Kathleen smiled. "There need be no talk of that now, Betty, surely?"

"No, my lady, but I can't help thinking about it, specially when I du

see Abram loitering about the green gate, my lady, and know he du be

waiting for I."

"Then I will see that he is not permitted to loiter there, as you

dislike him so much, Betty."

"I hate him, I du, I hate him mortally, my lady, I du. Oh, my lady, his

hands du be terribul, terribul; if 'ee did see 'em they would make you

shudder like they do I."

"But perhaps you dislike this poor Abram so much, Betty, because there

is someone else?" Kathleen asked. "Is that the truth, my little maid?"

"Oh, my lady, I--I doan't know, I doan't know. No, no, there bain't

anyone else, no one else--I promise, I swear, my lady, there bain't,

there couldn't be! How could there be?"

Kathleen took her hand, she held it, it was very hot, this small hand of

the girl's.

"Betty, child," she said, "you are not well this evening, your hand is

hot and--" she lifted her hand to Betty's forehead, that cool, white,

slender hand of hers, and let it rest there for a moment.

"And your head is hot, too, child, you had better go to bed and

presently I will ring and ask that something is taken to you. No,

Betty, don't wait, I can manage quite well to-night; go to bed, child,

and go to sleep and forget all your troubles, and if you don't want

Abram, why then, Betty, you shall not have Abram and no one shall force

you to." She pushed the silken fair hair back from the girl's forehead;

she smiled af her.

"Now to bed, Betty, and to sleep and forget all your little troubles,

child, and to-morrow come to me with a smile on your lips as I would

have you."

"Oh--my lady, if--if I could only dare--dare tell--'ee," Betty cried

passionately. She caught Kathleen's hand and held it with both her own.

"If only I could dare----"

"Dare what? Betty, tell me, child, if there is anything----?"

"No, no, I can't, I be mad to speak of it even--I think I be going mad

altogether, my lady, sometimes I du think I bain't like other maids wi'

such foolish strange notions that I get. I can't--can't tell 'ee, my

lady, doan't ask me, for I can't--I can't." And then Betty flung the

kind hand away and rushed to the door, fumbled for a moment with the

lock, and then opened the door, fled.

"And so," Kathleen said, "we all have our troubles, our fears and our

loves, Betty and I and all Eve's daughters."

She dressed herself, it was no hardship or novelty to her.

She looked at herself in the glass without vanity, but rather with a

curious interest.

"I'm twenty-eight," she said, "in a few months I shall be

twenty-nine--yet I have no wrinkles and there are no silver threads

yet--I wonder--I wonder does he think me much changed? He is changed,

greatly changed, yet I knew him, of course I knew him; I should have

known him among ten thousand, I should have known him had he come in

rags and poverty, just as I knew him, now he has come to me in his

prosperity and health and strength."

She went down the stairs, she went into the drawing room and found, as

she had almost feared she would find, that he was there alone. He came

forward eagerly to greet her.

"Kathleen, are you angry with me?"

"Why should I be angry, Harold?"

"For coming."

"It would have been better, kinder to me if--if you had stayed away."

"And kinder to myself," he said bitterly. "Kathleen, do--do you think

that this does not mean suffering to me?"

"Why did you come?"

"Your father told me you--you knew and approved, that you would be glad

to welcome me."

She did not answer.

"But now I know that that was untrue; you did not know that I was

coming----"

"I did not know," she said. "No, I did not know."

"Kathleen, Kathleen, you waited so long, all--all those years and yet

not quite long enough; another few months, if only you had waited

another few months, Kathleen."

She turned to him suddenly, her face bright, her cheeks flushed.

"You--you have seen him, my husband, you have taken his hand, you--you

are here, his guest--our honoured guest--the past is dead and gone; I

waited--ten years--" her voice broke for a moment, "then I looked at

your letters for the last time and--and burned them all, and when I saw

their black ashes in the grate, I knew that from that moment my new life

began, a life that could not, must not, hold memories of a past. It was

Fate and we--we must accept it; I have accepted it--so we--you and I--we

meet again--as friends--" She held out her hand to him, she smiled at

him.

He took her hand and held it tightly, he looked into her eyes, then he

groaned, he bent his head and kissed the hand before he let it go, and

then from beyond the door there came the sound of voices, Coombe's loud

and dominant, argumentative.

"Not wear a white tie with a dinner jacket, Jobson? I tell you I'll

wear any tie I like--and if people don't like it, they can do the other

thing. A black tie makes me look like a waiter, by George, and I won't

wear 'em. And if I want to wear a pink or a sky blue tie, why hang it,

I'll wear it. And if it isn't the fashion, well I'll make the fashion

like that fellow Beau--Beau Brummagem, or whatever his confounded name

was."

All unknowingly Coombe had struck the right note, he had done Kathleen a

service. A dead and gone love, burned love-letters, ten long years of

waiting, of hoping and praying and nothing to reward the faithfulness

and the loyalty--what mattered all that? Away with melancholy thoughts,

away with sadness and regrets--poor Romance must fly for the moment and

hide her diminished head before the advance of a stout gentleman in

evening dress, wearing a white tie. Kathleen smiled. Honest Mr. Coombe

little knew how grateful his hostess felt to him at that moment.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*"I BELONG TO THEE"*

Lord Gowerhurst justly prided himself on the "Stanwys manner" which he

had to perfection. If he were formal he carried his formality with

grace, he was studiously polite, he was courteous, urbane--and a wet

blanket.

He crushed utterly those four jolly City gentlemen, who would have been

ten times happier if his lordship and his manner had not been there.

Sir Josiah, seated on the right hand of his daughter-in-law, perspired

freely from sheer nervousness, mingled with a kind of admiration and

awe. Jobson and Cutler were noticeably ill at ease, and consumed by

anxiety lest they might say or do the wrong thing. Mr. Coombe was

resentful and would have been sarcastic had he dared.

That man, sitting facing Mr. Coombe, fingering the stem of his wineglass

with his delicate white fingers, monopolising the conversation with his

confounded drawling aristocratic voice and his infernal air of

superiority, who was he? Was not he the same man who one day had come

cringing into his, Coombe's, office hoping to raise a loan of two

thousand on some rotten securities; was not he the same man who had well

nigh wept when the loan had not materialised?

"And there he sits," thought Coombe, "there he sits, treating us all as

if we were dirt, looking down on us, the rotten, humbugging, insolvent

old--old--beast."

No one could find fault with the dinner, indeed his lordship gracefully

congratulated his daughter on the excellence of her chef. Good Mrs.

Crozier had watched over everything and had seen to everything, and a

lady of her experience was scarcely likely to allow a dinner to go to

table that would not be a credit to the household over which she ruled.

The wines, too, were above reproach, Sir Josiah had spared no expense in

this matter, but there was something wrong with the atmosphere, yes the

atmosphere was all wrong. Sir Josiah could not find one word to say.

Even Cutler was unable to introduce an observation concerning the island

of Demauritius, its Governor and the Governor's wife, his daughter.

Jobson was frankly and noticeably unhappy, and in his agitation had

splashed his white shirt front with gravy. Coombe was oppressed, angry

and bitter, trying hard to find something to say that would take the

wind out of the sails of that drawling, dandified, supercilious

aristocrat on the other side of the table.

Kathleen had her own thoughts and the subject of them was sitting beside

her on her left, facing Sir Josiah. She could feel his eyes on her now

and again, she tried to laugh and to talk frankly and freely, but she

was conscious of a weight, of a fear, of joy, she hardly knew what.

And Allan, too, his thoughts had strayed away from that unhappy dining

table. They were out in the garden, not in the garden as it was now,

all shrouded in the soft darkness of the summer night, but in a garden

filled with sunshine, sunshine that touched and glorified a little head

of gold, that lighted up a sweet, oval face and glistened on eyes as

blue as the skies.

Why, why, why? He asked himself and could scarce frame the question.

How much less the answer to it. Better that she should go, but poor

child, how unfair to her. Yet he could not go; how could he? And to

live here, under the same roof, to see her, perhaps every day, to have

that strange memory, which was yet no memory, recalled every time he saw

her. How could it be, how could he be loyal to Kathleen? Why should

that girl, that child whom he had seen but once, mean so much to him?

How were their lives connected; what could some unknown past have held,

a past that affected their present and their future so greatly?

Coombe had grasped the opportunity. There had come a lull, Coombe

seized on it, he began a story in a loud voice. It was about a deal in

some shares. Coombe, in his eagerness to talk, grew involved, he

floundered. He appealed to Sir Josiah, Sir Josiah who frowned,

remembering that he had instructed Coombe that there was to be no

"shop." Coombe saw the frown and got more mixed than before, Sir Josiah

had let him down. He turned to Jobson, but Jobson had no help to offer.

"Anyhow, there it was, Munston bought seven thousand and fifty and

Lockyer I forget how many, and the bottom fell out of the market see,

ha, ha."

"Now that is very interesting, very interesting indeed,

Mr.--er--Groom--my dear Allan, you and I are not business men, Mr. Groom

here is a business man, it is quite interesting to hear these stories,

eh? Of course we don't understand 'em, Allan, because, as I say, we are

not business men. I have no doubt but that it is an excellent story,

but I don't understand it, no, be gad, I don't see the point. It's the

same with golfing stories, they may be deuced funny, but when you don't

understand them, well you don't, and that's all there is to say to it.

