CHAPTER XXVION OTHER SHOULDERSWhen he had knelt and kissed the hem of her garment, Scarsdale had meant it as an act of renunciation, as an acceptance of Kathleen's decision. He could not hope to fight against it. The truth of what she had said appealed to him. True he could take her away back to his own little domain at the farthest end of the earth. He could take her to a place where no one should know of her and his past. But he could not take her away from her own thoughts, the upbraiding of her own conscience. His love for her was a strange mixture of passion and reverence. Sometimes it was the one that was uppermost, at another time the other. Now it was reverence, respect for her purity that filled his heart. He put his passion away, for ever, he told himself. He would go back whence he came. He would take back with him his dreams and his memories and nothing else.To-day was Saturday, his visit here would end on Monday. He would have ended it to-day, yet he felt that he might appear a coward in her sight if he ran away, besides, why should he cheat himself of these last few hours of her? She was nothing to him, never could be anything, but he could still watch her, still listen to her voice, still garner up in his brain memories of her on which he would draw presently when he had gone back to the old lonely, hopeless life.No, he would not run away.He found from one of the men servants, old Markabee it was, in which direction lay the golf course, to which Messrs. Coombe, Cutler and Jobson had repaired."Fower miles it be, fower good miles, sir," said Markabee, "through Stretton you du go, then turns to the left and——" And so on, Scarsdale listened to the directions and followed them and an hour later stood on the course and watched Mr. Coombe making wild and ineffective swipes at a small ball perched on a mound.Mr. Coombe, bathed in perspiration, appealed to him."Never tried this game before, I haven't," he said, "and don't know as I'm going to spend sleepless nights before I try it again. I daresay it's all right for those who like it—play it yourself perhaps, Sir Harold?"Scarsdale shook his head. "There's not much golf where I come from," he said briefly."No, too hot I reckon—well for my part, give me a quiet game of bowls. Innocent mirth I don't find fault with, but I object to making myself a sort of circus for a lot of grinning urchins, who ought to be at school or somewhere." He came and stood beside Scarsdale. At any other time Scarsdale might have avoided Mr. Coombe, to-day he welcomed him. Even Coombe was a better companion than his own thoughts."A decent feller," Coombe thought, "no airs about him, a bit silent, I don't expect he gets much society where he comes from."Thereafter Mr. Combe left Cutler and Jobson to their golf and attached himself to Scarsdale, and for long after the boastful Coombe would tell in City chop houses how he and his friend Sir Harold Scarsdale played golf together on Stretton Links."Walk," said Coombe, "why of course I'll walk, nothing like walking to get a man's weight down.""I gather you don't do much walking, Mr. Coombe.""Me?" said Coombe. "You should see me, all over the City I am, in one office out another up and down the stairs."They lunched, the four of them, at a little Inn, lunched on bread and cheese and good English ale. Coombe called the pretty little maid who waited on them his dear. He chucked her under her dimpled chin and asked her how many sweethearts she had—a gay dog, Mr. Coombe, playful and ponderous, with no more vice in him than is in an honest British bulldog."Pretty girl," said Coombe; "I always said London wants beating for pretty girls. You see more pretty girls in ten minutes in the streets of London than you do in a day's journeying anywhere else. But next to London comes Sussex, I've seen 'em handsome enough in Kent and passable in Devonshire, but Sussex girls beat the best. There's a girl at Homewood, Lady Kathleen's maid I think she is, as pretty as a picture—Jobson and I saw her last night, didn't we, Jobson?"Jobson blushed furiously."You did call my attention to a young woman, now I come to think of it, Coombe.""Call his attention—ha, ha!" roared Coombe. "He didn't want much attention called, believe me Scarsdale, and mind you she was worth looking at, the daintiest little bit I've seen for a long while, I can tell you—neat, trim little body, hair as gold—as gold as that sunlight yonder, a demure little face, my word—ask Jobson, hey Jobson?""The young woman was certainly prepossessing," said Jobson primly, "and I suppose there's no harm in a man admiring a pretty face and God forbid because I see a pretty face and admire it that any other—thoughts—any other ideas—should enter my head—and—and I don't like your manner, Coombe, it suggests things I do not like—sir, and if you must, have your joke—as you call it, I would be infinitely obliged to you if you would find another subject to joke about than myself.""Bless my soul!" said Coombe. "Bless my soul, Jobson, what are you going off the deep end for now? I said you saw a pretty girl and admired her and so did I, begad! I'd be a blind fool if I did not! And if you think I'm saying one word against you or the girl either, Jobson, why then—then—hang it then——""If you meant no offence, Coombe, then none is taken," said Jobson.They were good honest fellows, decent, clean minded men and if their talk was mainly of money and of money getting, what did it matter? Scarsdale found no fault with them, he even felt a kind of liking for Mr. Coombe. Coombe was so big, so noisy, so inoffensively vulgar."Yes, I say and I ain't ashamed to say, that though I am fifty-nine I can admire a pretty face. Yes, fifty-nine," Coombe swelled out his chest and looked around, expecting that someone would question his age, but no one did. "Though I am fifty-nine, I can still, thank God, admire the beauties of Nature, whether it's a noble landscape, or a sweeping view of the sea or—or a woman's face. I wouldn't be fit to be blessed with my sight if I couldn't admire a pretty face—and that's why, my dear, I admire you," he added as the little serving maid came in with more bread and cheese. "And why I hope that some fine young fellow will come along with his pocket full of money and marry you and make you a good husband.""How 'ee du talk, sir!" the little maid said, blushing and curtseying; "a rare comic gentleman 'ee du be, sir.""And——" went on Mr. Coombe when the girl had gone out again, "what I think is the most beautiful thing to see, gentlemen, the finest and noblest of God's created creatures, is a true bred, real English lady. It isn't only her looks, it's her sweet graciousness, her kindness and her friendliness and the dainty way she has of speaking, so's you feel at home and feel as she likes you and that's she's your friend and would do you a kindness if she could. There aren't many of 'em about, leastways it hasn't been my lot to meet 'em—but I've met one now—and—and"—Mr. Coombe paused, he rose, he held up his tankard, "Beer isn't good enough nor would the finest champagne ever vinted be good enough, but it isn't the stuff we drink her health in, it's the feeling, it's the respect, the admiration we feel, gentlemen, that does her honour and perhaps does honour to us too. And so I ask you to drink the health of the finest lady I ever met, the loveliest and best—and I tell you when I look at Lady Kathleen, it makes me proud to remember I'm an Englishman!""Hear, hear!" said Cutler and Jobson. "If old Homewood were here, Coombe, he'd love you for that," said Cutler.Coombe might have been a hundred times more vulgar than he was, louder, commoner, more boisterous, but Scarsdale from that moment on would never see any harm in Coombe. A good fellow, an honest man. What mattered it that he wore white trousers and canvas strapped shoes, a soft felt hat to the golf course, that he perspired freely and that he bellowed like the bull of Bashan, what did it all matter? His heart was in the right place; and so mentally Scarsdale shook Coombe by his jolly big moist hand and thanked him in his heart for his tribute of reverence and respect to the One Woman in all Scarsdale's world.Back to the golf course went Mr. Cutler and Mr. Jobson, each eager to do "something in so many," so Coombe vaguely understood, but here outside the Inn on a seat in the sunshine, it was pleasant enough to stay and Coombe and Scarsdale sat and smoked their pipes and watched the chickens and the white ducks in the roadway and thought their own thoughts."Yes," said Coombe, "if I ever saw a pretty girl, it was that one! Betty her name is, because I asked her, and she is Lady Kathleen's maid and all I've got to say is that her ladyship must be the purest and sweetest soul living or she wouldn't have a lovely young thing like that in the same house as her own young husband!"Scarsdale started. "Why—what do you mean, Mr. Coombe? Is Homewood the type of man who would——""Heaven forbid it, there isn't a cleaner, better lad living than Allan Homewood. But there's a certain prayer as runs—'Lead us not into temptation,' Sir Harold and knowing what I know——" Mr. Coombe paused."And what do you know?""I know that Lady Kathleen Homewood is a sweet and lovely young lady, though how she came to have such a father—at any rate I know there isn't a finer lady in this land than her, and I know that Allan Homewood is a lad who if I had had a daughter of my own I'd have liked to have seen her married to, but for all that it was old Homewood who made