"Oh, yes," she said, quickly; "indeed I am." And then in a moment her face was overshadowed, and she looked in the fire again with eyes that shone with tears. "I am too happy," she said, under her breath, "while he is alone and sad."
"Don't you think he will like you to be as happy as possible?"
"I know he will. But it lies on my heart that he is desolate while I have so many consolations. Beatrice, I was reading some verses of Emily Brontë's the other day, and they seemed to express exactly how it is with me. Do you remember them?"
"Sweet love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes that obscure, but cannot do thee wrong."
"Oh my love!" she broke out suddenly, "I do not forget thee! And," she added, more quietly, "I don't think my being happy can wrong him, Beatrice."
"No, dear child, far from it," said Mrs. Reade.
The little woman was not shocked, nor was she dissatisfied with the state of things that this naïve revelation disclosed to her. She was deeply thankful to know that Rachel, after all, was happy; but she was not sorry to know also that she was to this extent faithful to her true love, who had dealt so well by her.
It was at this very hour that the papers containing the announcement of the baby's birth arrived at the Queensland bungalow, and that Roden Dalrymple learned what a change had taken place, not only in the life and welfare of his beloved, but in his own lonely and empty lot.
"The wife of Graham Kingston, of a son." He knew as well as anybody—better even than Rachel herself—what that little notice meant. It meant that the gulf already parting them had all at once widened to an immeasurable extent.
He knew how it would be with that tender and clinging heart—it would be able to solace itself now, even for the loss of him.