He was holding the little cold hand in his and chafing it gently.

"No," she answered, pulling her hand away; "but we are wasting time.

Mrs. Lennard will be anxious about me, and----"

"And what?"

She faltered; her voice fell and broke. Then she looked up proudly, and her eyes met his with a defiant glance.

"And Mrs. Verdon will be inconsolable without you."

When she had spoken she turned from him and began breaking off the boughs which hung low enough for her to reach. He looked down at her slender, graceful figure, and a great tremor pa.s.sed over him. The next instant she felt him close at her side.

"You must not do that," he said. "Elsie, listen! Some one has been telling falsehoods. Mrs. Verdon is nothing more to me than a pleasant acquaintance. I am grateful to her for taking care of Jamie; but you know I always feel that Waring meant to leave the boy to me. Perhaps I was wrong to bring you here; I wanted a few quiet words--I wanted to get you all to myself for five minutes."

She did not speak, and her head was drooping. The bough that she had held was released, and sprang back, rustling its foliage. The stillness, the grey light, the heavy shadows of the trees, gave a strange unreality to the moment. She felt as if she were part of some bewildering dream.

"I have thought of you every hour of the day," he went on. "I have been thinking of you ever since I saw you first. When we talked together in your London room, I hoped that you were beginning to be interested in me."

She stirred a little, and then lifted her face. She looked as he remembered her looking when he had first known her, only that she was very pale now.

"I was--interested," she said.

All the ordinary conventional barriers had fallen away between them. He found himself face to face with the beloved woman he had fancied lost for ever.

"Elsie," he whispered, "Elsie, won't you try to care for me? Won't you come to me and help me to live my life in the right way? I want a wife's help and a wife's love. Elsie, come!"

She made a slight movement towards him. His arms were round her in an instant, his warm lips pressed to hers; and in the supreme felicity of that moment, time, place, circ.u.mstances, were all forgotten. They had pa.s.sed together into that earthly paradise whose gates are still opened to some favoured mortals in this vale of tears.

"Hilloo! Hilloo!"

It was old Giles's voice, hoa.r.s.e as a raven's; and although it startled them rudely, it was a welcome sound. Elsie went into the hut to rouse Jamie as gently as she could, and Arnold listened to Giles's explanation of his arrival.

He had been at the landing-stage waiting for his master's return, when a couple of lads came rowing in with the empty boat. They were fishing on the river, and had found it adrift and captured it. So Giles, guessing what had happened, had pulled off to the island without a moment's delay.

Jamie, a little cross and very sleepy, was taken home to his bed at The Cedars in a half-awake condition; and afterwards Elsie and Arnold strolled along Miss Ryan's garden in the gloaming, the happiest pair of lovers that ever saw the moon rise over Rushbrook in silent peace.

"Something told me that the day would have a good ending," said Mrs.

Lennard, as she wished Elsie good-night.

CHAPTER XIX

_CONCLUSION_

"And now those vivid hours are gone, Like mine own life to me thou art.

Where past and present, wound in one, Do make a garland for the heart."

--TENNYSON.

It was the evening of the day after the picnic, and all Rushbrook had already heard the news. The Danforths had heard it in the morning from Arnold himself, and Mrs. Verdon had heard it in the afternoon from the Danforths.

Katherine Verdon was an unemotional woman. She did not feel in the least inclined to go into hysterics or make bitter speeches. Mrs. Tell, who watched her narrowly, could not detect the slightest change in her demeanour. She remarked that Miss Kilner was very pretty--really quite beautiful--and no one could be surprised at the turn that things had taken.

"I don't know," replied her sister-in-law; "I confess I am surprised. He ought to have married somebody in a better position."

"Oh, her position is good enough," Mrs. Verdon answered, "and she will suit him exactly. He is a man who will demand a great deal of devotion from his wife, and she will give him all he needs. It would have been bad for him if he had married a woman whose supply was not equal to the demand."

"What do you suppose would have happened in that case?" Mrs. Tell asked.

"She would have been bored, and he would have been disappointed and restless. I think he would have taken to wandering again; but there is no fear of that now. You will see that this will be an ideal marriage."

