Front matter (continued 6)

And Allan, hurrying homeward, was thinking—if this might be the solution, how easy it was after all, freedom for Betty from Abram Lestwick—a new life for the little maid among new faces—where soon—soon she would forget her dreams in the old garden and him.

And then, when all was done and Betty and her grandmother gone for good, he would tell Kathleen; it would be easy to tell her then and Kathleen would understand.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE AWAKENING

Bright eyes, the brightest he believed he had ever seen, greeted Allan. Eyes so kind, so bright and so tender that he knew before ever a word had been spoken that he had not offended, that Kathleen was not angry with him, not hurt.

He felt a great wave of relief and then the feeling passed and gave place to wonder, because in some subtle way Kathleen had changed. To others she was still the Kathleen he knew and loved and respected, but to him she had become another being, her eyes were misty and soft and tender, for him, there was a rich, rare colour in her cheeks. He felt his own heart respond. As they were passing into lunch he touched her hand—why?

There was no reason for it, it was just the impulse of the moment, yet he felt that he must do it, so he did and she turned and looked at him and it seemed to him that the colour deepened in her cheeks and the look in her eyes was more tender than ever.

And the touch of that little hand of hers made his heart leap. This was no mere friendship, this was no mere liking, no symptom of respect. He wondered at himself, wondered at its meaning and as a result he failed to hear Lord Gowerhurst, who was addressing himself particularly to Allan.

As a matter of fact Lord Gowerhurst, departing on the morrow, found himself woefully short of money. He was not in the cue to approach Sir Josiah and a timely loan of a comparatively small sum from Allan, a mere fifty or even twenty-five, would be agreeable to his lordship. Later on Sir Josiah's money bags must be properly besieged, with all due form and with a regard to detail for which there was no time at the moment.

"If, therefore, you could give me ah—ten minutes—some time most convenient to yourself, my dear Allan—" said his lordship with unwonted humility.

"Of course, delighted!" Allan murmured, and was thinking of Kathleen all the time.

Had he ever appreciated her properly? Had he ever realised the exquisite beauty of her face, a beauty that was spiritual, was of expression rather than of mere form and mould of feature. How sweetly gracious she was, how charming, not even the loquacious and boresome Coombe aroused irritability in her—how his old father worshipped her—what a strange, yet perfect understanding there seemed to be between them, the old City man of business, of plebeian origin and this young and gracious well born lady. Yet they were so obviously and so certainly friends, good, close, true friends, with a mutual understanding and a mutual love for one another.

So Allan did not make the most agreeable of companions at that meal and his lordship felt uneasy.

"I wonder if the fellow suspects I'm going to ask a small loan, a mere trifle till I get back to town? Confound it, it's deuced unpleasant for a man in my position to—er—place himself under an obligation to a mere stripling like this! I can't ask Scarsdale, there's something deuced standoffish about the fellow; I almost wish I hadn't taken Scarsdale up again, I've got an idea that Scarsdale lets bygones rankle. By George, though, I did give him a dressing down in those days, and by George he deserved it—asked for it—begad, and got it too!"

Just for a moment Allan had an opportunity for a word with Kathleen when lunch was over.

"You—you are not angry with me?"

"Angry?"

Was she a woman of twenty-nine almost, or only a maiden of nineteen that suddenly her eyes dropped before his, that suddenly a deep rich colour came flaming her face.

"Kathleen—Kathleen!" He caught her hand, he was suddenly in a strange tremble, and then in on them burst Mr. Coombe.

"Wistaria, not westeria, Jobson, my boy, if you'd done the gardening I've done at Tulse Hill—I—I beg pardon!" stammered Mr. Coombe, taken aback.

Kathleen smiled. "You are quite right, Mr. Coombe, it is wistaria!" she said.

"I've got one over my house at Tulse Hill," said Mr. Coombe, "with a stem, if you'll believe me, as thick as my body!" Which was an exaggeration, as Mr. Coombe's body was of no ordinary thickness.

Allan turned away.

"Oh, I forgot—" he said, and his eyes and Kathleen's met. "I saw Mrs. Hanson at her gate as I passed and she says if you can spare her granddaughter this evening, Kathleen, she would be glad."

"I will send Betty," Kathleen said, "though the old woman was not very kind to her, still she is old and alone. Yes, I will see that Betty goes!"

His lordship secured his quiet ten minutes with Allan.

"Most foolish and stupid of me, forgot to bring my cheque book, I can't think what possessed me—I assure you, Allan, I was astounded at my oversight. Of course one can draw a cheque on a sheet of note paper, but my Bank don't like it—no, they don't like it, sir—and so—so——"

"I shall be only too pleased to be of service to you," said Allan promptly, so promptly that his lordship was a little taken aback.

Yet Allan seemed so ready, so willing—it would be a shameful waste of opportunity to make the amount so small as he had originally intended.

"If—if—er—a couple of hundred wouldn't put you to inconvenience——"

"With pleasure," Allan said. "I'll send Howard over to Stretton in the car, he'll be able to get to the Bank just in time."

Never in the whole course of his experience, and it had been large, had his lordship had such a request granted with such alacrity and willingness.

"My dear Allan, 'pon my soul now, 'pon my soul, it is very good of you—I take a pleasure, sir, a pleasure in being under an obligation to you, even though it is only a temporary one. You're a good fellow, Allan, a deuced generous, open-handed good fellow and—and I honour you, sir, and your father too, and it's a pleasure and a relief to me, be Gad, to think that my girl has entered your family—a family of—of gentlemen, be gad!"

"Poor old chap!" Allan thought. "It must be hard for a man in his position and of his rank to have to lower himself and demean himself to borrow money—" He sighed, and then smiled in wonder at himself that he should feel so kindly towards Lord Gowerhurst, for whom he had previously felt nothing but aversion and contempt.

But then Lord Gowerhurst was Kathleen's father and for some reason to-day that made just all the difference in the world to Allan. So, having lent Lord Gowerhurst two hundred pounds, Allan resolved that he would say nothing to his own father about it.

Custance claimed Allan that afternoon and when Custance had done with him there was barely time to reach home and dress for dinner, so he did not see Kathleen till they met at the dinner table. And to-night she was looking her loveliest and her best. Even Coombe remarked her heightened colour and tried to pay her a clumsy compliment on her looks and meeting Lord Gowerhurst's cold stare when half way through his speech, faltered and broke down and burst into profuse perspiration.

But Kathleen smiled on him and thanked him and told him in a little confidential whisper, that highly pleased Coombe, that she was getting to be an old, old woman. In less than eighteen months she would be thirty years of age, and though she had not found a grey hair as yet, no doubt she soon would.

"Old, my dear—" said Mr. Coombe, and then blushed crimson, "I beg your pardon——"

"You have nothing to beg my pardon for—Sir Josiah's friends are mine—and if one of them is kind enough to call me my dear, it only proves that he likes me and I like to be liked, Mr. Coombe, by my friends!"

"And so you are, so you are, and as for getting old, never, you'll never be old, you'll be young to the last day of your life, if you live to be eighty, and please God you will!" And Mr. Coombe turned deliberately and stared Lord Gowerhurst full in the face with an expression that said as plain as words—"If you don't like the way I am behaving and if you don't like my paying compliments to your daughter—then you can go to the deuce and go as soon as you like, my Lord, and be hanged to you!"

Among that company of gentlemen Harold Scarsdale was inconspicuous. That he was better bred than Mr. Coombe and Mr. Jobson was obvious, that he could talk a good deal better than any of them Allan at least knew, but it pleased Scarsdale to hold his tongue and keep himself much in the background. From that background he watched Kathleen and the more he watched the less did he seem to understand her.

He remembered the passion of the old days, he remembered that scene by the lake only two short days ago, how during those two days had she changed. She greeted him with a friendly smile, she held out her hand to him, she wished him good morning and good night and talked to him of trivial, every day things, listening with interest to the few remarks he made and that was all.

But she was a woman and he knew little of women, but had read much and so had obtained a false impression. She was clever, she was hiding her feelings and doing it successfully. When the time came, and it would come, then she would fling all pretence to the winds, she would be his, he would open his arms to her, the ten years of hunger would be ended.

