Front matter (continued 2)

"Last night," Allan said, "last night——" he paused. How far away seemed last night! Sir Josiah was watching him anxiously and Allan smiled.

"Yes, I understand, it must go on now, but—last night—was last night!"

CHAPTER VIII

"KATHLEEN—DO YOU REMEMBER?"

My lady sat with her chin in her hand, her dressing gown had slipped over the polished loveliness of her white shoulders, on which the soft dark brown of her hair fell in heavy glistening curls.

She had sat here for many minutes, her thoughts away in the past. Now she stirred, she sighed a little, she roused herself and laughed wearily, then reached out a white hand and took a ring from the dressing table. A magnificent ring, one of immense value, a ring worthy of her and of the man who had put it on her finger, yet she doubted if Allan had bought it. It looked in its ostentatious magnificence more like his father, somehow, and she shivered suddenly and cast the ring aside. And then laughed again a queer, uncertain, trembling little laugh that might have sounded naturally enough from the lips of a maiden of eighteen, but which came a little oddly from the lips of a woman of twenty-eight.

But to-night her eyes were soft and misty. To-night memory was there, tapping at the door of her soul. "You can't shut me out," it seemed to say, "close the door, bolt it, bar it against me, but you can't shut out memory, you never, never can! Fight against me, but I am always here, always ready to come to you—a chance word, a chance gesture, the scent of a flower or a perfume, the music of an old song and though you think you have locked the door against me, see I am back again! Listen, even the ticking of the clock—the little clock on your mantel. Kathleen, do you remember how the clock ticked that night when you—you and he——"

She threw out her hands suddenly, she rose, a tall, queenly young figure.

"The past is past, is dead and will remain dead!" she said, then she crossed the room, and very resolutely she unlocked a drawer, from the drawer took a little steel japanned box, she unlocked it and from it took a packet of letters.

Should she read them before she destroyed them? Should she? No, and yet she hesitated—the strength and resolution of a moment ago were gone, she sat down and toyed with the ribbon that held the papers together.

"Just for the last time," she said, "and then I shall forget them utterly!" So she untied the ribbon and took the letters one by one and read them and the misty look in her eyes seemed to grow more soft and more gentle and there came a sweet womanly tenderness to her lips that the world until now had thought a little hard and contemptuous.

Is there not some little packet of old letters jealously hidden away in your possession? Haven't you treasured just one or two? Open the packet with reverent fingers, touch them gently, for here are holy things!

A child's unformed hand, the unsteady letters yet so neatly and so carefully made. Can't you see him as he makes them? that little chubby fist, that somehow cannot hold the pen in just the way the master says it must be held.

Can't you see the little curly head leaning a little to one side? Slowly he forms the great round "Os" and fashions the long tailed "Ys" and does his honest best to keep them fair and square upon the pencilled line that even now you can see ruled faintly on the old paper?

A child's letter, a little odd glove, a lock of yellow hair, his hair! Only these, but they bring back memories, don't they? Do you remember—? Ah, can you forget? When you held him so tightly in your arms that day—when he went away for ever. Such a great strong fellow, so brave, so confident of the future! How he looked into that future with clear shining eyes, eyes that were unafraid.

"Dear, it is all right, I shall come back to you, safe and sound!" So he said, and then the waiting, the agony of it, the long suspense, the silence, the hourly prayers to Almighty God that all might be well with him—and then—then the news—that came at last!

And all that you have now is the child's letter—the little glove and the curl of yellow hair.

And there are other letters, yours, Kathleen. I wonder did he think when he wrote them ten long years ago that you would be sitting here to-night reading them over yet once again? I wonder, did he think that those letters of his could bring the tears to your eyes, Kathleen? Did he dream when in his eagerness and his passion and his love for you, as he penned them, never weighing his words, only eager to pour out his soul to you, that you would keep them and cherish them all these years, Kathleen, only to destroy them at last?

The unsteady writing fades and is gone. Your eyes through a mist of tears see a young, ardent, boyish face, you see eyes that plead and are filled with a hope that fights valiantly against despair. Those hastily scrawled, passionate words are as voices that come to you out of the past, voices that remind you of how he loved you once—when you were but eighteen!

There came from the little clock on, the mantel a whirring sound, then it struck One—Two—She lifted her head for a moment, there was a step on the stairs outside, her father come home from the Club, he passed her door.

A mist was before her eyes, the letters were all blurred and indistinct, the writing—she could no longer see, yet, she knew every word written there. How many times had she read them over and over and yet over again!

And what need to read them when, she knew them so well? Would she ever forget them? So many pages, so closely written and yet all that had been said, could have been said in but three words, three short words, "I love you!"

So she sat there with the letters all in a heap in her lap, and her head bowed.

Memory—Memory was monarch of all to-night. Memory ruled and reigned supreme.

That night, do you remember, Kathleen? The night when the raindrops pattered on the glossy leaves of the magnolia that grew beneath your window? Do you remember how he stood there looking up at you, the light from your lamp on his face? Do you remember? And that day, the day you met him by the end of the lane and put your hand in his and went with him down the long road? Do you remember? And then again——

She moved suddenly, she flung her head back, her face was white and drawn and there was agony in her eyes. She rose suddenly and thrust the letters into the empty grate, she bent over them and struck a match and watched them burn.

And then, when the last was turned to grey and black ash, she went back to the table and took up the great expensive, glittering ring, the ring that represented more money than He had ever owned. And so she turned it over and over between her white fingers and laughed suddenly. But the laughter was not good to hear.

CHAPTER IX

HOW SIR JOSIAH OPENED HIS PURSE

Sir Josiah garaged his two thousand guinea car in the old coach house of "The Fighting Cocks" Inn. He ordered a sumptuous repast in that antique house of call, the best and the oldest wines must be brought up from the cellars for him.

A keen money getter, yet he was at heart a very generous man. The respect, the bobbing curtseys, the doffed hats and smiling faces here at Little Stretton delighted him. He felt just a thrill of regret that he had bought the old place for Allan rather than for himself. He had an idea that he would make a far better and more imposing Lord of the Manor than Allan.

In the City of London he was "somebody," but here in little quiet out of the world Little Stretton, he was "everybody."

Mr. Dalabey fawned on him, he fetched and carried, he was hat in hand. A cunning, artful fellow Mr. Dalabey, he sized Sir Josiah up, he called him "Squire," and Sir Josiah glowed with satisfaction.

"A good feller, that Dalabey, a sensible man!" Sir Josiah said to Allan, "a useful feller!" It puzzled the Baronet that his son refused to accompany him on his many trips to Little Stretton and Homewood. Allan went once, and on that once he was moody and silent. While his father stamped about the house and thrust the blade of his pen-knife into suspicious woodwork, Allen held aloof, he went out into the old garden by himself and stood staring at the battered nymph, whose slim stone figure was reflected in the dark pool. He sat down, on the old mossy stone seat in the great circle about the sundial and stared at the weeds and decay, and somehow the desolation of the place seemed to creep into his heart. He was glad to get away.

He loved his father, he knew what a fine old fellow he was at heart, what noble and generous impulses he was capable of. But to-day his father's loud self-confident voice, his intense self-satisfaction, his huge importance, Dalabey's servility all irked him. He was intensely glad to leave Homewood behind him and thereafter he always found some excuse that prevented him from accompanying Sir Josiah on his many visits to Homewood.

So the Baronet came and gave his orders to Dalabey and to the builders and decorators and the gardeners, and he spent money like water.

"When I do things, I don't half do things, eh Dalabey?" Sir Josiah enquired.

"No, that you don't, Squire, beg your pardon, Sir Josiah!" said Dalabey. "Never was such a free and open handed gentleman, sir!"

"Your Mr. Van Norden wouldn't have done the thing in such style, eh?" enquired Sir Josiah.

"No, sir, not to be thought of, not for a moment, Squire!"

It meant thousands, yet what did thousands matter to Sir Josiah with his hundreds of thousands? He spent and spent, he was extravagant. Before, as he said himself, one could say "Jack Robinson," he had an army of workpeople slaving at the place, and he walked about the house and garden and saw his men doing his work and drawing his pay, and for the first time in his life he felt himself a really great man.

And once—once his forebears had delved and dug this very soil that was now his own! Once for a few miserable shillings a week had they turned over the sweet brown earth over which he was lord and master.

In Little Stretton, in Homewood, at Bargate and Bushcorner, and all the little villages round about, there were smiling faces and curtseys for him and he was utterly unconscious that one pair of blue eyes grew hard and bitter and one red lipped mouth curled with contempt and dislike, that in one soft little breast a usually tender little heart was filled with hate for him. For this was the mab who had bought "her" garden, and who was spoiling it, spoiling it so that it would never, never again, be as it hud been. With one wave of his thick hand he had banished all those dear ghosts of the past who had been her friends, even more her friends than the honest, red faced rustics who were very much real flesh and blood, and who regarded her with commiserating eyes as a "queer" maid.

Oozing satisfaction and gold, Sir Josiah was beloved of everyone save of this unreasonable little maid, who hated his jolly round red face and loathed the sound of his loud and domineering voice.