Having said this, Katherine went quietly out of the room and took her way upstairs to the side of Jamie's bed. He was asleep; but the heat had flushed him, and he tossed the bed-clothes away from his rosy limbs and murmured in his sleep. Nurse had gone down to her supper; there was no one to see Katherine as she bent over the child with a look of tenderness in her eyes.

"My life is in my own hands," she thought.

"I have not given up myself to any one else, and it is better as it is.

I love the boy; he is the only thing I really care for."

Just then he gave another toss, and opened his eyes with a fretful little wail. Seeing Katharine, he put out his arms and said, "Mammy!"

She soothed him with her sweet voice and soft touch, gave him a draught of lemonade, and then laid him down again, calmed and refreshed, to fall into a deep slumber. Yes, it was all well, she repeated to herself; she had her own life, her own pleasures, her own ways; to give up anything that was hers, to change any of her plans, would have cost her more than it costs most women. She was not fond of making sacrifices; she had never loved well enough to know the sweetness of self-surrender.

Arnold Wayne had taken her fancy, but he had never won her heart. It is true that he had not tried to win it, and Katherine did not care to ask herself whether he would have succeeded if he had tried. She had felt one slight pang of jealousy when she had been told of his engagement, and that was all. This quiet half-hour spent by Jamie's bed had set everything right in her life. She understood herself now, and could even think of something pretty to give Miss Kilner for a wedding present.

"Jamie shall give her something from himself," she decided. "He is very fond of her, and she is really a nice woman. I wish them well--yes, in all sincerity I wish them well."

If there were others who did not feel as kindly as Katherine did, there was no manifestation of ill-will. The Danforths had expected Mrs. Verdon to join them in bewailing the foolish match, but she had quietly and cleverly disappointed them. They had left her with the impression that they must have been mistaken in her from the first. She had never thought as seriously of Arnold as they had supposed; she had amused herself with their schemes and hopes, and that was all.

"I was never sure of her from the beginning," said Mr. Danforth to his daughters. "She has been always perfectly contented with her position.

There were no signs of restlessness about her at all. But you girls are dead sure of everything; when you take a notion into your heads you can't listen to reason."

He had been very cross all day, finding fault with everything that "the girls" said and did, until he had driven them both to the verge of desperation; and Lily, when she went upstairs to dress for dinner, was wondering how she should get through that miserable meal without bursting into a great fit of crying.

She thought how happy Elsie Kilner must be at that moment with Arnold as her declared lover. No doubt Francis Ryan was moping about Willow Farm in a state of unacknowledged wretchedness. She was sure that Francis had really liked that girl; she had seen his feelings plainly on the day of the picnic. Perhaps he would go away altogether from Rushbrook, unable to bear the sight of his rival's happiness. And this was to be the ending of Lily's dream!

But it is best not to be too certain about endings and beginnings; they look so like each other sometimes, and are apt to be so oddly mixed up in our lives.

When you are thoroughly heart-sick and hopeless, dress is quite an unimportant thing. Lily put on a cream-white cashmere gown which had seen its best days, noticed that the skirt was soiled, and said with Mr.

Toots that it was of no consequence. There were some cl.u.s.ters of pink geranium in a gla.s.s on her table, and she pinned them on her bodice in a dejected fashion. Then she went downstairs slowly, with her bright cheeks paler than usual and all her sprightliness gone.

The lights were golden on the lawn, and the great cedar was casting velvety shadows there. Her father was standing under the old tree, looking so jovial and radiant that she marvelled at the sudden change in his mood. Some one, who stood with his back towards the house, was in close conversation with Mr. Danforth.

"Here she is, Ryan!" her father said, as he saw her through the open door. "Here she is! Let her come out and answer for herself."

Francis Ryan turned, and Lily, shy and trembling, went out in obedience to Mr. Danforth's call. Perhaps her hesitation and timidity became her better than self-confidence; anyhow, Francis thought that he had never seen her look so pretty as she did at this moment, when she came bashfully towards him under the old cedar with a pensive look on her young face.

"He has come to ask me for you, Lily," said Mr. Danforth, glowing with satisfaction. "He has my consent, and now you must give him your answer."