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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 49074
   :PG.Title: The Garden of Memories
   :PG.Released: 2015-05-29
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Henry St. John Cooper
   :DC.Title: The Garden of Memories
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1921
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE GARDEN OF MEMORIES
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      THE GARDEN OF
      MEMORIES

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      BY

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      HENRY ST. JOHN COOPER

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      AUTHOR OF "SUNNY DUCROW," "JAMES BEVANWOOD,
      BARONET," ETC.

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      TORONTO
      THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY
      LIMITED

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      COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1921.

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      MUSSON
      ALL CANADIAN PRODUCTION

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   CONTENTS

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`PROLOGUE`_

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CHAPTER

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I  `In the Garden of Dreams`_
II  `A Marriage Has Been Arranged`_
III  `A Desirable Family Mansion`_
IV  `How Allan Came to the Garden`_
V  `In Which Allan Buys the Manor House`_
VI  `"I Hate Him—Hate Him I Du!"`_
VII  `"How Wonderful—the Way of Things"`_
VIII  `"Kathleen—Do You Remember?"`_
IX  `How Sir Josiah Opened His Purse`_
X  `Confidences`_
XI  `In Which Sir Josiah Proves Himself a Gentleman`_
XII  `The Hands of Abram Lestwick`_
XIII  `The Homecoming`_
XIV  `"His Son's Wife"`_
XV  `"Will You Take This Man?"`_
XVI  `"My Lady Merciful"`_
XVII  `Harold Scarsdale Returns`_
XVIII  `In the Dawn`_
XIX  `The Dream Maiden`_
XX  `The Road to Homewood`_
XXI  `After Ten Years`_
XXII  `Mr. Coombe Wears a White Tie`_
XXIII  `"I Belong to Thee"`_
XXIV  `In Which Lord Gowerhurst Rises Early`_
XXV  `Beside the Lake`_
XXVI  `On Other Shoulders`_
XXVII  `The Conqueror`_
XXVIII  `The Watcher`_
XXIX  `Why Abram Lestwick Stayed from Church`_
XXX  `The Religion of Sir Josiah`_
XXXI  `"A Very Worthy Man"`_
XXXII  `The Awakening`_
XXXIII  `By the Lake`_
XXXIV  `The Going of Betty`_
XXXV  `"I Shall Return"`_





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.. _`PROLOGUE`:

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   THE GARDEN OF
   MEMORIES

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   PROLOGUE

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From the house a broad white stone path runs to the
very heart of the garden and there opens out into a
wide circle in the middle of which is set a sundial, and here
too are placed some great benches of the same white stone;
where, when the heat of the sun is not too great, it is
pleasant enough to sit and watch the glory of the flowers.

They are wealthy folk, the Elmacotts, and they love their
garden and pride themselves on it and hold that in all
Sussex no soil can produce finer flowers and sweeter fruit, and
though in this year of grace seventeen hundred and three
the house, which is the Manor House of the Parish of Homewood,
has no great antiquity, being scarce more than sixty
years old, it has about it that completeness, those niceties of
detail, the neatness and the order and the well being that
are found only in the home which is ruled by a house-proud
mistress.

And Madame Elmacott is proud of her house, proud of her
garden, proud of the flowers that grow in it and above all
proud of her stalwart sons, Master Nat and Master Dick,
who are at this time with his Grace of Marlborough in
Flanders, fighting their country's battles.

To-day the sun shines on the garden and the flowers
stir gently, swaying in the light breeze that also lifts the
white dimity at the open windows of the house, whence comes
the sweet tinkling of a spinet, the keys of which are touched
by the skilled white fingers of Mistress Phyllis Elmacott.

The tall hollyhocks that cast wavering blue shadows on
the white stone pathway nod to one another in the breeze,
nod, it seems, knowingly, for from the pathway one may
see into the pleasant room where the spinet and its fair
player are and seeing these may also see the handsome figure
of the Captain, who leans upon the spinet, the better to see
into those bright eyes that have brought him home to
England and Sussex from across the seas, though at this time
in the service of his Grace the Captain General there is
much to be done and much to be won.

He has but waited to see and share in the victory of
Donauwort and then has come hastening home on the wings
of love and with the merry peal of marriage bells a-ringing
in his ears.

But it is not of these, not of the dashing Captain in his
red coat and fair-haired Mistress Elmacott, who thinks
him the most perfect and wonderful, as well as the
bravest and handsomest of all created beings.  It is of the
garden and of a lad who sits on the grassy bank at the edge
of the lake and watches with eyes, that yet seem scarcely to
see, the slim white figure of a maiden wrought of stone.
She stands up from the green waters, in the center of the
lake and on her sun-kissed shoulder she holds a pitcher, from
which the glittering water is flung aloft into, the air to fall
with a pleasant tinkling, back into the green pool beneath.

And so silent, so motionless does he sit here, that the
swallows that now and again skim the water, the dragon flies
in all the glory of their green and crimson, and blue sheen that
dart hither and thither take no heed of him, no more heed
than if he too were of senseless stone.

In all the colour, in all the glory of the garden, he is the
sombre, the one sombre note.  His clothes are drab, his shoes
are stout and thick and ungainly and clasped with great brass
buckles.  His hands are the hands of a man who toils for his
living, rough and hardened by spade and hoe and rake and
scythe, and stained by the good earth of the garden.  His eyes
that stare so unceasingly on that white stone figure are blue,
his face is lean and tanned, his neck too is tanned deeply to
the very shoulders where the coarse shirt falls open.

Straight and strong and courageous he is.  Has he not
listened with bated breath and with quick beating heart to the
brave stories told in the bar parlour of the "Fighting Cocks"
in Stretton.  Cross?  Has he not watched the Serjeant who
has told these thrilling tales, of every one of which, who
should be the hero but the Serjeant himself, in his fine red
coat and his crossed belts and his tall hat, that makes him,
fine man that he is, seem almost a giant?

He has done well here in Stretton and Homewood and at
Bush Corner and in all those other quiet places, has the
Serjeant.  There are at least a score of fine young Sussex
lads, even at this very moment on their way to Harwich,
en route for Flanders and glory, who have been wheedled
from field and wood and garden and alehouse and stable
by the Serjeant's persuasive tongue, his jolly laugh and his
generous hand.

And Allan Pringle, sitting here by the green pool, clasping
his strong brown chin with his hands, knows that he too
would have been of that score, but for one reason—one
reason that now, alas, is no more!

It is the first grief he has ever known and it is a bitter
one, for what more bitter sorrow can youth feel than for
wasted hopes, for broken faith, for misplaced love?

Only Betty and his love for her, only the happiness that
she had promised should one day be his, had deafened him
to the persuasive eloquence of the Serjeant.

But it is not too late now, others will hearken to the
Serjeant and set off for Harwich and he will be among the
next.  Yes, he will be among the next to go, and pray God
that he may never return!

He does not hear a light step on the long stone pathway,
for it is scarce heavier than a bird might make.  From the
house a little maid comes hurrying.  Now she stands
hesitatingly and looks about her, her finger on her lips, as one
a little fearful, a little anxious.  Again and yet again, she
pauses, as she looks about her, then comes to where beyond
the great hedge of clipped yew trees the green waters of
the pool reflect the golden, sunshine.

And now she sees him and stands watching, a tender smile
on her lips.  A dainty slip of a maiden is she, with hair
that gleams gold under her cap, the soft rounded arms are
bare to the dimpled elbows, save for the thin black lace
mittens, through which her white skin shines.

Though he, the silent, solitary figure sitting beside the
pool is but ten paces from her, yet she hesitates, half a
score of times, making a timorous step and then pausing
before the next, her blue eyes filled, now with mischief and
love and now clouded by some fear.  And then suddenly she
makes a brave little run to him and drops lightly on her knees
behind him and lifts her hands and clasps them over his
eyes.

"And you—you would leave your Betty?  Oh, Allan,
you would leave your Betty who loves you and go away to
the cruel wars?" she sobs.

He has taken her hands, has taken them strongly in his
hold and holding them yet, he turns to her.  "Why did you
come, why did you come to me, Betty?"

"Because," and the blue eyes are lifted to his filled with
an innocence and candour that even he, jealous and despairing
though he is, cannot but recognise, "because I do love thee
so and cannot let thee go!"

"And why, loving me, Betty, do you suffer the kisses
of such a man as Timothy Burnand, a rascally tinker and a
thieving poacher, a man whose hand I would not have touch
thee, Betty?"

Into her face there flames a great flush, a look of anger,
then it dies out and the laughter comes rippling to her lips
and into her eyes come back the mischief and the love and
a little pride too, for she realises that he is jealous of her,
this man she loves and though jealousy be a sin, yet it is
not without its sweetness, too, for say what the wiseacres
may, jealously is oftentimes a proof of love.

"And you saw—" she cries, "Allan, you—saw—ugh!"  She
makes a little gesture, a little grimace.  "Did you think
that I invited, that I welcomed him?  Did you think that
I bore his kiss with patience?  Go and seek him now and
look for the red mark upon his face!  He came on me
unawares and then all suddenly—" she pauses.  "Allan," she
says pleadingly, "Allan, you will not go, you will not go,
my dear, you will not go and leave me?"  And sobbing she
is in his arms.  And so for Allan Pringle the sun shines out
again and the flowers are blooming brightly and the little
slim maiden of stone from the centre of the pool seems to
throw the glittering water higher and yet higher into the
air as though in joy that all is well between these two, who
hold one another so tightly, who are mingling their tears
and their laughter and their kisses, now that the cloud has
passed.

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There are no flowers in the garden now, for the garden
of Homewood Manor and all the world beside lies under
a pall of white, for the winter is here, the winter of
seventeen hundred and five, which is remembered by all men as
a winter of bitter cold, of great frosts and heavy snows.

In a tiny cottage that stands a bare quarter of a mile
on the Stretton Road from the Homewood gates, a man is
on his knees beside a bed.

And that bed holds all his world, all that the world can
give him, all that makes life sweet, and his heart is black
and bitter with suffering and despair and cries out against
God that he, who was rich only in her and in her love, must
lose her now, must spend the rest of his days solitary, and
heartbroken.

His eyes are on the sweet white face, on those lips once
so red and now so pale, but which even yet have a smile for
him, a smile of wonderful tenderness and undying love.
He takes no heed of the fretful cry that comes from the
cradle, for there is no other in all his world now, but her,
she who is so soon to leave him.

"Betty, my Betty, I cannot let thee go!  Oh, remember,
Betty, once when I would have left thee, you called me back
and I came.  I am calling, calling to you now, my life, my
sweet, I cannot let you go!  Stay with me, stay with me,
for you are all my life and the world is black without you;
stay with me!"

She would lift her thin little hand to caress, to touch his
face, but the strength is not hers to do it.

"Allan, take me, hold me in your arms, hold me tightly,
my dear, hold me tightly," she says.

And he puts his strong arms about her.  God pity him,
how light she is, how small, how fragile a thing this, that
death is taking from him!

His very soul is in rebellion against fate, he is mad with
the suffering, mad with his impotence.  He can do nothing
save watch her die, watch her fade out of his life; and it
must be soon "A matter of hours," the doctor from Stretton
had said and that was long ago and now, now it is but a
matter of minutes.

"Allan, I wanted, always, to die like this, with your arms
about me, your dear eyes the last of earth that I shall
see—ah!  Allan, it is now——"

"Betty, Betty, I am calling, calling to you, come back,
beloved, come back!"

And then he knows that it is useless, she is leaving him,
slipping away, no matter how tightly he may hold her.  It
is good-bye, their last good-bye and the sad word comes
perhaps unconsciously to his lips.

And then, is it fancy?  Is it some trick of his tortured
brain?  For as he watches, the dear lips move and it seems
to him that the message they whisper to him with her dying
breath is this: "It is not good-bye!"

He is holding her against his breast, he is kissing those
lips that for the first time give not back kiss for kiss.  He
is calling to her from his aching, breaking heart, but she
has passed beyond the sound of his voice, though the smile
on her dead lips is still for him.

And those last words, were they real?  Did they pass
her lips with her dying breath, were they meant for him in
pity and compassion and love?

"It is not good-bye!"





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.. _`IN THE GARDEN OF DREAMS`:

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   CHAPTER I


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   IN THE GARDEN OF DREAMS

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A girl, a slip of a maid with sunny hair and wonderful
blue eyes, stood beside a crumbling old rose-red brick
wall.  She looked up the long country road and she looked
down it, there was no one, not a soul in sight.  So she thrust
the too of one small and broken boot into a crevice of the
wall, made a little spring and caught at the top, then dragged
herself up till she sat, flushed and triumphant, on the coping.

She was a village girl and her dress was of print, well
washed, well mended, skimpy, too, for her slight figure,
slender though it was, for it had been hers for three years,
and a dress that is originally made for a maiden of fourteen
is apt to be small when worn by a maid of seventeen.

It was a demure and a very sweet face, the eyes big and
strangely dreamy, the white skin of her face and neck
powdered lightly with tiny golden freckles, her hair a deep
red gold.

And wonderful hair it was, wonderfully untidy, too, so
rebellious that it spurned all hairpins and fretted and
struggled agains ribbons and tapes.

So now, she sat on top of the old rose red wall and looked
down on the other side and saw a green tangle of brambles
and grass and other things that grew rankly and luxuriously
in that deserted place.

It was easier to descend the wall than to climb it, for
here was a friendly tree that held out an inviting branch.
Sho seized it, with small brown hands and lightly swung
herself to the ground and then drew a sigh of relief and
pleasure.

It was forbidden ground!  Were there not many notices
that announced the fact that "Trespassers Would Be
Prosecuted"?  But she cared nothing for these, the notice that
she dreaded most of all was "This Desirable Historical
Family Mansion, with Seven Hundred and Fifty Acres of Land,
to be Sold."

How she dreaded lest one day someone should come and
see and covet this place and buy it and so shut her out
forever from its delights and its pleasures.  But that someone
had not come yet.

So she made her way through the tangle of the growth,
and came presently to a great garden, a wonderful garden
once, but now a weed-grown place of desolation.

Always this garden attracted her; to-day it brought a
soft, tender light into her eyes as she stood with clasped
hands and looked at it!  She could see the old broken
stone-paved pathway that led through the heart of the garden.
She knew where that stone pathway opened out into a great
circle in the midst of which was set a sundial, a sundial of
stone chipped and green and the gnomon of the dial rusted
away so that never again should its shadow fall upon the
dial and mark the passing of the brighter hours.  And about
this circle, she knew, were old stone seats, green now like
the pedestal of the dial and through the crevices of the
paving grew and flourished and blossomed foxglove and
dandelion, hollyhock and groundsell.

It had been a very, very beautiful garden long years ago,
when ladies had tapped up and down the stone pathway
in their little red-heeled shoes.  Ladies who wore wide
flounced skirts and powdered hair and cunning little patches
on their fair cheeks.  The garden with its roses, with its
stately hollyhocks, its cloves and sweet-williams, its
rosemary and lavender and all the sweet things that grow in
English gardens, must have been a very lovely and perfect
place then.  But to this little maid with the dreamy eyes,
it was a very wonderful place now.  There was no other
place like it in all the world; she had come here by
sunshine and by moonlight, for sometimes in the night the
garden had seemed to call to her and she had risen from
her bed under the thatched roof of her old grandmother's
cottage and had come stealing here to watch it, all bathed
in the silver light of the moon.  Perhaps she loved it best by
moonlight, for then strange dreams seemed to come to her,
dreams that never came when the sun was shining.

It seemed as if some kindly gentle hand touched lightly
on the chords of memory, and then—the weeds and the
tall rank grass, the decay of the present, the rioting growth,
all were gone and she saw the old garden as it had once been,
and she saw folk, strangely dressed folk, whom never in her
life could she have met.  These came and went, men with
strange affected antics and gestures, gestures she might have
smiled at, yet never did, and sweet, gracious ladies who
moved with stately dignity through the old garden.

But always there was one, a young man whose clothes
were plain and lacking all the finery that made the others
seem so grand.  She knew him for a servant, for one who
worked in the garden, for often she would see him stooping
over some trim bed, or with keen scythe sweeping the short
grass.

They were dreams, only dreams that the old garden seemed
to bring to her, when she came when the world was sleeping.
Dreams, and yet she seemed to be so curiously awake.

But she never spoke of the old garden to the others, or told
of the things that she saw here.  Yet they knew she came,
her grandmother rated her, "One day, my maid, caught
ee'll be," she said, "and then summoned very likely for
trespassing!"

But the Law had no terrors for her, so she came whenever
the garden seemed to be calling to her and the high rank
grass brushed her thin cotton skirt and wetted the coarse
stocking that clad her slim ankle.

For an hour she wandered about the garden, she stood
by the sundial and watched the line of the path-way, sadly
encroached on now by the weeds and the self-seeded flowers.
A tall yew hedge, once clipped into fantastic shapes, but
now reclaimed by Nature, shut out what had once been the
rose garden, all weed grown now and the roses gone.  And
beyond the rose garden, the lake in which the great carp
swam lazily and over which the birds skimmed!  From the
lake's centre rose a figure in stone, sadly battered and marred,
the figure of a slim girl, a girl that might have been,
herself, changed into stone.

She often came to look at this figure rising from the centre
of the lake.  It held a vase poised on its shoulder, once a
fountain had been flung high into the air from this vase, but
the fountain had been dead long ago.  To-day a rook sat
perched on one stone shoulder, but flew away when the living
girl came down to the brink.

She had a feeling for this stone maiden, all so lonely in
the midst of the desolation.  She never came into the garden
without coming to the edge of the lake and nodding her little
head to the figure who never nodded back.

And so, for an hour she wandered about the garden.  She
picked none of the flowers that grew so freely here, for she
would not dare take them back, mute tale tellers that they
would be.  So, empty handed as she came, she presently made
her way back to the old wall and seeing that no one was
in sight, gained the road and went on to the cottage in the
village.

Her grandmother was leaning over the gate, an old woman
with the face of a russet apple that has been kept till it has
wrinkled and mellowed.

"So there you be, Betty Hanson, and seeing the way
you hev come it be useless and idle it be, for me to ask you
where hev you been tu!"

The girl did not answer.

"You've been in that garden again, spite o' all I du say.
Betty Hanson, it hev got to cease, my maid, and cease it
will now!"

"Why?" the girl said and there was a frightened look in
her eyes.

"Why? for I hev been talking to Mr. Dalabey and he
du tell me that there be several parties after the old house,
and one rich American he very likely to buy it and if he
du, then there be an end to all your philanderings in that
there disgraceful old garden, my maid!"

"Buy it!  Buy it!"  She looked at her grandmother and
in the blue eyes there was a look of actual fear.  "'Ee don't
mean as—as anyone be going to buy—buy it?"  She
whispered, "'ee be only saying it!"

"A rich American!"  The old woman nodded her head,
"and going to buy it, he be, and a dratted good job, too!"
she added.  "Look at your frock now, what a sight it be!"

But she did not look at her frock, her face had gone very
pitifully white.  She lifted her little brown hands and laid
them against her breast and went into the cottage with
tragedy and misery in her blue eyes.

"And a dratted good job, too," the old woman said again.





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.. _`A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED

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"My dear child, if I were to say that we had arrived
at our last shilling, such a statement would not be
quite true, for we had reached that unpleasant position some
months ago, and I fear that it is on other people's shillings
that we are existing at the present moment.  Not only is our
financial position unsatisfactory, to say the least of it, but,
and forgive me for speaking of it, Kathleen, the years are
passing and five years ago—well, dear one, you were five
years younger than you are to-day!"

"Father, if you think that you can goad me——"

"I never goad, it would be too fatiguing!  Besides,
Kathleen, as my daughter and a Stanwys, you are not a
fool—the Stanwys——"

"Oh, please do not tell me about the Stanwys, father," she
said bitterly.

"Would you rather that I spoke about the Homewoods?
There is the father, Sir Josiah——"

"Common and vulgar!" the girl said with a note of
contempt in her voice.

"But the son—he at least is presentable, have we not
agreed that the son is not so bad, and the position——"

"I know of the position; do you think I can forget it for
even a moment?"

She rose and went to the window and stared out into the
dull London Square.

She was twenty-eight.  It is not a great age, yet at
twenty-eight the first sweet freshness
of youth is on the wane—a
woman of twenty-eight realises that she is no longer a girl,
her girlhood is behind her.  Sometimes she is terribly
conscious of it.  It is a little tragedy to be eight and twenty,
unmarried and unsought.  Kathleen Stanwys at twenty-eight
was unmarried, nor was she engaged.  Society was a little
puzzled by the fact, for she was unusually and exceedingly
handsome.  She had been a very lovely girl and she was now
a radiantly beautiful woman.

Seven years ago she had outshone all rival beauties in the
great world of Fashion, but she had made no bid for
popularity.  She shrank from anything of the nature of
publicity and cheap advertisement; rarely if ever had her
photograph appeared in the press.  She wrapped herself in a
mantle of reserve.  Ever conscious of the poverty which she
was never permitted to forget she had earned the reputation
of being cold and haughty and proud.  Admirers she had
never lacked, but suitors had been few and shy!  Young
men, well provided with money, had a wholesome fear of
Lord Gowerhurst, her father, for he was a very finished
specimen of his type.

Smooth tongued, with a charming and plausible manner,
cynical, handsome as all the Stanwys are and have been, an
accomplished gambler, too accomplished, perhaps his enemies,
and he had many, whispered.  He was utterly selfish, utterly
pitiless.  He had never been known to spare a man or a
woman either.  Woe to him or to her who fell into his toils.
With what fine courtesy, with what charm of manner would
he relieve some luckless victim, of his last shilling!  How
sweetly and sympathetically he would speak of his victims'
ill fortune, would suggest some future "revenge," and then
pocket his winnings with a grace that could have brought
but little comfort to the poor wretch whose possessions had
passed out of his own into the keeping of this courtly,
delightful, aristocratic gentleman.

So, young men well endowed with money, having a wholesome
fear of His Lordship, avoided his Lordship's beautiful
daughter, and young men without money were of course
not to be considered for a moment.

Therefore, at twenty-eight, Kathleen, unappropriated, and
a very beautiful woman, stood staring out of the window this
fine May morning, into the dull London Square.

My Lord, slender, dressed with exquisite care, was of a
tallness and slimness that permitted his tailor to do justice
and honour to his craft.  Few men could wear their clothes
with such perfect grace as his Lordship.  His tailor, long
suffering man, groaned at the length of the unpaid bill, but
realised that as a walking advertisement Lord Gowerhurst
was an asset to his business not to be despised.  So the
lengthy bill grew longer and more formidable, but youngsters,
fresh to town, admiring his Lordship's appearance prodigiously,
made it their business to discover who was his Lordship's
tailor and Mr. Darbey, of Dover Street, saw to it
that Lord Gowerhurst never went shabby and possibly,
cunning man, made those who could and would pay, contribute
unconsciously to the upkeep of Lord Gowerhurst's external
appearance.

He came of a handsome family, the women of which had
been toasts in many reigns and through many generations.
His forehead was broad and high, crowned by silver hair
that curled crisply, his nose was of the type of the eagle's
beak, his hands white, well kept, reminiscent of the eagle's
claws, a moustache of jetty blackness in admirable contrast
to his silvered hair, shaded and beneficently concealed a
thin-lipped, hard and somewhat cruel mouth.

My Lord rolled a cigar between his delicate fingers.  It
was an excellent cigar; years ago Julius Dix and Company
had acquired the habit of supplying Lord Gowerhurst with
cigars on credit and bad habits are difficult to eradicate.
But then his Lordship sent wealthy customers to the quiet
but extremely expensive little shop near the Haymarket.

"Our position, Kathleen, is irksome," he said softly,
"deucedly irksome.  Now and again I have little windfalls,
but alas—they grow fewer and farther between as time goes
on—at the moment I haven't a bob, you, dear, have not a
bob—" he paused and laughed softly.  "It recalls the French
exercise of my youth.  I have not a bob, thou hast not a bob,
he has not a bob—" he waved the cigar.  "Anyhow, that
is the position, and then some kindly breeze of Heaven wafts
that stout, prosperous, opulent craft the "Sir Josiah
Homewood" on to the horizon of our "sea of troubles," as
Shakespeare so aptly puts it!"

He paused, he looked at the slender, upright, girlish back
of his daughter.

"So," he went on, "this large, stout, prosperous and richly
freighted cargo boat, the Sir Josiah Homewood, rises on
the horizon of our eventful lives and——"

"Oh, please," the girl said with a note of impatience in
her voice, "leave out all that; I wish to understand
exactly—exactly what you propose——"

"Not what I propose, but what Homewood proposes.
Really, I rather admire the fellow's presumption.  As you
know, he has a son, a lad not altogether displeasing, who
fortunately but little resembles his father, a fact you may
have noticed, Kathleen.  Indeed, I might almost say the
young fellow is not without his good points; he is prepossessing,
a little shy and silent, in which he does not resemble
his father.  He is well educated, he has Eton and Oxford
behind him.  By the way, what a time he must have had at
Eton, if his parentage ever leaked out, poor devil—however,
there it is, the lad is at least presentable—but the father
is——"

"Terrible!" the girl said with a shudder.

"Too true, yet it is not proposed you should marry the
father.  We need money.  You, child, need money, and
what is more, a prospect, a future.  You have nothing and
the outlook is not cheering."

"The outlook is hopeless; I have nothing in the world,
our family was always hopelessly impoverished, still the little
we once had——"  Kathleen paused.

"Recriminations, my love, are useless!" his Lordship said.

"There was very little and now that little hath taken
unto itself wings and has flown away——"  He stroked his
long drooping moustache with his slender hand.  "So it
behoves us to make our arrangements for the future.  Sir
Josiah and I have discussed everything."

"You mean myself, you have arranged the deeds of sale,
I suppose, how much am I worth?"

"Your value is inestimable.  Sir Josiah, worthy Baronet,
more daring than I, puts it down in actual figures—" he
paused.  "I made a note of them.  He advances me—"  He
took some papers from his pocket, "the sum of twelve
thousand pounds—advances, mind you, Kathleen, a kindly loan,
which I shall, no doubt, find useful——"

"That is your part of the payment," she said bitterly,
"go on!"

"He buys a fine house, an estate, he settles it on his son;
by the way the lad's name is Allan."

"I know," she said, "go on."

"He settles a fine estate on this Allan, with an income of
eight thousand a year, not so bad, eh?"

"And this is all conditional——"

"On your marrying the said Allan Homewood.  I think,"
he said, as he rose from his breakfast table, "I have on the
whole not done so badly for you!"

"And yourself," she said; "not so badly!"  She smiled
bitterly, then shrugged her shapely shoulders.  "Very well,
I suppose it is only left for me to say thank you very much
indeed!"

"Quite so.  The alternative, dear child, is this"—his
lordship waved his hand—"an elderly unmarried lady
residing in, say, a Brighton Boarding House, her face bearing
some evidence of a past but long since faded beauty, her
title, if she is foolish enough to make use of it, subjecting
her to some little annoyance, mingled with a certain amount
of servile respect.  Not a pretty picture, my love, but a very
true one."

"And the alternative is to marry Mr. Allan Homewood?"

"A pleasant alternative, and its acceptance never for a
moment in doubt, eh?"

"Never for a moment in doubt," she repeated.

"Then it only remains for me to say Heaven bless you,
my child, and to send a wire of acceptance to Sir Josiah.
No, on second thought, I'll telephone him from the Club."  He
paused for a moment to arrange his necktie before the
glass over the mantel, then went to the door.  At the door.
he stood and looked at her for a moment, then went out, a
satisfied smile on his thin aristocratic face.

The girl stood there by the window for a long time.  She
was thinking.  She had much to think about.  She was
twenty-eight and a beautiful woman of twenty-eight has no
doubt many memories.

Presently she sighed and turned away from the window.  A
fine place and eight thousand a year and more when Josiah
Homewood was laid with his fathers.  Well! things might
be worse, and the lad himself, she liked him.  He was younger
than she was by four years, but what did that matter?

She had seen him once or twice, had liked him vaguely,
there was little to dislike about him.  He was not handsome,
she was glad of that, she hated handsome men, nor was he
plain.  Again she was glad; she disliked anything that was
ugly.  He was also, despite his parentage, a gentleman.  She
liked him for that most of all.

"If he had been vulgar like his father, three times the
money would not have been enough," she said to herself.

Still, there were memories, memories that rose up out of
the past, the memory of a face, of eager, ardent, worshipping
eyes, of a lame, halting speech, words disjointed and broken,
eager, pleading, yet hopeless words.  "I love you, oh!  I
love you; don't turn from me.  I know I am not worthy,
Kathleen, but I love you so!"

She laughed suddenly, she felt ashamed and annoyed to
realise that there were tears on her lashes and on her cheeks.

"Folly!" she said aloud.  "Folly, and it's all dead and
gone ten, years ago, ten years—" she laughed, "a lifetime!
He's married to someone else; if he's sensible, he will have
married someone with money, for he had none, poor fellow!"

Meanwhile at the Club, where the better part of his day
and practically the whole of his night was spent, Lord
Gowerhurst had looked up a telephone number and was putting
a call through.

"Homewood—yes, Sir Josiah Homewood, is he in?  Yes,
I do, Gowerhurst—Lord Gowerhurst—You'll put him
through—then hurry!"

He waited and then came a voice.  It was evidently the
voice of a stout man in a state of anxiety.

"Yes, it's me, it's Homewood, my Lord——"

Lord Gowerhurst detected the anxiety, purposely he
delayed, he told himself the man was anxious—naturally—"Let
him be anxious, let him remain on tenter hooks for a
time!"  It would do him no harm.

"Is that Sir Josiah Homewood?"

"Yes, yes, Homewood, I'm speaking to Lord Gowerhurst,
aren't I?"

"Yes—ah, Homewood, is that you?  Well, about that
little matter we were discussing yesterday—" his lordship
drawled, "the proposition that you placed before me with
such engaging frankness, I should not be surprised if you
remember——"

"Yea, my Lord, I've not forgotten!  Not me!"  The voice
came chokingly, uncertain, but above all things eager.

"I have discussed it with the person—most concerned!"

"And what does her ladyship——"

"My dear Homewood, no names on the telephone, no
names I beg!"

"No, no, of course not, my mistake, my Lord.  I wouldn't
think of mentioning any names, not for a moment, my Lord.
Still what does she—the person—the party, I mean, my
Lord, what does she—er—her——"

"I quite understand the—as you say—party—is inclined
to give very favourable consideration to the matter.  In
fact, I may say, my dear Homewood, that the matter is
practically settled on the basis you suggested."

Sir Josiah Homewood in his luxurious City office, closed
his eyes as in ecstasy!  He clung to the telephone receiver
and an expression of rapt and perfect contentment stole
over his features.

"Then—then it's all right.  I may regard it as all right,
my—my—Lord—she, the party, I mean——"

"Agrees—" said Lord Gowerhurst shortly.  "Briefly, yes
she agrees—the matter is settled and now it only remains
to complete the contract, you understand, eh?"

"I understand, ha, ha, very good, just so, the Contract,
always dealing with contracts I am, but not many like this!
Ha, ha, splendid—and now your Lordship and the other
party, I mean the other contracting party, will dine at my
house in Grosvenor Square to-night."

Gowerhurst frowned.  "Oh, very well!" he said ungraciously.

"Half past seven at Grosvenor Square, your Lordship
remembers the number?"

"At half past seven, then!"  His Lordship said and hung
up the receiver.

"And that," my Lord said, "is that!  When my time
comes, and I am in no hurry for it to come, especially just
now, I shall be able to close my eyes on this world, knowing
that I have done my duty to my only child, a truly
comforting reflection—And now for a brandy with the merest
suggestion of soda, and if possible a little game of
billiards."  And he went up the Club's handsome staircase.

None of the multitudinous clerks in the large and palatial
offices of Sir Josiah Homewood, Son and Company, Limited,
had ever seen the Managing Director in such a delightful
temper, for sometimes his temper was not delightful.   This
morning he beamed on all and sundry.  Young Alfred Cope,
who supported a widowed Mother on an insignificant salary,
had long been trying to muster up courage to ask for a rise.
It seemed to him that this morning, this bright May
morning, the opportunity had come, and so opportunity sent him,
a shivering, trembling wretch, tapping nervously on the
highly polished mahogany door of Sir Josiah's private office.

"Well?" Sir Josiah said.  "Well, and what do you want?"

Alfred stumbled lamely into his pitiful story.

Sir Josiah frowned.  "How much are you getting paid
now?" he demanded.

"Forty-two.  Forty-two shillings a week!  Bless my heart
and soul, princely, princely!  Why, when I was a lad such
a wage would have been considered handsome, sir, and here
you come asking me for more—Why; bless me, let me tell you
this, Cope—the City is bristling with clerks, bristling with
'em, you can't move for clerks, sir, and most of 'em out of
work!  I've only got to hold up my finger, sir, like this—"  He
thrust a broad, stumpy finger into the air, "and say
'Clerk!' and a hundred would rush at me.  I'd be suffocated!
Do you understand me, Cope?  Simply crushed to death
by the rush!  If I put an advertisement in the papers, I'd
have to hire a policeman to keep the Quee—the Queek—what
d'ye call the thing from obstructing the traffic—Forty-two
shillings, you ought to go down on your knees, sir,
on your knees and thank Heaven that you are earning such
a salary!  Princely!  That's what it is, princely!"

And so on, for ten long, fear laden, wretched minutes, at
the end of which the hapless wretch slunk away, thanking
God that he had not been dismissed or that his wretched two
and forty shillings had not been reduced to thirty or less.

"Forty-two shillings—and wants more," Sir Josiah said
to himself, "bless me, what are things coming to?"  Then
he banished the frown, he beamed all over his round red
face.

"Lady Kathleen Homewood," he said to himself, "Lady
Kathleen Homewood, my daughter-in-law!  Lady Kathleen—ah
ha!"  He rubbed his hands.  "That'll make Cutler sit
up!  The fellow gives himself airs because his daughter
married a fellow who is Governor of some place no one in
their senses ever heard of—His Excellency the Governor—Bless
my heart!  I'm sick to death of His Excellency!  Now
Cutler will turn green, eh?  There's nothing like the real
thing, the real old true blue-blooded British
aristocracy—can't get over that, eh?  No, no fear!"

Usually it takes but two to make a bargain; in this case
it required four.  Three of the four were agreed, himself
first of all, now His Lordship, the Earl of Gowerhurst, and
Lady Kathleen Stanwys, his daughter.  There was but one
other, but that one other was a good boy, a dutiful son; he
would do exactly what his father wished.

"Thank God I don't look for opposition from him!" Sir
Josiah thought.  "Never trod a better lad than mine, bless
him!  He knows my heart's set on this, knows it he does,
and he'll do it to please me!  He's not like other young
fellows with their fancy tricks.  Besides that, the girl's a
beauty, apart from her blood and breeding!  If she is a little
older than he, well, what of that?  It's the blood, the birth
that is, what tells every time and by George—by George,
when I have grandchildren I'll be able to look at 'em and
say to myself—'These grandchildren of mine are also the
grandchildren of an Earl!'  And that's something these
days, eh?  That's something!"  So he fell to muttering and
chuckling to himself, this highly pleased old gentleman, and
presently he picked up a pen and all unconsciously scribbled
many times on the blotting paper:

"Lady Kathleen Homewood, Lady Kathleen Homewood,
my daughter-in-law, Lady Kath——"

"Eh, what's that?"

"I thought I'd remind you that it is past one, Sir Josiah,
and you were to lunch with Mr. Cutler and Mr.——"

"Oh, bless my soul, yes, I'd clean forgotten—many
thanks—Jarvis—quite right, sensible of you!"

Mr. Jarvis, the head clerk, bowed and would have retired.

"Oh, Jarvis, one moment, here, help me into my coat,
there's a good feller!  That young feller, young what's his
name—Cope—Crope—eh?"

"Cope, sir, yes, sir!"

"What sort of a chap is he, good worker and all that?"

"A very attentive worker and a respectable young man!"

"Supports a widowed mother, I understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Bless me, well, well.  I've been having a chat with
him—where's my umbrella?—having a chat with him—a man
can't support a widowed mother cheaply these days, eh,
Jarvis?"

"Very expensive days, sir!"

"Quite so, expensive hobby, too, supporting widowed
mothers.  Raise his salary to—say Three pound ten, Jarvis,
and report to me how he goes on!  My hat, do you see my
hat?  Oh, thanks, I'll be back at two-thirty, Jarvis——"

And Sir Josiah went out.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A DESIRABLE FAMILY MANSION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   A DESIRABLE FAMILY MANSION

.. vspace:: 2

DEAR SIR,

.. vspace:: 1

"In reply to your advertisement in the *Daily Telegraph,*
I am at the moment in a position to offer you a very
fine old historical mansion situated in West Sussex on the
Hampshire border.  The house has been untenanted for a
number of years and will require considerable attention.  In
the hands of a man of wealth and taste, it could be restored to
its original condition and would form one of the most
picturesque and desirable mansions in the Country.  It is
eminently a place that it is necessary to see and a description
of it would take too much time now, for as I have previously
mentioned, I am only, at the moment, in a position to offer
it as it has already been seen and highly approved by a
wealthy American gentleman and it is quite probable that
he will close at the bargain price at which the house and
estate of seven hundred and fifty acres, including part of a
small and picturesque village, is being offered.  I would
urge on you, therefore, if you care to consider the place, to
view it without one moment's delay, as obviously it will be
sold to the first who makes a good offer.  I may add that
the Mansion in question, with its many historical
associations, would make a country seat fit for any nobleman in
the land.  May I finally repeat my urgent advice to view the
place at once, as the delay of even an hour may be
prejudicial to your obtaining it.  Believe me, sir,

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   Yours truly,
       DALABEY AND SON."

