 
Transcriber's Notes:
THE AMETHYST CROSS
BY THE | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS | |
| CHAPTER. | |
| I. | THE BEGINNING OF A MYSTERY |
| II. | THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS |
| III. | ANOTHER MYSTERY |
| IV. | A FAMILY HISTORY |
| V. | MRS. WALKER'S OPINION |
| VI. | PURPLE AND FINE LINEN |
| VII. | AFTER MIDNIGHT |
| VIII. | UNDER A CLOUD |
| IX. | TWO GIRLS |
| X. | THE DEUS EX MACHINA |
| XI. | THE SEAMY SIDE |
| XII. | A COUNTERPLOT |
| XIII. | MRS. WALKER'S VISIT |
| XIV. | THE FAMILY LAWYER |
| XV. | A STARTLING LETTER |
| XVI. | RECOGNITION |
| XVII. | DISGRACE |
| XVIII. | LADY CHARVINGTON'S ACCUSATIONS |
| XIX. | MR. HALE EXPLAINS |
| XX. | JOURNEYS END IN LOVERS' MEETING |
| XXI. | TWO INTERVIEWS |
| XXII. | THE PLOT |
| XXIII. | ONE PART OF THE TRUTH |
| XXIV. | ANOTHER PART OF THE TRUTH |
| XXV. | REVENGE |
| XXVI. | THE END OF IT ALL |
THE AMETHYST CROSS
CHAPTER I
THE BEGINNING OF A MYSTERY
THE blackbird knew. He had paired for the fifth time in as many years, and esteemed himself wise in the matters, of love. Therefore, from the budding chestnut wherein his nest was built, did he sympathetically watch the bachelor and maid who sat below. They were lovers as he knew very well, for only lovers could have gazed so persistently into one another's eyes, and therein did they behold each other as each wished to be. Which sentence is cryptic to those who are not lovers as these were.
They might have looked at the smoothly-flowing river, singing quietly to itself not a stone-cast away, or round a tangled garden, delicately beautiful with the young greenery of May, or up into the azure depths of a sky, flecked with silvery clouds. But they preferred--wisely it may be--to look into each other's eyes, to clasp hands and to remain silent with that eloquent muteness, which is the speech of true love. Oh! the blackbird knew the meaning of these things very thoroughly, and chuckled with such glee that he finally broke into glorious song concerning the new love, the true love, the old love, the bold love, which comes evermore with the blossoms of spring. But these inhabitants of Paradise did not require the bird to reveal the obvious. Their hearts were also singing the song of the early year.
"It can't last for ever," murmured the maid dreamily, "it is too beautiful to last, since we are but mortal."
"It shall last for ever; it must," corrected the bachelor, wise in that wisdom of the gods, which comes to wooers, "for we love with our souls, dearest, and these cannot die."
She knew that he was right, for her heart told her so. Therefore did they again look into one another's eyes and again become silent, while the fluting blackbird explained more than mere human speech could render. And he, perched on a swaying bough, was only too willing to interpret. He knew: he was wise. And listening Nature heard complacently. To such ends had she shaped her children; for such a reason had she provided their Arcadia.
As Arcadia, like Marlowe's hell, is not circumscribed, it chanced that this especial one was by Thames-side, and those who dwelt therein were up-to-date in looks and dress and manners. Only their feelings were those of classic times, and as he told her the old, old story, which is ever new, she listened with the instinctive knowledge that the tale was wonderfully familiar. She had read it in his eyes, after the manner of maids, long before he dared to speak.
And this river Paradise was not wholly unworthy at so comely an Adam and Eve, although limited in extent and untrimmed in looks. Lord Beaconsfield declared that the most perfect garden is that cultivated to excess by man and then handed over to the caprice of Nature. The owner of this demesne apparently subscribed to this dictum, for the garden, well-filled with expensive flowers and shrubs, had long since relapsed into wildness. On either side of the narrow strip of land, sloping gradually to the stream, extended low walls of mellow red brick overgrown with dark-green ivy. The flowerbeds were luxuriant with docks and nettles and charlock and divers weeds: the pathways were untidy with lush grass, and the tiny lawn at the water's edge was shaggy and untrimmed. A wooden landing-stage floated near shore at the garden's foot, and to this was attached the young man's boat. At the far end of this neglected domain could be seen a thatched cottage with whitewashed walls and oblong lattices quaintly diamond-paned. So rustic and pretty and old-world did it look that it might well have been the fairy-dwelling of a nursery tale. And the lovers themselves were young and handsome enough to deserve the care of the fairies.
He was tall, slim, well-formed, and Saxon in his fairness. His curly hair--so much of it as the barber's shears had spared--was golden in the sunlight, as was his small moustache, and his eyes were bravely blue, as a hero's should be. The white boating-flannels accentuated the bronze of his skin, and revealed the easy strength of an athlete. He looked what the girl took him to be--a splendid young lover of romance. Yet he was but a City clerk of prosaic environment, and his youth alone improved him into Don Juan o' Dreams.
The girl resembled Hebe, maidenly, dainty, and infinitely charming; or it might be Titania, since her appearance was almost too fragile for the work-a-day world. With a milky skin; brown-haired and brown-eyed; with a tempting mouth and a well-rounded chin, she looked worthy of any man's wooing. She was sweet and twenty; he but five years older, so both were ripe for love. And then the spring, joyous and fresh, had much to do with the proposal just made. Her answer to his question had been tunefully commented upon by the irrepressible blackbird, who expressed no surprise when the echo of a kiss interrupted his song.
"But my father will never agree, George," sighed the girl, after this outward and visible sound of acceptance.
"Dearest Lesbia"--he folded her manfully in his arms--"I don't see why your father should object. I am not rich certainly, as a stockbroker's clerk doesn't earn large wages. But for your dear sake I shall work and work and work until I become a millionaire."
Lesbia smiled at this large promise. "We may have to wait for years."
"What does it matter so long as our hearts are true?"
"They may grow sick with waiting," said Lesbia, sighing. Then she proceeded to look on the practical side of their idyll, as the most romantic of women will do at the most romantic of moments. "You earn only two hundred a year, darling, and my father--so far as I know--can give me nothing. He has his pension from Lord Charvington, and makes a small income by his work in the City, but"--here came a depressing pause.
"What does Mr. Hale do in the City?" asked George abruptly.
Lesbia opened her brown eyes. "I don't know, dear. He goes there two or three times a week, and always seems to be busy. I have asked him what his occupation is, but he only laughs, and declares that dry business details would not interest me. I am sure no girl ever knew so little of her father as I do. It's not fair."