To-night he sat in his corner and listened to everyone and said little, but he was watchful and presently he saw Allan go out and, waiting for a time, Scarsdale too rose and sauntered to the window and stepped out into the garden.

Allan, however, had not gone to the garden. He remembered that Betty was going to her grandmother's to-night.

She would be sure to leave the old woman's cottage by nine. He counted on that. He wanted to see her, he wanted to see how she had taken what her grandmother would say to her, he wanted to know that Betty would realise how sensible the arrangement was and how it would be for her own good and happiness in the long run. She was young, a mere child, in some far away little village she would begin a new life, unmolested by Abram Lestwick, the terror of his presence and his pretensions removed for ever from her mind. And far away amid new surroundings, she would surely forget in time—perhaps not at once—yet in time, all those strange happenings and that strange tie that had drawn Betty and himself so closely together.

Allan was not vain, he did not for one moment believe that it was his own personality that had attracted Betty, or that he himself—the man he was now, had ever awakened any feelings of tenderness and love in that little heart.

It was the glamour, the strange mystery, the unsolvable mystery, those visions that she—and he too—had seen, that dimly uncertain memory of 'something' that had been, in the buried and unknown past; it was that that had appealed to her as of course it had appealed to him.

So Allan lighted his pipe and strolled away down the dusky road and strangely enough had not gone ten paces before he was thinking of Kathleen, rather than of her he had come to meet.

* * * * *

Mrs. Hanson sat upright on her stiff old chair, her hands were folded primly on her narrow lap, her eyes were fixed in an unwavering stare on the closed door.

She was expecting Betty, she had been expecting the girl for the past hour. For an hour Mrs. Hanson had sat there listening for coming footsteps but hearing only the steady persistent 'tick-tock' of the long cased clock.

During that hour Mrs. Hanson had been thinking, she had been asking of herself questions, and as the minutes passed the stern old face grew graver and grimmer.

Why should he be willing to give to Betty and herself such a mort of money. Why should he be wishful of sending Betty to some far off place. Why should Mr. Allan Homewood interest himself in the very least with the future of Betty Hanson at all?

Questions that Mrs. Hanson could not answer satisfactorily.

"A very pleasant and outspoken young gentleman he du seem—and yet——" Mrs. Hanson shook her head. "And yet——"

But the long expected footsteps were sounding, there came a tapping on the door. That in itself was unfamiliar. In the old days Betty lifted the latch and came in.

Betty came to-night as a visitor, and Mrs. Hanson realised the difference.

"Come in," she said, and rose stiffly to receive her visitor. Betty came in nervously; she looked at her grandmother, hesitated and then came forward and offered a soft cheek.

"You will hev had your tea?"

"Yes grandmother."

"Will you be seated?"

Betty sat down, her nervousness increasing.

Mrs. Hanson stared at the childish pretty face, it was the face of most perfect innocence, yet Mrs. Hanson looked with eyes of suspicion.

"The weather be holding up," she remarked, she was a woman who never came straight to the matter in hand, as Betty well knew.

"Grandmother 'ee sent for I?"

It was like carrying the war into the enemy's camp.

"True I did send for 'ee," Mrs. Hanson frowned.

"I hev had from young Mr. Allan Homewood an offer with which I be greatly surprised."

"From—from——" the colour deepened in the pretty cheeks, a fact that Mrs. Hanson's keen eyes did not miss.

"And why pray should 'ee blush at the mention of the gentleman's name."

"I bean't blushing, grandmother."

"And now 'ee be lying as well, Betty Hanson."

Betty hung her head.

"Very distrustful and uneasy I be in my mind, very distrustful. Betty Hanson, look me in the eye and answer me this: what be there between 'ee and Mr. Allan Homewood?"

"Oh! oh grandmother—there——" Betty was silent, she pressed her hands against her breast. "Be-between I and Mr. Homewood grandmother, what—what should there be?"

"There should be nothing Miss, but there be! there be, I see it. What be he to thee?"

"Nothing, nothing, nothing. Oh grandmother, why do 'ee worry I so? I wish—I wish—I hadn't come!"

"If so be as your mind were at rest and your conscience clear, Betty Hanson, 'ee wouldn't hev said that! Now answer, answer me and speak the truth for I be your dead father's mother and your only living relative I be. What be Mr. Allan Homewood to 'ee?"

"Nothing," the girl whispered, "he bain't nothing to I—nothing, and if anyone hev told 'ee contrairywise he be a liar!"

"The truth I will hev! nor shall 'ee leave this place——"

Mrs. Hanson rose, she crossed the room to the door and turned the ponderous key. "The truth will I hev before I shall allow 'ee to depart, what be Mr. Allan Homewood of Homewood Manor House, to 'ee, Betty Hanson?"

Betty did not answer. She sat with bowed head, she wrung and twisted her hands.

"I—I did see he—of nights of moonlight—nights in—in the old garden," she whispered.

Mrs. Hanson bristled, she sat upright: "'Ee did see him of nights in the old garden! Oh! shame on 'ee shame——

"So this be the meaning of your perilous bad conduct, slipping away out of the cottage of nights to—to meet—a man, a man! Terribul deceitful and deceiving 'ee've been all this while, terribul and shameful and perilous Betty Hanson."

"'Twasn't a man I went to see," Betty cried, "Grandmother 'twere no man."

"No man and 'ee said with your own lips——"

"Grandmother, 'ee can never, never understand—it—were a—a ghost——"

Mrs. Hanson fell back on her chair, her black eyes blazed in indignation.

"'Ee've said enough, either 'ee be daft or the greatest liar as I ever did hear on, a Ghost! 'ee wicked deceitful maid, a ghost indeed!"

"Grandmother, 'ee could never, never understand. I'll try and make 'ee, but I know——" Betty shook her head, "'ee never will. 'Twasn't Allan——"

"Allan," Mrs. Hanson lifted her two hands.

"'Twasn't Allan, I did see in the old garden, but a ghost I see him and others, fine ladies and gentlemen all in strange clothing, Grandmother, and Allan he were for ever digging, he in his old brown suit wi' the brass buckles to his shoes and——"

"Betty Hanson, stop, stop, this minit; not another word will I sit here and listen to, I hev made up my mind.

"This day, this man, this Allan, as 'ee do so shamelessly call him, made an offer to me. A fine offer that I did greatly mistrust. 'Tis this—take the child—away he said, take her far away, don't worrit her wi' Abram Lestwick, and I will allow 'ee and her tu, the thirty-five shillings a week, the same as Abram's money and a cottage all for nothin' so as 'ee du take she far away from Homewood."

"Oh! oh! he said that?"

"Aye he did, my maid, which du mean as he be tired of 'ee, tired, 'ee hear me, tired as men du tire of women like 'ee."

Betty lifted her head slowly, she looked at the grandmother and her pretty face blazed with sudden anger. She rose:

"Grandmother, 'ee be a wicked woman, a bad despiteful wicked woman. What 'ee hev said, shames 'ee more, more than it does me, shames 'ee, and—and——" she broke down suddenly, she sank back sobbing on to the chair, she rocked to and fro. "'Ee could never, never understand 'twasn't Allan, yet 'twas Allan and I know he were something to I, something very, very dear and precious he were to I. But oh! oh! 'ee could never understand."

"I du understand this," Mrs. Hanson said, "I do understand that 'ee shall marry Abram Lestwick. An honest and upright man, and 'ee shall never take money from him as 'ee du most shamelessly call Allan, never, nor I. Money taken from he would choke me, 'twould spring up like the tares and choke me."

Mrs. Hanson pointed a bony finger at the girl.

"'Ee shall marry Abram Lestwick a good man and honest, 'ee shall become his wife. I hev said it, and I say it again and I shall listen to no more of this nonsense, and as for Mr. Allan Homewood for all he be a frank and outspoken gentleman and lib'ral wi' his money, I would take shame to myself to accept of anything from he, nor allow 'ee to do likewise. Marry Abram Lestwick 'ee shall——"

"I never will," Betty leaped up, her face convulsed, "I never will, I bain't your grand-darter any more, I bean't nothing to 'ee, I wunt listen to 'ee! I wunt! I be free, free—and——" she turned and darted to the door, she wrenched at the heavy old key and turned it, just as Mrs. Hanson rose and came stiffly to prevent her.

