Part 20

"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.

*CHAPTER XXXIII*

*BY THE LAKE*

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?"