"Thank you," he said in a softened voice. "It's kind of you to think of
it. You might have condemned me at once, as not fit to speak to a girl
like you. You are only a girl, aren't you? Your voice sounds very
young."
"Yes, only eighteen--nearly eighteen. But my father is a doctor, so I
am always being brought near to sad things, and sometimes I feel quite
old. I think I could understand if you told me your trouble."
"Suppose it was not so much sorrow as sin? What then? What can you at
eighteen--`nearly eighteen'--know of that? You could not understand if
I did speak."
"Oh yes, I could. I sin myself--often!" cried Betty, with a swift
remembrance of all those little things done or left undone which made
the failure of her home life. "A girl living at home, with a father and
a mother to look after her, has no temptation to any big thing, but it's
just as bad, if she is idle and selfish and ungrateful, and I am all
three together many times over. I'd be too proud to say that to you if
I saw your face and knew your name; but, as I said before, we are only
shadows in a dream to-night. It doesn't matter what we say. Tell me
your trouble, and let me try to understand. It isn't because I am
curious--it isn't really! Do you believe that?"
"Yes," he said instantly, "I do! Poor child, you want to help; but I am
past that. I have ruined my own life and the life of the man who has
been my best friend. I have had my chance--a better chance than is
given to most men--and I have made an utter failure of it. If I--went
on, it would mean starting again from the very beginning, with the
stigma of failure to hinder me at every turn--a hopeless fight."
"But,"--Betty's voice faltered nervously--"isn't it cowardly to run away
just when the fight is hardest? A soldier would be called a traitor if
he did that. And what would come afterwards? Do you believe that you
have a right to take your own life?"
"You mean from a religious point of view. I'm afraid that's out of my
line. I have lost what little faith I had in these last few years. You
believe in it all, of course--it's natural for a girl--but to me the
idea of a personal God is as unreal as a fairy tale. It does not touch
my position."
"But just suppose for a moment that it _were_ true. Suppose He does
exist, and has been longing to help you all this time--what then?" cried
Betty earnestly, and her companion gave a short, derisive laugh.
"It would have been easy enough for Him to have prevented all this
trouble! I can see no help in the story of the last few years.
Everything has gone against me. In the beginning I borrowed some
money--of course, it's a case of money--to help a friend who was in a
tight fix. That was innocent enough. But when the time came round I
could not repay the debt, and in my position it was fatally easy to help
myself to what I needed. I called it just another loan. I was sure of
repaying it before anything was discovered, but again it was impossible,
for there were calls upon me which I had not expected. If I had been
short in my accounts I should have lost my situation, and it was a
handsome one for a man of my age. You won't understand the details, but
I began to speculate, to put off the evil hour, always hoping for a
_coup_ which would put everything right; but it never came. I was not
helped, you see! Things went from bad to worse, until I could go on no
longer. Then in despair I confessed the whole story to my friend--he is
a near relation also, but that is by the way. He would not allow the
family name to be disgraced; he paid up all that was due, and saved me
the shame of prosecution, but even he could do no more. I am sent about
my business--a felon in deed, though not in name. Incidentally, too, he
is ruined. He must give up his house, remove his children to cheap
schools, live in poverty instead of ease. Naturally enough he will have
no more to do with me. There is not a soul on earth who would regret me
if I passed out of being to-night."
There was a long silence while the strangely-matched couple wended their
way slowly along the bisecting roads which lead from Kensington High
Street to Bayswater Road. The fog had slightly lessened by this time,
but it was still too dense to show anything but a dim outline of
passers-by, and the face of the stranger was but a blur against the
darkness to Betty's searching eyes. Her heart was beating rapidly; she
was praying with a whole-hearted earnestness unknown to her usual
morning and evening supplications--praying to be guided to say the right
thing to save this man's soul from despair. At last--
"You say you were not helped," she began timidly; "but if your
speculations had succeeded as you hoped, it might not have been really
good for you. It would have been easier, of course, but if all had gone
smoothly you might have been tempted to do the same thing another time.