Which reminds me of Normandyke--you remember the Duke of Normandyke, my

love? His place at Clamberwick was recalled to me by this little place

of yours. Of course your home, elegant though it is, is a mere cottage

in comparison; Clamberwick is one of the great houses--" and so on and

so on, belittling his daughter's house with cheerful patronage and

intense superiority, till the colour flamed into Kathleen's cheeks, born

of the generous indignation in her heart. She slipped her hand under

the table and her cool white fingers closed round Sir Josiah's thick old

hand, and pressed it in silent sympathy, love and gratitude.

"I understand, my dear, I understand," the old gentleman whispered.

"This Clamberwick may be a great place, my dear, and beyond an old

fellow like me, but I'd give you ten such places if I could, and you'd

be fit to reign over the lot of 'em."

"I--I wouldn't exchange Homewood for all the Clamberwicks in the world.

You made it for us and gave it to us, and I love it for its own and the

giver's sake."

She would not tell Allan to-night, she watched Allan. He looked, she

thought, a little unhappy, this house party was weighing on his mind.

No, she would not tell him to-night, she would wait till after they were

all gone. She would keep her promise, of course, and when Harold

Scarsdale had gone, when they had bidden one another farewell, and it

would be for the last time, she would tell him that it must be for the

last time, and as he was a gentleman he would understand and so--so when

she told Allan, she would be able to tell him that she had seen the man

again, that he had come and gone, and this time forever.

She felt easier, lighter and happier now she had made up her mind. She

went to the drawing room and played and sang. Scarsdale, beside the

piano, watched her, he turned her music. Now and again he spoke to her,

reminding her of some song that called up the past.

"Won't you sing one of them to me, Kathleen?"

"No, no, not to-night, please don't ask me, I--I don't want to think of

the past. I told you--there is no past--I burned it with the old

letters--it is ashes now." Her lips trembled as she looked up at him

and smiled at him. "It is better so, is it not? You know it is. So

to-night I shall sing the new songs, the old ones belong to the past and

are dead with it."

"If I could only think as you think, or do you think as you speak,

Kathleen, do you believe what you say?"

"Yes, I believe it, I know it, it is true."

His lordship, having made a very good dinner, had selected the easiest

chair in the room and settled himself down comfortably. Sir Josiah and

his friends drifted to the smoking room and their cigars and their talk.

His lordship, taking his ease in his chair, had fallen into a sweet,

refreshing slumber, for which he would have to pay presently when

bed-time came. Kathleen was singing at the piano with this old friend

of hers. Allan looked at them both. He did not quite know what to make

of this old friend of Kathleen's, this man Scarsdale. He had not summed

him up yet; on the whole he thought he did not much like him. To-night

Allan felt in no mood to join his father and his friends, had Sir Josiah

been alone it would have been different. Kathleen was interested in her

friend. His lordship was asleep, Allan crossed the room quietly, opened

a French window, and passed out into the garden.

When a man is face to face with a problem, he must wrestle with it, find

an answer to it and act on his own finding. A man who thrusts the thing

behind him and leaves it all in the hands of Fate is little better than

a coward, and Allan Homewood was no coward.

In this garden he had dreamed a dream and in that dream there had come

to him the sweetest little maid on whom the sun had ever shone, and

though his eyes had never beheld her before, yet he knew that she came

to him as no stranger, but rather as some sweet vision or memory out of

a past, which past had never been, in this life at least, and when the

dream had gone he had awakened with a feeling of loss that had stayed

with him for many days till at last he had managed to banish that

feeling.

And now, now a living girl, the very maid of his dreams, had come to him

and he had looked at her and known her for the same, and all the old

tenderness, the love for her had come welling up in his heart again.

And she, strangely, seemed to know him even as he knew her. Had she not

called him Allan? Had she not looked at him with that same strange

light in her blue eyes as had shone in those of the little maid of his

dreams?

"What does it mean?" he whispered. "And what am I to do? Send her

away? That would be cruel and unkind, poor little soul." Where had she

to go to; why banish her for no fault of her own? And yet how

impossible for him to go. But to meet her every day, to see those blue

eyes of hers with their strange expression, half pleading, half

fearful--to know, for he did know, and must know that this little maid

for some strange reason loved him, as he must love her. What should he

do? Would Kathleen help him when he told her as tell her he must--yes,

he would rely on her sane judgment, on her generous nature, on her sweet

womanliness. She would know how to act; he would place it all in

Kathleen's hands and all would be well.

He felt relieved to think that he had arrived at some definite

conclusion. Kathleen would--he paused suddenly and lifted his head.

From the soft darkness there came to him a sound, the sound of sobbing,

as of some child weeping bitterly in its loneliness. It touched him,

for he was tender hearted to a fault. Who was it? He went on quickly,

yet softly, so as not to frighten or disturb the child. And then he

found her, crouching on the stone seat, near the sundial, the slender

body bent, the little hands clasped over her face. He knew her at once,

he saw the sheen of her hair in the dim light and stood still for a

moment, yet the piteous sobbing, the heaving of the shoulders hurt him

and he stretched out his hand and touched her gently.

"Betty," he said, "Betty, why are you here and crying, child?"

She did not start, she lifted her head slowly, her hands dropped, he

could see her face dimly, white in the starlight.

"Why do I find you here alone, Betty, and weeping?" he asked gently.

"Are you in some trouble or suffering?"

She shook her head in silence.

"Then why?"

"Oh, I doan't know, I doan't know," she cried suddenly, she flung out

her arms with a gesture of despair. "I doan't understand it all, and it

du frighten me, it du. Oh, I be terribul frightened of it all, I be,

frightened and yet--glad." She looked up at him. He could see the oval

face more clearly now, the shining eyes and the trembling red lips.

He took both her hands suddenly and held them tightly.

"Betty, what does it all mean? Can you tell me, for I do not

understand?"

"Nor du I understand," she said. "Oh, tell me, Allan, tell me, did 'ee

know me when--Oh, sir--forgive." She broke off suddenly and her head

dropped.

"Tell me, what were you going to ask?"

She lifted her head again.

"Did 'ee know me as I knew 'ee, yesterday when I came here and--and

found 'ee here, Allan?"

"Yes, I knew you, I knew you, Betty. Once before in a dream you came to

me here in this same place and I cannot understand why it should have

been so. No, I cannot understand."

"And it du frighten me terribul, terribul, it du. How did I know your

name were Allan? How dared--dared I call 'ee Allan, seeing you be my

lady's husband and my master, and yet I could not help myself, the name

did come from my lips wi'out my knowing it."

"And you never saw me before?"

"Aye, many, many times."

He was startled. "You knew me, Betty, you had seen me before, but when,

where?"

"Here, here in this place, in this garden, but 'ee was so different

then. Grandmother was angry wi' me for coming, she said I were a bad

maid to come here into this old garden, all weed grown and ramy-shackle

that it were, but I came often--often--and then I used to see--'ee here,

Allan, oh sir." She paused.

"Go on," he said. "Go on, Betty." And still held her quivering hands.

"But 'twas not as a fine gentleman as I did see 'ee," she went on,

seeming to gain a little in confidence, though her voice was still

tremulous, "'ee wore a queer old hat and brown clothes and--and

stockings, and heavy shoes wi' brass buckles to 'em, sir, and for the

most part 'ee was working in the garden, digging sometimes, sometimes at

work wi' hoe or rake, but always working, bending over the flower beds

'ee were, and never, never did I see your face, sir, yet when I did see

your face, I knew it for 'ee."

"Go on, go on."

"There's nothing more to tell 'ee, sir, only that I, contrairywise, came

here to the old garden and climbed the wall, I did, and sometimes I did

come here of nights when the moon was shining and it was then I see 'ee,

sir, working here, bending over your work--and I knew--knew--" she

paused.

"You knew----?"

"I knew as--as oh I--I can't tell 'ee, sir, I daren't tell 'ee."

"Tell me, Betty," he whispered, "tell me," and perhaps did not know how

much tenderness he had put into his voice.

"I knew as 'ee meant summut to me, sir, as--as somehow it seemed as if

'ee belonged to me and I to thee."

She dropped her eyes, her hands seemed to flutter in his and he said

nothing, could not, for he did not know what to say, but he realised

that she had put into words that which was in his own mind, in his own

knowledge, just as he had meant something to her so had she meant

something to him. He had known that in some strange way they belonged

to each other.

He spoke, to break the silence that had fallen rather than for any other

reason.

"You were unhappy with your grandmother?"

"Terribul, terribul unhappy I were wi' she, sir, for her willed me to

marry Abram."

"Abram?" he asked.

"Abram, aye, Abram Lestwick, sir, whom I du hate and de-test most

terribul."

"But who is he?"

"Grandmother willed me to marry him, sir, but I would not and she be

very wrathful wi' I."

"Poor little soul," he said gently. "Betty, it seems to me that strange

and perhaps foolish dreams have--have come to both of us here in this

old garden, and we must put those dreams out of our minds, and face

life, child, as it really is. Just now you reminded me that I am your

lady's husband and I am, and proud and happy that so good and sweet a

woman should be my wife----"

"Good and sweet her be, there bain't none like she; I would die for her

willing, I would."