"Strange!" murmured the young man meditatively. "I never see Mr. Hale in the City, and although I have asked several people, no one appears to know the name. Of course, darling, the City is a big place, and your father may do business in a quiet way. Still it is odd that no one should know. I wish I did. I might help him."
"In what way?"
"Well, Lesbia, the wages I receive at Tait's office are small, and--and--and"--here George flushed for no apparent reason--"and there are other things to be considered. If I could only get something else to do I should leave Tait's. Your father might be willing to let me enter his office, you know, and then I could work up his business, whatever it might be."
The girl nodded. She was a matter-of-fact young woman. Since Hale's income was limited she was compelled, as housekeeper, very often to consider ways and means. "You might speak to my father."
"And may I mention our engagement?" he supplemented.
"No-o!" Lesbia looked doubtful. "I had better announce that. Father has a temper, and if he grew angry, you might grow angry also."
"Oh no." George was entirely in earnest when he said this. "I should always remember that he was your father and that you love him."
Lesbia again looked doubtful. "Do I love him?" she mused.
"One is supposed to love one's father," suggested George.
She stared at the river. "Yes! I suppose so. Honour your parents, and so forth. I don't honour my father, though--his temper is too bad. I am not quite sure if I love him."
"Oh, my dear." George looked nervous.
"Don't make any mistake, dear boy. I like my father, since we are good friends, and usually he is kind--that is, when he is not in a rage. But then, you see, sweetest," she sighed, "he is nearly always in a rage about some trifle. Look at the garden," she waved her hand vaguely, "I wanted to hire a gardener to make it look more respectable, and father was furious. He declared that he did not want people to come spying round the cottage. Spying! Such an odd word to use."
"Your father is an odd man," said George ruefully, "and he certainly has not been over-hospitable to me. Perhaps he guesses that I have come to steal his jewel, and one can't be hospitable to a robber."
Lesbia pinched his chin. "You silly boy, my father doesn't think so much of me as you do. I sometimes wonder," she went on sadly, "if he loves me at all. I am very much alone."
"He doesn't treat you badly?" demanded George with sudden heat.
"No, dear, no. I shouldn't allow anyone to treat me badly, not even my father. But I fancy he regards me as a necessary trouble, for sometimes he looks at me in a disagreeable way as though he fancied I was spying."
"Why do you use so disagreeable a word?" asked the straightforward clerk.
"My father used it himself in the first instance," she rejoined promptly; "perhaps because he doesn't want anyone else to meet the queer people who come to see him,--generally after dark. Men who smell of drink, who use slang and dress like grooms,--certainly not gentlemen. Of course I never talk to them, for when they appear, my father always sends me to my room. I'm sure," sighed the girl dolefully, "that if it wasn't for old Tim, the servant, I should be quite alone."
George hugged her. "You shall never be alone again!" he whispered, and Lesbia threw her arms round his neck with great contentment.
"Oh, darling, you don't know how good that sounds to me. If it were only true. You see, my father may object."
"He can object until he is tired," cried the ardent lover. "If he does not make you happy I must. And when he sees this----"
"Oh!" Lesbia clasped her hand in delight at the sight of a cheap turquoise ring, "how lovely!"
George frowned at the mean gift. "It was all I could afford," said he.
"It is all I want," she said, as he slipped it on her engagement finger, "it's not the cost, or even the thing. It's what it means. Love and joy to you and me, dearest boy."
But George, having a generous heart, still lamented. "If I hadn't to keep my mother," he said ruefully. "I would save up and give you diamonds. But two hundred a year goes a very little way with my mother, even when her own small income is added. You see, dear, she never forgets that my father was the Honourable Aylmer Walker, and she will insist upon having everything of the best. This is a beastly cheap ring, but--but----"
"But you denied yourself all manner of nice things to buy it for ME," finished Lesbia, pressing a kiss on his willing cheek.
"No, dear, no," he said valiantly, "only a few pipes of tobacco."
"You dearest donkey," cooed the girl, more touched than she chose to confess, "doesn't that show me how you love me. As to the ring," she surveyed the cheap trinket critically, "it is exactly what I wanted. The stones are the colour of your dear eyes."
George, man-like, was delighted. "You know the colour of my eyes?"
Lesbia boxed his ears delicately. "I knew the colour exactly one minute after our very first meeting."
"Did you love me then?"
"No. Certainly not: how conceited you are."
"Then why did you notice my----"
"Oh, a woman always notices these things, when a man is nice."
"And you thought me nice?"
Lesbia fenced. "Good-looking, at all events. You wore a dark flannel suit striped with pale green."
"So I did," cried George, delighted, "it was at Mrs. Riordan's picnic near Bisham Abbey a year ago. And you were there."
Lesbia laughed and nursed her knees. "I must have been, since I can describe you so exactly. What did I wear, dear?"
"I don't know," said George promptly.
"Oh!" she was quite disappointed, "and you call yourself a lover?"
"I do," he rejoined stoutly, "for, as I fell in love with you the moment we met, I saw only your eyes and your angel face. How could you expect me to remember a mere dress when----"
"Oh, what nonsense--very nice nonsense; still nonsense."
"I like talking nonsense to you."
"And I like to hear it from you. But it isn't bread and butter."
"You're thinking of afternoon tea," said George Walker audaciously.
"No. I'm thinking of how we are to live when we marry."
The mere mention of that delicious word made George forget the warning conveyed by the sentence. "Marry! Marry you! Oh, heaven!"
"A pauper heaven, I fear," said Lesbia; then fished in her pocket, "see, the only valuable thing I possess, besides your love. It is for you."
"Oh, my dear, it's not a man's ornament."
"As if that matters, since I give it to you," she said, laughing. "I must give you something, and this is all I have to give."
She held out her hand, on the palm of which rested an amethyst cross formed of four deeply purple stones, set lightly in gold filigree, with a loop at the top for the necessary chain to pass through. Not a very uncommon ornament at the first glance, George decided, although very beautiful. But on looking more closely he became aware that there was something bizarre about the thing. In the centre where the four stones met was a tiny cube of malachite, graven with a golden crown and inscribed with minute letters. The pansy-blossom hue of the stones contrasting with the vivid green of the cube gave the ornament rather an uncanny look.
"What a queer thing," said George, transferring the cross to his broad palm.
"Yes! isn't it?" said Lesbia eagerly, and then brought out a magnifying glass. "And the inscription is still queerer."