.. vspace:: 2

Over this letter Sir Josiah pondered a little and frowned
a little.

"It's rather like having a pistol at one's head!  Hanged
if it isn't!" he muttered.  "But it reads all right, it
reads—the goods!  Historical Mansion, seven hundred and fifty
acres, fit for a nobleman, with part of a village, sounds
right—sounds right—" he muttered.  He nodded his head.
"But this hurry—why it's a confounded nuisance, that's
what it is.  How can I go?  I've got—let me see—har
hum—"  He muttered to himself and frowned heavily.

He had much important business to see to, that day, a
meeting of Directors at twelve, another at two, and there
were things to be arranged and discussed that Sir Josiah
knew would require his clear brain and intellect.  How
could, he go journeying down to some remote part of Sussex
to view this ancient mansion with its historical associations,
desirable as it might be?

Sir Josiah looked up from the letter and glanced across
the breakfast table at his son.

Allan was reading.  It would have been noteworthy had
Allan not been reading.  The lad was always reading.  His
book was propped up against a teacup and he seemed to have
forgotten his breakfast.

A good looking, big and broad shouldered young fellow
this, with clean cut features and massive jaw and a broad
high forehead!  Muscle and sinew were there, but there
was intelligence and brain power in that noble forehead of
his.

Fully six feet stood he in his socks, massive of build, with
straight, honest blue eyes and waving hair that was neither
dark nor fair.  A face that might in its strength seem a
little hard, a little fierce, even a little forbidding, but that
the mouth atoned for all.

No man with a mouth like this could be other than very
human, very tender and kindly, very generous, the mouth
of a man who could give much, suffer much and love greatly.

But Sir Josiah saw nothing of all this, he only saw Allan,
his son, reading another of those confounded books, for
which Sir Josiah had no feeling, except of the deepest
disgust.

"Allan!"

"Father?"  The young man looked up.  "I'm sorry!"
he said.  "Did you speak to me before?"

"No, I didn't, and breakfast ain't the time, Allan, to be
stuffing your head with all that there nonsense!"

Allan smiled.  "You had your letters, and as I had my
book——"

"You always have your book!  I never saw such a fellow
for reading—but I'm not saying anything, my boy.  No, no,
you're a good lad.  Few sons please their old fathers as you
do me—we're not quarrelling, Allan lad!"

"We never have yet, father, and we never will, I think!"

"I know!" said Sir Josiah.  "Ah, Allan, you're doing
well, a fine woman, beautiful as a picture, tall and stately,
and the daughter of an Earl.  Why, boy, you ought to be
in the Seventh Heaven of delight and instead you sit there
with your nose in a book!"

"She is a fine and a beautiful and I believe a good woman,"
said Allan, "but her father—" he paused.  "I could have
wished her a better father!"

"An Earl, an Earl!" cried the old man.  "A better father
than an Earl!  Bless me, Allan—what nonsense!  However,
you're marrying her not her father; it's all settled, all
agreed—"  He rubbed his hands, his round red face shone
with benevolence and joy.  "You're a sensible and dutiful
fellow, Allan!  You say to yourself, 'My old father wishes
it—The girl is good and beautiful and well born, I don't
know particularly that I love her—come to that perhaps I
don't, but I might go farther and fare worse!'  Eh, that's
it, isn't it?  And you're doing it, boy, because you know it
will give pleasure to the old man!"

"I think you have got my reasoning very correctly,
father!" Allan said.

"There's no one else?" Sir Josiah said.

"No one else, no—and I like Lady Kathleen.  I admire
her and I pity her——"

"Pity—pity—bless my soul, boy, pity.  Why should you
pity her?  Isn't she well born, doesn't she move in the best,
the very best society?  Isn't she the only daughter, only
child come to that, of an Earl?  Pity her?"

"Just that, I pity her, I am deeply sorry for her.  I think
she suffers a good deal and can't you understand why?"

"I—I don't know, lad, how should I know what the feelings
of a young Society lady are?"

"She is proud and she is poor, there's suffering in
that—She is proud and she knows that her father's name is in
bad odour.  Do you think a sensitive, highly strung girl as
she is doesn't feel a thing like that?  Yes, I pity her, and
if through me her life may be made a little happier, why
not?  Last night when you and her father were talking
money—she and I had much to say to one another.  She
was very open and very frank to me and I to her.  We
made no pretence—we know that we do not love one another.
She is desperately poor and she is marrying me chiefly—entirely
for the money you are going to give us both.  I
know that you are lending Lord Gowerhurst money, that
he has not the slightest intention of every repaying
you—Oh, Kathleen and I have been perfectly open and frank with
one another—I understand that she cares for no one else.
She has the same assurances from me, so there—"  Allan
laughed sharply, "you have it, the usual thing, a marriage
of convenience!  How can I pretend that I like it, Father,
when I do not?  You—you know that I would sooner not—but
it is arranged, it is agreed—I do not love her, but thank
God I can and do respect her and I feel sorry for her—and
so we shall go through with it, Father!" he concluded.

Josiah nodded.  "Yes, boy, you will go through with it
and one day you'll thank me that I brought it about.  I
know a good woman when I see one and I tell you she is
that—good—good to the core—I'm not clever and not over
well educated, Allan, like you are.  I don't set up to be a
gentleman, but there's one thing I can do, I can sum up
my fellow men and women, too, come to that.  You'll find
Allan, I'm making no mistake when I say Lady Kathleen
is as fine and as true a woman as ever stepped.  You'll go
through with this marriage, Allan, I count on you!"

"I've never failed you yet, Father."

"You never have, never, and never will!"  A look of rare
tenderness came into the commonplace, even vulgar face.  He
rose and went to his son and put a large trembling hand on
his shoulder.

"No Allan, you've never failed me, not even when you
were a little chap!  Do you think I don't think of it?  Do
you think I don't thank God for it, do you think when I
hear other men speaking of their sons and of—of the trouble
some of 'em bring?  Do you think I don't say to myself—'My
boy's above that kind of thing, my boy's an honest man
and a gentleman!'"  He gripped the shoulder under his hand
tightly.

"And now read that, read this letter——" he went on in a
changed voice.  "Read it, Allan!"

Allan took the letter and read it.

"Well, father?"

"It looks like being just the kind of place I'm after!"

"There are bound to be hundreds of others—hundreds!"

"That's just what there aren't.  You know how I've
advertised, you know how many places I've seen, twenty at
least, and I wouldn't be found dead in any one of 'em.
No! places like I want aren't to be found every day, and I've
got an idea this might be the place.  Besides that, these
agents write, it's to be bought cheaply.  I'm never above
making a bargain, Allan.  It's in pretty bad condition
evidently and I daresay it'll cost some money to put right, but
what's that matter if I get it off the purchase price?  Now
to-day I can't go and you see that this agent writes to say it's
urgent.  There's an American out for it and I don't like to
be beat, Allan, and especially I don't like to be beat by an
American.  They are keen buyers and clever buyers and
what I say is this—if this place is good enough for a rich
American—why it might also be good enough for me!"

Allan nodded.  "And you will go and see this place
and——"

"That's just what I can't do, I've got two Company
meetings and important ones they are, and I can't miss 'em.
Time's short, it's a bit like having a pistol pointed at one's
head; but there you are, you can't help it and so my boy
you've just got to put that book of poems, or whatever it is,
away and forget it for to-day—you've got to go down—to——"
he paused and looked at the letter, "this place, this
Little Stretton, Little Stretton——" he repeated.  "I seem
to know the name, been there before perhaps—motoring or
something, however you'll have to go there to-day instead
of—me!  You're not a fool, Allan, you've got eyes in your
head—After all, the place is to be for you when you are
married to her Ladyship, and it's right you should be the one
to see it, so go down there, boy, see the place, size it up and
find out the price.  Use your own judgment because you've
got it to use.  I'll leave it in your hands.  I'll make out a
cheque for five hundred and sign it and you can leave it
as deposit if you decide to buy.  Only make up your mind,
don't beat about the bush, remember we're not the only
ones—and if it's the right place I don't want to lose it!"

"But father—had you not better see it yourself, surely
to-morrow——?"

"To-morrow won't do—it must be done to-day—I know,
worse luck, you're not a good hand at making a bargain,
but I've got to make the best of that!  Do your best, if you
like the place, if you think it's cheap, if there are possibilities
in it—why, Allan, boy, snap it up—don't let anyone get
ahead of you!  Here's the cheque."  Sir Josiah tore a cheque
out and made it out for five hundred pounds and signed it
"Josiah Homewood."

"And now you'd better look out a train to this place, this
Little Stretton——" again he seemed to linger over the
name.  "Unless, of course," he added, "you'll go by the
car?"

"I'll go by train——" Allan said.  In the train he could
read his beloved books.  The car allowed no such
relaxation.  "I'll go by train!" he said.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOW ALLAN CAME TO THE GARDEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW ALLAN CAME TO THE GARDEN

.. vspace:: 2

For May it was a very hot day, almost an unnaturally
hot day.  It was a day that might well have belonged
to August.

Allan stepped it from the station, a sign post told him
that Little Stretton was yet a mile to go.  He took off his
hat and henceforth carried it in his hand.  He had read
his book all the way down in the train and his mind was
still lingering on it, on the book rather than on realities.
So when he came to where stood an old, a very, very ancient
oak, the mere relic of a once noble tree, he looked at it
vaguely, and then looked beyond for the little red tiled barn
that some fancy told him would be there.  And it was there,
but it was a very old barn and the roof had fallen in, in
places and lichen was growing on the broken tiles.

Allan stared at it, he felt faintly surprised.

"Strange!" he said aloud.  "Strange—why——"

He had an idea that the barn was not so old, why it ought
to have been almost a new barn, had he not seen——

"Good Heavens!" he said aloud.  "I must be dreaming
or something——"  Then he walked on rapidly.  He
breasted a hill and descended on the far side, following the
twisting, turning road between the hedgerows all sweet with
May flowers, and so came at last to a little village of red
houses roofed with slabs of old Sussex stone, all green and
yellow with lichen, yellow mostly.

Allan stood still and looked at the village that lay almost
at his feet.

"I suppose," he said slowly.  "I suppose we must, have
motored through here once!"

He seemed to know it all so well, the sleepy sloping
street with the quaintly irregular houses, the little shops
with curved bow windows thrusting out on to the pavement,
and the low pitched doorways one gained by climbing
perhaps three or more worn stone steps.  The Inn, the sign
of which swung from a beam that spanned the street.  Yes
surely he had seen it all before—on some motoring trip
perhaps—and yet—and yet in a way it was strangely different,
as the barn had differed from his expectations.  For a time
with a queer puzzled sensation, he stood, and then he came
back to realities.  He had journeyed here to see some
house agent—what was his name?

Dalabey! yes Dalabey!

"Boy," he called to a dusty white haired urchin playing
with a dog.  "Boy, which is Mr. Dalabey's, the house
agent?"

The boy pointed.  "That be Dalabey's up they steps be
Dalabey's shop."

So Allan went up the steps and found himself in the office
of Dalabey and Son.

Mr. Dalabey, a stout, red haired man, wearing no coat,
was talking with a visitor, he looked at Allan.

"My father had a letter about a house, an old house, he
asked me——"

"Ah yes, to be sure, the house as Mr. Van Norden be
after, well there be nothing settled as yet, sir,"
Mr. Dalabey said as he reached up for a huge key.

"I'll be ten minutes about," he said, "if you'll wait here
while I get finished with this gentleman!"

"Couldn't I go on?  If you direct me I might find it."

"Aye, and I'll follow.  Well you can't make any mistake,
'tis just beyond the village, you'll see a high red wall,
a very old wall it be, follow the wall for maybe a quarter
of a mile, then you will come to the gates, well this key don't
fit the gates, you'll hev to go a bit further till you come to a
green door.  This key is the key of the door, if you'll go on
I'll get my bicycle and follow you and maybe I'll catch
you up before you get there."

"Thanks!" Allan said, he took the key, a ponderous
thing and smiled at it for its bigness and clumsiness.

Children in the roadway stared at the young man swinging
the ponderous key in his hand, women standing in their
doorways nodded to one another.

They knew the key.  "Very like he be the rich American
who be coming to buy the Manor," they said.

Allan walked on.  Yes, certainly they must have motored
through this village, he remembered it vaguely, and yet it
seemed to him always a little changed.  Now was there not,
should there not be a Cross standing here where the road
widened, in front of the Inn.

He paused and stared about him.  There was no Cross,
no suggestion of one.

An old man, typically Sussex, grey bearded and bent
double by age, clad in a smock and an ancient tall hat, stared
at him with rheumy eyes.

"Grandfather," said Allan, "wasn't there a cross here
once?"

"Aye, a cross there were and a very fine cross it was
tu," said the old man.  "I du remember her, when I were a
lad, seventy years ago; I du remember that Cross, seventy
years ago knocked down her were in broad daylight, her
were and I see it done, I did wi' my two eyes, see it done,
I did!"  He nodded his hoary head.  "'Twere this a way,
the doing of it.  Village Street be wunnerful steep it be,
they was bringing up two great el'ums on a lurry, three
strappin' hosses they were a-pulling of the lurry up the
hill, then down all on a sudden goes one o' the hosses, and
down goes another.  T'other hoss rares up her did and crack
goes the chain, lurry wi' they two great el'ums goes running
back'ard down the bill it did.  I say it, as seen it done
seventy years ago, seventy and one to be parfectly correct,
and bash goes they el'um trunks into the Cross.  Bash goes
the Cross, down it falls in little pieces.  I picked up a
piece, I du remember, the bit I've got to this day, it stands
on the chimbley shelf, it du.  Seventy and one years ago,
and me a lad of turned twelve a fine strapping lad tu."

Allan slipped a coin into the old man's willing palm.

Strange he should have thought that a Cross stood there.
And yet, why strange?  He had seen some other village
street like this one, with a Cross set up in it.  One often
saw Crosses set up in old world villages.

So he went on, swinging the great key in his hand and
presently he came to the end of the village, where was the
beginning of the old brick wall, a very high brick wall it
was, fully ten feet, and the bricks were of that rare rose
tint, the like of which have never been made since Anne
was Queen, but these seemed to go back far before the time
of Anne and here and there the wall was somewhat broken.
But nature had done her best to make good the gaps, filling
them up with lichen and moss of brilliant green and vivid
yellow, a feast of colour for eyes tired of London's sombre
streets.

And he knew, because Mr. Dalabey had told him, that a
quarter of a mile on, he would come to the gates, wide
gates of iron hung on stone pillars and on each stone pillar
was set the head of a deer, also carved in stone.

And presently he came to the gates, and the pillars stood
all moss covered, surmounted, as he knew they would be,
by the sculptured heads of deer; but one had lost its antlers,
and the other had its muzzle broken short off.

Allan looked up at them and smiled, and then his smile
vanished.  Mr. Dalabey had not told him of the deers' heads,
and yet—they were here.  Curious! he thought.

It was as though he had come on a place that he had
visited in a dream, he could not shake off the feeling of
familiarity, the knowledge, the certainty that attended his
every step.  He knew that the green door would be arched
at the top and that it would be studded with great nails
and bound with iron in many places.

He knew that it would be and it was!  He fitted the heavy
key in the lock and it turned at last with much rasping
and complaining.

The door gave on a paved yard and in the crevices of the
great flat topped cobbles grew weeds of all kind that bloomed
and flourished untouched.

And now the feeling of familiarity, the knowledge of
the place had grown on him, so that he wondered at it no
longer.  He accepted it, because it was right, because—he
refused to consider it at all.  He knew!

To the left stood the kitchen part of the house, he glanced
towards it, but turned to the right and picked his way across
the weed grown yard and came to a small wicket gate,
between two tumble down buildings.  The wicket gate had
fallen into rottenness and lay all in fragments on the ground,
but through the opening that was left he passed and found
himself in the wild tangle of the great garden.

Through the garden he walked, a man waking, yet in a
strange dream.  He followed the flagged pathway past the
old sundial that had lost its gnomon, beyond the wild yew
hedge and so to the lake, from which rose the slim figure
of a stone girl and at her he stared long.

He suddenly realised that, he had come here to see her,
he had come on purpose, just to see this stone figure of a
girl.  He would have been disappointed, almost shocked, if
she had not been here—and she was here—but the pitcher
on her shoulder was empty and the upflung water flashed
no longer in the sunlight.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned away, he went back through
the rose garden with bowed head, he came to the great
circle of stone in the midst of which was set the old sundial,
and on a stone seat, warmed by the sun, he sat down.

"Strange!" he said.  He said it aloud.  "Strange!" he
repeated.  "I seem to know——"  He stretched his arm out
and laid it on the back of the old stone seat, and sat there
staring at the moss grown sundial pedestal—staring till it
seemed to waver, to become all uncertain before his sight.

And then—then he lifted his head and looked about him.

He saw a garden all glowing with flowers, and trim green
lawns, the weeds, the desolation and the ruin of centuries
had passed as with a breath.  The garden was all glowing
and blowing as perhaps it had two hundred years ago, and
then slowly he turned his head and looked towards the house
and saw that doors and windows stood open and that
curtains swung from the casements lazily in the breeze.  And
as he watched a door opened and into the sunshine stepped,
somewhat timidly he thought, a little maid, a trim, slim
bodied little maid.  She wore a flowered cotton gown, short
at the ankles and low in the neck, and how the sun seemed
to kiss it!  And the little face above, a rarely sweet little
face, purely oval with ripe red lips and the bluest eyes in
the world.  So she came hurrying along the wide stone
pathway to him, a smile on her red lips and the copper red of
her hair all flaming in the sunlight under the dainty mob
cap.

But ere she reached him, she stood still suddenly and
looked at him with a pretty frown that was yet half a smile
on her little face.

"Allan!" she said.  "Allan, be you still angry wi' your
Betty now, dear?  Will 'ee take back the words 'ee did speak
in your anger, Allan?  For you should know I would not have
let a gawky rogue like Tim Burnand buss me, Allan, if I
could 'a helped it.  Before I could tell what he was at, he
did steal a kiss, and I have rubbed my poor face sore to rub
it all away for—for I want no kisses but thine Allan,
my—my dear!"

Her voice was very soft and sweet and the tears gathered
in her wonderful blue eyes, tears that seemed to wring his
heart.

"I—I was overharsh and rough wi' thee, my Betty," he
said.  "I know 'twas not your fault, but all the fault of
Tim Burnand whose bones I'll break for him, may——"

"Nay—swear not!" she said.  "Oh Allan, I love thee for
thy jealousy, I love thee for it!"  Her eyes were laughing
and joyous now and her face was all smiles and dimples
and so she came to him, daintily, and put her two small
hands, little brown hands in queer black lace mittens, on his
shoulders and rising on her toes, she kissed him on the eyes.

"And never, never more will 'ee be angry and jealous
of your Betty?" she said.

"Never again!" he said.  "But because I do love thee so,
my maid I could not bear to think that other lips——"

"Have never touched mine, 'twas but my cheek he bussed,
and I boxed his ears soundly for him—but hush—I hear my
lady calling to me—Listen!  Betty!  Betty! yes—I did but
steal away, seeing you here—just to tell thee——"  She
paused for breath for a moment "to tell thee, my Allan, how
I do love thee!  Hark, my lady is calling again!"

"Blow me; sir, if I didn't think you'd been and lost
yourself or fell down the old well, which I did ought to have
reminded you about, or something!" said a voice.

Allan started up, stared up into the round red and
over-heated face of Mr. Dalabey.  He looked about him with
dazed eyes.  Weeds were rioting over the old garden, the
grass stood knee high on the lawns, dandelions thrust their
golden heads between the paving stones at his feet.  He stared
at the house and saw it all, sombre and lifeless, a house of the
dead.  Its windows were broken, desolation and ruin were
upon it, and then he looked back at the jolly red face of
Mr. Dalabey.

"Fell asleep!" Mr. Dalabey said.  "And been dreaming!"
he added.

"Yes—dreaming——" Allan said quietly.  "Dreaming!"





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.. _`IN WHICH ALLAN BUYS THE MANOR HOUSE`:

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   CHAPTER V


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   IN WHICH ALLAN BUYS THE MANOR HOUSE

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In and out and up and down Mr. Dalabey led Allan over
the old house.  They pried into dark and dusty
corners, they ascended narrow and rickety stairs.  It was a
wonderful, rambling old place, the years had set their mark
on it.  The old oaken floors, worn and roughened by a
thousand feet, took on many a queer pitch; from the pine
panelling the paint had come away in great flakes; scarce
a window but had its broken pane and through the pane
some impertinent creeper thrust into the room and nodded
to them familiarly.

Allan followed the stout, red faced, good humoured man
up and down the stairs and in and out the old rooms.  A
great talker was Mr. Dalabey, a born seller of houses.

"This here be the banquetting hall, a very noble room, sir,
very noble, fit for the aristocracy, her be, and a good many
of the aristocracy it hev seen, sir, and many a bottle hev
been drunk here, sir, I'll wager!  Look at the ceiling, sir,
some of the finest old plaster work to be met with in the
kingdom, wonderful fine plaster work it be, as many gents
as be connoisseurs, hev remarked.  Greatly took with the
plaster work was Mr. Van Norden."

"Yes," Allan said, and "Yes!"  For his thoughts were far
away, he looked through the broken and dusty windows into
the garden with its weeds and its broken pathways and
overgrown flower beds, and a strange sense of loss came to him.
He felt a little ache at his heart, for the girl who had come
to him in that same strange dream and had kissed his eyes
and called him "her dear."

How real she had been.  He marvelled now at the feeling
that had been his at the time, that she was a very part
of his life.  How sweet and musical her voice, how warm
and soft the touch of her red lips and yet it had only been
a dream!

"This be one o' the guest rooms and you'll notice the wig
cupboard, sir," said Mr. Dalabey; "very remarkable this wig
cupboard, you'll see 'em in most of the bedrooms where the
quality of them days kep' their wigs.  Much took Mr. Van
Norden was with they wig cupboards!"

"Yes!" said Allan, and all the time his thoughts were
with the maiden of the garden, she who had kissed his eyes
and had vanished as she had come, leaving him with this
strange sense of loneliness and longing and hunger, and
above all that deep, deep sense of loss.

"And now I think we've pretty well done it, sir, there's
the stables, rare fine stables they was once.  Seldom less
than twenty hosses did they keep in them stables in the
Elmacott's days——"

"Whose days?"

"Elmacott, that were the name o' the folk, dead and gone
they be now—Sir Nathaniel were the last, a rare wild devil
of a man according to history, my old grandfather, a
wonderful man he were, would tell me many a story of Sir Nat,
as they called him, when I were a boy.  Stories my old
granddad had from his father before him—well sir,"
Mr. Dalabey paused, "well, sir, there it be, I've shewn you all
there is to see, hiding nothing, a rare lot of money'll be
wanted to be spent on it, sir, and there be no disguising the
fact, nor have I attempted to disguise it, as you'll bear
witness, sir, but there be this Mr. Van Norden keen set on the
place and likely for to make up his mind any moment,
considering of it he is at this very time, I daresay!"

"Who are the owners?" Allan asked.

"A gentleman of the name of Stimpson be the owner, a
distant relative of the Elmacotts by marriage.  I do
understand, out in Canada he be, born and bred there and
never clapped eyes on the place, nor ever likely to.  I've got
to get the best price I can for the place, seeing he be my
client, and the price I've asked Mr. Van Norden——"  Dalabey
paused.  He looked at Allan, he had no great opinion
of Allan.  "Queer and dreamy like," Mr. Dalabey thought,
"not businesslike, one of they sort who goes through the
world mooning——"

"And the price?" Allan asked.

"Er—thirty thousand pounds," said Dalabey.

"It's a great deal of money," Allan said, he said it more
for the sake of saying something than for any other reason.
Had Dalabey said fifty thousand pounds, he would
probably have said the same thing.

"Open to an offer I be, but the offer's got to come quick
and soon, or Mr. Van Norden——"

"I know, I know!"  Allan stood and stared out over the
garden.  He wondered at its strange fascination for him.
Of course it had only been a dream, yet a dream so strangely
real, so clear cut, so logical and why—why should it have
come to him here in this old garden—why?

Mr. Dalabey was staring at him.

"Gone to sleep he hev seemingly."

"Thirty thousand, sir, and that be no more than forty
pounds an acre for good Sussex land by my reckoning, to
say nothing of the old house and the buildings and a dozen
cottages in the village wi' the alehouse, the Elmacott Arms."

"Yes, yes!" Allan said.  "Yes!  I am acting for my
father.  I have his permission to—to settle—the house will
cost a great deal to repair, a great deal!"

"I haven't disguised nothing from you and no one can
say——"

"I will offer you twenty-five thousand on my father's
behalf!"

"Oh sir, oh consider!  A fine house her be and wunnerful
good land the best in all Sussex and twenty-five thousand
b'ain't no more than about thirty pounds an acre, a terribul
little money that, sir, for land so good and the historical
association and all!"

"Twenty-seven!" Allan said briefly.

"There be Mr. Van Norden a considering of it at this
very moment——"

Allan hated bargaining, hated money.  His life had been
spent in an atmosphere of money.  He knew that above and
before all he wanted to be rid of this man, he wanted to go
back to the old garden and sit there on the sun warmed
stone seat and see if his dream would not come back to him.

"Twenty-eight thousand, then, and no more, I have done,
take it or leave it!"

"You'll like to see the cottages and the Inn, a wunnerful
old Inn her be with historical interest and——"

"No!" said Allan.  "No! do you take my offer, yes or no?
Tell me now!"

Mr. Balabey stroked his chin.  He did not like to do
business in this way.  True it was profitable business, for
Mr. Van Norden was considering the offer at twenty-five
thousand.

"Very well, sir, done and done!" said Mr. Dalabey.
"Done with you, sir, and I congratulate you on a rare
bargain, I do, sir!"  He held out his large and moist hand.

Allan took it.

"Now," he said, "I will ask you to do me a favour!  I
have purchased the place at twenty-eight thousand pounds.
I have a cheque for five hundred pounds as deposit in my
pocket, if I had a pen——"

"I've got a fountain pen with me, sir," said Dalabey,
"always carry one I du!"

"Very well then, we will sit down here—and if you will
lend me your pen——?"

They sat down on the old stone seat and Allan filled in the
cheque.

"Make it payable to me," Dalabey said.  "Thomas J. Dalabey,"
which Allan did.

"And now," Allan said, "I'd like to look about the old
place alone, take the cheque and I will call at your office
on my way back, you can then give me the receipt."

"To be sure and so I will, and once more congratulate
you I do, and if so be you'll honour me, sir, I'll have a cup
of tea ready and waiting for you when you come back!"

"Thank you!" Allan said.  "And now, one thing more,
how is the old place called, Mr. Dalabey?"

"Why 'tis Homewood Manor, I thought as I mentioned
the name in my letter——"

"No, you did not, though I remember someone else spoke
of it to me—Homewood Manor, that is strange!"

"In the Parish of Homewood it be," said Dalabey, "just
within, and the next Parish be Little Stretton, but as
this——"

"I understand, I quite understand, but all the same it is
curious!"

"I don't see how," said Mr. Dalabey, "curious it 'ud be
if it were called anything else, sir!"

"Look at the cheque, at the signature!" Allan said.

Mr. Dalabey looked, he uttered an exclamation as he
spelled out Josiah Homewood's crabbed handwriting.

"Very odd it be, I swear!" he said.  "And very right and
proper too, come to that, nothing could be better!  Mr. Homewood
of Homewood Manor, it sounds good, sir!  And now I'll
get back and a cup o' tea'll be ready for you in say an hour's
time——"

"Say two——" Allan said, "and thank you!"

So Dalabey hurried off to spread the news through Little
Stretton.  Beaming with joy he was, as he cycled down the
road.

"Ah, Mrs. Hanson, there you be, Ma'am!" he shouted,
slowing down by the little cottage.  "News I've got for 'ee
and for that little gel o' thine!"

"News—hev the American——"

"No, ma'am, he hasn't!  Why, my maid, what be the matter
wi' 'ee?" Dalabey added, for he had caught sight of
Betty's blooming face in the window.

And a pretty picture the girl made, her sweet face framed
in the clinging greenery and the roses on the point of breaking
into bloom, but the sweetest rose of all was there in the
window.

"Fair joyous you do look," said Dalabey, "joyous be the
word, all bubbling over wi' delight—and yet—you cannot
have heard the news of the selling yet?"

"The—the selling—Mr. Dalabey, not—not the selling
of—my—of—oh you said—the American hasn't bought——"

"Homewood Manor be sold, sold by I, this very day, Mrs. Hanson,
sold by I within the hour!"  He rubbed his big red
hands, "and a fair price, yes I'll admit, a fair price as
things go—but sold it be, sold and done for, but not to the
American gentleman—Why, Mrs. Hanson, what be the
matter wi' that gel o' thine?"

For Betty had gone white, white as death, and the joy had
gone out of her face and her little red lips dragged down
pitifully and into her blue eyes had come tears, tears which all
unnoticed trickled down her pale cheeks.

"Fair daft that maid be about that old garden!" said
Mrs. Hanson.  "And glad I be, Mr. Dalabey, as the place
be sold, and put to orders, I hope it'll be, so this maid of
mine will go no more roamin' where her haven't no business
to be!"

"Ah yes, to be sure, to be sure!" Mr. Dalabey said.  "To
be sure," he added, "well! sold it be and, strangest of all, to a
young gentleman, leastways his father, which be all the same,
of the name of Homewood.  There, what do 'ee think of
that now?  Homewood Manor sold to a Homewood, curious,
eh?  Well, well, I must be getting along!"

"Sold it be and a dratted good job too!" Mrs. Hanson said.

Betty crept away to her attic room under the thatched
roof.  Sold!  Her garden sold and for ever now barred
against her!  No more rambles in the enchanted garden by
moonlight, no more dreams in which she peopled the old
garden with all those strange folk, of whom she had seen
visions.  And He—she would never see Him more, bending
over the flower beds at his work.  He whose face she
had hardly seen, and yet somehow she knew that He meant
so much to her.  So the little maid crept to her room with
bursting heart.

"Sold it be, sold it be," she whispered to herself.





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.. _`"I HATE HIM—HATE HIM I DU!"`:

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   CHAPTER VI


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   "I HATE HIM—HATE HIM I DU!"

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Allan sat on the old stone seat in the warm sunshine.
He watched the rioting weeds, the broken sundial, the
long pathway of flagged stone leading to the grim desolate
house.

He closed his eyes and opened them again, hoping to see
that vision he had seen, but it came to him no more.
No! there were only the weeds and the decay and the green moss.

So he sat there for a full hour and tried to force that
which would not come.  He could see her, in fancy, tripping
down the flagged path to him, with love and tenderness in her
blue eyes, that dainty little figure with the head of flaming
gold and the white neck.  But it was a vision that could
not be forced.

So presently, disheartened and hopeless, he rose and went
to the lake and stared hard at the broken stone nymph and
watched the great idle fish and the sense of loss grew stronger
and yet stronger on him.

Who was she who had come out of the past to kiss his
eyes and to tell him that she loved him?  Why should such
dreams come to him?  He had never dreamed in all his
life before, but she had been so real, even to the little black
lace mittens, black lace mittens such he had never seen on a
girl's hands before.  Yet he had dreamed of her and the
sweet voice of her and the sweet Sussex speech and strangely
enough, had he not answered her in that same speech?  He
remembered it now with a sudden start of surprise.

Yes, he with Eton and Oxford behind him, had spoken
as she had spoken, as the old man who had told him about
the broken Cross in Little Stretton had spoken.

He turned away, he made his way back through the garden.
He wondered at his seeming previous knowledge of
it now, for that knowledge was gone, it took him some time
to find the gap where the broken wicket gate had been, but
he found it and went, blundering and uncertain, across the
grass grown stable yard.

He locked the battered green door behind him and thrust
the great key into his coat pocket and went along the road,
and on the way to the village he passed a little thatched roofed
cottage and under that thatched roof a maid was lying on her
little bed, face downward, weeping her heart out for the
thing that he had done, yet he could not know that.  How
could he?  He saw an old dame standing by the little gate,
an upright severe old dame, with white hair and a wrinkled
face, and she bobbed him a country curtsey.

To her Allan lifted his hat politely.

"A beautiful day!" he said.

"And that it be, a wunnerful fine day and hot like for
May her be, sir and might—might I make bold——" she
hesitated.

Allan stopped and looked at her with kindly eyes.

"You were going to ask me something?"

"Cur-us I be, which be a besetting sin!" she admitted.
"But Mr. Dalabey he hev passed by just now when my maid
and I—my granddarter her be, were here and he told we as
he hev sold the old Manor House and I were thinking, sir,
seeing the key was sticking out, of your pocket——"

Allan laughed.  "Yes," he said, "you are right, I have
bought it, for my father, that is——"

"A wunnerful fine place it be!" she said.

"And we shall be near neighbours, eh?"

Again she dropped a curtsey.

"'Tisn't for the like of we to be a neighbour to the like of
gentry," she added, "but if any little thing I can du——"

"Be sure I will come and ask you Mrs.——"

"Hanson be my name, sir, as anyone can tell 'ee.  Old
this cottage be, but there never yet lived in it one whose
name was not Hanson.  'Twere Hansons lived here in the
days when the Elmacotts lived at the Manor, Hansons hev
been servants there, always served the Elmacotts, they did,
and if, sir, there be any little thing that we can du——"

"You are very good!" Allan said.

"A dear talkative old soul," he thought; he held out a
friendly hand to her and she blushed at the honour and
bobbed him a dozen curtseys as he went his way.

"Betty, Betty, my maid, Betty, come 'ee here, Betty,
where be 'ee?  Come here!" cried Mrs. Hanson, when Allan
had gone.

"Here I be, Grandmother!"  Betty came, a pale sorrowful
faced little maiden.

"And crying 'ee've been, shame on 'ee my maid for to
cry because that dirty old place hev been sold and who do 'ee
think I have been talkin' wi'?  Why bless 'ee wi' the young
gentleman as hev bought her and a proper young gentleman
he be, not above shaking hands wi' an old body like me and
lifting of his hat to I, for all the world like I were a fine
lady!  Bless 'ee my maid, a fine, upstanding, smart, young
gentleman he be, one of the quality too, aye of the quality,
my maid, for mark 'ee the real quality are never above shaking
hands wi' a poor body and talking pleasant to the likes o'
we!  'Tis they upstarts and nobodys as looks down on poor
folks!  When 'ee sees him Betty, 'ee'll——"

"I never want to see him, never!" the girl cried, "Never,
never, I hope I never shall see him!"

"Bless me what nonsense are 'ee talking now?"

"I never want to see him, for—for if I du, I shall hate him,
hate him, aye, I hate him now, I du—hate him terribul
bad, I du——"

"For shame and to your room wi' 'ee till you du come to
your senses—I be ashamed o' you, Betty Hanson, that I be!
Hate him indeed, hate him, a fine upstanding——"

"I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!" Betty said, and
then once again, with defiance and anger and sorrow too
in her blue eyes, "I hate him, I du, Grandmother!"

Mrs. Hanson lifted a rigid arm, she pointed at the door.

"To your room wi' 'ee, Betty Hanson," she said, "I be
ashamed of 'ee, I be, to your room, you perilous bad maid!"





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.. _`"HOW WONDERFUL—THE WAY OF THINGS"`:

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   CHAPTER VII


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   "HOW WONDERFUL—THE WAY OF THINGS"

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"Bless my soul!" Sir Josiah said, "Bless my soul!"  He
said it several times, there was a look of astonishment
on his red round face, "Bless my soul, sir!"

He walked up and down the large and imposing room, his
hands behind his back.

"And how about the drains, did you make any enquiry
about the drains?

"No!" said Allan.

"No, you wouldn't, nor about the water!  Is water laid
on, eh, answer me that?"

"I—I don't know, father, I am afraid I—I was a bad
representative!"

"It's enough to worry a man's head off," cried his father.
"Here do I go trusting you to go and—and—not a thing
do you know!  Hand over my cheque for five hundred
pounds like it was a bagatelle as the saying is.  You don't
know anythin' about the title deeds, nothing about the drains,
nothing about the water, while you admit the state of repair
of the house is somethin' disgraceful!"

"Father, I wish you had gone yourself, I told you——"

"Yes, I know, you told me I know, you did—told me you
weren't no good at bargaining, and I'm afraid you were
right!  Here you go and—and—and——"  Sir Josiah paused,
a little breathlessly.

"Well, what's the place like?  Just try my lad and pull
yourself together and describe it!"

"Homewood Manor is——"

"What Manor?"

"Homewood—it bears the same name as we do, father!"

Sir Josiah sat down, he sat down abruptly and stared wide
eyed at his son.

