"Must I go, sir?" she asked humbly, but with eyes very bright.

"When you are ready I will attend you as far as your own house."

"If I go, John," said she a little breathlessly, "if I go you will come to me to-morrow and plead forgiveness on your knees, and I am minded to let you."

"I think not, my lady--there is a limit I find even to such love as mine."

"Then is my love the greater, John, for now, rather than let you humble yourself to beg forgiveness for your evil thought of me, I will stoop to explain away your base suspicions. To-night you went to the stile before the time appointed and saw that hateful Dalroyd eloping with my brother Charles in my clothes as you saw him once before--upon the wall."

"Your brother!" cried the Major. "Dear G.o.d in heaven!"

"Is it so wonderful?" she sighed. "Had you been a woman you would have guessed ere now, I think. But a woman is so much quicker than a blind, blundering man. And you are very blind, John--and a prodigious blunderer."

The Major stood silent and with bowed head.

"So this was my scheme to save my dear Charles and avenge myself upon Mr. Dalroyd--and see how near you brought it to ruin, John, and your own life in jeopardy with your fighting. But men are so clumsy, alas!

And you are vastly clumsy--aren't you, John?"

The Major did not answer: and now, seeing him so humbled, his grand manner quite forgotten, her look softened and her voice grew a little kinder.

"But you did save Charles from the soldiers, John. And after, did save me from Mr. Dalroyd's evil pa.s.sion--wherefore, though I loved thee ere this, my love for thee grew mightily--O mightily, John. But now, alas!

how should a poor maid wed and give herself into the power of a man--like thee, John? A man so pa.s.sionate, so p.r.o.ne to cruel doubt, to jealousy, to evil and vain imaginings, to cruel fits of--of dignity--O John!"

The Major raised his head and saw her leaning towards him in the great chair, her hands outstretched to him, her eyes full of a yearning tenderness.

"Betty!" He was down before her on his knees, those gentle hands pressed to his brow, his cheek, his eager lips.

"I have been blind, blind--a blind fool!"

"But you were brave and generous also, dear John, though over-p.r.o.ne to cruel doubt of me from the first, John, the very first."

"Yes, my lady," he confessed, humbly.

"Though mayhap I did give thee some--some little cause, John, so now do I forgive thee!"

"This night," said he sighing, "I destroyed thy dear letter."

"Did you, John?"

"And thought to destroy my love for thee with it!"

"And--did you, John?"

"Nay, 'tis beyond my strength. O Betty--canst love me as I do thee--beyond all thought and reason?"

At this she looked down at him with smile ineffably tender and drew his head to her bosom and clasping it there stooped soft lips to cheek and brow and wistful eyes.

"Listen, dear foolish, doubting John, my love for thee is of this sort; if thou wert sick and feeble instead of strong, my strength should cherish thee; wert thou despised and outcast, these arms should shelter thee, hadst thou indeed ridden hence, then would I humbly have followed thee. And now, John--unless thou take and wed me--then solitary and loveless will I go all my days, dear John--since thou art indeed the only man----"

The soft voice faltered, died away, and sinking into his embrace she gave her lips to his.

"Betty!" he murmured. "Ah G.o.d--how I do worship thee!"

The hours sped by and rang their knell unheeded, for them time was not, until at last she stirred within his arms.

"O love," she sighed, "look, it is the dawn again--our dawn, John. But alas, I must away--let us go." And she shivered.

"Art cold, my Betty, and the air will chill thee----"

"Thy old coat, John, the dear old coat I stole away from thee." So he brought the Ramillie coat and girded it about her loveliness and she rubbed soft cheek against threadbare cuff. "Dear shabby old thing!"

she sighed, "it brought to me thy letters--so shall I love it alway, John."

"But thy shoes!" said he. "Thy little shoes! And the dew so heavy!"

My lady laughed and reached up to kiss his anxious brow.

"Nay," she murmured as he opened the door----

"'Tis dabbling in the dew that makes the milkmaids fair."

Hand in hand, and creeping stealthily as truant children, they came out upon the terrace.

"John," she whispered, "'tis a something grey dawn and yet methinks this bringeth us even more joy than the last."

"And Betty," said he a little unsteadily, "there will be--other dawns--an G.o.d be kind--soon, beloved--soon!"

"Yes, John," she answered, face hidden against his velvet coat, "G.o.d will be kind."

"And the dew, my Betty----"

"What of it, John?" she questioned, not moving.

"Is heavier than I thought. And thou'rt no milkmaid, and beyond all milkmaids fair."

"Dost think so, John dear?"

"Aye, I do!" he answered. "So, sweet woman of my dreams--come!"

Saying which he caught her in compelling arms and lifting her high against his heart, stood awhile to kiss hair and eyes and vivid mouth, then bore her away through the dawn.

And thus it was that Sergeant Zebedee Tring, gloomy of brow, in faded, buff-lined service coat, in cross-belts and spatterdashes, paused on his way stablewards and catching his breath, incontinent took cover behind a convenient bush; but finding himself wholly un.o.bserved, stole forth to watch them out of sight. Now though the dawn was grey, yet upon those two faces, so near together, he had seen a radiance far brighter than the day--wherefore his own gloom vanished and he turned to look up at Mrs. Agatha's open lattice-window. Then he stooped and very thoughtfully raked up a handful of small gravel and strode resolutely up the terrace steps.

Being there he paused to glance glad-eyed where, afar off, the Major bore my lady through the dawn, and, as the Sergeant watched, paused to stoop again and kiss her.

"Glory be!" exclaimed the Sergeant and instantly averted his head: "All I says is--Joy!"

Then, with unerring aim, he launched the gravel at Mrs. Agatha's window.