George poised the powerful glass over the slab of malachite, and with some difficulty deciphered the golden Gothic letters. "'Refuse and Lose,'" he read slowly. "Now what does that mean?"
"You stupid darling," cried Lesbia, pinching his ear, "can't you see? If you refuse the cross--which is married life; you lose the crown--which is me."
Walker thrust the cross into his pocket, handed back the magnifying glass and solemnly embraced the girl, "I'll take the cross and the crown and you, and everything I can get," he whispered in her ear. "I don't exactly see the meaning, of course, but----"
"Was there ever such a dense man?" Lesbia demanded of the blackbird in despair. "It's a religious symbol, of course. If you refuse to bear life's cross in the way you should, you lose the crown which ought to be yours in heaven."
George took out the ornament again and looked at it seriously. He had a considerable strain of the Puritan in his nature, to which the idea appealed strongly. "I shall certainly not refuse life's cross," he declared soberly, "and may we both some day wear a crown in a better world."
"My darling, my dearest, my best," she murmured, embracing him fondly. The touch of seriousness in George's gay disposition enhanced his value in her eyes. She approved of so sterling a character.
"Where did you get the cross?" asked Walker, while the jewels winked in the sunshine. "From your father?"
"No!" she replied unexpectedly. "He doesn't know that I possess such a thing. But my nurse, old Bridget Burke--Tim's mother, you know--who died last summer, gave it to me on her death-bed and warned me not to tell my father about it. She said that it came from my dead mother, and was to be given by me to the man I loved. So you see, my darling, that even though it is a woman's ornament, you must take it."
"I'll wear it round my neck," declared George. "It will bring me good luck, I am sure."
"So Bridget said," observed the girl promptly. "She had the 'sight,' you know, George, and declared that the cross would bring me luck and money and love and position. I don't know how, unless it is by marrying you."
"Ah, my love," said George somewhat sadly. "I can only give you my heart. Money and position must come later. But if we both obey the inscription and bear the cross we shall win the crown of success in the end. Look how the gems flash, Lesbia--an earnest of the future."
While they were both admiring the cross, a tall, lean man, perfectly dressed in a Bond Street kit, came softly down the grassy path. He looked like a gentleman, and also like a hawk, and his pale eyes wandered from one bent head to the other until they dropped to the flash of the jewelled cross, which glittered on Walker's palm. Then the newcomer started nervously, and took a step nearer to observe. Lesbia and her lover looked up as the shadow of the man fell across them, and in the movement they made, the cross fell on the grass.
"Oh, father, how you startled us," cried the girl, springing to her feet.
Mr. Walter Hale did not reply. His eyes were still on the purple stones of the cross, and when his daughter stooped to pick it up, he twitched his fingers as though anxious to take it from her. "Where did you get that?" he demanded abruptly and harshly.
"Bridget gave it to me, and I have given it to George," she said, handing the ornament to her lover. "It belonged to my mother."
"It did," said Hale sharply, "and therefore must not pass out of the family."
"It won't," said Lesbia cheerfully; "George is to be my husband."
Mr. Hale frowned. "You have yet to gain my permission," he said in dry tones. "Meanwhile, Mr. Walker, give me back the cross."
"No!" said George, who did not like the tone of his future father-in-law and could be obstinate when necessary. "Lesbia gave it to me, and I intend to keep it."
"Lesbia had no right to give it to you," cried Hale, his voice rising, and he extended his hand to take his desire. But Walker was too quick for him and dexterously swerving, shot the cross into his pocket.
"It is Lesbia's first present to me," said he, excusing his obstinacy.
"She has no right to make you presents," foamed the other, who had now entirely lost his temper.
"She has the right of a lover," retorted George coolly.
"There can be no question of love between you and my daughter."
The girl moved to her lover's side, very pale and very defiant. "That is for me to decide," she said coldly, but with determination.
"You go against your father, Lesbia?"
"For the first time in my life. And why not, when the matter is so important?"
Hale bit his lips and tried to stare her down: but as her eyes did not drop before his own he was the first to give way, and did so with inward rage. With an impatient shrug he wheeled to face young Walker. The two presented the striking contrast of untainted youth and artificial age too much versed in the evils of life. And youth had the advantage, for--as in the case of Lesbia--the older man tried to dominate without success. He was forced to take refuge in idle threats.
"If you do not give me back that cross, it will be the worse for you," remarked Hale, very distinctly and with menace.
George clenched his fists, then, with a glance towards Lesbia, ended the argument by stepping into his boat. As he rowed off, Hale, who had not attempted to stop him, turned bitterly to his daughter.
"You have ruined me," he said between his teeth, and returned hastily to the cottage.
CHAPTER II
THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
To say that Lesbia was amazed conveys imperfectly her state of mind. The sudden arrival of her father, the hasty departure of her lover, the mysterious incident connected with the amethyst cross, and the still more mysterious remark which Mr. Hale had made--these things perplexed and, very naturally, alarmed her. At once, with the swiftness of an imaginative brain, she conjured up visions of disgrace and shame and criminal publicity, going too far in her surmises, after the fashion of such a brain. For after all, as a calmer reflection suggested, there was nothing in what had taken place that should induce such happenings, although there were several disquieting hints.
For a few moments the girl remained where she was, too agitated to move; but when Hale disappeared into the cottage, and George's boat vanished round a bend of the shining river, she woke to the fact that for her own peace of mind it was necessary to ask questions. At once she ran up the grass-grown path, and speedily found herself in the narrow passage, which led right through the house from back to front. But she only entered to hear the street door bang, and flew to open it again in the hope of catching Mr. Hale before he could go far away. But the man must have made good use of his legs, for when she peered out into the quiet side street she noticed that it was empty. This vanishing of her father without an explanation dismayed her more than ever, and in the hope of gaining some sort of information she sought Tim in the tiny kitchen, calling on him loudly. A soft voice like a well-tuned lute answered her from the scullery.
"Ah, Miss Lesbia, and what wud ye be after spoilin' yer pretty voice for now? Don't ye, me darlin', don't ye!"
"Why has my father gone out, Tim?" asked Lesbia sharply.
An odd little man emerged from the scullery and stood coolly rubbing his nose-tip with the toe of the boot he was polishing. "An' how should I know, miss? Didn't he come tearing through the passage, as if the divil wor after him, an' lape like a trout int' the street? Sure ye must have seen the masther rampagin' yersilf."
"I know that father came and found me with George and----"
"Ah, thin, 'tis Garge, is it?" muttered Tim, beginning to brush mechanically.