the marriage, his money that did it, and though they like one another and respect one another, as all the world can see, why—why—do you see, Sir Harold, it isn't the same as if it had been a love match and they had married for love, do you take me?""I understand you quite well and because it was not a love match——""Well, Sir Harold, because Allan ain't in love with Lady Kathleen, it's just possible, isn't it, he might, I say—might—fall in love with someone else, as is natural! Young blood, Sir Harold, young blood—you know. It's natural for a man to seek his own mate and that's why I don't hold with loveless marriages. Depend on it the man, and very often the woman too, will find he needs the love his marriage didn't bring him and he'll look for it, or if he don't look for it, Sir Harold, why then it may come to him all the same.""And you think that Mr. Allan Homewood might possibly fall in love with his wife's little maid, eh?""God forbid I should think anything of the kind," said Mr. Coombe. "I never said it and I don't want to think it, but I do say if I was my Lady Kathleen's father, which I am not, I'd say to her, 'My dear, that little maid of yours is too pretty by half, and it would be best that you got rid of her!'""And Lady Kathleen would tell you that she was quite capable of conducting her own business without interference, Mr. Coombe!""Which would serve me right for a meddling, interfering old fool!" said Mr. Coombe.He knocked out his pipe and then presently the warm sunshine, the drowsy hum of the hees hovering about the old straw skeps on their bench in the little orchard across the road, the good English ale, all had their effect. Mr. Coombe's heavy head nodded. He jerked himself awake, then nodded again, and so fell asleep. And Harold Scarsdale, an empty pipe between his teeth, sat with folded arms and stared before him, seeing nothing, but thinking deeply and his thoughts were: "After all—after all might there not even now be some hope for him? Must the years be all lonely?"She, God's blessings on her, would not come to him in shame—her shame—and his, yet might she not come if the burden of shame should fall on other shoulders?So Mr. Coombe snored in the pleasant sunshine and Harold Scarsdale widely awake, dreamed of a future that might even yet be.CHAPTER XXVIITHE CONQUERORA girl was leaning against the old rose red wall, she was sobbing pitifully."'Ee du be cruel, for—for ever pestering I!" she moaned. "Why doan't 'ee leave me in peace, Abram?"The man stood stolidly watching her, her tears moved him not at all."Every night 'ee du be hanging about here, I know it, for Polly Ransom told me and getting I a bad name 'ee be!""Polly Ransom be a mischief making hussey!" the man said."She did but tell I the truth, Abram, for 'ee du be here all hours watching for I, so I daren't show my face beyond the walls.""Who should I be watching and waiting for, if it be not 'ee, Betty? 'Ee be my promised wife, 'ee be!""I bain't!" she said. "I bain't, and I du hate 'ee!"He laughed hoarsely."Slow—slow I be, slow o' speech and slow to make up my mind, yet when I du speak, then the words I hev said be spoken and can never be recalled, and when I du make up my mind, it be just the same, I never change, I never alter, I chose 'ee, Betty Hanson, from all other maids! I've set my heart on 'ee, my maid, and nothing on God's earth'll make me alter, nothing!"They were words that might have been spoken with passion, yet he spoke without passion, with a cool, deadly certainty that frightened the girl infinitely more than blustering rage. Only his fingers betrayed his nervousness, they were plucking at each other for lack of something else to pluck at."A patient man I be, wunnerful, terribul patient," he went on slowly. "Night after night hev I come here, watching this door, knowing full well that sooner or later 'ee must pass it. Night, after night hev I gone away and said to myself, 'To-morrer,' and see 'ee've come, just as I 'lowed 'ee would——" he paused. "When'll the day be, Betty Hanson?""The day?""The day for our wedding, surely?""Never, never," she said, "never!" She clasped her hands over her heaving breast, "Never, Abram Lestwick! My funeral day will come afore my marriage day wi' 'ee!"He nodded his head slowly. He had found a button, a button hanging by a mere thread; he twisted and tore at it till it came off, then he fingered the button, rolling it between finger and thumb, passing it restlessly from one hand to the other till at last he dropped it. He stooped and fumbled in the dust hunting for it as though it were something of great account. The girl clasped her face between her two hands and looked at him, terror in her eyes."Abram, Abram!"He had not found the thing, he straightened himself up, but his yes still roved the ground."Why du 'ee pester I so?""I don't pester 'ee, my maid, I but come to look after my own!""I bain't your own!""'Ee be chose by I, willed to me by your grandmother, so 'ee du belong to I! and one day I will hev 'ee, Betty Hanson——""Never!"He stood staring at her, forgetting the button. About them was the dusk of the night. His restless eyes roved up and down the long straight road, not a soul was there to be seen. And then the slow passion that sometimes came to him moved him. He had been patient, truly he had said he was patient, patient and slow, yet as sure as death itself—why should he wait? He took a step towards her, the girl shrank back, the green door was behind her, she might have lifted the latch and escaped, but a strange feeling of impotence, of helplessness was on her, she could only stare at the man with distended eyes."'Ee do belong to I!" he said. And he said it again and then again, and each time he took a slow step toward her."No, no, Abram——" her voice rose shrill with terror, for his arms were suddenly about her, his hateful hands were on her, she could feel his hot breath on her cheek."Let—let I go, for God's sake—Abram—let I go!"But he did not answer, he dragged her towards him, her face closer to his, his breath was on her lips now, his eyes shone brilliantly, their dull, lifelessness was gone, the madness of his pent-up passion was on him."Let I—let I go—for—for God's sake let I——"And then the green door behind her opened suddenly, Abram Lestwick lifted his head, he looked at the newcomer, the man who stood in the opening of the wall.The girl was sobbing, struggling pitifully in his grip, yet he never let her go, he held her tightly, staring at the man, and it seemed waiting for him to pass."Let I go—let I go—for God's mercy, let I go!"Allan Homewood knew the voice, he knew the shimmer of her gold hair, he knew that writhing little figure. He put his hand on her arm, he drew her back, Lestwick released her, yet did not stir."She be my promised wife," he said quietly, "my promised wife her be!""No, no!" the girl sobbed. "Never have I given him a promise of mine—never, never! Doan't let—doan't let him touch me! Oh I be frightened—frightened!"Allan thrust her back gently. Strangely enough in some ways he and this other man were alike, alike and yet so vastly different, slow to anger was each, yet when that anger was aroused, it was deadly and terrible. It was roused now, that pitiful cry, that white face, those tearful, terrified eyes, those little clinging hands that were stretched out to him, craving his protection. What he said he did not know, the words came hot and furious. He called the other man cur and villain, he ordered him away, he lifted clenched fists in threatening.But Abram Lestwick stood staring, like one surprised at the interference of this man. What right had he, what was it to him? He knew the man, knew him for Allan Homewood, Esquire, of the gentry, so what right had he to interfere between a man and his promised wife."You hear me, you coward, you hear me? I order you to go and never to come back; if you torment and threaten this child, I'll thrash you, yes man, thrash you till I cannot stand over you!""And me——" Abram Lestwick said, blinking his eyes at Allan, "me—what would I be doing?"There came slowly into his dull mind a dim suspicion. This man was young, he lived beneath the same roof as Betty, Betty was beautiful, the most beautiful maid in all Sussex, in all the world! This man had seen her, admired her, loved her, what man could help it? But she belonged to him, Abram Lestwick."What be that maid to 'ee," he said, "what be her to 'ee?" A dull red came into his face, his eyes shone evilly.The girl crouched back against the wall, still clasping her soft cheeks between her hands. She was watching them, waiting, wondering, conscious of a thrill of pride—these two men—were going to fight—for her.She had no fear of the battle to come, and the bloodshed there might be, she was eager for it. She wanted to see Allan Homewood—Allan kill this man whom she hated and feared so, rid her of him for ever. Why—why did not they begin, what were they waiting for? Why this long silence?"What be her to 'ee?" Lestwick asked again, and then the smouldering passion burst into flame, foul words, fouler suggestions came to his lips. He ground his teeth together, he quivered from head to foot. In his madness and passion he fumbled with those restless hands of his with his clothing—and Allan misunderstood.And so the fight began and the girl drew a long shuddering breath and watched. She saw them strike at one another, saw Abram Lestwick reel, staggering back with blood on his face, and she exulted, she wanted to scream her joy and gladness