"Homewood——" he gasped, "Little Stretton—Homewood
Manor—well, well if this don't beat anything—anything
I've ever heard—Homewood——"

"It is an odd coincidence," said Allan.

"Odd coincidence, it's more—it's more.  It is the very
hand of Fate, that's what it is, the hand of Fate, you don't
understand of course you don't——" he paused.  "Allan, did
you ever hear the name Pringle?"

"Pringle?" asked Allan, puzzled, "of course I have heard
it, but——"

"Heard it, just heard it—eh?  That's all, just heard it,
mentioned and nothing more, eh?"

"It's a name I have heard, father, that's all!"

"And don't signify anything to you, nothing particular, out
of the way, eh?"

"Nothing, father!"

"Bless me, bless me, you never heard me speak of Allan
Pringle of The Green Gate Inn in Aldgate?"

Allan shook his head.

"A wonderful man!" said Sir Josiah.  "Allan, his name
was, the same as yours and Allan was his father before him
and his father before him, yes Allans all along the line, till
they came to me, only me they called Josiah, Josiah after
Josiah Rodwell, my mother's father, hoping to get a bit out
of the old man, which they never did, bless me! and never
heard of Allan Pringle, you haven't?

"Queer too," Josiah rambled on, "that he should be the
kind of man he was, they said of him as he could squeeze
gold out of a stone and I b'lieve he could.  Coming from
the country, a farm hand he was and his father a gardener
and his father's father a gardener, grubbing about in the
earth, Allan, and yet Allan Pringle came to London, a
farmer's boy and makes a little fortune!"

"But who was he?"

"My grandfather, Allan Pringle was.  He laid the foundation
of our fortune!  My father was keen and clever, not
up to the old man though.  Still he did not do so badly,
he left me forty thousand when he died, that's what I've
been building on, Allan, and now—now—maybe it's nearer
twenty times forty thousand, my boy!  That comes of
having a head on you—a head which you haven't got and
never will have!"

"Then your name is—is Pringle?"

"Was!" said Sir Josiah.  "It was my father who took the
name of Homewood when he began to get on a bit and
wanted to sink the aleshop, called himself Homewood after
the place where his father was born and where all the family
came from——"

"And it is this very place that to-day——?"

Sir Josiah nodded.  "The very place!" he said.  "Queer,
isn't it, Allan?  Very queer!  When I heard the name Little
Stretton, it set me thinking, but even then I didn't quite
catch on.  But now, Homewood Manor, why bless me, boy—my
grandfather, Allan Pringle's mother, was maid in that
very house and my great grandfather, Allan Pringle he was,
Allan, the same as you, he and she was sweethearting, her the
lady's maid, he the under gardener, and got married, they
did.  A wonderful pretty young woman, so I've heard and a
sad story if what one hears is true, hadn't been married a
year when she died when the boy was born, him as afterwards
kept the Green Gate Inn in Aldgate.  And now, now after all
these years, Allan, here am I, buying the very house, the
very house, my boy, where my great-grandfather was under
gardener and my great-grandmother was lady's maid.
Wonderful, isn't it?  Wonderful the way of things, Allan?"

"Wonderful!" Allan said dreamily.  "Very wonderful—the
way of things—Father——"  He turned suddenly on
Sir Josiah, "This—this marriage of mine——"

"Well, what about it?"

"It—it must go on—there's no way——"

Sir Josiah stared, his round face grew redder, it turned
purple.  "Way," he shouted, "to what?  Are you going to
kick against it now?  Are you going to, to turn everything
down now?  But—but you can't do it—you can't do it!  If
you do I'll never forgive you, never to my dying day and
after and then—think of her ladyship—Lady Kathleen, do
you mean you want to back out of it, Allan, now?"

Allan did not answer, he stared out of the window, he did
not see the gloomy London Square, he saw a garden, sweet
with flowers and down the paved pathway a little maid with
sunkissed hair and eyes as blue as the Heavens came tripping
towards him.

"Allan, Allan," she said, "my dear, I love you so!"

"Allan you—you can't do it!"  Sir Josiah's old voice
trembled, he came and put a hand on Allan's shoulder.  "It—it
isn't as if it was only a promise to me, to me now, it's a
promise to her, you can't shame and disgrace her—Lady
Kathleen—you can't—by—by Heaven you can't!  Allan,
it isn't a thing that even I'd do, much less a gentleman like
you!"

"I understand, father, I understand that, it—it must go
on, I shall not back out of it as you say—it shall go on!"

"Ah!" Sir Josiah said, "ah, a lady, an Earl's daughter,
Lady Kathleen Homewood of Homewood Manor, that sounds
good, Allan boy, eh?  Sounds good, don't it?  I can hear
myself saying it at the Club—my daughter-in-law, Lady
Kathleen Homewood!  No, you can't back out of it now,
Allan, I'd never forgive you if you did—Besides, why should
you?  Last night, you weren't against it, Allan——"

"Last night," Allan said, "last night——" he paused.
How far away seemed last night!  Sir Josiah was watching
him anxiously and Allan smiled.

"Yes, I understand, it must go on now, but—last
night—was last night!"





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.. _`"KATHLEEN—DO YOU REMEMBER?"`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


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   "KATHLEEN—DO YOU REMEMBER?"

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My lady sat with her chin in her hand, her dressing
gown had slipped over the polished loveliness of her
white shoulders, on which the soft dark brown of her hair
fell in heavy glistening curls.

She had sat here for many minutes, her thoughts away
in the past.  Now she stirred, she sighed a little, she roused
herself and laughed wearily, then reached out a white hand
and took a ring from the dressing table.  A magnificent ring,
one of immense value, a ring worthy of her and of the man
who had put it on her finger, yet she doubted if Allan had
bought it.  It looked in its ostentatious magnificence more
like his father, somehow, and she shivered suddenly and cast
the ring aside.  And then laughed again a queer, uncertain,
trembling little laugh that might have sounded naturally
enough from the lips of a maiden of eighteen, but which came
a little oddly from the lips of a woman of twenty-eight.

But to-night her eyes were soft and misty.  To-night
memory was there, tapping at the door of her soul.  "You
can't shut me out," it seemed to say, "close the door, bolt it,
bar it against me, but you can't shut out memory, you never,
never can!  Fight against me, but I am always here, always
ready to come to you—a chance word, a chance gesture, the
scent of a flower or a perfume, the music of an old song and
though you think you have locked the door against me, see
I am back again!  Listen, even the ticking of the clock—the
little clock on your mantel.  Kathleen, do you remember how
the clock ticked that night when you—you and he——"

She threw out her hands suddenly, she rose, a tall,
queenly young figure.

"The past is past, is dead and will remain dead!" she said,
then she crossed the room, and very resolutely she unlocked
a drawer, from the drawer took a little steel japanned box,
she unlocked it and from it took a packet of letters.

Should she read them before she destroyed them?  Should
she?  No, and yet she hesitated—the strength and resolution
of a moment ago were gone, she sat down and toyed with
the ribbon that held the papers together.

"Just for the last time," she said, "and then I shall
forget them utterly!"  So she untied the ribbon and took the
letters one by one and read them and the misty look in her
eyes seemed to grow more soft and more gentle and there
came a sweet womanly tenderness to her lips that the world
until now had thought a little hard and contemptuous.

Is there not some little packet of old letters jealously
hidden away in your possession?  Haven't you treasured just one
or two?  Open the packet with reverent fingers, touch them
gently, for here are holy things!

A child's unformed hand, the unsteady letters yet so neatly
and so carefully made.  Can't you see him as he makes them?
that little chubby fist, that somehow cannot hold the pen in
just the way the master says it must be held.

Can't you see the little curly head leaning a little to one
side?  Slowly he forms the great round "Os" and fashions
the long tailed "Ys" and does his honest best to keep them
fair and square upon the pencilled line that even now you
can see ruled faintly on the old paper?

A child's letter, a little odd glove, a lock of yellow hair,
his hair!  Only these, but they bring back memories, don't
they?  Do you remember—?  Ah, can you forget?  When
you held him so tightly in your arms that day—when he went
away for ever.  Such a great strong fellow, so brave, so
confident of the future!  How he looked into that future with
clear shining eyes, eyes that were unafraid.

"Dear, it is all right, I shall come back to you, safe and
sound!"  So he said, and then the waiting, the agony of it,
the long suspense, the silence, the hourly prayers to Almighty
God that all might be well with him—and then—then the
news—that came at last!

And all that you have now is the child's letter—the little
glove and the curl of yellow hair.

And there are other letters, yours, Kathleen.  I wonder did
he think when he wrote them ten long years ago that you
would be sitting here to-night reading them over yet once
again?  I wonder, did he think that those letters of his could
bring the tears to your eyes, Kathleen?  Did he dream when
in his eagerness and his passion and his love for you, as he
penned them, never weighing his words, only eager to pour
out his soul to you, that you would keep them and cherish
them all these years, Kathleen, only to destroy them at last?

The unsteady writing fades and is gone.  Your eyes
through a mist of tears see a young, ardent, boyish face,
you see eyes that plead and are filled with a hope that fights
valiantly against despair.  Those hastily scrawled, passionate
words are as voices that come to you out of the past,
voices that remind you of how he loved you once—when
you were but eighteen!

There came from the little clock on, the mantel a whirring
sound, then it struck One—Two—She lifted her head for a
moment, there was a step on the stairs outside, her father
come home from the Club, he passed her door.

A mist was before her eyes, the letters were all blurred
and indistinct, the writing—she could no longer see, yet, she
knew every word written there.  How many times had she
read them over and over and yet over again!

And what need to read them when, she knew them so well?
Would she ever forget them?  So many pages, so closely
written and yet all that had been said, could have been said
in but three words, three short words, "I love you!"

So she sat there with the letters all in a heap in her lap,
and her head bowed.

Memory—Memory was monarch of all to-night.  Memory
ruled and reigned supreme.

That night, do you remember, Kathleen?  The night when
the raindrops pattered on the glossy leaves of the magnolia
that grew beneath your window?  Do you remember how he
stood there looking up at you, the light from your lamp on
his face?  Do you remember?  And that day, the day you
met him by the end of the lane and put your hand in his and
went with him down the long road?  Do you remember?
And then again——

She moved suddenly, she flung her head back, her face
was white and drawn and there was agony in her eyes.  She
rose suddenly and thrust the letters into the empty grate,
she bent over them and struck a match and watched them
burn.

And then, when the last was turned to grey and black
ash, she went back to the table and took up the great
expensive, glittering ring, the ring that represented more money
than He had ever owned.  And so she turned it over and over
between her white fingers and laughed suddenly.  But the
laughter was not good to hear.





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.. _`HOW SIR JOSIAH OPENED HIS PURSE`:

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   CHAPTER IX


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   HOW SIR JOSIAH OPENED HIS PURSE

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Sir Josiah garaged his two thousand guinea car in
the old coach house of "The Fighting Cocks" Inn.  He
ordered a sumptuous repast in that antique house of call, the
best and the oldest wines must be brought up from the
cellars for him.

A keen money getter, yet he was at heart a very generous
man.  The respect, the bobbing curtseys, the doffed hats and
smiling faces here at Little Stretton delighted him.  He
felt just a thrill of regret that he had bought the old place
for Allan rather than for himself.  He had an idea that he
would make a far better and more imposing Lord of the
Manor than Allan.

In the City of London he was "somebody," but here in
little quiet out of the world Little Stretton, he was
"everybody."

Mr. Dalabey fawned on him, he fetched and carried, he
was hat in hand.  A cunning, artful fellow Mr. Dalabey,
he sized Sir Josiah up, he called him "Squire," and Sir
Josiah glowed with satisfaction.

"A good feller, that Dalabey, a sensible man!" Sir
Josiah said to Allan, "a useful feller!"  It puzzled the
Baronet that his son refused to accompany him on his many
trips to Little Stretton and Homewood.  Allan went once,
and on that once he was moody and silent.  While his father
stamped about the house and thrust the blade of his pen-knife
into suspicious woodwork, Allen held aloof, he went
out into the old garden by himself and stood staring at the
battered nymph, whose slim stone figure was reflected in the
dark pool.  He sat down, on the old mossy stone seat in the
great circle about the sundial and stared at the weeds and
decay, and somehow the desolation of the place seemed to
creep into his heart.  He was glad to get away.

He loved his father, he knew what a fine old fellow he was
at heart, what noble and generous impulses he was capable
of.  But to-day his father's loud self-confident voice, his
intense self-satisfaction, his huge importance, Dalabey's
servility all irked him.  He was intensely glad to leave
Homewood behind him and thereafter he always found some
excuse that prevented him from accompanying Sir Josiah on
his many visits to Homewood.

So the Baronet came and gave his orders to Dalabey and
to the builders and decorators and the gardeners, and he
spent money like water.

"When I do things, I don't half do things, eh Dalabey?"
Sir Josiah enquired.

"No, that you don't, Squire, beg your pardon, Sir Josiah!"
said Dalabey.  "Never was such a free and open handed
gentleman, sir!"

"Your Mr. Van Norden wouldn't have done the thing in
such style, eh?" enquired Sir Josiah.

"No, sir, not to be thought of, not for a moment, Squire!"

It meant thousands, yet what did thousands matter to Sir
Josiah with his hundreds of thousands?  He spent and spent,
he was extravagant.  Before, as he said himself, one could
say "Jack Robinson," he had an army of workpeople slaving
at the place, and he walked about the house and garden and
saw his men doing his work and drawing his pay, and for
the first time in his life he felt himself a really great man.

And once—once his forebears had delved and dug this
very soil that was now his own!  Once for a few miserable
shillings a week had they turned over the sweet brown earth
over which he was lord and master.

In Little Stretton, in Homewood, at Bargate and Bushcorner,
and all the little villages round about, there were
smiling faces and curtseys for him and he was utterly
unconscious that one pair of blue eyes grew hard and bitter
and one red lipped mouth curled with contempt and dislike,
that in one soft little breast a usually tender little heart was
filled with hate for him.  For this was the mab who had
bought "her" garden, and who was spoiling it, spoiling it
so that it would never, never again, be as it hud been.  With
one wave of his thick hand he had banished all those dear
ghosts of the past who had been her friends, even more her
friends than the honest, red faced rustics who were very
much real flesh and blood, and who regarded her with
commiserating eyes as a "queer" maid.

Oozing satisfaction and gold, Sir Josiah was beloved of
everyone save of this unreasonable little maid, who hated his
jolly round red face and loathed the sound of his loud and
domineering voice.

"Get some of them old trees cut down and out of the way,
Dalabey, get all this tangle rooted out of it and get that wall
pointed, yes that's what it wants—pointing, make it look
smart—and Dalabey——"

"Yes, Squire?"

"How about some broken class along the top of the walls?
We don't want people climbing over and trespassing, Dalabey!"

"Certainly, Squire, broken glass!"

So on moonlight nights broken glass, securely set in
cement, glittered and twinkled like a line of frost along the
top of the walls and the little maid looked at it with bursting
heart and a terrible sense of loss.

"Very sullen, not to say quiet, my granddarter du be
getting," said Mrs. Hanson to Mrs. Colley, her neighbour.

"Maids du get that way," said Mrs. Colley.  "'Tis a home
of her own her be pining for—gone eighteen your maid be,
Mrs. Hanson?"

"Gone eighteen Feb'ry last," said Mrs. Hanson.

"Then time it is her was married and in a home of her
own, with, things to look after to keep her hands and her
mind full!  Marriage be the right and proper and nat'ral
thing for young maids of her years——"

"And her not wanting for chances," said Mrs. Hanson;
"why she hev but to hold up her finger and there be a
dozen ready to run to she!"

Mrs. Colley wagged her head.  "And who be they?" she
asked jealously, for she had a granddaughter of her own
who was as yet unappropriated.  "There be Tom Spinner,
who du be spending his evenings in the bar of the Three
Ploughs, and Bob Domer, a nice ne'er-do-well he, and
young Frank Peasgood as du make eyes at every maid he
sees.  Why I did order him the door myself when he would
have come a-courting my 'Lizbeth."

"And there be Abram Lestwick," said Mrs. Hanson, "who
be a fine and proper young man, reg'lar to Church, one as
walks in fear of the Lord and no beer drinker, nor smoker
neither, and a steady worker with a nice cottage of his
own, and standing high with Farmer Patcham.  Aye, there
be Abram Lestwick as would kneel down and kiss the very
floor my maid treads on!"

Mrs. Colley sniffed.  She had had designs on Abram
Lestwick herself for her 'Lizbeth, but Abram had always
stolidly passed her inviting door by and never had be given a
second glance to sallow faced, black haired, shrewish tempered
'Lizbeth Colley.

"Too mysterious he be and too quiet and sullen like, I
count him, for a young man.  I like young men as enjoys
life, not such as walks about with a book in his pocket and
scarce ever takes his eyes from the ground.  Fair and square
and open I du like young men to be, Mrs. Hanson, and as for
your Abram Lestwick, I give him to you, I du!"

"Very gen'rous you be, givin' what bain't yours to give!"
said Mrs. Hanson with spirit; "and thank you kindly, I be
sure, Mrs. Colley!"

So they parted, not the best of friends, but into
Mrs. Hanson's mind had come an image of Betty settling down
with Abram Lestwick as her partner, and that same evening
she opened fire on Betty with:

"A very proper young man be Abram Lestwick, a pity
'tis there bain't a few more like he!"

Betty made no answer.

"And very frequent he du pass this cottage, whiles round
by Perry's medder be the nearest and nighest way for he."

"Well, what about Abram Lestwick, Grandmother?"

"I du believe, Betty, he hev serious intentions," said the
old lady, "and a nice little cottage, well furnished and steady
money coming in, not less than thirty-five shillings every
week, as would make a maid happy and comfortable."

Betty sprang to her feet, her face flushed, her eyes seemed
to dart points of light.

"What do 'ee mean, Grandmother?  Be 'ee goading I to
marry Abram Lestwick?  Do 'ee want to get rid o' I, is that
it?"

"Bless me, my maid, what tantrums 'ee do fly into!" cried
the astonished old body.  "Wherever did 'ee get thy temper
from I don't know, a peaceful soul thy mother was and thy
father being my own son, was as easy a man as ever trod
and here be 'ee, my maid, with a hot temper, of which I be
ashamed, and down on your knees and ask God to forgive 'ee
and make a better maid of 'ee!"

"I shan't!" said Betty.

Mrs. Hanson rose: "'Tis the first time as ever 'ee said
shan't to me, Betty Hanson, and after this I be determined
and my mind be made up—marry Abram Lestwick 'ee shall!"

"No, no!"

"Or out through that door do 'ee go, never was there a
maid so bad and so ungrateful as 'ee be.  Go to your room
and consider of things, Betty Hanson, till 'ee be come to a
better frame of mind!"





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.. _`CONFIDENCES`:

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   CHAPTER X


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   CONFIDENCES

.. vspace:: 2

When Sir Josiah had enquired of Mr. Dalabey how
long it would take to put Homewood into the order
in which he desired to see it, Mr. Dalabey had scratched his
head.

"Three months, maybe four, and I shouldn't he s'prised,
seeing how powerful a lot there du be to du, no I shouldn't
be s'prised, Squire, if it warn't five months, aye, all five
months I should say it would be!"

"And now, listen to me, Dalabey," said Sir Josiah, "two
months I say, and not a minute longer, two mouths I give
you and if the last workman isn't out of the house and the
last bit of timber and papering and what not in and done
with, the garden straight and all the rest of it, then I'll get
someone else to do my work for me, Dalabey!"

"Har!" said Dalabey.

"And it's not money I'm stinting you of, my man, get
twenty more men at work on the place, I don't care, get as
many as you can handle, but two months is the time I give
you and then I clear you all out, lock, stock and barrel.
So get busy, Dalabey my man, if you wish to remain in my
good graces."

Dalabey got busy.  He hired more painters and carpenters
and joiners, more labourers and gardeners, stone masons and
brick layers till Homewood was given over to a small
industrial army, of which Dalabey was the indefatigable
general.

There was no slacking at Homewood, Dalabey saw to that,
he was here, there and everywhere.  He himself was doing
very well, he had no cause to complain, he charged his own
time very handsomely and there were other pickings
besides.  But he worked, he was honest at least in that, and
he made the others work.  A week did wonders, a fortnight
shewed an amazing change, at the end of the first month
Sir Josiah nodded approval.

"Getting to be something like shipshape, Dalabey," he
said.  "And you got talking to me about five months, here
we ain't been five weeks on the job and look you——"

"You be right, Squire, and I were wrong," said Dalabey
humbly.

In one thing at least Dalabey was to be highly complimented.
He was out to "restore" the old place, to make it
look as nearly like it had been in the time of the Elmacotts
as possible.  He introduced no newfangled ideas and
innovations, no modern improvements, except of course the power
plant and the dynamo and the huge collection of storage cells
which were to light the old house with electricity.  Except
for the electric lighting outfit, the old house was to look
so like its old own and original self that had an eighteenth
century Elmacott come to life and walked in through the
hall door, he would not have been in the least surprised by
anything he saw.

In the garden Dalabey had a very able lieutenant in old
Markabee.

"Restore," said Dalabey, "find out all the lines of the old
beds and borders and replace 'em, clean up the stone work,
but not too much.  You got to remember, Markabee, as time
du meller things, an old garden this be and an old garden it
hev got to remain, mark that, Markabee.  It have got to look
like, so be as if a gentleman in powdered wig and silk
stockings and maybe a sword at his side were to come strolling
down yon path, a-taking snuff out of his box and walking
with a lady in hoops, Markabee, and patches and her hair all
done high and whitened, as—as you wouldn't take, it to be
the Fifth of November, Markabee, you get the hang of my
meaning?"

"I du!" said Markabee, and he did his work well.

Inch by inch the old ground was reclaimed, the old yew
hedge was clipped and trimmed, till it began to assume a
faint suggestion of its once fanciful shape, the grass was
scythed and weeded and patched and rolled and mowed.  The
weeds were torn up from the crevices in the old pathway of
stone, but Markabee was artist enough to leave many a
flower blooming where perhaps a flower should not have been.

The stonemasons and the rest would have pulled down and
replaced the little stone nymph, but Dalabey ordered them off
sternly.

"You leave yon maid alone, her be in keeping wi' the old
place, her be!  Too true some o' they weeds might be cleared
off the pond, Markabee, but there be a line beyond which no
one must go, so let the stone maid bide!"

So the little nymph was left in her old place, and the
sunlight kissed her white stone shoulders, and dappled the
slender little stone body with splashes of vivid brightness,
and, little by little, the old garden came back to its own
again.  The weeds were all gone and the flowers bloomed,
and the June sunshine and the June showers made the
grass green and pleasant to the sight.

Meanwhile Allan stayed away; he was in London and his
time was not unpleasantly employed.

He was too healthy and too young to brood over what after
all had been merely a dream.  It had been wonderfully real
and wonderfully tender and beautiful while it had lasted.
He had come back to reality with a sense of loss and a
heartache for the little maid who had looked at him with such
love in her blue eyes, who had put her arms about, his neck
and called him her dear and kissed his eyes.  Very, very
real it had been and for many a day and many a night he
could not put it out of his memory.

But this was to-day and there was all the world about
him and he was to be married to a girl who was beautiful
and good, and for whom he felt a liking and admiration that
bordered on real affection.

Most of all he felt sorry for her, why he hardly knew,
sometimes when she did not know that he was looking at her,
there was a sadness about her eyes, a sad pensive little droop
to her lips, which was gone all in a moment if he spoke to
her.

There was a very comfortable understanding between them.
They were going to be man and wife very soon, in the natural
course of events they would have to live their lives together.
They were beginning that life with mutual regard, liking and
friendship.  Love and passion were entirely absent.

"I am old, Allan," Kathleen said, "much, much older than
you dear, in every way, not only in years, but——" she
paused.

"In suffering and knowledge!" she might have said, but
did not.

"You will never be old, I think," he said, he took her
hand.  "Kathleen, we understand one another.  I—I'm a
clumsy fellow, clumsy and slow of speech.  I belong to a
different world from yours!"

She shook her head.

"I am not going to apologise for my people, for in my
heart I am proud of them.  They were nothing and nobodies
and they have made a place for themselves in the world—I
love my father, honour and respect him, though I know, I
know that you in your heart cannot like him."

"Your father is kind and generous, mine cynical and
selfish, I think that you are richer in this matter than I am,
Allan, but——"

It was the first night of a new play.  London was still full,
the season had not waned, the new play was dull and
lifeless, the audience was yawning consumedly.  These two had
retired to the back of the box which Lord Gowerhurst had
quitted just now and found more interest in discussing their
own affairs than in following the fortunes of the characters
on the boards.

Kathleen was looking wonderfully, regally beautifully
to-night, and Allan was looking—what he was—an honest, clean
living, stalwart young Englishman, whose dress clothes sat
well on his shapely body.  Son of the people he might be,
but he was not a man to feel shame for.

"I do not disguise anything from myself, Allan, nor from
you.  I want to feel that you are my friend, that you are
the friend I can come to and open my heart and speak to
plainly as I might to one who is truly and indeed my friend!"

He pressed her hand by way of answer.

"I've wanted this opportunity to speak to you, it has come
unexpectedly, but I shall speak now," she paused.  "Our
marriage was only a bargain, a very sordid bargain, and
it—it hurt me at first, it hurt me a great deal.  I—I hated
myself, despised myself for agreeing to it, but since then,
since I have come to know you better and understand you
better, Allan, I think we can make something more of our
lives than most others similarly placed might.  I do not love
you, my dear, and I know that you do not love me—No,
don't speak yet, Allan, let me say what I have to say!
Years ago there was someone—I was scarcely more than a
child and I loved him very, very truly, very deeply.  He was
poor and so was I, marriage was impossible.  He—went,
away, I have never seen him since and I shall never see him
again—the night we became engaged—you and I—I burned
his letters.  It hurt a little, Allan, but I did it, dear,
because I want to come to you without a secret on my soul.  I
want to lay my heart bare to you.  I want to look you in the
face, to take your hand, knowing that I am keeping nothing
back from you, knowing there is no secret that might lead to
bitterness and anger and perhaps even to dislike.  Though
I feel very, very old sometimes, Allan, I know that I am
young yet; we are both young, there are many years before
us in the natural course of events.  All those years we must
spend together, so we will be truthful and frank and honest
with each other and keeping our own self-respect, dear, we
shall keep our respect for one another."

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

"You are a good, sweet, woman, Kathleen!" he said.

She laughed a little, very softly, "And you, Allan, have
you nothing to tell me?"

"Nothing!" he said, yet hesitated and smiled to himself.

"I think there is something——" she said, "was there
never even for a little while, someone!"

"Yes," he said, "a girl who called me her dear, who looked
at me with loving tender blue eyes, who put her arms about
my neck and kissed me——"

"Oh Allan, and yet——"

"Wait!" he said, he smiled, he still held her hand.  "To
me she was the most wonderful, the most lovely thing I ever
saw, I loved her with all my heart——"

Kathleen would have drawn her hand away, gently, yet
have drawn it away, but he, smiling down at her, would not
let the little hand go.

"But she was not real, she was only a dream maiden.  I
never thought to tell anyone, Kathleen, but will you listen
to me?"

"Yes!"

And so, still holding her hand, he told her.

"That was a very wonderful dream, Allan," she said.

"It was a very wonderful dream, and when I looked about
me and saw all the weeds and the desolation, then I felt as
if I had lost something—as if——"

"I understand!" she said.  She was pensive and thoughtful.
"What can it mean?  Why should such a dream be sent
to you?  There was some meaning behind it, something—I
wish I knew!"

"It was only a dream, and I am trying to forget it,
perhaps I have nearly forgotten it—the sense of loss is passing
away—not quite——"

She looked at him.  "It will never quite pass, I think,"
she said.  "Allan," she hesitated, "Allan, if—if it ever
became real, if someone else, someone who awakened your
heart ever came into your life——"

"I should remember that you are——"

"No, no, listen, I want you to promise me something, to
promise me on your honour, and I know that I can trust
that—if such a thing comes to you, if the real love that may
come that comes into nearly every man's life does come—Allan,
will you tell me, frankly, as one friend to another,
will you tell me, dear?"

"I promise," he said, "and you, Kathleen!"

"It—it came—it can never come again—I was only a
child, but he was all my world.  I have never seen him
since and shall never see him again——"

"But if you did—then will you tell me, will you be less
frank with me than I with you?"

"No!" she said.  "I will tell you, I promise, if—but it
never, never will, still, if—if it should—then I promise,
always we will be frank with one another!"

"Always!" he said.

Lord Gowerhurst opened the door of the box and closed it
very softly behind him.

"Ah!" he said, "quite so; you are wise, the play is not the
thing—it is rubbish—I am sorry for the author, I am sorry
for the management, but as usual I am sorry most of all for
myself.  You two young people have something more
interesting to discuss.  I don't blame you!  No, hang me, I
don't blame you!  Now I'll confess, I met Lumeyer, an
excellent fellow, one who knows of good things, he put me on
to one 'The Stelling Reef Gold Mine,' shares bound to go up.
I've a good mind to have a flutter.  By the way, Allan,
where's your father?  Our worthy and excellent Baronet!"

Allan flushed.  He always did when his Lordship spoke
of his father.  Unintentional it might be, but there was
always a suggestion of a sneer in the cultivated voice of the
man whose pockets were at this moment supplied with the
Baronet's money.

"My father is at Little Stretton to-day and staying over
night, he is very busy down there at Homewood, sir, our—my—our
future home—he takes a great interest in it and is
doing the place up thoroughly!"

"An excellent man, you're lucky to have such a father!"

"I never lose sight of that fact, my lord!" Allan said
gravely.

"Quite right, quite right—would to Heaven——" his
lordship said tragically, "would to Heaven Kathleen could say
the same!  She can't, she can't, sir, too deuced honest to tell
lies!  She is like her sainted Mother!  Bless me this drivel
doesn't seem to be shaping for a finish.  Supposing we clear
out, eh?  What about a snack of supper at Poligninis?"

Kathleen rose, "I would prefer to go home," she said, "I
am tired to-night!"  She looked at Allan, her eyes were very
bright, very kind and friendly.

"My dear child," said his lordship, "at Poligninis they
have some eighty-seven Heidsick, which I regard practically
as my own property.  It is never offered to casual customers.
Polignini is an excellent fellow who appreciates my taste and
keeps it for me," he paused.

"I am tired and I shall go home!" Kathleen said briefly.

"I will see you home!" Allan said.

His lordship shrugged his shoulders.  "So be it, I will go
to my lonely caravanserie and a frugal meal.  I'm an old
fellow, an old fellow, I realise that youth must be served!"  He
waved a white hand.  "Youth, youth!" he said.  "How
lightly we hold it when it is ours, how we even resent it, and
how, when it is lost to us forever, do we worship and yearn
and long for it.  Oh the happy, goutless indigestionless days
of our long since fled youth, how precious they were!  And
how ill spent!  Give me my lost youth back again, as I think
it was Faust, remarked, and what would I do with it?  I am
afraid, my dears, I would do with it exactly as I did with it
before.  We never learn wisdom!  Adieu mes enfants, bon
repos, my Kathleen!  May angels guard thee and bring happy
dreams!  Allan, dear lad, good night, my respectful
compliments to the Baronet, an old man, my dears, and a lonely;
I realise that youth is impatient of garrulous though well
intentioned age!  Good night once again!"  He waved his
hand and the box door closed on him, he was gone.

Kathleen sighed a little, she looked at Allan with a queer
smile on her lips.

"Yes, I think Allan," she said, "you are more fortunate
than I, and now, dear, I am tired, I am going home—to
bed!"





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.. _`IN WHICH SIR JOSIAH PROVES HIMSELF A GENTLEMAN`:

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   CHAPTER XI


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   IN WHICH SIR JOSIAH PROVES HIMSELF A GENTLEMAN

.. vspace:: 2

St. George's, Hanover Square, had always been at
the back of Sir Josiah's mind.  His lordship had
favoured St. Margaret's, Westminster.  July was nearly out,
London was emptying, if not emptied of people who really
count, which was a great disappointment to Sir Josiah.  But
Homewood was nearly complete, the old gentleman walked
through the transformed and glorious rooms, he looked
through sound windows into a garden that was a delight to
see with never a weed to mar its perfection.  He took
Montague Davenham, the celebrated art dealer, down with him to
see the place.

"There you are, you ought to have seen it two months ago,
you'd never believe, a ruin it was!" said Sir Josiah.  "Fairly
hopeless it looked, said I, keep to the old lines!  It's an
old house and you've got to make it look like an old house,
but a well kept one, renew and restore!  If you take away a
piece of old moulding that's gone rotten, put back a new
piece shaped the same, nothing new, that was my instructions,
and they have carried 'em out, and now the rest's up to you,
Mr. Davenham.  I don't pretend to know what I don't know.
But I do know this, that if you were to put say bamboo
furniture and Japanese fans and umbrellas in this here old room
with that ceiling and them panelled walls, why they'd be
out of place, you wouldn't go and make a mistake like that!
I've got money, I don't deny, and this house has been a bit
of a hobby with me.  I want to see it looking like it should
look, so just take a look round, make up your mind and put
the right stuff into it!"

"My dear sir, if every rich man were as wise as you, the
world would certainly look a great deal more pleasant than
it does.  The house will form an admirable setting for
furnishings of the right period.  I compliment you on the
manner in which the work has been done.  I couldn't have done
it better myself, the garden in particular is delightful,
simply delightful!"

"Markabee here, done it, under Dalabey, a useful man.
Dalabey, I don't know what I'd done without him, but it's
ready for you now.  Mr. Davenham, get ahead, get the place
fixed up as it should be, the right furniture, the right
decorations.  Keep the price reasonable, I don't say stint, nor I
don't say launch out too wildly.  I leave it to you!"

"It is a commission that I accept with a great deal of
pleasure.  I think and hope that I shall please you and at a
not too terrible expenditure!"

"Get ahead with it!" Sir Josiah said.

"Fine feller Davenham!" he said to Allan.  "Knows his
business; one thing you'll have a house that you needn't
be ashamed to shew to anyone, a fit setting, my boy, a fit
setting for a very sweet and lovely young lady, bless her
heart, and a lucky fellow you are!"

"To have such a father!" Allan said, in all honest sincerity.

"Bless you, bless you, it's been a pleasure, I don't know
when I've put myself heart and soul into a thing like I've
done into this!  I'm almost sorry I've put it in Davenham's
hands now, but then he knows what's right and I don't.
Now about the wedding, Allan!  His lordship and me was
talking last night.  Something about St. Margaret's,
Westminster, he said.  'I beg your pardon, my lord,' I said.
'St. Georges, Hanover Square, if you don't mind.'  I've set my
heart on it, Allan; I always had an idea I'd like you to be
married at Hanover Square; there's something solid about the
very name of it, right down respectable!" he paused.  "Then,
for the reception afterwards, I'm for taking the Whitehall
Rooms at——"

"Father, I want to speak to you!" Allan said.  "I—I hate
to disappoint you, but in this matter I think the first
person to be considered is Kathleen!"

"Bless me, and so it is!  What she says goes!"

"She wishes the wedding to be very quiet, very quiet
indeed; she wants only our own selves there, my father and
hers and no one besides!"

"Why—why, bless me, bless my soul!  You don't mean
to say——"  Sir Josiah's face was almost pitiful.

"She asked me last night, she begged me to side with her
and uphold her wishes and I promised.  I—I know, father,
it's a disappointment to you, but we can't go against her,
can we?"

"No, no, we can't go against her, that's right, right enough,
no we can't go against her—never think of such a thing, I
wouldn't, but I'd a thought that a young girl with all her
friends would have liked——"

"It cannot be too quiet for her!  And I promised to speak
to you about it.  Her father is very angry, unnecessarily
angry, he spoke to her sharply, almost rudely in my presence
last night, in a way——"  Allan paused, "that my father
would not have spoken to a woman!" he added proudly.

Sir Josiah gripped Allan's hand.  "You—you're right, the
little girl shall have her way, tell her; give her my love,
Allan, and tell her what she says goes.  As for his Lordship,
his Lordship can—can go to the Dickens——"

Allan smiled.  "I think his Lordship has been making for
that quarter all his life!"

It was a bitter blow to the Baronet, but he took it like a
man.  He had counted on a gorgeous spectacle, for which he
had been very willing to find the money.  He had counted
on portraits of the bride and bridegroom and bridegroom's
father, to say nothing of the bride's father in the fashionable
illustrated papers, as well as the daily illustrated press.  He
had cut out paragraphs from the *Times* and the *Morning
Post*.

.. vspace:: 2

"A marriage has been arranged between Mr. Allan
Homewood, only son of Sir Josiah Homewood, Bart., of
Homewood, Sussex, and the Lady Kathleen Nora Stanwys, only
daughter of the Earl of Gowerhurst."

.. vspace:: 2

He had cut out these news items and carried them about
with him and shewn them to Jobson and Cuttlewell and
Smith and Priestly (of Priestly, Nicholson and Coombe),
and others of his City cronies.  How proud he had been of
them, how he had beamed and swelled with pride!  He had
hinted that he might ask—might possibly—ask Priestley and
the rest to witness the ceremony.  It had not been an actual
promise, but next door to it, made by him in a moment of
joyous enthusiasm following a good lunch and a bottle of
excellent port.