"And I think I too, Betty, and so--so--" he paused to listen--out of the

darkness there came voices.

"Wonderful air, isn't it? I don't know any air like this. Get a smell

of the sea in it, don't you, Cutler, my boy?"

Allan dropped the little hands. He felt suddenly ashamed, felt as

though he were about, to be detected in some wrong-doing, and yet,

Heaven above knew, that there had not been one wrong thought in his

brain.

He would have told her to go, but it was unnecessary. Very quickly and

suddenly she snatched at one of his hands, he felt it pressed for a

moment against burning lips and then she had gone. He heard the soft

rustling of her gown among the bushes, the light tap of her little

shoes, and then the heavier stolid tread of his father's honest feet.

Allan dropped onto the stone bench, and there, a minute later Sir Josiah

found him.

"Why, who's here, Allan, Allan, my boy--is it you?"

"Yes, father, come here to dream in the old garden. Won't you and Mr.

Cutler sit here and finish your cigars?"

He scarcely knew what he was saying. He was glad that they had come,

and yet perhaps sorry too.

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*IN WHICH LORD GOWERHURST RISES EARLY*

His lordship had had a bad night. He had gone to sleep after his

dinner, a foolish thing to do. He had tossed and turned restlessly in a

strange bed and he loathed strange beds. Then after what had seemed to

be interminable hours of sleeplessness and misery, he had fallen asleep

to be awakened in apparently a few minutes by a feathered chorus in the

beech tree, just outside his window.

What a noise they made, what a commotion with their piping and their

shrill chattering. His Lordship sat up and solemnly cursed all birds.

A cock saluted the dawn in the customary manner; another, apparently

some little distance away, took up the challenge. Lord Gowerhurst heard

the crowing receding farther and farther till it was lost in the

distance, then it came back, seemingly step by step to the original cock

that was somewhere in his immediate neighbourhood. And all the time the

birds kept up their incessant twittering and chattering and piping till

the poor gentleman's nerves were on edge.

He rose, he thrust one bony leg from the bed, then the other. He went

to the window, he shook his fist at the birds.

"Shoo! go away you beasts!" he shouted. "Go away, shoo!"

He slammed the window down and went back to bed, but it was useless. He

put his head under the clothes, but he could still hear the babel of

sounds. As the sun rose higher so did the sounds increase; there came

the barking of dogs, the lowing of cattle from the green pastures, a hen

had laid an egg somewhere and was proclaiming the fact triumphantly. Her

husband shouted his joy, the other cocks took up the chorus. It was

Bedlam and Babel let loose.

Added to the other sounds of animal and bird life came presently fresh

contributions. A sleepy-eyed servant banged a pail down somewhere,

doors were being opened and shut with unnecessary vigour.

"London, give me London. It's the only place in the world fit to sleep

in, as for this country, this--" His lordship sat up and exploded with

wrath and profanity.

He would stay in bed no longer, bed was purgatory; it was but six. He

had never risen at six in the morning in his life. Frequently he had

retired at this hour. He rang for hot water to shave.

At his chambers in Maybury Street, Webster, his landlord, valeted him.

Webster shaved him every morning and dressed him with the same care as a

young mother bestows on her darling. But Webster was employed during

the day at his lordship's club, so had not been able to come.

The old gentleman's hand shook very severely this morning, he cut

himself twice. He was entirely unhappy and in the blackest of ill

humours when he went downstairs.

Early as it was, everyone seemed to be up. Sir Josiah, rosy and

cheerful, came in from the garden, looking ridiculous with a great

armful of flowers.

"Good morning, my lord, nice and early, eh? Lovely morning, nothing

like getting up when the dew's on the grass, eh?" Then came Cutler,

followed by Coombe, offensive in white flannel trousers; Kathleen,

looking as fresh as the morning itself, came to him and kissed him. She

saw his humour, she knew it of old, the morning was never his lordship's

best time.

Happy he who can rise in the morning in a spirit of kindliness and good

humour, who commences the day as he means to live through it, in good

will and amity with all. Thrice happy they who live with such a man.

Kathleen knew her father.

"Would you like to have breakfast served you alone quietly in my own

little room, dear?" she asked.

"Would I what? Hang it! do you want to get rid of me? Am I not good

enough to sit down to breakfast with your absurd friends? Has that

gentleman in the white trousers been attending a tennis party? It is

somewhat early for tennis parties, is it not? Barely seven yet--is

Homewood going to decorate a Church or is he merely masquerading as a

Jack in the Green? Where's Scarsdale? Not down yet? I don't blame

him, I never heard such an infernal din in my life--cocks crowing, birds

shouting, dogs barking and--and cut my face twice, begad, twice--which

means a deuced uncomfortable day for me and--and--and your father is to

be poked away into a little back room and have his meals by himself, is

he? I'm hurt, Kathleen, positively hurt; had you told me that my

society was distasteful to you, had you only told me that you were

asking me out of politeness, begad, out of compliment, why then I should

have stayed away. I feel it, I am an old fellow and oversensitive

perhaps, little things, little unkindnesses wound me, as perhaps a few

years ago they would not. As one grows older one----"

"Come into breakfast, father," she said, and slipped her hand under his

arm.

Scarsdale came down a little late. He held Kathleen's hand for a

moment, looked her in the eyes and sat down.

"I slept badly," he said quietly, "in fact I could not sleep at all, it

was strange to me to realise that the same roof that sheltered you--" he

paused.

"Tea or coffee?" Kathleen asked brightly.

His lordship was like a bear with a very sore head, the Stanwys manner

was not in evidence. He growled and cursed under his breath. He flung

poisoned darts of wit, sneers and jibes at Coombe and they glanced

harmless enough from that gentleman's toughened hide, but they went home

when he turned his battery on Sir Josiah.

"Poisonous old devil he is," Coombe muttered to himself as he put away a

huge breakfast.

*CHAPTER XXV*

*BESIDE THE LAKE*

They had all gone out together, Sir Josiah and his Lordship in Sir

Josiah's car, Mr. Coombe and Mr. Cutler and Mr. Jobson with a large

quantity of golf sticks in Allan's car, and Allan himself had gone over

to One Tree Farm to discuss intensive culture, scientific pedigree

poultry and pig raising and farm business generally; and Kathleen found

herself for the first time alone with Harold Scarsdale.

She had tried to avoid this, yet in some fashion she had known that it

must come sooner or later. She had suggested that he should go out with

the others, but he had quietly declined. And so if it must be, well it

must be. If she and Harold Scarsdale must come to a definite

understanding, why not sooner than later? She was a coward to shun it.

From her bedroom window she saw him sauntering up and down the broad

paved pathway. That he was waiting for her, confident that she would

come to him, she knew, and she knew that she must go.

"Betty!"

"Yes, my Lady?"

"Sir Harold Scarsdale is in the garden; will you go down to him and tell

him that I will join him soon? There he is, Betty, you can see him from

here."

"I see him, my Lady, and I'll go and tell him." Betty turned away.

"Betty!"

"My Lady?"

"Betty, are you unhappy, child?"

"Unhappy, oh, my lady, I be very happy here, indeed--indeed I be--very

happy I be, my lady."

"You look white and troubled, child," Kathleen said. "Is--is that man,

is your grandmother--troubling you?"

"No, my Lady, I've not seen Grandmother since I came here."

"And Lestwick?"

"Abram du hang about waiting for I, my Lady, Polly Ransom have told me

that Abram du continually be hanging about the green door, my Lady, but

I doan't go out and so I du never see he."

"I will speak to Mr. Homewood about it and ask him to interview this

Lestwick and tell him to keep away from here, for I will not have you

worried and troubled, Betty. Now run down, child, and tell Sir Harold."

Scarsdale paced up and down in the warm sunlight, waiting, as years ago

he had waited in another garden for the coming of his beloved.

And presently she would come to him, he did not doubt that. He turned

now at the sound of a light step, but it was not she, he knew that--who,

who loves, does not know the step of the beloved one? Is it not

different from all other footfalls in the world, as different as 'her'

voice is different from all other voices. A man usually knows the step

of the woman he loves, but a woman always knows the step of her man.

Scarsdale, turning slowly, knew full well that it was not Kathleen. A

stern, silent man was he, misjudged by many who thought him cold and

even heartless. Men found but little pleasure in his society, women

none, for he had neither heart nor admiration to give them. He had

looked at beautiful women and had failed to see their beauty, because

only one face was beautiful in his sight. But this little maid tripping

to him so demurely in the sunlight was pretty enough to win an

unaccustomed smile to his lips.

What a pretty child she was, a fit handmaiden for Her!

"You want me?" he asked, and his voice was a little more gentle than

usual.

She dropped him a curtsey, "My Lady sent me to say that she would be

here in the garden very soon, sir."

"Thank you." He stood looking at her, at the pretty, downcast face. He

looked after her when she had turned back towards the house. A pretty

little country girl with a sweet voice, he thought, and then, even

before she had whisked out of sight behind a door, he had forgotten her

and his thoughts had gone back to the one to whom they were constant.

She was coming, and when she came what should he say to her? Just as

ten years ago he had watched and waited for her in another garden, his

heart filled with love for her, so he was watching and waiting now and

his love was the same, no--not the same, for, even he, was conscious of

its change. But it was no less, it was even more, it was greater, it

burned with a stronger flame, a greater passion.