aloud. Oh! this man of hers, this Allan who belonged to her, whom she loved so madly, so passionately, what a man, what a man he was, how big and strong and broad, how fine to love a man like this!"Kill him, kill him, kill him!" she prayed voicelessly, "Oh kill him!"They had fought away from the wall, they were near to the middle of the chalk white road.In the dim light she could see only Lestwick's face, Allan's broad back was towards her and Lestwick's face was all blood smeared and his eyes shone with an unholy light."Kill him!" she whispered, "oh kill him!"She uttered a choking cry of joy, she saw Lestwick fling up his arms and spin round and then fall, fall crashing into the roadway, she watched him for a breathless moment as he lay there motionless. Then her breath came back to her, the blood coursed in her veins again, for the man had moved, he was rising slowly, painfully, but rising. He stood up, shaken and unsteady and his face was no sight for a maid to see, but she rivetted her eyes on it."Will you go now? Ah! you damned villain!"Lestwick's fingers were again busy with his clothes and yet again Allan misunderstood. He thought the man was fumbling for a knife to draw on him and so gave him no time.Another blow staggered Lestwick, but he did not go down, the fury in his face was an ill thing to see, his teeth were bared and snapping like the teeth of a mad dog. He tried to close with Allan, disregarding the blows that fell on him, tried to close and to get those long green teeth of his into the other man's soft flesh. And the girl knew it and screamed a warning."Mind—mind as he doan't bite 'ee, mind as he doan't bite 'ee. Ah God, save us, he be mad!" She stooped, she fumbled in the dust, she found what she sought for, a flint, a jagged, heavy flint. There was hell fire in Lestwick's eyes, the passionate rage of a maniac. This she saw as she flung the stone. She flung it straight at that hideous, convulsed face.It struck Lestwick on the forehead, it broke the skin and the blood gushed out. He turned, he looked at her, noting it was her hand that had flung it. He laughed a curiously strange mocking laugh and then he collapsed, seemed to crumple before her eyes and fall a limp heap in the roadway."What did you do, Betty, Betty what have you done?"She was sobbing and laughing at once. "He—he meant to kill 'ee, meant to—to get they teeth o' his in your throat, Allan, oh I knew it, I knew it! Did—did 'ee see his face, Allan, did 'ee see his face and his eyes? And oh they—they hands o' his!""Go into the house quietly, say nothing to anyone, bring water quickly, understand, not a word to a soul, bring water here at once!"He went down on his knees beside the man, he lifted the sorely battered head, the hideous blood stained face. Yet it was not hideous now, the passion was smoothed away, the eyes and mouth were closed.She was back with the water in but a few seconds."Be he dead?""No!"Minutes passed, between them they bathed away the blood, they cleaned the wound, the jagged wound in his forehead. Allan bound it with his own white handkerchief and then the man opened his eyes, now they were dull and brooding. He lifted his hand and passed it across his mouth, as a man does in sheer nervousness."I—I be all right!" he said, and his voice was low and monotonous—"I be quite all right, a strong man I be—'tis time I were going home——""Yes, it's time you went home," Allan said, he ran his hands over the man's clothing, not yet trusting him, misdoubting Lestwick's strange passionless calm. He was searching for the knife that twice he had believed the man would have drawn on him, but there was no knife there."What be 'ee looking for?" Lestwick asked."Your knife!""I bain't got a knife, cruel treacherous, dangerous things knives be—I'll be getting home——"Allan helped him to his feet, the man stood dazed, swaying a little, then he seemed to take hold on himself."A very passionate man I be," he said, "terribul wrathful in moments of anger——" He looked at Allan with that strange sullen expression of his."I beg your pardon if I did say or du anything as I should not—'tis my anger as du master I—I wish 'ee good night!"He turned and walked slowly and unsteadily down the road. Betty caught at Allan's arm, and they stood there, the girl clinging to the man, watching him go. Once Abram turned his head and looked back, he saw them there together, the girl and the man, holding to one another, the dusky red came into his cheek, he breathed hard, then went on his way, mumbling to himself."A knife—he did think I had a knife—what du, I need with a knife—bain't I got my hands——?" He held them out before him and looked at them, as the fingers writhed and clenched and unclenched. "Terribul powerful my hands be, but I did not get them on him—no, not then, not then——"Betty had broken down and was sobbing and moaning, clinging to Allan's arm."Betty, hush, hush child, hush dear, he is gone—there is nothing to fear!""But he will come back. Oh, Allan, I did mean to kill he——""Hush!" he said again."For he meant to kill 'ee and—and Allan he will think about it and brood about it, and one day he will surely kill 'ee, unless 'ee du watch he terribul, terribul close, he will kill 'ee!"He laughed softly. "I am not afraid of him, Betty, hush dear, hush, don't cry!"For she was sobbing bitterly and pressing her face against his arm, clinging to him as in fear, or love, or both."Hush!" he said. "Come, come, child, come!" But his hands were quivering and his heart seemed to be beating faster than usual, "Come!" he said again."Oh Allan, Allan, if he did hurt 'ee, I would want to die!" she moaned. "For I du; I du love 'ee—oh! I love 'ee terribul, terribul bad, I du!""Betty," he said, "hush, you must not! hush! come!" He drew her through the little arched green door into the yard. He himself was shaking now, trembling, afraid for her, afraid for himself, for his honour. She said she loved him and she clung to him, this passionate maiden. What mad folly it all was, what mad folly, God preserve them all!"Betty go back, go into the house!" he said."No, no, don't let me leave 'ee, Allan, let me bide wi' 'ee for a time!"He felt her tears on his hand, the hand she had taken and was holding tight pressed to her face."Let me bide wi' 'ee, Allan, Allan, don't 'ee send me away yet!"She was sobbing unrestrainedly, crying aloud as a child does, and he feared lest any servant should come into the yard and hearing her, find them here together. Nor could he send her back into the house for others to see, all tears and shaken as she was. But stay here he could not and would not."Come," he said, he held her hand tightly, he took her through the little gateway into the garden. Here at least they would be safe and secure."A—a—cowardly maid I be," she moaned, "oh a coward I be, but I du feel safe wi' 'ee, Allan, don't—don't leave me! Oh sir, I—I du forget——""That does not matter now," he said, "Betty, try and compose yourself. I understand, you have been frightened, poor child, and upset, but—but that man will not trouble you again!""You doan't know he," she said quietly; "Allan if I—I did think that I must marry he, I would go and drownd myself in the pond, the pond where my stone maid be!""You are not going to drown yourself, Betty," he said. "You are going to live for many happy years!""How—how can I?""There are other men, better men than this poor fellow Lestwick!""Oh Allan, du 'ee pity him?""Yes, for loving you vainly, child!"They had taken a roundabout pathway under the dense shadow of the tall yews and now they had come suddenly on the little lake, from which the slender white figure rose."There her be, there be my stone maid—and one day, one day I will go to her, I think Allan!""Hush!" he said. "If you talk in this way I shall leave you! Betty, Betty, be brave, brave dear, for your own sake! For—for mine!" his voice broke a little, he looked down at her, her lovely little face was upturned to his.And oh the temptation of that moment, the temptation of those red lips, those eyes all filled with the soft light of her love, the love that she felt no shame to admit. His for the taking—his he seemed to know, even before they had ever met—his in some past life, his now and through all time—his in the life yet to come.There came to him suddenly a great, an irresistible desire, a passionate love of her, the desire to put his arms about her, to hold her to him tightly, tightly, to crush his lips to hers, and she, he knew, would not struggle, would not deny him.And because he was young, because the lifeblood ran hot, in his veins, because she was so near to him, so alluring, so loving, so beautiful, God help him, how could he resist?"Betty, Betty, why do you say you love me?""Du 'ee not know, Allan, why I love 'ee?" she said. "Oh you du!" She put her hands against his breast, she looked up into his face, her eyes smiled at his, her lips invited. He bent to her, she could feel the heavy, the wild beating of his heart under her little hands, and there came to her a sense of joy, of triumph.A cloud drifted across the moon, it blotted out for a moment that glowing, inviting little face. It was gone, leaving but an indistinct shape of whiteness.His father! his wife!