"Now, don't bother any more about me!" commanded Betty Derwent,
establishing herself with an air of finality on the edge of the trout
stream to which she had just suffered herself to be conducted by her
companion. "I am quite capable of baiting my own hook if necessary. You
run along up-stream and have some sport on your own account!"
The companion, a very young college man, looked decidedly blank over
this kindly dismissal. He had been manoeuvring to get Betty all to
himself for days, but, since everybody seemed to want her, it had been
no easy matter. And now, to his disgust, just as he was congratulating
himself upon having gained his end and secured a _tête-à-tête_ that,
with luck, might last for hours, he was coolly told to run along and
amuse himself while she fished in solitude.
"I say, you know," he protested, "that's rather hard lines."
"Don't be absurd!" said Betty. "I came out to catch fish, not to talk.
And you are going to do the same."
"Oh, confound the fish!" said the luckless one.
Nevertheless, he yielded, seeing that it was expected of him, and took
himself off, albeit reluctantly.
Betty watched him go, with a faint smile. He was a nice boy undoubtedly,
but she much preferred him at a distance.
She sat down on the bank above the trout-stream, and took a letter from
her pocket. It had reached her the previous day, and she had already
read it many times. This fact, however, did not deter her from reading
it yet again, her chin upon her hand. It was not a lengthy epistle.
"DEAR BETTY," it said, "I am back from my wanderings, and I
am coming straight to you; but I want you to get this letter
first, in time to stop me, if you feel so inclined. It is
useless for me to attempt to soften what I have to say. I
can only put it briefly, just because I know--too well--what
it will mean to you. Betty, the boy is dead, has been dead
for years. How he died and exactly when, I do not know; but
I have certified the fact of his death beyond all question.
He died at the hands of the Wandis, when his own men, the
Zambas, were defeated. So much I heard from the Wandi Mullah
himself, and more than that I cannot tell you. My dear, that
is the end of your romance, and I know that you will never
weave another. But, that notwithstanding, I am coming--now,
if you will have me--later, if you desire it--to claim you
for myself. Your happiness always has and always will come
first with me, and neither now nor hereafter shall I ever
ask of you more than you are disposed to give.--Ever yours,"
"MONTAGUE HERNE."
Very slowly Betty's eyes travelled over the paper. She read right to the
end, and then suffered her eyes to rest for a long time upon the
signature. Her fishing-rod lay forgotten on the ground beside her. She
seemed to be thinking deeply.
Once, rather suddenly, she moved to look at the watch on her wrist. It
was drawing towards noon. She had sent no message to delay him. Would he
have travelled by the night train? But she dismissed that conjecture as
unlikely. Herne was not a man to do anything headlong. He would give her
ample time. She almost wished--she checked the sigh that rose to her
lips. No, it was better as it was. A man's ardour was different from a
boy's; and she--she was a girl no longer. Her romance was dead.
A slight sound beside her, a footstep on the grass! She turned, looked,
sprang to her feet. The vivid colour rushed up over her face.
"You!" she gasped, almost inarticulately.
He had come by the night train after all.
He came up to her quite quietly, with that leisureliness of gait that
she remembered so well.
"Didn't you expect me?" he said.
She held out a hand that trembled.
"Yes, I--I knew you would come; only, you see, I hardly thought you
would get here so soon."
"But you meant me to come?" he said.
His hand held hers closely, warmly, reassuringly. He looked into her
face.
For a few seconds she evaded the look with a shyness beyond her control;
then resolutely she mastered herself and met his eyes.
"Yes, I meant you to come. I am glad you are back. I--" She broke off
suddenly, gazing at him in consternation. "Monty," she exclaimed, "you
never told me you had been ill!"
He smiled at that, and her agitation began to subside.
"I am well again, Betty," he said.
"Oh, but you don't look it," she protested. "You look--you look as if
you had suffered--horribly. Have you?"
He passed the question by. "At least, I have managed to come back
again," he said, "as I promised."
"I--I am thankful to see you again," she faltered her shyness returning
upon her. "I've been--desperately anxious."
"On my account?" said Herne.