Chapter VI: Part 6

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!"

*CHAPTER XX*

*THE ROAD TO HOMEWOOD*

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 pate 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!

*CHAPTER XXI*

*AFTER TEN YEARS*

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.