—his old father's pride in him, Kathleen's faith in him—Was he to prove himself unworthy? Was he to fall at this first temptation?"Allan, my Allan!" she said, and her voice came to him, soft as a caress from out of the darkness. She had thought him won, had believed him hers, and she was waiting joyously, expectantly for the kiss, the kiss that never came."Allan, my son," he seemed to hear the old voice say, that proud and tender old voice. "Allan my husband!" Her voice now, calling him back to a sense of honour, to a sense of duty and right and he heard the voices, listened to them, heeded them. He pushed the girl away gently."Betty, we must go back to the house, child—they will miss me and wonder, you too, you may be wanted, you have dried your tears—go back, go back.""Allan!" she said and her voice was like a cry of pain. He gripped her little hands and held them tightly, then he let them go."Go back!" he said, and his voice was harsh and stern, yet it was the voice of his better self—the conqueror!CHAPTER XXVIIITHE WATCHERA man seated in the shadows watched them part, for the moon had come out again, watched them part as he had watched them come, as he had watched them standing there together on the edge of the pool. To him, the watcher, it had seemed that the girl was in the man's arms, her face uplifted to his—he had seen the moonlight on her face and had seen the dull glimmer of her hair.And the man—yes, he thought that he made no mistake—about the man! So Mr. Coombe was right, clever, farseeing, sensible Mr. Coombe—God's blessings on Mr. Coombe for his few idle words that meant so much to this man watching here in the shadows.He did not move. He scarcely breathed, as the girl passed him, alone on her way to the house. He heard her sobbing softly to herself as she went, saw the little head bent as in shame.And to the watcher it seemed that she went in shame and he was glad—Heaven knew how glad he was!Yet he must make no mistake, he must not trust to intuition, to mere suspicion. He must know beyond the shadow of a doubt that this man was Allan Homewood—'Her' husband.Scarsdale rose, the man was still standing by the edge of the pool, the girl had gone some while. Scarsdale walking softly on the turf, skirted the hedge and came out on the broad flagged pathway. He walked leisurely towards the pool and seemed to see the other man for the first time."Hello!" he said. "Who is here?""I——" Allan turned to him."You—oh Homewood, is that you, my host?"So it was true. He felt a sudden liking for this man, he felt he loved him for his weakness and his sin, for would not that weakness, that sin give him that which he wanted most? They talked of the night, of the old garden, of the sweet soft English country air. Scarsdale spoke of the damp night heat of that country which had been the prison of his body and soul.He was a good talker when he pleased and to-night he wished to please. He wanted this man's liking—he exerted himself to gain it and yet felt a deep contempt of himself while he strove.He spoke of fights with savages, of fights against disease and death, of perils that made the blood run cold. Yet he did not boast or brag. Dimly Allan realised that the man who was speaking was the hero of these adventures, but Scarsdale never said so."You were long away from England, Scarsdale?""A thousand years!" Scarsdale said, he laughed softly, "according to the calendar; ten years, to me a thousand! Thank God to be back!" He drew a deep breath."Will you go back again?""It depends, I do not know, I may, yet I hope not!""Perhaps you have come to seek a wife?""Yes!""But could you take her to this place of which you have been telling me?""God forbid!""So it depends on your success with the lady whether you remain in England or go back?""Yes, it depends on that!""You and Kathleen are old friends?""I knew her when she was a child, I hoped that she would not have forgotten me!""And she did not, Kathleen would not, she never forgets!"Strange that Allan should say this, here beside the pool where he and Kathleen had stood but a few hours ago. "Kathleen never forgets!" The words sounded to Scarsdale like an ill omen, he shivered a little. Then he smiled at his own thoughts and his thoughts were—"The shame shall be this man's, not hers. Her freedom shall come to her without a breath of scandal to touch her fair name—but she shall be free—and those ten years of waiting, ten years of constancy, ten years of love must find their reward——"They sat down on the stone seat beside the sundial, the stillness and darkness of the garden about them, the perfume of the flowers in the air. A place to sit and dream in. Many windows were lighted in the old house, sending out friendly warm yellow rays of light into the night. From the house came the distant sound of music, a woman's voice, deep, rich and beautiful, even more beautiful mellowed by the distance.She was singing and both men were silent, listening.Thank God, thank God presently he could go in and take her hand and face her, look into her eyes, with no memory of guilt and of shame to stand between them to mar the perfect understanding and the deep friendship that was so sweet to both of them.Thank God! Thank God that he had mastered the temptation, the passion of just now! It had gone utterly. Yet he felt a great tenderness, a great love for the little maid who would have given herself as she had given her love to him.And now Scarsdale was talking, exerting himself to talk in his low, deep, strong, man's voice. He was trying to win this other man's liking and friendship, for he had an object in view. On Monday, at the latest Tuesday, this little house party would break up, they would all go their separate ways and he wanted to stay, as a few hours ago realising defeat and failure, he had wanted to go. Now with a new hope in his breast he wished to remain.What they talked of mattered little, of everyday things, of commonplaces, but Scarsdale worked steadily towards the object he had in view."After ten years—I went away a mere boy, I knew but a few people, my father, who is dead since then, others who have passed out of my life. I come back to England a stranger among strangers. To me London is a desert, I walk its streets, looking vainly for a familiar face; I know no one, no one who passes knows me!""But you found Lord Gowerhurst?""Yes, he remembered me——""You and he were good friends?""No, as a boy I disliked him, may I say it to you?""But Kathleen and you were friends?""A—a boy and girl friendship—she has grown into a sweet and lovely woman—I shall think of this place, of her, of you and of your happiness, of the tranquil calm of this when I am back out there again—even when I am back in that London that I do not know and that knows me not!""Is there haste for you to return to London?""Haste—every hour I remain out of it I feel I am gaining something!""Then why hurry back?" asked Allan in his hospitable generosity. "Why go back? Lord Gowerhurst is eager for his Club, his billiards, his cards, his manservant. My father and his friends have their businesses, but you—why go back?"Scarsdale murmured something about imposing himself—Allan laughed."Stay and believe me we shall be glad—Kathleen will be glad to hear that you are staying awhile with us—come, you will stay, eh?""It would give me more pleasure than you can know!" Scarsdale said.Allan laughed, for him there was no double meaning in the other man's words.He had gained his point, his host had asked him to remain on indefinitely, for days, weeks even, there would be no time limit now."It is good of you, Homewood—you don't realise how I appreciate it—my opportunities of seeing home life, such as this, are not many!""But the lady you hope to marry?" Allan asked.Scarsdale rose."She is not for me—yet——" he said steadily. "Thank you again, Homewood, may I tell your wife that you have asked me to remain?""She will be as pleased as I am!" Allan said simply.Scarsdale turned to the house, he left Allan sitting there and Allan rested his chin on his hands. He was not deeply religious. He had prayed, as men do, by fits and starts, in moments of anxiety, in moments of relief and gratitude. But his heart was offering up thanksgiving now. He had been delivered from temptation. He thanked God for it, for his own sake and for hers, that child's, for his father's sake, for Kathleen's.But temptation might assail him again, would—and he, knowing his own weakness now, knowing how nearly he had succumbed to it, must do that thing that even brave men may do and yet still keep their honour. He must avoid it, he must shun it, even flee from it if necessary—but how?Betty or he must go and how could he when this was his home, when all his interests were here? How could he go, how could be explained his reason for flight? No, it must be she who must go!"I must think, I must plan, I must consider her, yes, consider her in every way, but she must go."
CHAPTER XXVI
ON OTHER SHOULDERS
When he had knelt and kissed the hem of her garment, Scarsdale had meant it as an act of renunciation, as an acceptance of Kathleen's decision. He could not hope to fight against it. The truth of what she had said appealed to him. True he could take her away back to his own little domain at the farthest end of the earth. He could take her to a place where no one should know of her and his past. But he could not take her away from her own thoughts, the upbraiding of her own conscience. His love for her was a strange mixture of passion and reverence. Sometimes it was the one that was uppermost, at another time the other. Now it was reverence, respect for her purity that filled his heart. He put his passion away, for ever, he told himself. He would go back whence he came. He would take back with him his dreams and his memories and nothing else.
