"I didn't mean anything."
He passed that by.
"Why did you ask my forgiveness?"
She made a sharp gesture of repudiation.
"What was there to forgive?" he insisted.
"I--I am not going to tell you," said Betty, with great distinctness.
Again he overlooked her open defiance.
"You are afraid. Why?"
"I'm not!" said Betty almost fiercely.
"You are afraid," he repeated deliberately, "afraid of my finding
out--something. Betty, look at me!"
Her face was scarlet. She turned it swiftly from him.
"Let me go!"
"Look at me!" he repeated.
She began to pant. She was quivering between his hands like a wild thing
caught. "Major Herne, it isn't fair of you! Let me go!"
"Never, Betty!" He spoke with sudden decision; but all the grimness had
gone from his face. "You may as well give in, for I have you at my
mercy. And I will be merciful if you do, but not otherwise."
"How dare you?" gasped Betty almost inarticulately.
"I dare do many things," said Montague Herne, with a smile that was not
all mirthful. "How long have you left off crying for the moon? Tell me!"
"I won't tell you anything!" protested Betty.
"Yes, you will. I have got to know it. If you will only give in like a
wise woman, you will find it much easier."
His voice held persuasion this time. For a little she made as if she
would continue to resist him; then impulsively she yielded.
"Oh, Monty!" she said, with a sob; and the next moment was in his arms.
He held her close.
"Come!" he said. "You can tell me now."
"I--don't know," whispered Betty, her face hidden. "You--frightened me
by being so ready to go away again. I couldn't help wondering if it had
been just kindness that prompted you to come to me. It--I suppose it
wasn't?" A startled note of interrogation sounded in her voice. She was
trembling still.
"Betty, Betty!" he said.
"Forgive me!" she whispered back, "You see, I couldn't have endured
that, because I--love you. No, wait; I haven't finished. I want you to
know the truth. I've been sacrificing substance to shadow, reality to
dreams, all my life--all my life. But that night--the night I took you
into my confidence--you opened my eyes. I began to see what I was doing.
But I hadn't the courage to tell you so, and it seemed not quite fair to
Bobby so I held my peace.
"I let you go. But I knew--I knew before you went--that even if you
found him, even if you brought him back, even if he cared for me still,
I should have nothing to give him. My feeling for him was just a dream
from which I had awakened. Oh, Monty, I was yours even then; and I kept
it back. That was why I wanted your forgiveness."
Breathlessly she ended, and in silence he heard her out. He was holding
her very closely to him, but his eyes looked beyond her, as though they
searched a far horizon.
"Do you understand?" whispered Betty at last.
He moved, and the look in his eyes changed. It was as if the horizon
narrowed.
"I understand," he said.
She lifted her face, with a gesture half shy, half confiding.
"Are you going to forgive me, Monty? I--I've paid a big price for my
foolishness--bigger than you will ever know. I kept asking
myself--asking myself--whatever I should do if you--if you brought him
back."
"Poor child!" he said. "Poor little Betty!"
She clung to him suddenly.
"Oh, wasn't I an idiot? And yet, somehow, I feel so treacherous.
Monty--Monty, you're sure he is dead?"
"Yes, he is dead," said Herne deliberately.
She drew a deep breath.
"I'm so thankful he never knew!" she said. "I--I don't suppose he really
cared, do you? Not enough to spoil his life?"
"God knows!" said Montague Herne very gravely.
* * * * *
"Hullo!" said Betty's fellow-sportsman, making his appearance some time
later. "Getting on for grub-time, eh? How have you got on? Why, I
thought you came out to fish, and not to talk! Who on earth----"
"My _fiancé_," said Betty quickly.
"Your--Hullo! Why, it's Major Herne! Delighted to see you! Had no idea
you were in this country. Thought you were hunting big game somewhere in
Africa."
"I was," said Herne. "I--had no luck. So I came home."
"Where--presumably--you found it! Congratulations! Betty, I'm pleased!"
"How nice of you!" said Betty.
"Yes, it is rather, all things considered. How ever, I suppose even I
must regard it as a blessing in disguise. Perhaps, when you are
married, you will kindly leave off breaking all our hearts for nothing!"
"Perhaps you will leave off being so foolish as to let them be broken,"
returned Betty, with spirit.
"Ah, perhaps! Not very likely though I fear. Hearts are tender
things--eh, Major Herne? And when someone like Betty comes along there
is sure to be some damage done. It's the penalty we have to pay for
being only human."
"Ah, well, you soon get over it," said Betty quickly.
"How do you know that? I may perhaps, if I'm lucky; but there are
exceptions to every rule. Some of us go on paying the penalty all our
lives."
A moment's silence followed the light words. Betty apparently had
nothing to say.
And then: "And some of us don't even know the meaning of the word!" said
Montague Herne.