“I don’t deserve it,” he said hoarsely, “but please God you sha’n’t regret your trust and your forgiveness.”
“We both have something to forgive,” she said; and then he caught her to him with a murmured, “My darling! my darling!” and there fell a silence on the two in the flower-filled garden, flooded with the mellow sunshine of that April afternoon. And overhead a full-throated thrush broke into its liquid song—a song which was so wonderfully full of gladness that it almost seemed as though it spoke the words of thankfulness to which they could not give voice.
The silver-haired Dean found the two among the hyacinths, when he came down the paved walk an hour later, and was filled at once with kindly solicitude upon his guest’s behalf.
“My dear St. Quentin, it is most delightful to see you on your feet again; but, my dear boy, what rashness to come all the way to Donisbro’ so soon! What was your doctor thinking of? What could possess you to do anything so foolish?”
The Marquess wondered vaguely what had been the reason he had given to himself and others for his visit to Donisbro’. Katharine, with a little gleam of laughter in her clear eyes, came to his assistance.
“St. Quentin came to return thanks in person for your kind enquiries, father,” she said, taking the old man’s hands in both hers. “That was so, wasn’t it, St. Quentin? And while he was here he thought he had better tell me something as well.”
A smile of understanding broke out upon the Dean’s benevolent old face.
“Will you forgive me, sir, and trust her with me?” said St. Quentin, holding out his hand. “I am not worthy of her, but with God’s help I’ll try to do my best to be so, and to make her happy. Will you give her to me?”
The old man’s warm handclasp was sufficient answer, and made the hearty words, “With all my heart,” unnecessary. And he added, as he drew his daughter to him, kissing her upon the forehead, “I am not afraid to trust her to you now, St. Quentin.”