And after ten years--did many men love for ten long years, were many men

as constant as he had been? Would not that constancy count for

something with her? Surely, surely it must, for women prized constancy

in a man above all other things.

So the smile still lingered on his lips, as he turned and slowly made

his way along the sun warmed path. What should he say to her when she

came, what had he said to her in the old days when he had poured out his

heart to her? A thousand things, a million things, and yet all were

summed up in three words, "I love you."

He had given her everything, a man's love, a man's constancy. His heart

had not beaten one throb the faster for any woman but her. His eyes had

found no pleasure in looking on any other woman's face. Could man give

more than he had given? What could he ask in return? Everything--and he

knew that he must ask everything of her.

Kathleen was conscious of a trepidation, of a nervousness unusual to

her. A strange shyness had come to her, an unwillingness to meet him;

yet she must and because she must she was here. She had asked

herself--Was he the same, had the years altered him? And she had

answered her own questions with No and Yes: he was not the same, the

years had altered him. She scarcely knew this silent, almost morose

man. He came to her with his tanned, lean face, his deep sombre eyes,

as almost a stranger, just now and again for a fleeting moment she saw

something in his face, heard something in his voice that brought back

memories of the boy she had known and loved. Yet they were but

fleeting.

The ardent, outspoken, honest, loving boy had changed into the quiet,

self-contained man. The man had infinitely more self-control than the

boy. Yet she had seen those eyes of his lighten up, had seen the spark

of fire gleam in them and she knew that it was not the same flame that

had burned so brightly in the boyish eyes.

He met her and looked at her with a smile on his face, but he did not

speak and she spoke because she knew that the silence must be broken.

"I saw you from my window, you have been admiring the--our garden," she

said.

"I do not think that I have given the garden a thought."

"Yet is it not beautiful enough? And to think that a few months ago it

was little more than a jungle and now----"

"It is beautiful, yet I knew another infinitely more beautiful to me

than this. You knew that garden too, Kathleen, our garden at

Bishopsholme, the garden where I used to wait for you, where I first

told you----" his voice quavered and trembled and her eyes, downcast,

dared not lift themselves to his face.

"Where I first told you how I loved you--I have seen that garden in my

dreams a thousand times, I have had cool visions of it in the sweltering

heat of the tropical nights. I have seen it--and you--always you--and

yet my memory never did you justice Kathleen. To-day you are more

beautiful, more sweetly gracious, more lovable----"

"Hush!" she said.

"Why should I be silent when silence would be but pretence? Ten years

ago I loved you with all my heart and soul, for ten years my love has

been constant, my dreams and my memories of you were sweeter to me than

the living realty of other women--I cared nothing for them, my heart was

all yours."

"Harold!" she said. "Harold!" She put her hand on his arm. "The past

is dead and it must lie dead and--and forgotten----"

"Forgotten! You tell me to forget when I have lived on memories, when

the visions of you that my brain has conjured up have been the only

real, the only beautiful things in my life: have I not heard your voice

speaking to me in the stillness of those hot nights, have I not felt

your cool hand on my brow when fever assailed me? You, even though

thousands of miles parted us, were with me always. You were by my side

in daylight and in darkness, my other self, my better, purer, sweeter

self, and now after ten years when all that I had of you, all that I had

in the world was memory of you, you tell me to forget----"

"Because you must," she said softly, "because--oh because you must."

"And did you forget? Could you have forgotten at the word of command?"

he said. His cheeks were flushed under their tan, his eyes were

gleaming and his words came quick and fast. "Could you have forgotten

so easily? No, you too were faithful, you waited, Kathleen. You told

me so yourself. You waited--hoping, dear, did you not, hoping that I

should come back to you as, God willing, I meant always to come back.

You knew as I knew that it was the great love, the one and only love of

our two lives. It came to you, dear, when you were little more than a

child, to me when I was but a boy, but it will last through my life and

yours--yours too, and knowing this, you tell me to forget."

"Listen," she said. "Listen--this is my home, you are my friend, my

husband's guest----"

"Does that matter, does anything in this world matter save that I have

come back to you, that you and I love one another now as we did then and

that after years of separation, years of heart sickness and longing, we

are, thank God, together again. Does anything matter but that? You are

married, you married the man for his money--his father's money--your

father told me this--I am not speaking in anger, dear, nor contempt, I

am only stating what I know to be a fact. You gave him no love, how

could you, when you had none to give, for your heart was always mine."

"Oh hush, hush! Before you say any more, Harold, listen, for you must

listen to me now. My father told you only the truth, I married for

money, for a home, for a future--I had given up hope, I had waited so

long, my youth was passing. I looked ahead, I saw old age and

loneliness and oh--perhaps I was a coward, but I was

afraid--afraid--Perhaps you had forgotten, perhaps you no longer

lived--remember, remember that for ten years I heard no word of you: I

know now that in not writing one word to me you were faithfully keeping

the word of honour that my father forced you to give. Yet I did not

think you had died, Harold, for if you were dead I think--I think I

should have known--you were only a boy, I told myself, and the love of a

boy changes, absence so often means forgetfulness. There are other

women younger and more beautiful than I--No, no, let me speak, I know

now that I was wrong--I know that I was wrong--yet how could I know it

then? I was twenty-eight, twenty-eight and what had I to look forward

to? Nothing! nothing in the world--my father had nothing to give me, I

was useless, I could not work, I knew of no trade--I had been brought up

in idleness, a useless creature--and the future--it meant--starvation,

not merely genteel poverty, it meant worse, it meant----"

"I know, and you married for money--for a home--have I blamed you, have

I shewn anger, Kathleen? No, dear, I pitied you. You married this man

for his money only----"

"Not wholly, I liked him, respected him----"

"Liked him, respected him----" he smiled grimly. "But I had your

heart?"

"Yes----" she said, "then."

"And now--now still now--always!"

"It is not fair, it is cruel, it is unlike you to ask me," she said, "it

is too late to ask me now----"

"It is not too late. Was not your sin against me, against your love

greater when you married him than any you might commit against him now?"

"I am his wife, I have promised to be faithful and true to him."

"You promised to be faithful and true to me; do you remember our parting

at Bishopsholme, you promised then when I held you in my arms, when the

tears were in your dear eyes--you promised always to love me, always to

be faithful and true, all your life long--you promised me then with

tears, beloved."

"And I performed--I waited for ten years. Never passed a day that I did

not waking think of you, that I did not when I lay down to sleep ask

God's blessing on you and then Fate was too strong----"

"It was Fate that brought me here to-day."

"So that we could meet as friends, take one another by the hand and----"

"As friends--you and I----" his voice quivered with scorn and

bitterness--"Friends!"

They had come to the little lake, the pool where stood the stone nymph

and where in the deep green water the great carp swam lazily. She was

remembering how she and Allan had stood here days ago and had spoken of

this little stone maiden.

"Kathleen, true love, love that is loyal and lasting and good and true

is the holiest, the best and most enduring thing in this world, it

stands far, far above a mere ceremony. It is Heavensent. You dare not

sin against that love, dear, for Heaven itself put it in your heart. I

have been faithful all those years, I have loved you. I have dreamed of

you, spoken to you in my thoughts, and now I have come back, I have come

to you for--my reward, Kathleen."

She turned slowly and looked at him, her face had grown white.

"Harold, I do not understand."

"You must, oh you must, you do understand, Kathleen, don't shrink from

me--you see before you the man who loves you better than he loves his

life, better I think, than he loves his soul. Marriage--what is

marriage, such a marriage as yours, a marriage of convenience, a

marriage of accommodation, a marriage tainted by money. Can you set up

such a marriage as yours against my steadfast love? You cannot, you

shall not, Kathleen, you belong to me--you became mine when you gave me

your heart--when you let me hold you in my arms, when my lips first

kissed yours. That--that gave you to me--I ask for my own now and

you--you are my own--I have come for you--I want you, God knows I need

you. I shall never let you go now never, never again in this world!"

She looked at him and saw that which was unfamiliar to her, looked at

him and seemed to see the face of a stranger, of a man she had never

known, that face was flushed, those eyes were bright, his hands

stretched out to her trembled with the passion that moved him.

"What are you asking me?"

"To come with me, to leave all this, for your love's sake, for my love's

sake, to let love rise triumphant above every earthly consideration, I

have come for you, I shall not go without you."

And then she turned from him, she turned to look at the little statue

that had stood there, reflected in the green waters through all those

centuries. The stone maiden who would stand here perhaps when the grave

had closed over her, and looking at the little statue, rather than at

him, she spoke quietly.

"I loved you," she said, "I loved you all those years because I believed

you to be all that I would have had you be. I loved you for your respect

for me, for your honour, your purity and for your reverence. In those

days you never offended me by word or look, I was safe with you as with

a brother--and because I knew that with you, I was so protected, so

safe, so secure, I loved you, I think I worshipped you and so I

remembered you as good and honourable and innocent and true--and--and

now you come back to me----" her voice broke a little, "and I know that

the love I believed in, trusted in so, has degenerated into what is

nothing but a selfish passion. Here under my husband's roof, you hold

out your hand to me, you bid me come, you bid me leave honour, happiness

and peace of heart, you bid me leave self-respect, all--all behind me."