"Get some of them old trees cut down and out of the way, Dalabey, get all this tangle rooted out of it and get that wall pointed, yes that's what it wants—pointing, make it look smart—and Dalabey——"

"Yes, Squire?"

"How about some broken class along the top of the walls? We don't want people climbing over and trespassing, Dalabey!"

"Certainly, Squire, broken glass!"

So on moonlight nights broken glass, securely set in cement, glittered and twinkled like a line of frost along the top of the walls and the little maid looked at it with bursting heart and a terrible sense of loss.

"Very sullen, not to say quiet, my granddarter du be getting," said Mrs. Hanson to Mrs. Colley, her neighbour.

"Maids du get that way," said Mrs. Colley. "'Tis a home of her own her be pining for—gone eighteen your maid be, Mrs. Hanson?"

"Gone eighteen Feb'ry last," said Mrs. Hanson.

"Then time it is her was married and in a home of her own, with, things to look after to keep her hands and her mind full! Marriage be the right and proper and nat'ral thing for young maids of her years——"

"And her not wanting for chances," said Mrs. Hanson; "why she hev but to hold up her finger and there be a dozen ready to run to she!"

Mrs. Colley wagged her head. "And who be they?" she asked jealously, for she had a granddaughter of her own who was as yet unappropriated. "There be Tom Spinner, who du be spending his evenings in the bar of the Three Ploughs, and Bob Domer, a nice ne'er-do-well he, and young Frank Peasgood as du make eyes at every maid he sees. Why I did order him the door myself when he would have come a-courting my 'Lizbeth."

"And there be Abram Lestwick," said Mrs. Hanson, "who be a fine and proper young man, reg'lar to Church, one as walks in fear of the Lord and no beer drinker, nor smoker neither, and a steady worker with a nice cottage of his own, and standing high with Farmer Patcham. Aye, there be Abram Lestwick as would kneel down and kiss the very floor my maid treads on!"

Mrs. Colley sniffed. She had had designs on Abram Lestwick herself for her 'Lizbeth, but Abram had always stolidly passed her inviting door by and never had be given a second glance to sallow faced, black haired, shrewish tempered 'Lizbeth Colley.

"Too mysterious he be and too quiet and sullen like, I count him, for a young man. I like young men as enjoys life, not such as walks about with a book in his pocket and scarce ever takes his eyes from the ground. Fair and square and open I du like young men to be, Mrs. Hanson, and as for your Abram Lestwick, I give him to you, I du!"

"Very gen'rous you be, givin' what bain't yours to give!" said Mrs. Hanson with spirit; "and thank you kindly, I be sure, Mrs. Colley!"

So they parted, not the best of friends, but into Mrs. Hanson's mind had come an image of Betty settling down with Abram Lestwick as her partner, and that same evening she opened fire on Betty with:

"A very proper young man be Abram Lestwick, a pity 'tis there bain't a few more like he!"

Betty made no answer.

"And very frequent he du pass this cottage, whiles round by Perry's medder be the nearest and nighest way for he."

"Well, what about Abram Lestwick, Grandmother?"

"I du believe, Betty, he hev serious intentions," said the old lady, "and a nice little cottage, well furnished and steady money coming in, not less than thirty-five shillings every week, as would make a maid happy and comfortable."

Betty sprang to her feet, her face flushed, her eyes seemed to dart points of light.

"What do 'ee mean, Grandmother? Be 'ee goading I to marry Abram Lestwick? Do 'ee want to get rid o' I, is that it?"

"Bless me, my maid, what tantrums 'ee do fly into!" cried the astonished old body. "Wherever did 'ee get thy temper from I don't know, a peaceful soul thy mother was and thy father being my own son, was as easy a man as ever trod and here be 'ee, my maid, with a hot temper, of which I be ashamed, and down on your knees and ask God to forgive 'ee and make a better maid of 'ee!"

"I shan't!" said Betty.

Mrs. Hanson rose: "'Tis the first time as ever 'ee said shan't to me, Betty Hanson, and after this I be determined and my mind be made up—marry Abram Lestwick 'ee shall!"

"No, no!"

"Or out through that door do 'ee go, never was there a maid so bad and so ungrateful as 'ee be. Go to your room and consider of things, Betty Hanson, till 'ee be come to a better frame of mind!"

CHAPTER X

CONFIDENCES

When Sir Josiah had enquired of Mr. Dalabey how long it would take to put Homewood into the order in which he desired to see it, Mr. Dalabey had scratched his head.

"Three months, maybe four, and I shouldn't he s'prised, seeing how powerful a lot there du be to du, no I shouldn't be s'prised, Squire, if it warn't five months, aye, all five months I should say it would be!"

"And now, listen to me, Dalabey," said Sir Josiah, "two months I say, and not a minute longer, two mouths I give you and if the last workman isn't out of the house and the last bit of timber and papering and what not in and done with, the garden straight and all the rest of it, then I'll get someone else to do my work for me, Dalabey!"

"Har!" said Dalabey.

"And it's not money I'm stinting you of, my man, get twenty more men at work on the place, I don't care, get as many as you can handle, but two months is the time I give you and then I clear you all out, lock, stock and barrel. So get busy, Dalabey my man, if you wish to remain in my good graces."

Dalabey got busy. He hired more painters and carpenters and joiners, more labourers and gardeners, stone masons and brick layers till Homewood was given over to a small industrial army, of which Dalabey was the indefatigable general.

There was no slacking at Homewood, Dalabey saw to that, he was here, there and everywhere. He himself was doing very well, he had no cause to complain, he charged his own time very handsomely and there were other pickings besides. But he worked, he was honest at least in that, and he made the others work. A week did wonders, a fortnight shewed an amazing change, at the end of the first month Sir Josiah nodded approval.

"Getting to be something like shipshape, Dalabey," he said. "And you got talking to me about five months, here we ain't been five weeks on the job and look you——"

"You be right, Squire, and I were wrong," said Dalabey humbly.

In one thing at least Dalabey was to be highly complimented. He was out to "restore" the old place, to make it look as nearly like it had been in the time of the Elmacotts as possible. He introduced no newfangled ideas and innovations, no modern improvements, except of course the power plant and the dynamo and the huge collection of storage cells which were to light the old house with electricity. Except for the electric lighting outfit, the old house was to look so like its old own and original self that had an eighteenth century Elmacott come to life and walked in through the hall door, he would not have been in the least surprised by anything he saw.

In the garden Dalabey had a very able lieutenant in old Markabee.

"Restore," said Dalabey, "find out all the lines of the old beds and borders and replace 'em, clean up the stone work, but not too much. You got to remember, Markabee, as time du meller things, an old garden this be and an old garden it hev got to remain, mark that, Markabee. It have got to look like, so be as if a gentleman in powdered wig and silk stockings and maybe a sword at his side were to come strolling down yon path, a-taking snuff out of his box and walking with a lady in hoops, Markabee, and patches and her hair all done high and whitened, as—as you wouldn't take, it to be the Fifth of November, Markabee, you get the hang of my meaning?"

"I du!" said Markabee, and he did his work well.

Inch by inch the old ground was reclaimed, the old yew hedge was clipped and trimmed, till it began to assume a faint suggestion of its once fanciful shape, the grass was scythed and weeded and patched and rolled and mowed. The weeds were torn up from the crevices in the old pathway of stone, but Markabee was artist enough to leave many a flower blooming where perhaps a flower should not have been.

The stonemasons and the rest would have pulled down and replaced the little stone nymph, but Dalabey ordered them off sternly.

"You leave yon maid alone, her be in keeping wi' the old place, her be! Too true some o' they weeds might be cleared off the pond, Markabee, but there be a line beyond which no one must go, so let the stone maid bide!"

So the little nymph was left in her old place, and the sunlight kissed her white stone shoulders, and dappled the slender little stone body with splashes of vivid brightness, and, little by little, the old garden came back to its own again. The weeds were all gone and the flowers bloomed, and the June sunshine and the June showers made the grass green and pleasant to the sight.

Meanwhile Allan stayed away; he was in London and his time was not unpleasantly employed.

He was too healthy and too young to brood over what after all had been merely a dream. It had been wonderfully real and wonderfully tender and beautiful while it had lasted. He had come back to reality with a sense of loss and a heartache for the little maid who had looked at him with such love in her blue eyes, who had put her arms about, his neck and called him her dear and kissed his eyes. Very, very real it had been and for many a day and many a night he could not put it out of his memory.

But this was to-day and there was all the world about him and he was to be married to a girl who was beautiful and good, and for whom he felt a liking and admiration that bordered on real affection.

Most of all he felt sorry for her, why he hardly knew, sometimes when she did not know that he was looking at her, there was a sadness about her eyes, a sad pensive little droop to her lips, which was gone all in a moment if he spoke to her.

There was a very comfortable understanding between them. They were going to be man and wife very soon, in the natural course of events they would have to live their lives together. They were beginning that life with mutual regard, liking and friendship. Love and passion were entirely absent.

"I am old, Allan," Kathleen said, "much, much older than you dear, in every way, not only in years, but——" she paused.

"In suffering and knowledge!" she might have said, but did not.

"You will never be old, I think," he said, he took her hand. "Kathleen, we understand one another. I—I'm a clumsy fellow, clumsy and slow of speech. I belong to a different world from yours!"