And now the marriage was to be a small quiet affair, it
was a blow, but he took it like a man!  He sought out
Kathleen, he took her hand and held it in his moist palm.

"My dear, Allan's told me, he says you're all for a quiet
wedding; well I did reckon on something a bit slap up and
stylish and like that, but if you're set on a quiet wedding,
my dear——"

"I am, I want it very much, Allan understands," she said.

"Then, bless you, my dear, so it shall be, as quiet as you
like!  It's for you to say, what you say goes with me,
Allan told you, that's right—why tears—my dear?  Tears!
Bless me, my lady, my dear, don't cry!"

"You are very good to me, now I understand why Allan is—is
what he is, the fine man he is!  He is like his father!"

"Like—like me—bless my soul, Allan like me, my love!
My lady I mean—I'm a common old chap!  Allan's a gentleman,
I made up my mind I'd do my best for him and I done
it—I'm what I am, my King, God bless him, saw fit to make a
"Sir" of me, but that don't make a gentleman of me, my
dear, and I know it!"

"I am going to be frank with you, truthful," Kathleen
said.  "I am going to—to hurt you perhaps, and then I am
going to try and make amends for it—" She paused.  "When
my father first spoke of my marriage, my marriage with
Allan, I shuddered at the thought of it—not because of
Allan, but because of you!"

"I know, I know," he said sadly.  "I ain't everyone's
money, but——"

"No, listen, I looked down on you.  I thought you were
vulgar and purseproud and boastful, and, oh, I thought a
thousand evil things of you and pretended to shudder when
your name was mentioned!"

"My dear, I know, I know; don't, tell me more—I know!"

"But I am going to tell you more, I am going to tell you
this!"  She caught his hand and held it.  "It isn't what you
have given and what you are giving us, it isn't money—oh
you know that, don't you?  I was wrong, wrong all the
time!  I know you better now and I like and respect you
and I envy Allan his father—yes, envy him his father and
so I have told him and—please kiss me because I am going
to be your daughter, aren't I?  And because I want you to
like me and be my friend!"

"God bless me!" he said.  "God bless my—oh, my lady,
my, my dear—Kiss you?  I'd be proud and happy!"

She laughed a little, she held up her face, there were tears
on her lashes.  "Then kiss me, Allan's father!" she said.

My Lord had counted on an expensive and fashionable
wedding, even more than Sir Josiah had.  He had specially
ordered a frock coat of a peculiar and delicate shade of
grey, which would become him handsomely.  That he would
easily outshine everyone present he knew with certainty.
He would give his daughter away, everyone would remark
on his appearance, the exquisite sensibility that would mark
his every action.  They would not compare him with the
Baronet, it was no question of comparison.  People would
see with their own eyes how immeasurably superior he was
to Sir Josiah.

That the limelight would be mainly on himself, His Lordship
had decided.  He had even rehearsed the part he would
play.  He would be the tender, loving father, heart-broken
and bereaved at losing his darling child, and yet he would
bear up bravely, carry himself proudly, with a touch of
tender gaiety.  His speech at the reception he had written
and re-written—and now he was in a furious passion,
shaking with rage, he sought out Kathleen and swore
viciously at her.

"What devil's tomfoolery is this?" he shouted.  "What
new pose have we here?  What's this confounded rotten,
absurd business about, a twopenny ha'penny housemaid's
wedding, hey?  Haven't I asked, unofficially of course, but
asked all the same a hundred people?  Haven't Bellendon
and the Cathcarts and—and George Royhills and his wife
practically delayed their departure from Town for this
wedding, and now—now what rotten nonsense have you got in
your head now, hey?"

She eyed him steadily.  "Please don't swear at me,
father?" she said.  "There is no need.  I asked Allan——"

"Asked Allan, hang and confound Allan!  Ain't I anyone?
Don't I count?  I'm only your father!  Haven't I
planned this for you, haven't I cherished the idea of making
you a rich woman, haven't I——?"  He paused, floundering
wildly in his fury.

"I asked Allan to humor me, I wanted a very quiet wedding,
he was quite willing, as eager as I almost.  He spoke
to his father and his father has agreed——"

"His father! that confounded old City shark, that
common, vulgar old brute, who—who——"

"Whom you are very pleased and glad to take money
from, who has treated me with every kindness and respect
and gave way at once to my wishes, though they were opposed
to his own.  Yes, a common old man, but generous and kind
and good and—and I could wish, I could wish that my
father was as fine a gentleman!"  And with a stately curtsey,
she left him.

"Well, I'll be damned!" His Lordship said in utter
amazement.





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.. _`THE HANDS OF ABRAM LESTWICK`:

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   CHAPTER XII


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   THE HANDS OF ABRAM LESTWICK

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"You've got my wishes, Abram, you have!" said Mrs. Hanson.

He nodded.  "I know," he said gloomily.

Abram Lestwick was of that curious, foreign type that
one comes on unexpectedly in our English country villages.
He was about thirty-two years of age, five feet nine in height
and of a strong wiry build.  His complexion was swarthy, the
skin sallow and drawn with a strange suggestion of
tightness, over the high and prominent cheek bones.  The eyes
were small, black and very bright and deeply set beneath
heavy brows.  No razor had ever touched the lower part of
his face, which was covered with a thin and straggling
growth of coarse black hair, that could scarcely be described
as a "beard," for so thinly and far apart did the hairs grow
that the contour of a weak chin was clearly visible.

The whole appearance of the man suggested nervous unquiet
and restlessness, which particularly found expression
in the constant agitation of his hands.  He had a restless,
nervous habit of fingering things within his reach.

At this moment he was sitting on the one "easy" chair
at Mrs. Hanson's little parlour.  He had dragged down the
antimacassar that usually adorned the chair back and was
plucking at the threads and rolling the edge of it into a
tight curl.  Mrs. Hanson watched his face; she did not look
at his hands.  There was something hateful about Abram
Lestwick's hands, the fingers were long, flexible and thin,
save at the ends, where they suddenly thickened out and
flattened in a strange, unsightly manner.  But it was their
restlessness, their never ceasing movement that was so
remarkable.  Never for a moment were they still.

Mrs. Hanson, favouring the young man, yet knew she
hated his hands!

"I feel, I du," she said to herself, "as I want to scream
if I set and watch them, but I du know he be a good man
and a hard worker, with no love for the alehouse and reg'lar
to Church and like to make Betty a good husband, and after
all, what du a man's hands matter?  So be as he du work
with them and earn his living honourable and upright in the
state of life which it du please God to call him!"

"I've got your wishes, I hev," he said, "I know that, but
what be the use of your wishes to me, Mrs. Hanson, so I
haven't got Betty's liking?"

"You mustn't take too much notice of the maid; maids be
strange and fickle things, aye and vain they be!  The man
as praises a maid to her face and tells her she be nice looking
be the one as goes best with they!"

"What do 'ee want I to do?" he said sullenly.  "I know
there beain't a maid to compare wi' Betty, there beain't one
as be fit to tie her shoes!"  A dull red crept into his checks,
his voice shook, his fingers worked more nervously and more
rapidly at the destruction of the antimacassar.

"Slow of speech I be," he said thickly, "and difficult it du
be for me to find words—there be a thousand things I would
say to she—they be here all in my brain, but my tongue
won't utter them!  I—I try—" he paused, choking, "I try,
I look at she dumblike and stupid and knowing it, aye, curse
it, knowing it!"  His voice rose, he wrenched at the
antimacassar, he tore a piece away; his fingers were hideous to
see at this moment and Mrs. Hanson looked resolutely at
his face.  Yet she was all the time conscious of the havoc
his fingers were making.

"Do 'ee think I don't want to tell she?  I du!  I du, I
try to, but my tongue won't do me sarvice.  I love her!"  He
paused.  "I love her!"  He said it again.  "Love her,
I mean to tell her, yet like as not her'll laugh at me!"  He
stood up, he flung the antimacassar to the floor, his hands
worked up and down his coat, tearing and fingering at the
buttons and the buttonholes.

"There bain't a maid in all the world like she, not a man
fit to kiss the grounds she treads on.  If a man, a man in
this village did look at she wi' harmful eyes, I'd kill
him!"  He nodded.  "Kill him!"  He said.  "I'd get my hands
on his throat and never let go!  Sometimes when I think
of her I feel that I be going mad like, I see red—red passion
before my eyes.  I tell 'ee, Mrs. Hanson, ma'am, I've got
your wishes, I know, I know!  But I must hev that maid;
no one else shall, as God hears me, no one else shall!"

He went to the door, swinging his arms violently, his
fingers clenched and unclenching.

"I've got your wishes, I hev, I'm glad of them, ma'am.
I thank 'ee, I du—your good wishes, Ma'am, and I be
obliged greatly, I be—and—please don't mind my tempers!
'Tis thinking of the maid makes me so; a peaceful man I
be, and begging your pardon, Ma'am, that I did forget myself,
but 'tis thinking of the maid that—that drives me like
you see me, Ma'am!  But I beg your pardon I du, most
politely!"

He was gone and Mrs. Hanson sighed and stooped and
picked up from the ground the work of her own busy fingers—and
his!  She sighed again, looking at the destruction of it.

"A terribul man he be—in his wrath, fit to kill anyone
belike!" she said.  "All tore it be, all tore and wrenched
and broke apart—powerful fingers he must hev!  Ill would
it go wi' man or maid that angered he and did him hurt!"

Down the road in a tempest of passion went Abram
Lestwick, swinging his arms and muttering to himself like a
madman, and yet at Farmer Patchams, where he worked,
they counted him as a man of an even and equable temper.
A foreman, he never cursed and swore at those under him.
Little things moved him not; his grim, glum, gloomy face
never darkened with rage.  A polite tongue he had, though
a slow one, a steady man and quiet, and yet he himself knew
of the tempest of unbridled passion, the mad tumult that
his brain was capable of.

Rarely did his passions master him before others.  They
had to-night, before Mrs. Hanson, but he had her wishes,
he was safe with her.

"If any man did look at she wi' wishful eyes," he
repeated, "by God's Heaven I would kill him!"  He clenched
at the air with his nervously working hands.  "Get my hands
on his throat and kill him, grip and crash it till the life were
gone out o' he, I would!"

He stopped suddenly, bathed in perspiration, but the fury
gone.  She stood before him in the gloaming of the evening.

"I be come from your house, Betty," he said, and his voice
was mild as a voice may be.  "A pleasant half hour I did
have along wi' your grandmother, Betty!"

"I hope 'ee enjoyed yourself, Abram," she said with a
little contemptuous laugh.

"Aye, I did in a way, for I were talking about 'ee, Betty!"

She frowned.

"Betty!"  He felt as if he were suddenly choking, he
lifted those working, restless hands of his to his own throat.
They made as to tear open his shirt, so that he might breathe
the more freely.

"Betty, do 'ee know what I and your grandmother were
talking about?"

"I doan't and I bain't curus to hear!" she said.  She made
to pass him, but he held his ground.

"'Twere about 'ee!"

"Then 'twere nothing good," she said.  "My left ear were
burning cruel and now I know!"

"Betty," he said, "wait, 'ee shall, 'ee shall I say, wait,
there's summut I must say to 'ee!"

"Let me—pass!"

"No, no."  He caught her by the arm and held her.

"Betty, I du love 'ee so, I want 'ee to wife!  If I don't
have 'ee no one else shall, no one, I swear!  Look at me,
stubborn o' tongue I be—and difficult it be for me to speak
the words I want to say, but 'tis all in this: 'I love 'ee better
than life, better than death.  I love 'ee mad; mad I be, I
tell 'ee wi' love for 'ee!  My maid, I'd die for 'ee and live
for 'ee and kill they as come between us!  Betty, Betty,
give yourself to me—to—cherish—"  He paused, the words
of the marriage service came to him uncertainly, "to hold and
to keep, to cherish until death us du part.  Give yourself to
me, for never and you go through the whole world will 'ee
find a man as loves 'ee half so well!"

"I bain't a marrying maid!" she said.  "And I'll not
marry 'ee or anyone else and 'ee last and leastest of all,
Abram Lcstwick.  I'll never marry 'ee, never, never!"

"And I swear by Heaven 'ee shall!" he cried.  His fingers
were at work on her arm, she felt and hated the touch of
them.  Hateful fingers—long and sinuous, with their horrible,
spatulated tips, they reminded her of writhing snakes,
with their venomous, flattened heads, just that!  She tried
to break away from him.

"A great coward 'ee be, to so beset a maid.  I hate 'ee,
I du.  Let me be, let me be!"

"I'll never let 'ee be, for I du love 'ee mad, mad," he cried,
"and 'ee shall never belong to anyone else, never and——"

And then she broke from him, she lifted her strong young
arm and smote him across the face with all her strength.
Abram Lestwick fell back apace, his sallow skin went deathly
white, he stood and stared at her.

"'Ee, 'ee made me du it!" she panted.  "I—I had to du
it, Abram, I didn't mean it, I be sorry in my heart, I did
strike 'ee!"

But he said nothing, he only looked at her, then without
a word turned and walked away down the road and she
stood looking after him.  Even now she could see the
restless, nervous working of his hands.

"I hate—hate and I be afeared o' him tu!" she said.  "I
be terribul afeared o' him!"  She broke down, sobbing and
crying.  "'Tisn't fair as a maid should be so bothered as
I be!  I don't want to marry anyone, leastest of all he, for
I du hate him most mortally, I du!"

Her grandmother was waiting for her.

"Did 'ee see Abram Lestwick down the road?" she asked.

"Aye, I did see him!"

"Well?"

"Well?"

"Didn't he speak to 'ee, tell 'ee his mind?"

"Yes, he did and—and I hate him!"

"Hate?" said Mrs. Hanson.  "Still filled wi' hate, 'ee be,
which bain't seemly in a young maid!  What wi' your hating
first this one and then t'other, fair fed up I be wi' your
hates, my maid, and 'tis time to put a stop to all such
nonsense!  Abram Lestwick hev been wi' me to-night and
talking wi' me he hev been, and about you—moreover.  And he
be willing to marry 'ee and a good match it'll be, my maid,
which Mrs. Colley have been angling for for that putty-faced
'Lizbeth o' hers, though Abram would never look twice at
she.  But 'tis you he be after, an upright, godly young man
with thirty-five shillings a week and a cottage and all, and
a rare chance for the likes of 'ee, Betty Hanson, wi'out a
shillin' to your name!"

"I hate him and I'll never, never marry him; I hate him
and am afeared of him as well!  And sooner than marry he
I'd go and drownd myself in the river, aye, that, I would,
and that I will, for marry him I never will!"

"That's what 'ee say, but hark to me, marry him I say 'ee
shall and I have told him, he has my wishes!"

A defiant white face, with big glittering eyes faced the
wrinkled, angry old face.

"Drownd myself I will gladly and willingly afore I marry
he!"

"Go 'ee in!" said Mrs. Hanson.  "A perilous bad maid
'ee be and 'shamed of 'ee I be, and asking myself I be all
the time—Be this my son Garge's child, or be she a
changeling?  For such temper no Hanson ever did hev yet—Go
'ee in, but mark this, marry him 'ee shall!"

"Mark this!" Betty cried.  "Marry him I never will!
I'll drownd myself first!  Aye and blithely and gaily—for
I du hate and fear him more than any mortal man and
they fingers o' his that touched me—ugh!  That touched me
and—"  And then suddenly she broke down in a passion of
sobs and ran into the house.





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.. _`THE HOMECOMING`:

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   CHAPTER XIII


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   THE HOMECOMING

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Sir Josiah was performing his last friendly offices.
Davenham had finished his part of the work and had
done it, as the Baronet knew he would, with a complete and
thorough knowledge and good taste.

Who, to look about one now, seeing those beautiful rooms
with their exquisite furnishing, that garden, a thing of
delight and perfect beauty, could reconcile it all with the
desolate and derelict wilderness of a place it had been three
short months before?

"I'd like that there Van Norden, or whatever his name is,
to see it, I would!" Sir Josiah thought.  "Hang me, I'd like
him to take a stroll around now!  Them Americans are
smart and wonderful skilful, aye, and what's more a fine
nat'ral taste they've got, appreciating fine things and old
things more than we do!  I say all that and admit all that,
but this here Van Norden, he couldn't have beat what I've
done in the time, he couldn't!  He'd own it, too, for I've
yet to meet the American who wasn't frank to admit the
truth!"

Sir Josiah here was like a small king in great state.  He
was to interview potential servants, advertisements appeared
in the London and the local papers, inviting cooks and
housemaids, parlourmaids, footmen, grooms, scullery maids, still
room maids and the like to present themselves at Homewood
Manor on a certain day, when all their expenses would be
paid by Sir Josiah Homewood, who would engage the most
suitable persons.  His own man Bletsoe was here to do
honour to the occasion.

"How many are there, Bletsoe?"

"Nine young women, three old ones, two fellers and an
old man as come about the gardener's place, only I understand
as you're keeping that old feller, old Markabee, Sir
Josiah!"

"That's right, keeping him on I am, a sensible man and
clever at his work, that garden's a credit to him!  Old very
likely, but I've known men as weren't old, yet fools, Bletsoe!"

"Quite so, sir!" said Bletsoe.  "And now about h'interviewing
'em?"

Sir Josiah frowned to hide his nervousness.

"How many old ones did you say, Bletsoe?"

"Three, sir, and one of 'em with a wonderful fine
moustache as I ever see!"

"There's the money, take it and settle with them, mark
where they come from and look up the fares in the A.B.C.,
Bletsoe, to see they don't cheat you, then give 'em five
shillings over and above.  But pay 'em their fares right and
correct, not a penny more nor less, and Bletsoe, when I
say—ahem! like that, you'll know as that one's no good, you see!"

It was hard work and none too pleasant, but the house had
to be staffed.  Allan and Lady Kathleen were married, they
were spending a brief honeymoon on the East Coast; they
would be back here soon to take possession and Allan's father
was resolved that when they came they would find
everything complete.  Had not he himself pried in the store
cupboards, which Messrs. Whiteley had obligingly stocked at
his request?  He had satisfied himself that everything
necessary was there, everything, that is, of an unperishable
nature.

Salt and tea, sugar and pepper.  He had been greatly
disturbed in his mind when he found that washing soda had been
overlooked and he had ordered a hundredweight forthwith.
And now he was engaging servants.

"I am Sir Josiah Homewood, this house belongs to my
son, Mr. Allan Homewood, at present away on his
honeymoon with his wife, the Lady Kathleen Homewood, daughter
to the Earl of Gowerhurst.  They are returning in a week
and I desire to have everything in readiness for them.  What
might your age be and what are your references and who
were you with last?  And why did you leave your last place?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, my age, I respectfully beg
to say, I don't see hasn't nothing to do with the matter.  As
for my references, here they are.  I've lived in a Duke's
family and there's but little I don't know how to cook, even
to peacocks, I have cooked, sir, and——"

"Bless my soul, I didn't know people eat 'em!" said the
Baronet.

"Only the best of the quality, sir!"

"Bless me, very well, hum, hah!"  He looked through the
references, he made notes on a piece of paper.  "Please settle
with this lady, Bletsoe, and give her, her out of pockets as
according to arrangement—a—hem!"

And so the fate of the lady with the moustache was sealed,
though she knew it not.

Betty had heard of this reception that Sir Josiah was
holding to-day.  Girls from Little Stretton, Bush Corner,
and even from Gadsover and Lindney, had come to offer
themselves for hiring.  Betty hesitated, since that evening
when she had defied her Grandmother life had not been very
happy at Mrs. Hanson's little cottage.  Should she go with
the rest and offer herself for service in the house?  But
could she bear it, could she bear to see her own beloved
garden again as it was now, not as she remembered it?  All
the dear trees cut down, or most of them, and hideous new
walls put up, and her little stone friend gone from the lake
and a great ugly stone fountain erected in her place, for so
she had heard.  Could she bear to see it all as it was now?

No, she could not, so she hesitated.  The other girls went
and were engaged or not, as Sir Josiah decided, but Betty
did not offer herself.

For three days after that night when she had struck Abram
Lestwick in the face, she did not see him, but on the evening
of the fourth day he presented himself at the door of her
grandmother's cottage.

He said nothing of that last interview.  His manner was
nervous and hesitating and without passion, his fingers
worked incessantly, toying and tearing at everything within
his reach.  He sat upright on a horsehair-covered chair,
and tore little hairs out of the cloth all the evening.  At a
quarter to ten he rose and took his hat.

"I'll be wishing you good night, Mrs. Hanson, ma'am!"
he said.

"Good night, Abram, and always glad to see you," said
Mrs. Hanson heartily.

"I thank you, Ma'am, good night, Betty!" he said.

"Go to the door, my maid, and see Abram off the step,"
said her grandmother.

Betty hesitated, then went, with her red-lipped mouth
firmly compressed.

On the step in the summer darkness Abram found his
tongue.

"Well?" he said.  "When is it to be!"

"When be, what to be?"

"Our wedding?"

"Didn't I tell 'ee?"

"Aye, but 'ee didn't mean it, besides I hev made up my
mind; when is it to be?"

"Never!" she said.  "Never, never!"

He laughed softly to himself as she closed the door in his
face, but to-night there was no passion, no tempest within
him.  He laughed again as he walked down the road in the
velvety blackness.

There were lights in the Old Manor House, unfamiliar
sight!  He did not ever remember seeing lights there before
and strange lights they were, very bright and brilliant, and
so many of them.  He stood still in the road and stared at
the house.

Presently the little arched green door in the wall opened
and a woman scuttled out, carrying a bundle suspiciously.

"Who be that?  Law!  How 'ee did frighten me!" she
panted a little with nervousness; perhaps that bundle had
no right to be in her arms.  "Be it you, Abram Lestwick?"
she asked, peering into the darkness.

"Aye!" he said briefly.  "It be me all right, Mother
Colley.  What be 'ee doing here to-night?"

"'Tis the young new Squire, the old man's son, come home
wi' his lady wife.  I see her for a minute, Abram, and a
prettier creature I never set eyes on, so kind and smiling
her looks, too, and so mighty fond they du seem to be of
one another, arm in arm they was walking.  'Father,' he
were saying when I see him, 'Father have done wonders here,
Kathleen!  You did ought to have seen the place no more
than four months ago.  Father have worked wonderful,
terribul hard for we!' he said."

"Ah!" said Abram.

"Yes," said Mrs. Colley, nodding her head, "and she
wonderful sweet and dainty her looked, I tell 'ee,
Abram—'Wonderful kind and good he be, Allan,' she says.  And,
Abram, why don't 'ee ever come in for a kindly cup o' tea
to our cottage?  My maid 'Lizbeth continooally du ask me!
A clever maid her be wi' her fingers and a worker she, not
like someone as I could name, some as bain't too right in
their mind!"

"Who?"

"I mention no names, Abram, only I say there be a kindly
welcome and a cup set for 'ee whenever 'ee do take the fancy
and now I must be getting along.  A wonderful place they
hev made o' it, and oh! the money it hev cost!  It fair sets
me wondering how there ever du be so much money in the
world!"

"And if," Abram thought, "all the money in the world
were mine, I would lay it at Betty's feet!"  So he went on
his way, for the man who rises at four in the morning must
to bed betimes.

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Allan had been in no hurry for the honeymoon to end.
Every day of their companionship added to his liking and
respect for Kathleen.  Now that she was away from her
father, now that she had shaken herself free from the old
environment, she seemed to be a different woman.  Her
laughter was more spontaneous; the sadness, for which in
his heart he had pitied her, was going, if not gone from her
eyes.  She was a charming companion, her good temper and
entire unselfishness were never failing.  What more could
a man ask?

He had rather dreaded the honeymoon, and now had come
to realise that it formed the most pleasant period of his life.
But now that it had come to its end, he felt a strange
reluctance to go to Homewood.

He was young and healthy minded; for such a man to
brood over a dream or a vision was impossible.  The effect
of that May day dream of his had well nigh worn away, the
vision of the girl who had come to him in the old garden
and kissed him had grown vague and shadowy.  Like most
visions, it was slowly passing and presently, unless
something happened to revive it, it would pass into oblivion
altogether.

But this return to Homewood would and must revive it
and bring back that day and all that had happened on that
day forcibly to mind once more.

And he asked himself, did he wish to be reminded?  Was
he not well enough content with life as it was?  He was
married to a girl for whom he felt a great liking, a growing
affection, and a respect, a woman whom he realised was the
sweetest and best woman he had ever known.

It was not her beauty alone that attracted him, yet he
could scarcely repress a thrill of pride of possession that
comes to many men when they realise the envy of others
and see the looks of admiration which were no more than
Kathleen's well deserved tribute.

So the honeymoon had been a very pleasant and happy
time.  They were frank with one another, the best of friends.
They kissed one another with a quiet, undemonstrative affection
that was not feigned.  There had not been one breath
to mar the perfect serenity of their lives.  No foolish trumpery
quarrel, but always that complete understanding and good
faith that willingness to give and take unselfishly.

Are honeymoons always such a success?  When the passionate
lovers are united at last and drive away radiant and
triumphant, amidst a shower of rice and good wishes, who
can tell what pitfalls her pretty little feet may trip into,
what obstacles he may go stumbling and floundering over?
They believed that they knew and understood one another
so well, all unconsciously perhaps they have kept up many
pretences, have only permitted one another to see the brighter
side.

But there is always the other and darker side, Romeo's
temper the first thing in the morning may not be everything
that is desirable.  When Juliet finds that one of her dresses
does not fit her quite so well as it might, she must vent her
annoyance on someone—and there is only Romeo!

The good ship of matrimony has scarcely weighed anchor
and set sail and the Captain and the Mate have yet to learn
one another's characters, perhaps they have even to decide
who the Captain and who the Mate.  There are many little
things to arrange, little difficulties to adjust.  Happy they
who can do it all, with kindness and good temper, willing
to give freely and yet not asking for too much!

It was in the dusk of the late July evening that Allan
and Kathleen came to Homewood.

It was the last day of Sir Josiah's reign, and never a
sovereign gave up his sceptre with better grace.  How he
beamed, how he swelled with visible pride, how he dragged
them from room to room to see this and to see that!

"There you are, my boy, what do you think of it?
Wouldn't know the place, would you?  You'd 'a fallen
through this floor three months ago; look at it now!"  And
the old gentleman jumped up and down to prove the soundness
of the joists and boards.

"Well, my dear, and what do you think of it?  Pretty,
ain't it?  Davenham didn't let me down, there's nothing
like going to the right man!  Davenham ain't cheap, but—"  He
caught himself up, this was no time to talk of money
and money matters.  He had spent freely and willingly.
Perhaps never before in his life had he spent quite so freely,
quite so willingly.  There was a heavy bill to meet, but
what of that?  He could meet it!

He had picked up a good deal from careful observations
and from listening to Davenham's learned talk.  The names
Hepplewhite and Adam, Sheraton and Chippendale tripped
glibly from his tongue.  True, he confused Hepplewhite and
Adam, but what did that matter?  Allan and Kathleen did
not mind, perhaps did not know, and the old fellow was
happy and smiling, though there was just a little ache at
his heart, for to-morrow his work would be done, to-morrow
he would pack his traps, order the car, tip the servants and
say good-bye.  His reign would be ended!  The villagers
would give him their bobs and their smiles and perhaps a
cheer, Dalabey would come from his shop and grovel for a
moment as he passed and then—then life would of a sudden
become strangely empty, strangely without aim and object.

"Can almost see 'em, can't you, Allan, my boy, those old
Elmacotts; the place must have looked very like this in their
time.  Lord, it's a pity we've got into the way of dressing
so plain and starchy like we do now!  But bless my soul!
What would I look like in a flowered waistcoat and powdered
wig and silk stockings, eh?  Ha, ha, ha!  And how well she's
looking, how pretty she is, prettier'n ever, Allan, and what
a lucky fellow you are!"

"The luckiest in the world and the happiest I think,
father!" Allan said very soberly.

The old man nodded, "That's right, that's right, that's
what I hoped to hear.  Now, take her and shew her round.
It's a pity it's gone so dark, so you can't see the gardens
to-night.  I tell you, Allan, the gardens are even better than
the house.  You keep on that old Markabee, he knows his
job and you won't get no better man for thirty-seven and six
a week, cottage found!"

In the dawn of the summer morning Allan wakened, his
sleep had been strangely disturbed.  He had dreamed, yet
now he was awake the dreams were all vague, half forgotten
and meaningless.  He rose and went to the open window and
looked out into the garden.

He saw it as he had seen it that day in May, in his dream,
all trim and fair, the weeds and the desolation gone, the
flower beds all gay and bright with bloom, the lawns—and
how old Markabee and his men had worked on these
lawns! shaved and rolled and weeded.

And though remembering it as he had seen it, with the
desolation of years over it all, it all looked unfamiliar to
him now and yet wonderfully, strangely familiar.

Then suddenly there came to him with a sense of shock
and anxiety a question.  What of the little stone nymph who
had stood there in the midst of the pool?  Had they torn
her from her pedestal and banished her from the place she
had held for centuries?  Why had he never spoken of her?
Why had he never asked that she might be protected?
Why—why above all did he care?  What had become of a little
stone image with a broken arm and a battered vase, and the
slender little stone body all stained green?

But he did care, and he wanted to know what her fate
was.  He turned back into the room and saw his wife sleeping
there.  The sunlight slanted in through the uncurtained
window and touched her face, and he stood looking at her.

Sleeping, she seemed, in spite of her eight and twenty
years, to be such a child.  There was a smile on her lips, her
face was pillowed on one white bare arm, her hair fell about
her on the pillow.

He stretched out his hand and lifted one heavy lock and
held it lightly, letting it slip softly through his fingers till
it fell to the pillow again.

And, watching her as she slept, he wondered why his heart
did not throb, why a great passionate love for her did not
come—yet it did not!

He dressed and went out into the garden.  He was early,
early even for old Markabee, from whose little cottage even
now the smoke was curling, thin and blue, into the morning
air.

In spite of the panic of anxiety of a while ago, he had
forgotten the little stone maid.  The enchantment of the
garden was on him, his feet trod the stone pathway, his hands
were behind his back, his head bent a little forward, yet he
saw everything, the trim, carefully laid out beds, the green
grass, the foxglove and the hollyhock thrusting their way to
life and air and sun through the crevices in the old stone
path.  So he stepped aside to avoid tramping on their
loveliness, yet wondered why they should be there.

Was it right?  What would my Lady say?  And he?
Was not he dallying here when he should be at his work?

What thoughts!  What strange jumble of thoughts was this?

Hoe and rake, he must get them from the shed; the shed
there behind the old red wall.  So he turned and came to
the place and found no shed, then started and came back to
life again and frowned at himself for his folly.

Was there some enchantment that brooded over the place,
something that held him in its grip when his feet trod the
soil of this old garden?

"Dreams!" he said aloud, and again, "Dreams!"  And
then laughed at himself and turned back to the broad stone
pathway, then suddenly remembered the object of his quest,
and hurried on to the lake.

She was there, untouched! and he was conscious of a
relief, a sense of gladness—yet why?  What did it matter?
What would it have mattered had they pulled her down and
carried her away and used her to mend some country road
with and placed some fine marble fountain with basin all
complete in her place?  Yet it did matter and he knew that
it did!

He turned, conscious of a relief and yet wondering at it
and went back along the path to where was the great circle
in the middle of which stood the sundial, and he noticed
that some artificer had replaced the long lost gnomon, so
that once again the shadow might fall and tell the passing
of the hours.

And there was the seat on which he had sat that day.
Then it had been half lost in a maze of tangle and growth.
Now it had been cleaned and even mended a little, the moss
and green growth removed.

Allan sat down, as he had sat down that day; he laid his
arm along the back of the stone seat, just as then, and as
then presently, the reality about him grew faint and
uncertain, and he drifted into a light sleep.  But in that sleep
no dreams came, no vision of a little figure tripping down the
stone pathway, no dainty little figure in her flowered gown,
with mob cap on her shining head.  Instead he opened his
eyes and looked into the face of an ancient man, who pulled
a scanty lock of hair at him and wished him "Good marning!"
in purest Sussex.

"Good morning to you," said Allan and wondered for a
moment who the old man might be, then it dawned on him.

"A wunnerful and powerful difference be here," said the
old man, "which you will hev noticed, so be as you hev
seen the place before!"

"I have seen it before, three months ago, and as you say
a wonderful difference is here," said Allan, "and you
are——"

"Markabee be my name," the old man said, "gardener I
were at Lord Reldewood's place, near Smarden in Kent,
though I be Sussex born and bred."

There was interrogation in his still, bright eyes.

"My name is Homewood, Allan Homewood!"

"Then you be the young master, the old master be a proper
fine man and a thorough gentleman!"

Allan laughed.  "I hope that you will be able to say the
same of me, though I warn you, Markabee, I am not such
a fine man nor so good a gentleman as my father!"

"That may be, that may be!" said Markabee.  "One finds
out, one does, for one's self.  But I be one as speaks as I
du find and I say the old gentleman be a proper fine man,
free handed moreover and pleasant of speech!

"Very late in the season, it were," Markabee went on.
"May, pretty nigh out, when I du come to this garden.
Powerful difficult it were to make much of a show, as I did
say to Mr. Dalabey.  'Never mind,' says he, 'du your bestest,
Markabee, for you be working for a proper fine gentleman
who don't mind a little bit of extry money here and there,
so be he gets what he du want!'"

Allan nodded.  Not for all the world would he hurt the
old fellow's feelings, but he could wish old Markabee safely
off to his work in the garden, leaving him here to his dreams
in the sunshine.

But not so Markabee.  For he was old and had seen many
things and many gardens; old and garrulous was he and
eager above all to make a good impression on the young
master!

"Things I hev seen and changes," he said, "you wouldn't
believe, and now—how old might you take me to be, eh,
young sir?  What aged man would you say I were?"  He
pulled himself up erect as a grenadier, and his bright old
eyes twinkled, while the long whisps of white hair fell about
his copper coloured face.

"Now, sir, make a guess, how old might 'ee take me to
be, eh?"

"I should say—" said Allan cautiously, "that you might
be sixty-five!"

"Ha, ha, ha, that be a good 'un, sixty-five—ha, ha!"  He
laughed till his voice cracked and he nearly choked.  "Two
and eighty years hev I seen, two and eighty wi' never a lie,
and look at me, fit for a long day's work I be with the best
and youngest on 'em!  Ask anyone here, young sir, ask what
sort of worker be old Markabee, ask 'em to satisfy yourself,
sir!  Yes, two and eighty summers and winters hev I
seen—sixty-five—ha, ha, ha!  Sixty-five!"  And, chuckling with
laughter, he saluted, drew his old body erect and went
marching off down the garden with a jaunty air, and yet in
his heart a little quavering wonder and anxious fear.

"I wonder, du he think I be too old?"

If spell there had been, old Markabee had broken it.  So
though he might sit here on the old stone seat, no drowsiness
came to him now.  He watched a bee, a great velvety bumble
bee, with its lustrous black and tan body hurrying, full of
business, from flower to flower.  The sun was low yet, and
cast slanting shadows all softly blue on the stone pathway.
The dew glinted and glistened in the cups of the flowers and
in the heart of the starry green leaves of the lupins.  He
looked along the broad straight pathway to the house and
saw it, so strangely like he had seen it that day, the windows
open, the dimity curtains moving lightly in the soft breeze.
And now came a maid servant, but no mob cap and flowered
gown wore she, and her hair was black and her eyes sleepy,
nor did she trip daintily, but shuffled in sluggard fashion and
let down the new sun blinds outside the windows with a
rasping, creaking sound of iron on iron.

No dreams for him this day, nor did he want them?  Why
seek them, invite them?  For dreams would but bring him
again to dissatisfaction and would set him yearning and
longing and even hoping for that which could never, never
come true.  Allan rose and seemed to shake himself, though
he shook himself more mentally than physically, to lighten
himself of these fancies, which were idle and foolish and
which he must not encourage nor harbour.

He smiled to himself as he set off for a ramble about the
garden, for he saw what he must do.  He must prove to old
Markabee and to all the rest that he was a man worthy of
being his father's son.

"A proper fine man he be and a thorough gentleman,"
old Markabee had said, and so he was.  God bless him for
a fine gentleman!

And then suddenly and unexpectedly, for he had wandered
far into a part of the garden where he had never been before
and where even old Markabee and his merry men had not
yet penetrated, he came on a little stream that flowed
rapidly and clearly between high banks of thick green
growth and at one place was a deep pool where the water
swirled and eddied, obstructed for the moment in its course
by an abrupt turn in the winding of the stream.  About him
were the trees and the greenery, an impenetrable leafy screen
and the silence; but for the birds there was nothing to
interrupt the solitude of the place.  So off with his clothes and
then a header into the cool green water for a brisk swim.
Here, under the shade of the trees, the water ran cold and
its coldness sent the blood leaping and throbbing through his
veins.

A few minutes and he was out, glowing, dripping, a young
giant in his health and strength.  Now he had put his clothes
on caring nothing that his skin was wet beneath them.

Back through the garden and the sunshine he strode—dreams,
what idle things were dreams!  Only a fool or a
poet might sit there on that old old stone seat trying to
conjure up visions of a long dead past.  His body was in a
glow, he was conscious of a great and voracious appetite.
He saw the girl who had pulled the sun blinds down and
called to her.