"Kathleen--Kathleen!"

"Had I been free and had you come in rags, a beggar, with nothing in

your hands, had you called to me to go with you--I would have gone

gladly, proudly gone. But you waited, Harold, and you waited too long,

and now you dishonour your love, you trample it into the dust at your

feet. I idealised you and the idol that I set up and which I in my

blindness and foolishness worshipped, is fallen and shattered, broken

beyond repair, and so----" She turned to him for the first time and

held out her hand, "and so we have come to the parting of the ways,

Harold, the last parting. It is good-bye between us, good-bye for

always."

"If your love had been as strong as mine, had lived as mine had lived,

you would not say this to me now."

"It lived till a little while ago, till we came here just now and stood

beside the lake--it lived till then--and then--you killed it, Harold,

you killed it here."

"These are words, mere words!"

"Yet true words, it died here after I had kept it warm, after I had

cherished it in my heart, after I had regarded it as the best, the

sweetest, purest, noblest thing that could ever come into my life, and

here you taught me that I was wrong, you degraded it, you made me see

that it was not the pure and holy thing I had believed it. You shewed

me that it was mean and cruel and selfish. You asked me for--for your

reward, yet did not consider what the cost of that reward must be to me.

You would have made me an outcast, my name a word of shame, you, who ten

years ago never wronged me in word or thought. You would take me from

here into the wilderness, thinking that if I could but hide my face from

others I might find happiness. Did you give a thought to my soul, to my

conscience, where could I have hidden from that?"

He did not answer, he stood looking at her, his brown hands clenched.

Smouldering passion was in his breast, the passion of desire, the

passion of anger. Yet he could be honest with himself and knew that she

was speaking the truth, and had never a word to say in contradiction.

"Just now," she said, "just now you killed my love, you drove it from my

heart--it belonged to the man I thought so fine, so splendid, so noble

and when I found him ignoble, selfish, self-seeking, it died; it had to

die, Harold, and being dead will never live again!" She held out her

hand to him, there was a smile on her white face, a rather pitiful

smile, for only she and her God knew what she had suffered here in this

garden of sunshine.

"We must part here, dear, part--you and I who were lovers, part as

lovers for ever, yet we shall meet again in a few hours, I the hostess,

you my guest and friend. But I part here from the man I once loved and

bidding him good-bye ask that God may bless him always."

"Once!" he said softly. "Once, Kathleen, I once loved? Once?"

"Once!" she said, and bravely looked into his eyes.

Moments of silence passed while he stood looking at her. His face seemed

to have grown older, it was haggard, there were lines of pain upon it.

This place, she knew, would hold for ever a memory of pain and suffering

for her, here she would see his face in memory as she saw it now. Never

would she see these green waters lying motionless under the deep shadows

of the yews, but that into her memory would come his face as she saw it.

now, all haggard and stricken, the face of one who has seen the gate to

happiness opened for an instant and then finds himself shut out in the

darkness and the cold for evermore.

Suddenly he fell to his knees, he lifted the soft and dainty fabric of

her dress and touched it with his lips and then, rising, turned and

strode away, leaving her by the water alone.

*CHAPTER XXVI*

*ON OTHER SHOULDERS*

When he had knelt and kissed the hem of her garment, Scarsdale had meant

it as an act of renunciation, as an acceptance of Kathleen's decision.

He could not hope to fight against it. The truth of what she had said

appealed to him. True he could take her away back to his own little

domain at the farthest end of the earth. He could take her to a place

where no one should know of her and his past. But he could not take her

away from her own thoughts, the upbraiding of her own conscience. His

love for her was a strange mixture of passion and reverence. Sometimes

it was the one that was uppermost, at another time the other. Now it

was reverence, respect for her purity that filled his heart. He put his

passion away, for ever, he told himself. He would go back whence he

came. He would take back with him his dreams and his memories and

nothing else.

To-day was Saturday, his visit here would end on Monday. He would have

ended it to-day, yet he felt that he might appear a coward in her sight

if he ran away, besides, why should he cheat himself of these last few

hours of her? She was nothing to him, never could be anything, but he

could still watch her, still listen to her voice, still garner up in his

brain memories of her on which he would draw presently when he had gone

back to the old lonely, hopeless life.

No, he would not run away.

He found from one of the men servants, old Markabee it was, in which

direction lay the golf course, to which Messrs. Coombe, Cutler and

Jobson had repaired.

"Fower miles it be, fower good miles, sir," said Markabee, "through

Stretton you du go, then turns to the left and----" And so on,

Scarsdale listened to the directions and followed them and an hour later

stood on the course and watched Mr. Coombe making wild and ineffective

swipes at a small ball perched on a mound.

Mr. Coombe, bathed in perspiration, appealed to him.

"Never tried this game before, I haven't," he said, "and don't know as

I'm going to spend sleepless nights before I try it again. I daresay

it's all right for those who like it--play it yourself perhaps, Sir

Harold?"

Scarsdale shook his head. "There's not much golf where I come from," he

said briefly.

"No, too hot I reckon--well for my part, give me a quiet game of bowls.

Innocent mirth I don't find fault with, but I object to making myself a

sort of circus for a lot of grinning urchins, who ought to be at school

or somewhere." He came and stood beside Scarsdale. At any other time

Scarsdale might have avoided Mr. Coombe, to-day he welcomed him. Even

Coombe was a better companion than his own thoughts.

"A decent feller," Coombe thought, "no airs about him, a bit silent, I

don't expect he gets much society where he comes from."

Thereafter Mr. Combe left Cutler and Jobson to their golf and attached

himself to Scarsdale, and for long after the boastful Coombe would tell

in City chop houses how he and his friend Sir Harold Scarsdale played

golf together on Stretton Links.

"Walk," said Coombe, "why of course I'll walk, nothing like walking to

get a man's weight down."

"I gather you don't do much walking, Mr. Coombe."

"Me?" said Coombe. "You should see me, all over the City I am, in one

office out another up and down the stairs."

They lunched, the four of them, at a little Inn, lunched on bread and

cheese and good English ale. Coombe called the pretty little maid who

waited on them his dear. He chucked her under her dimpled chin and

asked her how many sweethearts she had--a gay dog, Mr. Coombe, playful

and ponderous, with no more vice in him than is in an honest British

bulldog.

"Pretty girl," said Coombe; "I always said London wants beating for

pretty girls. You see more pretty girls in ten minutes in the streets

of London than you do in a day's journeying anywhere else. But next to

London comes Sussex, I've seen 'em handsome enough in Kent and passable

in Devonshire, but Sussex girls beat the best. There's a girl at

Homewood, Lady Kathleen's maid I think she is, as pretty as a

picture--Jobson and I saw her last night, didn't we, Jobson?"

Jobson blushed furiously.

"You did call my attention to a young woman, now I come to think of it,

Coombe."

"Call his attention--ha, ha!" roared Coombe. "He didn't want much

attention called, believe me Scarsdale, and mind you she was worth

looking at, the daintiest little bit I've seen for a long while, I can

tell you--neat, trim little body, hair as gold--as gold as that sunlight

yonder, a demure little face, my word--ask Jobson, hey Jobson?"

"The young woman was certainly prepossessing," said Jobson primly, "and

I suppose there's no harm in a man admiring a pretty face and God forbid

because I see a pretty face and admire it that any other--thoughts--any

other ideas--should enter my head--and--and I don't like your manner,

Coombe, it suggests things I do not like--sir, and if you must, have

your joke--as you call it, I would be infinitely obliged to you if you

would find another subject to joke about than myself."

"Bless my soul!" said Coombe. "Bless my soul, Jobson, what are you

going off the deep end for now? I said you saw a pretty girl and

admired her and so did I, begad! I'd be a blind fool if I did not! And

if you think I'm saying one word against you or the girl either, Jobson,

why then--then--hang it then----"

"If you meant no offence, Coombe, then none is taken," said Jobson.

They were good honest fellows, decent, clean minded men and if their

talk was mainly of money and of money getting, what did it matter?

Scarsdale found no fault with them, he even felt a kind of liking for

Mr. Coombe. Coombe was so big, so noisy, so inoffensively vulgar.

"Yes, I say and I ain't ashamed to say, that though I am fifty-nine I

can admire a pretty face. Yes, fifty-nine," Coombe swelled out his

chest and looked around, expecting that someone would question his age,

but no one did. "Though I am fifty-nine, I can still, thank God, admire

the beauties of Nature, whether it's a noble landscape, or a sweeping

view of the sea or--or a woman's face. I wouldn't be fit to be blessed

with my sight if I couldn't admire a pretty face--and that's why, my

dear, I admire you," he added as the little serving maid came in with

more bread and cheese. "And why I hope that some fine young fellow will

come along with his pocket full of money and marry you and make you a

good husband."

"How 'ee du talk, sir!" the little maid said, blushing and curtseying;

"a rare comic gentleman 'ee du be, sir."

"And----" went on Mr. Coombe when the girl had gone out again, "what I

think is the most beautiful thing to see, gentlemen, the finest and

noblest of God's created creatures, is a true bred, real English lady.

