Front matter (continued 5)

"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."

CHAPTER XXIX

WHY ABRAM LESTWICK STAYED FROM CHURCH

Mrs. Colley wagged her ancient head, she looked at her granddaughter and smiled, shewing toothless gums.

"Du 'ee notice now as Abram bain't in Church this morning, my gell?"

'Lizbeth Colley frowned, "Abram Lestwick's comings and goings du not interest I," she said in a low voice.

The service was in progress. There sat Mrs. Hanson, prim and stiffly upright, the place beside her that had for so long been Betty's was still vacant. There was Miss Dowell, tall, angular and lantern jawed, gifted with a harsh and nasal voice that rose above all other voices when the hymns were being sung, beyond her, her niece little Mary Tiffley, who minded Miss Dowell's shop, ran her unimportant errands, cleaned her house and stye, windows and floors, a useful, hard working little maid Mary, a good wife in the making for some man who would probably work her even harder than did her Aunt Emily. And beyond Mary, that vacant space towards which Mrs. Colley's small bright eyes had been attracted.

Abram Lestwick, regular and devout worshipper, always occupied this place. He had knelt beside Mary Tiffley, had shared his torn and tattered hymn book with her, had thundered the responses in her little ears and it is doubtful if he had ever looked at the round childish pretty face.

Mary Tiffley, Polly Ransom, Ann Geach, what were they to him, he to them? What mattered it to Abram Lestwick that they were pleasant to look on, that they were fine, healthy country maids, any one of whom would make some man a good wife? He did not consider them, they did not exist for him. He could not have told from memory whether Mary Tiffley had fair hair or dark. He had sat next to her in Church; he had bellowed the same hymns with her for five years, since she was a child of twelve, she had grown up beside him and he had not noticed it.

"Aunt Emily, Mister Lestwick bain't in Church this marning," whispered Mary.

"I see him bain't," said Miss Dowell. "Mind your devotions now and don't 'ee getting looking about 'ee."

"Mortal glad I du be," Mary thought, "that he bain't here, for his fingers do fidget I something terribul, they du."

Everyone in Church noted the fact that Abram Lestwick was not there. Compared with the women, there were noticeably few men in Church, Abram was always a distinguished figure and they missed him.

Presently the sermon, which they knew by heart, was drawing towards its natural conclusion. When the Rector arrived at—"And so it behooves us to bear these things in mind. Let us put covetousness out of our heart, let us be content with that which we have, no matter how poor or how lowly be our lots in life. Let us accept God's goodness with thankful hearts asking for no more than it pleaseth Him to give—and——"

They knew from long experience that the sermon would conclude in exactly two minutes from this point and now there was a general movement, a rustling of Sunday dresses, a shuffling of young feet, eager to be out scampering on the grass, or on the good high road.

There was that movement in the little Church that takes place in a railway carriage when the long, long journey is nearing its end, when the station is almost gained.

Mrs. Colley stepped out briskly and smartly into the sunshine.

"A spryer woman I be than Mrs. Hanson, aye, a spryer and a nimbler I be, so as one 'ud take I for being ten years younger, though we were at school together. See how stiff du be her walk, how she du lean on her umber-rella. 'Lizbeth, take notice how her hand du shake remarkable! Good marning to 'ee, Mrs. Hanson, and 'tis a lovely fine day."

"'Tis:" said Mrs. Hanson briefly.

"A fine marning and a good sarmint," said Mrs. Colley.

"'Tis my favrit sarmint," said Mrs. Hanson, "I were always partial to Nabob's vineyard."

"Miss Dowell du be ageing terribul," said Mrs. Colley.

Mrs. Hanson sniffed. She felt that she was ageing herself, she missed the maid, though she would not admit it to herself. Perilous bad was that maid and disobedient, and she, Mrs. Hanson, was a stern, unbending, unyielding woman.

"Miss Dowell's Mary be growing to a fine maid!" said Mrs. Hanson. She was approaching the vacant space in the pew as it were, step by step.

"I have never noticed she, pertickler, I remember her mother, one of they empty heads as I never could abide."

"I noticed," said Mrs. Colley, "I noticed Mrs. Hanson as——"

"So did I!" said Mrs. Hanson, "Abram Lestwick were not in Church, I noticed it tu."

"'Tis the first time——"

"'Tis his own business and 'tis not yours nor mine."

Mrs. Colley bridled. "I du notice a great change in Abram, and if what I du hear be half true, that maid of yours hev played Abram a bad trick, leaving him in the lurk like and going and getting sarvice in the big house."

"I will thank 'ee, Mrs. Colley, not to interfere wi' me and my affairs. My grand-darter had her own rights to get any place as she did chose, and whoever hev been saying ill things o' she—I would hev took it friendly and neighbourly, seeing me and you went to school together as young things, I—I say I would hev took it neighbourly and friendly if you had up and spoke for the maid."

"And how did 'ee know as I didn't?" demanded Mrs. Colley shrilly.

"Because I du know your tongue, Ann Colley and knowed it of old I du, and it's a tongue as would sooner speak ill things of your neighbours than good things and—and I wish 'ee good marning, Mrs. Colley, and my bes' respects to 'ee!" And shaking her old umbrella, Mrs. Hanson marched on, a tall gaunt figure of a woman.

It had worried her too, that Abram was not in Church, she disliked changes; she had come to look for Abram in his place every pleasant Sunday morning, and every unpleasant one too for the matter of that. But fine or dirty the weather, Abram had never failed till to-day.

"There be something wrong," Mrs. Hanson thought. "I mislike it, Abram not being in his place, I missed his voice in that 'ymn which we did have to-day and which he was always partial to."

