"Valentine is so n.o.ble," replied her sister-in-law. "You don"t know what she has been to me since that day when she and I looked together at Gerald"s dead face. Oh, that day, that dreadful day!"
"It is past, Lilias. Think of the future, the bright future, and he is in that brightness now."
"I know."
She wiped the tears again from her eyes. Then she continued in a changed voice:--
"I will try and forget that day, which, as you say, is behind Gerald and me. At the time I could scarcely think of myself. I was so overcome with the wonderful brave way in which Valentine acted. You know her father died a month afterwards, and she was so sweet to him. She nursed him day and night, and did all that woman could do to comfort and forgive him. His brain was dreadfully clouded, however, and he died at last in a state of unconsciousness. Then Valentine came out in a new light. She went to the insurance offices and told the whole story of the fraud that had been practised on them, and of her husband"s part in it. She told the story in such a way that hard business men, as most of these men were, wept. Then she sold her father"s great shipping business, which had all been left absolutely to her, and paid back every penny of the money.
"Since then, as you know, she and Gerry live here. She is really the idol of my old father"s life; he and she are scarcely ever parted.
Yes, she is a n.o.ble woman. When I look at her I say to myself, Gerald, at least, did not love unworthily."
"Then she is poor now?"
"As the world speaks of poverty she is poor. Do you think Valentine minds that? Oh, how little her father understood her when he thought that riches were essential to her happiness. No one has simpler tastes than Valentine. Do you know that she housekeeps now at the rectory, and we are really much better off than we used to be. Alack and alas!
Adrian, you ought to know in time, I am such a bad housekeeper."
Lilias laughed quite merrily as she spoke, and Carr"s dark face glowed.
"It is a bargain," he said, "that I take you with your faults and don"t reproach you with them. And what has become of that fine creature, Esther Helps?" he asked presently.
"She works in East London, and comes here for her holidays. Sometimes I think Valentine loves Esther Helps better than anyone in the world after Gerry."
"That is scarcely to be wondered at, is it?"
Just then their conversation was interrupted by some gleeful shouts, and the four little girls, no longer so very small, came flying round the corner in hot pursuit of Gerry.
"Here they is!" exclaimed the small tyrant, gazing round at his devoted subjects, and pointing with a lofty and condescending air to Adrian and Lilias. "Here they is!" he said, "and I "spose they"ll do it again if we ask them."
"Do what again?" asked Lilias innocently.
"Why, kiss one another," replied Gerry. "I saw you do it, so don"t tell stories. Joan and Betty they wouldn"t believe me. Please do it again, please do. Mr. Carr, please kiss Auntie Lil again."
"Oh, fie, Gerry," replied Lilias. She tried to turn away, but Carr went up to her gravely, and he kissed her brow.
"There"s nothing in it," he continued, looking round at the astonished little girls. "We are going to be husband and wife in a week or two, and husbands and wives always kiss one another."
"Then I was right," said Betty. "Joan and Rosie wouldn"t believe me, but I was right after all. I am glad of that."
"I believed you, Betty. I always believed you," said Violet.
"Well, perhaps you did. The others didn"t. I"m glad I was right."
"How were you right, Betty?" asked Carr.
"Oh, don"t ask her, Adrian. Let us come into the house," interrupted Lilias.
"Yes, we"ll come into the house, of course. But I should like to know how Betty was right."
"Why you wanted to kiss her years ago. I knew it, and I said it. Didn"t you, now?"
"Speak the trufe," suddenly commanded Gerry.
"Yes, I did," replied Carr.
When Adrian Carr left the rectory that evening he had to walk down the dusty road which led straight past the church and the little village school-house to the railway station. This road was full of a.s.sociations to him, and he walked slowly, thinking of past scenes, thanking G.o.d for his present blessings.
"It was here, by the turnstile, I first saw Lilias," he said to himself. "She and Marjory were standing together, and she came forward and looked at me, and asked me in that sweet voice of hers if I were not Mr. Carr. She reminded me of her brother, whom I just barely knew.
It was a fleeting likeness, seen more at first than afterwards.
"Here, by this little old school-house the villagers stood and rejoiced the last day Gerald came home. Poor Wyndham--most blessed and most miserable of men. Well, he is at rest now, and even here I see the cross which throws a shadow over his grave!"
Carr looked at his watch. There was time. He entered the little church-yard. A green mound, a white cross, several wreaths of flowers, marked the spot where one who had been much loved in life lay until the resurrection. The cross was so placed as to bend slightly over the grave as though to protect it. It bore a very brief inscription:--
IN PEACE.
GERALD WYNDHAM.
AGED 27.
THE END.