It isn't only her looks, it's her sweet graciousness, her kindness and

her friendliness and the dainty way she has of speaking, so's you feel

at home and feel as she likes you and that's she's your friend and would

do you a kindness if she could. There aren't many of 'em about,

leastways it hasn't been my lot to meet 'em--but I've met one

now--and--and"--Mr. Coombe paused, he rose, he held up his tankard,

"Beer isn't good enough nor would the finest champagne ever vinted be

good enough, but it isn't the stuff we drink her health in, it's the

feeling, it's the respect, the admiration we feel, gentlemen, that does

her honour and perhaps does honour to us too. And so I ask you to drink

the health of the finest lady I ever met, the loveliest and best--and I

tell you when I look at Lady Kathleen, it makes me proud to remember I'm

an Englishman!"

"Hear, hear!" said Cutler and Jobson. "If old Homewood were here,

Coombe, he'd love you for that," said Cutler.

Coombe might have been a hundred times more vulgar than he was, louder,

commoner, more boisterous, but Scarsdale from that moment on would never

see any harm in Coombe. A good fellow, an honest man. What mattered it

that he wore white trousers and canvas strapped shoes, a soft felt hat

to the golf course, that he perspired freely and that he bellowed like

the bull of Bashan, what did it all matter? His heart was in the right

place; and so mentally Scarsdale shook Coombe by his jolly big moist

hand and thanked him in his heart for his tribute of reverence and

respect to the One Woman in all Scarsdale's world.

Back to the golf course went Mr. Cutler and Mr. Jobson, each eager to do

"something in so many," so Coombe vaguely understood, but here outside

the Inn on a seat in the sunshine, it was pleasant enough to stay and

Coombe and Scarsdale sat and smoked their pipes and watched the chickens

and the white ducks in the roadway and thought their own thoughts.

"Yes," said Coombe, "if I ever saw a pretty girl, it was that one!

Betty her name is, because I asked her, and she is Lady Kathleen's maid

and all I've got to say is that her ladyship must be the purest and

sweetest soul living or she wouldn't have a lovely young thing like that

in the same house as her own young husband!"

Scarsdale started. "Why--what do you mean, Mr. Coombe? Is Homewood the

type of man who would----"

"Heaven forbid it, there isn't a cleaner, better lad living than Allan

Homewood. But there's a certain prayer as runs--'Lead us not into

temptation,' Sir Harold and knowing what I know----" Mr. Coombe paused.

"And what do you know?"

"I know that Lady Kathleen Homewood is a sweet and lovely young lady,

though how she came to have such a father--at any rate I know there

isn't a finer lady in this land than her, and I know that Allan Homewood

is a lad who if I had had a daughter of my own I'd have liked to have

seen her married to, but for all that it was old Homewood who made the

marriage, his money that did it, and though they like one another and

respect one another, as all the world can see, why--why--do you see, Sir

Harold, it isn't the same as if it had been a love match and they had

married for love, do you take me?"

"I understand you quite well and because it was not a love match----"

"Well, Sir Harold, because Allan ain't in love with Lady Kathleen, it's

just possible, isn't it, he might, I say--might--fall in love with

someone else, as is natural! Young blood, Sir Harold, young blood--you

know. It's natural for a man to seek his own mate and that's why I

don't hold with loveless marriages. Depend on it the man, and very

often the woman too, will find he needs the love his marriage didn't

bring him and he'll look for it, or if he don't look for it, Sir Harold,

why then it may come to him all the same."

"And you think that Mr. Allan Homewood might possibly fall in love with

his wife's little maid, eh?"

"God forbid I should think anything of the kind," said Mr. Coombe. "I

never said it and I don't want to think it, but I do say if I was my

Lady Kathleen's father, which I am not, I'd say to her, 'My dear, that

little maid of yours is too pretty by half, and it would be best that

you got rid of her!'"

"And Lady Kathleen would tell you that she was quite capable of

conducting her own business without interference, Mr. Coombe!"

"Which would serve me right for a meddling, interfering old fool!" said

Mr. Coombe.

He knocked out his pipe and then presently the warm sunshine, the drowsy

hum of the hees hovering about the old straw skeps on their bench in the

little orchard across the road, the good English ale, all had their

effect. Mr. Coombe's heavy head nodded. He jerked himself awake, then

nodded again, and so fell asleep. And Harold Scarsdale, an empty pipe

between his teeth, sat with folded arms and stared before him, seeing

nothing, but thinking deeply and his thoughts were: "After all--after

all might there not even now be some hope for him? Must the years be

all lonely?"

She, God's blessings on her, would not come to him in shame--her

shame--and his, yet might she not come if the burden of shame should

fall on other shoulders?

So Mr. Coombe snored in the pleasant sunshine and Harold Scarsdale

widely awake, dreamed of a future that might even yet be.

*CHAPTER XXVII*

*THE CONQUEROR*

A girl was leaning against the old rose red wall, she was sobbing

pitifully.

"'Ee du be cruel, for--for ever pestering I!" she moaned. "Why doan't

'ee leave me in peace, Abram?"

The man stood stolidly watching her, her tears moved him not at all.

"Every night 'ee du be hanging about here, I know it, for Polly Ransom

told me and getting I a bad name 'ee be!"

"Polly Ransom be a mischief making hussey!" the man said.

"She did but tell I the truth, Abram, for 'ee du be here all hours

watching for I, so I daren't show my face beyond the walls."

"Who should I be watching and waiting for, if it be not 'ee, Betty? 'Ee

be my promised wife, 'ee be!"

"I bain't!" she said. "I bain't, and I du hate 'ee!"

He laughed hoarsely.

"Slow--slow I be, slow o' speech and slow to make up my mind, yet when I

du speak, then the words I hev said be spoken and can never be recalled,

and when I du make up my mind, it be just the same, I never change, I

never alter, I chose 'ee, Betty Hanson, from all other maids! I've set

my heart on 'ee, my maid, and nothing on God's earth'll make me alter,

nothing!"

They were words that might have been spoken with passion, yet he spoke

without passion, with a cool, deadly certainty that frightened the girl

infinitely more than blustering rage. Only his fingers betrayed his

nervousness, they were plucking at each other for lack of something else

to pluck at.

"A patient man I be, wunnerful, terribul patient," he went on slowly.

"Night after night hev I come here, watching this door, knowing full

well that sooner or later 'ee must pass it. Night, after night hev I

gone away and said to myself, 'To-morrer,' and see 'ee've come, just as

I 'lowed 'ee would----" he paused. "When'll the day be, Betty Hanson?"

"The day?"

"The day for our wedding, surely?"

"Never, never," she said, "never!" She clasped her hands over her

heaving breast, "Never, Abram Lestwick! My funeral day will come afore

my marriage day wi' 'ee!"

He nodded his head slowly. He had found a button, a button hanging by a

mere thread; he twisted and tore at it till it came off, then he

fingered the button, rolling it between finger and thumb, passing it

restlessly from one hand to the other till at last he dropped it. He

stooped and fumbled in the dust hunting for it as though it were

something of great account. The girl clasped her face between her two

hands and looked at him, terror in her eyes.

"Abram, Abram!"

He had not found the thing, he straightened himself up, but his yes

still roved the ground.

"Why du 'ee pester I so?"

"I don't pester 'ee, my maid, I but come to look after my own!"

"I bain't your own!"

"'Ee be chose by I, willed to me by your grandmother, so 'ee du belong

to I! and one day I will hev 'ee, Betty Hanson----"

"Never!"

He stood staring at her, forgetting the button. About them was the dusk

of the night. His restless eyes roved up and down the long straight

road, not a soul was there to be seen. And then the slow passion that

sometimes came to him moved him. He had been patient, truly he had said

he was patient, patient and slow, yet as sure as death itself--why

should he wait? He took a step towards her, the girl shrank back, the

green door was behind her, she might have lifted the latch and escaped,

but a strange feeling of impotence, of helplessness was on her, she

could only stare at the man with distended eyes.

"'Ee do belong to I!" he said. And he said it again and then again, and

each time he took a slow step toward her.

"No, no, Abram----" her voice rose shrill with terror, for his arms were

suddenly about her, his hateful hands were on her, she could feel his

hot breath on her cheek.

"Let--let I go, for God's sake--Abram--let I go!"

But he did not answer, he dragged her towards him, her face closer to

his, his breath was on her lips now, his eyes shone brilliantly, their

dull, lifelessness was gone, the madness of his pent-up passion was on

him.

"Let I--let I go--for--for God's sake let I----"

And then the green door behind her opened suddenly, Abram Lestwick

lifted his head, he looked at the newcomer, the man who stood in the

opening of the wall.

The girl was sobbing, struggling pitifully in his grip, yet he never let

her go, he held her tightly, staring at the man, and it seemed waiting

for him to pass.

"Let I go--let I go--for God's mercy, let I go!"

Allan Homewood knew the voice, he knew the shimmer of her gold hair, he

knew that writhing little figure. He put his hand on her arm, he drew

her back, Lestwick released her, yet did not stir.

"She be my promised wife," he said quietly, "my promised wife her be!"

"No, no!" the girl sobbed. "Never have I given him a promise of

mine--never, never! Doan't let--doan't let him touch me! Oh I be

frightened--frightened!"

Allan thrust her back gently. Strangely enough in some ways he and this

other man were alike, alike and yet so vastly different, slow to anger

was each, yet when that anger was aroused, it was deadly and terrible.