She shook her head.

"I am not going to apologise for my people, for in my heart I am proud of them. They were nothing and nobodies and they have made a place for themselves in the world—I love my father, honour and respect him, though I know, I know that you in your heart cannot like him."

"Your father is kind and generous, mine cynical and selfish, I think that you are richer in this matter than I am, Allan, but——"

It was the first night of a new play. London was still full, the season had not waned, the new play was dull and lifeless, the audience was yawning consumedly. These two had retired to the back of the box which Lord Gowerhurst had quitted just now and found more interest in discussing their own affairs than in following the fortunes of the characters on the boards.

Kathleen was looking wonderfully, regally beautifully to-night, and Allan was looking—what he was—an honest, clean living, stalwart young Englishman, whose dress clothes sat well on his shapely body. Son of the people he might be, but he was not a man to feel shame for.

"I do not disguise anything from myself, Allan, nor from you. I want to feel that you are my friend, that you are the friend I can come to and open my heart and speak to plainly as I might to one who is truly and indeed my friend!"

He pressed her hand by way of answer.

"I've wanted this opportunity to speak to you, it has come unexpectedly, but I shall speak now," she paused. "Our marriage was only a bargain, a very sordid bargain, and it—it hurt me at first, it hurt me a great deal. I—I hated myself, despised myself for agreeing to it, but since then, since I have come to know you better and understand you better, Allan, I think we can make something more of our lives than most others similarly placed might. I do not love you, my dear, and I know that you do not love me—No, don't speak yet, Allan, let me say what I have to say! Years ago there was someone—I was scarcely more than a child and I loved him very, very truly, very deeply. He was poor and so was I, marriage was impossible. He—went, away, I have never seen him since and I shall never see him again—the night we became engaged—you and I—I burned his letters. It hurt a little, Allan, but I did it, dear, because I want to come to you without a secret on my soul. I want to lay my heart bare to you. I want to look you in the face, to take your hand, knowing that I am keeping nothing back from you, knowing there is no secret that might lead to bitterness and anger and perhaps even to dislike. Though I feel very, very old sometimes, Allan, I know that I am young yet; we are both young, there are many years before us in the natural course of events. All those years we must spend together, so we will be truthful and frank and honest with each other and keeping our own self-respect, dear, we shall keep our respect for one another."

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

"You are a good, sweet, woman, Kathleen!" he said.

She laughed a little, very softly, "And you, Allan, have you nothing to tell me?"

"Nothing!" he said, yet hesitated and smiled to himself.

"I think there is something——" she said, "was there never even for a little while, someone!"

"Yes," he said, "a girl who called me her dear, who looked at me with loving tender blue eyes, who put her arms about my neck and kissed me——"

"Oh Allan, and yet——"

"Wait!" he said, he smiled, he still held her hand. "To me she was the most wonderful, the most lovely thing I ever saw, I loved her with all my heart——"

Kathleen would have drawn her hand away, gently, yet have drawn it away, but he, smiling down at her, would not let the little hand go.

"But she was not real, she was only a dream maiden. I never thought to tell anyone, Kathleen, but will you listen to me?"

"Yes!"

And so, still holding her hand, he told her.

"That was a very wonderful dream, Allan," she said.

"It was a very wonderful dream, and when I looked about me and saw all the weeds and the desolation, then I felt as if I had lost something—as if——"

"I understand!" she said. She was pensive and thoughtful. "What can it mean? Why should such a dream be sent to you? There was some meaning behind it, something—I wish I knew!"

"It was only a dream, and I am trying to forget it, perhaps I have nearly forgotten it—the sense of loss is passing away—not quite——"

She looked at him. "It will never quite pass, I think," she said. "Allan," she hesitated, "Allan, if—if it ever became real, if someone else, someone who awakened your heart ever came into your life——"

"I should remember that you are——"

"No, no, listen, I want you to promise me something, to promise me on your honour, and I know that I can trust that—if such a thing comes to you, if the real love that may come that comes into nearly every man's life does come—Allan, will you tell me, frankly, as one friend to another, will you tell me, dear?"

"I promise," he said, "and you, Kathleen!"

"It—it came—it can never come again—I was only a child, but he was all my world. I have never seen him since and shall never see him again——"

"But if you did—then will you tell me, will you be less frank with me than I with you?"

"No!" she said. "I will tell you, I promise, if—but it never, never will, still, if—if it should—then I promise, always we will be frank with one another!"

"Always!" he said.

Lord Gowerhurst opened the door of the box and closed it very softly behind him.

"Ah!" he said, "quite so; you are wise, the play is not the thing—it is rubbish—I am sorry for the author, I am sorry for the management, but as usual I am sorry most of all for myself. You two young people have something more interesting to discuss. I don't blame you! No, hang me, I don't blame you! Now I'll confess, I met Lumeyer, an excellent fellow, one who knows of good things, he put me on to one 'The Stelling Reef Gold Mine,' shares bound to go up. I've a good mind to have a flutter. By the way, Allan, where's your father? Our worthy and excellent Baronet!"

Allan flushed. He always did when his Lordship spoke of his father. Unintentional it might be, but there was always a suggestion of a sneer in the cultivated voice of the man whose pockets were at this moment supplied with the Baronet's money.

"My father is at Little Stretton to-day and staying over night, he is very busy down there at Homewood, sir, our—my—our future home—he takes a great interest in it and is doing the place up thoroughly!"

"An excellent man, you're lucky to have such a father!"

"I never lose sight of that fact, my lord!" Allan said gravely.

"Quite right, quite right—would to Heaven——" his lordship said tragically, "would to Heaven Kathleen could say the same! She can't, she can't, sir, too deuced honest to tell lies! She is like her sainted Mother! Bless me this drivel doesn't seem to be shaping for a finish. Supposing we clear out, eh? What about a snack of supper at Poligninis?"

Kathleen rose, "I would prefer to go home," she said, "I am tired to-night!" She looked at Allan, her eyes were very bright, very kind and friendly.

"My dear child," said his lordship, "at Poligninis they have some eighty-seven Heidsick, which I regard practically as my own property. It is never offered to casual customers. Polignini is an excellent fellow who appreciates my taste and keeps it for me," he paused.

"I am tired and I shall go home!" Kathleen said briefly.

"I will see you home!" Allan said.

His lordship shrugged his shoulders. "So be it, I will go to my lonely caravanserie and a frugal meal. I'm an old fellow, an old fellow, I realise that youth must be served!" He waved a white hand. "Youth, youth!" he said. "How lightly we hold it when it is ours, how we even resent it, and how, when it is lost to us forever, do we worship and yearn and long for it. Oh the happy, goutless indigestionless days of our long since fled youth, how precious they were! And how ill spent! Give me my lost youth back again, as I think it was Faust, remarked, and what would I do with it? I am afraid, my dears, I would do with it exactly as I did with it before. We never learn wisdom! Adieu mes enfants, bon repos, my Kathleen! May angels guard thee and bring happy dreams! Allan, dear lad, good night, my respectful compliments to the Baronet, an old man, my dears, and a lonely; I realise that youth is impatient of garrulous though well intentioned age! Good night once again!" He waved his hand and the box door closed on him, he was gone.

Kathleen sighed a little, she looked at Allan with a queer smile on her lips.

"Yes, I think Allan," she said, "you are more fortunate than I, and now, dear, I am tired, I am going home—to bed!"

CHAPTER XI

IN WHICH SIR JOSIAH PROVES HIMSELF A GENTLEMAN

St. George's, Hanover Square, had always been at the back of Sir Josiah's mind. His lordship had favoured St. Margaret's, Westminster. July was nearly out, London was emptying, if not emptied of people who really count, which was a great disappointment to Sir Josiah. But Homewood was nearly complete, the old gentleman walked through the transformed and glorious rooms, he looked through sound windows into a garden that was a delight to see with never a weed to mar its perfection. He took Montague Davenham, the celebrated art dealer, down with him to see the place.

"There you are, you ought to have seen it two months ago, you'd never believe, a ruin it was!" said Sir Josiah. "Fairly hopeless it looked, said I, keep to the old lines! It's an old house and you've got to make it look like an old house, but a well kept one, renew and restore! If you take away a piece of old moulding that's gone rotten, put back a new piece shaped the same, nothing new, that was my instructions, and they have carried 'em out, and now the rest's up to you, Mr. Davenham. I don't pretend to know what I don't know. But I do know this, that if you were to put say bamboo furniture and Japanese fans and umbrellas in this here old room with that ceiling and them panelled walls, why they'd be out of place, you wouldn't go and make a mistake like that! I've got money, I don't deny, and this house has been a bit of a hobby with me. I want to see it looking like it should look, so just take a look round, make up your mind and put the right stuff into it!"

"My dear sir, if every rich man were as wise as you, the world would certainly look a great deal more pleasant than it does. The house will form an admirable setting for furnishings of the right period. I compliment you on the manner in which the work has been done. I couldn't have done it better myself, the garden in particular is delightful, simply delightful!"