To-day was Saturday, his visit here would end on Monday. He would have ended it to-day, yet he felt that he might appear a coward in her sight if he ran away, besides, why should he cheat himself of these last few hours of her? She was nothing to him, never could be anything, but he could still watch her, still listen to her voice, still garner up in his brain memories of her on which he would draw presently when he had gone back to the old lonely, hopeless life.
No, he would not run away.
He found from one of the men servants, old Markabee it was, in which direction lay the golf course, to which Messrs. Coombe, Cutler and Jobson had repaired.
"Fower miles it be, fower good miles, sir," said Markabee, "through Stretton you du go, then turns to the left and——" And so on, Scarsdale listened to the directions and followed them and an hour later stood on the course and watched Mr. Coombe making wild and ineffective swipes at a small ball perched on a mound.
Mr. Coombe, bathed in perspiration, appealed to him.
"Never tried this game before, I haven't," he said, "and don't know as I'm going to spend sleepless nights before I try it again. I daresay it's all right for those who like it—play it yourself perhaps, Sir Harold?"
Scarsdale shook his head. "There's not much golf where I come from," he said briefly.
"No, too hot I reckon—well for my part, give me a quiet game of bowls. Innocent mirth I don't find fault with, but I object to making myself a sort of circus for a lot of grinning urchins, who ought to be at school or somewhere." He came and stood beside Scarsdale. At any other time Scarsdale might have avoided Mr. Coombe, to-day he welcomed him. Even Coombe was a better companion than his own thoughts.
"A decent feller," Coombe thought, "no airs about him, a bit silent, I don't expect he gets much society where he comes from."
Thereafter Mr. Combe left Cutler and Jobson to their golf and attached himself to Scarsdale, and for long after the boastful Coombe would tell in City chop houses how he and his friend Sir Harold Scarsdale played golf together on Stretton Links.
"Walk," said Coombe, "why of course I'll walk, nothing like walking to get a man's weight down."
"I gather you don't do much walking, Mr. Coombe."
"Me?" said Coombe. "You should see me, all over the City I am, in one office out another up and down the stairs."
They lunched, the four of them, at a little Inn, lunched on bread and cheese and good English ale. Coombe called the pretty little maid who waited on them his dear. He chucked her under her dimpled chin and asked her how many sweethearts she had—a gay dog, Mr. Coombe, playful and ponderous, with no more vice in him than is in an honest British bulldog.
"Pretty girl," said Coombe; "I always said London wants beating for pretty girls. You see more pretty girls in ten minutes in the streets of London than you do in a day's journeying anywhere else. But next to London comes Sussex, I've seen 'em handsome enough in Kent and passable in Devonshire, but Sussex girls beat the best. There's a girl at Homewood, Lady Kathleen's maid I think she is, as pretty as a picture—Jobson and I saw her last night, didn't we, Jobson?"
Jobson blushed furiously.
"You did call my attention to a young woman, now I come to think of it, Coombe."
"Call his attention—ha, ha!" roared Coombe. "He didn't want much attention called, believe me Scarsdale, and mind you she was worth looking at, the daintiest little bit I've seen for a long while, I can tell you—neat, trim little body, hair as gold—as gold as that sunlight yonder, a demure little face, my word—ask Jobson, hey Jobson?"
"The young woman was certainly prepossessing," said Jobson primly, "and I suppose there's no harm in a man admiring a pretty face and God forbid because I see a pretty face and admire it that any other—thoughts—any other ideas—should enter my head—and—and I don't like your manner, Coombe, it suggests things I do not like—sir, and if you must, have your joke—as you call it, I would be infinitely obliged to you if you would find another subject to joke about than myself."
"Bless my soul!" said Coombe. "Bless my soul, Jobson, what are you going off the deep end for now? I said you saw a pretty girl and admired her and so did I, begad! I'd be a blind fool if I did not! And if you think I'm saying one word against you or the girl either, Jobson, why then—then—hang it then——"
"If you meant no offence, Coombe, then none is taken," said Jobson.
They were good honest fellows, decent, clean minded men and if their talk was mainly of money and of money getting, what did it matter? Scarsdale found no fault with them, he even felt a kind of liking for Mr. Coombe. Coombe was so big, so noisy, so inoffensively vulgar.
"Yes, I say and I ain't ashamed to say, that though I am fifty-nine I can admire a pretty face. Yes, fifty-nine," Coombe swelled out his chest and looked around, expecting that someone would question his age, but no one did. "Though I am fifty-nine, I can still, thank God, admire the beauties of Nature, whether it's a noble landscape, or a sweeping view of the sea or—or a woman's face. I wouldn't be fit to be blessed with my sight if I couldn't admire a pretty face—and that's why, my dear, I admire you," he added as the little serving maid came in with more bread and cheese. "And why I hope that some fine young fellow will come along with his pocket full of money and marry you and make you a good husband."
"How 'ee du talk, sir!" the little maid said, blushing and curtseying; "a rare comic gentleman 'ee du be, sir."
"And——" went on Mr. Coombe when the girl had gone out again, "what I think is the most beautiful thing to see, gentlemen, the finest and noblest of God's created creatures, is a true bred, real English lady. It isn't only her looks, it's her sweet graciousness, her kindness and her friendliness and the dainty way she has of speaking, so's you feel at home and feel as she likes you and that's she's your friend and would do you a kindness if she could. There aren't many of 'em about, leastways it hasn't been my lot to meet 'em—but I've met one now—and—and"—Mr. Coombe paused, he rose, he held up his tankard, "Beer isn't good enough nor would the finest champagne ever vinted be good enough, but it isn't the stuff we drink her health in, it's the feeling, it's the respect, the admiration we feel, gentlemen, that does her honour and perhaps does honour to us too. And so I ask you to drink the health of the finest lady I ever met, the loveliest and best—and I tell you when I look at Lady Kathleen, it makes me proud to remember I'm an Englishman!"
"Hear, hear!" said Cutler and Jobson. "If old Homewood were here, Coombe, he'd love you for that," said Cutler.
Coombe might have been a hundred times more vulgar than he was, louder, commoner, more boisterous, but Scarsdale from that moment on would never see any harm in Coombe. A good fellow, an honest man. What mattered it that he wore white trousers and canvas strapped shoes, a soft felt hat to the golf course, that he perspired freely and that he bellowed like the bull of Bashan, what did it all matter? His heart was in the right place; and so mentally Scarsdale shook Coombe by his jolly big moist hand and thanked him in his heart for his tribute of reverence and respect to the One Woman in all Scarsdale's world.
Back to the golf course went Mr. Cutler and Mr. Jobson, each eager to do "something in so many," so Coombe vaguely understood, but here outside the Inn on a seat in the sunshine, it was pleasant enough to stay and Coombe and Scarsdale sat and smoked their pipes and watched the chickens and the white ducks in the roadway and thought their own thoughts.
"Yes," said Coombe, "if I ever saw a pretty girl, it was that one! Betty her name is, because I asked her, and she is Lady Kathleen's maid and all I've got to say is that her ladyship must be the purest and sweetest soul living or she wouldn't have a lovely young thing like that in the same house as her own young husband!"
Scarsdale started. "Why—what do you mean, Mr. Coombe? Is Homewood the type of man who would——"
"Heaven forbid it, there isn't a cleaner, better lad living than Allan Homewood. But there's a certain prayer as runs—'Lead us not into temptation,' Sir Harold and knowing what I know——" Mr. Coombe paused.
"And what do you know?"
"I know that Lady Kathleen Homewood is a sweet and lovely young lady, though how she came to have such a father—at any rate I know there isn't a finer lady in this land than her, and I know that Allan Homewood is a lad who if I had had a daughter of my own I'd have liked to have seen her married to, but for all that it was old Homewood who made the marriage, his money that did it, and though they like one another and respect one another, as all the world can see, why—why—do you see, Sir Harold, it isn't the same as if it had been a love match and they had married for love, do you take me?"