Perhaps God knew that, and that there was no way of bringing you back to
Himself except through trouble."
The stranger laughed again--his hard, mirthless little laugh.
"I am afraid I can hardly believe in that theory. I can see no reason
for believing that my doings are the slightest interest to Him, or that
He cares in the least what becomes of me."
"Can't you!" cried Betty eagerly. "Oh, I can! Just think more
carefully, and you will remember many, many things which you have not
stopped to notice at the time. To-night, for instance! Do you think it
chance that I missed my brother, and came to you out of all the hundreds
of people who were around? _I_ don't! I believe God sent me to you
because you would not speak to anyone you knew; because you needed help
so badly--and I need it, too--and we could help each other."
The shadowy head bent nearer to hers, and the arm pressed against her
hand.
"Thank you," said the voice in a softened key; "that is a kind thought!
It is quite true that I could not have spoken as I have done under
ordinary circumstances. When I met you I was going straight for the
nearest water. There are many places where an accident might easily
occur on a night like this. I do not wish to make any scandal, only to
disappear."
Betty drew in her breath sharply. The sound of that one word "water"
gave a definite touch to the situation, and thereby trebly increased its
tragedy, but the gentleness of the voice gave her increased hope, and
she cried eagerly--
"Disappear, yes! I can understand it would be difficult to stay among
the old surroundings, but why not disappear _to come back_ another day,
when you can redeem the past? Suppose you went away to a strange place,
and worked hard, oh, very hard, and denied yourself every possible
thing, so as to save up money. Suppose you succeeded--when people are
terribly in earnest about a thing, they generally _do_ succeed--and in
some years' time could pay off what you owe! That would be braver than
killing yourself, wouldn't it? That would be worth living for. Or if
it took too long to pay it back in your friend's lifetime, he has
children, and you could help them as their father has helped you. That
would be paying back the debt in the way he would like best. Think of
it! They would imagine you dead, or perhaps worse than dead, but they
wouldn't be angry with you any more; people don't go on being angry for
years and years, especially if they are good and kind, as your friends
must be. But some day it might happen that they were in trouble, or
getting old and tired, and feeling it was hard to go on working, and a
letter would come in-- from you--and inside that letter there would be a
cheque, and they would be so happy, and so thankful, and so _helped_!
And they would send for you to come back, and the old trouble would be
wiped away, and they would honour you for your brave fight. Oh, you
will--you _will_! You must do it! Promise, promise that you will!"
Her voice broke into a sob, and something like a faint echo of the sound
came to her ears through the darkness. It seemed the most promising
answer she could have had, in its contrast from the biting self-
possession of a few minutes before. Her heart beat high with hope.
"Is there any place to which you could go? Have you enough money left
to take you there?" she questioned, as if the matter were already
settled, and, consciously or unconsciously, the stranger replied in the
same vein.
"I have an old friend in America; he would help me to a start. I have a
good many possessions left; they would bring in enough to pay the
passage if--"
"No, there is no `if'! Don't let yourself say it! Sell the things to-
morrow, and begin again in a new world, in a new way. Believe that God
_does_ care, and that it is a chance that He has given you, and every
night and every morning, oh, and so often through the day, I shall
remember you, and pray that you may be helped! Sometimes when you feel
lonely you may be glad to know that one person in the Old Country knows
all about you, and is waiting to see the reward of your work. You must
let me know when the success comes. I shall always be waiting; and
remember, this talk is going to do me good too! I have _made_ troubles
for myself because I did not know how well off I was, but now that I
have come so close to the real thing I shall be ashamed to grizzle over
trifles. It _is_ settled, isn't it? You are going on fighting?"
There was a long silence. She could feel rather than see the struggle
in the man's face, but the pressure tightened on her hand, foretelling
that the decision would be what she wished.
"Yes," he said slowly at last. "I promise! An hour ago it seemed as if
there was not a soul in the world who cared whether I lived or died, but
as you say you came to me--in the darkness! You think you were sent.
My old mother would have thought the same. I don't know, I can't tell,
but it may be so, and that gives me courage to try again."