Part 18

"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!

*CHAPTER XXXI*

*"A VERY WORTHY MAN"*

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.