"What's your name?" he said.  "Mary or Peggy, or Molly,
eh?" he smiled at her.

"Ann is my name, sir!" she said.  "Ann!"

"You're not Sussex?"

She tossed her head.  "Not me, thank you, sir, I come
from the Fulham Road!"

"Then, Ann, where you come from does not matter, but
if you love me, get me a cup of tea and—and—well
anything—a good big hunk of bread and butter will do, but see
that it is big and that there is plenty of butter on it and I'll
wait here till you come back, Ann!"

"What a very strange young gent," the girl thought.  "If
I love him indeed!  There's a nice way of talking!"  She
tossed her head, yet went off to get the tea and the bread
and butter.

"If I love him indeed, well of all the impudence!"





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   CHAPTER XIV


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   "HIS SON'S WIFE"

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"Well, well, my boy, what do you think of it all?
How do you think the garden looks?"

"Wonderful!"

"Wonderful, yes, that old Markabee's a treasure; you
won't part with him, Allan?"

"Nothing would induce me to, father.  I hope he'll stay
here another twenty years at least!"

"That'll make him a hundred and two, the old man is
very proud of his age, eighty something!"

"Eighty-two and seems a mere boy!"  Allan went to his
father and put his arms about the old man's shoulders.

"I—I'm not going to try and thank you!" he said.

"Don't, there's nothing to thank me for!  I—I did it—I
enjoyed doing it, never enjoyed anything so much in my life,
put myself into it heart and soul.  I'd like Cutler, you know
Cutler, his daughter married the Governor of somewhere
or other—I'd like him to see this place!"

"Then why not?"

"Bless me—so I may—one day—I might bring him
down, but, Allan, I'm not going to interfere with you, not
me!  Two's company, three's none!  I know that!  And—good
morning, my dear, and I don't need to ask how you
slept!  As fresh as a rose you look this morning, as fresh
and as handsome too!"

And she did, her cheeks were glowing, her eyes were
bright.  Fresh from her cold bath, she was a picture of
glowing health and beauty.  She went to him and put her hands
on his shoulders and kissed him.

"And now I want to know what is the meaning of those
horrible looking bags and portmanteaux and things I saw
on the landing?"

"Why—why bless me—they are mine—I—I didn't mean
to leave 'em about, my dear.  I'd never have forgiven myself
if you'd tripped and fallen over them, but——"

"I don't mean that; what I want to know is: Why are they
packed?"

"Because—because there's my things in 'em and I'm off
for London.  Bletsoe's got his orders and after breakfast
I'll start——"

"But supposing I don't mean to let you go?"

"Thank you, my dear, thank you and God bless you!
I—I know what you mean, but thank you, my dear, all the
same!  I—I like to think that you're not in a hurry to push
the old fellow out!  I'll be glad to remember that!"  His
eyes shone.  "Yes, my love, I'll be glad to remember that,
but——"

"How are we going to manage without you?" she asked.
"You have been so clever, it's all so wonderful what you
have done here.  Allan told me what a terrible, terrible state
the place was in and how like a fairy, a good fairy, you have
touched it with your wand and it—is like it is now!  And
we can't let our fairy go, can we?"

"But he'll come back, my love, he'll come back!"  The
old man cried happily.  "But you and Allan have got to
settle down and I—I know what it is, my dear, when Allan's
mother and me were married, settling down is a bit difficult—I
think you and Allan are best left to yourselves, and then
when you want me, why I'll come, I'll come, you won't have
to ask twice.  You ought to have the telephone on—" he
paused, took out his pocketbook and made a rapid note,
"arrange telephone, Homewood," then you'll be able to ring
me up and I'll be able to ring you up—now and again, not
that I want to be a nuisance or a worry to you—but—but—what's
that?  What's that?  Breakfast, eh?"

"Yes, sir, breakfast!" said the manservant.

Over breakfast they discussed an idea that had come to
Kathleen.

"We must have a house warming," she said, "you know
the old superstition, there'll be no luck about the house
unless we have a warming!"

"To be sure!" said Sir Josiah, a little puzzled, "but I had
the fires lighted and kep' going for weeks and——"

"I know!" she laughed.  "But I mean a party, a house
party, just a few of our nearest and dearest.  You, of course,
first and before all and my—" she hesitated, "my father,
of course, and then you will have one or two of your own
friends, Sir Josiah, won't you?  Friends of yours you might
like to bring down?"

His eyes shone.  "Cutler!" he said.  "I'd like to bring
him, take the shine out of him, it will too.  I'm fed up with
Her Excellency, the Governor's wife, that's Cutler's daughter.
Why, my love, it'll stifle him, that's what it will do!
Why, of course, I'll come!  And there'll be a few things,
wines and spirits and like that.  I'll see about them, see
about 'em at once—and now——"

And now the time for parting had come, the time he had
dreaded, but it must come; the car was at the door, the bags
were put into the car.  And the owner of the car dallied,
he was in the morning room and Kathleen was with him.
She put her hand on his arm and delayed him, she had
smiled a signal to Allan to go out and leave them together
for a moment or so, and Allan had gone.

"You have been very, very good to us, you have given
us this beautiful home, you have given us more—I know—"
she said and her eyes were very bright and very kind, as she
stood, a queenly young figure, with her slim white hand
resting on his arm—"And I want to tell you this—I want
to—to earn it all.  I want to earn all your kindness and
affection.  I want to prove myself worthy of it!  You have
given me all this and you have given me your son and
he—he is the best of all!  A little while ago I thought that I
was an old, old woman; life seemed to hold very, very little
for me, my whole life was one long struggle, a struggle
between pride and poverty.  I suffered—" she paused, "more
than I can ever tell.  I knew what people said of me and
of—" she paused, "of—of me, and now all suddenly I seem
to realise that I am not old, but that I am young, and that
I am not afraid of the years that lie before me.  Our
marriage, Allan's and mine, was—was—at first sordid and
mercenary, and I hated it, but Allan and I talked about it and
we agreed, long ago, that we would make the best, the very,
very best possible of our lives and I think we are doing it.
I know how you love him and I know how deeply he loves
you and so—so I wanted to tell you that Allan's wife will
try, with God's help, to be worthy of him and of you, that
she will be a good, true and faithful wife to him, helping
him when she may help, comforting him if he should need
comfort.  Perhaps—" she said softly, "I am not a religious
woman, I wish I were!  But no religious woman could have
prayed to her God more fervently, more from her heart than
I have prayed from mine that I may never fail in my duty,
that I shall be all that he would have me, that I shall be a
good, true and faithful wife and friend to the man whose
name I bear!"

He did not speak, his lips trembled a little, he put his
arms about her and held her very tightly for a moment and
then he went out, seeing nothing very clearly, for the mist
that was before his eyes.

And as he drove through the little town and out into the
white Sussex roads, past the green fields and under the
shadow of the Downs, he remembered, not that his daughter
was Lady Kathleen, daughter of the Earl of Gowerhurst, but
that she was the sweetest and the best woman he had ever
known.


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   CHAPTER XV.


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   "WILL YOU TAKE THIS MAN?"

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The kindly cup of tea of which Mrs. Colley had spoken
to Abram Lestwick must have grown cold or been
replaced and renewed many times, but it was not partaken of
by him for whom it was so hospitably intended.

Mrs. Colley, a short, little body, with a long, lean, bony
face and black hair, dragged back painfully from a
protruding and shiny forehead, watched for Abram as eagerly
as ever a maid watched for the coming of her lover.

'Lizabeth, sallow faced, black haired like her grandmother,
and with the bad teeth possessed by too many country girls,
tossed her head.

"I don't go running after no man!" she said.  "Abram
Lestwick least of all!  I say if he doan't want our tea, let him
stop away!"

"You fool!" said her grandmother, "and there be that
Mrs. Hanson forever dangling after he.  Would you be beat,
'Lizabeth, by a pink and white dolly faced hussy like
Mrs. Hanson's Betty?  I'd have more pride, I would!"

"She be welcome to he!" said 'Lizabeth.  "Too quiet
and mum mouthed he be to my liking and——"

"There he be!" said Mrs. Colley.

She bounded out of her chair and was across the little
sitting room kitchen and down the garden path to the gate
all in a moment; a very energetic woman, Mrs. Colley!

"Oh, Abram!" she said a little breathlessly.  "Funny me
coming out this moment and meeting 'ee promiscus like, but
I did see a great slug a-settling on my geraniums and just
at this very moment 'Lizabeth be laying the tea and a fresh
biscuit she hev baked, all hot from the oven, so du 'ee come
in now, Abram, for there be a powerful lot of things I want
to speak wi' 'ee about!"

"I be sorry," he said gloomily, "afraid I be I cannot
stop!"

"And the tea fresh brewed and on the hob and the water
on it not more'n three minutes, Abram, and the biscuit of
'Lizabeth's baking, a currant biscuit, Abram!"

He shook his head.  "I wish 'ee good evening, Mrs. Colley,"
he said, "and must be getting along!"  He lifted his
hat to her, a polite man, Abram Lestwick, and went on.
Mrs. Colley went back, beaten and angry.

"She hev laid a spell on him, 'tis a good thing for Mother
Hanson her bain't living a hundred years ago, or burned for
a witch her would be, certain sure!  And his coat buttons,
I never see such a sight, 'Lizabeth!"

"Drat his coat buttons!  What be they to me?"

"Two gone out of the four and two others hanging by
threads, and him working his fingers whiles he were talking
wi' me, pulling they off, a rare busy time wi' her needle
will Abram Lestwick's wife hev!  Wonderful restless and
nervis he be about the hands, 'Lizabeth!"

"Drat his hands!" said Elizabeth Colley.  "He doan't
catch me sewing on his buttons for him, no nor for the best
man living neither, which Abram Lestwick b'aint!"

Down the road went Abram Lestwick, the weak chin under
the straggling growth of black hair looked a shade more
resolute this evening, for he had made up his mind.

Was he, Abram Lestwick, the man to stand nonsense from
a mere maid who dared oppose his will with her own?  No!
Was he not Farmer Patcham's foreman and first hand,
looked up to and respected?  He was!

Had he not a cottage of four rooms of his own?  He had!
Was he not in receipt of a steady income of thirty-five shillings
a week, of which he had no less than forty-three pounds
ten saved and standing in the Post Office Savings Bank to
his credit?  He was!

Very well then!

Down the road strode Abram Lestwick.

"I'll put up wi' no more dilly dallying wi' she!" he said
to himself, "I be a strong intentioned man, not a boy like
some, to be put off wi' a grimace and a shake o' a head, and
such like!  And so I'll let her know and I hev her
grandmother's good wishes!"

He did not falter, he flung open the little green painted
gate of Mrs. Hanson's front garden and trod manfully up
the broken stone pathway to the cottage door.

"Why if it bain't Abram!" said Mrs. Hanson, in a tone
of surprise, though she had been watching the clock for him
this past half hour.  Betty, pouring boiling water from the
kettle into the brown teapot, started, so that the hot water
splashed on her hand, but she uttered no sound.  Her face
turned white, perhaps it was the pain from the boiling water,
perhaps the sound of the man's voice!

"Good evening!" he said.

"Good evening to 'ee, Abram," said Mrs. Hanson.  She
looked across the room to the girl.  "Betty, here be Abram!"

"Aye, I know!"

Abram had taken off his hat, he was twisting it between his
restless fingers, plucking at the felt, bending the brim.
Mrs. Hanson stared resolutely at his face.

"Wun't 'ee draw a chair and set down, Abram?" she said.
"An' put your hat down!"

He nodded, he put his hat down and sat by the table.
Betty's face was white and set hard, her small round chin
was thrust out obstinately.

Abram looked at her out of the corner of his eyes.

"I du hear good accounts of the new people at the Manor,"
he said.

"Aye, a sweet and pleasant spoken lady and the daughter
of a Lord!" said Mrs. Hanson.  "And Mr. Allan Homewood,
who I did speak with the very day he came here first,
a very nicely spoken gentleman, I'm sure!"  She looked at
Betty.

Betty sat down, she stared straight before her, she knew
that these were but preliminaries, that which they were
saying now mattered nothing at all.  Her grandmother poured
out the tea.  Abram took his cup, he twisted it round and
round in the saucer.

"I see Mrs. Colley as I passed the door, picking slugs she
were!  She asked me in to tea, she said there was a fresh
biscuit of 'Lizbeth's baking!"

It was meant for conversation, and not as a reflection on
the present tea table, which was guiltless of a currant
biscuit.

"A wunnerful hand at cooking, 'Lizbeth Colley be!" he said.

Mrs. Hanson shrugged her shoulders, "Hev you ever
noticed her teeth, Abram, terribul teeth they be!"

"Terribul!" he agreed; he looked at the girl facing him.
He could not see her teeth, for her small rosebud mouth was
tightly compressed, but he had seen them and remembered
them for the whitest pearls he had ever seen.

"A rare hand at fashioning and managing, 'Lizbeth Colley,"
he remarked.  He paused to drink with his mouth full
of bread and butter.  It was not a pretty exhibition, but
neither Mrs. Hanson nor Betty remarked it.  Bread and
butter and tea taken at one meal had to mingle, sooner or
later; why not sooner than later?

The meal went on, Abram smacked his lips noisily.
Mrs. Hanson tried to make conversation.

"A bit of luck for an old man like Markabee getting a
permanent job at his time of life!  I wonder how long du
they think they'll keep he?" she asked.

"Ah!"

"Though I du admit very agile he be for his years!"

It was all idle, it was all eating up time, till the meal
should be over.  These, as Betty knew, were merely preliminaries,
presently the real business would start.  Her grandmother
had warned her.

"Ahram be here to-night, he be, to hev a direct answer and
for 'ee to make up thy mind and name the day!" said
Mrs. Hanson.

"He'll get his direct answer, he will!  And as for naming
the day, there wun't he no day to name!" said Betty.

"We'll see, my gell!"

"Aye, we'll see!" said Betty.

"I can't think what have come to that maid!" Mrs. Hanson
thought.  "All contrairy and perilous defiant her be, and
once——"

"Help me clear they things!" Mrs. Hanson said.

The meal was over at last.  Abram brought out his pipe;
he did not light it, he did not even put it between his long,
yellowish teeth.  He held it in his hand, he twisted it and
turned it.  He made of the bowl a thimble, which he set on
his finger; he picked at the thin silver mount and all the
time he watched Betty.  And always that weak chin of his
under the coarse, sparse black hairs, seemed to grow stronger
and more protruberant, more pronounced.

Mrs. Hanson spun out the washing up, but it was over
at last and she came back and took her usual seat by the
fireplace.

"And now, Abram?" she said.

It was the signal, Betty stiffened up, she clenched her
small hands; Abram dropped the pipe and stooped to recover
it.

"Mrs. Hanson, Ma'am, and Betty, you both know full
well why I be here to-night," he said.  "Terribul slow of
speech I be—"  He dropped the pipe again and went in
search of it; groping along the floor, again he recovered it.

"Why not put the pipe down, Abram?" Mrs. Hanson
said.  "Pipes be terribul easy things to drop!"

He nodded, he put the pipe down on the table and fell to
plucking out the horsehairs from the chair seat.

"Terribul slow of speech I be!" he repeated.  "But you,
Ma'am, Mrs. Hanson, know, I think, why I be here
to'night!  'Tis about the maid, Betty, your grand-darter,
Ma'am!"

"Ah!" said Mrs. Hanson.

"What hev your visits to do wi' me?" Betty demanded, a
spot of vivid colour in her white cheeks.

"I du love 'ee and want 'ee to marry me!" he said simply.

"That be well spoken, straight and to the point, that be!"
said Mrs. Hanson.  "No man could speak fairer!"

"Then I will speak straight and to the point tu," Betty
said.  "I du not love 'ee and will never marry 'ee!  I would
sooner be dead, and drownd myself I will before I marry
'ee, Abram Lestwick!"

"Ah!" he said, his eyes roved towards Mrs. Hanson.  What
had she to say to that?

"A perilous bad maid 'ee be!" said Mrs. Hanson.

"So 'ee've told me till I be sick to death o' hearing it.
Perilous bad and wicked and ungrateful, I be—an all that's
bad!  Why do he come here a persecutering me?  Why
doan't he leave I alone?" the girl cried passionately.  "I
doan't ask him to—to foller me and worry me—why doan't
he go and marry 'Lizbeth Colley, wi' her currant biscuits?
A wonderful fashioner and manager she be!  He said it,
said it and I—I wun't marry him.  I'll die—die willing and
glad, yes die!  Yes, I'll die!"

She leaped to her feet, her face was burning, her eyes
brilliant with defiance and anger.

"No one hasn't the right to so persecute a maid like he
du persecute I!  I doan't want him here.  I—I can't bear
nor bide 'ee, Abram Lestwick, I can't!"

Her voice faltered.  He sat there staring at her, never
speaking a word and his silence disconcerted her.

"A perilous—" began Mrs. Hanson.

"Say—say it again, say it again!" Betty panted, "And
I'll scream, I'll scream till I be dead.  Say it, again!"

"And 'ee be my son Garge's child.  Garge as were ever
mild and quiet, and I be Garge's mother!"  Up rose
Mrs. Hanson.  "I be Garge's mother and thy grandmother and
I be the one to speak, Betty Hanson, and speak I will!"  She
lifted a strong arm and pointed a long, thick-jointed
finger at the girl.  "Marry him 'ee shall, and I say it!  And
wi' a good grace tu, and come to your senses, 'ee shall, my
maid, if I break a stick over your back!  And I'll hev no
more o' these tantrums, no more of them, I say, a perilous
bad and wicked maid 'ee be!  Hev not Abram done we a
great honour?  Hev he not——"

"I'll kill myself before I marry him!" the girl said, but
she said it without passion, only with an immense certainty
in her voice.

Abram blinked, he stared at the ill smelling, newly lighted
lamp.

"Listen to me, Betty Hanson.  Here be Abram asking 'ee
to marry 'ee and asking 'ee to name the day—answer!"

"I hev answered!"

"Answer as I order 'ee!"

"I shan't!"

Mrs. Hanson stalked across the room, she went to a corner
by the fireplace, in that corner stood the stout old stick
that had supported her husband's declining years.  She had
always kept that stick in the corner, it was more homely to see
it there.  She took it now, she came back to Betty.

"Will 'ee marry this good man?"

"No!"

One, two, three, down came the stick, heavily across the
slender shoulders.  The girl's eyes filled with tears, born of
the smart of the blows, but she kept her white teeth clenched.

"I ask 'ee again, will 'ee name the day?"

"No, never!"

Thud, thud, thud!

Ahram Lestwick leaned forward, he stared at them both.
He was tearing the threads out of the fringe of the cheap
tablecloth now.  He watched Betty's face without emotion.
"Dogged abst'nate her be!" he muttered.

"Betty Hanson, my mind be made up!  Will 'ee take
this man to be your lawful wedded husband, in sickness and
in health, for better an' for worser, till death du 'ee part?"

"I wun't, I hate him!"

Thud, thud, thud.

"And I hate 'ee tu!" said Betty suddenly.

"That be enough!"  The stick fell.  "'Ee've said it,
Betty Hanson!  Said it!  Said it past recall!  Hate me,
'ee said it!  And to-morrow 'ee go out, go out, my maid,
for I live in no house where hate du abide!"

"I'll go and glad, glad!" the girl said.

Abram rose slowly.

"I beg to thank 'ee for a good tea, which I did enjoy,
Mrs. Hanson, 'tis time for me to be going!" he turned towards
the door.  "A very good tea!" he said.  "I bain't partial to
new baked currant biscuits!"  He paused at the door and
looked at Betty.

"I'll ask 'ee to name the day some other time, my maid!
I be a patient man, a very patient man, I be in no hurry, no
hurry at all!  And I wish 'ee good night, Mrs. Hanson, and
thank 'ee for your good tea once again!"

Betty stared at him, her eyes were wide, filled with terror.
She lifted her hands to her face, she gripped her face
between them, the sharp little nails dug into the soft,
peach-like cheeks, but she felt no pain, was unconscious of what
she was doing.

He looked at her and smiled, he backed out and closed the
door, but she did not move.  She heard his steps outside,
her breast was rising and falling and when she spoke, she
spoke in gasps, in short breathless sentences.

"Did 'ee see—grandmother, did 'ee see—his hands—his
hateful hands?  Grandmother, did 'ee see?  One day—he'll
kill someone wi' they hands, kill 'em—grandmother,
maybe—maybe 'twill be—me!"





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   CHAPTER XVI


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   "MY LADY MERCIFUL"

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"I am glad Mr. Dalabey spared her," said Kathleen.

She nodded towards the little figure of the nymph standing
up from the middle of the lake.

"So am I!" Allan said.  "But I've a great respect for Dalabey,
he does not look it, but he is an artist.  He has a right
perception, a sense of fitness.  Dalabey is a reader and a
thinker, too.  Kathleen, you would be surprised by the
depth of Dalabey's knowledge, for all that, he says 'I be' and
'Du 'ee?'  Which, after all, may be better English than that
which you and I speak.  You would hardly believe that
Dalabey and Ruskin have more than a nodding acquaintance,
but so it is!  Yes, I'm glad he spared the little stone maid.
Do you know the first morning we were here, dear, I worried
about her.  I rose early and came out to see if she were
still here and there she was, a monument to Dalabey's good
sense!  I've congratulated him since!"

She was listening to him with a smile on her lips.  Now she
glanced at him, at the tall, big young man by her
side—her husband!

"Allan," she said suddenly, "Allan, you seem to be very
happy!"

"Happy!" he was startled.  "Of course I am happy.
Why—why did you say that?  I am happy and content.  I
Have the dearest and best man in the world for father.  I
have a wife who is friend and comrade——" he pressed her
hand.  "I have a home, the like of which there is not to be
found in all England!  Happy—why not, Kathleen?"

She was silent for a moment.  He had said the dearest
father and his wife—after all his wife was only friend and
comrade—only!  Why did she feel vaguely dissatisfied, had
she not set herself to be just that very thing, that he said
she was—friend, comrade, and now he had said it, she felt
a little regret.

"And you would not have things different from what they
are, Allan?"

"No!" he said.  "I'm very, very content, very proud and
very happy, Kathleen."

"And the dream," she said, "the dream you told me of,
Allan, the pretty girl who came——"

He laughed frankly, almost boyishly, a laugh so clear and
so ringing that it, was infectious.

"Because I had a pleasant dream and dreamed a pretty
girl was imprudent enough to come and kiss me, shall I moon
about disconsolate and unhappy, my mind filled with stupid
longing and foolish regrets, eh?"

"But the dream did affect you for a time, Allan?"

"For a time," he said, "it was so clear, so real, so strange,
so—so undreamlike that it must affect me!  Kathleen, I
never think of it now, I've put it out of my mind, I've sat
there a score of times on that very seat and no dreams have
come, I've smiled at the foolish fancy of it, laughed it all to
scorn—and forgotten it——"

"But if it were not—all a dream, if one day she came into
your life—that girl——"

He shook his head.  "She was a dream and she doesn't
exist, she never will and never can—she came and she
went—for good!"

"And yet," she persisted, with a woman's strange persistence,
"Allan, if—if she came, if you saw her in life,
if——"

"Then," he said quietly and looked her full in the eyes,
"you have my promise, dear, just as I have yours, but it
will never, never be—Kathleen, shall I be truthful, honest,
candid with, you?  I never want it to be, dear, I am well
content!  And now come——" he went on gaily, "and we'll
talk to old Markabee, that young fellow who refuses to grow
old!  Come, dear and——"

But she shook her head.  "I am going to the village, Allan,"
she said, "at least, not to the village, but to a little
cottage between here and Little Stretton, Mrs. Hanson's
cottage."

"Hanson, I remember a kindly talkative old dame who has
always a smile and a country bob for us."

"I am afraid she is not as kindly as she looks!" Kathleen
said.

"Why, what has the wicked old body been doing?"

"Ill-treating her granddaughter, so I have heard.  It was
Debly Cassons who told me.  She said she was passing
Mrs. Hanson's cottage as she came here last evening, and she
heard the sound of beating and looking in through the window
saw that wicked old woman thrashing the girl with a stick.
And there——"  Kathleen went on, "the girl was standing
accepting the blows without a sound, but later as Debly was
going back, she heard someone sobbing as thought her heart
was breaking and she found the girl lying on the grass in the
little garden crying bitterly.  Debly is a kindly old soul and
she tried to comfort her and find out what the trouble was,
but the girl would not answer, so——"

"So my dear little Lady Bountiful, my Lady Merciful is
going to carry comfort to the ill-used child, eh?"

He looked at Kathleen, then stretched out his hand and
touched hers.  "Kathleen, you are a good woman," he said
sincerely and gently, "I wish I could think that I were
worthy of you!"

Kathleen shook her head, she did not speak.

There was a trace of sadness in her eyes as she went back
alone to the house.  It seemed to her that there was the chance
of happiness of a great and wonderful happiness, yet she
could not stretch out her hand to grasp it, could not because
of memories, years old memories, memories of another face
and another voice, memories of a love that had filled her life
once.  She had loved then, she told herself, as a woman loves
but once, as she could never love again.

"Allan's happiness and mine," she said to herself, "is
built not on love, but on friendship and respect, perhaps
it is the surest, the best foundation," yet while she consoled
herself, she sighed a little and the sadness stayed in her
eyes.

Very grim and very silent was Mrs. Hanson this morning.
Last night that maid, the maid she had brought up
from babyhood had told her that she hated her, had said
"shan't" to her, had defied her.

Mrs. Hanson had had a strict upbringing herself, she had
married Hanson because he was in regular work and was
drawing good pay, twelve shillings a week, no less.  Her
parents had told her to marry Hanson and she had married
him.  The marriage market has its branches in the smallest
of villages and marriages of convenience are not luxuries
enjoyed only by the rich and the wellborn.

And she, in her turn, had found a very suitable husband
for this wayward maid who, lacking in duty and obedience,
definitely refused to accept that husband.

Very well then!  Mrs. Hanson had every reason to be hurt
and aggrieved.

Betty had risen early—as usual—had cleaned out the
little cottage kitchen, had polished the stove till it shone, had
made the fire and had prepared the breakfast just as usual,
but all the time she was doing it, she knew that she was
doing it for the last time.

Last night her grandmother had said to her, "You shall go!"

Her grandmother never changed her mind, never
relented, never altered.  Betty knew this of long, long
experience, besides in any event she would go, she would not
stay—no, not even if her grandmother begged her to on
her bended knees, and that was not in the least likely.
They had their breakfast together in stony silence.  After
breakfast Mrs. Hanson spoke.

"Wash they things and put them back on the dresser—for
the last time!" she added.

Betty had washed the things, she had replaced them on
the dresser, on to the snowy white board of the dresser top
she had permitted one large hot tear to splash.

Her grandmother sat stiffly upright in her chair by the
window with the huge family Bible open on the little rickety
round table before her.

Mrs. Hanson always turned to the Bible for comfort and
for advice in times of stress and doubt.  She was reading
stolidly through the story of Naboth's Vineyard and was
deriving much spiritual comfort from it.  Very stern and
unrelenting she looked sitting primly bolt upright, her hands
resting on the book and her spectacles adjusted on the end
of her long and pointed nose.

Now and again out of the corner of her eye she glanced
at the girl who was slowly putting the finishing touches to
her work.  In a little while the girl must be gone,
Mrs. Hanson was a stern and unrelenting woman.

Where the girl would go to, Mrs. Hanson did not know,
she never gave it a thought.

"She did say, she did hate me!" the old woman thought.
"Hate—a perilous wicked thing for a young gell to say—and
to abide in a house of hatred, I will not!  There's the Bible
for it—'Better a dinner of yarbs and contentment therewith
than a stalled ox in the house——'"  Mrs. Hanson looked
up, a shadow had fallen across the window, there came a light
tapping on the door.

"Bless me and bless my dear soul!" said Mrs. Hanson
aloud, "if here b'ain't my Lady Homewood, Betty quick—quickly
open the door to Her Ladyship, quick now!  Do 'ee
hear me speak?"

The door was opened by Betty.  Coming from the hot
bright sunlight of the outer world into the twilight of the
little room, Kathleen could only see a slight, slender figure
in an old cotton gown, which figure bobbed a deferential, yet
it almost seemed a defiant little curtsey to her.

"This is Mrs. Hanson's cottage?" Kathleen asked.

"Yes, my lady!"

Mrs. Hanson had risen, she bobbed, it was no half hearted
curtsey this of hers, she seemed to sink into the floor to
her middle and then rose again, tall and lean and agitated.

"Mrs. Hanson I be, my Lady, and proud I be to see your
Ladyship here—Betty, a chair for her Ladyship, my maid!"

Betty brought a chair, she flicked it with a duster and
placed it that Kathleen might be seated.

And now Kathleen, whose sight had grown accustomed
to the dimmer light of the room, could see the child plainly,
and seeing her, wondered a little at the loveliness of the
little piteous face, the drawn mouth, the big saddened eyes
that had so evidently recently shed tears.

Poor pretty little maid!  Kathleen remembered what
Debly had told her of the child lying out in the grass,
sobbing her heart out in the darkness of the night.  She looked
at the stern puritanical looking old woman and Kathleen,
who was hot blooded and generous, felt instinctive dislike
of her, which dislike was unjust and ill placed.

So, having come expressly about this girl with the golden
hair and the sweet oval face, Kathleen, being a very
diplomatic young woman, spoke of everything and anything else
under the sun.  She told Mrs. Hanson how often she had
admired the neatness and prettiness of the little front
garden.

"It is so nice to see gardens so well kept, I am sure yours
is a great credit to you, and oh Mrs. Hanson, do please sit
down, we can't talk comfortably, can we, if you stand?"

"Oh, my Lady, to sit in your presence!"

"Then you will force me to stand too!" said Kathleen.

So Mrs. Hanson sat down on the very edge of her hard
chair and they talked of the garden, that neat little garden
with its flower beds, surrounded by nice large flint stones
which Betty whitened regularly every Saturday, to make
all prim and clean and spotless for the Sunday.

"You have lived here many years?" Kathleen asked.

"A Hanson hev always lived in this cottage, my Lady,
from time out o' mind.  A Bifley were I born, my mother
being a Pringle, and me married to Amos Hanson when I
were just turned seventeen."

"Ah yes!" Kathleen said.  "And this is your granddaughter?"

"My granddarter her be," said Mrs. Hanson sternly.

"And of course you need her here to help you in this
little cottage?" Kathleen hazarded.

"I du not need she, my Lady, and her be going to leave
me, her be, this very day!"

"To—to leave—you—you mean the child is going away?
Where is she going to?"

Mrs. Hanson did not answer.  The girl was still in the
room, seemingly busy at the dresser, but Kathleen looking
could see the slender shoulders shake and knew what a big
fight the little maid was putting up to keep herself from
bursting into tears.

What little village tragedy was here? she wondered.

"Is she going to London?" Kathleen asked.

"I du not know, my Lady!"

"But——" Kathleen said.

Mrs. Hanson rose, she was trembling.

"My Lady, that I should hev to tell 'ee a stranger, yet
with a face so kind, that emboldened I be—my Lady—this
maid, this perilous wicked maid——" the old dame stopped
for a moment, quivering and shaking, "this perilous bad,
wicked onnatchral maid did say to me—I hate 'ee, I du!
Said it my lady wi' her own lips and tongue, she did!  And
I said tu her 'Betty Hanson, granddarter o' mine, 'ee may be,
but never, never will I abide in a house where hatred du
exist, so out of this house du 'ee go for a bad perilous maid
on the morrow!'  And this be the morrow, my Lady——"

"But she is so young, only a child and surely you would
not let her go without, knowing she is going into safety and
into the house of friends?  She is your granddaughter and
you are responsible for her!  Do you think that you are
acting rightly?  Do you think—oh please don't think that I
am preaching to you—but she is so young and so pretty
and to think of her going—and never even knowing where
the poor child is going to!"

"I hev chose for she a good husband, a man wi' thirty-five
shillings a week coming in, a cottage too and of quiet ways!"

"But if she does not love him?" Kathleen asked, and,
remembering her own marriage, blushed red as a rose.

"Love him indeed, my lady, hev I not chose he for she?  A
good upstanding, upright man as ever was, to Church reg'lar
twice a Sundays, walking in the fear of God, he du, and very
respectable wi' never a word to be heard against
he—and—and——"  Mrs. Hanson paused nervously and exhausted
for the moment.

"But she is only a child!  Betty, come here, Betty!"

"Betty, du 'ee hear her Ladyship a-speaking to 'ee?"
cried the grandmother.

But Betty at the dresser, her back obstinately turned, did
not move.

"There, there!" said Mrs. Hanson triumphantly, "'ee can
see for yourself, my Lady, how bad and de-fiant and
obstinant her du be—Oh Betty, shame on thee!" the old woman
added, for Kathleen herself had risen and had gone across
the room to the lonely little figure and all suddenly had put a
kind arm about those heaving shoulders.

"Betty, Betty child, come and tell me all about it!" she
said in that sweet gentle voice of hers that could break
down any barrier of anger and defiance.  And then Betty,
knowing, feeling that here was a friend, broke down suddenly
and giving way to the long threatening tears, laid her head
against Kathleen's breast and sobbed.

"I hate him, I hate him I du and fear him I du, My—my
lady and grandmother be so bent on my marrying he and I,
I can't!  Oh, I can't bear it, I can't and 'tis breaking my
heart, it be, my—my Lady!"

"Hush, little one, don't cry!" Kathleen said.

"Betty, I be mortal ashamed of 'ee, I be!" said
Mrs. Hanson.  "Mortal ashamed and all put about I be!"

"Please, Mrs. Hanson, let me speak to her!" said Kathleen.
She drew Betty towards her chair, she sat down and
held the girl's hot little hand and looked into the pretty
flushed tear stained face.  Poor pretty child!

"How old are you, Betty?" she asked.

"I be—be eighteen, my Lady!"

"And behaving she be like she were but seven!" said
Mrs. Hanson.  "A perilous bad——" she paused.

"Your grandmother says you must go, Betty!"

"Aye, I du, I du, and when I du say a thing, by that thing
I du abide!" said Mrs. Hanson.  "Go, I said, and go she
shall!  A very unrelenting woman I be!"

And then at last came a flash of anger into Kathleen's eyes.

"Yes, a very hard and unrelenting woman, I fear, Mrs. Hanson!
Has this child no other friends, no other relations,
than you?"

"Never a soul hev she got, and I hev brought she up!"

"And now would turn her out of the house, knowing that
she had no one to go to, no one to keep and protect her, for
shame, Mrs. Hanson!" cried Kathleen in just indignation.
Mrs. Hanson said nothing, she quivered and shook.  Perhaps
in her heart of hearts she wanted to give way, but she
had said it, a stern and unrelenting woman was she, and
prided herself on it.

"And where will you go to, Betty, when you leave your
grandmother's cottage?"

"Oh my lady, I du not know, indeed I du not!  For I hev
not thought of it, but I wouldn't mind where I did go, so be it
was not to Abram Lestwick, who I du hate and of whom I
be in most mortal terror, my—my lady!"

"Then you shall not go to him, you shall come to me, Betty,
and you shall be my little maid!" Kathleen said.

"To—to the Manor House, my—my lady?" Betty stammered,
"Oh my Lady, to—to the Manor House?"

"Why, of course, child, for I live there!"

"Oh my Lady, I—I couldn't, don't ask me—I couldn't
bear to—to go there and see it all—all as it be now—I
couldn't my Lady, 'twould break my heart!"

Kathleen looked at her in amazement.  "But why, Betty?"
she said.  "I don't understand!"

"My Lady," interposed Mrs. Hanson, "if so be as I may
be allowed to speak——" she paused, quivering with indignation,
"'tis but right I should tell 'ee this, that this wayward,
obstinate, perilous gel was forever in they old gardens before
Mr. Homewood bought the old place, forever she was, spite of
all I did say to she.  Sometimes of nights I du verily believe
she would rise and go stealing off to they gardens, a terribul
state they was in too, and coming back wi' her frock all
covered wi' green like and sometimes tored by the wall over
which she did climb most shameful——"

Kathleen heard, she looked at the girl who stood with
bowed head before her.

"Why did you go to the garden, Betty?" she asked softly.

"Because—oh I—I don't know, because—I can't—can't
tell 'ee, my Lady, I can't tell 'ee, but it be all changed and
altered now wi' great fences put up and—and my stone
maid gone and 'twould break my heart, my Lady to go there
and not see she, my stone maid, any more!"

"The stone maid is not gone, Betty, and the gardens have
not been altered, but only made beautiful and they tell me
that they must be just as they were in the old days!"

"I wonder, my Lady, as 'ee have the patience to talk wi'
she!" said Mrs. Hanson.

But Kathleen took no notice.  "So, Betty, will you come
to me and be my little maid?"

"And glad and grateful!" said Mrs. Hanson.  "Say it!"
she commanded.  "Elizabeth Hanson, say it, yes—and glad
and grateful I du be, my Lady, to 'ee for your great kindness,
and drop my Lady a curtsey, 'ee unmannerly maid, as I be
sore ashamed of!"