Not for days had she spoken to Abram. He passed the cottage regularly, he touched his hat politely when he saw Mrs. Hanson, for he was a polite man. But he had never crossed the threshold since Betty had got her place in the big house.

But Mrs. Hanson had heard things from others than Ann Colley. She had heard how Abram patiently and stolidly spent two hours every night staring at the arched green doorway in the wall of Homewood, through which doorway he knew must come Betty sooner or later.

Mrs. Hanson sat down to her Sunday dinner, it was a frugal meal of cold boiled bacon, a cold potato and a piece of bread. Mrs. Hanson was a strict Sabbatarian. Many and many a time when Betty had dared to remonstrate about the Sunday fare, Mrs. Hanson had said to her.

"Remember my maid, as you du keep holy the Sabbath day. Six days shalt 'ee labour and do your work, and not a potato will I have cooked in house of mine on the Seventh day, which be the day of the Lord, thy God, nor baked nor biled meats will I hev."

"But 'ee du bile the kettle, Grandmother, for to make a cup of tea on Sundays same as other days!" Betty had said.

"That be a different thing, tea one must hev; the Lord would not hev sent we tea if He had not meant we to bile a kittle to make it with."

"Nor potatoes," Betty thought, "if they were not to be cooked. After all, why was it a sin to boil water in a saucepan and no sin to boil it in a kettle."

So Mrs. Hanson sat down to cold bacon. Primly and stiffly she sat and mumbled the bacon between her hard gums, but she was not thinking of the carnal pleasure of feasting, her thoughts were of Abram Lestwick.

Strange that he was not at Church, strange that he should have missed on such a fine Sunday after all these years!

"Something must ail he," thought Mrs. Hanson and was surprised that the idea had not occurred to her before.

Mrs. Hanson finished her meal, she washed her plate in cold water, she set it on the dresser. She put on her bonnet again, she took her umbrella and locked the cottage door behind her.

Abram's cottage was three-quarters of a mile away and Mrs. Hanson was feeling her age to-day. But she walked the distance, she reached the cottage and tapped on the door.

"Come in!"

Mrs. Hanson went in. Abram, dressed with his usual care, was seated in a stiff chair, drawn up to a round table. On the table, which was covered with a red flannel table cloth, was a large Bible. Abram was reading from the Bible, following the lines as he read them with his long, flat tipped finger.

Abram's face was battered and scarred, there was a deep gash on the forehead, there were livid marks under his right eye, on his left cheek, and a contused wound on his upper lip.

Mrs. Hanson looked at him, but she said nothing.

"I wish you good marning, Mrs. Hanson, and beg of you to be seated," said Abram.

Mrs. Hanson sat down.

In higher circles educated and polite people are apt to remark on any facial disturbance of a temporary disfiguring nature that may have befallen their friends. In Mrs. Hanson's circle it would have been considered bad form.

"It were remarked in Church, this marning, Abram, as 'ee was not present."

"I were not!" he lifted his head and looked at her, the light shone in from the window and illuminated his battered countenance.

"So being an old friend——"

"And very considerate of 'ee, Mrs. Hanson," he said. "I will finish my chapter," he added.

She sat there waiting, she watched him as with the forefinger of his right hand, which appeared to her to be abnormally long and curiously flattened at the end, he traced a line across the page, stopping at every word, which though he uttered it not aloud, he evidently formed by muscular exertion of his jaws. His left hand not being engaged with the book was twisting and tearing the edge of the red flannel table cloth.

Mrs. Hanson shut her eyes, she could hear Abram's stertorous breathing, then she heard a movement. He had evidently finished, he closed the book solemnly.

"I hev finished my chapter," he said; "spiritual comfort be a very great blessing, Mrs. Hanson."

"Ah!" she said. "We had Nabob's vineyard for the sarmint to-day, Abram, and 'ymn seventy-two, as I know 'ee be partial to."

He nodded.

She wondered if he would tell her about his face, not for all the world would she transgress the unwritten laws of politeness and ask for an explanation. The reason, however, why he had not been present at Church was obvious.

"Last night," he said after a long pause, "last night I see the maid——"

"Betty?"

"There be but one maid for me, Mrs. Hanson, and it be onnecessary for me to give a name to she when I say the Maid 'ee will understand."

"Aye!" she said.

"Her still keeps contrairywise," said Abram.

"Her will give way," said Mrs. Hanson, "maids du!"

Abram's right hand was trying to tear scraps from the worn leather of the corner of the book, his left was still engaged with the tablecloth.

He was looking at Mrs. Hanson, it seemed as if he was trying to make up his mind to say something, several times he opened his mouth and as many times closed it again in silence.

"Well Abram, I must be getting along," she said it to urge him to speech.

"I would beg of 'ee to take a cup of tea wi' me," he said, "but Sunday be a day of fasting and repentance and prayer, Mrs. Hanson, Ma'am! And moreover the fire hev gone out, Mrs. Hanson——" Again he hesitated. "Mrs. Hanson, hev 'ee ever met Mr. Homewood——"

"The barron-ite one," she asked, "or the young one as be master?"

"The young one."

"Aye, I hev met he and spoke to he and a very pleasant spoken gentleman he be."

"Oh he be a very pleasant spoken gentleman—a very pleasant spoken one, I du know!" A spasm seemed to pass across the man's face, his fingers clenched suddenly, she heard his long nails rasp over the leather cover of the book. Looking she could see a series of deep scratches they had furrowed in the stout leather.

"Why Abram bain't 'ee well to-day?"

