garden, long, long before he came here to live, many times I saw him digging at they flower beds, him all in brown wi' queer brass buckles to his shoes, and his hat all dragged down over his face, strange that I scarce did ever see his face, and yet—yet I knew him and when I came to him here in the garden while he sat on this very bench I knew—oh my lady, what be I saying, what be I saying?"But Kathleen did not answer. It had come to her with a sudden shock, a feeling of desolation, of hopelessness. Allan, her husband, and this little maid, this Betty and the old garden! She remembered the dream of which he had told her, that night in a London theatre. It was but a dream then, a picture out of the past and nothing more and since then it had become reality and yet he had not told her as he had promised!"And I du love him so—so cruel!" the girl sobbed.Never once while she listened to this confession did Kathleen's arms relax their hold on the sobbing girl, yet Kathleen's heart was being tortured and wounded by every word.Allan, her husband, whom she had regarded as the soul of honour—could it be—Allan into whose ears she had intended to pour this wonderful secret, this secret of a little life yet to be, which belonged to him and to her!"Oh my lady, I be so terribul unhappy!" Betty whimpered, "So terribul unhappy for I did think he loved me as I loved him!""And—did he not—love you?" Kathleen whispered and wondered at her own voice, for it trembled so strangely, it was so filled with eagerness, with fear and yet with hope."He was mine—mine!" the girl said passionately. "For 'twas he I saw here in this old garden many, many times—and I knew him, my lady, and yet—yet when I would have felt his kisses on my lips, he held away from me—and oh I be all broken hearted, I be, and now he be set against me and wishful of my going away for ever, but I can't, I can't, I would sooner die! And that night here—here my lady, in the garden, he was all stern and angry wi' I! He told me that I must go, that it would be for my good and that I should be happy and—and he told me my lady as he was afraid of I, afraid—they were his very words!""Thank God he was afraid!" Kathleen thought. "Thank God for his fears, for they did him honour. Oh I was wrong, he is all I thought him, all I believed him, even better, stronger, braver, thank God!""And he told me," Betty went on in her low sobbing voice, "that I were to come to him here in the garden in three nights, 'twere Monday then and to-morrow night I be to see him here and tell him what I will do—if—if I will go far, far away and be wise and sensible—but I can't—I can't 'twould break my heart!""It will not dear," Kathleen said. "It will not, Betty!" Her arm tightened about the girl, she was such a child, did not her very confession prove it? "It seems very hard to bear now Betty, but you must be brave and good and sensible, it will be far, far better that you do not see Allan, my husband, again, for it is not for your happiness to see him. I do not understand, Betty, nor do I think that even you and he understand, it is all so strange—so—so unusual! But I shall send you away——" she paused. It was so easy to say "I will send you away," yet where could she send the child? For a moment she pondered and then it came to her like a flash of inspiration."You shall go away Betty quietly and no one need know of your going and to-morrow I will tell him that you are gone and that you and he will not meet again. You will be happy, very happy with those to whom I shall send you. Will you trust me, Betty?""Trust 'ee——." The girl caught her hand and kissed it passionately. "And—and bain't I to see him again, never?""It will be better not, Betty!"Betty leaned against her sobbing—"I du love him——" she sobbed, "and it will be terribul to go and never see him again!""Had you thrown yourself into the water to-night you would never have seen him again and you would have caused him grief and sorrow, Betty, so—so dear it is better you should go quietly, and live and be happy, for you will be happy, child and you will forget! You are only a child, Betty, and—and I—I know what a child's love means, it is seldom the real love—it will pass, for such love does pass, I know, Betty! And then—then one day the real love, the love of all your life will come to you and you will look back on these memories and smile at them and when that day comes, Betty——" Kathleen's voice shook a little, "then—then, child, go down on your knees and thank God that you gave your child's love to a good and noble man, a man who respected it—and you—and—and was afraid—dear!"And Betty, if she did not understand, was comforted by the kind voice and nestled closer to Kathleen. She dried her tears and presently had forgotten them and was smiling, and the little tragedy was past.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE AWAKENING
Bright eyes, the brightest he believed he had ever seen, greeted Allan. Eyes so kind, so bright and so tender that he knew before ever a word had been spoken that he had not offended, that Kathleen was not angry with him, not hurt.
He felt a great wave of relief and then the feeling passed and gave place to wonder, because in some subtle way Kathleen had changed. To others she was still the Kathleen he knew and loved and respected, but to him she had become another being, her eyes were misty and soft and tender, for him, there was a rich, rare colour in her cheeks. He felt his own heart respond. As they were passing into lunch he touched her hand—why?
There was no reason for it, it was just the impulse of the moment, yet he felt that he must do it, so he did and she turned and looked at him and it seemed to him that the colour deepened in her cheeks and the look in her eyes was more tender than ever.
And the touch of that little hand of hers made his heart leap. This was no mere friendship, this was no mere liking, no symptom of respect. He wondered at himself, wondered at its meaning and as a result he failed to hear Lord Gowerhurst, who was addressing himself particularly to Allan.
As a matter of fact Lord Gowerhurst, departing on the morrow, found himself woefully short of money. He was not in the cue to approach Sir Josiah and a timely loan of a comparatively small sum from Allan, a mere fifty or even twenty-five, would be agreeable to his lordship. Later on Sir Josiah's money bags must be properly besieged, with all due form and with a regard to detail for which there was no time at the moment.