"I understand you quite well and because it was not a love match——"
"Well, Sir Harold, because Allan ain't in love with Lady Kathleen, it's just possible, isn't it, he might, I say—might—fall in love with someone else, as is natural! Young blood, Sir Harold, young blood—you know. It's natural for a man to seek his own mate and that's why I don't hold with loveless marriages. Depend on it the man, and very often the woman too, will find he needs the love his marriage didn't bring him and he'll look for it, or if he don't look for it, Sir Harold, why then it may come to him all the same."
"And you think that Mr. Allan Homewood might possibly fall in love with his wife's little maid, eh?"
"God forbid I should think anything of the kind," said Mr. Coombe. "I never said it and I don't want to think it, but I do say if I was my Lady Kathleen's father, which I am not, I'd say to her, 'My dear, that little maid of yours is too pretty by half, and it would be best that you got rid of her!'"
"And Lady Kathleen would tell you that she was quite capable of conducting her own business without interference, Mr. Coombe!"
"Which would serve me right for a meddling, interfering old fool!" said Mr. Coombe.
He knocked out his pipe and then presently the warm sunshine, the drowsy hum of the hees hovering about the old straw skeps on their bench in the little orchard across the road, the good English ale, all had their effect. Mr. Coombe's heavy head nodded. He jerked himself awake, then nodded again, and so fell asleep. And Harold Scarsdale, an empty pipe between his teeth, sat with folded arms and stared before him, seeing nothing, but thinking deeply and his thoughts were: "After all—after all might there not even now be some hope for him? Must the years be all lonely?"
She, God's blessings on her, would not come to him in shame—her shame—and his, yet might she not come if the burden of shame should fall on other shoulders?
So Mr. Coombe snored in the pleasant sunshine and Harold Scarsdale widely awake, dreamed of a future that might even yet be.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE CONQUEROR
A girl was leaning against the old rose red wall, she was sobbing pitifully.
"'Ee du be cruel, for—for ever pestering I!" she moaned. "Why doan't 'ee leave me in peace, Abram?"
The man stood stolidly watching her, her tears moved him not at all.
"Every night 'ee du be hanging about here, I know it, for Polly Ransom told me and getting I a bad name 'ee be!"
"Polly Ransom be a mischief making hussey!" the man said.
"She did but tell I the truth, Abram, for 'ee du be here all hours watching for I, so I daren't show my face beyond the walls."
"Who should I be watching and waiting for, if it be not 'ee, Betty? 'Ee be my promised wife, 'ee be!"
"I bain't!" she said. "I bain't, and I du hate 'ee!"
He laughed hoarsely.
"Slow—slow I be, slow o' speech and slow to make up my mind, yet when I du speak, then the words I hev said be spoken and can never be recalled, and when I du make up my mind, it be just the same, I never change, I never alter, I chose 'ee, Betty Hanson, from all other maids! I've set my heart on 'ee, my maid, and nothing on God's earth'll make me alter, nothing!"
They were words that might have been spoken with passion, yet he spoke without passion, with a cool, deadly certainty that frightened the girl infinitely more than blustering rage. Only his fingers betrayed his nervousness, they were plucking at each other for lack of something else to pluck at.
"A patient man I be, wunnerful, terribul patient," he went on slowly. "Night after night hev I come here, watching this door, knowing full well that sooner or later 'ee must pass it. Night, after night hev I gone away and said to myself, 'To-morrer,' and see 'ee've come, just as I 'lowed 'ee would——" he paused. "When'll the day be, Betty Hanson?"
"The day?"
"The day for our wedding, surely?"
"Never, never," she said, "never!" She clasped her hands over her heaving breast, "Never, Abram Lestwick! My funeral day will come afore my marriage day wi' 'ee!"
He nodded his head slowly. He had found a button, a button hanging by a mere thread; he twisted and tore at it till it came off, then he fingered the button, rolling it between finger and thumb, passing it restlessly from one hand to the other till at last he dropped it. He stooped and fumbled in the dust hunting for it as though it were something of great account. The girl clasped her face between her two hands and looked at him, terror in her eyes.
"Abram, Abram!"
He had not found the thing, he straightened himself up, but his yes still roved the ground.
"Why du 'ee pester I so?"
"I don't pester 'ee, my maid, I but come to look after my own!"
"I bain't your own!"
"'Ee be chose by I, willed to me by your grandmother, so 'ee du belong to I! and one day I will hev 'ee, Betty Hanson——"
"Never!"
He stood staring at her, forgetting the button. About them was the dusk of the night. His restless eyes roved up and down the long straight road, not a soul was there to be seen. And then the slow passion that sometimes came to him moved him. He had been patient, truly he had said he was patient, patient and slow, yet as sure as death itself—why should he wait? He took a step towards her, the girl shrank back, the green door was behind her, she might have lifted the latch and escaped, but a strange feeling of impotence, of helplessness was on her, she could only stare at the man with distended eyes.
"'Ee do belong to I!" he said. And he said it again and then again, and each time he took a slow step toward her.
"No, no, Abram——" her voice rose shrill with terror, for his arms were suddenly about her, his hateful hands were on her, she could feel his hot breath on her cheek.
"Let—let I go, for God's sake—Abram—let I go!"
But he did not answer, he dragged her towards him, her face closer to his, his breath was on her lips now, his eyes shone brilliantly, their dull, lifelessness was gone, the madness of his pent-up passion was on him.
"Let I—let I go—for—for God's sake let I——"
And then the green door behind her opened suddenly, Abram Lestwick lifted his head, he looked at the newcomer, the man who stood in the opening of the wall.
The girl was sobbing, struggling pitifully in his grip, yet he never let her go, he held her tightly, staring at the man, and it seemed waiting for him to pass.
"Let I go—let I go—for God's mercy, let I go!"
Allan Homewood knew the voice, he knew the shimmer of her gold hair, he knew that writhing little figure. He put his hand on her arm, he drew her back, Lestwick released her, yet did not stir.
"She be my promised wife," he said quietly, "my promised wife her be!"
"No, no!" the girl sobbed. "Never have I given him a promise of mine—never, never! Doan't let—doan't let him touch me! Oh I be frightened—frightened!"
Allan thrust her back gently. Strangely enough in some ways he and this other man were alike, alike and yet so vastly different, slow to anger was each, yet when that anger was aroused, it was deadly and terrible. It was roused now, that pitiful cry, that white face, those tearful, terrified eyes, those little clinging hands that were stretched out to him, craving his protection. What he said he did not know, the words came hot and furious. He called the other man cur and villain, he ordered him away, he lifted clenched fists in threatening.
But Abram Lestwick stood staring, like one surprised at the interference of this man. What right had he, what was it to him? He knew the man, knew him for Allan Homewood, Esquire, of the gentry, so what right had he to interfere between a man and his promised wife.
"You hear me, you coward, you hear me? I order you to go and never to come back; if you torment and threaten this child, I'll thrash you, yes man, thrash you till I cannot stand over you!"
"And me——" Abram Lestwick said, blinking his eyes at Allan, "me—what would I be doing?"
There came slowly into his dull mind a dim suspicion. This man was young, he lived beneath the same roof as Betty, Betty was beautiful, the most beautiful maid in all Sussex, in all the world! This man had seen her, admired her, loved her, what man could help it? But she belonged to him, Abram Lestwick.
"What be that maid to 'ee," he said, "what be her to 'ee?" A dull red came into his face, his eyes shone evilly.
The girl crouched back against the wall, still clasping her soft cheeks between her hands. She was watching them, waiting, wondering, conscious of a thrill of pride—these two men—were going to fight—for her.
She had no fear of the battle to come, and the bloodshed there might be, she was eager for it. She wanted to see Allan Homewood—Allan kill this man whom she hated and feared so, rid her of him for ever. Why—why did not they begin, what were they waiting for? Why this long silence?
"What be her to 'ee?" Lestwick asked again, and then the smouldering passion burst into flame, foul words, fouler suggestions came to his lips. He ground his teeth together, he quivered from head to foot. In his madness and passion he fumbled with those restless hands of his with his clothing—and Allan misunderstood.