"Markabee here, done it, under Dalabey, a useful man. Dalabey, I don't know what I'd done without him, but it's ready for you now. Mr. Davenham, get ahead, get the place fixed up as it should be, the right furniture, the right decorations. Keep the price reasonable, I don't say stint, nor I don't say launch out too wildly. I leave it to you!"

"It is a commission that I accept with a great deal of pleasure. I think and hope that I shall please you and at a not too terrible expenditure!"

"Get ahead with it!" Sir Josiah said.

"Fine feller Davenham!" he said to Allan. "Knows his business; one thing you'll have a house that you needn't be ashamed to shew to anyone, a fit setting, my boy, a fit setting for a very sweet and lovely young lady, bless her heart, and a lucky fellow you are!"

"To have such a father!" Allan said, in all honest sincerity.

"Bless you, bless you, it's been a pleasure, I don't know when I've put myself heart and soul into a thing like I've done into this! I'm almost sorry I've put it in Davenham's hands now, but then he knows what's right and I don't. Now about the wedding, Allan! His lordship and me was talking last night. Something about St. Margaret's, Westminster, he said. 'I beg your pardon, my lord,' I said. 'St. Georges, Hanover Square, if you don't mind.' I've set my heart on it, Allan; I always had an idea I'd like you to be married at Hanover Square; there's something solid about the very name of it, right down respectable!" he paused. "Then, for the reception afterwards, I'm for taking the Whitehall Rooms at——"

"Father, I want to speak to you!" Allan said. "I—I hate to disappoint you, but in this matter I think the first person to be considered is Kathleen!"

"Bless me, and so it is! What she says goes!"

"She wishes the wedding to be very quiet, very quiet indeed; she wants only our own selves there, my father and hers and no one besides!"

"Why—why, bless me, bless my soul! You don't mean to say——" Sir Josiah's face was almost pitiful.

"She asked me last night, she begged me to side with her and uphold her wishes and I promised. I—I know, father, it's a disappointment to you, but we can't go against her, can we?"

"No, no, we can't go against her, that's right, right enough, no we can't go against her—never think of such a thing, I wouldn't, but I'd a thought that a young girl with all her friends would have liked——"

"It cannot be too quiet for her! And I promised to speak to you about it. Her father is very angry, unnecessarily angry, he spoke to her sharply, almost rudely in my presence last night, in a way——" Allan paused, "that my father would not have spoken to a woman!" he added proudly.

Sir Josiah gripped Allan's hand. "You—you're right, the little girl shall have her way, tell her; give her my love, Allan, and tell her what she says goes. As for his Lordship, his Lordship can—can go to the Dickens——"

Allan smiled. "I think his Lordship has been making for that quarter all his life!"

It was a bitter blow to the Baronet, but he took it like a man. He had counted on a gorgeous spectacle, for which he had been very willing to find the money. He had counted on portraits of the bride and bridegroom and bridegroom's father, to say nothing of the bride's father in the fashionable illustrated papers, as well as the daily illustrated press. He had cut out paragraphs from the Times and the Morning Post.

"A marriage has been arranged between Mr. Allan Homewood, only son of Sir Josiah Homewood, Bart., of Homewood, Sussex, and the Lady Kathleen Nora Stanwys, only daughter of the Earl of Gowerhurst."

He had cut out these news items and carried them about with him and shewn them to Jobson and Cuttlewell and Smith and Priestly (of Priestly, Nicholson and Coombe), and others of his City cronies. How proud he had been of them, how he had beamed and swelled with pride! He had hinted that he might ask—might possibly—ask Priestley and the rest to witness the ceremony. It had not been an actual promise, but next door to it, made by him in a moment of joyous enthusiasm following a good lunch and a bottle of excellent port.

And now the marriage was to be a small quiet affair, it was a blow, but he took it like a man! He sought out Kathleen, he took her hand and held it in his moist palm.

"My dear, Allan's told me, he says you're all for a quiet wedding; well I did reckon on something a bit slap up and stylish and like that, but if you're set on a quiet wedding, my dear——"

"I am, I want it very much, Allan understands," she said.

"Then, bless you, my dear, so it shall be, as quiet as you like! It's for you to say, what you say goes with me, Allan told you, that's right—why tears—my dear? Tears! Bless me, my lady, my dear, don't cry!"

"You are very good to me, now I understand why Allan is—is what he is, the fine man he is! He is like his father!"

"Like—like me—bless my soul, Allan like me, my love! My lady I mean—I'm a common old chap! Allan's a gentleman, I made up my mind I'd do my best for him and I done it—I'm what I am, my King, God bless him, saw fit to make a "Sir" of me, but that don't make a gentleman of me, my dear, and I know it!"

"I am going to be frank with you, truthful," Kathleen said. "I am going to—to hurt you perhaps, and then I am going to try and make amends for it—" She paused. "When my father first spoke of my marriage, my marriage with Allan, I shuddered at the thought of it—not because of Allan, but because of you!"

"I know, I know," he said sadly. "I ain't everyone's money, but——"

"No, listen, I looked down on you. I thought you were vulgar and purseproud and boastful, and, oh, I thought a thousand evil things of you and pretended to shudder when your name was mentioned!"

"My dear, I know, I know; don't, tell me more—I know!"

"But I am going to tell you more, I am going to tell you this!" She caught his hand and held it. "It isn't what you have given and what you are giving us, it isn't money—oh you know that, don't you? I was wrong, wrong all the time! I know you better now and I like and respect you and I envy Allan his father—yes, envy him his father and so I have told him and—please kiss me because I am going to be your daughter, aren't I? And because I want you to like me and be my friend!"

"God bless me!" he said. "God bless my—oh, my lady, my, my dear—Kiss you? I'd be proud and happy!"

She laughed a little, she held up her face, there were tears on her lashes. "Then kiss me, Allan's father!" she said.

My Lord had counted on an expensive and fashionable wedding, even more than Sir Josiah had. He had specially ordered a frock coat of a peculiar and delicate shade of grey, which would become him handsomely. That he would easily outshine everyone present he knew with certainty. He would give his daughter away, everyone would remark on his appearance, the exquisite sensibility that would mark his every action. They would not compare him with the Baronet, it was no question of comparison. People would see with their own eyes how immeasurably superior he was to Sir Josiah.

That the limelight would be mainly on himself, His Lordship had decided. He had even rehearsed the part he would play. He would be the tender, loving father, heart-broken and bereaved at losing his darling child, and yet he would bear up bravely, carry himself proudly, with a touch of tender gaiety. His speech at the reception he had written and re-written—and now he was in a furious passion, shaking with rage, he sought out Kathleen and swore viciously at her.

"What devil's tomfoolery is this?" he shouted. "What new pose have we here? What's this confounded rotten, absurd business about, a twopenny ha'penny housemaid's wedding, hey? Haven't I asked, unofficially of course, but asked all the same a hundred people? Haven't Bellendon and the Cathcarts and—and George Royhills and his wife practically delayed their departure from Town for this wedding, and now—now what rotten nonsense have you got in your head now, hey?"

She eyed him steadily. "Please don't swear at me, father?" she said. "There is no need. I asked Allan——"

"Asked Allan, hang and confound Allan! Ain't I anyone? Don't I count? I'm only your father! Haven't I planned this for you, haven't I cherished the idea of making you a rich woman, haven't I——?" He paused, floundering wildly in his fury.

"I asked Allan to humor me, I wanted a very quiet wedding, he was quite willing, as eager as I almost. He spoke to his father and his father has agreed——"

"His father! that confounded old City shark, that common, vulgar old brute, who—who——"

"Whom you are very pleased and glad to take money from, who has treated me with every kindness and respect and gave way at once to my wishes, though they were opposed to his own. Yes, a common old man, but generous and kind and good and—and I could wish, I could wish that my father was as fine a gentleman!" And with a stately curtsey, she left him.

"Well, I'll be damned!" His Lordship said in utter amazement.

CHAPTER XII

THE HANDS OF ABRAM LESTWICK

"You've got my wishes, Abram, you have!" said Mrs. Hanson.

He nodded. "I know," he said gloomily.

Abram Lestwick was of that curious, foreign type that one comes on unexpectedly in our English country villages. He was about thirty-two years of age, five feet nine in height and of a strong wiry build. His complexion was swarthy, the skin sallow and drawn with a strange suggestion of tightness, over the high and prominent cheek bones. The eyes were small, black and very bright and deeply set beneath heavy brows. No razor had ever touched the lower part of his face, which was covered with a thin and straggling growth of coarse black hair, that could scarcely be described as a "beard," for so thinly and far apart did the hairs grow that the contour of a weak chin was clearly visible.

The whole appearance of the man suggested nervous unquiet and restlessness, which particularly found expression in the constant agitation of his hands. He had a restless, nervous habit of fingering things within his reach.

At this moment he was sitting on the one "easy" chair at Mrs. Hanson's little parlour. He had dragged down the antimacassar that usually adorned the chair back and was plucking at the threads and rolling the edge of it into a tight curl. Mrs. Hanson watched his face; she did not look at his hands. There was something hateful about Abram Lestwick's hands, the fingers were long, flexible and thin, save at the ends, where they suddenly thickened out and flattened in a strange, unsightly manner. But it was their restlessness, their never ceasing movement that was so remarkable. Never for a moment were they still.