"If, therefore, you could give me ah—ten minutes—some time most convenient to yourself, my dear Allan—" said his lordship with unwonted humility.
"Of course, delighted!" Allan murmured, and was thinking of Kathleen all the time.
Had he ever appreciated her properly? Had he ever realised the exquisite beauty of her face, a beauty that was spiritual, was of expression rather than of mere form and mould of feature. How sweetly gracious she was, how charming, not even the loquacious and boresome Coombe aroused irritability in her—how his old father worshipped her—what a strange, yet perfect understanding there seemed to be between them, the old City man of business, of plebeian origin and this young and gracious well born lady. Yet they were so obviously and so certainly friends, good, close, true friends, with a mutual understanding and a mutual love for one another.
So Allan did not make the most agreeable of companions at that meal and his lordship felt uneasy.
"I wonder if the fellow suspects I'm going to ask a small loan, a mere trifle till I get back to town? Confound it, it's deuced unpleasant for a man in my position to—er—place himself under an obligation to a mere stripling like this! I can't ask Scarsdale, there's something deuced standoffish about the fellow; I almost wish I hadn't taken Scarsdale up again, I've got an idea that Scarsdale lets bygones rankle. By George, though, I did give him a dressing down in those days, and by George he deserved it—asked for it—begad, and got it too!"
Just for a moment Allan had an opportunity for a word with Kathleen when lunch was over.
"You—you are not angry with me?"
"Angry?"
Was she a woman of twenty-nine almost, or only a maiden of nineteen that suddenly her eyes dropped before his, that suddenly a deep rich colour came flaming her face.
"Kathleen—Kathleen!" He caught her hand, he was suddenly in a strange tremble, and then in on them burst Mr. Coombe.
"Wistaria, not westeria, Jobson, my boy, if you'd done the gardening I've done at Tulse Hill—I—I beg pardon!" stammered Mr. Coombe, taken aback.
Kathleen smiled. "You are quite right, Mr. Coombe, it is wistaria!" she said.
"I've got one over my house at Tulse Hill," said Mr. Coombe, "with a stem, if you'll believe me, as thick as my body!" Which was an exaggeration, as Mr. Coombe's body was of no ordinary thickness.
Allan turned away.
"Oh, I forgot—" he said, and his eyes and Kathleen's met. "I saw Mrs. Hanson at her gate as I passed and she says if you can spare her granddaughter this evening, Kathleen, she would be glad."
"I will send Betty," Kathleen said, "though the old woman was not very kind to her, still she is old and alone. Yes, I will see that Betty goes!"
His lordship secured his quiet ten minutes with Allan.
"Most foolish and stupid of me, forgot to bring my cheque book, I can't think what possessed me—I assure you, Allan, I was astounded at my oversight. Of course one can draw a cheque on a sheet of note paper, but my Bank don't like it—no, they don't like it, sir—and so—so——"
"I shall be only too pleased to be of service to you," said Allan promptly, so promptly that his lordship was a little taken aback.
Yet Allan seemed so ready, so willing—it would be a shameful waste of opportunity to make the amount so small as he had originally intended.
"If—if—er—a couple of hundred wouldn't put you to inconvenience——"
"With pleasure," Allan said. "I'll send Howard over to Stretton in the car, he'll be able to get to the Bank just in time."
Never in the whole course of his experience, and it had been large, had his lordship had such a request granted with such alacrity and willingness.
"My dear Allan, 'pon my soul now, 'pon my soul, it is very good of you—I take a pleasure, sir, a pleasure in being under an obligation to you, even though it is only a temporary one. You're a good fellow, Allan, a deuced generous, open-handed good fellow and—and I honour you, sir, and your father too, and it's a pleasure and a relief to me, be Gad, to think that my girl has entered your family—a family of—of gentlemen, be gad!"
"Poor old chap!" Allan thought. "It must be hard for a man in his position and of his rank to have to lower himself and demean himself to borrow money—" He sighed, and then smiled in wonder at himself that he should feel so kindly towards Lord Gowerhurst, for whom he had previously felt nothing but aversion and contempt.
But then Lord Gowerhurst was Kathleen's father and for some reason to-day that made just all the difference in the world to Allan. So, having lent Lord Gowerhurst two hundred pounds, Allan resolved that he would say nothing to his own father about it.
Custance claimed Allan that afternoon and when Custance had done with him there was barely time to reach home and dress for dinner, so he did not see Kathleen till they met at the dinner table. And to-night she was looking her loveliest and her best. Even Coombe remarked her heightened colour and tried to pay her a clumsy compliment on her looks and meeting Lord Gowerhurst's cold stare when half way through his speech, faltered and broke down and burst into profuse perspiration.
But Kathleen smiled on him and thanked him and told him in a little confidential whisper, that highly pleased Coombe, that she was getting to be an old, old woman. In less than eighteen months she would be thirty years of age, and though she had not found a grey hair as yet, no doubt she soon would.
"Old, my dear—" said Mr. Coombe, and then blushed crimson, "I beg your pardon——"
"You have nothing to beg my pardon for—Sir Josiah's friends are mine—and if one of them is kind enough to call me my dear, it only proves that he likes me and I like to be liked, Mr. Coombe, by my friends!"
