"If you had only come!" she moaned.

"I did--once," he muttered.

"You didn't understand; why did you believe anything I said to you? It was only that I cared--that in my heart I knew I cared--I've cared about you ever since that trip down the river, and now I am going to be married to-morrow--to-morrow, Bruce--do you realize I have given my promise? I am to meet him at the Spring Bank church at ten o'clock--and it's tomorrow!" she cried, in a laboring choked voice. For answer he drew her closer. "Bruce, what can I do?--tell me what I can do."

Carrington made an involuntary gesture of protest.

"I can't tell you that, dear--for I don't know." His voice was steady, but it came from lips that quivered. He knew that he might have urged the supreme claim of his love and in her present desperate mood she would have listened, but the memory of Norton would have been between them always a shame and reproach; as surely as he stood there with his arms about her, as surely as she clung to him so warm and near, he would have lived to see the shadow of that shame in her eyes.

"I can not do it--I can not, Bruce!" she panted.

"Dear--dear--don't tempt me!" He held himself in check.

"I am going to tell you--just this once, Bruce--I love you--you are my own for this one moment out of my life!" and she abandoned herself to the pa.s.sionate caressing with which he answered her. "How can I give you up?" he said, his voice hoa.r.s.e with emotion. He put her from him almost roughly, and leaning against the trunk of a tree buried his face in his hands. Betty watched him for a moment in wretched silence.

"Don't feel so bad, Bruce," she said brokenly. "I am not worth it. I tried not to love you--I didn't want to." She raised a white face to his.

"I am going now, Betty. You--you shouldn't stay here any longer with me." He spoke with sudden resolution.

"And I shall not see you again?" she asked, in a low, stifled voice.

"It's good-by--" he muttered.

"Not yet--oh, not yet, Bruce--" she implored. "I can not--"

"Yes--now, dear. I don't dare stay--I may forget--" but he turned again to her in entreaty. "Give me something to remember in all the years that are coming when I shall be alone--let me kiss you on the lips--let me--just this once--it's good-by we're saying--it's good-by, Betty!"

She went to him, and, as he bent above her, slipped her arms about his neck.

"Kiss me--" she breathed.

He kissed her hair, her soft cheek, then their lips met.

He helped her as she stumbled blindly along the path to the house, and half lifted her up the steps to the door. They paused there for a moment. At last he turned from her abruptly in silence. A step away he halted.

"If you should ever need me--" "Never as now," she said.

She saw his tall figure pa.s.s down the path, and her straining eyes followed until it was lost in the mild wide s.p.a.ces of the night.

Another hot September sun was beating upon the earth as Betty galloped down the lane and swung her horse's head in the direction of Raleigh.

Her grief had worn itself out and she carried a pale but resolute face.

Carrington was gone; she would keep her promise to Charley and he should never know what his happiness had cost her. She nerved herself for their meeting; somewhere between Belle Plain and Thicket Point Norton would be waiting for her.

He joined her before she had covered a third of the distance that separated the two plantations.

"Thank G.o.d, my darling!" he cried fervently, as he ranged up alongside of her.

"Then you weren't sure of me, Charley?"

"No, I wasn't sure, Betty--but I hoped. I have been haunting the road for more than an hour. You are making one poor unworthy devil happy, unless--"

"Unless what, Charley?" she prompted.

"Unless you came here merely to tell me that after all you couldn't marry me." He put out his hand and covered hers that held the reins.

"I'll never give you cause to regret it--you know how I love you, dear?"

"Yes, Charley--I know." She met his glance bravely.

"We are to go to the church. Mr. Bowen will be there; I arranged with him last night; he will drive over with his wife and daughter, who will be our witnesses, dear. We could have gone to his house, but I thought it would seem more like a real wedding in a church, you know."

Betty did not answer him, her eyes were fixed straight ahead, the last vestige of color had faded from her face and a deathly pallor was there.

This was the crowning horror. She felt the terrible injustice she was doing the man at her side, the depth and sincerity of his devotion was something for which she could make no return. Her lips trembled on the verge of an avowal of her love for Carrington. Presently she saw the church in its grove of oaks, in the shade of one of these stood Mr.

Bowen's horse and buggy.

"We won't have to wait on him!" said Norton.

"No--" Betty gasped out the monosyllable.

"Why--my darling--what's the matter?" he asked tenderly, his glance bent in concern on the frightened face of the girl.

"Nothing--nothing, Charley."

They had reined in their horses. Norton sprang to the ground and lifted her from the saddle.

"It will only take a moment, dear!" he whispered encouragingly in the brief instant he held her in his arms.

"Oh, Charley, it isn't that--it's dreadfully serious--" she said, with a wild little laugh that was almost hysterical.

"I wouldn't have it less than that," he said gravely.

Afterward Betty could remember standing before the church in the fierce morning light; she heard Mr. Bowen's voice, she heard Charley's voice, she heard another voice--her own, though she scarcely recognized it.

Then, like one aroused from a dream, she looked about her--she met Charley's glance; his face was radiant and she smiled back at him through a sudden mist that swam before her eyes.

Mr. Bowen led her toward the church door. As they neared it they caught the clatter of hoofs, and Tom Ware on a hard-ridden horse dashed up; he was covered with dust and inarticulate with rage. Then a cry came from him that was like the roar of some mortally wounded animal.

"I forbid this marriage!" he shrieked, when he could command speech.

"You're too late to stop it, Tom, but you can attend it," said Norton composedly.

"You--you--" Words failed the planter; he sat his horse the picture of a grim and sordid despair.

Mr. Bowen divided a look of reproach between his wife and daughter; his own conscience was clear; he had told no one of the purpose of Norton's call the night before.

"I'll tie the horses, Betty," said Norton.

Ware turned fiercely to Bowen.