"I be very well, I thank 'ee, Mrs. Hanson, I be enjoying unusual good health, I thank 'ee. I did not come to Church this marning because—because in the dark last night—I did stumble and fell as 'ee may have noticed, Mrs. Hanson."

That he was lying, that it was no stumble, no fall, she knew. Had it something to do with Betty and why had he asked her if she knew Allan Homewood?

"And as 'ee said 'ee must be getting along——" he suggested. She rose to her feet, it was a hint, a broad one and she took it.

"Aye! I must be getting along, Abram," she said.

He saw her to the door, he went to the gate and opened it for her.

"I thank 'ee most politely for coming and calling, and I wish 'ee good day, Mrs. Hanson!"

He stood watching the tall upright figure down the road.

"Her be ageing," he said to himself, "ageing her be."

He went back into the cottage and closed the door after him. He took the Bible and placed it on the small round table in the window, on the Bible he laid an antimacassar, on that a small glass case containing some flowers contrived in wool.

Then he stood still, he lifted his hands so that they were between him and the light, he looked at them as though examining them curiously.

"A very pleasant spoken gentleman he be!" And then he laughed curiously.

CHAPTER XXX

THE RELIGION OF SIR JOSIAH

From Kathleen's window the garden glowing in the white sunshine was a feast of vivid colour. To-day old Markabee, in clean smock and respectable though ancient high hat, had wended his way to the village church, in obedience to the persistent clanging of the unmusical bell. But the bell was silent now, its noisy clamour was stilled and the peace and calm of the day of rest brooded over the place.

Kathleen sat, her chin resting on her hands, her eyes fixed on the old garden, yet seeing nothing of it.

To her within the last few hours had come knowledge, a wonderful knowledge, knowledge that brought with it a strange fear and yet a great joy. She knew that she was to fulfil her woman's destiny. At first she had been inclined to question that knowledge, to doubt it, then she had waived doubts aside. It was to be! and why should it not be? She asked herself, was she glad? Was she sorry? She could find no answer at first, just at first her one thought was "fear." But it passed quickly and in its place came pride—pride and joy.

Glad—yes, she was glad—her eyes were bright with the joy that had come to her, there was a smile on her lips, and yet about that smile there was a shade of melancholy and sadness and a little too of the wistfulness of hunger. For strangely, of the one knowledge, had been born another.

She had come to understand something which she had been faintly conscious of for a long while past, something that she had thought of perhaps yesterday when she had stood beside the pool, listening to Harold Scarsdale.

That other knowledge that she had gained made her understand now why that parting with Scarsdale had cost her so little anguish, so small a heartache. She had pitied him, yet not herself, and then she had not known why this should be, yet she knew it now.

And so, after ten years dreaming, she had awakened to find that the dream was but a dream after all.

Presently into the garden came two who walked side by side, the one tall and upright and strong, the other a hale and hearty man, yet lacking the spring of youth in his sure steps. She watched them and there came into her eyes a new light, a light born of wonderful tenderness, into her fair cheeks came a faint colour.

She saw the younger put his arm about the elder's shoulder. How they loved one another, those two, father and son.

"I want to tell him, I want him to know and yet—yet I dare not tell him!" she thought. "Still, oh I want him to know! I wonder, will he be glad and proud, proud as I am? Or will he—be sorry?" Her head sank a little. "He would be proud and glad if he loved me——"

"Allan!" she said softly, "Allan!"

It seemed almost as if from her brain there fled a message to his, for he turned, he looked up at her and smiled.

And the sunshine was on his brown honest face and in his clear eyes. He could only see the smile she had for him, he could not read at this distance the message in her eyes, a new message, one that they had never sent to him before, a message of a newly found yet great and sure and strong love.

And now, as she watched him, she knew why yesterday she had been able to turn that leaf, in the book of her life with scarce a heartache.

She knew the truth now, she had idealised the child's love, she had lived on the ideal, had tended it and cared for it and worshipped it and had made it the most beautiful and wonderful thing in her life. She had built for herself a great and wonderful palace and had found that its foundations were laid on the shifting sands, and so the dream palace had crumbled and fallen into utter ruin, the dream had ended, and with clear eyes she beheld the truth.

This morning Scarsdale had told her quietly that he had been asked to stay by Allan. He had watched her curiously while he told her, had wondered if she would shew anger or annoyance, and she had shewn neither.

She was only the gracious hostess who expressed her pleasure at his continued stay.

"When our other friends are gone, I am afraid you will find it very dull, unless you are interested in those things that Allan is interested in—this modern, scientific farming." She smiled at him, there was no self-consciousness.

Yesterday might never have been, all the years, all their memories might never have been. This man was her guest, her husband's friend—his guest from this moment, nothing more. She was not playing a part, she was not cheating herself. Yesterday she had told him that as lovers they had parted forever, as mere friends they would probably meet many times, and so it was.

Harold Scarsdale represented nothing to her now; he was even less her friend henceforth than her husband's.

He had wondered at the far-away look in her eyes, at the almost mechanical way in which she had accepted his news. How could he guess how utterly and completely her thoughts were filled with this knowledge, the greatest, most wonderful that ever comes into a woman's life?

And so she sat here by her window and watched the figures of the two men, both dear to her, but one grown suddenly so wonderfully, so inexpressibly dear that the strength and depth of her love almost made her afraid.

In spite of the smile he had given Kathleen a while ago, there was this morning a cloud on Allan's brow, a weight of care on his heart. He was worried and anxious, he wanted to do what was right, he wanted to act justly and honourably, and he knew that he was afraid—afraid for himself, afraid of a man's weakness, afraid of temptation that he would willingly flee if he could.