"If only——" Kathleen thought, "if only the old woman
would leave the child alone, poor Betty, I can see why that
little spirit of hers was goaded into rebellion at last!"

"I need no thanks!" Kathleen said, "I only want Betty to
say that she will come; you will come, child?"

How kind were those eyes that looked into hers, how sweet
a smile there was on her Ladyship's beautiful face!  It must
have melted a heart of stone and Betty's warm passionate
little heart was not of stone.  So she broke down, sobbing
and crying, she would come and glad and grateful she was,
and come she would that very day if her Ladyship would
but have her.

"Pack your little box, Betty," Kathleen said, "and I
will send one of the men presently to fetch it for you and I
think and hope you will be happy and—and maybe Betty,
you will not find the old garden so changed after all.  I will
answer for it there are no ugly fences and the stone maid
stands where she did in the middle of the lake, Betty,
so—go come and see your little friend again!"  She held out her
kind hand, but Betty did not take it, instead she dropped
suddenly onto her knees and kissed that white hand as if
it had been the hand of a Queen, and so like a queen was
Kathleen to the country maid, a Queen all beautiful, all
generous, all kind.  Queen!  No, an angel from Heaven rather!
And when she had gone Betty stood there, all unmindful
that her grandmother was here and she spoke her thoughts
aloud.

"Very willing and glad I would be," she said slowly, "very
willing and glad to die for she, I would!"

Mrs. Hanson sniffed, she had no patience with such
outrageous and exaggerated statements.

"Get 'ee off and pack your box," she said sharply, "and
think yourself lucky, Betty Hanson, as 'ee hev found
another home, and a kind mistress, too kind I be afeared!  Too
kind and lenient like wi' 'ee and your folly, my maid!"





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.. _`HAROLD SCARSDALE RETURNS`:

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   CHAPTER XVII


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   HAROLD SCARSDALE RETURNS

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Kathleen's face was very thoughtful, a little sad
even, as she walked back along the white dusty road.
She hardly saw the village folk, who bobbed and curtseyed
to her as she passed.  She saw only a sweet oval face, a glorious
head of glittering hair, a pair of sad, wistful blue eyes.

"So these people do, as their betters!" she thought.  "They
drive and goad their children into unhappy marriages!  My
Lord's daughter must be made to marry thirty thousand a
year, as little Betty, Mrs. Hanson's granddaughter, is to be
forced into marriage with thirty shillings a week!  How
wrong and what a shame it all is!  Money, rank, position
and interest!  Is there no such thing as love left in the world
at all?  May not a man choose his mate, a woman choose for
herself from among all men, the one she loves?  It seems not,
in village or in city, in cottage or in palace, and I——"
she paused.  "I did as I was bidden and I am happier
perhaps than I deserve to be!"

Kathleen, unlike other well born young ladies of Society,
had had no maid, in the old days she could not afford one.
Amy, the parlour maid, had assisted her into the dresses that
were so very seldom paid for, and Kathleen had long since
adopted the unladylike practice of doing her own hair.  So
when she came to Homewood she had decided to continue
without a maid, though the funds were not lacking now and
the dresses were certainly paid for.

Of course little Betty Hanson would not know a tithe of
those things that a good and practiced lady's maid should
know.  She would not be able to do her ladyship's hair in
the latest and most becoming style.  She would not be able
to select gowns suitable for special occasions.  She would not
be able to massage my lady's white hands and perhaps her
face.  She would not be able to flatter and fawn and sponge
and perhaps rob and lie.  No, Betty Hanson was not likely
to have any of these desirable accomplishments.

Kathleen had an honest admiration for beauty.  She was
one of those rare women who can see and appreciate beauty
in another woman.  She would have everything about her
beautiful if she could.  She feared that perhaps to those who
were unbeautiful, she was a little unjust.  To Ann, the very
plain housemaid who came from the Fulham Road, for instance,
Kathleen was more than unusually kind and generous,
because in her heart of hearts she did not like Ann.  And she
believed that she did not like Ann because Ann had a sallow,
greasy skin, a misshapen nose and small mean eyes, set too
closely together and a loose, nondescript kind of mouth.

Ann, as a matter of fact, was a stupid, blundering creature,
who forgot to do one half of what she was told and deliberately
neglected to do the other half, who generally did everything
badly, and had a habit of breaking the most expensive
things she could put her clumsy hands on.  Once Kathleen,
goaded and irritated by Ann's hopeless imbecility had spoken
sharply—sharply for her—to the girl and had promptly
repented of it and had given Ann five shillings and begged a
half day off for her from Mrs. Crozier, the housekeeper.

But that was like Kathleen and that was why the servants
adored her.

But Kathleen was a little disturbed in her mind.  She
found herself wondering, remembering and wondering—what
was this about this child haunting the old garden at the
Manor House, climbing the high brick wall and entering into
that place of desolation and solitude, called thither, who
knows by what strange voices?  What was this about her
going there of nights to wander about the black solitudes of
tangle and weed?  Surely it was not right, it was not
canny.  She smiled at the word, the word that she had heard
her old Scottish nurse use years and years ago.  Yet it was
the right word, it was not canny that a young and pretty girl
should have so strange a love for solitudes and weed grown
gardens.

"Could it—could it have been she?"  What mad nonsense,
what folly was this?  Kathleen wondered at her own
thoughts.  How could it have been this girl whom Allan had
seen there that day?  He had said it was a dream, it must
have been a dream—this girl was no dream, but living reality.
And then Allan had told her that the girl of his dream had
been dressed all in some strange, old world costume, how
the garden about her had been in bloom and all so trim and
neat and tidy, how the old house, a place of desolation, had
been bright and gay with its open windows and blowing
curtains, and how the girl herself had gone to him and had
kissed him and had put her little mittened hands—mittened
hands—had little Betty Hanson ever owned a pair of mittens
in her life?  No, no those things had gone out in Betty's
great-grandmother's time, what mad nonsense it all was!  So
Kathleen laughed merrily and laughed the ideas and the
notions all away.

She went to find Mrs. Crozier—Mrs. Crozier, the elderly,
kindly autocrat of the house, Mrs. Crozier who had been
housekeeper in a far finer and more magnificent mansion than
this, no less a place than Dwennington Hall, the seat of the
Duke of Grandon.

"Mrs. Crozier, I have engaged a young village girl, Betty
Hanson, granddaughter of Mrs. Hanson, who lives in the
cottage up the road towards Little Stretton, she is to be my
lady's maid.  She is only a child and she will feel strange
here at first so——"

"I quite understand, my lady, I'll look after the little
thing and make her feel quite at home!"

"Thank you, you do so readily understand me, Mrs. Crozier."

"It's easy enough to understand your Ladyship," Mrs. Crozier
said.  "There is always some kindly thought in your
head, my lady, for others—I know Mrs. Hanson slightly, a
good and very respectable woman!"

"Will you send one of the men for Betty Hanson's box
presently?  And oh Mrs. Crozier, about the fourteenth——"

"I'm making all preparations, my lady, Sir Josiah will be
coming of course!"  Mrs. Crozier smiled, she held Sir Josiah
in very high esteem.

"Not a highly educated gentleman, perhaps," Mrs. Crozier
had said over a cup of tea to Mrs. Parsmon, the doctor's
wife, "but one of the kind, Mrs. Parsmon that I call Nature's
gentlemen!  That is my opinion of Sir Josiah Homewood!"  So
when Mrs. Crozier mentioned his name to Sir Josiah's
daughter-in-law, she smiled in a very kindly way.

"Sir Josiah will bring a friend, perhaps two, and my father
will come of course," Kathleen's voice changed a little, as
it always did in some subtle manner when she spoke of her
father.  Her face seemed to grow a shade colder, then the
cloud passed and she was smiling and thanking Mrs. Crozier
again, for her intended kindness to Betty Hanson.

"I'll see her in the morning," she said, "let her come up
to me after breakfast and I'll have a long talk with her, and
O Mrs. Crozier, as she is leaving her grandmother so
suddenly, she may need some things, clothes I mean—I know
it is not always easy for a young girl to get all the clothes
she needs"—there was a sad reminiscent smile on Kathleen's
face, "so will you get anything for her she may require and
let me know?"

"I will do everything, my lady."

The fourteenth was the date fixed for the house warming,
that event that had a little puzzled Sir Josiah.  But he quite
understood what it meant now, and he was looking forward
to it with much the same feeling as a schoolboy has regarding
the coming summer holidays.

At the old fashioned chop house in the City, a table
was regularly reserved for Sir Josiah, which he
sometimes shared with Cutler and sometimes with Jobson or
Cuttlewell, or Priestly (of Priestly, Nicholson, and Coombe,
those famous contractors).  At that same table now, Sir
Josiah bragged and boasted of the glories of Homewood, of
his daughter-in-law, Lord Gowerhurst's only child.  How
he told them of his work at Homewood and of the wonders
of the place.  "Historical, it is!" he said.  "And that feller
Davenham, I put him in charge.  I know my limitations,
Cuttlewell, no man better, when it comes to furnishing in the
Period style I'll own I'm beat, but Davenham knows, an
expensive man I'll admit, but what's money, what's money?"

What was money indeed!  Had not Sir Josiah been in
pursuit of it all his life, had he not seemed to worship it?
Had not those plump knees of his been for ever bent to the
Golden Calf?

"What's money, hey?" he cried.  "Ho!  William, William!
Mr. Cuttlewell will take a glass of that old port with me!"

And William, the antique waiter, of the white side whiskers
and the ancient evening dress suit and the large sized,
untidy feet, shuffled away to fill the order, for their best and
most respected customer.

"I'd like you to see the place, I should, Priestly, my boy!
My daughter-in-law, Lady Kathleen, is giving a house
warming on the fourteenth.  Cutler's running down with
me—going to take him down in the car.  Hang it, Priestly, you
shall come!  My daughter-in-law, Lady Kathleen, says all
my friends are her friends, and she means it, she's that sort.
God bless her!  There isn't a truer, sweeter woman on earth
and so—so I say God bless her!"  The tears came into his
eyes, they trickled down his cheek.

Here was honest pride, honest and unfeigned!  He lifted
his glass of port, he beamed on them and gave them the toast
from his heart.  "My daughter-in-law, Lady Kathleen
Homewood, God bless her!"

They smiled at him, they took it good naturedly, they knew
his worth, a sound man Sir Josiah, good for at least a couple
or three hundred thousand and very likely for a good deal
more.  When a man has a credit good for anything from two
to four hundred thousand, who will not put up with his little
ways, even though it might be a trifle boring for those who
had not the pleasure of Lady Kathleen's acquaintance?  So
Priestly was asked and Cutler and Cuttlewell too, only
unfortunately Cuttlewell could not come, but Jobson could and
would!

When the expansive moment was past, Sir Josiah felt a
little nervous.  Had he overstepped the limits?  Had he
gone too far; would it not be encroaching on Kathleen's
goodness?  Conscience smote him.  That he had bought and paid
for the house, that he was sending down cases of wines
regardless of cost, that he was ordering at the big London
Stores with the most lavish hand and purse in the world, all
that mattered nothing at all!  But would Kathleen be
annoyed?  He wrote to her and received a letter that made his
cheeks flush like those of a school miss of sixteen.

"Your friends are mine, bring them all, you cannot bring
too many, especially if they are like you.  Only let me know
how many rooms you want, dear, and believe me to be your
affectionate and grateful Kathleen."

"God bless her!" he said.  "God bless her!"  And that
day he added Coombe to the list.  What a time they would
all have on the fourteenth!  How he talked and bragged and
boasted, yet strangely enough a change had come over his
boasting, it was not of his Lordship the Earl, and her
"Ladyship, the Earl's daughter, it was not of the "historical"
mansion, and the period rooms and Davenham's whole hearted
expenditure in the matter of furnishing the place, it was of
"My daughter-in-law, Kathleen."

"Beautiful, ha, ha!" he laughed.  "I'll shew you real
beauty!  You think Lesbia Carter and Sybil Montgomery,
those actress girls, are beautiful and so they are, sweetly
pretty girls they are, and I don't say one word against 'em,
not me!  But when you see my daughter Kathleen—Lady
Kathleen, then you'll see beauty, then you'll see goodness and
sweet gracious womanliness, my boy!"

Cutler and Jobson laughed, they had their little jokes
together.  "The old boy ought to have married her himself!
I'll bet you he's more in love with her than Allan, his son,
is!"

"I know Gowerhurst," said Coombe.  Coombe was a large
man who smoked expensive cigars, with the bands on them,
for effect.

"Know him, I should think I do.  He owes me a bit now!
I'll bet you if he hears I'm going to—what's the name of the
place—Homewood—he won't turn up—catch him!"

Lord Gowerhurst had received his invitation.  He had
not been down to Homewood, he had no love for the country,
ancient historical houses and early English gardens did
not appeal to him.  The house that found the most favour
in his sight was his favourite and particular Club, and he
preferred the card room there or the billiard room to any
garden that ever bloomed.  But he must go, he must offer
himself up as a sacrifice.  Old Homewood would be there of
course and his Lordship was not quite easy in his mind about
certain speculations into which he had been led.  Lumeyer
had induced him to put five of the twelve thousand he had
obtained from Homewood into the Stelling Reef Gold Mine
and his Lordship had heard bad accounts of that same
concern.  He had tried to sell out and had tried vainly.

Lumeyer, a densely black bearded man, with cherry lips,
had told him all would be well, but his Lordship did not
believe it.  It might conceivably be possible that presently he
would need old Homewood's help again.

"Doosid bore and beastly nuisance!" he said.  "But I'll
have to go, I hate family parties and that kind of thing and
Kathleen hasn't mentioned if there's a billiard room.  Let
me see—the fourteenth will be Friday.  I'll leave a telegram
with Parsons, the hall porter here, to send on to me the first
thing Monday morning, demanding my presence in Town.
Kathleen's done well, doosid well, thanks to me!  I don't like
the tone of her letter, though, no, hang me, I don't like the
tone of her letter!  Cold and formal, but that's Kathleen,
takes after her mother!  Doosid cold and doosid formal, well,
well!"  He paused.  "Whatever happens I'll be able to say
I did the best possible for my daughter.  A man's got to
consider his family, I've considered mine, no one can say to the
contrary!"

It was in the dining room during luncheon time at his Club
that his Lordship was holding communion with his own
thoughts.  He started now at the sight of a tall elderly, white
haired, soldierly man who came in, followed by a somewhat
younger man—it was the younger man who claimed his
Lordship's attention.

"Who's that?" he asked himself.  "Seen that face
before—who the doose is it now?  Not a member——"

"Here Paul!"

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Paul, did you see that gentleman come in?  Who is he?"

"Sir Andrew Moly——"

"Yes, yes, I don't mean the old one, I mean the younger
one with him!"

"Don't know, my Lord, can't say!  I haven't seen the
gentleman before!"

"Then find out!"  The man scuttled off.

"I—I know that face, hang me if I don't—wonder who he
is?"  His Lordship frowned, he adjusted his eyeglass and
gazed across to the little table where Sir Andrew Molyneux
and his companion were seated.

"Confoundedly annoying to see a fellow's face and not
know who the doose he is!" His Lordship thought.  "Hello,
Paul, well?  Have you found out?"

"Yes, my Lord, I did, I took the liberty of asking
Mr. Marsmith.  I noticed Mr. Marsmith bow to the gentleman as
he came in and I took the liberty——"

"Yes, yes, but who is the fellow?"

"A very important gentleman, Governor of some place as I
didn't catch the name of, my Lord, somewhere in America,
I should think or the Indies—I don't know my Lord, anyhow
he is Sir Harold Scarsdale, a very rich——"

"Bless—my—soul!" his Lordship said.  "Thanks, that
will do, Paul, that will do!"

Paul went away.

"Harold Scarsdale—bless my soul!"  He sat and looked
at the younger man.

"Altered, confoundedly altered, looks twenty years older,
and it is only ten!  Let me see, he can't be a day over
thirty-five and the fellow looks forty-five.  By George, there was
that love affair between him and Kathleen.  I remember it
well, Old Scarsdale, our Rector at Benningley's son.  I
remember, by George I do, had a few words with the young
fellow, called him a presumptuous puppy if I remember
right, so he was, by George!  But byegones—eh—byegones
can be byegones—Kathleen was too sensible and too cold, yes
by George, too cold to make a fool of herself, turned him
down, very rightly and properly, I remember it all,
remember catching him in the garden at Bishopsholme, I
remember a letter I got hold of, of his, asking Kathleen to run
away with him, the young fool.  By George if I remember
right, I made it warm for him!  And he cleared out, left
the country, he seems to have done well for himself, knighted,
eh?  Well, well, things change, the wheel goes round, one
man gets carried up, t'others get taken down.  I'm t'other,"
he smiled grimly.  "I'm down!  I think—I think——" he
paused.  "I shall recall—why not?  A rich man, Paul said
so, sensible fellow Paul.  He knows I always like to
understand the financial position of other folk—I shall
certainly, yes certainly, recall our earlier acquaintance!"

His Lordship bided his time.  He waited, he had finished
his own luncheon some time since, but he timed his
retirement from the dining room to synchronise with that of the
other two.

"Why, bless my soul, surely I am not mistaken?"

Sir Andrew turned to look at his Lordship, but this
expression of astonishment was not for him.

The other man had halted, seemed to draw back, his face
stern and grave, a handsome face, seemed to harden a shade
as the Earl thrust himself forward.

"I surely am not mistaking my old friend's son, Harold
Scarsdale.  If I am, then believe me I offer my sincere
apologies, but I can hardly make a mistake!"

"My name is Scarsdale, and——"

"Then you don't remember me, bless my soul, you don't
remember me, my name is Gowerhurst!"

"I remember your Lordship perfectly!"

"My dear fellow, I am delighted to see you, it quite takes
me back.  Come, come, we must have a long talk, a long
talk together, eh?  How's the world been treating you?
Well, I hope, if I can be of service to you, command me!
By George, Harold, I always had a sneaking affection for
you!"

"You managed to hide it very cleverly, my Lord, ten
years ago!

"Ha, ha!  Had to, you know, had to!  Doting father, that
sort of thing, couldn't let my little girl make a bad match!
Hang it, if I'd been a rich man, ha, ha, I wouldn't have stood
in your way, but I wasn't; I was, and am, come to that,
doosid poor, and a father's feelings, Harold, my boy, as you'll
know when you are a father yourself, unless——"

"I am not married!" said Scarsdale quietly.

"No, no, quite right.  Well as I was saying, a father must
consider his child.  I may have seemed hard, a little hard
perhaps, to you that day, I remember it perfectly well, but
I liked you, my dear fellow, all the time my heart was
bleeding for you, bleeding, sir!  I said to myself, can I, dare I?
No, by George, I can't and daren't!  I can't see my girl
scrubbing her own doorstep and—and turning her dresses
and making her own bonnets—I can't think of it!  So I
nerved myself to be stern, nerved myself, Harold, and all the
time my heart bled for you, my dear lad!"

"I remember very well," Scarsdale said quietly, "that you
on that occasion called me a cunning, scheming, blackguardly
young adventurer, who had dared to presume to look far too
high, and you were right, as to the last, my lord, but not as
to the first.  For I was not cunning or scheming, I—I loved
her, worshipped her and forgot everything else——"

"By George! and so you did, so you did!  But I was her
father, I had to consider ways and means, eh?  You'd do
the same yourself, you'd have to!  But we can't talk here!"

"I am with Sir Andrew Molyneux, an old friend of my
father."

"Ah!  And your father, dear old fellow, how is he now, eh?"

"He has been dead four years, my Lord, and if you will
excuse me——"

"Positively I must see you and have a chat with you over
things, Harold.  You'll dine with me to-night?  Say
yes!"  Lord Gowerhurst wrung the young man's hand.  "Come,
come, I can't take no—I positively refuse to take no!  Hang
it, after all these years old friends and that sort of thing, we
can't pass like ships in the confounded night, can we, eh?"

Sir Harold Scarsdale smiled.  He had a stern, grave face,
but the smile lighted it up.

"To-night then, my Lord, since you wish it, here—at what time?"

"Eight o'clock," his Lordship said briskly, "and I shall
look for you, it's been a delight, a sheer delight to see you
again!"





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.. _`IN THE DAWN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE DAWN

.. vspace:: 2

My dear Kathleen, I am looking forward with keen
enjoyment to my coming visit to your charming home.
That I have not come before you will easily understand, my
love.  I am an old fellow and my ways are not your ways.
I am sensitive, very sensitive, as I think you know.  To
have felt myself de trop would have been a cause of pain
to me.  I felt I could not do it and though my heart was
yearning for you and though I have often, a thousand times,
pictured your beautiful home, its master and mistress, though
I, in my solitary and none too comfortable rooms, have often
visioned to myself your delightful life at Homewood, yet I
have never intruded.  I have been tempted many times.  I
have said to myself, I will run down just for the day, then I
hesitated.  Should I be welcome?  I know, I know, my
love, that my dear daughter's heart is always affectionately
inclined to her doting father, yet in your new life, with
your new interests, with your young husband, I have
wondered, is there a place, some nook, some corner for the old
fellow to stow himself away in?

"But bless me, how I ramble on?  I live a very quiet and
uneventful life, my appetite is not what it was.  I
sometimes walk round to the Club and try and peck a morsel for
lunch, but I am not my own man.  I think I feel my
loneliness.  Well, well, my dear, I look forward, as I say, to the
fourteenth of this month, with great expectation and
happiness.  Now I shall behold you in your own home.  I shall
behold my dear daughter, mistress of a good house,
dispensing her and her husband's hospitality with the gracious
courtesy that is the birthright only of a woman of breeding.
Give my kindly remembrance to your husband and believe
me, my dear Kathleen, ever your fond and devoted Father,
Gowerhurst.

"P.S. I am taking the liberty of bringing an old friend
down with me.  I know in such a mansion as Homewood, there
are many rooms, may I hope that I am not encroaching in
asking that one may be reserved for one for whom you once
had a kindly feeling."

Kathleen smiled a little and frowned a little over this
letter.  It was like her father, he wrote as he spoke.  But who
was the friend?  She hardly gave it a thought, there were so
many old friends, was there one for whom she had once had
a kindly feeling?  She doubted it.  Her father, in the old
days, had commanded her ready affection at all times for any
opulent acquaintance from whom he was hopeful of extracting
money.  This was in all probability another victim.  So
Kathleen put the letter aside and forgot all about it,
except that she asked Mrs. Crozier to have another room
prepared.

She told Mrs. Crozier now, lest she might forget it.

"Oh, my lady," said the housekeeper, "there's that little
Betty Hanson who came yesterday, she is waiting your
ladyship's pleasure."

"I had not forgotten," Kathleen said.  "Will you send
her up to my room?"

She smiled at Allan.  "My new maid," she said, "the one I
told you about, the little girl from the cottage down the road,
such a pretty little thing, I am sure you will admire her!"

Allan smiled when she had gone out, he wondered if other
wives bespoke their husband's admiration for new maids in
this way?  Then his smile drifted away and he frowned a
little, had Kathleen loved him—she would have been more
jealous of his admiration—loved him!  How good she was,
what a sweet, lovely nature hers was, and how utterly
unworthy of her was he!

Had she loved him?  Yet, why should he wish for her
love when he had given her none of his own?  None?  No,
he did not love her, not as a man should love the wife he has
married.  He liked her, admired her, respected her, above all
living women.  She shared with his father the whole of his
heart, but it was not "the love," not the passion of young
manhood, the worshipping, devouring, all selfish and yet all
unselfish love that surely she was worthy to awaken in his
breast.

"Betty!"  Who had said "Betty"?  Who had uttered that
name?  Mrs. Crozier of course, she had told Kathleen that
Betty Hanson was here, but the name awakened memories,
memories of that dream.  "Her" name had been Betty, had
she not told him with her red lips, "Thy Betty," she had
said, and he had been "her Allan."

Betty, nonsense!  This Betty would be a big bouncing,
red cheeked, bold eyed, healthy country girl!  As for Betty
of his dreams, there was no place for her now in his busy
life.  There was much to be done.  He had taken up farming
wholeheartedly, not for ever would he live on his father's
bounty.  He would improve the place, make it almost
self-supporting.  He would prove to his father and Kathleen
that there was something in him and that he was not merely
an idler and a dreamer.  So he filled his pipe and lighted it
and went out to have a long talk with old Custance at One
Tree Hill Farm.  For Custance, though old, seemed to be
the most progressive man in the place and already he and
Allan had laid their heads together and had discussed ways
and means to wring money from the fertile soil.

Mrs. Crozier had been very kind to the timid and shy
girl.  She had had Betty to tea with her in her own private
room, she had introduced her to the other servants, and had
kept a motherly eye on Betty till the time came for Betty to
retire to her own small room in the servant's quarters.

And she was here! actually here, sleeping in this old
house, which she had seen so often, watched so often by
sunlight and moonlight.  She remembered it as it had been then,
with its broken windows, with the ivy and the creepers
growing over it in one great tangle.

But the garden, she had not seen the garden yet!  How
would it look when she saw it?  What terrible changes would
there be there?  Her dear garden, what harm had they done
to it?  How strange and altered would it be?

She could not sleep that night, she lay awake on the strange
unfamiliar bed, tossing restlessly.

Her ladyship had said, and how sweet and good was her
ladyship, she had said that the stone maiden was still there
in the old lake, so she would find one familiar friend.

After a long, sleepless, troubled night for Betty, the
daylight dawned at last, and then she rose and dressed very
quietly and before the other servants were waking, she crept
down the steep stairs to the kitchen.

She did not hesitate for a moment, she seemed to know her
way perfectly, yet she had never been inside the house before.
The House had always repelled her, its gloom and its silence
and its dust had forbidden any desire on her part to
explore it.  Yet now she made her way unerringly through the
great kitchen through the vast and cold scullery, down a long
passage till she came to a little door, a door that she knew
must be there.  And it was there and then she drew a ponderous
bolt that had been fashioned by a hand that had been dust
for two centuries.  She unfastened a huge lock, by a key
that required all her strength to turn, and so she opened the
door and stepped out into the garden as the rising sun flung
its first ray of primrose and gold across the heavens.

Only two steps Betty took, then stood still.  The light was
dim yet, yet through the grey mists she could see it—not as
she had seen it last—yet as she had seen it perhaps in her
dreams.  It was all so familiar, not as she had dreaded,
strange and cold, but it, was as the face of an old friend
suddenly grown young again, young and beautiful and sweet.

Her garden—yes it was hers!  Changed and yet not
changed, even more hers, it seemed to her, now, than had
been the weed grown, tangled desert she remembered.  Yet
she remembered that she had seen it thus in dreams and now,
as the sun rose, as the sky was flooded with the glory of the
dawn, she saw her garden in all its beauty, in all its reality,
as sometimes she had seen it in those strange dreams that
had come to her.

Had she not seen it like this when those figures, those
strange, beautiful, unreal figures of her imagination had
promenaded these old walks, those gracious ladies with their
strange old world costumes, their hair dressed so high on
their heads, their tiny slim waists, their great bell-like skirts
and their little red heeled shoes.  Those men in their rich
deep skirted coats, their stockinged legs, their swords, their
wigs—all those visions that had come to her in dreams, had
they not moved and lived in a garden like this, this same
garden as it was now, all trim and sweet and gay with
flowers?

She felt her heart pounding, throbbing, beating as it had
never beat before.  She hurried on and on, down the broad
stone pathway to the lake and there she saw her little friend,
just the same as always, the broken pitcher on her shoulder.

So while the sun rose higher and higher, Betty stood
there and nodded solemnly to the little stone figure, who
never nodded back.  And then, turning to go back to the
house before the others should know that she had come here
unpermitted, she stopped suddenly and uttered a little
choking cry of wonder and amazement.  For from here she could
see the house, a place of the living, no longer a place of the
dead.  She could see the curtains fluttering in the breeze
at the many open windows, she could see the signs of life
there, the primness and neatness of it all!

And it was all familiar, there was no strangeness to her
here, she was looking at that which her eyes had seen before
and yet how could it be, since she had not entered this place,
since those days before the workmen had come to alter it all?
How could it be? and yet it was!  And then suddenly she
turned and did not know why, and looked at an old stone seat
that stood on the edge of the great ring about the sundial.
Why had she looked at it?  What had she expected to see
there?  What she saw was an old, old stone seat, grey and
brown and green in the shadows, golden white where the sun's
rays touched it.

And then, filled with wonder, filled with a strange sense
of fear, she ran to the house and so back through the door
which she bolted and barred after her, and up the steep
stairs to her own little room and to sit on the bed with her
hands clasped and her eyes staring into vacancy, a vacancy
which yet seemed to hold many things, and one thing she
saw very plainly, a man who was young, a man whom she
knew instantly as he whom she had seen so often at his work
in the old garden.  But now she saw his face, and he smiled
at her, a lean, strong, sunburned face, with eyes as blue as
her own!  How often in those strange dreams had she seen
him, quaintly dressed in a suit of snuff coloured brown,
toiling at his work with spade and hoe.  "Allan!" she said
suddenly.  "Allan!"  And then she uttered a cry, she hid her
face in her hands and shivered suddenly, for she was
conscious of a strange feeling of fear, for here was something
she could not understand.  "Allan!"  Why had she said
that name?  What had put it into her mind and brought it
to her lips?





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.. _`THE DREAM MAIDEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE DREAM MAIDEN

.. vspace:: 2

If Allan Homewood, Esquire, should by chance meet his
wife's maid or any other servant on the stairs, or in one
of the innumerable passages of the old fashioned house, it
was scarcely likely that he would give more than a passing
glance and more than a passing thought to the domestic.  If
little Betty Hanson should happen suddenly on the master
of the house at a turn in the passageway, what more
becoming than she should drop her eyes demurely and go on
her way?

So while Allan and Betty Hanson had met perhaps a
dozen times or more, neither had really seen the other.

Allan was vaguely conscious of a small trim figure, and a
wealth of golden hair, which figure when he came tapping at
the door of his wife's room usually flitted out by another
door.

Betty took kindly to her new duties, she was intelligent,
she was quick and she was very eager to be of service to her
mistress.  Because she was eager to learn she learned rapidly.
Kathleen was a gentle mistress, who never lost her temper
and saw something rather pitiful in the young girl's evident
desire to please.

"Poor little thing!" she said, "she is grateful!"  So she
was more than usually kind to Betty and the girl whose
heart was bursting with love and gratitude, would very
willingly have lain down and allowed Kathleen to trample on
her.

"What do you think of my little maid, Allan?  Don't you
think the child is pretty?"

"Eh, your maid?  Oh yes!" Allan said.  "Quite a pretty
little thing!"  He was thinking of something else, the
fourteenth of the month was weighing rather heavily on him and
his spirits.

If it had only been his father who was coming, or only
Kathleen's, but that both should come, that both should
bring friends of their own troubled Allan.  He knew that
his father's friends were not likely to find much favour with
his Lordship.  Allan had met most of them, he knew Cutler,
a prosy, self sufficient, middle aged bore.  Jobson was another
of the same type.  Coombe was a big man with a loud voice
and vulgar aggressive manner.  He told interminable stories
without wit or point.  They were sound men in the City,
very likely, but he dreaded their advent here.  For his
father he felt nothing but pride and affection.  He knew the
old man's goodness of heart, his generous nature, his
simplicity, for these he loved him and honoured him above all men.
Let my Lord Gowerhurst sneer at that good honest man if
he dared—if he dared—in his, Allan's presence.  It was
not of his father, but of Cutler, Jobson, Coombe and
Company that Allan felt nervous and whom he worried about.

Kathleen had told him that her father was bringing a
friend.

"Who?" Allan asked.

"I don't know, Allan, he writes, an old friend of mine—but
I doubt it, very few of my father's friends were mine—I
am sorry," she said frankly, "that he is coming.  I know
that you do not like him, Allan, I cannot wonder that you
do not!"  She sighed and her head drooped a little.

And Allan, looking at her, felt his heart swell with pity,
for he knew what that proud spirit of hers had been called
on to suffer because of her father, the Earl.

But was it pity only that made his heart swell, that made
him take a step towards her, then stand hesitating?

He turned abruptly and went out into the garden.  He
was puzzled, uneasy, uncertain—Life had seemed so placid,
the future as well as the present had seemed so certain, as
certain as anything human could be.  He and Kathleen
understood one another so perfectly, were such firm friends,
such tried companions; yet did they understand one another
after all?  Did he even understand himself?

He flung himself down onto the stone seat facing the
sundial.  He had never been in love in his life, and therefore
told himself that he knew all about it.  Love, he believed,
came like a tempest, it swept a man off his feet, it robbed him
of his appetite.  It caused him sleepless nights, it drove him
to a thousand and one follies.  Such mad, passionate,
foolish love had never assailed him.  He had a good appetite
and he slept well of nights, he did not write poetry, though
he was rather fond of reading it, if it were good.  So
emphatically he could not be in love and certainly not in love
with his own wife!

He laughed at the thought, but the laughter was a little
uncertain, a little shaky.

"I am," he said aloud, "no more in love with her than she
with me.  We are the best of friends, our lives together are
practically ideal, we have not had one quarrel in all these
weeks, we are not likely to have; how could one quarrel
with a woman so gracious, so sweet, so good as Kathleen?"

He thrust his hands into his pockets and stretched out his
long legs and stared hard at his boots.

In love? certainly not! and most assuredly not with
Kathleen, yet supposing she were to leave him, supposing he
must suddenly face life without her?  He shuddered at the
thought.

Then he refused to consider the matter, to-morrow was
the fourteenth, to-morrow would come his father, God bless
him, with his beaming face, his car probably packed full
of little delicacies and little presents, as well as of City
friends, whose coming Allan distinctly dreaded, yet his father
should not be made aware of that.  There would be a royal
welcome for Coombe and Cutler and Jobson, for the sake
of the dear old man who brought them.

A telegram had been delivered by the red cheeked
messenger from the Little Stretton Telegraph office.

It was carried up to My Lady's room, as Mr. Homewood
himself was not visible.

Kathleen tore open the envelope, it was from her father.

Womanlike she glanced at the signature "Gowerhurst"
first and a faint hope came that it was to say his Lordship
would not be able to come, but he was coming.

"Find trains serve badly, can you send a car to meet us
three fifteen Longworthy Station.  Gowerhurst."

Of course they could and must.  Kathleen sighed a little,
she glanced through the window and saw Allan sprawling
on the old stone seat by the sundial.

"Betty," she said, "take this telegram down to Mr. Homewood
and ask him if he will kindly arrange about it."

Nothing was farther from Allan's thoughts, at this
moment, than dreams, or memories of dreams.  He had put
all that nonsense behind him, long since; he had laughed
frankly and whole heartedly when the merest memory of that
strangely lifelike dream had come into his mind.  If it had
affected him—and it had—it affected him no longer.

He was thinking particularly of Coombe, if only his father
had contented himself with Cutler and Jobson!  They were
at least quiet and unobtrusive, while Coombe—Allan looked up.

Down the wide flagged pathway a girl was coming to him.
About her was the old world garden, all bright and gay with
its flowers, and the trim emerald green lawn, all dappled
with sunlight and shadows.  Behind her was the old house,
the casement curtains fluttering in the gentle breeze and the
girl herself dainty and light footed.

Why did he start?  Why did he catch his breath suddenly?
Why did his eyes dilate?  She wore no quaint old-world cap
on her gleaming little head of golden hair, she wore no
flowered gown, high waisted and cut low to show the white
neck.  No, she wore a very simple, plain black frock with
a dainty white apron.  But he knew her!  He knew her
and his heart seemed to stand still as he watched her, wide
eyed with amazement.  His outflung hand gripped the back
of the stone seat.

So she came towards him, then as suddenly stopped, she
stood there looking, looking at him with the bluest eyes he
had ever seen.  He saw a little hand go to her breast as into
her childlike face there came a look of wonder and of fear.

"Betty!" he said.  "Betty!"  And scarcely knew that
he had said it.

"Allan, oh Allan, I——" and then flashed into her face
a crimson tide of shame, she dropped her eyes, she stood
before him, trembling and abashed.

What had possessed her?  What madness was this?  Allan—she
had dared so to call him, him the master of the
house—my lady's husband!

So the man sat, gripping the old seat, and the girl stood
there, covered with shame and confusion, not daring to lift
her eyes, and silence fell on them both.

What strange mad fantasy was this?  Should he waken
in a moment to hear Dalabey's voice, as once before?  But
no, she was real at least, this little maid in her black dress
and her head crowned with its shining glory.

But she had called him Allan, the name had seemed to
come spontaneously from her lips, as he had called her
Betty!  He felt shaken, life had suddenly become fantastic
to him, nothing seemed very real.  It was after all a world of
dreams; this too, was a dream.  He could almost have
welcomed the voice of Dalabey, but it did not come.  So she
stood there, with bent head and he saw something fluttering
in her little hand.

"You—you have brought me a message?" he said, and
his voice sounded strangely hoarse and discordant.

"Yes, sir, from—from my Lady!"  She dropped him a
little curtsey, he could see the flush still in her cheeks, could
see that it even stained her white neck and her little ears.
He rose and went to her and stretched out his hand.  He hoped
that she would look up but she did not, never once were the
blue eyes lifted to his own.  Why had she come, why had
she come?  He had not wanted her to come, yet she had
come into his life after all.  She was here, standing before
him, not in the picturesque trappings of a byegone century,
but in her modern dress, still he knew her well enough.

