Part 45 (2/2)

How incredible she was, he thought. How perfect in her direct and simple dignity. Yet there had crept into her tone a wistfulness which broke his heart.

”Yes. It is true.” He could do no less than meet her on her own high ground.

”She said,” the girl's sweet, remote voice went on, ”that you had loved each other all your lives. Is that true, too?”

He had hoped that he might be spared the bitterness of this, but since only one answer was possible, ”It is true,” he said hoa.r.s.ely, ”it is true that we loved each other--long ago.”

”Long ago--and now?” He was to be spared nothing, it seemed. Her wide eyes searched his face. Lest she should read it too plainly, he bowed his head.

Then suddenly, even as she drew back from him, hurt to the heart, some trick of moonlight on his half-hidden face, linked to swift memory, showed her another moonlight night, a canoe, a story told--and in a flash the miracle had happened. Intuition had leaped the gulf of his enforced silence--Esther knew.

A great wonder grew in her eyes, an immense relief.

”Why,” she spoke whisperingly, ”I see, I know! She, my mother, is the girl you told me of. The girl you married--”

She did not need the confirmation of his miserable eyes. It was all quite plain. With a little broken sigh of understanding, she leaned her head against the gate post and, all child again, began to cry softly behind the shelter of her hands.

”Esther!”

He could say nothing, do nothing. He dared not even touch the dark, bent head. But we may well pity him as he watched her.

The girl's sobbing wore itself out and presently she lifted tear-drenched eyes, like the blue of the sky after rain. Her tragic, unnatural composure had all been wept away.

”I understand--now,” she faltered. ”Before, I didn't. I thought dreadful things. I thought that I--that you--oh, I couldn't bear the things I thought! But it's better now. You did love me--didn't you?”

”Before G.o.d--yes!”

She went on dreamily. ”It would have been too terrible if you hadn't--if you had just pretended--had been amusing yourself--been false and base.

But I felt all along that you were never that. I knew there must be some explanation and it didn't seem wrong to ask. Instead of pretending that I didn't know all the things you had not time to say. Forgive me for ever doubting that you were brave and good.”

”Spare me--”

She was not yet old enough to understand the tragic appeal. For she leaned nearer, laying her soft hand over his clenched ones.

”It is all so very, very sad,” she said with quaint simplicity which was part of her, ”but not so bad--oh, not nearly so bad as if you had been pretending--or I mistaken. Think!--How terrible to give one's love unworthily or unasked!”

”But you do not love me,” he burst out, ”you cannot! You must not!”

Never had he seen her eyes so sweet, so dark.

”I do love you. And I honour you above all men.”

Before he could prevent her, she had stooped--her lips brushed his hand.

”Oh, my Dear!”--He had reached the limit of his strength--instant flight alone remained if he would keep the precious flower of her trust. And she, too, was trembling. But in the soft starlight they looked into each other's eyes, and what they saw there helped. Their hands clasped, but in that moment of parting neither thought of self, so both were strong.

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