Long ago he had promised to be open and honest with Kathleen, had promised to tell her if that which had been so unreal, so intangible, should by any chance become real, and it had and yet he hesitated to tell her. It had been so easy to promise then, so difficult to perform. But he wanted advice, he wanted help and to whom could he turn if not to her?

There was his father.

He looked down at the kindly old face. But would his father understand? He doubted it. What patience would Sir Josiah, man of affairs, business man and materialist, have with dreams and visions and such-like rubbish? Yet Allan had a boyish, and because it was boyish, an honest longing to take someone into his confidence, to unburden his mind, to ask advice, to share his thoughts with some other and if not Kathleen, who better, who more natural than his father?

And so he made up his mind to speak, but hesitated. Twice he commenced, twice he branched off lamely into something else.

"What's the matter, Allan lad?" Sir Josiah asked.

"Matter, father?"

"Aye, matter, my son! I know you better than you think I do perhaps. You've got something worrying you and that's a fact. Now what is it? Is it Gowerhurst, has his lordship been saying anything or—or wanting anything, hey?"

"Lord Gowerhurst has——"

"Allan, look here," Josiah took his son's arm and pressed it closely. "I know his lordship, he's a gentleman, a man of position, a man of rank and title and like that—but he's hard up and when a man's pushed, well I suppose he ain't too particular, can't afford to be; it just crossed my mind that his lordship might—I say might have asked you, Allan, to lend him a helping hand."

"No, no!"

"Well then I'm wrong, but it might happen, and if I turned out to be right I wouldn't like you to have to say no to Kathleen's father, boy, I wouldn't like that—and it might hurt her, our—our little girl—eh, if she knew."

"Our little girl," what a wealth of tenderness and love in those three words! It was never "her ladyship" now, it was just that: "our little girl." Allan felt something sting in his eyes for a moment, his hand rested more heavily on his father's shoulder.

"No, I wouldn't like to hurt her in any way, even that way, Allan, so—so if his lordship should—and it seems to me very likely that his lordship may—why do you see, Allan, you can draw on me. Of course he won't never pay back, that's not to be looked for nor expected and one thing he wouldn't expect to get a wonderful lot out of you—so if he does ask you must say Yes—up to five hundred, Allan, and then let me know quietly, and there you are, there you are, my boy!"

"I wonder if there is another man in all the world like my father?" Allan said.

"Bless you, heaps and heaps and a sight better. But there's one thing, Allan, there's never a father in this world as knows and loves his son as I know and love mine and so—so boy—out with it, out with it now and here."

They had come to a shady place, under the tall yews. Here was an inviting seat and on the seat Sir Josiah settled himself and drew Allan down beside him.

"Out with it—with what, father?" Allan asked lamely.

"Why out with what's worrying you, my boy; do you think I didn't see it, do you think when I saw you first thing this morning and took just one look at you I didn't see it there—there in your face and eyes? Why bless you, of course I did; it ain't money, Allan?"

"No, no!"

"I knew that, then what is it? Not—not trouble, nothing amiss with—between you and her?"

"No, thank God!"

"Thank God!" the old man said. "And so—so it isn't that and therefore it can't be anything bad—so I'm waiting, Allan, waiting, dear lad, tell me."

"Father, if I did you could not understand."

"I'd try, Allan," the old man said simply.

"Then, by Heaven I will tell you, father, and you shall try and understand, though—though if you do, you will be more clever than I, for I cannot understand." Allan lifted his hand to his head for a moment.

"Do you remember something that you told me once about—an ancestor of ours—whose name was the same as mine—a labourer here—a gardener, who married his mistress' serving maid?"

"And whose son went to London and took over the Green Gates in Aldgate—why of course I do!"

"Well," said Allan quietly, "that's it——"

Sir Josiah looked at him. "God bless my soul!" he said, and if ever there were mystification on a man's face, it was on his.

"Father, do you believe that the soul can outlast and outlive not one earthly body, but many, ten, a hundred, a thousand, that when the body perishes as all things earthly must perish, the soul can and does find another dwelling place? Ah! I don't make myself clear." He broke off, seeing the mystification deepen in the old man's face. "I am afraid I never can. Think this out, father, a man dies, the body perishes, but the soul, the ego, the spirit lives on. It finds another body, which it animates for good or for evil, it completes another life, and then all happens over again. Each time the body dies, the soul passes through oblivion and returns to earth——"

"Here, here, Allan!" cried the old man. "Here, bless my soul, didn't you ought to see someone?"

Allan smiled ruefully.

"Have you never heard of re-incarnation, the re-incarnation of the soul, father?"

"No, I can't say as I ever have and I don't know as I ever want to. I've only got one life and though I mayn't succeed in many little things none too well, I'm trying to do the best I can with it. Looking back—" the old man went on, "looking back, Allan, I can say and thank God as I can say it that I can't remember ever having done a dirty act or ever having played a mean trick on a man or a woman in my life. I accepted my body like it was, a loan from God; I've used it and kept it clean and when the time comes for me to hand it back to Him, why then I want to feel as I can hand it back in good condition and good order—fair wear and tear excepted, Allan, and that's how I look at things. I don't pretend to know, there's some as does, yet they are only men, the same as me and you, dear lad, and they don't know—no one knows—and it's as well for us, maybe, we don't! It's a beautiful world and a wonderful world and God lent it to us the same as He lent us our bodies to use properly, to admire and to make the most of and enjoy. Beyond that, I don't seek to know anything, but when my time comes, I want to be able to think to myself a prayer, that goes somehow this way—'God, this is the body You lent to me, I'm done with it and now I'm giving it back; I've tried to keep it clean and honest, I've treated it as if it was something belonging to You more than to me—and that I was in honour bound obliged to deal with carefully. If there's a Heaven and You know best, I hope you'll find a place in it for my soul, because in keeping my body clean, oh Lord, I've kept my soul clean along with it!' That's how I look at things, Allan, I ain't good at talk of this sort. Maybe you'll think I've got funny ideas, so I have, but don't tell me nothing about this re-incarnation of yours; I don't hold with it, boy, I don't believe in it; if it's true, and it may be, mind you, it may be, it isn't for us to know if it's true or not. If it was right, we should know, then God would find some way of telling us."

