Ethel found herself automatically counting her heart beats—“one, two—one, two—one, two.” She was faint and dizzy.
Hetty was regarding her with eyes that were blurred with tears.
After a little, Ethel’s dizziness passed. Bending her gaze on Hetty, she said:
“But what induced you to seek me out—that is to say, me rather than anyone else—and tell me all this about Mr. Keymer?”
“It was because I found out by accident that he was in the habit of carrying your likeness about with him, and I knew he was not the kind of man to do that unless——”
Ethel held up her hand. “That is enough,” she said softly.
CHAPTER XXII.
FATHER AND SON
“He is unworthy of either your love or mine,” were Ethel’s parting words to Hetty as they stood together in the porch at Rose Mount. With that she drew the other to her and kissed her, and then Hetty went her way with a full heart.
Next day she went back home to Dulminster and recommenced the round of her daily duties, to all outward seeming as if nothing had happened to her. But for her the romance of life was over. In the darkened chamber of her heart she mourned alone over the corpse of her dead love. Some day, in all probability, she would marry; for although her lover had proved false to her, she had no intention of fading into an old maid with no prospect before her beyond that of teaching one generation of children after another. She looked forward to having a home of her own, and a husband to work for her; but, for all that, she did not fail to tell herself that although she would never marry anyone whom she did not like, and even love after a fashion, yet that she could never care for another as she had cared for the man whose vows had been written in water. With the memory of him was associated all the glamour and romance of her young life, which, once gone, can return never more.
On the morning of the day following that of Hetty Blair’s call at Rose Mount, Mr. Keymer senior found among his letters one superscribed to his son. Its only postmark was that of St. Oswyth’s. The brewer turned it over more than once, and re-read the address with growing curiosity. “Quite a young lady’s hand; my first wife used to write almost exactly like it,” he muttered. “It must be from her—nay, I’m sure it is. In that case I shall be perfectly justified in opening it. The little affair as between Miss Ethel Thursby and my son is one which concerns me as much as, if not more than, it does Launce himself.”