Part 21

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.

*CHAPTER XXXIV*

*THE GOING OF BETTY*

"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.