But Betty, younger and more active succeeded, she tore the door open and in the open doorway turned:

"I bain't your grand-darter anymore! I be free of 'ee, I wunt marry Abram Lestwick, I—I'll be—damned if I du."

"Stop!" Mrs. Hanson said in a voice of thunder, but Betty did not, she turned and fled into the night and the old woman unable to pursue stood there shaking and quivering with honest indignation.

"De-fiant her be, perilous defiant and hev soiled her lips wi' foul and unseemly words, her henceforth be no granddarter of mine. From this moment I du renounce she."

Sobbing, panting, her little heart labouring, down the road sped Betty, and then suddenly she saw him coming, slowly towards her, and to him she ran with eager outstretched hands and a little cry of joy.

"O Allan, Allan be 'ee come to meet I? O Allan, I be all upset and put about, I be——"

"Betty—why Betty child, what is it, what has—come," he added as she clung to his hand sobbing like a broken hearted child.

"Be kind to me, be kind to me, for I be all broken hearted," she pressed her tear-stained face against his sleeve.

"Allan, I be all broken hearted. Her be harsh and cruel wi' me, and said—said things—things—Oh!" she pressed her face tightly to his sleeve, to hide the hot flush of shame that came to her.

"Hush little girl, hush," he said, "don't cry, did your grandmother tell you what I suggested about—about you and her going away——?"

"She told me—she told me, and she said she wouldn't hev it, she said that I must marry Abram."

"You never shall, Betty, don't cry, I swear before Heaven you never shall, trust me, rely on me in this, for rather than that, I would kill the man, kill him with my two hands. Betty, you hear me?"

"Aye I hear 'ee; say it again Allan, say it over again, say as 'ee would kill he, rather than I should marry he."

"I mean it, and it shall never be, and your grandmother then will not agree to my plan. Well, it does not matter, you will be perhaps happier without her, I shall find some place where neither your grandmother nor Abram Lestwick will trouble you, with people who will be good and kind to you and will make your life happy. Your future shall be protected, too."

"Let me stay. Let me stay here, and bide with 'ee, don't, don't send me away from 'ee Allan, don't 'ee send me away."

"Hush," he said. "Hush," he was bitterly disappointed, he had thought all arranged, and now—but her pitiful crying wrung his heart, poor little maid, poor dear little soul, he put his arm about her and tried to soothe and quiet her.

"Betty, Betty, don't cry, don't cry, it hurts me to hear you cry and child, try and understand how—how impossible it all is. There is no other way, you yourself will see it and understand it presently."

"Don't send me away from 'ee for I shall die, I shall die if 'ee do." She was nestling close to him, holding his hand in both her own, pressing it against her wet cheek.

Supposing someone should happen down the road and what more likely—oh no, this would never do.

"Come, Betty! Come, be brave, we must talk of this."

Not far away was the little green gate, and he drew her towards it and in the deep shadows of the wall a man flattened himself against the brickwork and held his breath as they passed him so closely, that he might have stretched out his hand and touched them as they went, a man who was shaking strangely with passion and whose eyes gleamed from the dark shadows. And then the little green door opened and took them and Abram Lestwick stepped into the roadway.

"Pleasant spoken," he said. "Aye, pleasant spoken he be. Pleasant spoken!" He repeated the words a score of times, he went to the green door and his hands worked with it. He fingered the heavy old nail heads with which it was studded.

"Very, very pleasant spoken he be—robbing me of she—robbing—robbing——." He scratched at the paint with his nails, then muttering to himself, turned away and went down the road.

Allan led Betty into the garden, he led her along the path between the tall yews and as they walked he spoke to her. It was difficult, yet it must be done. His heart yearned to her in pity—the spell of her, the fascination of her was on him, but he fought against it—her childlike weeping set him longing to take her in his arms, to comfort her, hold her, kiss her tears away, for the weeping of women and of children always affected him greatly.

"Betty, don't cry, Betty listen to me. Be reasonable, be sensible my dear, listen——."

"O Allan, oh sir, that you—that you of all should turn against thy Betty."

His Betty—what memories the words awakened, memories of this same garden, of a little maid in quaint mob cap, with pretty mittened hands and eyes all ashine with love—for him—Thy Betty, that maid had said as she, by his side, had said it but a moment ago—His Betty!

Perhaps the devil walked with them that night along the path under the dark yews, perhaps he tapped Allan on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.

Allan turned to her suddenly, he gripped her wrists, he tore her hands away from her face, his voice was harsh, as unlike his own voice as voice could be.

"Listen, you—you must—this—this cannot go on. What the past held, God knows—yet whatever it held, it cannot and shall not influence the future. I have a wife, I am bound in honour to her, in honour to you, Betty. Hush, leave off crying, you hear me?"

She was frightened by the stern authority in his voice and left off her whimpering.

"What I am doing, what I want to do is for your own sake, and for mine because you are young and well nigh friendless and very beautiful, because I too am young and—and afraid, yes afraid—Betty."

"Oh Allan, of—of me?"

"Yes of you, and for you Betty, I want you to be happy and, dear, I want happiness myself. This old garden, the garden here about us has meant so much to us both, better dear that you should go and never see it again, for then in time you will forget, and the love you speak of is not real, it cannot be real, it is born of dreams Betty and like a dream it will pass."

"Why—why when I du love——"

"You know why, because I have a wife, because I love her and honour her and would sooner cut off my hand than cause her one moment of shame, of pain or unhappiness."

He bent nearer to her, he could see her face glimmering white so near to his, so tempting, yet he was not tempted.

"It means her happiness, do you know why—because—and God knows that I speak without vanity, but very humbly, because I believe that she loves me—how could I hurt her through you, would you hurt her?"

"I would die for her!" She wrenched her hands free from his, she stood before him.

"I—I will think of all as 'ee have said to I, sir, and I—I will try and bring myself to thy way of thinking and I—I will try and bring myself to—oh no, no! I can't, I can't!" She broke down, sobbing wildly, then suddenly gained control of herself. "I will not—not trouble thee any more, sir."

"Betty, listen," he put his hands on her shoulders and held her. "Take time, take time, think this over, to-day is Monday, in three days, not before three days, you will make up your mind, Betty, come to me—here in this place—in three days—on Thursday night at this hour, come and tell me then, child, that you will be wise and sensible."

"I—I will come to 'ee here in three days——" she said slowly, "and then I will tell 'ee, sir, what I shall do,—in three days—good night!" She turned away, standing there he heard her go and heard a strange little moaning noise coming back to him from out the darkness as she went.

So, after waiting a time, he too turned towards the house and passed down the wide flagged pathway, and the man on the stone bench by the sundial let him pass unchallenged.

CHAPTER XXXIII

BY THE LAKE

Lord Gowerhurst made an affecting little speech, for the time of parting had come. Sir Josiah's big car, all spick and span, with the respectable Bletsoe at the wheel, was waiting outside the hall door, so too was Mr. Coombe's automobile, which seemed to require some of its owner's attention at the last moment, for Mr. Coombe was only visible as to his legs and feet, the rest of him being out of sight under his car.

"This visit, a trifling thing perhaps to you, my love, has been to me like an oasis, a green and fragrant oasis be-gad, an the desert of my life! I am leaving my dear, dear daughter——" his lordship turned his fine eyes upwards and his voice shook with noble emotion. "I am leaving my dear, dear daughter surrounded by love and happiness, I am leaving her in her pretty little home——." He spoke of the place as though it were a cottage, to impress Messrs. Cutler and Jobson with the idea of his own magnificence—"and I——" he sighed, "I go back to my quiet humdrum life, my poor chambers, my loneliness! Often and often as I sit alone in my rooms, I shall picture you and this home of yours to myself. I am an old man, an old man my dear, and my time—may not be long——." He sighed deeply, there were tears in those fine eyes of his. Kathleen was very patient, she knew her father's love for these tender, meaningless speeches, she bore with them as she bore with him, with a sweet untiring patience.

But he had done at last, he had taken his place in Sir Josiah's car, Sir Josiah was seated beside him, Mr. Coombe's arrangements and re-arrangements were complete, his oil-smeared countenance was beaming, "All aboard!" he cried. "All aboard! You're coming with me this time, Cutler, eh? We'll shew 'em the way, my boy!"