"And so you are, so you are, and as for getting old, never, you'll never be old, you'll be young to the last day of your life, if you live to be eighty, and please God you will!" And Mr. Coombe turned deliberately and stared Lord Gowerhurst full in the face with an expression that said as plain as words—"If you don't like the way I am behaving and if you don't like my paying compliments to your daughter—then you can go to the deuce and go as soon as you like, my Lord, and be hanged to you!"
Among that company of gentlemen Harold Scarsdale was inconspicuous. That he was better bred than Mr. Coombe and Mr. Jobson was obvious, that he could talk a good deal better than any of them Allan at least knew, but it pleased Scarsdale to hold his tongue and keep himself much in the background. From that background he watched Kathleen and the more he watched the less did he seem to understand her.
He remembered the passion of the old days, he remembered that scene by the lake only two short days ago, how during those two days had she changed. She greeted him with a friendly smile, she held out her hand to him, she wished him good morning and good night and talked to him of trivial, every day things, listening with interest to the few remarks he made and that was all.
But she was a woman and he knew little of women, but had read much and so had obtained a false impression. She was clever, she was hiding her feelings and doing it successfully. When the time came, and it would come, then she would fling all pretence to the winds, she would be his, he would open his arms to her, the ten years of hunger would be ended.
To-night he sat in his corner and listened to everyone and said little, but he was watchful and presently he saw Allan go out and, waiting for a time, Scarsdale too rose and sauntered to the window and stepped out into the garden.
Allan, however, had not gone to the garden. He remembered that Betty was going to her grandmother's to-night.
She would be sure to leave the old woman's cottage by nine. He counted on that. He wanted to see her, he wanted to see how she had taken what her grandmother would say to her, he wanted to know that Betty would realise how sensible the arrangement was and how it would be for her own good and happiness in the long run. She was young, a mere child, in some far away little village she would begin a new life, unmolested by Abram Lestwick, the terror of his presence and his pretensions removed for ever from her mind. And far away amid new surroundings, she would surely forget in time—perhaps not at once—yet in time, all those strange happenings and that strange tie that had drawn Betty and himself so closely together.
Allan was not vain, he did not for one moment believe that it was his own personality that had attracted Betty, or that he himself—the man he was now, had ever awakened any feelings of tenderness and love in that little heart.
It was the glamour, the strange mystery, the unsolvable mystery, those visions that she—and he too—had seen, that dimly uncertain memory of 'something' that had been, in the buried and unknown past; it was that that had appealed to her as of course it had appealed to him.
So Allan lighted his pipe and strolled away down the dusky road and strangely enough had not gone ten paces before he was thinking of Kathleen, rather than of her he had come to meet.
* * * * *
Mrs. Hanson sat upright on her stiff old chair, her hands were folded primly on her narrow lap, her eyes were fixed in an unwavering stare on the closed door.
She was expecting Betty, she had been expecting the girl for the past hour. For an hour Mrs. Hanson had sat there listening for coming footsteps but hearing only the steady persistent 'tick-tock' of the long cased clock.
During that hour Mrs. Hanson had been thinking, she had been asking of herself questions, and as the minutes passed the stern old face grew graver and grimmer.
Why should he be willing to give to Betty and herself such a mort of money. Why should he be wishful of sending Betty to some far off place. Why should Mr. Allan Homewood interest himself in the very least with the future of Betty Hanson at all?
Questions that Mrs. Hanson could not answer satisfactorily.
"A very pleasant and outspoken young gentleman he du seem—and yet——" Mrs. Hanson shook her head. "And yet——"
But the long expected footsteps were sounding, there came a tapping on the door. That in itself was unfamiliar. In the old days Betty lifted the latch and came in.
Betty came to-night as a visitor, and Mrs. Hanson realised the difference.
"Come in," she said, and rose stiffly to receive her visitor. Betty came in nervously; she looked at her grandmother, hesitated and then came forward and offered a soft cheek.
"You will hev had your tea?"
"Yes grandmother."
"Will you be seated?"
Betty sat down, her nervousness increasing.
Mrs. Hanson stared at the childish pretty face, it was the face of most perfect innocence, yet Mrs. Hanson looked with eyes of suspicion.
"The weather be holding up," she remarked, she was a woman who never came straight to the matter in hand, as Betty well knew.
"Grandmother 'ee sent for I?"
It was like carrying the war into the enemy's camp.
"True I did send for 'ee," Mrs. Hanson frowned.
"I hev had from young Mr. Allan Homewood an offer with which I be greatly surprised."
"From—from——" the colour deepened in the pretty cheeks, a fact that Mrs. Hanson's keen eyes did not miss.
"And why pray should 'ee blush at the mention of the gentleman's name."
"I bean't blushing, grandmother."
"And now 'ee be lying as well, Betty Hanson."
Betty hung her head.
"Very distrustful and uneasy I be in my mind, very distrustful. Betty Hanson, look me in the eye and answer me this: what be there between 'ee and Mr. Allan Homewood?"
"Oh! oh grandmother—there——" Betty was silent, she pressed her hands against her breast. "Be-between I and Mr. Homewood grandmother, what—what should there be?"
"There should be nothing Miss, but there be! there be, I see it. What be he to thee?"
"Nothing, nothing, nothing. Oh grandmother, why do 'ee worry I so? I wish—I wish—I hadn't come!"
"If so be as your mind were at rest and your conscience clear, Betty Hanson, 'ee wouldn't hev said that! Now answer, answer me and speak the truth for I be your dead father's mother and your only living relative I be. What be Mr. Allan Homewood to 'ee?"
