"I hope you have had a pleasant day," he said at last.

"Very pleasant," she answered; "and Jamie has been the best of good boys."

"Yes, I've been very good indeed," remarked that gentleman in a tone of self-congratulation. "And I didn't eat too much, did I?"

"Well, there was the cherry tart; I had to take away your second plateful."

Arnold laughed, and the laugh seemed to set them at ease again.

They walked on quickly over the starry yellow flowers in the grass. The bright day would have a golden ending; already there were amber lights shining calmly on the river.

Giles, half asleep at the landing-stage, looked up as they approached, and drew the back of his hand across his tired old eyes. Arnold seemed to be moved by a sudden impulse.

"There's a white shawl left in the boat," he said. "Take it back to Mrs. Verdon, Giles, at once. You'll find her somewhere under the beeches. Now, Jamie, I'll pull across to the island myself. Step in, Miss Kilner."

It did not occur to Elsie to disobey him. A minute after, when they were floating out upon the water, she thought that she had been too submissive. But he was pulling away with long, steady strokes, right away into the middle of the golden light.

There was very little said just then. They glided on in a delicious stillness; and presently the boat ran close to some old worn steps that were half hidden by tall, coarse grass, and was made fast. Arnold had determined to land on the island.

"Come," he said, almost imperiously.

"I didn't think of this," Elsie answered, her colour coming and going, "and we shall be missed. It is time for Jamie to go home."

"No, it isn't," said Jamie gaily, as Arnold lifted him out upon the decayed little pier.

A path led from the pier through a thicket of wild foliage, and then they came to a clear space and a little thatched hut shaped like a bee-hive. There was nothing in it save an old pair of oars and a broken basket, but the place had been kept in pretty good repair.

Right in front of the hut the underwood had been cleared away, and the ground sloped gently down to the water. The slow, full, golden river was flowing on, and they stood silently watching the tide.

"We are out of the world here," Arnold said at last. "One could fancy that Father Time sometimes comes to this forgotten island and sits down to rest. Nothing has changed here since I was a boy; the trees have grown thicker and taller, that is all."

"Somebody said that you were going to improve the island," Elsie remarked. "I hardly see how that can be done."

"I merely thought of making it more habitable," he replied. "It would be possible to establish Giles and his wife very comfortably here. They are living now in a disreputable old cottage which ought to have been pulled down years ago."

"Then you think of building a nice little house instead of that bee-hive hut?"

"Yes; the house can be made as picturesque as the hut, you know. One can look forward to pleasant parties here—children's picnics, and that kind of thing."

Elsie thought she knew what he was thinking of at that moment. He was going to settle down at the Court with Katherine, and she would play the part of Lady Bountiful to perfection; children's picnics were quite in her line, and perhaps she had already suggested that the island was the very spot for such gatherings. It was all right, of course; every one would say that he had chosen wisely. But, as he had chosen, why was he standing here with another woman by his side?

"Let us go now," she said suddenly, conscious of an unnatural tone in her voice. "The light is fading; it is time to join the others."

He looked at her, but she was still watching the flow of the river, and did not meet his eyes.

"Is there any need for such haste?" he asked. "I haven't said many words to you to-day. Old friends have been crowding round me, and——"

"Naturally," she broke in coldly; "but you can talk as well anywhere else. And Jamie must be sent to bed."

She turned sharply away towards the path by which they had come to the clearing. Then all at once she spoke in another tone—

"What has become of the child?"

"He was standing close to you a moment ago," Arnold answered quickly. "Jamie, where are you? Jamie!" he called, in a loud, ringing voice.

Elsie went flying along the path with the speed of some hunted wild creature. All else was forgotten in her intense anxiety. She had been absorbed in her own foolish feelings, she thought bitterly, and had left the boy to his own devices. How wrong it was to have lost sight of him for an instant in such a perilous spot! Oh that she had never brought him here!

She seemed to have suffered hours of misery in those few seconds of suspense. The path turned abruptly, opening out upon the little pier, and just at the turn she was confronted by Jamie himself. He met her with a very red face.

"I done it," he began confusedly. "No, I never done it exactly, but it's gone. It come untied. I gived it one tug, and I nearly tumbled in."

"Oh, you naughty boy, to go close to the edge of the water!" sobbed Elsie, catching him in her arms and kissing him. "I won't let you leave me for an instant till I put you into nurse's hands. My own dear, troublesome darling! If anything had happened to you I should have died!" She was not conscious of Arnold's presence just then. Words poured fast from her lips as she held the boy to her heart in an ecstasy of relief. She was still on her knees upon the path, still trembling like a leaf, when Mr. Wayne's voice fell upon her ear.

"Well, of all the young rascals I ever met, he's the biggest! Why, you scamp, what made you do such a thing?"

"I never done it exactly. I—I—just gived it one tug. I—I——" Jamie's quivering lips failed to complete the sentence. His face worked like a queer gutta-percha visage for a moment, and then he burst into a hearty roar which must have startled every living thing on the island.