And so the fight began and the girl drew a long shuddering breath and watched. She saw them strike at one another, saw Abram Lestwick reel, staggering back with blood on his face, and she exulted, she wanted to scream her joy and gladness aloud. Oh! this man of hers, this Allan who belonged to her, whom she loved so madly, so passionately, what a man, what a man he was, how big and strong and broad, how fine to love a man like this!
"Kill him, kill him, kill him!" she prayed voicelessly, "Oh kill him!"
They had fought away from the wall, they were near to the middle of the chalk white road.
In the dim light she could see only Lestwick's face, Allan's broad back was towards her and Lestwick's face was all blood smeared and his eyes shone with an unholy light.
"Kill him!" she whispered, "oh kill him!"
She uttered a choking cry of joy, she saw Lestwick fling up his arms and spin round and then fall, fall crashing into the roadway, she watched him for a breathless moment as he lay there motionless. Then her breath came back to her, the blood coursed in her veins again, for the man had moved, he was rising slowly, painfully, but rising. He stood up, shaken and unsteady and his face was no sight for a maid to see, but she rivetted her eyes on it.
"Will you go now? Ah! you damned villain!"
Lestwick's fingers were again busy with his clothes and yet again Allan misunderstood. He thought the man was fumbling for a knife to draw on him and so gave him no time.
Another blow staggered Lestwick, but he did not go down, the fury in his face was an ill thing to see, his teeth were bared and snapping like the teeth of a mad dog. He tried to close with Allan, disregarding the blows that fell on him, tried to close and to get those long green teeth of his into the other man's soft flesh. And the girl knew it and screamed a warning.
"Mind—mind as he doan't bite 'ee, mind as he doan't bite 'ee. Ah God, save us, he be mad!" She stooped, she fumbled in the dust, she found what she sought for, a flint, a jagged, heavy flint. There was hell fire in Lestwick's eyes, the passionate rage of a maniac. This she saw as she flung the stone. She flung it straight at that hideous, convulsed face.
It struck Lestwick on the forehead, it broke the skin and the blood gushed out. He turned, he looked at her, noting it was her hand that had flung it. He laughed a curiously strange mocking laugh and then he collapsed, seemed to crumple before her eyes and fall a limp heap in the roadway.
"What did you do, Betty, Betty what have you done?"
She was sobbing and laughing at once. "He—he meant to kill 'ee, meant to—to get they teeth o' his in your throat, Allan, oh I knew it, I knew it! Did—did 'ee see his face, Allan, did 'ee see his face and his eyes? And oh they—they hands o' his!"
"Go into the house quietly, say nothing to anyone, bring water quickly, understand, not a word to a soul, bring water here at once!"
He went down on his knees beside the man, he lifted the sorely battered head, the hideous blood stained face. Yet it was not hideous now, the passion was smoothed away, the eyes and mouth were closed.
She was back with the water in but a few seconds.
"Be he dead?"
"No!"
Minutes passed, between them they bathed away the blood, they cleaned the wound, the jagged wound in his forehead. Allan bound it with his own white handkerchief and then the man opened his eyes, now they were dull and brooding. He lifted his hand and passed it across his mouth, as a man does in sheer nervousness.
"I—I be all right!" he said, and his voice was low and monotonous—"I be quite all right, a strong man I be—'tis time I were going home——"
"Yes, it's time you went home," Allan said, he ran his hands over the man's clothing, not yet trusting him, misdoubting Lestwick's strange passionless calm. He was searching for the knife that twice he had believed the man would have drawn on him, but there was no knife there.
"What be 'ee looking for?" Lestwick asked.
"Your knife!"
"I bain't got a knife, cruel treacherous, dangerous things knives be—I'll be getting home——"
Allan helped him to his feet, the man stood dazed, swaying a little, then he seemed to take hold on himself.
"A very passionate man I be," he said, "terribul wrathful in moments of anger——" He looked at Allan with that strange sullen expression of his.
"I beg your pardon if I did say or du anything as I should not—'tis my anger as du master I—I wish 'ee good night!"
He turned and walked slowly and unsteadily down the road. Betty caught at Allan's arm, and they stood there, the girl clinging to the man, watching him go. Once Abram turned his head and looked back, he saw them there together, the girl and the man, holding to one another, the dusky red came into his cheek, he breathed hard, then went on his way, mumbling to himself.
"A knife—he did think I had a knife—what du, I need with a knife—bain't I got my hands——?" He held them out before him and looked at them, as the fingers writhed and clenched and unclenched. "Terribul powerful my hands be, but I did not get them on him—no, not then, not then——"
Betty had broken down and was sobbing and moaning, clinging to Allan's arm.
"Betty, hush, hush child, hush dear, he is gone—there is nothing to fear!"
"But he will come back. Oh, Allan, I did mean to kill he——"
"Hush!" he said again.
"For he meant to kill 'ee and—and Allan he will think about it and brood about it, and one day he will surely kill 'ee, unless 'ee du watch he terribul, terribul close, he will kill 'ee!"
He laughed softly. "I am not afraid of him, Betty, hush dear, hush, don't cry!"
For she was sobbing bitterly and pressing her face against his arm, clinging to him as in fear, or love, or both.
"Hush!" he said. "Come, come, child, come!" But his hands were quivering and his heart seemed to be beating faster than usual, "Come!" he said again.
"Oh Allan, Allan, if he did hurt 'ee, I would want to die!" she moaned. "For I du; I du love 'ee—oh! I love 'ee terribul, terribul bad, I du!"
"Betty," he said, "hush, you must not! hush! come!" He drew her through the little arched green door into the yard. He himself was shaking now, trembling, afraid for her, afraid for himself, for his honour. She said she loved him and she clung to him, this passionate maiden. What mad folly it all was, what mad folly, God preserve them all!
"Betty go back, go into the house!" he said.
"No, no, don't let me leave 'ee, Allan, let me bide wi' 'ee for a time!"
He felt her tears on his hand, the hand she had taken and was holding tight pressed to her face.
"Let me bide wi' 'ee, Allan, Allan, don't 'ee send me away yet!"
She was sobbing unrestrainedly, crying aloud as a child does, and he feared lest any servant should come into the yard and hearing her, find them here together. Nor could he send her back into the house for others to see, all tears and shaken as she was. But stay here he could not and would not.
"Come," he said, he held her hand tightly, he took her through the little gateway into the garden. Here at least they would be safe and secure.
"A—a—cowardly maid I be," she moaned, "oh a coward I be, but I du feel safe wi' 'ee, Allan, don't—don't leave me! Oh sir, I—I du forget——"
"That does not matter now," he said, "Betty, try and compose yourself. I understand, you have been frightened, poor child, and upset, but—but that man will not trouble you again!"
"You doan't know he," she said quietly; "Allan if I—I did think that I must marry he, I would go and drownd myself in the pond, the pond where my stone maid be!"
"You are not going to drown yourself, Betty," he said. "You are going to live for many happy years!"
"How—how can I?"
"There are other men, better men than this poor fellow Lestwick!"
"Oh Allan, du 'ee pity him?"
"Yes, for loving you vainly, child!"
They had taken a roundabout pathway under the dense shadow of the tall yews and now they had come suddenly on the little lake, from which the slender white figure rose.
"There her be, there be my stone maid—and one day, one day I will go to her, I think Allan!"
"Hush!" he said. "If you talk in this way I shall leave you! Betty, Betty, be brave, brave dear, for your own sake! For—for mine!" his voice broke a little, he looked down at her, her lovely little face was upturned to his.
And oh the temptation of that moment, the temptation of those red lips, those eyes all filled with the soft light of her love, the love that she felt no shame to admit. His for the taking—his he seemed to know, even before they had ever met—his in some past life, his now and through all time—his in the life yet to come.
There came to him suddenly a great, an irresistible desire, a passionate love of her, the desire to put his arms about her, to hold her to him tightly, tightly, to crush his lips to hers, and she, he knew, would not struggle, would not deny him.
And because he was young, because the lifeblood ran hot, in his veins, because she was so near to him, so alluring, so loving, so beautiful, God help him, how could he resist?