"Nothing," the girl whispered, "he bain't nothing to I—nothing, and if anyone hev told 'ee contrairywise he be a liar!"
"The truth I will hev! nor shall 'ee leave this place——"
Mrs. Hanson rose, she crossed the room to the door and turned the ponderous key. "The truth will I hev before I shall allow 'ee to depart, what be Mr. Allan Homewood of Homewood Manor House, to 'ee, Betty Hanson?"
Betty did not answer. She sat with bowed head, she wrung and twisted her hands.
"I—I did see he—of nights of moonlight—nights in—in the old garden," she whispered.
Mrs. Hanson bristled, she sat upright: "'Ee did see him of nights in the old garden! Oh! shame on 'ee shame——
"So this be the meaning of your perilous bad conduct, slipping away out of the cottage of nights to—to meet—a man, a man! Terribul deceitful and deceiving 'ee've been all this while, terribul and shameful and perilous Betty Hanson."
"'Twasn't a man I went to see," Betty cried, "Grandmother 'twere no man."
"No man and 'ee said with your own lips——"
"Grandmother, 'ee can never, never understand—it—were a—a ghost——"
Mrs. Hanson fell back on her chair, her black eyes blazed in indignation.
"'Ee've said enough, either 'ee be daft or the greatest liar as I ever did hear on, a Ghost! 'ee wicked deceitful maid, a ghost indeed!"
"Grandmother, 'ee could never, never understand. I'll try and make 'ee, but I know——" Betty shook her head, "'ee never will. 'Twasn't Allan——"
"Allan," Mrs. Hanson lifted her two hands.
"'Twasn't Allan, I did see in the old garden, but a ghost I see him and others, fine ladies and gentlemen all in strange clothing, Grandmother, and Allan he were for ever digging, he in his old brown suit wi' the brass buckles to his shoes and——"
"Betty Hanson, stop, stop, this minit; not another word will I sit here and listen to, I hev made up my mind.
"This day, this man, this Allan, as 'ee do so shamelessly call him, made an offer to me. A fine offer that I did greatly mistrust. 'Tis this—take the child—away he said, take her far away, don't worrit her wi' Abram Lestwick, and I will allow 'ee and her tu, the thirty-five shillings a week, the same as Abram's money and a cottage all for nothin' so as 'ee du take she far away from Homewood."
"Oh! oh! he said that?"
"Aye he did, my maid, which du mean as he be tired of 'ee, tired, 'ee hear me, tired as men du tire of women like 'ee."
Betty lifted her head slowly, she looked at the grandmother and her pretty face blazed with sudden anger. She rose:
"Grandmother, 'ee be a wicked woman, a bad despiteful wicked woman. What 'ee hev said, shames 'ee more, more than it does me, shames 'ee, and—and——" she broke down suddenly, she sank back sobbing on to the chair, she rocked to and fro. "'Ee could never, never understand 'twasn't Allan, yet 'twas Allan and I know he were something to I, something very, very dear and precious he were to I. But oh! oh! 'ee could never understand."
"I du understand this," Mrs. Hanson said, "I do understand that 'ee shall marry Abram Lestwick. An honest and upright man, and 'ee shall never take money from him as 'ee du most shamelessly call Allan, never, nor I. Money taken from he would choke me, 'twould spring up like the tares and choke me."
Mrs. Hanson pointed a bony finger at the girl.
"'Ee shall marry Abram Lestwick a good man and honest, 'ee shall become his wife. I hev said it, and I say it again and I shall listen to no more of this nonsense, and as for Mr. Allan Homewood for all he be a frank and outspoken gentleman and lib'ral wi' his money, I would take shame to myself to accept of anything from he, nor allow 'ee to do likewise. Marry Abram Lestwick 'ee shall——"
"I never will," Betty leaped up, her face convulsed, "I never will, I bain't your grand-darter any more, I bean't nothing to 'ee, I wunt listen to 'ee! I wunt! I be free, free—and——" she turned and darted to the door, she wrenched at the heavy old key and turned it, just as Mrs. Hanson rose and came stiffly to prevent her.
But Betty, younger and more active succeeded, she tore the door open and in the open doorway turned:
"I bain't your grand-darter anymore! I be free of 'ee, I wunt marry Abram Lestwick, I—I'll be—damned if I du."
"Stop!" Mrs. Hanson said in a voice of thunder, but Betty did not, she turned and fled into the night and the old woman unable to pursue stood there shaking and quivering with honest indignation.
"De-fiant her be, perilous defiant and hev soiled her lips wi' foul and unseemly words, her henceforth be no granddarter of mine. From this moment I du renounce she."
Sobbing, panting, her little heart labouring, down the road sped Betty, and then suddenly she saw him coming, slowly towards her, and to him she ran with eager outstretched hands and a little cry of joy.
"O Allan, Allan be 'ee come to meet I? O Allan, I be all upset and put about, I be——"
"Betty—why Betty child, what is it, what has—come," he added as she clung to his hand sobbing like a broken hearted child.
"Be kind to me, be kind to me, for I be all broken hearted," she pressed her tear-stained face against his sleeve.
"Allan, I be all broken hearted. Her be harsh and cruel wi' me, and said—said things—things—Oh!" she pressed her face tightly to his sleeve, to hide the hot flush of shame that came to her.
"Hush little girl, hush," he said, "don't cry, did your grandmother tell you what I suggested about—about you and her going away——?"