"Betty, Betty!"  Betty who had kissed him, who had told
him that she loved him.

He had hoped once that he might meet her in real life.
He had pictured her, tried to dream that dream again, yet
had never succeeded.  And now that at last he saw her,
could stretch out his hand and touch her, he knew that it
were better that she had not come.

He put out his hand and took the telegram from her, yet
did not look at her.

"You are—Betty Hanson, my wife's maid?"

The little head seemed to droop lower, he could see the
childish breast heaving under the pretty white apron.  She
dropped him a curtsey humbly.

"You are Betty!" he said.  "And you called me——"

He paused.

"Oh sir, oh sir forgive me.  Indeed—indeed I du not know
what made me, sir!"  Now the blue eyes were lifted to him
in pitiful appeal.

"Indeed—oh indeed, sir, I didn't know what I were saying!
'Twasn't as if I myself spoke, 'twas as if—if summut
in me made me say it—oh sir—indeed, I couldn't help it!
I—I don't know what made me du it!"

How blue her eyes were, how they shone and glittered now
with the tears that clung to the sweeping, upturned lashes,
how pitiful in its appeal for pardon was the little face!  He
looked at her with a feeling of pity, and yet not of pity
only.  It was she! the girl of his dreams, the girl who had
come to him and called him "Allan, her Allan," this girl a
servant in the house, who had come to him this day in real
life and had called him by his name.

What meaning, what strange, unknown, force was behind
it all?  How could he tell, still less, poor maid, how could
she?

"I am not angry, Betty," he said, "indeed, why should I
be angry—with you—for I called you Betty, knowing it
to be your name, though I did not recognise you as Betty
Hanson, my wife's maid.  Don't think of it again, child, and
do not let it trouble you!  Perhaps you are right, it was not
you yourself who spoke——"

"And you bain't angry wi' me, sir?" she asked.

He shook his head and smiled.  Angry—angry with her—yet
had she not once before asked him that selfsame question?
Strangely he remembered clearly and distinctly the
very words "Allan, Allan, be you still angry wi' your Betty
now?"

Perhaps unconsciously he had muttered them aloud, for
he was startled to see the look in her face, the wonder, the
and excitement.

"What—what made 'ee say those words?" she gasped.  "Oh,
what made 'ee say 'em?"

"I don't know, I don't know," he said.  "Betty, Betty,
child, go back, forget all this, it is nonsense—some foolish
dream that you and I seem to have shared.  Go back, little
maid, to your mistress and your work and forget—-" he
paused, "forget that you knew my name to be Allan and
that I knew you for Betty!  Believe me it is better, far, far
better so!"  He smiled at her kindly.  "Don't think that I
am angry, why should I be angry?  It seems to me, child,
that fate is playing some strange trick with us, that is far,
far beyond understanding.  We must not try to understand
it.  Betty, better put it out of your mind and forget
it——"

"If—if I could!" she whispered.  "Oh if I could!"

"We must, both of us," he said sternly.  "We must forget
what we should never know!"

How pretty she was—and now that the colour was in her
cheeks, how lovely she looked in the sunlight with the old
garden all about her!  Kathleen was right—a rarely lovely little
maid was Mrs. Hanson's granddaughter!  And as she was,
so had been that other maid, the maid of his dream, the same
gleaming, golden hair, the same delicate arched brows—the
deep blue eyes—with their wealth of uplifted lashes, the fair
oval of her cheeks, and the red lipped dainty little mouth
that once had smiled on him so kindly and not smiled only,
but had come so willingly to meet his own lips.

"Betty, there are some things that it is not given to us
to understand, perhaps now and again in the lives of some
mortals the curtain is for a moment lifted.  It may have
been so with us, lifted and then, allowed to fall again—and
when it has been lifted only for a moment, Betty, it is better
that we who have been granted a sight beyond it, should
forget what we have seen and never let it influence our
thoughts or our lives.  Can you understand me, Betty?"

She nodded silently, she looked at him with her glorious
eyes and in them he saw to his dismay, his terror almost, the
same light, the light of the love he had seen shining in the
eyes of his dream maiden.

But now she broke the spell, she dropped him a curtsey,
she was turning away.

"Be there any answer to my lady's message, sir?" she
asked.

"No!" he said.  "No, there is no answer!"

He went back to the stone seat and sat there, conscious
that life and the world had changed suddenly for him.  He
dropped his chin onto his hand and sat staring, staring and
seeing nothing.

He knew that once he had hoped that she might come and
she had come and now he knew he was sorry and yet glad,
with a strange gladness.

"Betty!" he said and said it aloud.  "Betty——!"  And
saw her, not as he had seen her but a moment ago, but as he
had seen her that first time in her picturesque flowered gown,
so quaintly high waisted, the neck cut low to shew her slender
white throat, the little mittened hands and the mob cap on
her shining head.

But the face, the eyes, the lips, ah! they were the same!

He rose suddenly and seemed to shake himself mentally
and physically.  This was real life, this was the world all about
him.  There was no time for folly and for dreams—to-morrow
the old house would be filled with visitors.  He remembered
the telegram suddenly and found it crushed into a ball
in his hand.  He opened it and smoothed it out and read it.

"It is from my wife's father," he said aloud, and then
repeated the words as of some set meaning and for some
known purpose, "my wife's father!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE ROAD TO HOMEWOOD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE ROAD TO HOMEWOOD

.. vspace:: 2

Long ago before their marriage, Allan had promised to
tell Kathleen if his dream maiden should ever come
to him in real life.  And she had come, yet he had not told
his wife.  To-morrow the old house would be filled with
guests.  Kathleen had much to do and much to think about,
why trouble her now with this foolish story?  After all the
visitors were gone—why then—perhaps—but not now!

Then they would have the old house to themselves, then
would be the time for confidences, and such foolish
confidences after all, why tax her patience with them now?

As for Betty, it was likely that he would see the child
again, yet when he saw her, what then?  He would not speak
to her.  Yet at the very thought of that fair, flowerlike face,
those deep blue eyes, something seemed to stir within him, the
blood seemed to run more quickly in his veins, he was
conscious of a heart throb, of a subdued excitement.

And now that she was not here before his eyes, he
pictured her, not as he had seen her last, but as he had seen
her for the first time, in quaint gown and mob cap, with
mittened hands.

No! when the visitors were all gone, when her father and
his had taken their departure, when they had the house to
themselves once again—then he would tell her and ask her
opinion and advice.  Perhaps she would send the child away,
women did such things he knew, he hoped that Kathleen
would not.  On the whole he did not think she would.
Kathleen could not be guilty of anything that was small and
mean.

She looked up at him now as he came in with the same
frank kindly smile as always.

"You had my father's telegram, Allan?" she said.  "Did
you arrange about a car?"

"Yes!"

"Allan, it's very, very wrong of me, yet when I saw the
message was from my father I almost hoped that it was to
say he could not come!"

He did not answer and she went on.

"He has taken so little interest in us and the house, he
has not thought it worth his while to run down, even for an
hour to see us, all these weeks, while your father——" she
paused.

"I wish," he said, "that my father was not bringing so
many of his City friends, I am afraid that his Lordship will
not approve of them!"

"Your father surely has a right to bring whom he pleases
to this house?"

"Yes, dear, but——"

"I wrote to him.  I did not tell you at the time, I told
him that all his friends were welcome here, Allan, if we can
give him any little pleasure; could we deny it to him, after all
that he has given to us and done for us?  And, oh!  I feel
so humble when I think of him and his goodness.  I remember
what I used to think of him, what I used to permit
myself to say of him, before I knew him as I know him now.  I
feel that I can never sufficiently make amends for that!"

All that evening she talked to him of the visitors who were
coming.  She herself had seen to Sir Josiah's room, she had
arranged vases for the flowers that she would not cut until
the morning, so that they should be fresh.  It was a sense of
duty rather than a feeling of love that caused her to put
flowers in her own father's room too, for one thing she knew
that he would not appreciate them.  That night Allan lay
wakeful.  He thought of Betty and thought of her with a
sense of shame, yet with a strange joy.

Why should it have been as it had?  What meaning was
behind it all?  Was there a meaning that he would ever
understand?  He remembered what his father had told him of a
Pringle—an Allan Pringle who had married a Betty, maid
to the then mistress of the house.  It had been a sad story, his
father had said, the girl had died, poor Betty!  He listened
to Kathleen's sweet regular breathing, he lifted himself on
his arm and watched her sleeping face in the moonlight that
came in through the widely opened window.

How good she was, how white and pure she looked lying
here in her sleep!  He was strangely moved, his mind was
filled with a great reverence for her, he bent to her, he touched
her cheeks with his lips, so lightly as not to waken her, then
he lay down again and slept.

No holiday maker ever set out for a day's pleasuring with
keener anticipation than did Sir Josiah this bright September
morning.  He was to call for Cutler on the way.  Coombe was
driving his own car and would pick up Jobson, they were to
meet at the Chequers at Horley, should they not happen on
one another on the road.

There were a thousand and one things to remember, a
dozen packages to stow away.

"Mind that there one, Bletsoe, my man, go lightly now!"

"Very good, Sir Josiah!"

"And see Mr. Cutler don't go and put his foot on it," said
Sir Josiah, "and let me see, one, two, three, four, that's all
right!  One moment!"  Back into the house he dashed, to
reappear with more parcels.

"Reg'lar old Santy Claus," muttered Bletsoe, with a kindly
smile, "like a blooming great kid he is, going to 'ave a day's
outing!"

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—seven's right,
and eight, that's in my pocket; what's the time, Bletsoe?"

"Gone ten, sir!"

"Bless my soul and I promised to be at Cutler's at ten—all
right now, Bletsoe, let her go!"

How he had racked his brain, what shops had he not
rummaged, what shopmen and shop maidens had he not pestered.
He had sent down cases from the wine merchant, stores from
Messrs. Whiteley, hundred weights of pâte de foie gras,
Strasbourg pies, chocolates and Heaven knew what besides
from Messrs. Fortum and Mason's.  That lengthy and
evidently fragile parcel he had been so careful about was a
beautiful and costly vase.  Something of the Ming Period or
the Chang Dynasty, he was not very sure what, but it cost a
great deal.  That soft and pliable looking parcel was a
silken kimono of rare and wonderful workmanship.  Those
square parcels were cigars and cigarettes for Allan and
Allan's friends.  There he sat, this red faced, jolly old
gentleman, with a great cigar in the corner of his mouth and he
beamed on the world as his magnificent car whirled him up
one street and down another.

And here was Cutler actually ready, standing in his open
doorway, Cutler in a new and rather becoming tweed suit,
and a soft felt hat, an unfamiliar Cutler, for Sir Josiah had
never seen him in anything but a silk hat and a correct black
coat in the City.

"Hallo Cutler, here we are, a bit late, mind the parcels!
Bletsoe, take Mr. Cutler's suitcase, here we are, my boy,
lovely morning, looking forward to a delightful run, picking
up Coombe and Jobson at Horley.  Get in, get in!  Have a
cigar, no you prefer a pipe.  I don't know that you ain't
right!"

And now they were really off and away.  How nimbly
the big car twisted in and out the traffic, how it dodged
cumbersome, road monopolising trams, how it slipped round
the unwieldy omnibuses!  Then away southward Streatham
was passed—here was Croydon with its narrow congested
streets, past Purley and Redhill, down the long hill
somewhere near the foot of which lies the village of Horley and
its well known Inn, where Coombe and Jobson would be
waiting.

What a morning, what sunshine, what a breeze!

"Does one good, Cutler.  Blows the cobwebs away!
Better than all your Doctor's stuffs, my boy!"

"My daughter," said Cutler, "tells me that in Demauritius,
of which her husband is Governor, they have some
extraordinarily beautiful country and she constantly——"

But Cutler's reminiscences are cut short, here is the
Chequers, and here is Coombe with a tankard of beer in his
hand.  He waves the tankard to Sir Josiah unblushingly and
drinks his jolly good health.

"And your jolly good health too, Coombe, my boy, what a
morning!  What's the time!  Eleven—Bless me, we must
have dawdled on the way!  Beer! the air's good enough for
me—like wine, sir, wine—the finest wine in the world!"

"Race you to Crawley for a fiver," says Coombe.

"I—I trust—Sir Josiah," says Jobson, "you will not agree,
believe me Coombe needs no inducement at all to be reckless,
he nearly ran over an old lady in Streatham a very
respectable looking old lady, in Croydon he butted into a tram
standard, and it is a mercy we were not all killed, and then
at Purley Corner—a butcher's cart——"

But Coombe's beer is finished, Jobson is bundled into the
car, Coombe starts her up, climbs over Jobson and tramples
on his feet, seizes the wheel and away they go.

For all Coombe's boasting and reckless driving, Sir Josiah
and Cutler are in Crawley first.  Here they swing away to
the right to Horsham and leave the Brighton road for good.
From now on, their road takes them through the heart of
Sussex, Sussex of the quaint wayside cottages, with gardens
all blooming and fragrant, Sussex of the chalky white roads,
the great undulating sweeps of noble hills.  Sing of Devon
who will, but can Devon shew such cottage gardens, can she
shew anything to compare with yonder glorious range of
downs?  Green downs on which the passing clouds cast
moving shadows of purple and blue, and here and there a gleam
of purest white, where the sunlight strikes on to the bare
white chalk of some cliff or cutting.  Where in all the
world grows turf so dense, so fine, so short and sweet and
perfect as here upon these rolling hills of chalk.  Under the
hills the trees are all glowing red and bronze and orange.
The car wheels swish among the fallen leaves, the children
come running out of the cottages and cling to the gates to
watch as the cars go whirling by.

But they are going at a more sober pace now, the country
is all too lovely under the September sunshine to rattle
through in a cloud of chalky dust.  Sir Josiah, eager as he is,
calls on Bletsoe to go more quietly, and it is luncheon time
when they cross the river and run up into Arundel Town,
so luncheon they have in the old Inn and walk up the hill to
have a look at the castle, the home of the Howards, while
the steak is grilling.

And then the last stage of the journey, along the pleasant
road to Chichester, Chichester of the old market cross, and
here the cars swing to the right towards Midhurst, but the
end of the journey is very near now.  The Midhurst Road is
left behind, up hill and down dale sweeps the narrower bye-way.

"Here we are, this is Little Stretton!" said Sir Josiah.
"That's the Fighting Cocks, many a good meal I've had
there—hello Dalabey, how are you?  Hello Crabb, hello
Monson!"  He waves his hand, there are smiles and bobs
and greetings for him.  Dalabey could not bow more
profoundly if it had been a Royal Duke, and he could not have
felt more honest respect for so exalted a personage than he
did for the red faced old fellow who waved to him so
pleasantly from the splendid car.

"We're getting near, see that wall, that long wall, that's
Homewood, see them—those gates—those are the Homewood
gates, they are open, they are expecting us of course!
Drive in Bletsoe, drive right in, blow the horn Bletsoe, here
we are!"

His face is beaming.  It has been a jolly journey, a rare
holiday in the September sunshine, but perhaps this is the
most pleasant part of it all.  Here is Homewood, the gates
stand open, they drive through, the hall door stands open
too!

And here is Kathleen; she has heard the wheels, she comes
hurrying out.  No servants shall open the hall door to Sir
Josiah and carry Sir Josiah's card to the lady of the house,
that would be but a poor welcome.  So my Lady Kathleen,
all smiling and dimpling, runs down the steps and springs
lightly onto the running board of the car and puts her arms
around his neck and kisses him before them all.

"Welcome," she says, "welcome, I've been watching for
you for hours!"

Yes, this is the pleasantest part of the whole journey after
all!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AFTER TEN YEARS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center medium bold

   AFTER TEN YEARS

.. vspace:: 2

Kathleen had looked forward to conducting Sir
Josiah and his friends around the house and grounds.
But though she knew that he was pleased and happy to have
her with them, though he took a delight in her company, yet
her presence embarrassed them all a little, even Sir Josiah
himself.  How could he be the showman when she was near?
How could he tell Coombe how much money he had spent on
this and that?  How crush Cutler with the magnificence of
the rooms and dazzle Jobson with the extent and the beauty
of the gardens?

Kathleen, with her rare tact and intelligence saw it in a
moment.  Coombe had allowed his cigar to go out, Jobson
looked nervous.  Sir Josiah, while he beamed on her, had
scarce a word to say.  Only Cutler seemed to be at his ease
and was telling her about his daughter's establishment in
Demauritius, in which island she was the Lady of the
Governor.

Kathleen put her hand through Sir Josiah's arm, she drew
him aside a little.

"I want you to shew them round, shew them everything,
you know so much more about it all than I do!  It is all your
doing, you knew it as it was, you can describe it so much
better than I can, and besides I'm terribly busy," she smiled
at him.  "You know my father is coming and he's bringing
some other guest who I do not know.  Allan will be back
soon, he is terribly busy these days," she laughed softly.  "He
is at One Tree Hill Farm with old Mr. Custance; they have
great schemes; Allan is going to make his fortune!"

"Bless me!" said Sir Josiah.  "Allan is!—well, well!"

"So I must run away," she said.  She smiled at him and
hurried into the house.

But from the window she watched them with bright eyes,
she saw Sir Josiah stretch his hand, pointing this way and
that.

"You ought to have seen it, you ought, Coombe.  Derelict
wasn't the word for it.  Weeds that high, my boy; now look,
look at it.  Jobson, what do you say to this for a garden,
hey? and you, Cutler, you wait till you see the house.  It's
something to see I promise you, and six months ago, six
months ago, my boy, you ought to have seen it, then."

The old man was himself again, that tender, kindly, loving
greeting had warmed his heart.

"I'll bet it was her thought, keeping the gates open," he
thought to himself.  "It's like her to think of little things
like that.  Things that make just all the difference."

"Tidy place," said Coombe, "good taste, too; shouldn't
be surprised if her Ladyship had a good deal to say in the
management of this garden."

"Her ladyship has a good deal to say in the management
of everything," said Sir Josiah, "and quite right she should.
A place like this is a natural environment for her, while for
me and my boy Allan, though he's twice—" he paused, "twice
the gentleman I am—" he had been going to say, but these
were Jobson, Cutler and Coombe, men he kept up his dignity
with to a certain extent.

"What's the old boy say to it, hey?" asked Coombe.

"Old boy?"

"The Earl—Gowerhurst—what's he say to it all, hey?"

"Oh he—I don't think he's been down yet, but he's
coming, they are expecting him to-day."

"I'll lay he don't know that I'm here," Coombe said.  "If
he did he wouldn't show up, not he."

"And why not?" asked Sir Josiah.  "Why not, Coombe?
I'd like to know."

"Money, my boy, money!  I've had dealings with his
Lordship before.  His Lordship knows me well enough; bet
you a fiver, Homewood, when the old boy sees me he'll turn
green."

"I hope," said Sir Josiah with great dignity, "that here
in my daughter-in-law's house there is not going to be any
discussion about money matters.  No shop, Coombe, no shop.
We owe it at least to Lady Kathleen to behave like gentlemen
when we are her guests."

Coombe looked at the old gentleman out of the corner of
his eyes.  "Quite right, Homewood, I should be sorry to be
guilty of any disrespect to so charming and kind hearted a
young lady I'm sure.  The only wonder to me is that such
a father should have such a child."  Coombe winked broadly
at Jobson, a very humorous man, Mr. Coombe, and fond of
his little joke.

And now came Allan, who had been delayed by the garrulous
but competent Mr. Custance.  He gripped his father
by the hand and thrust his hand through the old gentleman's
arm.

He was kindly and courteous to Coombe, whom he did not
like, and to Jobson and Cutler, whom he esteemed because
they were his father's friends.

"You've seen Kathleen, father?"

"Seen her, yes, why bless her she was waiting on the steps
to welcome us, that's what I call a welcome, Allan.  None
of your Society manners with Kathleen, no sending in of
cards and being ushered in by servants.  There she was,
bless her pretty face, watching for us and ran down the
steps, she did, and—and well, where have you been, Allan,
hey?  I hear you are going to make your fortune."

"I'm going to have a good try at earning a bit of money,
father, and it can be done; I'll talk to you about it later.
Now come in and have a look at the house, Mr. Coombe, I
am sure would like something."

"Ha, ha!" said Coombe.  "Guessed it at once, Allan, my
boy!  I've just been wondering how long it would be before
someone made the suggestion."

"I am sorry," Allan said reddening.

They went in.  Kathleen saw them come, but she was
watching for the other visitor, the other guest, whom she
told herself, she would not be half so pleased to see as the
guest who had already arrived.

She took herself to task and yet she knew that she could
not try and cheat herself.  Her father was her father.  It
was Fate—respect for him she had none—that she could not
respect him had been one of the greatest sorrows of her life.
Affection for him she had but very little.  She knew him
too well, could read him too easily, understood his thoughts
too clearly and she pitied him for his utter selfishness.

She knew, for she had been old enough to know, something
of her mother's sufferings before death came, not unwelcomed.
He had never been anything to his wife in the presence
of others except polite and courteous, then he treated
her with his usual charm of manner, on which he prided
himself.

He had neglected her, ignored her when alone; he stung
her and wounded her with his sneers, his poisoned darts of
contempt and contumely.  He had never lifted his hand to
her, yet he had killed her in the end as surely as the drunken
tinker slays the wife of his bosom with a boot heel or the
kitchen poker.

And Kathleen knew much of this, not quite all perhaps,
but she remembered the suffering of the quiet, pale-faced,
cowed woman whom the young girl had surrounded with a
worshipping, adoring love.

So she stood watching and listening for the coming of the
car.  Who the other guest might be, she did not speculate
on.  It was someone in whom she felt not the slightest
interest.  In a way she was glad that her father was bringing
a friend of his own choice.  It would be someone for him to
talk to.  Coombe, Jobson and Cutler would hardly prove to
be associates of whom his lordship would approve.  She knew
his feelings toward Sir Josiah and she felt a twinge of shame,
for in a way she had shared those feelings in the past.

His lordship was in an ill humour.  He disliked the
country intensely.  The only occasions when he found the
country at all bearable was, when one of a large house party,
there was some shooting to be done in the daytime and
unlimited bridge, billiards or baccarat to while away the
night.  That he would not find these amusements waiting
him at Homewood he was fully aware.

During the journey from London Bridge to Longworthy,
he was fidgety and faultfinding.  The carriage when the
window was up was too hot; when it was down the carriage
was draughty, the seats were dusty, "a disgrace to the
Railway Company."  The line, he maintained, was the very
worst laid line in the Kingdom.  He was jolted to pieces,
carriages worse sprung than this he had never ridden in.

"We might have come by car," Scarsdale said.

"I hate cars, nasty draughty things, I dislike the smell
of the petrol, the hot oil, the dust, I hate running over
children and dogs.  I'm deuced unlucky in a car—never go out
in one unless there's an accident; ran over a child last time
when I was with Lysart, shook my nerves up most confoundedly.
By George, Harold, I blame myself, yes, I take
blame to myself, I do by Gad!"

"For running over the child?"

"No, I'm thinking of Kathleen's marriage.  I was anxious
about her, deucedly anxious.  Kathleen was getting on, I
don't tell everyone, but you know, you the friend of her
childhood, that Kathleen isn't so young as she was.  Not
that she's gone off, not a bit of it.  I consider Kathleen more
handsome to-day than ever in her life.  She comes of the
right stock, Harold, the Stanwys wear well, the men and the
women.  My grandmother, begad, was a toast when she was
fifty-five and they say she did not look a day over thirty.
She was a Stanwys by birth, Arabella Stanwys, daughter of
Francis—but this don't interest you.  No, I was speaking
of Kathleen.  I say that I take blame to myself that I hurried
on the wedding, hurried it on.  I'll admit it frankly.  Thoughts
of Kathleen caused me sleepless nights.  I'm naturally an
affectionate man, a man on whom responsibility weighs
heavily.  I realised my position, Harold.  'When I am dead
and gone, Begad!' I said to myself, 'what of Kathleen?
What of my poor, dear child?'  You'd have said the same
had you been in my place.  Then I fell in with Homewood
in connection with a Company, common old fellow; you'll
dislike him intensely as I do, by gad!"

"And so you married Kathleen to his son?"

"Yes, yes, I felt I had to.  The girl's future troubled me,
worried me to death, Harold.  How was I to know that
you'd come back; how the deuce was I to know that you
hadn't married and settled down; how was I to know that
you——?"

"That I had succeeded in life and was in a position to
offer Kathleen a home?" Scarsdale asked.

"That's it, that's it, begad.  The very words I was going
to say.  How could I know all that?  I did not, I saw the
chance.  Allan Homewood isn't a bad fellow, not a gentleman
of course; how could he be with such a father?  But quiet
and unassuming, decently educated, sensible.  I was torn,
Harold, torn, I confess now that I thought of you—" the
tears came into his lordship's fine eyes, he leaned forward
and gripped Scarsdale's hand.  "I thought of you, I thought
to myself, 'If ever that fine young fellow comes back, what
a blow to him, what a blow!'  Yet how did I know you were
coming back?"

"No, you were not to know."  Harold Scarsdale stared
out of the window.  "I wish, Heaven knows, for many
reasons, I had not come back.  I might have known that
Kathleen could not have waited, yet I watched the papers, I saw
no engagement, no marriage announced and I clung to hope,
then—" he laughed shortly.  "I ought not to be here now,
Lord Gowerhurst, it's the weakest, most foolish thing I have
ever done, yet you say you wrote and told Kathleen."

"I did, I did, 'pon my honour I did, wrote to her and said
I was bringing you down and she wrote and said she'd be
delighted to see you."

"Which was very kind and very friendly of her," said
Scarsdale with a bitter sneer, "and proves that she doesn't
care a hang for me now, and in all probability never did."  He
laughed again and his lordship, not quite knowing why,
laughed too.

Kathleen was waiting, she heard the car wheels, the hoot
of the horn as the car swung in through the open gateway.
She could do no less to welcome her own father than she
had done to welcome Allan's.  She hurried out, and descended
the steps, there was a smile on her face, her hand was held
out, then suddenly she stopped.  The smile seemed to set on
her face, which had grown rigid, and suddenly very white;
the outstretched hand shook and fell to her side.

So for a moment she stood there, wide eyed, conscious of
the violent throbbing of her heart.

After—ten years—and so they faced one another again.
And the man knew that her father had lied to him and that
his coming was all unexpected by her.

But it was only for a moment, just one moment, that
was yet enough to betray her to those keen, eager, watchful
eyes.  Then she came forward, calmly, with an artificial
smile on her lips.  She took her father's hand, she kissed
him, what she said she hardly knew, she touched the other
man's hand.  She told him that his coming was an
unexpected pleasure.

Jardine, the chauffeur, holding open the door of the car
saw nothing out of the common.  James, the footman,
coming down the steps to take the rugs and handbags, little
dreamed that here was a meeting between lovers who ten
years ago had parted in tears and an agony of heartbroken
hopelessness.

For Lady Kathleen was herself again, she was smiling,
and if the colour had not yet returned to her cheeks, who
was to notice so insignificant a fact?  Not James and
Jardine, not Lord Gowerhurst certainly.

"And so this is Homewood, eh Kathleen?  Quite a nice
little place; reminds me a little of—of Clamberwick,
Normandyke'a seat in Cumberland, but smaller of course, a
great deal smaller.  Had some deuced good fishing there I
remember.  Thought you'd like to see Harold again, hey?
By the way he is Sir Harold now, Governor of somewhere
or other.  The world's treated him decently, yes decently,
eh Harold?  And quite right too, I like to see a man work
his way up in the world."

"I am glad to hear it," Kathleen said.  "I am sure that
any fortune that has come to Mr. Scar—to Sir Harold
Scarsdale, has been fairly and honestly won—and thoroughly
deserved."

"Ha, ha, nicely put, very simply and nicely put, eh
Scarsdale?" said his lordship.  "Give me your arm, my
dear, I'm confoundedly cramped, getting to be an old fellow
now.  One of these days I may ask my daughter to find
some corner, some out of-the-way corner by the fire for the
old man, eh?  Some obscure place where the old man may sit
and dream away his last days.  It's the fall of the leaf, my
dear, the fall of the leaf.  As I rode through your beautiful
country a while ago, I saw the leaves all strewn on the road
and I thought—as with the year, so with me—my leaves are
falling, all wrinkled and brown.  And yet it seems but
yesterday since I put them on so fresh and green, hey, so fresh
and green and—and——"

He was talking the arrant nonsense he loved, in the
self-pitying style Kathleen knew only too well.  She shivered,
but not with her usual impatience of the humbug of it.  How
had he dared—dared to bring this man?  How had he dared
to make friendly overtures to one whom he had grossly and
cruelly insulted ten years ago?  And Harold himself?  It
shocked her to think that he could come here—that he could
bring himself to accept her and Allan's hospitality.  She had
not looked at him since that first quick glance, and short
though that had been, it had shewn her the change in him.
The boy she had known—and loved—was gone—this man,
she felt, she hardly knew.  She asked herself even now, had
she foolishly made an ideal of that lad, or had she idealised
her love for him? she wondered—but it hurt her that he
was here now.

Lord Gowerhurst, leaning far more heavily than he need
on her arm, entered the house.  He betrayed no interest in
it.  The finely panelled walls, the carefully selected and
diligently sought after "Period" furniture, the vista from
the windows of the wonderful old English garden in its
autumnal glory, interested him not at all.  He was talking
of himself, which was the most interesting topic he could
think of.

"I'm not eating too well, my dear, a bad sign, hey, a bad
sign, and my sleep is broken—terribly broken.  I never was
one of the "fat kine" my love, but I'm growing noticeably
thinner.  I declare to you that Crombie, my man, is
positively shocked at the falling off in my girth and Darbey,
my tailor, poor fellow, is getting quite anxious about me."

Kathleen told herself that she ought to have known, ought
to have anticipated it, yet she felt hurt that he took so little
interest in her home.  He never looked at anything; he sat
down in a delightful Hepplewhite chair, a chair that the
great Davenham had undertaken a seventy-five mile journey
to secure.  He sat down in the chair and stared at the very
pointed toes of his exquisite boots.

"I'm not my own man, no, my love, I don't wish to pain
you, I know how sensitive you are, what a loving heart my
child has; I don't wish to rouse one anxiety in your mind,
my love, but I feel age, old age creeping on."

Kathleen sat facing him, there was a set smile on her white
lips.  She heard him and did not realise one word that he
was uttering, perhaps she had heard it all so often before
that it was not worth listening to now.

"He is here, he is here.  Here under this roof, here in this
very room."  The man who had written her those passionate
love letters, letters which she had blistered with her tears,
letters which she had destroyed at last with an aching heart
and feelings of reverence and solemnity.  How often, his
voice calling to her, had come up out of the past, "Kathleen,
I love you.  Kathleen, come with me, risk all, give all, dare
all, but come—come with me because I love you so."

And how nearly, how nearly she had said yes.  Sometimes
she wondered why she had not said yes, for it was in her
heart to listen and to go—yet she had not, and now he was
here.

Was she glad?  No, no, no!  Yet was she sorry?  How
could she answer, how could she tell?

"Darbey, of Dover Street, you remember, my love, my
tailor, though Heaven knows I don't patronise the poor
fellow one half as much as he deserves.  I tell you Darbey
was shocked; he said to me, almost with tears in his eyes
and his voice shaking with emotion, 'My lord,' he said, 'I'm
sorry to tell your lordship that your present measurements
shew a falling off of two and a half inches at the waist, it's
a serious thing.'  He begged and besought me to consult a
physician, but I did not.  No, no, what does it matter after
all?  When I look about me and see your charming home—"
he had not looked about him in the slightest degree, "then
I realise that I have done what I could.  I have seen to it
that my child is—Don't I hear voices, hey, Kathleen?"

He certainly did, from the adjoining room came Coombe's
big bass voice:

"Sir Josiah Homewood is here and he has brought some
friends——"

"Friends, eh! bless me, friends of Homewood, very
interesting."  His lordship laughed a thin, cackling, unpleasant
laugh.  "My dear Harold, I think I can promise you some
amusement, Sir Josiah Homewood is——"

"Is my husband's father," Kathleen said, and her cheeks
suddenly blazed with generous colour.  "He is also my very
dear friend."

"And therefore entitled to the respect and esteem of all
men," said Scarsdale quietly.

She turned to him for the first time, looked at him, and
saw the many changes in him.  She looked for some sign,
something that would recall the boy lover of long ago, and
it seemed to her that she looked in vain.

"My husband's father has been very kind, very generous
and good to us," she said.  "There are few for whom I have
a greater esteem and a deeper affection than I have for him."

Coombe, putting down his empty glass, looked out of the
window and saw the empty car turning towards the Garage.
He gripped Jobson's arm.

"The nobility and gentry have now arrived," he whispered.
"This is going to be as good as a play, Jobson.  Keep
your eye on me and watch old Gowerhurst, I'll bet it'll be
amusing, you watch out, Jobson, he, he.  Watch him turn
green.  Last time I saw the old boy he tried to borrow a
couple of thousand, but no thanks, not taking any, said I.
Securities too deuced rotten—rotten as his own confounded
reputation.  Almost wept to me, the old fellow did, but
once bitten—twice shy—he had four hundred out of me
once and I'd like to see the colour of my money; a shark,
a confounded oily slimy old leech, that's what he is.  Button
your pockets up, Jobson, my son, when his nobility, the Earl
of Gowerhurst, is about the premises."

All this was in an undertone to Jobson, who looked and
felt very uncomfortable.

Allan and his father had been talking in a low voice, and
now Allan turned.

"I think my wife is with her father in the drawing room;
shall we go in?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, let's go in," Sir Josiah said.  "It's a long time
since I saw his lordship; I trust his lordship is quite well."

"His lordship won't be so jolly well presently," whispered
Coombe to Jobson, "it's going to be as good as a play, watch
the fun."  And Coombe winked at Jobson knowingly.

And now the door of the drawing room opened and Allan,
holding his father's arm, came in, followed by Jobson, Cutler
and Coombe.

"The old fat common fellow;" thought his lordship, then
suddenly remembering that in the very near future he would
in all probability require the assistance of the "old fat
common fellow," he rose and held out a friendly generous hand.

"Delighted to see you, Homewood.  Looking well, positively
well, you are, ha, ha, you busy men with interests in
life, you're much to be envied."

"Allan," Kathleen touched his arm.  "Allan, I want to
present you to a—a friend, an old friend whom my father has
brought down with him."  Her voice shook, yet so little that
Allan, unobservant as he was, noticed nothing.

"Sir Harold Scarsdale.  My husband!"

Allan's hand was thrust out, his face lighted with pleasure
and frank and friendly welcome.

"I'm delighted to see you, Sir Harold," he said, "it's kind
of you to come to such an out-of-the-world place as this."

"I've been out of England for many years, and it's a great
pleasure to me to see my own country again and—and my
old friends."  Scarsdale's voice shook a little.  Why had he
come, why had he come?  Gowerhurst had lied to him vilely,
when he had told him that Kathleen was expecting him and
had expressed pleasure at the thought of seeing him; what
a liar the man was.

And Kathleen, how little she had altered.  The years had
robbed her of nothing, he remembered her as a sweet faced,
lovely girl; he saw her now a radiantly beautiful woman.
Yes, the years had been kind to her.  How often had he
thought of her, pictured her to himself.  How had he, many
a time, lain awake in the sweltering heat of the tropical
nights and tried to picture her, and yet the reality, how
immeasurably superior it was to the vision his dreams had
conjured up.  And while he was thinking these things, he
was talking to her husband.

His lordship's calm superiority always made Sir Josiah
feel a little nervous, made him realise his own inferior
station in life.  He was feeling it now, he was conscious of a
sensation of undue heat.  He had been cool enough five
minutes ago in the dining room, now he was visibly perspiring.

"Yes, her Ladyship, Lady Kathleen, was so kind as to
ask us to run down, me and a few friends, ha, ha.  As your
lordship says we busy City men are much to be envied in
one way, but when it comes to a holiday—ha, ha."  He
paused nervously.  "We're always glad to get a week-end
off, ain't we, Cutler?  Let me introduce you, my lord."

His lordship frowned.  He was not accustomed to be
introduced to common persons like Cutler; Cutler, the common
person, should have been presented to him.

"Mr. Cutler, Senior Partner of Cutler, Cutler and Wakethorpe,
his daughter is Governor of—of—I forget the name.
Jobson, let me introduce Lord Gowerhurst—" Sir Josiah
went on, persisting in doing the honours the wrong way
about.

Monied men no doubt, rich, opulent men, Lord Gowerhurst
thought; just as well to keep in with them, one never
knows.

"How de do Mr.—er—Johnson."  He held out a finger
and Jobson took it and shook it solemnly.

"Coombe," said Sir Josiah, "my friend, Mr. Coombe,
my lord."

"Ah! ha!" said Coombe, "I've had the pleasure of meeting
his lordship before; how de do, my lord?  Hope I see
you well?"  He held out a large, red and moist hand.

Now was the moment, the moment for Jobson to hold his
sides, the moment to witness the discomfiture of this Peer
of the Realm.  Did his lordship start?  Did he turn pale?
Did he tremble and turn green, as Coombe had prophesied?