"Betty, Betty, why do you say you love me?"
"Du 'ee not know, Allan, why I love 'ee?" she said. "Oh you du!" She put her hands against his breast, she looked up into his face, her eyes smiled at his, her lips invited. He bent to her, she could feel the heavy, the wild beating of his heart under her little hands, and there came to her a sense of joy, of triumph.
A cloud drifted across the moon, it blotted out for a moment that glowing, inviting little face. It was gone, leaving but an indistinct shape of whiteness.
His father! his wife!—his old father's pride in him, Kathleen's faith in him—Was he to prove himself unworthy? Was he to fall at this first temptation?
"Allan, my Allan!" she said, and her voice came to him, soft as a caress from out of the darkness. She had thought him won, had believed him hers, and she was waiting joyously, expectantly for the kiss, the kiss that never came.
"Allan, my son," he seemed to hear the old voice say, that proud and tender old voice. "Allan my husband!" Her voice now, calling him back to a sense of honour, to a sense of duty and right and he heard the voices, listened to them, heeded them. He pushed the girl away gently.
"Betty, we must go back to the house, child—they will miss me and wonder, you too, you may be wanted, you have dried your tears—go back, go back."
"Allan!" she said and her voice was like a cry of pain. He gripped her little hands and held them tightly, then he let them go.
"Go back!" he said, and his voice was harsh and stern, yet it was the voice of his better self—the conqueror!
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE WATCHER
A man seated in the shadows watched them part, for the moon had come out again, watched them part as he had watched them come, as he had watched them standing there together on the edge of the pool. To him, the watcher, it had seemed that the girl was in the man's arms, her face uplifted to his—he had seen the moonlight on her face and had seen the dull glimmer of her hair.
And the man—yes, he thought that he made no mistake—about the man! So Mr. Coombe was right, clever, farseeing, sensible Mr. Coombe—God's blessings on Mr. Coombe for his few idle words that meant so much to this man watching here in the shadows.
He did not move. He scarcely breathed, as the girl passed him, alone on her way to the house. He heard her sobbing softly to herself as she went, saw the little head bent as in shame.
And to the watcher it seemed that she went in shame and he was glad—Heaven knew how glad he was!
Yet he must make no mistake, he must not trust to intuition, to mere suspicion. He must know beyond the shadow of a doubt that this man was Allan Homewood—'Her' husband.
Scarsdale rose, the man was still standing by the edge of the pool, the girl had gone some while. Scarsdale walking softly on the turf, skirted the hedge and came out on the broad flagged pathway. He walked leisurely towards the pool and seemed to see the other man for the first time.
"Hello!" he said. "Who is here?"
"I——" Allan turned to him.
"You—oh Homewood, is that you, my host?"
So it was true. He felt a sudden liking for this man, he felt he loved him for his weakness and his sin, for would not that weakness, that sin give him that which he wanted most? They talked of the night, of the old garden, of the sweet soft English country air. Scarsdale spoke of the damp night heat of that country which had been the prison of his body and soul.
He was a good talker when he pleased and to-night he wished to please. He wanted this man's liking—he exerted himself to gain it and yet felt a deep contempt of himself while he strove.
He spoke of fights with savages, of fights against disease and death, of perils that made the blood run cold. Yet he did not boast or brag. Dimly Allan realised that the man who was speaking was the hero of these adventures, but Scarsdale never said so.
"You were long away from England, Scarsdale?"
"A thousand years!" Scarsdale said, he laughed softly, "according to the calendar; ten years, to me a thousand! Thank God to be back!" He drew a deep breath.
"Will you go back again?"
"It depends, I do not know, I may, yet I hope not!"
"Perhaps you have come to seek a wife?"
"Yes!"
"But could you take her to this place of which you have been telling me?"
"God forbid!"
"So it depends on your success with the lady whether you remain in England or go back?"
"Yes, it depends on that!"
"You and Kathleen are old friends?"
"I knew her when she was a child, I hoped that she would not have forgotten me!"
"And she did not, Kathleen would not, she never forgets!"
Strange that Allan should say this, here beside the pool where he and Kathleen had stood but a few hours ago. "Kathleen never forgets!" The words sounded to Scarsdale like an ill omen, he shivered a little. Then he smiled at his own thoughts and his thoughts were—"The shame shall be this man's, not hers. Her freedom shall come to her without a breath of scandal to touch her fair name—but she shall be free—and those ten years of waiting, ten years of constancy, ten years of love must find their reward——"
They sat down on the stone seat beside the sundial, the stillness and darkness of the garden about them, the perfume of the flowers in the air. A place to sit and dream in. Many windows were lighted in the old house, sending out friendly warm yellow rays of light into the night. From the house came the distant sound of music, a woman's voice, deep, rich and beautiful, even more beautiful mellowed by the distance.
She was singing and both men were silent, listening.
Thank God, thank God presently he could go in and take her hand and face her, look into her eyes, with no memory of guilt and of shame to stand between them to mar the perfect understanding and the deep friendship that was so sweet to both of them.
Thank God! Thank God that he had mastered the temptation, the passion of just now! It had gone utterly. Yet he felt a great tenderness, a great love for the little maid who would have given herself as she had given her love to him.
And now Scarsdale was talking, exerting himself to talk in his low, deep, strong, man's voice. He was trying to win this other man's liking and friendship, for he had an object in view. On Monday, at the latest Tuesday, this little house party would break up, they would all go their separate ways and he wanted to stay, as a few hours ago realising defeat and failure, he had wanted to go. Now with a new hope in his breast he wished to remain.
What they talked of mattered little, of everyday things, of commonplaces, but Scarsdale worked steadily towards the object he had in view.
"After ten years—I went away a mere boy, I knew but a few people, my father, who is dead since then, others who have passed out of my life. I come back to England a stranger among strangers. To me London is a desert, I walk its streets, looking vainly for a familiar face; I know no one, no one who passes knows me!"
"But you found Lord Gowerhurst?"
"Yes, he remembered me——"
"You and he were good friends?"
"No, as a boy I disliked him, may I say it to you?"
"But Kathleen and you were friends?"
"A—a boy and girl friendship—she has grown into a sweet and lovely woman—I shall think of this place, of her, of you and of your happiness, of the tranquil calm of this when I am back out there again—even when I am back in that London that I do not know and that knows me not!"
"Is there haste for you to return to London?"
"Haste—every hour I remain out of it I feel I am gaining something!"
"Then why hurry back?" asked Allan in his hospitable generosity. "Why go back? Lord Gowerhurst is eager for his Club, his billiards, his cards, his manservant. My father and his friends have their businesses, but you—why go back?"
Scarsdale murmured something about imposing himself—Allan laughed.
"Stay and believe me we shall be glad—Kathleen will be glad to hear that you are staying awhile with us—come, you will stay, eh?"
"It would give me more pleasure than you can know!" Scarsdale said.
Allan laughed, for him there was no double meaning in the other man's words.
He had gained his point, his host had asked him to remain on indefinitely, for days, weeks even, there would be no time limit now.
"It is good of you, Homewood—you don't realise how I appreciate it—my opportunities of seeing home life, such as this, are not many!"
"But the lady you hope to marry?" Allan asked.
Scarsdale rose.
"She is not for me—yet——" he said steadily. "Thank you again, Homewood, may I tell your wife that you have asked me to remain?"
"She will be as pleased as I am!" Allan said simply.
Scarsdale turned to the house, he left Allan sitting there and Allan rested his chin on his hands. He was not deeply religious. He had prayed, as men do, by fits and starts, in moments of anxiety, in moments of relief and gratitude. But his heart was offering up thanksgiving now. He had been delivered from temptation. He thanked God for it, for his own sake and for hers, that child's, for his father's sake, for Kathleen's.
But temptation might assail him again, would—and he, knowing his own weakness now, knowing how nearly he had succumbed to it, must do that thing that even brave men may do and yet still keep their honour. He must avoid it, he must shun it, even flee from it if necessary—but how?
Betty or he must go and how could he when this was his home, when all his interests were here? How could he go, how could be explained his reason for flight? No, it must be she who must go!
"I must think, I must plan, I must consider her, yes, consider her in every way, but she must go."