"She told me—she told me, and she said she wouldn't hev it, she said that I must marry Abram."
"You never shall, Betty, don't cry, I swear before Heaven you never shall, trust me, rely on me in this, for rather than that, I would kill the man, kill him with my two hands. Betty, you hear me?"
"Aye I hear 'ee; say it again Allan, say it over again, say as 'ee would kill he, rather than I should marry he."
"I mean it, and it shall never be, and your grandmother then will not agree to my plan. Well, it does not matter, you will be perhaps happier without her, I shall find some place where neither your grandmother nor Abram Lestwick will trouble you, with people who will be good and kind to you and will make your life happy. Your future shall be protected, too."
"Let me stay. Let me stay here, and bide with 'ee, don't, don't send me away from 'ee Allan, don't 'ee send me away."
"Hush," he said. "Hush," he was bitterly disappointed, he had thought all arranged, and now—but her pitiful crying wrung his heart, poor little maid, poor dear little soul, he put his arm about her and tried to soothe and quiet her.
"Betty, Betty, don't cry, don't cry, it hurts me to hear you cry and child, try and understand how—how impossible it all is. There is no other way, you yourself will see it and understand it presently."
"Don't send me away from 'ee for I shall die, I shall die if 'ee do." She was nestling close to him, holding his hand in both her own, pressing it against her wet cheek.
Supposing someone should happen down the road and what more likely—oh no, this would never do.
"Come, Betty! Come, be brave, we must talk of this."
Not far away was the little green gate, and he drew her towards it and in the deep shadows of the wall a man flattened himself against the brickwork and held his breath as they passed him so closely, that he might have stretched out his hand and touched them as they went, a man who was shaking strangely with passion and whose eyes gleamed from the dark shadows. And then the little green door opened and took them and Abram Lestwick stepped into the roadway.
"Pleasant spoken," he said. "Aye, pleasant spoken he be. Pleasant spoken!" He repeated the words a score of times, he went to the green door and his hands worked with it. He fingered the heavy old nail heads with which it was studded.
"Very, very pleasant spoken he be—robbing me of she—robbing—robbing——." He scratched at the paint with his nails, then muttering to himself, turned away and went down the road.
Allan led Betty into the garden, he led her along the path between the tall yews and as they walked he spoke to her. It was difficult, yet it must be done. His heart yearned to her in pity—the spell of her, the fascination of her was on him, but he fought against it—her childlike weeping set him longing to take her in his arms, to comfort her, hold her, kiss her tears away, for the weeping of women and of children always affected him greatly.
"Betty, don't cry, Betty listen to me. Be reasonable, be sensible my dear, listen——."
"O Allan, oh sir, that you—that you of all should turn against thy Betty."
His Betty—what memories the words awakened, memories of this same garden, of a little maid in quaint mob cap, with pretty mittened hands and eyes all ashine with love—for him—Thy Betty, that maid had said as she, by his side, had said it but a moment ago—His Betty!
Perhaps the devil walked with them that night along the path under the dark yews, perhaps he tapped Allan on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.
Allan turned to her suddenly, he gripped her wrists, he tore her hands away from her face, his voice was harsh, as unlike his own voice as voice could be.
"Listen, you—you must—this—this cannot go on. What the past held, God knows—yet whatever it held, it cannot and shall not influence the future. I have a wife, I am bound in honour to her, in honour to you, Betty. Hush, leave off crying, you hear me?"
She was frightened by the stern authority in his voice and left off her whimpering.
"What I am doing, what I want to do is for your own sake, and for mine because you are young and well nigh friendless and very beautiful, because I too am young and—and afraid, yes afraid—Betty."
"Oh Allan, of—of me?"
"Yes of you, and for you Betty, I want you to be happy and, dear, I want happiness myself. This old garden, the garden here about us has meant so much to us both, better dear that you should go and never see it again, for then in time you will forget, and the love you speak of is not real, it cannot be real, it is born of dreams Betty and like a dream it will pass."
"Why—why when I du love——"
"You know why, because I have a wife, because I love her and honour her and would sooner cut off my hand than cause her one moment of shame, of pain or unhappiness."
He bent nearer to her, he could see her face glimmering white so near to his, so tempting, yet he was not tempted.
"It means her happiness, do you know why—because—and God knows that I speak without vanity, but very humbly, because I believe that she loves me—how could I hurt her through you, would you hurt her?"
"I would die for her!" She wrenched her hands free from his, she stood before him.
"I—I will think of all as 'ee have said to I, sir, and I—I will try and bring myself to thy way of thinking and I—I will try and bring myself to—oh no, no! I can't, I can't!" She broke down, sobbing wildly, then suddenly gained control of herself. "I will not—not trouble thee any more, sir."
"Betty, listen," he put his hands on her shoulders and held her. "Take time, take time, think this over, to-day is Monday, in three days, not before three days, you will make up your mind, Betty, come to me—here in this place—in three days—on Thursday night at this hour, come and tell me then, child, that you will be wise and sensible."
"I—I will come to 'ee here in three days——" she said slowly, "and then I will tell 'ee, sir, what I shall do,—in three days—good night!" She turned away, standing there he heard her go and heard a strange little moaning noise coming back to him from out the darkness as she went.
So, after waiting a time, he too turned towards the house and passed down the wide flagged pathway, and the man on the stone bench by the sundial let him pass unchallenged.