"And rushed away in a temper because George would not give him my amethyst cross."
Crash went the boot on the floor, and the blacking-brush followed, while Tim stared out of his melancholy grey eyes as though he saw a ghost. Decidedly the ornament was causing a considerable sensation, although Lesbia could not understand why her father should rage, any more than why Tim should stare. "Like a stuck pig," as she said, inelegantly. And the annoying thing was that he did more than stare.
"Oh, blissid saints in glory!" groaned the Irishman, crossing himself.
"What on earth do you mean?" asked the girl, tartly, for she was beginning to weary of these mysteries.
"Oh, blissid saints in glory!" Tim moaned again, and, picking up the boot and the brush with the expression of a martyr, went into the scullery to peel potatoes.
Lesbia, who was a determined young woman, followed, quite bent upon getting at the root of the disturbance.
"Come and talk, Tim."
"Sure an' I must git the dinner ready anyhow, Miss."
"Come out, or I'll come in," cried Lesbia, standing at the door.
"Sure ye wudn't dirthy th' clothes av ye," coaxed Tim, and very unwillingly scrambled back into the cleaner, drier kitchen with the tin basin of potatoes in his huge fist.
He was certainly an ugly, under-sized man, and looked like the wicked dwarf of a fairy tale. But the similarity was all on the surface, for Tim Burke was as good and devoted a little Paddy as ever dipped his fingers into holy water. But his appearance was not prepossessing, for he was broader than he was long, and on a pair of hunched shoulders was set askew a gigantic head much too large for his squat body. His short legs were crooked, and he usually walked in a crab-like fashion in unexpected directions--that is, whither his brain did not direct his legs to go. He was barely five feet high, and his shaggy beard was as red as the untidy hair covering his poll. He was quite a monstrosity.
Nevertheless, Tim had his good points, for Nature had given him beautiful grey eyes, pathetic as those of a dog, and a sweet sympathetic voice, which sounded like a mellow bell. To hear Tim sing Irish ditties of the heart-breaking sort was a treat not to be met with every day, but he rarely sang them, save to Lesbia, whom he adored. And small wonder, for she alone was kind to the odd, uncouth, little man. Mr. Hale, whose selfishness was phenomenal, treated Tim like a white slave and, indeed, he might be called one, seeing that he worked like a horse and received no wages. Yet he was an admirable housekeeper and a magnificent cook. With such qualifications he could have procured a well-paid situation. Yet, for Lesbia's sake, he remained at Rose Cottage, watching her like a cat a mouse, but with more amiable intentions. She was the legacy which his mother Bridget, the girl's nurse, had left him on her death-bed, when she died some twelve months before.
Lesbia, looking like a fairy princess attended by her dwarf, perched herself on the kitchen table with a severe face. To lose no time while being questioned, Tim set to work peeling the potatoes, for Mr. Hale growled like a bear when his meals were not placed punctually on the table. As he peeled each potato, he dropped it with a splash into a bucket of clean water and rarely raised his sad eyes to the face of his young mistress during the conversation which ensued. Also--and this Lesbia noticed--he conversed very reluctantly, and every admission was wrung from unwilling lips.
"Tim," said his mistress severely, and beginning at the beginning, "you are the only son of my nurse, Bridget Burke."
"I am that, Miss, her only boy, Miss, and a good mother she was to me."
"A good nurse also, Tim. She loved me."
"An' who wudn't, ye pretty creature? Ain't I devoted to ye likewise, me darlin'? Answer me that now?"
"I shall do so," said Miss Hale significantly, "when our conversation comes to an end."
Tim groaned and winced. "Bad luck to the crass," he breathed, "an' may the Vargin forgive me for sayin that same."
"Why, bad luck to the cross?" demanded Lesbia, coming to the point.
"An' how shud I know, me dear?"
"But you do know," she insisted. "Tim, your mother gave me that cross."
"Did she now?--the owd fool."
"How dare you, Tim, and Bridget dead? She was your mother."
"Deed an' well she might be, Miss, for an uglier owd woman nivir could be found in County Clare, forby she left it for this blissid country whin I wor a gossoon."
"Did my father bring her over from Ireland, Tim?"
"Not he," Tim shook his Judas-coloured head. "Divil an eye did the pair av us clap on the gintleman for many a long day. Wasn't I a bare-futted brat runnin' wild about Whitechapel till my father--rest his sowl--wos tuck by the police for shop-liftin'--bad luck to thim? An' he died in gaol, poor man--ah, that he did, laving me mother an' me widout bread in the mouths av us."
"What did Bridget do then, Tim?"
"Sure she come to Wimbleton or a place hard by," admitted Tim reluctantly, "sellin' apples an' nuts, an' a mighty bad thing she made by the sale."
"I want to know exactly how she came to be my nurse?" said Lesbia.
Tim bent over the potatoes deeply interested in the peeling. "Why, Miss, your father--" here he swallowed something--"the masther, Miss, and a kind, good gintleman, tuck pity on her and give her the situation as your nurse, me dear."
"But my mother?"
"Oh, howly saints, an' how cud she say anything whin she wos dyin' an' you but a year old? But my mother nursed you like her own choild, Miss, till ye went to that school at Hampstead. But ye came back here just whin she was dyin', poor sowl."
"I did, a year ago," said Lesbia significantly, "and in time to receive the cross, Tim."
"May the father av lies fly away wid it!" groaned the dwarf. "An' may the saints forgive me for the wicked wish."
"Whatever do you mean, Tim?"
"Mane, ah, nivir ask me what I mane. But the crass isn't with ye now, an' ye'll be the betther widout it."
"Oh!" Lesbia slipped off the table with a heightened colour, "does that mean it is unlucky? I gave it to George, you see, and----"
"Ah, divil doubt but what you'd give the head av ye to Garge," grumbled Tim, taking up the tin of peeled potatoes. "Ah, well, 'tis betther he shud have it nor you, me dear."
"But why, but why?" asked Lesbia, frantic with curiosity.
"Ah, nivir ask me, Miss," replied Tim enigmatically, and departed to continue his culinary work; also--as she could see--to avoid further questioning.