"Perhaps He has!" Allan thought, but he said no more. No, he could not tell his father, for his father would never understand!

CHAPTER XXXI

"A VERY WORTHY MAN"

Allan's conscience smote him sorely. He had misjudged and dealt hardly with Abram Lestwick. He had thought, had honestly believed, that the man had intended drawing a knife on him and in his fury and anger had punished his victim unmercifully.

Later, when he had gone carefully over Lestwick's clothing and had found no traces of weapons hidden there, he had known his suspicion had been unjust. It weighed on his mind, he went over the incident again and again. He wondered if he had seriously hurt the man. He felt anxious and ill at ease, as must every just man when he is conscious of an unintentional act of injustice.

It troubled him the more because he knew that he did not like Lestwick, that to a certain extent he shared Betty's antipathy for the man.

Little Betty to spend all her days with Abram Lestwick! That could not and should never be.

Yet in this Allan felt himself in the wrong and there was but one course open to him. To seek Lestwick out, to admit frankly that he had erred, to ask the man's forgiveness and to make amends, if amends were possible.

And yet Allan decided that in a way the man deserved all that he had got, he had pestered and worried Betty, he had waylaid her, to obtrude his hateful love on the frightened, shrinking maid.

"Hang him!" Allan muttered between his teeth. "If he ever does it again I—" he clenched his hands and felt very bitter for a moment towards Abram Lestwick, then the bitterness was gone. He himself had done wrong, had misjudged and therefore only one course was possible to Allan Homewood.

Lord Gowerhurst having found another bedroom, where he was not likely to be disturbed by sounds of bird life, had decided to stay on for a day or two. The country would do him no harm, he would be all the better by the change. His appetite was getting to be really quite satisfactory, though even at the very worst of time, Lord Gowerhurst was no mean performer with the knife and fork.

He had also made the discovery that Allan's butler, the staid, deferential and respectable Mr. Howard, had at some time in his career been a valet and could still shave with some dexterity and was moreover a very polite and capable man, so his lordship took possession of Howard and another room and declared his intention of staying till Tuesday or Wednesday.

Sir Josiah and Mr. Coombe and the rest were not averse to one day more of holiday. The newly installed telephone enabled them to get into touch with their City offices, with the result that the little house party would not definitely break up till Wednesday.

So Allan, with the weight of his injustice to Abram Lestwick on his conscience, set out this Monday morning to do penance.

He knew that Lestwick was employed by Patcham at the Moat Farm. Betty had told him. The Moat Farm formed part of the Homewood Estate and Patcham was his tenant; what more natural than he should call on so worthy a tenant and talk crops and soil and manures and such like with him? And then how easily and naturally would slip out a word or two about Abram Lestwick. Was he a good man? an honest worker? and if he should prove to be these and deserving, Allan must see what he could do for the man to make up for the injustice of his treatment of him.

Kathleen followed him out of the breakfast room this morning. Lord Gowerhurst was not yet risen and Mr. Coombe had expanded under the influence of His Lordship's absence. Mr. Coombe was telling stories of high finance. That his stories were interminably long and without any point and of no particular interest, did not matter. Coombe was a sound man, Sir Josiah honoured him, Cutler and Jobson admired him. Sir Harold Scarsdale took no notice of him, so was not bored by his stories. Scarsdale was thinking naturally of Kathleen. He thought of little else, her manner troubled him. He could not, frankly he could not understand her. She was smilingly polite, courteous and considerate, she was friendly and sweet to him, and it made him realise that he represented nothing at all to her. But she was playing a part, and playing it well, he argued with himself. A woman, and a woman like Kathleen, could not apparently without effort or sense of loss tear out an image that has been enshrined in her heart for ten long years. It puzzled him, worried him, even angered him, but he told himself he must be patient. His was now the waiting game, and he believed that he had but to wait long enough and all that he desired on this earth would be his.

So Kathleen followed Allan out into the wide hall and found his cap and selected his stick for him and did just those little things that a tender, thoughtful, loving woman always does and meanwhile she looked at him with a strange wistfulness, a curious pleading in her eyes, eyes that told of a hunger and longing in her soul. But he, man-like, was blind to it, yet not insensible of her goodness and her thought for him.

To-day she felt a strange unwillingness to let him go, she did what she had never done before. She slipped her hand through his arm and walked with him down the wide pathway to the gate, the sunshine in her hair and on her face. Sir Josiah, bored by Coombe's unending story, yet too polite to shew it, watched them from the window, a smile on his face. It was good to see them like this—such friends, such comrades!

She wanted to tell him—not of Scarsdale, for that had sunk into insignificance now—now that there was something so much greater, so much more wonderful for him to know. But not yet, not yet—not out here in the sunshine with perhaps someone watching them from the window. Presently—presently when they should be quite alone!