CHAPTER XXXIII
BY THE LAKE
Lord Gowerhurst made an affecting little speech, for the time of parting had come. Sir Josiah's big car, all spick and span, with the respectable Bletsoe at the wheel, was waiting outside the hall door, so too was Mr. Coombe's automobile, which seemed to require some of its owner's attention at the last moment, for Mr. Coombe was only visible as to his legs and feet, the rest of him being out of sight under his car.
"This visit, a trifling thing perhaps to you, my love, has been to me like an oasis, a green and fragrant oasis be-gad, an the desert of my life! I am leaving my dear, dear daughter——" his lordship turned his fine eyes upwards and his voice shook with noble emotion. "I am leaving my dear, dear daughter surrounded by love and happiness, I am leaving her in her pretty little home——." He spoke of the place as though it were a cottage, to impress Messrs. Cutler and Jobson with the idea of his own magnificence—"and I——" he sighed, "I go back to my quiet humdrum life, my poor chambers, my loneliness! Often and often as I sit alone in my rooms, I shall picture you and this home of yours to myself. I am an old man, an old man my dear, and my time—may not be long——." He sighed deeply, there were tears in those fine eyes of his. Kathleen was very patient, she knew her father's love for these tender, meaningless speeches, she bore with them as she bore with him, with a sweet untiring patience.
But he had done at last, he had taken his place in Sir Josiah's car, Sir Josiah was seated beside him, Mr. Coombe's arrangements and re-arrangements were complete, his oil-smeared countenance was beaming, "All aboard!" he cried. "All aboard! You're coming with me this time, Cutler, eh? We'll shew 'em the way, my boy!"
"Good-bye, Allan, my lad, good-bye and thank 'ee, thank 'ee for a very happy time and good-bye, Lady Kathleen, and thank you too for a time as I shan't forget in a hurry!"
Jobson tried to make a little speech, but broke down through nervousness.
But Kathleen saved him all embarrassment. "It's been splendid having you and when you are gone I shall miss you all terribly, terribly, and you must all promise to come again soon, very soon, Mr. Jobson, and you Mr. Coombe, and you Mr. Cutler!"
"Just ask me, my Lady, just give me the chance, that's all!" shouted Mr. Coombe—"Don't forget my telephone number, City double three double five one four——"
"I think, sir," said Bletsoe, "as we'd best let Mr. Coombe get away with his little lot first, we won't want their dust all the time, nor yet have him trying to pass us every two minutes."
"Quite right!" said Sir Josiah. "Yes, by all means allow Mr. Coombe to get away!"
"I shall feel no personal grief if Mr. Coombe gets entirely away!" said his lordship. He did not like motoring, but the lift that Sir Josiah had offered him had been accepted. It meant that he would not have to purchase a ticket to Town.
"Good-bye father, good-bye dear Sir Josiah!"
Kathleen had clambered on to the running board of the car like any young girl for a last kiss. His lordship disapproved of exhibitions of affection before menials, he waved a white hand.
"Good-bye, dear child!" But Sir Josiah was not to be deprived of his kiss.
"It's all right, Bletsoe!" he said at last with a sigh, "I think Mr. Coombe has got well away."
They had stayed late, would have stayed later, but for his lordship's anxiety to be back in town. As it was, the sun was near its setting, the sweet mellow glow of the evening was on the earth, and the distances were purple against the red and yellow sky.
They stood in the roadway, waving, Allan and Kathleen and Scarsdale. She could have wished that he had gone with them and mentally took herself to task for her lack of hospitality.
And now the white dust whirled up by the stout tyres of Sir Josiah's car, blotted it out. It was gone and Kathleen slipped her hand through Allan's arm.
Scarsdale saw it. It was done so spontaneously, it seemed so natural that it angered him, his face stiffened. She had married the fellow for money, for nothing else, why did she find it necessary to make such pretence with him? It was mere acting, he knew that, yet he felt she over-acted the part and she fell a little in his estimation, though his love for her and desire of her was no less than before.
A man with bent head trudged past them down the road, he lifted his hand to his hat and touched it as he went, yet never gave them a glance. His hand, having reached his hat, remained with it for some moments, his fingers fumbling at the brim, then he was gone.
"Who was that?" Kathleen asked.
Allan hesitated for a moment.
"A man named Lestwick—he is——"
"Oh I know, so that is the man, Allan! I can understand that child's feeling, I don't like him, I don't like him, there is something about him——"
Kathleen's eyes followed the black figure down the road. "I don't know why," she said, "it may be unjust and probably is, but I—I seemed to feel a chill, a sense of dislike, of distaste as he passed us by!"
"Poor wretch, he is to be pitied since Kathleen dislikes him!" Scarsdale said and a note of irony and sarcasm crept into his voice, which she detected in a moment and her cheeks flushed a little.
"I am sorry," she said gently, "I may be mistaken, I hope I am, one is often mistaken in one's likes and dislikes, it is not well to trust too much to instinct!"
"What did she mean?" Scarsdale wondered, but he said nothing and they went back into the house, the house that seemed strangely deserted and silent.
When the friends, whose pleasant voices have sounded in the rooms, have gone their ways, like them much or little as we may, there is always a sense of loneliness and desertion about the place. Who can tell if the hospitable door will ever open to them again? Noisy Mr. Coombe and embarrassed Mr. Jobson—we have no great affection for them perhaps, yet because they were here a while ago and the place seems empty without them, we can spare them a passing regret, we can admit to ourselves that we miss them just a little.