Failing Tim, the girl resolved to learn what her father would say, when at dinner. This was a meal which Mr. Hale never missed, as he was devoted to the pleasures of the table and appreciated Tim's excellent cooking. He always arrayed himself in purple and fine linen to do justice to the viands set before him, and it was the rule of the cottage that Lesbia should also dress appropriately. Her father prided himself upon being ultra-civilised, and would have eaten a red herring with sartorial ceremony. The table was admirably laid with crystal and silver and valuable china, and--decorated with flowers in graceful vases--looked extremely pretty. Tim, in a livery of his master's devising, acted as butler, and the wines were as good as the food, which is saying a lot. Mr. Hale might live in a humble cottage and might mix with queer people, but he was a sybarite, who enjoyed the good things of this life artistically prepared. The room was beautifully furnished, and Lesbia was more beautiful than the room. Therefore, on this especial night, Mr. Walter Hale had both his palate and his eye gratified. His ear was not ministered to quite so pleasantly, as, after dinner, and when Tim had left the room to prepare the coffee, he renewed the subject of the cross with his daughter.
"Lesbia," said he, fixing his eyes on her somewhat flushed face, and looking extremely high-bred, "why did you give away that cross?"
"Bridget, who presented it to me on her death-bed, said that I was to bestow it on the man I meant to marry. I have done so."
This was a very defiant speech, and Hale frowned. "I shall not allow you to marry young Walker," he said distinctly.
Lesbia shrugged her shoulders with indifference. This was not the way to manage her. "I am sorry, father, as I have decided to become his wife."
"He has no money, you silly girl. I know for a fact that he is paid only a small salary by Michael Tait, who is a screw and a skinflint where his own pleasures are not concerned. Moreover, Walker has to support his widowed mother, and she is not likely to welcome a daughter-in-law who will curtail her comforts, such as they are. A hard woman, Lesbia, a very hard woman, my dear. I ought to know, as we have been acquainted for years."
The prospect did not seem alluring, but love sustained the girl. "George might get a better situation," she ventured to remark, a trifle anxiously. "Why," she added, this as though the thought had just struck her, "he might help you, father."
Hale spilt the port wine he was pouring into his glass. "What's that?"
"You need not speak crossly, father," replied Lesbia, puzzled by the sharpness of his tone. "I merely suggested that George might enter your office, and then he----"
The man rose suddenly and began to pace the room with the glass of wine in his hand. But the look he cast upon his daring child was so grim that the unfinished sentence died on her lips. "'George--might--enter--your--office!'" he repeated slowly, and ended with a cynical laugh. "Humph! I wonder now----" he laughed again and checked his speech. Then he finished his glass of wine and returned to the table. "When does Walker come to see you again?" he asked abruptly.
"To-morrow night at six o'clock," said Lesbia, promptly. "He rows down the river from Medmenham, or walks along the towing-path, every evening."
"A devoted lover truly," said Hale drily, "and how long has this pretty wooing been going on?"
"For a few months," said Lesbia, rather alarmed by the stern expression of her father's face. "Don't be angry. After all, it was you who introduced me to George."
"The more fool I, seeing his age and looks and poverty. Lesbia!" he placed his knuckles on the table and leaned across it. "You must marry my friend, Captain Sargent."
"Ex-Captain Sargent," cried Lesbia scornfully, and rising unexpectedly. "I shall do nothing of the sort. I don't even like him."
"Pooh! Pooh! Pooh! He is a gentleman----"
"So is George."
Hale rapped the table sharply. "Do not interrupt, you minx. Sargent has retired from the army, it is true. But he has a good income and a pretty bungalow at Cookham. We were in the same regiment until I left the service some fifteen years ago; so I know him well. He will make an excellent husband--a very excellent husband indeed."
"But, father, he is nearly as old as you are."
"What of that? Sargent is a handsome man and looks young."
Lesbia bit her lip, and tapped her foot on the ground. "I shan't marry him."
Hale scowled. "You shall. I am your father and you shall do as you are told, my dear. And if you don't marry Sargent you shall certainly not marry Walker, unless----" he stopped suddenly.
"Unless what?"
"Unless you get that cross back from him," stormed Hale angrily.
Lesbia was nothing if not direct, and the mystery of the cross piqued her exceedingly. She ventured on a leading question. "Why do you want that cross so much, father?"
"It belonged to your poor mother," said Mr. Hale sentimentally, "and means more to me than you can ever guess. I missed it from your mother's jewel-case when she died; but I never expected that Bridget Burke, who was supposed to be the soul of honesty, had stolen it."
"No! no. I don't believe Bridget would have stolen anything."
"Bridget would have done anything that suited her," retorted Hale grimly, "and if she came by the cross honestly--say by your mother giving it to her--why did she not let you show it to me?"
"I can't guess: perhaps she thought you would take it from me."
"I might and I might not," replied Hale hesitatingly, "but at all events I should not have allowed you to give it to young Walker. You must ask him to return it at once."
"I shall not," said Lesbia determinedly.
"You shall," cried Hale, and their eyes met like those of two duelists crossing swords. But the father's eyes fell first. "You dare to defy me."
"Not exactly, but----"
"I want no explanations, thank you; but I'll make a bargain with you. If Walker returns that cross he can have you as his wife. If not, I shall refuse to allow him to haunt the cottage or pay attentions to you. And remember, Lesbia, that I hold the purse-strings."
"George can keep me," panted Lesbia, her colour rising.
"George has to keep his mother. Marry him without a dowry and see what the Honourable Mrs. Aylmer Walker will say."
"You cannot give me a fortune, father."
"I can give you two thousand a year if you are obedient," said her father coolly, and walked towards the door. "Think it over, Lesbia," and he left her to meditate on the astounding news.
Lesbia was naturally astonished, since she never dreamed that her father was so wealthy. Everything in the cottage was good of its kind, and even luxurious, and the living was excellent. But at times Hale appeared to lack ready money, and frequently impressed upon Tim that it was necessary to be economical. Why then should he act in this way when he appeared to be rich, and why should he offer so large an income on condition that the cross was returned? So far as Lesbia understood her father's hard nature, he was not a man to pay generously for a merely sentimental idea.
However, the fact remained that if she could get the amethyst cross returned, she could marry George and bring him a substantial dowry. After much reflection, she determined to ask George for the ornament. After all, she could easily give him something else, and it was worth satisfying her father when so much was at stake.
For half a moment Lesbia thought that she would put on her cloak and hat, and walk along the towing-path to Medmenham in the hope of meeting her lover. It was now half-past eight, as dinner had taken place at seven.
Mr. Hale had gone out, and Tim, as was his custom on fine evenings, was paddling about in a boat on the river, sometimes rowing and sometimes fishing. She was alone and the solitude was becoming irksome. A great wave of desire for love and sympathy came over the girl, and she longed to see George Walker immediately, not only to tell him of her father's offer, but to be petted and kissed and comforted. But a few minutes' reflection showed her that it was not advisable that she should walk alone to Medmenham, especially as the chances were that she might not meet her lover. It was true that he would certainly be at home, but Lesbia did not know Mrs. Walker and, from the description given by her father, hesitated to meet that formidable lady. On the whole, then, she decided, it was better to wait until George came as usual on the ensuing evening.