Mrs. Hanson, favouring the young man, yet knew she hated his hands!

"I feel, I du," she said to herself, "as I want to scream if I set and watch them, but I du know he be a good man and a hard worker, with no love for the alehouse and reg'lar to Church and like to make Betty a good husband, and after all, what du a man's hands matter? So be as he du work with them and earn his living honourable and upright in the state of life which it du please God to call him!"

"I've got your wishes, I hev," he said, "I know that, but what be the use of your wishes to me, Mrs. Hanson, so I haven't got Betty's liking?"

"You mustn't take too much notice of the maid; maids be strange and fickle things, aye and vain they be! The man as praises a maid to her face and tells her she be nice looking be the one as goes best with they!"

"What do 'ee want I to do?" he said sullenly. "I know there beain't a maid to compare wi' Betty, there beain't one as be fit to tie her shoes!" A dull red crept into his checks, his voice shook, his fingers worked more nervously and more rapidly at the destruction of the antimacassar.

"Slow of speech I be," he said thickly, "and difficult it du be for me to find words—there be a thousand things I would say to she—they be here all in my brain, but my tongue won't utter them! I—I try—" he paused, choking, "I try, I look at she dumblike and stupid and knowing it, aye, curse it, knowing it!" His voice rose, he wrenched at the antimacassar, he tore a piece away; his fingers were hideous to see at this moment and Mrs. Hanson looked resolutely at his face. Yet she was all the time conscious of the havoc his fingers were making.

"Do 'ee think I don't want to tell she? I du! I du, I try to, but my tongue won't do me sarvice. I love her!" He paused. "I love her!" He said it again. "Love her, I mean to tell her, yet like as not her'll laugh at me!" He stood up, he flung the antimacassar to the floor, his hands worked up and down his coat, tearing and fingering at the buttons and the buttonholes.

"There bain't a maid in all the world like she, not a man fit to kiss the grounds she treads on. If a man, a man in this village did look at she wi' harmful eyes, I'd kill him!" He nodded. "Kill him!" He said. "I'd get my hands on his throat and never let go! Sometimes when I think of her I feel that I be going mad like, I see red—red passion before my eyes. I tell 'ee, Mrs. Hanson, ma'am, I've got your wishes, I know, I know! But I must hev that maid; no one else shall, as God hears me, no one else shall!"

He went to the door, swinging his arms violently, his fingers clenched and unclenching.

"I've got your wishes, I hev, I'm glad of them, ma'am. I thank 'ee, I du—your good wishes, Ma'am, and I be obliged greatly, I be—and—please don't mind my tempers! 'Tis thinking of the maid makes me so; a peaceful man I be, and begging your pardon, Ma'am, that I did forget myself, but 'tis thinking of the maid that—that drives me like you see me, Ma'am! But I beg your pardon I du, most politely!"

He was gone and Mrs. Hanson sighed and stooped and picked up from the ground the work of her own busy fingers—and his! She sighed again, looking at the destruction of it.

"A terribul man he be—in his wrath, fit to kill anyone belike!" she said. "All tore it be, all tore and wrenched and broke apart—powerful fingers he must hev! Ill would it go wi' man or maid that angered he and did him hurt!"

Down the road in a tempest of passion went Abram Lestwick, swinging his arms and muttering to himself like a madman, and yet at Farmer Patchams, where he worked, they counted him as a man of an even and equable temper. A foreman, he never cursed and swore at those under him. Little things moved him not; his grim, glum, gloomy face never darkened with rage. A polite tongue he had, though a slow one, a steady man and quiet, and yet he himself knew of the tempest of unbridled passion, the mad tumult that his brain was capable of.

Rarely did his passions master him before others. They had to-night, before Mrs. Hanson, but he had her wishes, he was safe with her.

"If any man did look at she wi' wishful eyes," he repeated, "by God's Heaven I would kill him!" He clenched at the air with his nervously working hands. "Get my hands on his throat and kill him, grip and crash it till the life were gone out o' he, I would!"

He stopped suddenly, bathed in perspiration, but the fury gone. She stood before him in the gloaming of the evening.

"I be come from your house, Betty," he said, and his voice was mild as a voice may be. "A pleasant half hour I did have along wi' your grandmother, Betty!"

"I hope 'ee enjoyed yourself, Abram," she said with a little contemptuous laugh.

"Aye, I did in a way, for I were talking about 'ee, Betty!"

She frowned.

"Betty!" He felt as if he were suddenly choking, he lifted those working, restless hands of his to his own throat. They made as to tear open his shirt, so that he might breathe the more freely.

"Betty, do 'ee know what I and your grandmother were talking about?"

"I doan't and I bain't curus to hear!" she said. She made to pass him, but he held his ground.

"'Twere about 'ee!"

"Then 'twere nothing good," she said. "My left ear were burning cruel and now I know!"

"Betty," he said, "wait, 'ee shall, 'ee shall I say, wait, there's summut I must say to 'ee!"

"Let me—pass!"

"No, no." He caught her by the arm and held her.

"Betty, I du love 'ee so, I want 'ee to wife! If I don't have 'ee no one else shall, no one, I swear! Look at me, stubborn o' tongue I be—and difficult it be for me to speak the words I want to say, but 'tis all in this: 'I love 'ee better than life, better than death. I love 'ee mad; mad I be, I tell 'ee wi' love for 'ee! My maid, I'd die for 'ee and live for 'ee and kill they as come between us! Betty, Betty, give yourself to me—to—cherish—" He paused, the words of the marriage service came to him uncertainly, "to hold and to keep, to cherish until death us du part. Give yourself to me, for never and you go through the whole world will 'ee find a man as loves 'ee half so well!"

"I bain't a marrying maid!" she said. "And I'll not marry 'ee or anyone else and 'ee last and leastest of all, Abram Lcstwick. I'll never marry 'ee, never, never!"

"And I swear by Heaven 'ee shall!" he cried. His fingers were at work on her arm, she felt and hated the touch of them. Hateful fingers—long and sinuous, with their horrible, spatulated tips, they reminded her of writhing snakes, with their venomous, flattened heads, just that! She tried to break away from him.

"A great coward 'ee be, to so beset a maid. I hate 'ee, I du. Let me be, let me be!"

"I'll never let 'ee be, for I du love 'ee mad, mad," he cried, "and 'ee shall never belong to anyone else, never and——"

And then she broke from him, she lifted her strong young arm and smote him across the face with all her strength. Abram Lestwick fell back apace, his sallow skin went deathly white, he stood and stared at her.

"'Ee, 'ee made me du it!" she panted. "I—I had to du it, Abram, I didn't mean it, I be sorry in my heart, I did strike 'ee!"

But he said nothing, he only looked at her, then without a word turned and walked away down the road and she stood looking after him. Even now she could see the restless, nervous working of his hands.

"I hate—hate and I be afeared o' him tu!" she said. "I be terribul afeared o' him!" She broke down, sobbing and crying. "'Tisn't fair as a maid should be so bothered as I be! I don't want to marry anyone, leastest of all he, for I du hate him most mortally, I du!"

Her grandmother was waiting for her.

"Did 'ee see Abram Lestwick down the road?" she asked.

"Aye, I did see him!"

"Well?"

"Well?"

"Didn't he speak to 'ee, tell 'ee his mind?"

"Yes, he did and—and I hate him!"

"Hate?" said Mrs. Hanson. "Still filled wi' hate, 'ee be, which bain't seemly in a young maid! What wi' your hating first this one and then t'other, fair fed up I be wi' your hates, my maid, and 'tis time to put a stop to all such nonsense! Abram Lestwick hev been wi' me to-night and talking wi' me he hev been, and about you—moreover. And he be willing to marry 'ee and a good match it'll be, my maid, which Mrs. Colley have been angling for for that putty-faced 'Lizbeth o' hers, though Abram would never look twice at she. But 'tis you he be after, an upright, godly young man with thirty-five shillings a week and a cottage and all, and a rare chance for the likes of 'ee, Betty Hanson, wi'out a shillin' to your name!"

"I hate him and I'll never, never marry him; I hate him and am afeared of him as well! And sooner than marry he I'd go and drownd myself in the river, aye, that, I would, and that I will, for marry him I never will!"

"That's what 'ee say, but hark to me, marry him I say 'ee shall and I have told him, he has my wishes!"

A defiant white face, with big glittering eyes faced the wrinkled, angry old face.

"Drownd myself I will gladly and willingly afore I marry he!"

"Go 'ee in!" said Mrs. Hanson. "A perilous bad maid 'ee be and 'shamed of 'ee I be, and asking myself I be all the time—Be this my son Garge's child, or be she a changeling? For such temper no Hanson ever did hev yet—Go 'ee in, but mark this, marry him 'ee shall!"

"Mark this!" Betty cried. "Marry him I never will! I'll drownd myself first! Aye and blithely and gaily—for I du hate and fear him more than any mortal man and they fingers o' his that touched me—ugh! That touched me and—" And then suddenly she broke down in a passion of sobs and ran into the house.

CHAPTER XIII

THE HOMECOMING

Sir Josiah was performing his last friendly offices. Davenham had finished his part of the work and had done it, as the Baronet knew he would, with a complete and thorough knowledge and good taste.

