"You mustn't speak of that," said he. "It was a cruel thing you did to her. It was cruel not to let me know too."
Varick guessed what he meant. He turned to look at Beeston; but Beeston, even at David's speech, had not flinched.
"Bayard," said David, "when I came here it was as I said—not to get Bab but to give her up. I'd begun to see things right. She didn't love me; I realize now she never did. It was her pity first, and because of that pity she was going to marry me. And then love, real love, got the better of her. It was only my grandfather's threat that made her stick to the bargain. She didn't want me; she didn't want me even with all my money. She couldn't help herself; that was what it was! She wanted the man she loved!"
Varick waited in silence, not knowing what to say. Beeston, his face a mask, sat opposite him with his eyes still fixed on Varick. He was not the kind to show emotion; but what his feelings must have been as he sat there hearkening to David's outpoured, frank admissions, one might well understand. David's eyes had sought the floor. Presently he raised them, and with an attempt at a laugh he shrugged his shoulders. "Well," he said, "I suppose I should have learned by now to take what's coming to me. I can't have things like other men—that's all there is to it. I'll just have to grin and bear it." In earnest of that he smiled now rather wistfully. "I'm just what I am, you know," he concluded.
Varick, as he listened to his friend, forgot that the old man who sat opposite him, his lips curled now into a sneer, was his enemy. Beeston, it was evident, was a good hater. He was equally a softhearted, valorous partisan. It must have hurt him indeed to sit there and hear one of his blood cry peace. All this Varick realized. "Davy, don't!" he cried, and held out his hand to him. "I'm so sorry!" He stood there, one hand on the cripple's shoulder, the other clasping his hand. "Can't we still be friends?" he asked.
"Why, always," David answered; "why not?" He turned then to Beeston. "Come, grandfather," he said. "It's time we were going."
Settling his crutches under his arms, he smiled at Varick, then plied his way out into the hall. Upstairs, with a premonition of what was happening below, Bab opened her door. She heard the murmur of their voices, and in them detected a familiar tone. She went swiftly to the stair. A moment later down the hall she heard the familiar thump! thump! of David's crutches. The sound grew fainter and finally died away as the door closed downstairs. Out of her hearing and out of her life David Lloyd had gone, thumping on his way alone.
A few minutes later Varick found her in her room, her head buried in her arms.
"Bab," he said, "look up at me." Obediently she raised her face. "It isn't the best man who's got you, dear; but I love you. I always have!"