Being alone, it was difficult to find entertainment. Lesbia played the piano for a few minutes: then she read and afterwards enjoyed a game or two of Patience. Finally, feeling bored in the lonely house, she retired to bed about ten o'clock. There she speedily fell asleep, and dreamed that all obstacles were removed, and she was George Walker's wife. When she put out her light, neither Mr. Hale nor Tim had returned.
Lesbia's sleep lasted for some considerable time. Then she suddenly sat up with her senses keenly alive to every sensation. It seemed to her that George had called her, and that she had awakened in answer to his cry. And it was a cry for help, too! With a sensation of alarm, she sprang from her bed, and opened the lattice to look down the garden and across the river. There it flowed silvery in the calm moonlight: but she heard no cry and saw nothing. Yet the call for help had been very distinct. Lesbia was not superstitious, and had it been broad daylight she would have laughed, at such midnight fancies. But in the mysterious moonlight--alone in the house so far as she knew--and at the hour of twelve o'clock, her heart beat rapidly, and a cold perspiration broke out on her forehead. George was in danger: she was sure of that. And George had called to her in a dream. What was she to do? In which direction was she to look?
The first idea that came into her head was to see Tim, and explain. He would not laugh at her fancies, as he had many of his own. Lesbia threw on her dressing-gown, slipped her feet into shoes, and went down the narrow staircase, taking a lighted candle with her. In the hall all was quiet, and she paused here for a single moment, wondering if it was worth while to awaken Tim with such a fantastical story of midnight terrors. Just as she was deciding that it would be wiser to return to bed, she heard a groan, and in her fright nearly dropped the candle. But being a brave girl, she plucked up courage and listened. There came a second groan--from the parlour. Lesbia immediately opened the door and entered. There on the floor she saw a man bound and gagged and stiff, with nothing alive about him but his eyes. And those were the eyes of George Walker.
CHAPTER III
ANOTHER MYSTERY
Lesbia Hale was small, fragile and, in a degree, romantic; but in sufficiently strange contrast, her frame was strong and her nature practical. An ordinary girl would have screamed and fainted, or perhaps would have run away. Lesbia did none of these things. She turned pale, it is true, and she trembled violently as she stared with dilated eyes at the bound form of her lover. Then it came upon her with a rush that immediate aid was required, and without even calling for Tim, she set down her candlestick on a convenient chair, and knelt beside the unfortunate young man. He was certainly in a very bad way; but how he came to be in such a plight, Lesbia, with characteristic commonsense, did not wait to inquire. The first thing was to loosen him, and revive him with wine: then she could ask questions. The answers promised to be interesting.
First she dexterously removed the handkerchief from across his mouth, with which George had been gagged in a clumsy manner. This she threw aside with a passing thought that later she would learn to whom it belonged, and then proceeded to unloosen the knot of the rope with which her lover was bound. There was only one rope and only one knot, and when she had disentangled the somewhat complicated fastening, she unwound the cord which curled round him from his broad shoulders to his ankles. With his arms glued to his sides and his feet pressed closely together, George Walker had been tied up with yards of brand-new manila rope, so that he could not move, and was trussed as stiffly as any fowl prepared for the market. And the person or persons who had bound him thus, to make assurance doubly sure, had struck him a heavy blow on the back of his head. Lesbia discovered this by the half-dry blood which clotted his curly hair.
"What does it all mean?" asked Lesbia, when George was free from his bonds, and lying almost as stiffly without them as he had when bound. But the young man did not reply, for the very good reason that he had fainted. At once Lesbia kissed him, and then went to the parlour door to summon Tim.
She called loudly, quite heedless of the fact that she might waken her father, who did not approve of young Walker. And even if he did not, it was necessary that he should come to aid the unfortunate man. So while the French clock on the mantelpiece struck a silvery twelve, Lesbia shouted at the full pitch of her healthy young lungs. In a few minutes the alarmed voice of Tim was heard, and by the time she was again kneeling beside George, the dwarf shuffled hurriedly into the dimly-lighted room, half-dressed, a candle in one hand and the kitchen poker in the other.
"The saints be betwixt us and harm, Miss Lesbia," cried Tim, who looked scared out of his senses, "what's come to you?"
"What's come to George, you mean," said Lesbia, looking up. "See, Tim, I heard him call me and came downstairs a few minutes ago to find him bound and wounded. Don't stand there shaking, and don't chatter. Get the brandy and heat some water. He has fainted, and we must bring him to his senses."
"But how the divil did Masther Garge come here?" demanded Tim, aghast.
"How should I know?" retorted Lesbia impatiently. "We can ask him when he is able to speak. Go and do what I tell you while I waken my father."
"Sure the masther isn't in, Miss," expostulated Tim, backing towards the door. "He wint out afther dinner to spind the night wid Captain Sargent at Cookham. An' that we shud have the bad luck av this, while he's away. Oh, Miss Lesbia, wasn't it burglars I was thinking av? But nivir murder, save the mark, an' sudden death at that."
"It will be sudden death if you don't get that brandy. Stop!" Lesbia started to her feet. "I'll get it myself. Go and heat the water to bathe his wound."
She ran into the dining-room and procured the spirit, while Tim went to stoke up the kitchen fire. Lesbia forced George's teeth apart and poured the brandy wholesale down his throat. The ardent liquor revived him, and he opened his eyes with a faint sigh. "Don't speak, darling," she whispered, with a second kiss, and then set to work chafing his limbs. By the time Tim appeared with a jug of boiling water, the young man had quite recovered his senses, and attempted to explain.
"No," said Lesbia sharply, "you are too weak as yet. Bring a basin, Tim, and a sponge. We must bathe his head."
Considering she had no practice Lesbia performed her Good Samaritan task very dexterously and, having sponged the wound--a nasty, jagged blow from some blunt instrument,--bound up her lover's head with that cleverness and tenderness which come from love. When he had quite recovered--save for a trifling weakness--she made him lie down on the sofa, and fed him with weak brandy and water. Tim meanwhile lighted the lamp, and exhausted himself in guessing the reason for the condition of young Walker. "It's that blissed crass," moaned Tim, moving round like an unquiet ghost, "bad luck to the same! Didn't I say it wud bring throuble?"