Who, to look about one now, seeing those beautiful rooms with their exquisite furnishing, that garden, a thing of delight and perfect beauty, could reconcile it all with the desolate and derelict wilderness of a place it had been three short months before?

"I'd like that there Van Norden, or whatever his name is, to see it, I would!" Sir Josiah thought. "Hang me, I'd like him to take a stroll around now! Them Americans are smart and wonderful skilful, aye, and what's more a fine nat'ral taste they've got, appreciating fine things and old things more than we do! I say all that and admit all that, but this here Van Norden, he couldn't have beat what I've done in the time, he couldn't! He'd own it, too, for I've yet to meet the American who wasn't frank to admit the truth!"

Sir Josiah here was like a small king in great state. He was to interview potential servants, advertisements appeared in the London and the local papers, inviting cooks and housemaids, parlourmaids, footmen, grooms, scullery maids, still room maids and the like to present themselves at Homewood Manor on a certain day, when all their expenses would be paid by Sir Josiah Homewood, who would engage the most suitable persons. His own man Bletsoe was here to do honour to the occasion.

"How many are there, Bletsoe?"

"Nine young women, three old ones, two fellers and an old man as come about the gardener's place, only I understand as you're keeping that old feller, old Markabee, Sir Josiah!"

"That's right, keeping him on I am, a sensible man and clever at his work, that garden's a credit to him! Old very likely, but I've known men as weren't old, yet fools, Bletsoe!"

"Quite so, sir!" said Bletsoe. "And now about h'interviewing 'em?"

Sir Josiah frowned to hide his nervousness.

"How many old ones did you say, Bletsoe?"

"Three, sir, and one of 'em with a wonderful fine moustache as I ever see!"

"There's the money, take it and settle with them, mark where they come from and look up the fares in the A.B.C., Bletsoe, to see they don't cheat you, then give 'em five shillings over and above. But pay 'em their fares right and correct, not a penny more nor less, and Bletsoe, when I say—ahem! like that, you'll know as that one's no good, you see!"

It was hard work and none too pleasant, but the house had to be staffed. Allan and Lady Kathleen were married, they were spending a brief honeymoon on the East Coast; they would be back here soon to take possession and Allan's father was resolved that when they came they would find everything complete. Had not he himself pried in the store cupboards, which Messrs. Whiteley had obligingly stocked at his request? He had satisfied himself that everything necessary was there, everything, that is, of an unperishable nature.

Salt and tea, sugar and pepper. He had been greatly disturbed in his mind when he found that washing soda had been overlooked and he had ordered a hundredweight forthwith. And now he was engaging servants.

"I am Sir Josiah Homewood, this house belongs to my son, Mr. Allan Homewood, at present away on his honeymoon with his wife, the Lady Kathleen Homewood, daughter to the Earl of Gowerhurst. They are returning in a week and I desire to have everything in readiness for them. What might your age be and what are your references and who were you with last? And why did you leave your last place?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, my age, I respectfully beg to say, I don't see hasn't nothing to do with the matter. As for my references, here they are. I've lived in a Duke's family and there's but little I don't know how to cook, even to peacocks, I have cooked, sir, and——"

"Bless my soul, I didn't know people eat 'em!" said the Baronet.

"Only the best of the quality, sir!"

"Bless me, very well, hum, hah!" He looked through the references, he made notes on a piece of paper. "Please settle with this lady, Bletsoe, and give her, her out of pockets as according to arrangement—a—hem!"

And so the fate of the lady with the moustache was sealed, though she knew it not.

Betty had heard of this reception that Sir Josiah was holding to-day. Girls from Little Stretton, Bush Corner, and even from Gadsover and Lindney, had come to offer themselves for hiring. Betty hesitated, since that evening when she had defied her Grandmother life had not been very happy at Mrs. Hanson's little cottage. Should she go with the rest and offer herself for service in the house? But could she bear it, could she bear to see her own beloved garden again as it was now, not as she remembered it? All the dear trees cut down, or most of them, and hideous new walls put up, and her little stone friend gone from the lake and a great ugly stone fountain erected in her place, for so she had heard. Could she bear to see it all as it was now?

No, she could not, so she hesitated. The other girls went and were engaged or not, as Sir Josiah decided, but Betty did not offer herself.

For three days after that night when she had struck Abram Lestwick in the face, she did not see him, but on the evening of the fourth day he presented himself at the door of her grandmother's cottage.

He said nothing of that last interview. His manner was nervous and hesitating and without passion, his fingers worked incessantly, toying and tearing at everything within his reach. He sat upright on a horsehair-covered chair, and tore little hairs out of the cloth all the evening. At a quarter to ten he rose and took his hat.

"I'll be wishing you good night, Mrs. Hanson, ma'am!" he said.

"Good night, Abram, and always glad to see you," said Mrs. Hanson heartily.

"I thank you, Ma'am, good night, Betty!" he said.

"Go to the door, my maid, and see Abram off the step," said her grandmother.

Betty hesitated, then went, with her red-lipped mouth firmly compressed.

On the step in the summer darkness Abram found his tongue.

"Well?" he said. "When is it to be!"

"When be, what to be?"

"Our wedding?"

"Didn't I tell 'ee?"

"Aye, but 'ee didn't mean it, besides I hev made up my mind; when is it to be?"

"Never!" she said. "Never, never!"

He laughed softly to himself as she closed the door in his face, but to-night there was no passion, no tempest within him. He laughed again as he walked down the road in the velvety blackness.

There were lights in the Old Manor House, unfamiliar sight! He did not ever remember seeing lights there before and strange lights they were, very bright and brilliant, and so many of them. He stood still in the road and stared at the house.

Presently the little arched green door in the wall opened and a woman scuttled out, carrying a bundle suspiciously.

"Who be that? Law! How 'ee did frighten me!" she panted a little with nervousness; perhaps that bundle had no right to be in her arms. "Be it you, Abram Lestwick?" she asked, peering into the darkness.

"Aye!" he said briefly. "It be me all right, Mother Colley. What be 'ee doing here to-night?"

"'Tis the young new Squire, the old man's son, come home wi' his lady wife. I see her for a minute, Abram, and a prettier creature I never set eyes on, so kind and smiling her looks, too, and so mighty fond they du seem to be of one another, arm in arm they was walking. 'Father,' he were saying when I see him, 'Father have done wonders here, Kathleen! You did ought to have seen the place no more than four months ago. Father have worked wonderful, terribul hard for we!' he said."

"Ah!" said Abram.

"Yes," said Mrs. Colley, nodding her head, "and she wonderful sweet and dainty her looked, I tell 'ee, Abram—'Wonderful kind and good he be, Allan,' she says. And, Abram, why don't 'ee ever come in for a kindly cup o' tea to our cottage? My maid 'Lizbeth continooally du ask me! A clever maid her be wi' her fingers and a worker she, not like someone as I could name, some as bain't too right in their mind!"

"Who?"

"I mention no names, Abram, only I say there be a kindly welcome and a cup set for 'ee whenever 'ee do take the fancy and now I must be getting along. A wonderful place they hev made o' it, and oh! the money it hev cost! It fair sets me wondering how there ever du be so much money in the world!"

"And if," Abram thought, "all the money in the world were mine, I would lay it at Betty's feet!" So he went on his way, for the man who rises at four in the morning must to bed betimes.

* * * * *

Allan had been in no hurry for the honeymoon to end. Every day of their companionship added to his liking and respect for Kathleen. Now that she was away from her father, now that she had shaken herself free from the old environment, she seemed to be a different woman. Her laughter was more spontaneous; the sadness, for which in his heart he had pitied her, was going, if not gone from her eyes. She was a charming companion, her good temper and entire unselfishness were never failing. What more could a man ask?

He had rather dreaded the honeymoon, and now had come to realise that it formed the most pleasant period of his life. But now that it had come to its end, he felt a strange reluctance to go to Homewood.

He was young and healthy minded; for such a man to brood over a dream or a vision was impossible. The effect of that May day dream of his had well nigh worn away, the vision of the girl who had come to him in the old garden and kissed him had grown vague and shadowy. Like most visions, it was slowly passing and presently, unless something happened to revive it, it would pass into oblivion altogether.

But this return to Homewood would and must revive it and bring back that day and all that had happened on that day forcibly to mind once more.

And he asked himself, did he wish to be reminded? Was he not well enough content with life as it was? He was married to a girl for whom he felt a great liking, a growing affection, and a respect, a woman whom he realised was the sweetest and best woman he had ever known.

It was not her beauty alone that attracted him, yet he could scarcely repress a thrill of pride of possession that comes to many men when they realise the envy of others and see the looks of admiration which were no more than Kathleen's well deserved tribute.

So the honeymoon had been a very pleasant and happy time. They were frank with one another, the best of friends. They kissed one another with a quiet, undemonstrative affection that was not feigned. There had not been one breath to mar the perfect serenity of their lives. No foolish trumpery quarrel, but always that complete understanding and good faith that willingness to give and take unselfishly.