So at the gate she paused, she looked at him.

"And once I thought I loved—Harold!" she thought. "Once I thought so and now I know—I love——"

"Don't you want me to go out this morning, dear?"

"Oh, yes, yes, you're going to old Custance to talk——"

"No, I'm going to the Moat Farm to see Patcham, it's time I called on him. But if you would rather I stayed——

"No!" she said. "Go! Good-bye, Allan!" she added softly.

They would have parted with a touch of the hand as they always did. They kissed on rising and on retiring, but at no other time of the day. Yet to-day she clung to his hand for a moment, her heart was filled with tenderness for him, longing and a desire to keep him that she was too unselfish to pander to.

"Why dear——"

There was something about her that he could not understand to-day, something in the tight hold of her hand, in the unwonted colour in her cheeks, the wonderful brightness in her eyes.

"It is nothing, dear, go—good-bye!" she said, yet as she spoke she lifted his hand and held it against her soft cheek, just for a moment and then would have turned, yet before she did, he caught her suddenly—why he did not know—it was a moment of passion irresistible, something that came so swiftly that he could not question it, could not understand it. He caught her and held her and kissed her and then quickly let her go and without a word went striding forth, conscious of a feeling of shame, as though he had offered her insult.

And she stood looking after him, her hands pressed against her breast, her eyes wide. Not once did he turn; had he done so perhaps he might have seen, might have understood the longing in her eyes, the hunger for the love that he never dreamed she needed.

Allan walked on quickly. A woman in moments of mental stress can find relief in tears, a man more usually in violent movement.

He was a little shaken, a little unnerved, greatly surprised at himself. Why had he done that, why had his heart leaped suddenly at the touch of her soft cheek on his hand, why had he—done what he had done? Yet, having done it, regretted nothing. It seemed to him that from that moment Kathleen held a new interest for him. He had regarded her as friend and companion—from this moment on he knew that she meant more than this to him.

Farmer John Patcham received him courteously, with a deference and respect that had nothing whatever of servility about it.

"'Tis a fine marning," he said, "and I be just going to have my usual lunch, Mr. Homewood, a very plain and simple lunch it be, just a glass of ale and a plum-heavy, very partial I be to plum-heavies and there's no one in all Sussex makes 'em better than my wife, so if you'll join me——"

Allan did. They sat in the somewhat stuffy little parlour, the window of which remained hermetically sealed, summer and winter, and drank good brown beer and ate those Sussex cakes that for some reason have never achieved the fame of the cakes of Banbury or the Buns of Bath.

And over their cakes and ale they talked and Allan surprised the farmer somewhat by the depth and advancement of his knowledge.

"You been getting your head laid alongside old Custance now I'll be bound," he said, "wunnerful advanced man Custance be, as sets great store on book larning to be sure. But if so be you be minded to try hop raising in this part of Sussex, Mr. Homewood, I say give it up! 'Tis the soil, sir, 'tis the soil! Hops be all right for Kent and the Midlands, but—" and so on and so on, from hops to manures, chemical and otherwise, to tithes and land taxes, to red cows and brindled cows and the swine of Berkshire and of Yorkshire, on all of which subjects Mr. Patcham laid down the law and smote the rickety round table with a heavy hand, to drive his points home.

"Flints," said Patcham, "flints be the cussedest things, wunnerful how flints du crop up. Clean a field, pick it, hand-pick it of flints, clear out every flint there du be and in three months what du 'ee find? Flints, sir, bushels of 'em, tons of 'em! In some counties it du be fuzz and Sussex has its share of fuzz, come to that, but flints—I were but saying to Abram last Saturday—no, 'twere Friday——"

"Abram—that is Abram Lestwick, isn't it?" Allan asked. "He works for you?"

"Aye, Abram be my right hand man, straight he be, straight as an arrer, honest as the day be Abram, not a drinking man, quiet and respectable like in his manners, never an angry word or a cross look do 'ee get from Abram Lestwick. Lucky I be to have such a man!"

"Ah!" Allan said.

"No one ever did see Abram lose his temper——"

"I have," thought Allan, "but it was pardonable."

"Soft spoken and gentle, but a wunnerful hand with the men, reg'lar to Church and walking in the fear of the Lord du be Abram Lestwick, and wi' sheep never a man to compare wi' he—whether it be lambing time or shearing, a born shepherd be Abram!"

"And a good reliable man?"

"There ain't one to come nigh nor near to him," said Farmer Patcham, "a good wage du I pay he and worth it every penny he be—thirty-five shillings and a cottage to hisself, no less. And what the maids be about, beats I and the Missus too, a hard man to fault," went on Patcham, "a very hard man to fault, sir, and you'll believe me. My Missus and the maids here du complain a bit about they hands of his, restless hands as you may have noticed, sir, but what's that, all said and done? And now, maybe, you'll take a look round the farm?"

Allan took a look round the farm and saw a back view of Abram in the rick yard, but Abram never turned and apparently did not notice the visitor.

"A good man," Patcham said, "a reliable, trustworthy, honest, sober man, likely to make his way in the world. No frequenter of the ale-house and a regular churchgoer, a man with rare and wonderful knowledge of the soil and of sheep. Hi, Abram, Abram, my lad, come 'ee here! Here be Mr. Homewood a-hearing all about 'ee from me!"

Very slowly Abram turned his discoloured face, his attitude was of intense humility, he seemed to cower, his furtive hands wandered up and down the edge of his waistcoat, yet never once did he look into Allan's face.

"Why, Abram lad, 'ee've been in the wars, surely!" cried Patcham. "What hev come to your face, lad?"