"You did, Tim, you did," assented Lesbia, who was seated by the now recovered man, and looking somewhat weary after her exertions, "but as George is comparatively well, he can explain."
"The cross is quite safe," said Walker faintly. "I left it at home. Oh, my head, how it aches. No wonder, when such a heavy blow was struck."
"Who struck it, dear?" inquired Lesbia.
"I don't know," George's voice was weary. "It's a long story."
"Drink some more of this," said Lesbia, holding the glass to his pale lips, "and wait until you feel stronger."
"Oh, I'm much better now," he replied, pushing the brandy and water away, "but I shan't be able to go to the office to-morrow morning."
"Beg-ad, it's to-morrow morning already!" said Tim, glancing at the clock. "Half-past twilve as I'm a sinner, an' here's Miss Lesbia an' mesilf sittin' up like the quality. Oh, the sowl av me, what will the masther say?"
"What can he say?" demanded Miss Hale tartly. "Father can't hold you and me accountable for the unexpected."
"Unexpected, indeed," breathed George. "Who would have thought that I would have been struck down on the towing-path. I can't guess the reason, Lesbia, it's beyond me."
"The crass! the crass!" muttered Tim, shaking his shaggy head.
"What do you know about it?" demanded Lesbia.
"Divil a thing, but that it brings bad luck," answered Tim sturdily.
"It is not altogether bad luck that George has been brought here for me to attend to him," she retorted.
"No, dear," Walker patted her hand, "this accident shows me what an angel you are. But how did I come here?"
"Don't you know who brought you?"
"I know nothing from the time I was struck down on the towing-path near Medmenham, until the moment I saw you standing in yonder doorway with a candle in your hand."
Lesbia knitted her pretty brows. "I can't understand. Some enemy----"
"I have no enemies," murmured George positively.
"Then it's a mystery," declared the girl, still more perplexed. "Tell me exactly what took place."
Walker passed his hand wearily across his forehead, for his head ached considerably. "After leaving you with your father, darling, I rowed back to Medmenham, and went home to the cottage. My mother was not within, as she had gone up to town early in the day and did not intend to return until to-morrow----"
"That's to-day, begob!" interpolated Tim, again looking at the clock.
"Then it is to-day she returns," said Walker, in a stronger voice, "about three in the afternoon. But to continue, Lesbia, I had my dinner and smoked a pipe. Then I grew restless, wondering if you were having a bad time with your father on my account. I thought he would make things unpleasant for you, and determined to come down and see what had happened. That was about ten o'clock."
Lesbia patted his hand. "You need not have troubled, dear. My father and I got on very well together."
"I did not know that, and so was anxious. I ferried over the river to the towing-path, and walked down towards Marlow, intending to cross the bridge and come here."
"I was in bed at ten."
"So soon. I thought you might be sitting up."
"Well, I did not expect you, dear," explained the girl. "As Tim was out on the river, and my father had gone away, I found it dull. I went to bed because I could think of nothing else to do. Then I fancied I heard you calling for help, and came down to find you gagged and bound."
"I did not call for help because I was gagged," said George, "and almost insensible. I expect you were dreaming."
"A very serviceable dream," said Lesbia drily. "Go on, George, darling."
"About half way between Medmenham and Marlow, while I was walking along in the moonlight, I heard a soft step behind me, and turned to see a man almost on top of me. I had not even time to see what he was like, so quickly did he attack me. Aiming a blow at my head with a bludgeon, he struck me hard, and I fell insensible on the path."
"And then?"
"Then I woke to find you looking at me in this room. That's all."
Lesbia examined her lover searchingly. He wore white flannel trousers, a silk shirt, a white flannel coat, and brown shoes. His panama hat was missing.
Then Lesbia uttered an exclamation, and pointed to his pockets. All these, both in coat and trousers, were turned inside out, and the buttons of his shirt were undone, as though he had been searched to the skin. "It's robbery," said Lesbia firmly.
"Robbery! Impossible! Why should anyone rob a pauper like me? I have nothing."
"You have the crass!" murmured Tim, who was squatting on the floor, and who looked like a goblin.
"Tim." It was Lesbia who spoke. "Do you think that Mr. Walker was attacked to get the amethyst cross?"
"Faith, an' I can't say, Miss. But me mother--rest her sowl--towld me that the crass brought bad luck, and it's come to Masther Garge here. Maybe it's only talk, but there you are," and he pointed to the young man.
Walker reflected for a moment or so, while Lesbia turned over Tim's explanation in her mind. "I daresay he is right," said George pensively, "and you also, Lesbia. I was rendered insensible so that I might be robbed, as is proved by my pockets being turned inside out. As the only article of value I possessed was the cross, and I only acquired that yesterday evening, I expect it was the cross this man was after. If so, he must be very much disappointed, for I left your gift in the drawer of my dressing-table, before I came to see you at ten o'clock."
"What was the man like?"
"I told you that I only caught a glimpse of him," said Walker fretfully, for the conversation wearied him. "He seemed to be a tall man, and was roughly dressed. His soft hat was pulled over his eyes, and--and I know, nothing more about him."
Seeing that he was still weak, Lesbia stood up. "You can lie here on the sofa and go to sleep," she said softly. "To-morrow morning we can talk."
"But I have to get to London by the eight o'clock train--the office!"
"Bother the office!" said Lesbia inelegantly. "You are not fit to go to the office. Try to sleep. Tim, give me that rug you brought. There, dear," she tucked him in. "I have left a glass of water beside you. Tim can come in every now and then to see how you are."
"Augh," groaned Tim, yawning, "it's just as well, Miss. I cudn't slape forty winks, wid blue murther about. But the masther will come back after breakfast, an' what will we say at all, at all?"
"Say," snapped Lesbia, who was at the door, looking extremely weary. "Tell the truth, of course. My father will quite approve of what we have done. George, don't talk to Tim, who is a chatterbox, but go to sleep. You need all you can get, poor boy."
George, already nearly asleep, murmured an incoherent reply and, leaving Tim to watch over him, Lesbia returned to her room, but not to sleep for at least an hour. Lying on her bed, she tried to fathom the mystery of this assault upon her unoffending lover. Apparently the cross had to do with the matter, as George had never been attacked before. And then in a flash the girl remembered that her father was desirous of regaining the ornament, and apparently, from the way in which he had talked, was prepared to go to great lengths to get it. Could it be that he had struck down her lover? He had been absent all the evening, and would be absent all the night, at Sargent's Cookham cottage, according to the message he had left with Tim. He did not like Walker, and moreover was tall, as the assailant had been. It really seemed as though Mr. Walter Hale had taken the law into his own hands and, to get back his property, as he averred the cross to be, had committed something uncommonly like highway robbery. Lesbia worried over the problem half the night, as she could not believe that her father would act so basely. Finally, towards dawn she fell into an uneasy sleep.