Are honeymoons always such a success? When the passionate lovers are united at last and drive away radiant and triumphant, amidst a shower of rice and good wishes, who can tell what pitfalls her pretty little feet may trip into, what obstacles he may go stumbling and floundering over? They believed that they knew and understood one another so well, all unconsciously perhaps they have kept up many pretences, have only permitted one another to see the brighter side.

But there is always the other and darker side, Romeo's temper the first thing in the morning may not be everything that is desirable. When Juliet finds that one of her dresses does not fit her quite so well as it might, she must vent her annoyance on someone—and there is only Romeo!

The good ship of matrimony has scarcely weighed anchor and set sail and the Captain and the Mate have yet to learn one another's characters, perhaps they have even to decide who the Captain and who the Mate. There are many little things to arrange, little difficulties to adjust. Happy they who can do it all, with kindness and good temper, willing to give freely and yet not asking for too much!

It was in the dusk of the late July evening that Allan and Kathleen came to Homewood.

It was the last day of Sir Josiah's reign, and never a sovereign gave up his sceptre with better grace. How he beamed, how he swelled with visible pride, how he dragged them from room to room to see this and to see that!

"There you are, my boy, what do you think of it? Wouldn't know the place, would you? You'd 'a fallen through this floor three months ago; look at it now!" And the old gentleman jumped up and down to prove the soundness of the joists and boards.

"Well, my dear, and what do you think of it? Pretty, ain't it? Davenham didn't let me down, there's nothing like going to the right man! Davenham ain't cheap, but—" He caught himself up, this was no time to talk of money and money matters. He had spent freely and willingly. Perhaps never before in his life had he spent quite so freely, quite so willingly. There was a heavy bill to meet, but what of that? He could meet it!

He had picked up a good deal from careful observations and from listening to Davenham's learned talk. The names Hepplewhite and Adam, Sheraton and Chippendale tripped glibly from his tongue. True, he confused Hepplewhite and Adam, but what did that matter? Allan and Kathleen did not mind, perhaps did not know, and the old fellow was happy and smiling, though there was just a little ache at his heart, for to-morrow his work would be done, to-morrow he would pack his traps, order the car, tip the servants and say good-bye. His reign would be ended! The villagers would give him their bobs and their smiles and perhaps a cheer, Dalabey would come from his shop and grovel for a moment as he passed and then—then life would of a sudden become strangely empty, strangely without aim and object.

"Can almost see 'em, can't you, Allan, my boy, those old Elmacotts; the place must have looked very like this in their time. Lord, it's a pity we've got into the way of dressing so plain and starchy like we do now! But bless my soul! What would I look like in a flowered waistcoat and powdered wig and silk stockings, eh? Ha, ha, ha! And how well she's looking, how pretty she is, prettier'n ever, Allan, and what a lucky fellow you are!"

"The luckiest in the world and the happiest I think, father!" Allan said very soberly.

The old man nodded, "That's right, that's right, that's what I hoped to hear. Now, take her and shew her round. It's a pity it's gone so dark, so you can't see the gardens to-night. I tell you, Allan, the gardens are even better than the house. You keep on that old Markabee, he knows his job and you won't get no better man for thirty-seven and six a week, cottage found!"

In the dawn of the summer morning Allan wakened, his sleep had been strangely disturbed. He had dreamed, yet now he was awake the dreams were all vague, half forgotten and meaningless. He rose and went to the open window and looked out into the garden.

He saw it as he had seen it that day in May, in his dream, all trim and fair, the weeds and the desolation gone, the flower beds all gay and bright with bloom, the lawns—and how old Markabee and his men had worked on these lawns! shaved and rolled and weeded.

And though remembering it as he had seen it, with the desolation of years over it all, it all looked unfamiliar to him now and yet wonderfully, strangely familiar.

Then suddenly there came to him with a sense of shock and anxiety a question. What of the little stone nymph who had stood there in the midst of the pool? Had they torn her from her pedestal and banished her from the place she had held for centuries? Why had he never spoken of her? Why had he never asked that she might be protected? Why—why above all did he care? What had become of a little stone image with a broken arm and a battered vase, and the slender little stone body all stained green?

But he did care, and he wanted to know what her fate was. He turned back into the room and saw his wife sleeping there. The sunlight slanted in through the uncurtained window and touched her face, and he stood looking at her.

Sleeping, she seemed, in spite of her eight and twenty years, to be such a child. There was a smile on her lips, her face was pillowed on one white bare arm, her hair fell about her on the pillow.

He stretched out his hand and lifted one heavy lock and held it lightly, letting it slip softly through his fingers till it fell to the pillow again.

And, watching her as she slept, he wondered why his heart did not throb, why a great passionate love for her did not come—yet it did not!

He dressed and went out into the garden. He was early, early even for old Markabee, from whose little cottage even now the smoke was curling, thin and blue, into the morning air.

In spite of the panic of anxiety of a while ago, he had forgotten the little stone maid. The enchantment of the garden was on him, his feet trod the stone pathway, his hands were behind his back, his head bent a little forward, yet he saw everything, the trim, carefully laid out beds, the green grass, the foxglove and the hollyhock thrusting their way to life and air and sun through the crevices in the old stone path. So he stepped aside to avoid tramping on their loveliness, yet wondered why they should be there.

Was it right? What would my Lady say? And he? Was not he dallying here when he should be at his work?

What thoughts! What strange jumble of thoughts was this?

Hoe and rake, he must get them from the shed; the shed there behind the old red wall. So he turned and came to the place and found no shed, then started and came back to life again and frowned at himself for his folly.

Was there some enchantment that brooded over the place, something that held him in its grip when his feet trod the soil of this old garden?

"Dreams!" he said aloud, and again, "Dreams!" And then laughed at himself and turned back to the broad stone pathway, then suddenly remembered the object of his quest, and hurried on to the lake.

She was there, untouched! and he was conscious of a relief, a sense of gladness—yet why? What did it matter? What would it have mattered had they pulled her down and carried her away and used her to mend some country road with and placed some fine marble fountain with basin all complete in her place? Yet it did matter and he knew that it did!

He turned, conscious of a relief and yet wondering at it and went back along the path to where was the great circle in the middle of which stood the sundial, and he noticed that some artificer had replaced the long lost gnomon, so that once again the shadow might fall and tell the passing of the hours.

And there was the seat on which he had sat that day. Then it had been half lost in a maze of tangle and growth. Now it had been cleaned and even mended a little, the moss and green growth removed.

Allan sat down, as he had sat down that day; he laid his arm along the back of the stone seat, just as then, and as then presently, the reality about him grew faint and uncertain, and he drifted into a light sleep. But in that sleep no dreams came, no vision of a little figure tripping down the stone pathway, no dainty little figure in her flowered gown, with mob cap on her shining head. Instead he opened his eyes and looked into the face of an ancient man, who pulled a scanty lock of hair at him and wished him "Good marning!" in purest Sussex.

"Good morning to you," said Allan and wondered for a moment who the old man might be, then it dawned on him.

"A wunnerful and powerful difference be here," said the old man, "which you will hev noticed, so be as you hev seen the place before!"

"I have seen it before, three months ago, and as you say a wonderful difference is here," said Allan, "and you are——"

"Markabee be my name," the old man said, "gardener I were at Lord Reldewood's place, near Smarden in Kent, though I be Sussex born and bred."

There was interrogation in his still, bright eyes.

"My name is Homewood, Allan Homewood!"

"Then you be the young master, the old master be a proper fine man and a thorough gentleman!"

Allan laughed. "I hope that you will be able to say the same of me, though I warn you, Markabee, I am not such a fine man nor so good a gentleman as my father!"

"That may be, that may be!" said Markabee. "One finds out, one does, for one's self. But I be one as speaks as I du find and I say the old gentleman be a proper fine man, free handed moreover and pleasant of speech!

"Very late in the season, it were," Markabee went on. "May, pretty nigh out, when I du come to this garden. Powerful difficult it were to make much of a show, as I did say to Mr. Dalabey. 'Never mind,' says he, 'du your bestest, Markabee, for you be working for a proper fine gentleman who don't mind a little bit of extry money here and there, so be he gets what he du want!'"

Allan nodded. Not for all the world would he hurt the old fellow's feelings, but he could wish old Markabee safely off to his work in the garden, leaving him here to his dreams in the sunshine.

But not so Markabee. For he was old and had seen many things and many gardens; old and garrulous was he and eager above all to make a good impression on the young master!

"Things I hev seen and changes," he said, "you wouldn't believe, and now—how old might you take me to be, eh, young sir? What aged man would you say I were?" He pulled himself up erect as a grenadier, and his bright old eyes twinkled, while the long whisps of white hair fell about his copper coloured face.

"Now, sir, make a guess, how old might 'ee take me to be, eh?"

"I should say—" said Allan cautiously, "that you might be sixty-five!"

"Ha, ha, ha, that be a good 'un, sixty-five—ha, ha!" He laughed till his voice cracked and he nearly choked. "Two and eighty years hev I seen, two and eighty wi' never a lie, and look at me, fit for a long day's work I be with the best and youngest on 'em! Ask anyone here, young sir, ask what sort of worker be old Markabee, ask 'em to satisfy yourself, sir! Yes, two and eighty summers and winters hev I seen—sixty-five—ha, ha, ha! Sixty-five!" And, chuckling with laughter, he saluted, drew his old body erect and went marching off down the garden with a jaunty air, and yet in his heart a little quavering wonder and anxious fear.

