He became now, perhaps from the blankness of her face, aware more fully of Haldicott's unobtrusive presence.
To the silent query of his eyes she answered:
"He knows—everything."
"He prevented you! He met you and prevented you! I see it all. Haldicott, it is you, isn't it——"
Haldicott reluctantly turned to him.
"My dear fellow, can I ever thank you enough? My dear Haldicott, it's all too astonishing. You know? And why she was going to? The poor, darling child!" He had risen, and, with his arm around Allida's shoulders, was gazing at her.
"I saw Miss Fraser posting her letter to you, and guessed from her expression that something very bad was up," said Haldicott. "I forced her to walk a little with me, and I made her tell me the story; and then I made her see that the truer love for you would be shown in living. She had just recognised that,"—Haldicott smiled at her,—"and she was going to write, and see if she couldn't waylay that letter—spare you the pain of it and, at all events, tell you that she wasn't going to burden you with unfair remorse for the rest of your days. That's about the truth of it all, isn't it?" And he so believed it to be, now, the only essential truth, or, at least, the half-truth that she had better believe in, that his smile had not a touch of bitterness.
Allida still held her pen and still gazed at him.
"Ah! thank God for it all—for the fact that the letter wasn't waylaid, and for the fact that you were, Allida! When I think of it—that gift coming to me—your gift, Allida—and not too late—not too late!"
The young man, in his rapturous thankfulness, indifferent to the guardian presence, raised her hand to his lips, kissing it with a fervour where tears struggled with smiles.