"You will find it a little dull now, I am afraid Harold," Kathleen said.
"I shall not find it dull here!"
"Dull——" when she was near, perhaps that was what his words meant to convey, but Allan, who heard them, noticed no double meaning, no particular tenderness underlying the words.
"Allan must neglect Mr. Custance a little now and give you more of his time."
"If you say that then you will make me feel that I am not wanted. I should hate to think that you regard me as a person who must be entertained. If I thought that my presence here, Homewood, made the very smallest difference to your arrangements, then I should want to leave you at once!"
"And I hope that you won't think of leaving for a long while to come," said Allan heartily.
"But you must—must give him a little more time, Allan," Kathleen said presently. "He is your guest——"
"But your old friend, dear, you and he have far more to talk about than he and I could have! You have the past to dig in!" He smiled.
The past—how little he knew! Her heart smote her. She ought to have told him and yet, after all, how little was there to tell? The man she had loved had come back and she had discovered that she had lived in a fool's paradise, that she had not loved the man, but rather had loved her love for him, had idealised it and had made of it the sweetest, holiest and best thing in her life. And now at last with eyes open and clear, she could see that her gold had been tinsel after all, her flowers so fresh and glorious and beautiful had been but poor counterfeits of paper or coloured rag, the hero so noble, so brave, so unselfish and splendid, whose image she had enshrined in her heart was after all but a very ordinary man, very weak and selfish and lacking all those fine qualities with which in her heart she had endowed her childhood's knight.
And now the guests were gone, all but Harold Scarsdale—and how she wished that he too had gone with the others—She and Allan were alone and the time had come to tell him that wonderful news!
And because the time had come, there came to Kathleen a thousand fears. There came too a strange sense of modesty, a shrinking that would not be there if only he loved her. If only he loved her—would he be glad, glad and proud, or would he be sorry and disappointed, worst of all perhaps he would be indifferent! And that would be the hardest, the cruelest thing of all to bear.
Yet she must tell him.
To-night, yes to-night, and yet when to-night came she—coward-like—put it off.
"To-morrow," she said, "I will tell him in the sunshine in the garden, so that I may watch his face and know—know without spoken words what his thoughts and feelings are——"
So to-night she lay sleepless beside him, torturing herself with those fears that come to a woman who loves, torturing herself till at last her nerves were all unstrung and she could lie here no longer. So she rose softly, not to waken him, and went to the window and stared out into the glory of the brilliant night.
Somewhere far away was her father, probably playing cards in his Club or billiards. How idle were those fine sentimental touching speeches of his, how little she believed in them! She drew her thoughts away from her father, they followed old Sir Josiah instead.
How fine and good and noble he was, how sincere and honest! And what he was, she knew that Allan was too, generous and honourable, kind of heart, true—true as steel! What wonder then that she should love him, that her love for him should awaken—
Her thoughts were interrupted, from the dark shadows in the garden below there came in the stillness of the night a little moaning, sobbing cry. Kathleen was startled.
She was a woman and therefore not without superstition, what good, honest, tender woman has not some trace of superstition in her mind? Just for a moment Kathleen held her breath and listened intently. Again she heard the sound and at the same time a light footfall and then, watching, she saw a little figure come creeping from out the shadows into the white path of the moon.
Betty—she knew the child in an instant—Betty out at this hour, Betty in some sore trouble, crying to herself! She had a mind to call softly to the girl, yet did not, for fear of waking him. So she sat for a moment or so and watched the girl go slowly down the paved pathway and then Kathleen made up her mind. She rose, she thrust her white feet into slippers, she threw a dressing gown on and went creeping down the silent stairs.
Softly she drew back a bolt and turned a key and opened a door that gave on to the garden.
The radiant light of the moon flooded the place, all save under the tall yews, where the shadows lay blackly. But of the girl she could see nothing, yet had noted the way she had gone.
Like a ghost herself, a very lovely spirit all in white, her little woollen slippers making never a sound on the old flagged pavement, she sped on her way.
The moaning sobbing cry had awakened every sympathy in her heart, she was filled with womanly tenderness and pity. "Poor child, poor pretty child!" she thought and so hurried on, looking eagerly for the little lonely figure. Then presently Kathleen paused, she stood still, she had meant to call softly to Betty, yet did not, for she heard the moaning and crying near at hand now.
"Afraid—oh afraid—terribul, terribul afraid I be!" the broken voice whispered. "But I must. Oh, I must, I hev made up my mind to it and I must!"
Half a dozen noiseless steps and Kathleen saw her. The girl stood on the brink of the pool, her hands clasped over her breast.
"Afraid, oh terribul, terribul afraid I be!" she whispered and repeated the words again and again. Then she thrust out one bare foot and touched the inky water with it and drew back with a low cry of fear.
"But I must, I must, 'tis all there be left for I to du now! I must, for he does not want me and I can't, oh I can't du what he wishes me, so I must!—I—I be coming to 'ee my little stone maid, perhaps 'ee always knowed as I would come to 'ee one day—I be coming now, I be coming now! It seems as 'ee always meant something to me, little stone maid standing there, seems to me now as 'ee always called to me to come and I be coming now—now——" She stretched out her hands and suddenly uttered a stifled shriek for she felt strong tender arms about her, felt herself dragged back from the water's edge and then all in a moment she was sobbing out her breaking heart on Kathleen's breast.