"An accident," Abram mumbled, "a blundering fellow, I be in the dark, Mister Patcham!"

Patcham smiled. "Had it been any other than 'ee, Abram, I would say it were through fighting."

Allan looked at his victim, he felt a strange pity, mingled with an invincible repugnance. The man looked so inoffensive, so humble, even servile and yet—Allan's attention was directed to those strangely restless hands; he found that they attracted and held his eyes. He remembered how Betty had cried out in fear and horror of those same hands. Poor little Betty, never, never, Allan resolved, should those hands touch the child, if he could prevent it!

"I would like to speak to Lestwick, Mr. Patcham," he said, "if I have your permission?"

"Oh, aye, of course, why not?" said the farmer, looking a little surprised. "Do 'ee mean alone, sir?"

"Yes, alone!"

Patcham eyed Allan a little resentfully, a little suspiciously. "I hope," he began, "I hope, Mr. Homewood, as 'ee've got no idea o' trying to get Abram away from me? I've spoke out for he and spoken as I did find, but——"

Allan smiled. "Have no fear, I want to speak to Lestwick on an entirely different matter."

Patcham's face cleared as he walked away. "Now I du wonder what he can have to say to Abram?" he thought.

And now the two were left together and Allan, looking at the abject, servile creature before him, felt suddenly tongue-tied. He was conscious of a feeling of hot shame. Those unsightly marks, those livid bruises were his work, the work of his fists. How desperately he must have punished the man in his rage.

"Lestwick—I have something to say to you, an apology to make, I wish to ask your pardon."

The wandering eyes were lifted for a moment to Allan's face, then dropped again, the hands were at their nervous work.

"I misjudged you and in my anger treated you roughly, for which I am deeply sorry," said Allan, eager to make his amends and be done with it, for he could not but be conscious of his great and growing repugnance and repulsion for the man.

He waited, but Abram said nothing, he stood there mute, his eyes seeming to search the ground about him.

"You misled me—when we—when you and I—on Saturday night, when we fought, I mean—I say you misled me, I thought you had a knife and thinking so I struck you hardly. I am sorry for it, I made a mistake and I wish to ask your forgiveness for what I did."

And still the man did not answer; why did he not speak? What was he waiting for, was it——?

A smile came into Allan's face, it was a smile of contempt. He might have guessed it, there was only one plaster for such a wound as Abram's. He took out his pocket-book and from it a five pound note.

"I hope you will accept this," he said, "and with it my apology."

Abram looked up, his eyes wandered from Allan's face to the outstretched hand that held the note. He seemed to hesitate, a convulsion passed across his features, then he stretched out his hand suddenly and took the note. He did not snatch it, for Abram was ever a polite man, he took it gently and looked at it and then—then he tore it, slowly across and across and yet again, tore it into small strips that he flung to the ground and stamped into the soft earth with his foot.

"I thank 'ee, Mr. Homewood," he said in his low, passionless voice, "I du thank 'ee most politely, I du, sir, for your good intentions toward I—I thank 'ee, sir, most politely!" And then he turned away and went slowly to his work in the rick yard.

Allan stood lost in wonder, he watched the man go, he glanced down at the ragged scraps of what had once been a valuable piece of paper, trodden into the earth.

So be it! He had done all that he could do, the man had apparently refused to accept his apology. Sudden anger came to him.

"Lestwick!" he called sharply. "Lestwick!"

Lestwick stopped, but did not turn.

"I have this to say to you, my man," Allan said hotly, "I injured you, under a wrong impression, for which I have expressed regret, but I believe, on my soul, that you really deserved all you got. You have annoyed and terrorised a girl who has no feeling save of fear and dislike of you. In future you will leave her alone; if I find you hanging about my house, waiting to waylay Betty Hanson, then I'll deal with you again, as I dealt with you on Saturday night. Remember that, my man, it's no idle threat!"

Lestwick made no answer, he did not turn, he stood still, as though waiting patiently for Allan to complete his remarks, and then when silence fell, Lestwick went slowly on his way.

Allan made his way homeward, with a feeling of anger in his breast. He had done all that a man might do, and he had been repulsed. No wonder that Betty, poor little Betty, felt horror and loathing for the man.

"Is he sane, is he normal?" Allan questioned himself. "There is something—about him—" he shuddered. "I can't understand it, I never loathed a human being in my life, as I loathe that man, but Betty——"

What could he do about Betty, how unravel the tangle, how straighten out that very winding path of the child's life? She loved him, had she not said it a hundred times with tears and with pleading? Yet was it the real love? The one passion of a life-time? He doubted it, for Allan Homewood held himself in no high esteem and could not think of himself as one for whom any woman would care deeply. No, it could not be that, it must be the strange tie that united them, that lifting of the curtain that had revealed to them both a glimpse into some strange past that was not of this life.

What, did she want of him? What did she expect, ask of him? But whatever it was, how impossible it all was!

To-day he had kissed Kathleen, his wife, as never before had he kissed her and remembering this, a softer, more tender look came into his face.

What was Kathleen thinking now? Had he surprised, even frightened her, was she hurt or angry, or could she understand and forgive that sudden wave of passion that had come to him? Love and passion for her—his own wife! His cheeks flushed a little, it seemed to him that all his little world was in strange and dire confusion.

Mrs. Hanson, standing at her own gate, tall, erect, and brown of face, beady of eyes, bobbed to him an exaggerated respectful curtsey.

Allan lifted his hat to her.

"Good morning!"

"And good morning to 'ee, sir," she said and treated him to another curtsey.