It was roused now, that pitiful cry, that white face, those tearful,

terrified eyes, those little clinging hands that were stretched out to

him, craving his protection. What he said he did not know, the words

came hot and furious. He called the other man cur and villain, he

ordered him away, he lifted clenched fists in threatening.

But Abram Lestwick stood staring, like one surprised at the interference

of this man. What right had he, what was it to him? He knew the man,

knew him for Allan Homewood, Esquire, of the gentry, so what right had

he to interfere between a man and his promised wife.

"You hear me, you coward, you hear me? I order you to go and never to

come back; if you torment and threaten this child, I'll thrash you, yes

man, thrash you till I cannot stand over you!"

"And me----" Abram Lestwick said, blinking his eyes at Allan, "me--what

would I be doing?"

There came slowly into his dull mind a dim suspicion. This man was

young, he lived beneath the same roof as Betty, Betty was beautiful, the

most beautiful maid in all Sussex, in all the world! This man had seen

her, admired her, loved her, what man could help it? But she belonged

to him, Abram Lestwick.

"What be that maid to 'ee," he said, "what be her to 'ee?" A dull red

came into his face, his eyes shone evilly.

The girl crouched back against the wall, still clasping her soft cheeks

between her hands. She was watching them, waiting, wondering, conscious

of a thrill of pride--these two men--were going to fight--for her.

She had no fear of the battle to come, and the bloodshed there might be,

she was eager for it. She wanted to see Allan Homewood--Allan kill this

man whom she hated and feared so, rid her of him for ever. Why--why did

not they begin, what were they waiting for? Why this long silence?

"What be her to 'ee?" Lestwick asked again, and then the smouldering

passion burst into flame, foul words, fouler suggestions came to his

lips. He ground his teeth together, he quivered from head to foot. In

his madness and passion he fumbled with those restless hands of his with

his clothing--and Allan misunderstood.

And so the fight began and the girl drew a long shuddering breath and

watched. She saw them strike at one another, saw Abram Lestwick reel,

staggering back with blood on his face, and she exulted, she wanted to

scream her joy and gladness aloud. Oh! this man of hers, this Allan who

belonged to her, whom she loved so madly, so passionately, what a man,

what a man he was, how big and strong and broad, how fine to love a man

like this!

"Kill him, kill him, kill him!" she prayed voicelessly, "Oh kill him!"

They had fought away from the wall, they were near to the middle of the

chalk white road.

In the dim light she could see only Lestwick's face, Allan's broad back

was towards her and Lestwick's face was all blood smeared and his eyes

shone with an unholy light.

"Kill him!" she whispered, "oh kill him!"

She uttered a choking cry of joy, she saw Lestwick fling up his arms and

spin round and then fall, fall crashing into the roadway, she watched

him for a breathless moment as he lay there motionless. Then her breath

came back to her, the blood coursed in her veins again, for the man had

moved, he was rising slowly, painfully, but rising. He stood up, shaken

and unsteady and his face was no sight for a maid to see, but she

rivetted her eyes on it.

"Will you go now? Ah! you damned villain!"

Lestwick's fingers were again busy with his clothes and yet again Allan

misunderstood. He thought the man was fumbling for a knife to draw on

him and so gave him no time.

Another blow staggered Lestwick, but he did not go down, the fury in his

face was an ill thing to see, his teeth were bared and snapping like the

teeth of a mad dog. He tried to close with Allan, disregarding the

blows that fell on him, tried to close and to get those long green teeth

of his into the other man's soft flesh. And the girl knew it and

screamed a warning.

"Mind--mind as he doan't bite 'ee, mind as he doan't bite 'ee. Ah God,

save us, he be mad!" She stooped, she fumbled in the dust, she found

what she sought for, a flint, a jagged, heavy flint. There was hell

fire in Lestwick's eyes, the passionate rage of a maniac. This she saw

as she flung the stone. She flung it straight at that hideous, convulsed

face.

It struck Lestwick on the forehead, it broke the skin and the blood

gushed out. He turned, he looked at her, noting it was her hand that

had flung it. He laughed a curiously strange mocking laugh and then he

collapsed, seemed to crumple before her eyes and fall a limp heap in the

roadway.

"What did you do, Betty, Betty what have you done?"

She was sobbing and laughing at once. "He--he meant to kill 'ee, meant

to--to get they teeth o' his in your throat, Allan, oh I knew it, I knew

it! Did--did 'ee see his face, Allan, did 'ee see his face and his

eyes? And oh they--they hands o' his!"

"Go into the house quietly, say nothing to anyone, bring water quickly,

understand, not a word to a soul, bring water here at once!"

He went down on his knees beside the man, he lifted the sorely battered

head, the hideous blood stained face. Yet it was not hideous now, the

passion was smoothed away, the eyes and mouth were closed.

She was back with the water in but a few seconds.

"Be he dead?"

"No!"

Minutes passed, between them they bathed away the blood, they cleaned

the wound, the jagged wound in his forehead. Allan bound it with his own

white handkerchief and then the man opened his eyes, now they were dull

and brooding. He lifted his hand and passed it across his mouth, as a

man does in sheer nervousness.

"I--I be all right!" he said, and his voice was low and monotonous--"I

be quite all right, a strong man I be--'tis time I were going home----"

"Yes, it's time you went home," Allan said, he ran his hands over the

man's clothing, not yet trusting him, misdoubting Lestwick's strange

passionless calm. He was searching for the knife that twice he had

believed the man would have drawn on him, but there was no knife there.

"What be 'ee looking for?" Lestwick asked.

"Your knife!"

"I bain't got a knife, cruel treacherous, dangerous things knives

be--I'll be getting home----"

Allan helped him to his feet, the man stood dazed, swaying a little,

then he seemed to take hold on himself.

"A very passionate man I be," he said, "terribul wrathful in moments of

anger----" He looked at Allan with that strange sullen expression of

his.

"I beg your pardon if I did say or du anything as I should not--'tis my

anger as du master I--I wish 'ee good night!"

He turned and walked slowly and unsteadily down the road. Betty caught

at Allan's arm, and they stood there, the girl clinging to the man,

watching him go. Once Abram turned his head and looked back, he saw

them there together, the girl and the man, holding to one another, the

dusky red came into his cheek, he breathed hard, then went on his way,

mumbling to himself.

"A knife--he did think I had a knife--what du, I need with a

knife--bain't I got my hands----?" He held them out before him and

looked at them, as the fingers writhed and clenched and unclenched.

"Terribul powerful my hands be, but I did not get them on him--no, not

then, not then----"

Betty had broken down and was sobbing and moaning, clinging to Allan's

arm.

"Betty, hush, hush child, hush dear, he is gone--there is nothing to

fear!"

"But he will come back. Oh, Allan, I did mean to kill he----"

"Hush!" he said again.

"For he meant to kill 'ee and--and Allan he will think about it and

brood about it, and one day he will surely kill 'ee, unless 'ee du watch

he terribul, terribul close, he will kill 'ee!"

He laughed softly. "I am not afraid of him, Betty, hush dear, hush,

don't cry!"

For she was sobbing bitterly and pressing her face against his arm,

clinging to him as in fear, or love, or both.

"Hush!" he said. "Come, come, child, come!" But his hands were

quivering and his heart seemed to be beating faster than usual, "Come!"

he said again.

"Oh Allan, Allan, if he did hurt 'ee, I would want to die!" she moaned.

"For I du; I du love 'ee--oh! I love 'ee terribul, terribul bad, I du!"

"Betty," he said, "hush, you must not! hush! come!" He drew her through

the little arched green door into the yard. He himself was shaking now,

trembling, afraid for her, afraid for himself, for his honour. She said

she loved him and she clung to him, this passionate maiden. What mad

folly it all was, what mad folly, God preserve them all!

"Betty go back, go into the house!" he said.

"No, no, don't let me leave 'ee, Allan, let me bide wi' 'ee for a time!"

He felt her tears on his hand, the hand she had taken and was holding

tight pressed to her face.

"Let me bide wi' 'ee, Allan, Allan, don't 'ee send me away yet!"

She was sobbing unrestrainedly, crying aloud as a child does, and he

feared lest any servant should come into the yard and hearing her, find

them here together. Nor could he send her back into the house for

others to see, all tears and shaken as she was. But stay here he could

not and would not.

"Come," he said, he held her hand tightly, he took her through the

little gateway into the garden. Here at least they would be safe and

secure.

"A--a--cowardly maid I be," she moaned, "oh a coward I be, but I du feel

safe wi' 'ee, Allan, don't--don't leave me! Oh sir, I--I du forget----"

"That does not matter now," he said, "Betty, try and compose yourself.

I understand, you have been frightened, poor child, and upset, but--but

that man will not trouble you again!"

"You doan't know he," she said quietly; "Allan if I--I did think that I

must marry he, I would go and drownd myself in the pond, the pond where

my stone maid be!"

"You are not going to drown yourself, Betty," he said. "You are going to

live for many happy years!"

"How--how can I?"

"There are other men, better men than this poor fellow Lestwick!"

"Oh Allan, du 'ee pity him?"

"Yes, for loving you vainly, child!"

They had taken a roundabout pathway under the dense shadow of the tall

yews and now they had come suddenly on the little lake, from which the

slender white figure rose.

"There her be, there be my stone maid--and one day, one day I will go to

her, I think Allan!"

