“Would you, if you were she?” he enquired, and his voice shook.
“Yes,” she responded, almost in a whisper.
Betty looked at him, the veil was drawn between their two souls, and they knew each other’s hearts.
To George, her eyes seemed to speak all that was sweetest and best in the world; he took the little hand that still held a rose, and removing the flower, kissed it reverently and fervently. What a cold, trembling little hand it was! How quickly it was withdrawn. For at this supreme moment, the inevitable Cuckoo came running to the gate and peering eagerly through, called: “Betty, where are you? Bet, come in, mother wants you immediately!” And Betty hastily snatched her fingers away, and turned to face Mrs. Malone’s untimely emissary—her future sister-in-law. George loved her past all doubting, truly; with this conviction in her heart, she moved to the gate which he held open. George loved her, that was enough. What was money—what was time, what was anything? She would wait for him for years—for ever. As she walked slowly back through the fragrant pleasure-grounds she seemed to be treading on air, although Cuckoo dragged from her arm, with an exceedingly earthly weight.
Strange to say, that usually unguarded young lady made no remark beyond some incoherent suggestions about Boozle and his basket, but for the remainder of the evening she was amazingly silent—unnaturally solemn, and followed George with deeply inquisitive and interested eyes—Betty had returned to her packing.
The scene inside the gate, embowered in roses, handsome George kissing Betty’s hand, and Betty standing so tall and white, like some young queen, was photographed on her memory for ever; she was a notoriously sharp young person, and the picture only ratified what she had long suspected, that George and Betty were in love with each other.
In a few days, Mrs. Malone and Cuckoo, Crab and Boozle, were installed in a small, detached house, close to a church, post office and train. George had done his best for his mother. For her, he had given up his furlough schemes—his private income, save fifty pounds, and his present hopes. She wept in gasps upon his shoulder, and sobbed out “that he was the best of sons, no one was like him, no one,” urgently suggested that he should apply to his Uncle Godfrey for an allowance—and in her heart loved Denis! To feel herself the free, unfettered owner of a small, but comfortable villa; at liberty to come and go, and spend and cry just as much as she pleased was (but this is for your private ear) a truly blessed relief! She wore the outward garb of woe, and used mourning paper, with inch deep black border, and envelopes so woeful that scarcely room was left for an address, and publicly bemoaned the late dear Major, and actually imagined that she was his truly disconsolate widow.
George’s departure was sudden; a telegram gave him forty-eight hours to embark, and he instantly took the train for Ballingoole, ostensibly to make some final family arrangements, but in reality to say good-bye to Betty.
His visit was quite unexpected. Betty was in the garden, picking strawberries for preserving. Mrs. Redmond was lying down, and Belle was standing disconsolately in the drawing-room window, staring at the lawn, the fir trees, and the grey clouds that hung over a distant low range of hills, betokening either rain or heat.
“Mr. Holroyd,” said the parlour-maid abruptly, and she sprang round, her whole face transformed from gloom to sunlight in one second.