"Good-bye, Allan, my lad, good-bye and thank 'ee, thank 'ee for a very happy time and good-bye, Lady Kathleen, and thank you too for a time as I shan't forget in a hurry!"

Jobson tried to make a little speech, but broke down through nervousness.

But Kathleen saved him all embarrassment. "It's been splendid having you and when you are gone I shall miss you all terribly, terribly, and you must all promise to come again soon, very soon, Mr. Jobson, and you Mr. Coombe, and you Mr. Cutler!"

"Just ask me, my Lady, just give me the chance, that's all!" shouted Mr. Coombe—"Don't forget my telephone number, City double three double five one four——"

"I think, sir," said Bletsoe, "as we'd best let Mr. Coombe get away with his little lot first, we won't want their dust all the time, nor yet have him trying to pass us every two minutes."

"Quite right!" said Sir Josiah. "Yes, by all means allow Mr. Coombe to get away!"

"I shall feel no personal grief if Mr. Coombe gets entirely away!" said his lordship. He did not like motoring, but the lift that Sir Josiah had offered him had been accepted. It meant that he would not have to purchase a ticket to Town.

"Good-bye father, good-bye dear Sir Josiah!"

Kathleen had clambered on to the running board of the car like any young girl for a last kiss. His lordship disapproved of exhibitions of affection before menials, he waved a white hand.

"Good-bye, dear child!" But Sir Josiah was not to be deprived of his kiss.

"It's all right, Bletsoe!" he said at last with a sigh, "I think Mr. Coombe has got well away."

They had stayed late, would have stayed later, but for his lordship's anxiety to be back in town. As it was, the sun was near its setting, the sweet mellow glow of the evening was on the earth, and the distances were purple against the red and yellow sky.

They stood in the roadway, waving, Allan and Kathleen and Scarsdale. She could have wished that he had gone with them and mentally took herself to task for her lack of hospitality.

And now the white dust whirled up by the stout tyres of Sir Josiah's car, blotted it out. It was gone and Kathleen slipped her hand through Allan's arm.

Scarsdale saw it. It was done so spontaneously, it seemed so natural that it angered him, his face stiffened. She had married the fellow for money, for nothing else, why did she find it necessary to make such pretence with him? It was mere acting, he knew that, yet he felt she over-acted the part and she fell a little in his estimation, though his love for her and desire of her was no less than before.

A man with bent head trudged past them down the road, he lifted his hand to his hat and touched it as he went, yet never gave them a glance. His hand, having reached his hat, remained with it for some moments, his fingers fumbling at the brim, then he was gone.

"Who was that?" Kathleen asked.

Allan hesitated for a moment.

"A man named Lestwick—he is——"

"Oh I know, so that is the man, Allan! I can understand that child's feeling, I don't like him, I don't like him, there is something about him——"

Kathleen's eyes followed the black figure down the road. "I don't know why," she said, "it may be unjust and probably is, but I—I seemed to feel a chill, a sense of dislike, of distaste as he passed us by!"

"Poor wretch, he is to be pitied since Kathleen dislikes him!" Scarsdale said and a note of irony and sarcasm crept into his voice, which she detected in a moment and her cheeks flushed a little.

"I am sorry," she said gently, "I may be mistaken, I hope I am, one is often mistaken in one's likes and dislikes, it is not well to trust too much to instinct!"

"What did she mean?" Scarsdale wondered, but he said nothing and they went back into the house, the house that seemed strangely deserted and silent.

When the friends, whose pleasant voices have sounded in the rooms, have gone their ways, like them much or little as we may, there is always a sense of loneliness and desertion about the place. Who can tell if the hospitable door will ever open to them again? Noisy Mr. Coombe and embarrassed Mr. Jobson—we have no great affection for them perhaps, yet because they were here a while ago and the place seems empty without them, we can spare them a passing regret, we can admit to ourselves that we miss them just a little.

"You will find it a little dull now, I am afraid Harold," Kathleen said.

"I shall not find it dull here!"

"Dull——" when she was near, perhaps that was what his words meant to convey, but Allan, who heard them, noticed no double meaning, no particular tenderness underlying the words.

"Allan must neglect Mr. Custance a little now and give you more of his time."

"If you say that then you will make me feel that I am not wanted. I should hate to think that you regard me as a person who must be entertained. If I thought that my presence here, Homewood, made the very smallest difference to your arrangements, then I should want to leave you at once!"

"And I hope that you won't think of leaving for a long while to come," said Allan heartily.

"But you must—must give him a little more time, Allan," Kathleen said presently. "He is your guest——"

"But your old friend, dear, you and he have far more to talk about than he and I could have! You have the past to dig in!" He smiled.

The past—how little he knew! Her heart smote her. She ought to have told him and yet, after all, how little was there to tell? The man she had loved had come back and she had discovered that she had lived in a fool's paradise, that she had not loved the man, but rather had loved her love for him, had idealised it and had made of it the sweetest, holiest and best thing in her life. And now at last with eyes open and clear, she could see that her gold had been tinsel after all, her flowers so fresh and glorious and beautiful had been but poor counterfeits of paper or coloured rag, the hero so noble, so brave, so unselfish and splendid, whose image she had enshrined in her heart was after all but a very ordinary man, very weak and selfish and lacking all those fine qualities with which in her heart she had endowed her childhood's knight.

And now the guests were gone, all but Harold Scarsdale—and how she wished that he too had gone with the others—She and Allan were alone and the time had come to tell him that wonderful news!

And because the time had come, there came to Kathleen a thousand fears. There came too a strange sense of modesty, a shrinking that would not be there if only he loved her. If only he loved her—would he be glad, glad and proud, or would he be sorry and disappointed, worst of all perhaps he would be indifferent! And that would be the hardest, the cruelest thing of all to bear.

Yet she must tell him.

To-night, yes to-night, and yet when to-night came she—coward-like—put it off.

"To-morrow," she said, "I will tell him in the sunshine in the garden, so that I may watch his face and know—know without spoken words what his thoughts and feelings are——"

So to-night she lay sleepless beside him, torturing herself with those fears that come to a woman who loves, torturing herself till at last her nerves were all unstrung and she could lie here no longer. So she rose softly, not to waken him, and went to the window and stared out into the glory of the brilliant night.

Somewhere far away was her father, probably playing cards in his Club or billiards. How idle were those fine sentimental touching speeches of his, how little she believed in them! She drew her thoughts away from her father, they followed old Sir Josiah instead.

How fine and good and noble he was, how sincere and honest! And what he was, she knew that Allan was too, generous and honourable, kind of heart, true—true as steel! What wonder then that she should love him, that her love for him should awaken—

Her thoughts were interrupted, from the dark shadows in the garden below there came in the stillness of the night a little moaning, sobbing cry. Kathleen was startled.

She was a woman and therefore not without superstition, what good, honest, tender woman has not some trace of superstition in her mind? Just for a moment Kathleen held her breath and listened intently. Again she heard the sound and at the same time a light footfall and then, watching, she saw a little figure come creeping from out the shadows into the white path of the moon.

Betty—she knew the child in an instant—Betty out at this hour, Betty in some sore trouble, crying to herself! She had a mind to call softly to the girl, yet did not, for fear of waking him. So she sat for a moment or so and watched the girl go slowly down the paved pathway and then Kathleen made up her mind. She rose, she thrust her white feet into slippers, she threw a dressing gown on and went creeping down the silent stairs.

Softly she drew back a bolt and turned a key and opened a door that gave on to the garden.

The radiant light of the moon flooded the place, all save under the tall yews, where the shadows lay blackly. But of the girl she could see nothing, yet had noted the way she had gone.

Like a ghost herself, a very lovely spirit all in white, her little woollen slippers making never a sound on the old flagged pavement, she sped on her way.

The moaning sobbing cry had awakened every sympathy in her heart, she was filled with womanly tenderness and pity. "Poor child, poor pretty child!" she thought and so hurried on, looking eagerly for the little lonely figure. Then presently Kathleen paused, she stood still, she had meant to call softly to Betty, yet did not, for she heard the moaning and crying near at hand now.

"Afraid—oh afraid—terribul, terribul afraid I be!" the broken voice whispered. "But I must. Oh, I must, I hev made up my mind to it and I must!"