For many minutes Kathleen let the girl weep on unrestrainedly, for she knew it for the better way. Let her shed her tears, since she could, and when they were passed the little troubled heart would be all the easier for them.
So with Kathleen's arms about her, Betty wept softly, clinging to the other woman as to one to whom she looked for love and help and protection and did not look in vain.
And then, little by little, Kathleen drew her away from the pool, drew her presently to the stone bench beside the sundial and made her sit beside her.
"Why Betty, why were you going to do that—that wicked thing?" Kathleen whispered. "No, child, keep your face against my breast, tell me while I hold you! You are safe with me, little Betty, you know that, child, don't you?"
"Oh safe—safe wi' 'ee, safe wi' 'ee!" the girl moaned.
"Why did you wish to do that?"
"There were nothing left for I to du. Oh I didn't want to, for I were afraid, most terribul afraid—I were, but—but it seemed I must, 'twas as if the little stone maid were calling to I, just—just as she used to call to I of moonlight nights when I were in my grandmother's cottage, but—but 'twas different then—then I had not seen him, only—only in my dreams!"
"Seen him?" Kathleen asked softly.
"Allan!" the girl said simply and for the moment seemed to forget that it was Allan's wife who held her in her arms.
"Allan?"
"I did see him here, here in the old garden, long, long before he came here to live, many times I saw him digging at they flower beds, him all in brown wi' queer brass buckles to his shoes, and his hat all dragged down over his face, strange that I scarce did ever see his face, and yet—yet I knew him and when I came to him here in the garden while he sat on this very bench I knew—oh my lady, what be I saying, what be I saying?"
But Kathleen did not answer. It had come to her with a sudden shock, a feeling of desolation, of hopelessness. Allan, her husband, and this little maid, this Betty and the old garden! She remembered the dream of which he had told her, that night in a London theatre. It was but a dream then, a picture out of the past and nothing more and since then it had become reality and yet he had not told her as he had promised!
"And I du love him so—so cruel!" the girl sobbed.
Never once while she listened to this confession did Kathleen's arms relax their hold on the sobbing girl, yet Kathleen's heart was being tortured and wounded by every word.
Allan, her husband, whom she had regarded as the soul of honour—could it be—Allan into whose ears she had intended to pour this wonderful secret, this secret of a little life yet to be, which belonged to him and to her!
"Oh my lady, I be so terribul unhappy!" Betty whimpered, "So terribul unhappy for I did think he loved me as I loved him!"
"And—did he not—love you?" Kathleen whispered and wondered at her own voice, for it trembled so strangely, it was so filled with eagerness, with fear and yet with hope.
"He was mine—mine!" the girl said passionately. "For 'twas he I saw here in this old garden many, many times—and I knew him, my lady, and yet—yet when I would have felt his kisses on my lips, he held away from me—and oh I be all broken hearted, I be, and now he be set against me and wishful of my going away for ever, but I can't, I can't, I would sooner die! And that night here—here my lady, in the garden, he was all stern and angry wi' I! He told me that I must go, that it would be for my good and that I should be happy and—and he told me my lady as he was afraid of I, afraid—they were his very words!"
"Thank God he was afraid!" Kathleen thought. "Thank God for his fears, for they did him honour. Oh I was wrong, he is all I thought him, all I believed him, even better, stronger, braver, thank God!"
"And he told me," Betty went on in her low sobbing voice, "that I were to come to him here in the garden in three nights, 'twere Monday then and to-morrow night I be to see him here and tell him what I will do—if—if I will go far, far away and be wise and sensible—but I can't—I can't 'twould break my heart!"
"It will not dear," Kathleen said. "It will not, Betty!" Her arm tightened about the girl, she was such a child, did not her very confession prove it? "It seems very hard to bear now Betty, but you must be brave and good and sensible, it will be far, far better that you do not see Allan, my husband, again, for it is not for your happiness to see him. I do not understand, Betty, nor do I think that even you and he understand, it is all so strange—so—so unusual! But I shall send you away——" she paused. It was so easy to say "I will send you away," yet where could she send the child? For a moment she pondered and then it came to her like a flash of inspiration.
"You shall go away Betty quietly and no one need know of your going and to-morrow I will tell him that you are gone and that you and he will not meet again. You will be happy, very happy with those to whom I shall send you. Will you trust me, Betty?"
"Trust 'ee——." The girl caught her hand and kissed it passionately. "And—and bain't I to see him again, never?"
"It will be better not, Betty!"
Betty leaned against her sobbing—"I du love him——" she sobbed, "and it will be terribul to go and never see him again!"
"Had you thrown yourself into the water to-night you would never have seen him again and you would have caused him grief and sorrow, Betty, so—so dear it is better you should go quietly, and live and be happy, for you will be happy, child and you will forget! You are only a child, Betty, and—and I—I know what a child's love means, it is seldom the real love—it will pass, for such love does pass, I know, Betty! And then—then one day the real love, the love of all your life will come to you and you will look back on these memories and smile at them and when that day comes, Betty——" Kathleen's voice shook a little, "then—then, child, go down on your knees and thank God that you gave your child's love to a good and noble man, a man who respected it—and you—and—and was afraid—dear!"
And Betty, if she did not understand, was comforted by the kind voice and nestled closer to Kathleen. She dried her tears and presently had forgotten them and was smiling, and the little tragedy was past.