"Hush!" he said. "If you talk in this way I shall leave you! Betty,

Betty, be brave, brave dear, for your own sake! For--for mine!" his

voice broke a little, he looked down at her, her lovely little face was

upturned to his.

And oh the temptation of that moment, the temptation of those red lips,

those eyes all filled with the soft light of her love, the love that she

felt no shame to admit. His for the taking--his he seemed to know, even

before they had ever met--his in some past life, his now and through all

time--his in the life yet to come.

There came to him suddenly a great, an irresistible desire, a passionate

love of her, the desire to put his arms about her, to hold her to him

tightly, tightly, to crush his lips to hers, and she, he knew, would not

struggle, would not deny him.

And because he was young, because the lifeblood ran hot, in his veins,

because she was so near to him, so alluring, so loving, so beautiful,

God help him, how could he resist?

"Betty, Betty, why do you say you love me?"

"Du 'ee not know, Allan, why I love 'ee?" she said. "Oh you du!" She

put her hands against his breast, she looked up into his face, her eyes

smiled at his, her lips invited. He bent to her, she could feel the

heavy, the wild beating of his heart under her little hands, and there

came to her a sense of joy, of triumph.

A cloud drifted across the moon, it blotted out for a moment that

glowing, inviting little face. It was gone, leaving but an indistinct

shape of whiteness.

His father! his wife!--his old father's pride in him, Kathleen's faith

in him--Was he to prove himself unworthy? Was he to fall at this first

temptation?

"Allan, my Allan!" she said, and her voice came to him, soft as a caress

from out of the darkness. She had thought him won, had believed him

hers, and she was waiting joyously, expectantly for the kiss, the kiss

that never came.

"Allan, my son," he seemed to hear the old voice say, that proud and

tender old voice. "Allan my husband!" Her voice now, calling him back

to a sense of honour, to a sense of duty and right and he heard the

voices, listened to them, heeded them. He pushed the girl away gently.

"Betty, we must go back to the house, child--they will miss me and

wonder, you too, you may be wanted, you have dried your tears--go back,

go back."

"Allan!" she said and her voice was like a cry of pain. He gripped her

little hands and held them tightly, then he let them go.

"Go back!" he said, and his voice was harsh and stern, yet it was the

voice of his better self--the conqueror!

*CHAPTER XXVIII*

*THE WATCHER*

A man seated in the shadows watched them part, for the moon had come out

again, watched them part as he had watched them come, as he had watched

them standing there together on the edge of the pool. To him, the

watcher, it had seemed that the girl was in the man's arms, her face

uplifted to his--he had seen the moonlight on her face and had seen the

dull glimmer of her hair.

And the man--yes, he thought that he made no mistake--about the man! So

Mr. Coombe was right, clever, farseeing, sensible Mr. Coombe--God's

blessings on Mr. Coombe for his few idle words that meant so much to

this man watching here in the shadows.

He did not move. He scarcely breathed, as the girl passed him, alone on

her way to the house. He heard her sobbing softly to herself as she

went, saw the little head bent as in shame.

And to the watcher it seemed that she went in shame and he was

glad--Heaven knew how glad he was!

Yet he must make no mistake, he must not trust to intuition, to mere

suspicion. He must know beyond the shadow of a doubt that this man was

Allan Homewood--'Her' husband.

Scarsdale rose, the man was still standing by the edge of the pool, the

girl had gone some while. Scarsdale walking softly on the turf, skirted

the hedge and came out on the broad flagged pathway. He walked

leisurely towards the pool and seemed to see the other man for the first

time.

"Hello!" he said. "Who is here?"

"I----" Allan turned to him.

"You--oh Homewood, is that you, my host?"

So it was true. He felt a sudden liking for this man, he felt he loved

him for his weakness and his sin, for would not that weakness, that sin

give him that which he wanted most? They talked of the night, of the old

garden, of the sweet soft English country air. Scarsdale spoke of the

damp night heat of that country which had been the prison of his body

and soul.

He was a good talker when he pleased and to-night he wished to please.

He wanted this man's liking--he exerted himself to gain it and yet felt

a deep contempt of himself while he strove.

He spoke of fights with savages, of fights against disease and death, of

perils that made the blood run cold. Yet he did not boast or brag.

Dimly Allan realised that the man who was speaking was the hero of these

adventures, but Scarsdale never said so.

"You were long away from England, Scarsdale?"

"A thousand years!" Scarsdale said, he laughed softly, "according to the

calendar; ten years, to me a thousand! Thank God to be back!" He drew a

deep breath.

"Will you go back again?"

"It depends, I do not know, I may, yet I hope not!"

"Perhaps you have come to seek a wife?"

"Yes!"

"But could you take her to this place of which you have been telling

me?"

"God forbid!"

"So it depends on your success with the lady whether you remain in

England or go back?"

"Yes, it depends on that!"

"You and Kathleen are old friends?"

"I knew her when she was a child, I hoped that she would not have

forgotten me!"

"And she did not, Kathleen would not, she never forgets!"

Strange that Allan should say this, here beside the pool where he and

Kathleen had stood but a few hours ago. "Kathleen never forgets!" The

words sounded to Scarsdale like an ill omen, he shivered a little. Then

he smiled at his own thoughts and his thoughts were--"The shame shall be

this man's, not hers. Her freedom shall come to her without a breath of

scandal to touch her fair name--but she shall be free--and those ten

years of waiting, ten years of constancy, ten years of love must find

their reward----"

They sat down on the stone seat beside the sundial, the stillness and

darkness of the garden about them, the perfume of the flowers in the

air. A place to sit and dream in. Many windows were lighted in the old

house, sending out friendly warm yellow rays of light into the night.

From the house came the distant sound of music, a woman's voice, deep,

rich and beautiful, even more beautiful mellowed by the distance.

She was singing and both men were silent, listening.

Thank God, thank God presently he could go in and take her hand and face

her, look into her eyes, with no memory of guilt and of shame to stand

between them to mar the perfect understanding and the deep friendship

that was so sweet to both of them.

Thank God! Thank God that he had mastered the temptation, the passion

of just now! It had gone utterly. Yet he felt a great tenderness, a

great love for the little maid who would have given herself as she had

given her love to him.

And now Scarsdale was talking, exerting himself to talk in his low,

deep, strong, man's voice. He was trying to win this other man's liking

and friendship, for he had an object in view. On Monday, at the latest

Tuesday, this little house party would break up, they would all go their

separate ways and he wanted to stay, as a few hours ago realising defeat

and failure, he had wanted to go. Now with a new hope in his breast he

wished to remain.

What they talked of mattered little, of everyday things, of

commonplaces, but Scarsdale worked steadily towards the object he had in

view.

"After ten years--I went away a mere boy, I knew but a few people, my

father, who is dead since then, others who have passed out of my life.

I come back to England a stranger among strangers. To me London is a

desert, I walk its streets, looking vainly for a familiar face; I know

no one, no one who passes knows me!"

"But you found Lord Gowerhurst?"

"Yes, he remembered me----"

"You and he were good friends?"

"No, as a boy I disliked him, may I say it to you?"

"But Kathleen and you were friends?"

"A--a boy and girl friendship--she has grown into a sweet and lovely

woman--I shall think of this place, of her, of you and of your

happiness, of the tranquil calm of this when I am back out there

again--even when I am back in that London that I do not know and that

knows me not!"

"Is there haste for you to return to London?"

"Haste--every hour I remain out of it I feel I am gaining something!"

"Then why hurry back?" asked Allan in his hospitable generosity. "Why

go back? Lord Gowerhurst is eager for his Club, his billiards, his

cards, his manservant. My father and his friends have their businesses,

but you--why go back?"

Scarsdale murmured something about imposing himself--Allan laughed.

"Stay and believe me we shall be glad--Kathleen will be glad to hear

that you are staying awhile with us--come, you will stay, eh?"

"It would give me more pleasure than you can know!" Scarsdale said.

Allan laughed, for him there was no double meaning in the other man's

words.

He had gained his point, his host had asked him to remain on

indefinitely, for days, weeks even, there would be no time limit now.

"It is good of you, Homewood--you don't realise how I appreciate it--my

opportunities of seeing home life, such as this, are not many!"

"But the lady you hope to marry?" Allan asked.

Scarsdale rose.

"She is not for me--yet----" he said steadily. "Thank you again,

Homewood, may I tell your wife that you have asked me to remain?"

"She will be as pleased as I am!" Allan said simply.

Scarsdale turned to the house, he left Allan sitting there and Allan

rested his chin on his hands. He was not deeply religious. He had

prayed, as men do, by fits and starts, in moments of anxiety, in moments

of relief and gratitude. But his heart was offering up thanksgiving

now. He had been delivered from temptation. He thanked God for it, for

his own sake and for hers, that child's, for his father's sake, for

Kathleen's.

But temptation might assail him again, would--and he, knowing his own

weakness now, knowing how nearly he had succumbed to it, must do that

thing that even brave men may do and yet still keep their honour. He

must avoid it, he must shun it, even flee from it if necessary--but how?

Betty or he must go and how could he when this was his home, when all

his interests were here? How could he go, how could be explained his

reason for flight? No, it must be she who must go!

"I must think, I must plan, I must consider her, yes, consider her in

every way, but she must go."

*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!"