Half a dozen noiseless steps and Kathleen saw her. The girl stood on the brink of the pool, her hands clasped over her breast.

"Afraid, oh terribul, terribul afraid I be!" she whispered and repeated the words again and again. Then she thrust out one bare foot and touched the inky water with it and drew back with a low cry of fear.

"But I must, I must, 'tis all there be left for I to du now! I must, for he does not want me and I can't, oh I can't du what he wishes me, so I must!—I—I be coming to 'ee my little stone maid, perhaps 'ee always knowed as I would come to 'ee one day—I be coming now, I be coming now! It seems as 'ee always meant something to me, little stone maid standing there, seems to me now as 'ee always called to me to come and I be coming now—now——" She stretched out her hands and suddenly uttered a stifled shriek for she felt strong tender arms about her, felt herself dragged back from the water's edge and then all in a moment she was sobbing out her breaking heart on Kathleen's breast.

For many minutes Kathleen let the girl weep on unrestrainedly, for she knew it for the better way. Let her shed her tears, since she could, and when they were passed the little troubled heart would be all the easier for them.

So with Kathleen's arms about her, Betty wept softly, clinging to the other woman as to one to whom she looked for love and help and protection and did not look in vain.

And then, little by little, Kathleen drew her away from the pool, drew her presently to the stone bench beside the sundial and made her sit beside her.

"Why Betty, why were you going to do that—that wicked thing?" Kathleen whispered. "No, child, keep your face against my breast, tell me while I hold you! You are safe with me, little Betty, you know that, child, don't you?"

"Oh safe—safe wi' 'ee, safe wi' 'ee!" the girl moaned.

"Why did you wish to do that?"

"There were nothing left for I to du. Oh I didn't want to, for I were afraid, most terribul afraid—I were, but—but it seemed I must, 'twas as if the little stone maid were calling to I, just—just as she used to call to I of moonlight nights when I were in my grandmother's cottage, but—but 'twas different then—then I had not seen him, only—only in my dreams!"

"Seen him?" Kathleen asked softly.

"Allan!" the girl said simply and for the moment seemed to forget that it was Allan's wife who held her in her arms.

"Allan?"

"I did see him here, here in the old garden, long, long before he came here to live, many times I saw him digging at they flower beds, him all in brown wi' queer brass buckles to his shoes, and his hat all dragged down over his face, strange that I scarce did ever see his face, and yet—yet I knew him and when I came to him here in the garden while he sat on this very bench I knew—oh my lady, what be I saying, what be I saying?"

But Kathleen did not answer. It had come to her with a sudden shock, a feeling of desolation, of hopelessness. Allan, her husband, and this little maid, this Betty and the old garden! She remembered the dream of which he had told her, that night in a London theatre. It was but a dream then, a picture out of the past and nothing more and since then it had become reality and yet he had not told her as he had promised!

"And I du love him so—so cruel!" the girl sobbed.

Never once while she listened to this confession did Kathleen's arms relax their hold on the sobbing girl, yet Kathleen's heart was being tortured and wounded by every word.

Allan, her husband, whom she had regarded as the soul of honour—could it be—Allan into whose ears she had intended to pour this wonderful secret, this secret of a little life yet to be, which belonged to him and to her!

"Oh my lady, I be so terribul unhappy!" Betty whimpered, "So terribul unhappy for I did think he loved me as I loved him!"

"And—did he not—love you?" Kathleen whispered and wondered at her own voice, for it trembled so strangely, it was so filled with eagerness, with fear and yet with hope.

"He was mine—mine!" the girl said passionately. "For 'twas he I saw here in this old garden many, many times—and I knew him, my lady, and yet—yet when I would have felt his kisses on my lips, he held away from me—and oh I be all broken hearted, I be, and now he be set against me and wishful of my going away for ever, but I can't, I can't, I would sooner die! And that night here—here my lady, in the garden, he was all stern and angry wi' I! He told me that I must go, that it would be for my good and that I should be happy and—and he told me my lady as he was afraid of I, afraid—they were his very words!"

"Thank God he was afraid!" Kathleen thought. "Thank God for his fears, for they did him honour. Oh I was wrong, he is all I thought him, all I believed him, even better, stronger, braver, thank God!"

"And he told me," Betty went on in her low sobbing voice, "that I were to come to him here in the garden in three nights, 'twere Monday then and to-morrow night I be to see him here and tell him what I will do—if—if I will go far, far away and be wise and sensible—but I can't—I can't 'twould break my heart!"

"It will not dear," Kathleen said. "It will not, Betty!" Her arm tightened about the girl, she was such a child, did not her very confession prove it? "It seems very hard to bear now Betty, but you must be brave and good and sensible, it will be far, far better that you do not see Allan, my husband, again, for it is not for your happiness to see him. I do not understand, Betty, nor do I think that even you and he understand, it is all so strange—so—so unusual! But I shall send you away——" she paused. It was so easy to say "I will send you away," yet where could she send the child? For a moment she pondered and then it came to her like a flash of inspiration.

"You shall go away Betty quietly and no one need know of your going and to-morrow I will tell him that you are gone and that you and he will not meet again. You will be happy, very happy with those to whom I shall send you. Will you trust me, Betty?"

"Trust 'ee——." The girl caught her hand and kissed it passionately. "And—and bain't I to see him again, never?"

"It will be better not, Betty!"

Betty leaned against her sobbing—"I du love him——" she sobbed, "and it will be terribul to go and never see him again!"

"Had you thrown yourself into the water to-night you would never have seen him again and you would have caused him grief and sorrow, Betty, so—so dear it is better you should go quietly, and live and be happy, for you will be happy, child and you will forget! You are only a child, Betty, and—and I—I know what a child's love means, it is seldom the real love—it will pass, for such love does pass, I know, Betty! And then—then one day the real love, the love of all your life will come to you and you will look back on these memories and smile at them and when that day comes, Betty——" Kathleen's voice shook a little, "then—then, child, go down on your knees and thank God that you gave your child's love to a good and noble man, a man who respected it—and you—and—and was afraid—dear!"

And Betty, if she did not understand, was comforted by the kind voice and nestled closer to Kathleen. She dried her tears and presently had forgotten them and was smiling, and the little tragedy was past.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE GOING OF BETTY

"I want, dear Sir Josiah, to feel that the child is happy and well cared for, her life here has not been a very happy one, her grandmother was trying to force her into marriage with a man she hated, a man I myself feel instinctive mistrust of. I send her to you because I know of no one so kind, so good, so generous. I know that you will do all you can for her. I do not wish her, and I do not think she herself wishes ever to come back to Homewood again. She will be happier away from the place and so, dear kind friend, to whom I seem to turn instinctively in any moment of doubt and anxiety, I leave her in your hands, knowing that all you may do for her will be right and for the child's own good."

Kathleen had written the letter to Sir Josiah, she herself had helped to pack Betty's little box, she had taken the dependable and uncommunicative Howard into her confidence.

"Your ladyship desires me to see the young woman and her box safe to Sir Josiah's London house?"

"That is what I wish, Howard, and I wish her going to be kept secret, I don't want others to know, it may be difficult, but——"

"It can quite easily be arranged, my lady, no difficulty at all. I'll have the closed cab from the village and if your ladyship will be so good as to inform the young person she is to walk quietly out of the house and to take the Bursdon Road, I will direct the driver to take that way, my lady, and pick her up and take her on to Bursdon station and catch the three thirty-five for London. It will be right if the young person was to start at say half past two. As for her box, my lady, I'll manage it, so that no one sees it—anything else, my lady?"

"Nothing, Howard, and I thank you very much, you are very, very helpful," Kathleen said.

Just before the half hour after two, Betty sobbing as though her heart was breaking, was in Kathleen's room.

"Oh my lady, it be cruel hard to have to go and leave it all, when I du love it so and——" she paused and sobbed aloud with many a catch of the breath, as a child does.

Yet Kathleen felt as she kissed and comforted the girl that tears so easily shed might be just as easily dried, and to prove that she was right, in a little while Betty began to dry her eyes and shew interest in her destination.

"To think that I be actually going to London, my lady, a terribul long way it be and I always wishful of seeing it, though I never—never——" and then a fresh torrent of tears and sighs and cries, tears which Kathleen wiped away.