"I wonder, du he think I be too old?"

If spell there had been, old Markabee had broken it. So though he might sit here on the old stone seat, no drowsiness came to him now. He watched a bee, a great velvety bumble bee, with its lustrous black and tan body hurrying, full of business, from flower to flower. The sun was low yet, and cast slanting shadows all softly blue on the stone pathway. The dew glinted and glistened in the cups of the flowers and in the heart of the starry green leaves of the lupins. He looked along the broad straight pathway to the house and saw it, so strangely like he had seen it that day, the windows open, the dimity curtains moving lightly in the soft breeze. And now came a maid servant, but no mob cap and flowered gown wore she, and her hair was black and her eyes sleepy, nor did she trip daintily, but shuffled in sluggard fashion and let down the new sun blinds outside the windows with a rasping, creaking sound of iron on iron.

No dreams for him this day, nor did he want them? Why seek them, invite them? For dreams would but bring him again to dissatisfaction and would set him yearning and longing and even hoping for that which could never, never come true. Allan rose and seemed to shake himself, though he shook himself more mentally than physically, to lighten himself of these fancies, which were idle and foolish and which he must not encourage nor harbour.

He smiled to himself as he set off for a ramble about the garden, for he saw what he must do. He must prove to old Markabee and to all the rest that he was a man worthy of being his father's son.

"A proper fine man he be and a thorough gentleman," old Markabee had said, and so he was. God bless him for a fine gentleman!

And then suddenly and unexpectedly, for he had wandered far into a part of the garden where he had never been before and where even old Markabee and his merry men had not yet penetrated, he came on a little stream that flowed rapidly and clearly between high banks of thick green growth and at one place was a deep pool where the water swirled and eddied, obstructed for the moment in its course by an abrupt turn in the winding of the stream. About him were the trees and the greenery, an impenetrable leafy screen and the silence; but for the birds there was nothing to interrupt the solitude of the place. So off with his clothes and then a header into the cool green water for a brisk swim. Here, under the shade of the trees, the water ran cold and its coldness sent the blood leaping and throbbing through his veins.

A few minutes and he was out, glowing, dripping, a young giant in his health and strength. Now he had put his clothes on caring nothing that his skin was wet beneath them.

Back through the garden and the sunshine he strode—dreams, what idle things were dreams! Only a fool or a poet might sit there on that old old stone seat trying to conjure up visions of a long dead past. His body was in a glow, he was conscious of a great and voracious appetite. He saw the girl who had pulled the sun blinds down and called to her.

"What's your name?" he said. "Mary or Peggy, or Molly, eh?" he smiled at her.

"Ann is my name, sir!" she said. "Ann!"

"You're not Sussex?"

She tossed her head. "Not me, thank you, sir, I come from the Fulham Road!"

"Then, Ann, where you come from does not matter, but if you love me, get me a cup of tea and—and—well anything—a good big hunk of bread and butter will do, but see that it is big and that there is plenty of butter on it and I'll wait here till you come back, Ann!"

"What a very strange young gent," the girl thought. "If I love him indeed! There's a nice way of talking!" She tossed her head, yet went off to get the tea and the bread and butter.

"If I love him indeed, well of all the impudence!"

CHAPTER XIV

"HIS SON'S WIFE"

"Well, well, my boy, what do you think of it all? How do you think the garden looks?"

"Wonderful!"

"Wonderful, yes, that old Markabee's a treasure; you won't part with him, Allan?"

"Nothing would induce me to, father. I hope he'll stay here another twenty years at least!"

"That'll make him a hundred and two, the old man is very proud of his age, eighty something!"

"Eighty-two and seems a mere boy!" Allan went to his father and put his arms about the old man's shoulders.

"I—I'm not going to try and thank you!" he said.

"Don't, there's nothing to thank me for! I—I did it—I enjoyed doing it, never enjoyed anything so much in my life, put myself into it heart and soul. I'd like Cutler, you know Cutler, his daughter married the Governor of somewhere or other—I'd like him to see this place!"

"Then why not?"

"Bless me—so I may—one day—I might bring him down, but, Allan, I'm not going to interfere with you, not me! Two's company, three's none! I know that! And—good morning, my dear, and I don't need to ask how you slept! As fresh as a rose you look this morning, as fresh and as handsome too!"

And she did, her cheeks were glowing, her eyes were bright. Fresh from her cold bath, she was a picture of glowing health and beauty. She went to him and put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him.

"And now I want to know what is the meaning of those horrible looking bags and portmanteaux and things I saw on the landing?"

"Why—why bless me—they are mine—I—I didn't mean to leave 'em about, my dear. I'd never have forgiven myself if you'd tripped and fallen over them, but——"

"I don't mean that; what I want to know is: Why are they packed?"

"Because—because there's my things in 'em and I'm off for London. Bletsoe's got his orders and after breakfast I'll start——"

"But supposing I don't mean to let you go?"

"Thank you, my dear, thank you and God bless you! I—I know what you mean, but thank you, my dear, all the same! I—I like to think that you're not in a hurry to push the old fellow out! I'll be glad to remember that!" His eyes shone. "Yes, my love, I'll be glad to remember that, but——"

"How are we going to manage without you?" she asked. "You have been so clever, it's all so wonderful what you have done here. Allan told me what a terrible, terrible state the place was in and how like a fairy, a good fairy, you have touched it with your wand and it—is like it is now! And we can't let our fairy go, can we?"

"But he'll come back, my love, he'll come back!" The old man cried happily. "But you and Allan have got to settle down and I—I know what it is, my dear, when Allan's mother and me were married, settling down is a bit difficult—I think you and Allan are best left to yourselves, and then when you want me, why I'll come, I'll come, you won't have to ask twice. You ought to have the telephone on—" he paused, took out his pocketbook and made a rapid note, "arrange telephone, Homewood," then you'll be able to ring me up and I'll be able to ring you up—now and again, not that I want to be a nuisance or a worry to you—but—but—what's that? What's that? Breakfast, eh?"

"Yes, sir, breakfast!" said the manservant.

Over breakfast they discussed an idea that had come to Kathleen.

"We must have a house warming," she said, "you know the old superstition, there'll be no luck about the house unless we have a warming!"

"To be sure!" said Sir Josiah, a little puzzled, "but I had the fires lighted and kep' going for weeks and——"

"I know!" she laughed. "But I mean a party, a house party, just a few of our nearest and dearest. You, of course, first and before all and my—" she hesitated, "my father, of course, and then you will have one or two of your own friends, Sir Josiah, won't you? Friends of yours you might like to bring down?"

His eyes shone. "Cutler!" he said. "I'd like to bring him, take the shine out of him, it will too. I'm fed up with Her Excellency, the Governor's wife, that's Cutler's daughter. Why, my love, it'll stifle him, that's what it will do! Why, of course, I'll come! And there'll be a few things, wines and spirits and like that. I'll see about them, see about 'em at once—and now——"

And now the time for parting had come, the time he had dreaded, but it must come; the car was at the door, the bags were put into the car. And the owner of the car dallied, he was in the morning room and Kathleen was with him. She put her hand on his arm and delayed him, she had smiled a signal to Allan to go out and leave them together for a moment or so, and Allan had gone.

"You have been very, very good to us, you have given us this beautiful home, you have given us more—I know—" she said and her eyes were very bright and very kind, as she stood, a queenly young figure, with her slim white hand resting on his arm—"And I want to tell you this—I want to—to earn it all. I want to earn all your kindness and affection. I want to prove myself worthy of it! You have given me all this and you have given me your son and he—he is the best of all! A little while ago I thought that I was an old, old woman; life seemed to hold very, very little for me, my whole life was one long struggle, a struggle between pride and poverty. I suffered—" she paused, "more than I can ever tell. I knew what people said of me and of—" she paused, "of—of me, and now all suddenly I seem to realise that I am not old, but that I am young, and that I am not afraid of the years that lie before me. Our marriage, Allan's and mine, was—was—at first sordid and mercenary, and I hated it, but Allan and I talked about it and we agreed, long ago, that we would make the best, the very, very best possible of our lives and I think we are doing it. I know how you love him and I know how deeply he loves you and so—so I wanted to tell you that Allan's wife will try, with God's help, to be worthy of him and of you, that she will be a good, true and faithful wife to him, helping him when she may help, comforting him if he should need comfort. Perhaps—" she said softly, "I am not a religious woman, I wish I were! But no religious woman could have prayed to her God more fervently, more from her heart than I have prayed from mine that I may never fail in my duty, that I shall be all that he would have me, that I shall be a good, true and faithful wife and friend to the man whose name I bear!"

He did not speak, his lips trembled a little, he put his arms about her and held her very tightly for a moment and then he went out, seeing nothing very clearly, for the mist that was before his eyes.

And as he drove through the little town and out into the white Sussex roads, past the green fields and under the shadow of the Downs, he remembered, not that his daughter was Lady Kathleen, daughter of the Earl of Gowerhurst, but that she was the sweetest and the best woman he had ever known.