“And if it is God’s will that she lives and loves you, I will give her to you gladly. You are a good man, Miles. God bless you! All good go with you!” said Mrs Alliot warmly.
Then they shook hands and parted. For how long? It was impossible to say. Before Miles lay the far country, danger by land and sea, a hard, adventurous life; before Cynthia years of what at the best must be a slow, difficult convalescence, with the ever-present danger of a relapse into her old condition. Only God knew, Who holds the issue of time. Their greatest stronghold lay in their confidence in Him.
That evening Betty sat beside Will Gerard on the sloping beach, and watched the sun set in a silence tinged with melancholy. Miles’ announcement of a speedy return to America had planted a dart in her heart which was not solely on his own account; for if he went, would not his partner go too, leaving her to a life of such blank emptiness as was terrifying to contemplate? All day long the thought had haunted her; she had longed yet dreaded to speak on the subject, and now that evening was here, she felt it impossible to face the long hours of the night without some certain knowledge.
A few minutes before, Miles had taken Jill for a walk along the sands; in a short time they would return, and the opportunity for quiet conversation would be over. Betty turned slowly, to meet her companion’s deep-set eyes fixed intently on her face. He had fallen into a habit of watching her in this earnest manner, and was often able to divine her thoughts even before she spoke.
“What is it?” he asked gently. “Something is troubling you. Won’t you tell me what it is?”
“It’s Miles! He said this morning that he intended to take only three months’ holiday—that means to leave England in six or seven weeks from now. I can’t believe it. We counted on six months or more,—possibly even a year. Do you think he seriously means to go?”
“I am sure he does, and I think he is right. If you want to be really kind, Miss Trevor, you won’t ask him to stay.”
Betty’s lips trembled.
“Oh, perhaps not, but it is hardest of all to feel that he wants to go; that with all our love and care we are so much outside his life that we can’t make him happy or satisfied. Poor mother! It must be dreadful to bring up a child all those years, and to long and long for his return, and then see him in a hurry to rush away again, just because—oh, I know that you know the real reason—because of a girl of whom, after all, he has seen very little! It’s very hard!”