"You will be very happy, Betty, and life will be full of interest for you. London is a wonderful place, you cannot think how marvellous the shops are. Streets and streets of them, Betty—and the people and the cars and carriages——"

Betty listened, wide eyed, forgetting her grief again.

"And there be theayters, my lady."

"Many of them and you shall go and see them, Betty."

The girl was actually smiling now and then suddenly, remembering her sorrow, she began to cry again. But Kathleen felt no fears. The girl was genuine and sincere enough, transparently honest, but she was not of those who die of broken hearts.

"Now you will be a good brave girl, you know dear that you must go because it will be kinder to—to him—to me and to yourself. You are going to someone whom I love very much and who will be kind to you, not only because I have asked him to be and for your own sake too, but because he is kindness itself. You know, Betty, that you must go, don't you? You know, child, that it is not possible that you could stay on here, and—and Betty, you are going somewhere where you will never see Abram Lestwick, you will be safe from him."

Betty nodded, she even smiled. "Terribul put about and angry will Abram be when he finds I be gone and grandmother, her too."

There was mischief and even enjoyment in her smile and Kathleen's heart felt eased and at peace. She wanted to play no hard and cruel part in this little drama, she did not want the girl to go broken hearted and unhappy.

"And now—now Betty, it is time," she said, "time, dear, for you to go, you—you quite understand?"

"Oh—oh my lady!" And once more Betty was all tears, the tears rained down her face and suddenly she rushed to Kathleen who held out her arms to her.

"Good-bye, my dear, good-bye and God bless you and bring you to happiness." Kathleen strained her in her arms, held her tightly for a moment and then let her go and her own eyes were not dry.

Presently Betty, in her neat little black gown, opened the arched green gate for the last time, and of habit peered up and down the road, half fearfully, lest someone might be there waiting for her. But there was no sign of Abram Lestwick. In the distance she could see the blue smoke curling from the chimney of her grandmother's cottage and at the sight the tears were gone and the pretty face grew a trifle hard, even a little bitter.

"And now we shall see if I be going to marry Abram Lestwick, grandmother," she thought, "terribul obstinate I be, yes and contrairy and a perilous bad maid, but Abram will hev to look for someone else—'Lizbeth Colley, who due bake such wonderful fine currant biscuits."

She laughed softly a little laugh of triumph, mingled with grief and then—then she stepped out into the white roadway and pulled the gate after her. She looked along the high wall of old red brick, over which she had clambered—bad, perilous bad maid that she was—many a time. The wall was topped now with glittering glass and seeing it the tears all came back with a rush and sobs broke from the labouring, childish breast.

"Broken hearted I be——" she wailed, "broken hearted and wishful of dying—oh—oh never never to see him again, never!" She looked back along the road and could see her grandmother's cottage. She pictured to herself her grandmother, that stern, unbending woman, sitting in her stiff, high backed chair—waiting—waiting for her, waiting to have her will with her.

And the thought of the old woman sitting there waiting and waiting all in vain banished the tears from the bright eyes.

"She said that I was bad and that I must go and—and so I be going for good—going to London. Powerful 'quisitive I be to see what London looks like, bigger than Stretton it be, wi' streets of shops and theayters and oh!" Her eyes shone, the grief was forgotten, she was hurrying on her way down the road now. The red wall had ceased to be and it seemed as though the enchantment of the old garden that it protected was lifted, for the girl was smiling and her eyes were bright with anticipation as she hastened on her way, and never once did she look behind her now.

"A child's love!" Kathleen thought, "a child's love, very real, very wonderful, with such power to bring grief or joy and yet after all only a child's love—mine lasted for ten long years and—and then it passed—Little Betty's, how long will hers last? Ten days, ten hours perhaps—not longer—poor, pretty, shallow little Betty, yet so lovable—and he, my darling, my Allan was afraid—afraid of her for a time—yes thank God afraid—and told her so nobly and bravely." She smiled at her thoughts and Scarsdale, looking at her, wondered what made her smile.

"What are you thinking of Kathleen?" he said.

"Of my husband," she said gently.

Scarsdale turned away, he looked out into the garden. Should he stay, was there still room for hope? Was she acting a part as he believed and hoped, or did it mean that she had ceased to care, that what she had told him there beside the pool was true, that her love for him had died? Yet it might not be dead, only slumbering for a while, when she found, as she would find, that Homewood was untrue to her, that of nights he was meeting a girl, a servant maid in the garden, that he loved that girl, what then? Would she not come back to him, eager for his love and sympathy and protection? He hoped so and believed so.

"I will wait a while yet," he thought.

They missed the guests of the past few days, these three, as they sat down to dinner in the dining room. They missed Sir Josiah, they missed noisy genial Mr. Coombe, even they missed his lordship, for on these three a silence had fallen and each was busy with his own thoughts.

To-night Betty would tell him, thought Allan, she would tell him that she had decided to be, as he had said, sensible and wise.

"To-night," Kathleen thought, "to-night she would tell him all."

And Scarsdale's thoughts were the same. Would she come to him if she might come in honour, if the dishonour fell on other shoulders? He believed it and hoped it and would hope it till the last.

Kathleen watched Allan that evening, watched him and saw the worried anxious look on his face. She knew that he was planning to meet Betty, yet surely never a lover went to meet his love with such a look on his face as Allan's wore this night? No, he did not love her, he was anxious and troubled about her, about the girl herself and her future and presently he should know that all was well, that Betty was gone and would be happy and cared for.

So when the darkness had fallen completely, she rose and went up to her own room and changed from the light dinner dress she had been wearing into a plain dark frock.

"Will he be glad and proud, or will he be sorry?" she asked herself. Glad and proud—please God he would be glad and proud! And if it brought gladness and pride to him, what then? might it not bring love also, the love she hungered for, the love her heart craved?

The moon was late rising to-night. There was no light save the dim faint light of the stars. Somewhere among the tall trees an owl was making its plaintive cry. Kathleen shivered a little at the sound, it seemed almost like an ill omen. She knew where he would be waiting and then presently in the deep dark shadows under the high old yew hedge she found him.

He heard the light footfall, he heard the rustle of her dress and made no doubt that it was Betty, for who else would come to him here in this place?

"Betty!" he said.

She did not answer him, she stood still, then hesitatingly came forward towards him. But he offered her no greeting, he did not hold out his hands to her. He seemed even to turn away from her.

"Listen," he said, and did not even look towards her. "I have given you time to think, to realise that what I hope to arrange for you is all—all for your good. What I said to you that night was true—Betty we do not and we should not know what the past held for us, that we do know, something of it has only brought us unhappiness and heartache. But the past is past, Betty, it belonged to another life, another generation and we who stand here to-night have to deal only with the present and even more with the future."

Kathleen stood listening, her hands pressed against her breast. Was she wrong to listen to him, knowing that his words were meant for other ears? If he but turned to her now he might see, dim though the light, that it was not the little country girl that he was talking to.

Yet he did not look at her once, but rather at the ground, or away into the blue black distance.

"You have told me that you loved me, you have asked me for my love, forgetting or not knowing, dear, that I could not give you that love with honour. Could I feel such love for you it would but dishonour you, dishonour myself—and—and her, Betty, her." His voice shook for a moment.

"Once you came to me in a strange vision, a vision out of the long buried past. I was heartwhole then—and it seemed to me that some tie, some link forged in another life, another existence held us together, that vision was very wonderful and very sweet to me, it lived in my memory for many and many a long day and then—then it faded, Betty, it faded—and the link that was forged in the past was snapped and broken." He was silent for a moment and then went on in a lower voice.

"It ended because something came into my life to end it, a greater love, something that was not born of visions and fancies and fancied memories. That love, Betty, is the most wonderful, the most beautiful thing that has ever come to me. It meant my salvation, dear, and yours, it meant protection for you and for me. For loving her, loving her——" his voice rose, "loving my own wife with all my soul——."

"Allan, my Allan!"

He turned to her with a choking cry, he peered into her face through the darkness, and then he took her hands and held them, drawing her closer to him till he had clasped her hands against his breast, and all the time he looked into the face that was uplifted to his.

"Kathleen!"