Arnold muttered something which was luckily drowned by Jamie's noise. The boat was gone; the burning glory of sunset was slowly dying out, and across the river came the first faint breath of the night. He was here on a desolate island, with a woman who did not care for him, and he had cared for her so much that his love was the very crown of his life. Her indifference would not make any outward change in him. He was not the kind of man to believe that his heart was broken, but he knew that he should feel the want of her as long as he lived; he felt that he might have risen to a higher level if she had put her hand in his and walked by his side. At first he had not for a moment doubted that she could be won. He had believed that she was meant for him; he had triumphed in anticipation, but some nameless barrier had risen between them and baffled him, and now it was all over. If the boat had not got loose and drifted away, he would have rowed her back in a sullen silence which would never have been broken again.

But there was no boat, and Elsie, still crooning over Jamie, did not yet understand what had happened. When the boy had ceased bellowing for very weariness, she suggested that they should all go home as quickly as they could. The child had been over-excited and over-tired with his long day.

"It is not wise to kneel on the damp earth," said Arnold, with cold tranquillity. "Let me advise you to get up and take Jamie into the hut. The dew is beginning to fall."

"Into the hut?" repeated Elsie, rising from her knees and turning her pale face towards him.

"Yes. The boat is gone."

"Gone! Then how shall we go back? What can we do?"

"I must think." His voice was still very quiet. "You had better take him into the hut."

She obeyed in silence, half stupefied and bewildered after the agitation she had undergone. The boy had sobbed himself into a drowsy state, and staggered along the path supported by her arm. When they entered the hut she laid him on the seat, and made a pillow of the old basket, covered with her handkerchief. In a moment he was fast asleep.

When she came out of the little building Arnold was standing in the clearing, looking out across the water. The last of the sunset had vanished, and the river and its banks looked like a picture in delicate grey tints. A light suddenly twinkled on the opposite shore, where one could just discern the outlines of a farm-house, fading fast into the mist of twilight.

"Can we not make a signal?" Elsie asked.

"We can gather sticks and light a fire," he answered gravely. "There's nothing else to be done."

"There's plenty of wood," she said, "and you have some matches, I suppose? I'll help you to collect the boughs and twigs." She made a movement towards the underwood, but he stopped her, and their hands touched.

"You are cold," he said, "and you had a great fright. I wish I could have prevented all this."

"I think," she replied, "that it is quite as unpleasant for you as for me."

"Not half as unpleasant," he returned abruptly. "You must hate me for bringing you here. You do hate me, don't you?"

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 passed 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, circumstances, were all forgotten. They had passed 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, hoarse 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 clusters of pink geranium in a glass 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."

Then the head of the family went off to find Mary and tell her the joyful news, and Francis and Lily stood under the dark cedar-boughs together hand in hand. She was too happy to know exactly what he was saying; she only knew that she had managed to say what was required of her, and that life had suddenly changed from gloom to glory.

September had set in, and only a few stragglers had come back to London. Most people were still lingering on the sea-shore or among the breezy hills; but one young woman, standing at the window of a back-room in All Saints' Street, was looking as happy as if she loved the view of chimney-pots and smoky tiles.

It was the last day of Elsie's single life. The bell was just beginning to chime for five o'clock service; in the next room Mrs. Lennard and Miss Saxon were closing the lids of the boxes and looking round to see that nothing had been forgotten or left out. And Elsie, standing alone in her old place, was watching the sunset shining on these crowded house-roofs for the last time. Meta's manuscript, carefully tied up, was lying on the little table near. As Elsie's fingers rested on the roll, her thoughts went straying back to that evening in the early spring when she had stood here to fight her battle in silence.

It was not until that battle had been fought and won that she had known the guidance of the vanished hand; and now, in the golden quietness of this hour, she recalled some lines from "In Memoriam" which seemed to come with new freshness of meaning to her mind:—

"In vain shalt thou, or any, call The spirits from their golden day, Except, like them, thou too canst say, My spirit is at peace with all."

Robert and Bertha were forgiven, although the old home had passed into the hands of strangers, and the old haunts would know her footsteps no more. Mr. Lennard, too, had given up the living in Sussex, and would come, later on, to settle in Rushbrook, near Wayne's Court. Mrs. Lennard had declared that it was impossible for her to live far away from her adopted daughter, and Elsie longed to have this faithful friend always by her side. And Miss Saxon, also, had promised to say good-bye to London, and follow Elsie into her quiet world of meadows and streams. Another summer would bring Mrs. Beaton and her son into that pastoral country, just to refresh themselves with a glimpse of its sweetness and light. How Elsie would welcome the sight of those friendly faces which had gladdened her lonesome days!

To-night for musings; to-morrow for the beginning of the new life. To-night for memories; to-morrow for the clasp of wedded hands and the solemn troth, plighted "till death do us part."

"But there will never be a parting," said Elsie, taking a last look at the fading light of the sunset. "Did not Harold and Meta walk together to the very brink of the river? and is not the vanished hand still pointing to the home of rest upon the other side?"

THE END