It was ten o'clock when she woke, and at once her thoughts reverted to the late exciting event. No such sensational happening had ever before disturbed the quietness of the riverside cottage, and the mystery which environed it was an added fascination. As Lesbia slowly dressed--and in her prettiest frock for the sake of George,--she again wondered if her father was connected with the assault and the attempted robbery.
George could only have been attacked for the sake of the amethyst cross, and her father alone--so far as she knew--desired that cross. Yet if Mr. Hale was guilty, why had he brought his victim into his own house? No one else could have brought George, for no one else could have entered. Lesbia had no great love for her father, since he invariably repelled all her proffers of affection; but she now felt that she could actively hate him for his wickedness in so dealing with the man she loved. And yet, as she reflected when she descended the stairs, she could not be sure that her father was guilty, even in the face of such evidence.
When Lesbia entered the dining-room she found George quite his old self. The night's rest had done him good, and a cold bath had refreshed him greatly. With Tim's willing assistance he had made himself presentable and, save for a linen bandage round his head, looked much the same as he had done on the previous day. He came forward swiftly with sparkling eyes, and took Lesbia in his arms, murmuring soft and foolish words, after the way of lovers, even less romantic.
"Darling! Darling! Darling! How good you have been to me."
"I could have done no less for anyone," replied Lesbia, leading him to a chair. "Sit down, dearest, you are still weak."
"On the contrary I am quite strong, although my head still aches a trifle from that cowardly blow. Besides, I am hungry, and there is Tim bringing in a magnificent breakfast. Sweetest and best," he went on, leading her to the well-spread table, "this is just as if we were married. You at the top of the table and I at the bottom. Give me a cup of coffee, Lesbia, and I'll serve out the eggs and ham. Tim, you needn't wait."
Tim grumbled a trifle, as he loved to wait on Lesbia, But he was an Irishman and appreciated a love affair. It did not need much cleverness to see that young Walker wished to be alone with his beloved, if only to enjoy the unique situation. Tim therefore departed and the couple had their breakfast in heavenly solitude. Lesbia wished to talk about the adventure on the towing-path, and to ask questions, but George positively refused to speak of anything save the most frivolous matters.
"Your father will return soon," he explained, passing his cup for more coffee, "and then I shall have to tell my story all over again. Let us talk about ourselves and of our future."
Lesbia, after a faint resistance, was only too pleased to obey, so they had an extremely pleasant meal. The room was cheerful with the summer sun, which poured in floods of light and warmth through the windows, and the feeling of spring was still in the air. Most prosaically they enjoyed their food and unromantically ate a large breakfast, but all the time they kept looking at one another and relishing the novel situation. It was brought to an end only too speedily by the sudden entrance of Mr. Hale. Tall, lean, cold and stern, he appeared on the threshold, and stared in surprise at the way in which young Walker was taking possession, not only of his house but of his daughter.
"What the devil does this mean?" asked Hale, politely indignant.
"Look at George's head," cried Lesbia with a shiver, for her doubts returned fortyfold at the sight of her aristocratic father.
"That explains nothing," said Hale drily, "perhaps, Mr. Walker, you will undertake to tell me how it comes that I find you making yourself at home in my poor abode?"
George, who was perfectly cool and collected, told his story. Hale listened, much more discomposed than he chose to appear, and at the conclusion of the narrative asked one question, which showed where his thoughts were.
"The cross," he said eagerly, "have you been robbed of the cross?"
"No," answered Walker positively, "although I believe that I was attacked for the sake of it. But luckily I left it in the drawer of my dressing-table. Can you guess who attacked me?"
"No," said Hale coolly, "I cannot."
"Still, if you know about the cross----"
"I only know that it belonged to my wife and that I want to get it back as soon as possible. Lesbia should never have given it to you. As to your being attacked so that you might be robbed of it, I can't believe that story. The cross, as a jewel, is not so very valuable. Besides, no one but myself and Lesbia and Tim knew that you had it. I presume," ended Hale, in his most sarcastic manner, "that you do not suspect any one of us three."
"Oh no," rejoined Walker promptly, and spoke as he believed in spite of the troubled look which Lesbia cast on him. "Still----"
Hale threw up his hand to interrupt. "We can talk of your adventure later, Mr. Walker. After all, the cross may have something to do with the way in which you were assaulted, although--as I said--it appears unlikely. I want to recover it immediately, and am the more eager, now that I have heard of your adventure. Give me a note to your mother saying that the cross is to be given to me, and I shall consent to your marriage with Lesbia."
George looked at the girl, who nodded. "Let my father have back the cross, since he so greatly desires it," she said. "I can give you something else, dear. I am willing to pay that price for my father's consent."
George shrugged his shoulders. "It is immaterial to me," he said calmly, "so long as you are pleased, dear. I only wished to keep the ornament as your first love-gift to me. Have you a pencil, Mr. Hale. Thank you."
He scribbled a note. "To Jenny, our maid-servant," he explained, when handing it to the tall, silent man, "she will admit you into my bedroom and you will find the cross in the right-hand drawer of my dressing-table."
"But your mother----"
"My mother went to London yesterday and will not be back until three o'clock to-day. If you like to wait I can go over with you later."
"No," said Hale brusquely, "your mother might make objections. I know how difficult she is to deal with. I'll go myself: you stay here with Lesbia."
George was nothing loth, and when Mr. Hale departed he walked with his beloved in the garden. They should have talked of the adventure, and Lesbia should have told George the thought that was uppermost in her mind--namely, that her father was cognisant of the assault. But she did not care to make such an accusation upon insufficient grounds, and moreover hesitated to accuse her father of such a crime. She therefore willingly agreed to postpone all talk of the adventure until Mr. Hale's return, and surrendered herself to the pleasure of the moment. The lovers spent a long morning in the garden of love, gathering the rosebuds which Herrick recommends should be culled in youth. Time flew by on golden wings, and Hale was no sooner gone all the way to Medmenham, than he seemed to come back. He could not have been away for more than five minutes, as it appeared to these two enthralled by Love. For them time had no existence.
But their dream of love fled, when Hale came swiftly down the path looking both angry and alarmed, and, indeed, perplexed. "The cross has gone," he said.