"I hope my maid du be conducting herself in a seemly manner and giving satisfaction to my lady, sir?"

"Yes!" Allan said; he felt confused before those keen bright eyes.

"A strange, wilful maid her be in many ways, sir, yet her heart be so good as gold."

"She is wonderfully pretty, your granddaughter, Mrs. Hanson!"

"Beauty be but a snare and likewise is but skin deep. I set no stores by such, 'tis the heart as tells, sir."

"But her heart is good, I am sure." He was talking for the mere sake of talking, for an idea bad come into his brain, a little dim and vague as yet, but yet an idea that possibly might mean a way to safety for them all.

"Good-hearted her may be, but most terribul obstinate and stubborn, a perilous obstinate maid, terribul contrairy and self willed her du be in many ways——"

"In—in what ways?"

"In marrying," said Mrs. Hanson, "I hev chose for she a good honest man as du walk upright in the sight of the Lord, a man as du keep hisself to hisself and du keep holy the Sabbath day, reading in the Bible and not with an eye to every maid, though there be many wishful of attracting his attention. Wonderful partial he be to my Betty tu, wonderful partial and keen and eager for she."

"And the man?"

"There bain't a better in all Sussex and yet that perilous obstinate maid will hev none of he!"

"Because she may dislike the man!"

"Dis-like, what hev that to do with it, sir? Why should Betty dis-like Abram Lestwick—a man earning his thirty-five shillings a week and with a cottage to himself and all keen set as he be——?"

"I have seen the man and can understand her dislike for him. He lays in wait for her, outside the gates; she is afraid to venture out of nights because of this man, whom she fears and hates. And you, can you not understand the child's aversion for such a man as Lestwick, Mrs. Hanson?"

"That I cannot and will not! A proper man be Abram and rare grateful and glad any maid should be attracting the like of he!"

"Betty is neither glad nor grateful, she goes in fear of him, hates him and is terrified by the very thought of him—it would be death—do you understand, death to the girl to force her into a marriage so shocking! Why are you so keen for it? Why do you seek to drive her against her own natural inclinations, why—why?" Allan cried hotly.

She eyed him with cold disfavour. What business was all this of his, of young Mr. Homewood of Homewood Manor House? She would have looked on him with some suspicion, yet there was something so open in his face, his anger was so honest, that she could not, even if she would, suspect him of an interest in pretty Betty, that reflected no credit on him.

"Abram hev thirty-five shillings a week and——"

"And for thirty-five shillings a week you would force this child to marry a man she hates, you would wreck and ruin her life, you would drive her perhaps—God knows—to death—to suicide! Can't you understand that it is not mere dislike she feels for him, it is hate and terror! Thirty-five shillings a week!" He laughed aloud in scorn, he flung his head back, his face was flushed, his eyes bright, and Mrs. Hanson stared at him in wonderment and with something of anger too.

"Listen to me," Allan said and his voice was more gentle and quiet, he looked into the keen, hard, old face. "Listen to me, Mrs. Hanson, you are Betty's grandmother. I believe you are her only living relative. If you think so highly of thirty-five shillings a week and of a cottage—I will make you an offer—" He paused, "I will undertake to pay to you as Betty's guardian, a sum that will equal the amount of Abram Lestwick's wages. I will find a cottage for you—not here—not near here even—and you shall have it rent free, so that Betty may live with you and that you shall not torment her further about this man Lestwick. Do you understand? I will give to you and to Betty all that Abram Lestwick could give, the money and the cottage! And you and the girl shall go away from here—away for good. She is young and she is beautiful, she will surely find many eager to marry her, and she shall choose and pick among them for herself. Do you understand, do I make myself plain?"

"Plain—aye, plain!" she said; under the black bodice the thin old breast rose and fell, she gripped the rails of the gate and stared into his face.

"And why—why are 'ee willing to do this, give this to Betty Hanson, Mr. Homewood?"

"To save her from marriage with a man I dislike and distrust, as much as she does—for that reason and that reason alone!"

"'Ee be mighty generous, Mr. Homewood!" Her hard voice quivered with suspicion, and yet—yet she looked him full in the eyes and he looked back at her and there was no shame, no confusion, nothing of the look of one who has something on his conscience.

"I—I do not understand—" she said slowly, "I do not understand!"

"No, I do not suppose you do understand. Shall we leave it at that? My offer holds good, accept it and make a happy home for the child—but not here."

"'Ee du seem mighty set on it not being here!" she said thoughtfully. "Mighty set 'ee du be. Does the maid know your intentions to she, sir?"

"No, I had no such intentions just now, the thought has only just come into my mind."

She nodded slowly. He had said that she could not understand and he was right. Whoever heard the like before? Thirty-five shillings a week and a cottage and all—all for nothing! Whoever heard the like before? Certainly not Mrs. Hanson.

"All bewildered I be," she said and said it aloud, though it was not intended for his ears. "All bewildered and wonder struck I du be!"

"Do you agree, answer me, do you agree to this? Tell me, Mrs. Hanson?"

"But the maid—you du say, sir, she hev not heard?"

"She has not heard, but if you agree, you can tell her yourself, tell her this evening and then you shall give me her and your answer."

"If the maid is willing," she said slowly, "though all the same I be partial to Abram."

"Her terror of him should have some weight with you. Take her away from this place to where she will never see him again, you will?"

She looked at him. "Send the maid to me to-night and I will talk of it wi' she."

She stood at the gate, staring down the road after him.

"Thirty-five shillings a week and a cottage—far away from here for Betty and for me and for nothing, for nothing! Very bewildered and wonderstruck I be!"