"Who needs you, even as you—you love her, Allan, who has come to tell you, dear, that she knows all and honours you and respects you and loves you with all her heart and soul and is—is proud of you—proud! I sent her away, dear, not in anger, but in love. Poor child, I sent her away all tears that—that I think will soon be dried and to-night I came here to tell you this—to tell you this and—and——" She drew even closer to him and he put his arms about her and held her tightly, "to tell you, my husband——" and her voice was so soft, so low that he could hear, yet only just hear—"to tell you that God is sending into our lives something to make us happier and perhaps better, something that will belong to us both, something for us to share and to love alike, something that will draw us nearer, closer together and hold us together all our lives. Allan, my husband, why don't you speak to me? Allan, are you glad or sorry, dear? Oh Allan!"

For suddenly, even while he still held her in his arms, he slipped down on his knees before her and tried to tell her of the pride, the joy and the gladness that he felt and yet could tell her nothing, save that he loved her.

Beautiful and wonderful, wonderful above all women, more angel than woman to him, now as always.

"You are giving so much, so much, my Kathleen, but you cannot give me all your heart, for I know that in the past there was someone——."

"Someone who came back," she said, "who came back, Allan, and when I saw him and listened to him again, I knew, oh I knew that, my love was never love at all—I think it was less love than a religion with me. Allan, don't you understand? He is nothing to me—no more than any other stranger, any guest who might sleep beneath our roof, for the love, the great love of my life I give, my husband, to you—now and always!"

And then the pent up love and longing, the hunger of the time of waiting found expression. She stooped to him, she put her arms about him, she drew his head to her breast and held him closely, a radiant joy in her heart, knowing him to be what he was, worthy, well worthy of all her love, knowing him to be simple and brave, strong and tender, and even though brave, still afraid, afraid of temptation and his man's weakness.

So she held him and blessed him and her heart was filled with a great love and gratitude.

Faint though the starlight was, yet the watcher away among the shadows could see them indistinctly and seeing them fell naturally into error. For how should he dream that it was husband and wife he spied on? He watched them presently move slowly away, the man with his arm about the woman, she with her head against his shoulder, and the man waiting in the darkness smiled, wondering how long would this last, how long before Kathleen knew?

He watched them till they were gone, swallowed up in the soft darkness, and then he moved, he turned slowly towards the house. The vigil was over, but he frowned in thought. How should Kathleen know, how could she be made aware of this? And then—he heard a sound, the soft pad of a foot behind him and had no time to turn for even as he would have swung round, something leaped upon him and clung to him. A hand gifted with a curious strength sought for and found his throat, and finding it gripped and gripped.

He fought, struggling madly, he tried to tear away that terrible hold, yet it was like trying to unbend bars of steel. He fought at those gripping, clinging fingers till his brain grew dazed, till the dark night swam about him. He could feel on his neck the hot quick breathing of his enemy.

A hoarse scream, a shriek that ended in a choking, gasping sob broke from the strangling throat, a scream of agony and of terror. For he, brave man though he was, felt a mad, horrible fear of the silent, the unseen thing that was seeking to rob him of his life.

Kathleen threw up her head. "Allan, Allan darling, did you hear? Hush, listen, what was that?"

"Only a screech owl beloved, and oh my Kathleen, to hear you call me——" he paused and was silent, for there came a repetition of the sound, but this time fainter, the strangling cry of a man in agony, hoarse despairing, spent and gasping, ending in sudden silence, followed by the sound of a fall.

"Kathleen go, run to the house, there is something wrong—send help!" And then he turned and dashed into the darkness, in the direction whence came the sound. Scarsdale was down, he lay face downward on the stone paving and with his last strength, his last effort was seeking to unlock those fingers from his throat, but his movements were weakening, the man was done, as near to death as a man can be and yet still live, and on his back there crouched a figure, the figure of a small mean man, whose wondrous strength was all contained in those hooked fingers that were choking the life out of the jerking, labouring body.

"Pleasant spoken 'ee be—aye wonderful pleasant spoken 'ee du be!" The creature was chuckling, was laughing, his eyes seemed to burn with strange fires.

"Wonderful pleasant spoken 'ee be—but never again, never again will 'ee cheat a man of his maid, never again! Stole her from me, lied her away from me!—Oh wonderful pleasant spoken 'ee be——"

It was death that was come on him now, and he knew it, the death he had defied—for so long—in savage places. Strange that it should come to him here at last in this peaceful old garden. Death—the world was swimming about him—he seemed to see Kathleen's face, the fighting hands were grown powerless and never for a moment did that grip on his throat relax.

"Oh wonderful, powerful pleasant spoken 'ee be——" chuckled the voice.

And then the man was torn from his victim, dragged from him and flung violently to the stone pavement. Kathleen had run screaming to the house, the servants were alarmed, Howard, prompt and efficient, came hurrying with lighted lamp; others followed, Kathleen with them.

"It's Scarsdale—been attacked—he's fainted—lift him, some of you, carry him in—stop that man, stop him!"

For Abram Lestwick had risen, he stood there for a moment, then turned to fly, but suddenly stood still, as the lamp-light stone for a moment on Allan's face. Lestwick peered at him. His hands rose to his own throat, fumbled with it, tore at his collar till they tore it loose.

"Bless I if it bain't Abram Lestwick!" said a voice, the voice belonged to old Markabee, "Abram Lestwick it du be!"

"Aye, it be me!" Lestwick said, he spoke dully, still fumbling at his throat, his eyes wandered from the figure of the man they were lifting, to Allan's face clear in the lamp-light, eyes from which all the fire and passion had died out.

He had made a mistake, his slow brain was grasping the fact—a mistake—why should he have made a mistake? Surely it had been the right man, had he not climbed the wall and waited and seen a man with a woman and that woman Betty—who else could it have been? And then—then—

"A terribul strong intentioned man I be!" Abram muttered. "Terribul passionate and quick——" His eyes roved round restlessly, he still worked at his frayed and torn collar. "I must be going, time be getting on, very late it be growing, I've stayed too long!" He would have turned, but old Markabee faced him resolutely.

"Stir from here, 'ee don't, Abram Lestwick, after what 'ee hev done!"

One sweep of his arm would have felled Markabee and left the way clear for him to depart, yet Abram Lestwick never thought of that—he stood still, silent, submissive.

His dull brain refused to answer the question that he would have put to it. A mistake—how had he come to make a mistake—another man—what other man could it be? Had he not seen his enemy standing erect, unhurt, the lamplight on his face?

"It be past, all past my understanding——" Abram Lestwick muttered. "All misty and dizzy it du seem to I—all misty and dizzy!"

They had carried the victim into the house, now they came back for Lestwick, they took him and bound his hands behind his back, those terrible, those death dealing hands, and he submitted without a word, without a struggle.

Sullenly and with bent head, he shambled along between his captors. They took him into the house, into the light, he stood with bent head, then slowly lifted it, his restless eyes roamed the room, they fell on Kathleen's white face for a moment, then strayed away again.

The man was muttering to himself, they bent near to listen, yet could make but little of it.

"Wonderful pleasant spoken he be——" he said, and said it again and yet again, a score of times.

Old Markabee, tremulous, but staunch, gripping a Dutch hoe, stood on guard. "I du remember," he said, "aye I du remember his mother, my Lady, and it be the same wi' Abram as it were wi' she—strange she were always, terribul strange and they du say aye I have heard it said as her did die in the madhouse!"

Kathleen drew back, but the horror died out of her face and in its place there came pity, a great pity for this stricken wretch, the dull eyes rested for a moment on her face, then sank to the ground, his fingers were picking at the rope that bound his wrists together, but not with any intention of picking himself free, just for the sake of picking and fraying and tearing the cords, that was all.

CHAPTER XXXV

"I SHALL RETURN"

"Kathleen—Kathleen——"

"Yes, Harold, here beside you." She touched his cheek with her fingers. "You are easier now, better?"

"With you beside me, yes." He lifted his hand slowly to the bandaged throat.

"It was—Homewood—Allan Homewood who—saved—who dragged that man off me?"

"Yes, it was Allan, we heard your cry for help, he and I, we were together in the garden and——"

"You—you and he—you and he in the garden?"

"We had been talking in the yew walk, we were returning to the house and then we heard——"

He said nothing, his face twisted a little, as with pain, then it passed.