No, he did not; he looked at Coombe, he put his monocle
very slowly and deliberately in his eye and took another
look.

"'Pon my soul, Mr.—er—Groom, did you say Groom,
Sir Josiah?"

"Coombe," said Sir Josiah.

"I beg your pardon, Mr.—er—Coombe, 'pon my soul, I
don't recall the pleasure."  Very insolently his lordship
looked Mr. Coombe up and down and Mr. Coombe turned
red; the joke was not so good as he had thought it would be.

"Langworthy," he said, "you remember Langworthy's
business, my Lord?"

"Langworthy, really did I meet you at Hansbar, my
friend, Sir George Langworthy's house?  I haven't been
there, let me see, for three years, and the last time——"

"No, it wasn't there neither," said Coombe angrily.  "It
was in my City Office I met your lordship and it wasn't
Sir George Langworthy, it was quite a different Langworthy."

"Indeed?" said his lordship politely, "indeed?"

Mr. Coombe's hot hand dropped to his side.

"I don't recall your face, 'pon my soul I am afraid I don't.
But one sees so many faces, hey?  And now—my dear Homewood,
tell me all about the wonderful things you have been
doing here."  And his lordship turned his back on
Mr. Coombe with marked deliberation.

Coombe clenched his fists.

"Supercilious beast!" he muttered.  "I'll teach him, I
ain't done with him yet, not by a long sight, I haven't.  You
wait, Jobson——"

But Jobson turned and stared out into the garden through
the window.  He was losing faith in the ability of Coombe
to make Peers of the Realm feel unhappy.





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.. _`MR. COOMBE WEARS A WHITE TIE`:

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   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center medium bold

   MR. COOMBE WEARS A WHITE TIE

.. vspace:: 2

Kathleen had given them tea, she had chatted and
laughed, she had concealed every feeling and every
thought with that skill that is acquired by every intelligent,
well educated woman.

How daintily she presided over the tea tray.  Her white
hand never trembled—was it three lumps or only two that
Sir Josiah took?  What a kind, friendly glance she flashed
at Allan as he took his father's cup from her hand.  How
should Allan know, how should anyone in that room, save
perhaps one, know that every nerve in her delicate body was
quivering, that in her heart there was a mingled fear and
joy, gladness and sorrow, anxiety for the future, and regret
for the past.

"No tea for me, child, the doctor positively forbids it,
positively," his lordship said; he sighed.  "No one appreciates
a cup of tea more than I, but I am obliged to forego
it.  One has to give up many things, eh Sir Josiah, the
falling leaf must not be too roughly dealt with, else perhaps it
will fall even before its time.  No, no tea for me, my love,
but if I might beg a glass of soda water—just a glass of
plain soda water—with perhaps the merest, the very merest
touch of brandy, hey Allan, just to take the bite off the
soda water, so to speak?"

Coombe, sipping tea which he had no love for, eyed his
enemy the peer, malevolently.  His lordship, he noticed,
reversed the programme, it was the merest touch of the soda
water to take the bite off the brandy.

"Owes me four hundred and treats me like dirt, hanged
if I don't bung a writ into him!" thought Coombe.

He happened to be sitting near to Lord Gowerhurst and
presently his lordship adjusted his monocle and stared at
Coombe.

"Ah, ha, Mr. Groom, I think that you were telling me
just now that we had met at Hansbar, Langworthy's place
in Somerset?  Have you known the Langworthys long, eh?"

"I didn't say anything of the kind," Coombe growled
sullenly.  "I said——"

"Oh, yes, I remember, some other Langworthy, quite so."

"I'll bet a shilling," Coombe whispered under his breath,
"I'll bet a shilling, my lord, as you remember me a sight
better than you pretend you do."

Gowerhurst regarded Coombe's hot red face coldly and
critically.

"I never, I never remember anyone I prefer to forget,
my dear Mr. Groom," he said.  "It's an excellent plan—eh?
An excellent plan, saves a great deal of trouble and
annoyance, eh?"

And now Kathleen was alone, she had come to her room,
she had locked the door on herself.  She sat down by the
window and put her elbows on the sill and rested her chin on
her hands.

He had come back.

It had almost stunned her, its unexpectedness and suddenness.
She had not had time to realise what it all meant, all
that she could realise was, that he was here.

She saw herself now, as she had been, a girl of eighteen,
a girl deeply, desperately in love; she remembered how she
had lain through long, sleepless nights, tossing on her pillow.
How willingly in those days she would have gone with him
into direst poverty, the deeper the poverty how much more
would she have gloried in it.  To tramp the roads by his
side, to sing in the streets with him, to crouch beside him
under some friendly hedge for the night—yes, she would
have done that very willingly and yet—yet perhaps common
sense, perhaps the hereditary instinct of her kind had kept
her from such folly.

But she had loved him.  Now, sitting here, she was
realising that perhaps she had loved him more—more after he
had gone and left her as she believed forever, than she had
actually loved him while he was yet with her.

It is often the way, when the beloved object ceases to be
real and tangible, when he becomes a memory—with what
virtues can we clothe him?  In memory we only recall all
the good, the best that was in him—memory charitably forgets
the numerous little faults, the tiny acts of selfishness,
the little outbursts of foolish temper.  No, they are all gone.
So, because he was the beloved object, memory is eager to
idealise him.

Perhaps it had been so with her—yet she had loved him—she
had thrilled to the passion in his boyish voice, to the
love in his boyish, ardent eyes.  A child's love, a school
girl's love, her father had said.  "My dear child, I'm a man
of the world and you are a young Miss who has only just
learned to do her back hair up; accept it from me, the person
who marries his or her first love lives to regret it.  First
love is merely a kind of preliminary canter, it's good
exercise, provided you don't take it too seriously, but if you do
take it seriously why then it is the deuce and all."

She smiled to herself, recalling her father's words.  It
had been her first love and her only love, it had lived with
her for ten years and during those ten years it had seemed
to her to have grown stronger, better, purer.  It had perhaps
made her a little cold to the world about her, yet in reality it
had made her heart more tender, had made her more prone
to sympathy and tenderness and kindness.

Why had he come, why had he come back?  She clenched
her hands tightly.

The few short months of her married life with Allan had
been quiet and peaceful, uneventful, happy, yes happy! she
had always liked him, she liked him better now than she had
before he had given his name to her.

She liked him better and yet better every day, she liked
him because he confided in her, because he was honest and
open with her, because while he lavished no caresses on her,
for would not caresses have been humbug and hypocrisy,
he gave her a quiet affection and respect that won her heart
to him.  He had told her of his plans with old Custance,
how he would make money and help repay his father a little
of the much that his father had done for them both.

And then he had promised once that if ever—ever love
came to him, the love that nearly always comes knocking
at a man's heart at some time in his life, he would tell her
candidly and truthfully and they would face the fact
together.  And she for her part had promised that she would
tell him if—the lover of long ago should come back into
her life.

And he had come, and so she must tell him, as she had
promised to do; she must be honest and truthful with Allan,
surely he deserved that of her.

There was a tap on the door and Kathleen rose and opened
it.

"My lady, 'ee'll be wanting me?  I've been waiting for the
bell, my lady, but 'ee didn't ring it."

"No, Betty, I didn't ring, but—but come in.  Betty, what
is the matter?"

"Matter?  Oh, my lady, nothing du be the matter wi' I."

"But your face is white, child, and your eyes look red
from crying.  Is there anything wrong, Betty?  Have you
seen your grandmother and is she still angry with you?"

"I bain't seen her, my—my lady, and I du not care whether
her be still angry wi' me or not—for it be all the same to I."

"You shouldn't say that, child."

"For never, never will I marry Abram, my—my lady,
never will I.  Sooner would I drownd myself in the river,
which I would du gaily, aye gaily, my lady, than—than
marry Abram who I never could abide."

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.





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   CHAPTER XXIII


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   "I BELONG TO THEE"

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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.





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.. _`IN WHICH LORD GOWERHURST RISES EARLY`:

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   CHAPTER XXIV


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   IN WHICH LORD GOWERHURST RISES EARLY

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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.





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.. _`BESIDE THE LAKE`:

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   CHAPTER XXV


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   BESIDE THE LAKE

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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.





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   CHAPTER XXVI


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   ON OTHER SHOULDERS

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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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CONQUEROR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CONQUEROR

.. vspace:: 2

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!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WATCHER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WATCHER

.. vspace:: 2

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."





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.. _`WHY ABRAM LESTWICK STAYED FROM CHURCH`:

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   CHAPTER XXIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   WHY ABRAM LESTWICK STAYED FROM CHURCH

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`THE RELIGION OF SIR JOSIAH`:

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   CHAPTER XXX


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   THE RELIGION OF SIR JOSIAH

.. vspace:: 2

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!"

"Well then I'm wrong, but it might happen, and if I
turned out to be right I wouldn't like you to have to say
no to Kathleen's father, boy, I wouldn't like that—and it
might hurt her, our—our little girl—eh, if she knew."

"Our little girl," what a wealth of tenderness and love
in those three words!  It was never "her ladyship" now, it
was just that: "our little girl."  Allan felt something sting
in his eyes for a moment, his hand rested more heavily on
his father's shoulder.

"No, I wouldn't like to hurt her in any way, even that
way, Allan, so—so if his lordship should—and it seems to
me very likely that his lordship may—why do you see,
Allan, you can draw on me.  Of course he won't never pay
back, that's not to be looked for nor expected and one thing
he wouldn't expect to get a wonderful lot out of you—so if
he does ask you must say Yes—up to five hundred, Allan,
and then let me know quietly, and there you are, there you
are, my boy!"

"I wonder if there is another man in all the world like
my father?" Allan said.

"Bless you, heaps and heaps and a sight better.  But
there's one thing, Allan, there's never a father in this world
as knows and loves his son as I know and love mine and
so—so boy—out with it, out with it now and here."

They had come to a shady place, under the tall yews.
Here was an inviting seat and on the seat Sir Josiah settled
himself and drew Allan down beside him.

"Out with it—with what, father?" Allan asked lamely.

"Why out with what's worrying you, my boy; do you
think I didn't see it, do you think when I saw you first
thing this morning and took just one look at you I didn't
see it there—there in your face and eyes?  Why bless you,
of course I did; it ain't money, Allan?"

"No, no!"

"I knew that, then what is it?  Not—not trouble, nothing
amiss with—between you and her?"

"No, thank God!"

"Thank God!" the old man said.  "And so—so it isn't
that and therefore it can't be anything bad—so I'm waiting,
Allan, waiting, dear lad, tell me."

"Father, if I did you could not understand."

"I'd try, Allan," the old man said simply.

"Then, by Heaven I will tell you, father, and you shall
try and understand, though—though if you do, you will
be more clever than I, for I cannot understand."  Allan
lifted his hand to his head for a moment.

"Do you remember something that you told me once
about—an ancestor of ours—whose name was the same as
mine—a labourer here—a gardener, who married his
mistress' serving maid?"

"And whose son went to London and took over the Green
Gates in Aldgate—why of course I do!"

"Well," said Allan quietly, "that's it——"

Sir Josiah looked at him.  "God bless my soul!" he said,
and if ever there were mystification on a man's face, it was
on his.

"Father, do you believe that the soul can outlast and
outlive not one earthly body, but many, ten, a hundred, a
thousand, that when the body perishes as all things earthly
must perish, the soul can and does find another dwelling
place?  Ah!  I don't make myself clear."  He broke off,
seeing the mystification deepen in the old man's face.  "I
am afraid I never can.  Think this out, father, a man dies,
the body perishes, but the soul, the ego, the spirit lives on.
It finds another body, which it animates for good or for
evil, it completes another life, and then all happens over
again.  Each time the body dies, the soul passes through
oblivion and returns to earth——"

"Here, here, Allan!" cried the old man.  "Here, bless
my soul, didn't you ought to see someone?"

Allan smiled ruefully.

"Have you never heard of re-incarnation, the re-incarnation
of the soul, father?"

"No, I can't say as I ever have and I don't know as I
ever want to.  I've only got one life and though I mayn't
succeed in many little things none too well, I'm trying to
do the best I can with it.  Looking back—" the old man
went on, "looking back, Allan, I can say and thank God as
I can say it that I can't remember ever having done a dirty
act or ever having played a mean trick on a man or a woman
in my life.  I accepted my body like it was, a loan from
God; I've used it and kept it clean and when the time comes
for me to hand it back to Him, why then I want to feel as
I can hand it back in good condition and good order—fair
wear and tear excepted, Allan, and that's how I look at
things.  I don't pretend to know, there's some as does, yet
they are only men, the same as me and you, dear lad, and
they don't know—no one knows—and it's as well for us,
maybe, we don't!  It's a beautiful world and a wonderful
world and God lent it to us the same as He lent us our
bodies to use properly, to admire and to make the most of
and enjoy.  Beyond that, I don't seek to know anything,
but when my time comes, I want to be able to think to
myself a prayer, that goes somehow this way—'God, this is
the body You lent to me, I'm done with it and now I'm
giving it back; I've tried to keep it clean and honest, I've
treated it as if it was something belonging to You more than
to me—and that I was in honour bound obliged to deal with
carefully.  If there's a Heaven and You know best, I hope
you'll find a place in it for my soul, because in keeping my
body clean, oh Lord, I've kept my soul clean along with
it!'  That's how I look at things, Allan, I ain't good at talk
of this sort.  Maybe you'll think I've got funny ideas, so
I have, but don't tell me nothing about this re-incarnation
of yours; I don't hold with it, boy, I don't believe in it;
if it's true, and it may be, mind you, it may be, it isn't for
us to know if it's true or not.  If it was right, we should
know, then God would find some way of telling us."

"Perhaps He has!" Allan thought, but he said no more.
No, he could not tell his father, for his father would never
understand!





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.. _`"A VERY WORTHY MAN"`:

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   CHAPTER XXXI


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   "A VERY WORTHY MAN"

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Allan's conscience smote him sorely.  He had
misjudged and dealt hardly with Abram Lestwick.  He
had thought, had honestly believed, that the man had
intended drawing a knife on him and in his fury and anger
had punished his victim unmercifully.

Later, when he had gone carefully over Lestwick's clothing
and had found no traces of weapons hidden there, he had
known his suspicion had been unjust.  It weighed on his
mind, he went over the incident again and again.  He
wondered if he had seriously hurt the man.  He felt anxious
and ill at ease, as must every just man when he is conscious
of an unintentional act of injustice.

It troubled him the more because he knew that he did not
like Lestwick, that to a certain extent he shared Betty's
antipathy for the man.

Little Betty to spend all her days with Abram Lestwick!
That could not and should never be.

Yet in this Allan felt himself in the wrong and there
was but one course open to him.  To seek Lestwick out, to
admit frankly that he had erred, to ask the man's forgiveness
and to make amends, if amends were possible.

And yet Allan decided that in a way the man deserved
all that he had got, he had pestered and worried Betty, he
had waylaid her, to obtrude his hateful love on the
frightened, shrinking maid.

"Hang him!" Allan muttered between his teeth.  "If he
ever does it again I—" he clenched his hands and felt very
bitter for a moment towards Abram Lestwick, then the
bitterness was gone.  He himself had done wrong, had
misjudged and therefore only one course was possible to Allan
Homewood.

Lord Gowerhurst having found another bedroom, where
he was not likely to be disturbed by sounds of bird life,
had decided to stay on for a day or two.  The country
would do him no harm, he would be all the better by the
change.  His appetite was getting to be really quite
satisfactory, though even at the very worst of time, Lord
Gowerhurst was no mean performer with the knife and fork.

He had also made the discovery that Allan's butler, the
staid, deferential and respectable Mr. Howard, had at some
time in his career been a valet and could still shave with
some dexterity and was moreover a very polite and capable
man, so his lordship took possession of Howard and another
room and declared his intention of staying till Tuesday or
Wednesday.

Sir Josiah and Mr. Coombe and the rest were not averse
to one day more of holiday.  The newly installed telephone
enabled them to get into touch with their City offices, with
the result that the little house party would not definitely
break up till Wednesday.

So Allan, with the weight of his injustice to Abram
Lestwick on his conscience, set out this Monday morning to do
penance.

He knew that Lestwick was employed by Patcham at the
Moat Farm.  Betty had told him.  The Moat Farm formed
part of the Homewood Estate and Patcham was his tenant;
what more natural than he should call on so worthy a tenant
and talk crops and soil and manures and such like with him?
And then how easily and naturally would slip out a word
or two about Abram Lestwick.  Was he a good man? an
honest worker? and if he should prove to be these and
deserving, Allan must see what he could do for the man to
make up for the injustice of his treatment of him.

Kathleen followed him out of the breakfast room this
morning.  Lord Gowerhurst was not yet risen and Mr. Coombe
had expanded under the influence of His Lordship's
absence.  Mr. Coombe was telling stories of high finance.
That his stories were interminably long and without any
point and of no particular interest, did not matter.  Coombe
was a sound man, Sir Josiah honoured him, Cutler and
Jobson admired him.  Sir Harold Scarsdale took no notice of
him, so was not bored by his stories.  Scarsdale was thinking
naturally of Kathleen.  He thought of little else, her manner
troubled him.  He could not, frankly he could not understand
her.  She was smilingly polite, courteous and considerate,
she was friendly and sweet to him, and it made him
realise that he represented nothing at all to her.  But she
was playing a part, and playing it well, he argued with
himself.  A woman, and a woman like Kathleen, could not
apparently without effort or sense of loss tear out an image
that has been enshrined in her heart for ten long years.  It
puzzled him, worried him, even angered him, but he told
himself he must be patient.  His was now the waiting game,
and he believed that he had but to wait long enough and all
that he desired on this earth would be his.

So Kathleen followed Allan out into the wide hall and
found his cap and selected his stick for him and did
just those little things that a tender, thoughtful, loving
woman always does and meanwhile she looked at him with
a strange wistfulness, a curious pleading in her eyes, eyes
that told of a hunger and longing in her soul.  But he,
man-like, was blind to it, yet not insensible of her goodness and
her thought for him.

To-day she felt a strange unwillingness to let him go, she
did what she had never done before.  She slipped her hand
through his arm and walked with him down the wide pathway
to the gate, the sunshine in her hair and on her face.
Sir Josiah, bored by Coombe's unending story, yet too polite
to shew it, watched them from the window, a smile on his
face.  It was good to see them like this—such friends, such
comrades!

She wanted to tell him—not of Scarsdale, for that had
sunk into insignificance now—now that there was something
so much greater, so much more wonderful for him to know.
But not yet, not yet—not out here in the sunshine with
perhaps someone watching them from the window.
Presently—presently when they should be quite alone!

So at the gate she paused, she looked at him.

"And once I thought I loved—Harold!" she thought.
"Once I thought so and now I know—I love——"

"Don't you want me to go out this morning, dear?"

"Oh, yes, yes, you're going to old Custance to talk——"

"No, I'm going to the Moat Farm to see Patcham, it's
time I called on him.  But if you would rather I stayed——

"No!" she said.  "Go!  Good-bye, Allan!" she added
softly.

They would have parted with a touch of the hand as they
always did.  They kissed on rising and on retiring, but at
no other time of the day.  Yet to-day she clung to his hand
for a moment, her heart was filled with tenderness for him,
longing and a desire to keep him that she was too unselfish
to pander to.

"Why dear——"

There was something about her that he could not understand
to-day, something in the tight hold of her hand, in the
unwonted colour in her cheeks, the wonderful brightness
in her eyes.

"It is nothing, dear, go—good-bye!" she said, yet as she
spoke she lifted his hand and held it against her soft cheek,
just for a moment and then would have turned, yet before
she did, he caught her suddenly—why he did not know—it
was a moment of passion irresistible, something that came
so swiftly that he could not question it, could not understand
it.  He caught her and held her and kissed her and then
quickly let her go and without a word went striding forth,
conscious of a feeling of shame, as though he had offered her
insult.

And she stood looking after him, her hands pressed
against her breast, her eyes wide.  Not once did he turn;
had he done so perhaps he might have seen, might have
understood the longing in her eyes, the hunger for the love
that he never dreamed she needed.

Allan walked on quickly.  A woman in moments of mental
stress can find relief in tears, a man more usually in violent
movement.

He was a little shaken, a little unnerved, greatly
surprised at himself.  Why had he done that, why had his
heart leaped suddenly at the touch of her soft cheek on his
hand, why had he—done what he had done?  Yet, having
done it, regretted nothing.  It seemed to him that from that
moment Kathleen held a new interest for him.  He had
regarded her as friend and companion—from this moment on
he knew that she meant more than this to him.

Farmer John Patcham received him courteously, with a
deference and respect that had nothing whatever of servility
about it.

"'Tis a fine marning," he said, "and I be just going to
have my usual lunch, Mr. Homewood, a very plain and
simple lunch it be, just a glass of ale and a plum-heavy, very
partial I be to plum-heavies and there's no one in all Sussex
makes 'em better than my wife, so if you'll join me——"

Allan did.  They sat in the somewhat stuffy little
parlour, the window of which remained hermetically sealed,
summer and winter, and drank good brown beer and ate
those Sussex cakes that for some reason have never achieved
the fame of the cakes of Banbury or the Buns of Bath.

And over their cakes and ale they talked and Allan
surprised the farmer somewhat by the depth and advancement of
his knowledge.

"You been getting your head laid alongside old Custance
now I'll be bound," he said, "wunnerful advanced man
Custance be, as sets great store on book larning to be sure.  But
if so be you be minded to try hop raising in this part of
Sussex, Mr. Homewood, I say give it up!  'Tis the soil,
sir, 'tis the soil!  Hops be all right for Kent and the
Midlands, but—" and so on and so on, from hops to manures,
chemical and otherwise, to tithes and land taxes, to red
cows and brindled cows and the swine of Berkshire and of
Yorkshire, on all of which subjects Mr. Patcham laid down
the law and smote the rickety round table with a heavy
hand, to drive his points home.

"Flints," said Patcham, "flints be the cussedest things,
wunnerful how flints du crop up.  Clean a field, pick it,
hand-pick it of flints, clear out every flint there du be and
in three months what du 'ee find?  Flints, sir, bushels of
'em, tons of 'em!  In some counties it du be fuzz and Sussex
has its share of fuzz, come to that, but flints—I were but
saying to Abram last Saturday—no, 'twere Friday——"

"Abram—that is Abram Lestwick, isn't it?" Allan asked.
"He works for you?"

"Aye, Abram be my right hand man, straight he be,
straight as an arrer, honest as the day be Abram, not a
drinking man, quiet and respectable like in his manners,
never an angry word or a cross look do 'ee get from Abram
Lestwick.  Lucky I be to have such a man!"

"Ah!" Allan said.

"No one ever did see Abram lose his temper——"

"I have," thought Allan, "but it was pardonable."

"Soft spoken and gentle, but a wunnerful hand with the
men, reg'lar to Church and walking in the fear of the Lord
du be Abram Lestwick, and wi' sheep never a man to
compare wi' he—whether it be lambing time or shearing, a born
shepherd be Abram!"

"And a good reliable man?"

"There ain't one to come nigh nor near to him," said
Farmer Patcham, "a good wage du I pay he and worth it
every penny he be—thirty-five shillings and a cottage to
hisself, no less.  And what the maids be about, beats I and
the Missus too, a hard man to fault," went on Patcham, "a
very hard man to fault, sir, and you'll believe me.  My
Missus and the maids here du complain a bit about they
hands of his, restless hands as you may have noticed, sir,
but what's that, all said and done?  And now, maybe, you'll
take a look round the farm?"

Allan took a look round the farm and saw a back view
of Abram in the rick yard, but Abram never turned and
apparently did not notice the visitor.

"A good man," Patcham said, "a reliable, trustworthy,
honest, sober man, likely to make his way in the world.  No
frequenter of the ale-house and a regular churchgoer, a man
with rare and wonderful knowledge of the soil and of sheep.
Hi, Abram, Abram, my lad, come 'ee here!  Here be
Mr. Homewood a-hearing all about 'ee from me!"

Very slowly Abram turned his discoloured face, his
attitude was of intense humility, he seemed to cower, his
furtive hands wandered up and down the edge of his
waistcoat, yet never once did he look into Allan's face.

"Why, Abram lad, 'ee've been in the wars, surely!" cried
Patcham.  "What hev come to your face, lad?"

"An accident," Abram mumbled, "a blundering fellow, I
be in the dark, Mister Patcham!"

Patcham smiled.  "Had it been any other than 'ee, Abram,
I would say it were through fighting."

Allan looked at his victim, he felt a strange pity, mingled
with an invincible repugnance.  The man looked so inoffensive,
so humble, even servile and yet—Allan's attention
was directed to those strangely restless hands; he found that
they attracted and held his eyes.  He remembered how Betty
had cried out in fear and horror of those same hands.  Poor
little Betty, never, never, Allan resolved, should those hands
touch the child, if he could prevent it!

"I would like to speak to Lestwick, Mr. Patcham," he
said, "if I have your permission?"

"Oh, aye, of course, why not?" said the farmer, looking a
little surprised.  "Do 'ee mean alone, sir?"

"Yes, alone!"

Patcham eyed Allan a little resentfully, a little
suspiciously.  "I hope," he began, "I hope, Mr. Homewood, as
'ee've got no idea o' trying to get Abram away from me?
I've spoke out for he and spoken as I did find, but——"

Allan smiled.  "Have no fear, I want to speak to Lestwick
on an entirely different matter."

Patcham's face cleared as he walked away.  "Now I du
wonder what he can have to say to Abram?" he thought.

And now the two were left together and Allan, looking
at the abject, servile creature before him, felt suddenly
tongue-tied.  He was conscious of a feeling of hot shame.
Those unsightly marks, those livid bruises were his work,
the work of his fists.  How desperately he must have
punished the man in his rage.

"Lestwick—I have something to say to you, an apology
to make, I wish to ask your pardon."

The wandering eyes were lifted for a moment to Allan's
face, then dropped again, the hands were at their nervous
work.

"I misjudged you and in my anger treated you roughly,
for which I am deeply sorry," said Allan, eager to make his
amends and be done with it, for he could not but be conscious
of his great and growing repugnance and repulsion for the
man.

He waited, but Abram said nothing, he stood there mute,
his eyes seeming to search the ground about him.

"You misled me—when we—when you and I—on Saturday
night, when we fought, I mean—I say you misled me,
I thought you had a knife and thinking so I struck you
hardly.  I am sorry for it, I made a mistake and I wish
to ask your forgiveness for what I did."

And still the man did not answer; why did he not speak?
What was he waiting for, was it——?

A smile came into Allan's face, it was a smile of contempt.
He might have guessed it, there was only one plaster
for such a wound as Abram's.  He took out his pocket-book
and from it a five pound note.

"I hope you will accept this," he said, "and with it my
apology."

Abram looked up, his eyes wandered from Allan's face to
the outstretched hand that held the note.  He seemed to
hesitate, a convulsion passed across his features, then he
stretched out his hand suddenly and took the note.  He did
not snatch it, for Abram was ever a polite man, he took it
gently and looked at it and then—then he tore it, slowly
across and across and yet again, tore it into small strips
that he flung to the ground and stamped into the soft earth
with his foot.

"I thank 'ee, Mr. Homewood," he said in his low, passionless
voice, "I du thank 'ee most politely, I du, sir, for your
good intentions toward I—I thank 'ee, sir, most politely!"  And
then he turned away and went slowly to his work in the
rick yard.

Allan stood lost in wonder, he watched the man go, he
glanced down at the ragged scraps of what had once been
a valuable piece of paper, trodden into the earth.

So be it!  He had done all that he could do, the man had
apparently refused to accept his apology.  Sudden anger
came to him.

"Lestwick!" he called sharply.  "Lestwick!"

Lestwick stopped, but did not turn.

"I have this to say to you, my man," Allan said hotly,
"I injured you, under a wrong impression, for which I have
expressed regret, but I believe, on my soul, that you really
deserved all you got.  You have annoyed and terrorised a
girl who has no feeling save of fear and dislike of you.  In
future you will leave her alone; if I find you hanging about
my house, waiting to waylay Betty Hanson, then I'll deal
with you again, as I dealt with you on Saturday night.
Remember that, my man, it's no idle threat!"

Lestwick made no answer, he did not turn, he stood still,
as though waiting patiently for Allan to complete his
remarks, and then when silence fell, Lestwick went slowly
on his way.

Allan made his way homeward, with a feeling of anger
in his breast.  He had done all that a man might do, and
he had been repulsed.  No wonder that Betty, poor little
Betty, felt horror and loathing for the man.

"Is he sane, is he normal?" Allan questioned himself.
"There is something—about him—" he shuddered.  "I can't
understand it, I never loathed a human being in my life, as
I loathe that man, but Betty——"

What could he do about Betty, how unravel the tangle,
how straighten out that very winding path of the child's
life?  She loved him, had she not said it a hundred times
with tears and with pleading?  Yet was it the real love?
The one passion of a life-time?  He doubted it, for Allan
Homewood held himself in no high esteem and could not
think of himself as one for whom any woman would care
deeply.  No, it could not be that, it must be the strange tie
that united them, that lifting of the curtain that had revealed
to them both a glimpse into some strange past that was not
of this life.

What, did she want of him?  What did she expect, ask
of him?  But whatever it was, how impossible it all was!

To-day he had kissed Kathleen, his wife, as never before
had he kissed her and remembering this, a softer, more
tender look came into his face.

What was Kathleen thinking now?  Had he surprised,
even frightened her, was she hurt or angry, or could she
understand and forgive that sudden wave of passion that
had come to him?  Love and passion for her—his own wife!
His cheeks flushed a little, it seemed to him that all his little
world was in strange and dire confusion.

Mrs. Hanson, standing at her own gate, tall, erect, and
brown of face, beady of eyes, bobbed to him an exaggerated
respectful curtsey.

Allan lifted his hat to her.

"Good morning!"

"And good morning to 'ee, sir," she said and treated him
to another curtsey.

"I hope my maid du be conducting herself in a seemly
manner and giving satisfaction to my lady, sir?"

"Yes!" Allan said; he felt confused before those keen
bright eyes.

"A strange, wilful maid her be in many ways, sir, yet her
heart be so good as gold."

"She is wonderfully pretty, your granddaughter, Mrs. Hanson!"

"Beauty be but a snare and likewise is but skin deep.  I
set no stores by such, 'tis the heart as tells, sir."

"But her heart is good, I am sure."  He was talking for
the mere sake of talking, for an idea bad come into his brain,
a little dim and vague as yet, but yet an idea that possibly
might mean a way to safety for them all.

"Good-hearted her may be, but most terribul obstinate
and stubborn, a perilous obstinate maid, terribul contrairy
and self willed her du be in many ways——"

"In—in what ways?"

"In marrying," said Mrs. Hanson, "I hev chose for she
a good honest man as du walk upright in the sight of the
Lord, a man as du keep hisself to hisself and du keep holy
the Sabbath day, reading in the Bible and not with an eye
to every maid, though there be many wishful of attracting
his attention.  Wonderful partial he be to my Betty tu,
wonderful partial and keen and eager for she."

"And the man?"

"There bain't a better in all Sussex and yet that perilous
obstinate maid will hev none of he!"

"Because she may dislike the man!"

"Dis-like, what hev that to do with it, sir?  Why should
Betty dis-like Abram Lestwick—a man earning his thirty-five
shillings a week and with a cottage to himself and all
keen set as he be——?"

"I have seen the man and can understand her dislike for
him.  He lays in wait for her, outside the gates; she is
afraid to venture out of nights because of this man, whom she
fears and hates.  And you, can you not understand the
child's aversion for such a man as Lestwick, Mrs. Hanson?"

"That I cannot and will not!  A proper man be Abram
and rare grateful and glad any maid should be attracting the
like of he!"

"Betty is neither glad nor grateful, she goes in fear of
him, hates him and is terrified by the very thought of
him—it would be death—do you understand, death to the girl to
force her into a marriage so shocking!  Why are you so
keen for it?  Why do you seek to drive her against her
own natural inclinations, why—why?" Allan cried hotly.

She eyed him with cold disfavour.  What business was all
this of his, of young Mr. Homewood of Homewood Manor
House?  She would have looked on him with some suspicion,
yet there was something so open in his face, his anger was so
honest, that she could not, even if she would, suspect him
of an interest in pretty Betty, that reflected no credit on him.

"Abram hev thirty-five shillings a week and——"

"And for thirty-five shillings a week you would force this
child to marry a man she hates, you would wreck and ruin
her life, you would drive her perhaps—God knows—to
death—to suicide!  Can't you understand that it is not mere
dislike she feels for him, it is hate and terror!  Thirty-five
shillings a week!"  He laughed aloud in scorn, he flung his
head back, his face was flushed, his eyes bright, and
Mrs. Hanson stared at him in wonderment and with something
of anger too.

"Listen to me," Allan said and his voice was more gentle
and quiet, he looked into the keen, hard, old face.  "Listen
to me, Mrs. Hanson, you are Betty's grandmother.  I believe
you are her only living relative.  If you think so highly of
thirty-five shillings a week and of a cottage—I will make
you an offer—"  He paused, "I will undertake to pay to you
as Betty's guardian, a sum that will equal the amount of
Abram Lestwick's wages.  I will find a cottage for
you—not here—not near here even—and you shall have it rent
free, so that Betty may live with you and that you shall
not torment her further about this man Lestwick.  Do you
understand?  I will give to you and to Betty all that Abram
Lestwick could give, the money and the cottage!  And you
and the girl shall go away from here—away for good.  She
is young and she is beautiful, she will surely find many
eager to marry her, and she shall choose and pick among them
for herself.  Do you understand, do I make myself plain?"

"Plain—aye, plain!" she said; under the black bodice
the thin old breast rose and fell, she gripped the rails of
the gate and stared into his face.

"And why—why are 'ee willing to do this, give this to
Betty Hanson, Mr. Homewood?"

"To save her from marriage with a man I dislike and distrust,
as much as she does—for that reason and that reason
alone!"

"'Ee be mighty generous, Mr. Homewood!"  Her hard
voice quivered with suspicion, and yet—yet she looked him
full in the eyes and he looked back at her and there was no
shame, no confusion, nothing of the look of one who has
something on his conscience.

"I—I do not understand—" she said slowly, "I do not
understand!"

"No, I do not suppose you do understand.  Shall we leave
it at that?  My offer holds good, accept it and make a happy
home for the child—but not here."

"'Ee du seem mighty set on it not being here!" she said
thoughtfully.  "Mighty set 'ee du be.  Does the maid know
your intentions to she, sir?"

"No, I had no such intentions just now, the thought has
only just come into my mind."

She nodded slowly.  He had said that she could not
understand and he was right.  Whoever heard the like
before?  Thirty-five shillings a week and a cottage and
all—all for nothing!  Whoever heard the like before?  Certainly
not Mrs. Hanson.

"All bewildered I be," she said and said it aloud, though
it was not intended for his ears.  "All bewildered and
wonder struck I du be!"

"Do you agree, answer me, do you agree to this?  Tell
me, Mrs. Hanson?"

"But the maid—you du say, sir, she hev not heard?"

"She has not heard, but if you agree, you can tell her
yourself, tell her this evening and then you shall give me her
and your answer."

"If the maid is willing," she said slowly, "though all the
same I be partial to Abram."

"Her terror of him should have some weight with you.
Take her away from this place to where she will never see
him again, you will?"

She looked at him.  "Send the maid to me to-night and
I will talk of it wi' she."

She stood at the gate, staring down the road after him.

"Thirty-five shillings a week and a cottage—far away
from here for Betty and for me and for nothing, for nothing!
Very bewildered and wonderstruck I be!"

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

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





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.. _`THE AWAKENING`:

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   CHAPTER XXXII


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   THE AWAKENING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You—you are not angry with me?"

"Angry?"

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

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

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

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

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

Allan turned away.

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

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

His lordship secured his quiet ten minutes with Allan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Questions that Mrs. Hanson could not answer satisfactorily.

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

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

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

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

"You will hev had your tea?"

"Yes grandmother."

"Will you be seated?"

Betty sat down, her nervousness increasing.

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

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

"Grandmother 'ee sent for I?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I bean't blushing, grandmother."

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

Betty hung her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh! oh! he said that?"

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Hanson pointed a bony finger at the girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh Allan, of—of me?"

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

"Why—why when I du love——"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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.. _`BY THE LAKE`:

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   CHAPTER XXXIII


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   BY THE LAKE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who was that?" Kathleen asked.

Allan hesitated for a moment.

"A man named Lestwick—he is——"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I shall not find it dull here!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet she must tell him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why did you wish to do that?"

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

"Seen him?" Kathleen asked softly.

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

"Allan?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It will be better not, Betty!"

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

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

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





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.. _`THE GOING OF BETTY`:

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   CHAPTER XXXIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE GOING OF BETTY

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Betty listened, wide eyed, forgetting her grief again.

"And there be theayters, my lady."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of my husband," she said gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Betty!" he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Allan, my Allan!"

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

"Kathleen!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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.. _`"I SHALL RETURN"`:

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   CHAPTER XXXV


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   "I SHALL RETURN"

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"Kathleen—Kathleen——"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Need you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now came nurse to take possession of her charge.

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah poor fellow!" said Sir Josiah.

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

"Indeed!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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THE END

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\T. \H. BEST PRINTING CO. LIMITED, TORONTO

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