"The man, Abram Lestwick was mad, quite mad, Harold. He made no effort to get away, he was docile and quiet, dazed and stupid. They took him before the magistrates the next day, but the doctors certified at once, he will not have his liberty again, poor creature, they say he is a homicidal maniac. Yet why—why should he have come creeping into the garden that night, why should he have attacked you, Harold, you a stranger to him?"

But it seemed that he was not listening, as though what she said had no interest for him. He lay looking at her, thinking—It was she—she in the garden with Homewood that night, she walking with Homewood, his arm about her.

He saw it all again, in memory, as he had seen it that night in reality, the man and the woman walking as lovers walk, the man's arm about the woman, her head against his shoulder—and it was Homewood and Kathleen, the husband and the wife—and he had thought—

"The doctor tells me that I shall mend soon, that I shall soon be my own man again, Kathleen, and then," he smiled, "then I shall go back."

"Need you?"

He did not answer the question. "You know why I came, what hopes I had. It was folly and the hopes are over and ended and dead—so I shall go back alone as I came. There is nothing to remain for—nothing." His hand sought hers and she put hers into it. He held it for a time and then let it go.

"So I shall go back," he said again, and said it quietly and with a fixity of purpose that she knew would never be changed.

Her eyes, filled with pity, looked down on him. Yet she knew, better that he went back, better that in the years to come they should never meet again.

Her heart ached for him, but not for herself. And then the door opened and Allan came softly to the bedside and looked down at the invalid and standing beside Kathleen his arm went round her and he never knew what suffering it meant to the man lying there.

"Kathleen has told you about Lestwick, Scarsdale? The poor wretch is hopelessly insane. There was no reason for his act, there could be none. It has all been horrible, you can imagine what our feelings have been that you, our guest, our friend——" very kind was Allan's smile as he looked down on the man who would have been his enemy, "should have to bear this. But thank God it is no worse than it is. You will be a well man again soon, Scarsdale, and then you will stay on and rest here, Kathleen will be your nurse——"

"You are good, but I shall leave you as soon as I may, for I am going back to the place I came from, Homewood, going back soon."

"Going back? I remember that you told me once you hoped——"

Scarsdale smiled faintly. "I hoped—but that is over, I had hope, but not now. There is nothing to hold me to England. I am a stranger in a strange land, I shall be better out there among the people who know me."

"Are you sure—sure that there is no hope for you, Scarsdale?"

Again Scarsdale smiled. "There never was," he said. "Yet I did not realise it, would not understand it—but there was never any hope for me, so—so I shall go, thanking my good friends for their care of me, thanking them and blessing them——" As he spoke he looked up at Kathleen and Allan watching saw the yearning, the hunger, the love that the lips could not utter, and then suddenly he understood that this was the man!

Yet, even understanding, he stooped and touched the other's hand.

"Remember, if you will stay, my wife and I will be glad—we would have you stay as long as you can—Scarsdale."

They turned away, went out of the room together, and then when the door had closed on them, he turned to her.

"Kathleen, I remember that night you told me that you had met the man again—it was he."

"He came back," she said, "he came back and I knew it meant nothing to me. It was a dream, as yours was dear, and it passed, as yours did, my Allan and so—so——" she held up her arms and put them about his neck and lifted her face to his.

"I meant to tell you—at first and then—then I forgot, yes forgot, Allan—because of something of which I wanted to tell you far, far more."

"I know," he said, he put his arms about her and held her closely. "Something that has made me the happiest and proudest man in all the world, beloved."

* * * * *

A winter and a spring had passed and the garden at Homewood was blooming with a loveliness that it had not been able to attain last summer. Old Markabee, bearing the weight of yet one more year on his round shoulders, was snipping at the ivy covered wall.

"A pernicious thing be ivy, sir," he said, "a terribul pernicious thing, eating away the very wall as du support it, tearing it away bit by bit, ruining it, sir, it du—with them terribul little clinging fingers it hev got, workin' and workin' till the old wall be crumbled quite and ready to fall, a most terribul pernicious thing ivy be."

"Yes, yes to be sure, but hush my good man, not—not so loudly if you please——"

Markabee turned contritely, "I bain't gone and woke he wi' my chatter?" he asked.

"No, no, he is still sound asleep."

Sir Josiah rose from the stone bench, he peered under the holland awning over the perambulator.

His reign was but short and presently nurse would come and demand of him, her charge. It was a great favour that she did him, leaving him here in charge of the slumbering infant, there was no one else nurse would trust, but she knew that she might Sir Josiah.

"You may look at him, Markabee, if you like, did you ever see a healthier looking child?"

Markabee poked his brown face under the awning, holding his breath the while. Not till he was safely away did he trust himself with speech.

"A wunnerful child he be," he said. "And so powerful strong he du look."

"Would you say, Markabee?" Sir Josiah enquired anxiously, "is the child like his mother or his father?"

"A bit like both," said Markabee. "And wi' a look, aye now I du see it quite plain, a look of his grandfather tu, he hev got."

"You don't say so!" said Sir Josiah. "You don't say so—well bless my heart!" His round red face beamed and Markabee, cunning old sinner, chuckled behind his hand.

"That ought to be good enough for half a suvereign for I," he thought.

And now came nurse to take possession of her charge.

"He hasn't awakened, Sir Josiah, has he?" she said.

"Bless you my dear, no, not moved, he hasn't," Sir Josiah said.

She smiled. "I always feel I can trust you with him at any rate, Sir Josiah."

"A good woman that, a sensible woman, couldn't have found a better," Sir Josiah said as nurse wheeled the baby carriage away. "And you were saying just now, Markabee?"

"I were saying a terribul pernicious thing is this ivy working with its little fingers on they old walls as du support it, tearing and tearing, wonderful like the fingers of Abram Lestwick's, I du remember."

"Ah poor fellow!" said Sir Josiah.

"Mad!" said Markabee, "like his mother were afore him—mad—and mad in love moreover."

"Indeed!"

"Wi' the prettiest maid in these parts, old Mother Hanson's grand-darter, sir."

"Little Betty Hanson?" said Sir Josiah—"whom my daughter-in-law Lady Kathleen sent to me months and months ago, and to think that poor mad fellow loved her. But she's married now, Markabee, and married well—married to a young fellow who works for me, a lad named Cope! I'm paying him six pounds a week, Markabee, and he's worth it, a hard working honest lad. I had tea with them in their little house and a prettier little hostess you never saw. But if you'll believe me, Markabee, an arrant little flirt, with those pretty eyes of hers——"

"Her mother were the same," said Markabee. "All wimmen more or less be the same—specially when they du have fine eyes as Betty had."

"Why I don't know that you aren't right Markabee, and yet not all, not all women Markabee, there is one——"

Sir Josiah looked up and saw the one of whom he spoke. She was coming slowly towards them along the flagged pathway, her husband's arm about her, her head against his shoulder and as they came slowly in the sunshine, they halted now and again, for not yet, had all her strength come back to her, though thank God, it was coming. She was still a little pale, still a little languid in her movements. But in her eyes there was a great and wonderful happiness and a deep tenderness and unutterable love. Love for this man beside her, this man to whom she clung, this man, who was friend, lover, husband all in one. Was ever woman so blessed as she?

Sir Josiah stood watching them, knowing that these two had found a happiness that was almost beyond his understanding.

And then he would have turned and gone quietly away, but Kathleen called to him.

"Won't you come here and sit with us in the sunshine dear? Don't go, don't go!"

He came back with a happy pleased look on his old face.

"I didn't think you and Allan would want the old man," he said, "I thought you two—together——"

"We want you always, when you are here our little world is all complete," she said softly. "I have those whom I love and those who love me," she lifted her hand and held it against his cheek.

And so on the sunwarmed old stone bench they sat, and there was no sound save the steady 'clip clip' of old Markabee's shears and the rustle of the falling glossy green leaves from the ivied wall.

About them, was the sunshine and the glory of the flowers in bloom, the little pool lay shimmering like molten gold, and from its midst rose the slim white figure of the stone maiden, for ever holding the broken pitcher on her sun kissed shoulder.

THE END

T. H. BEST PRINTING CO. LIMITED, TORONTO