“I said so many things, that perhaps I may have forgotten which one you refer to.” Philip Chater felt rather proud of himself, after this speech.
“You said—‘I’m going to be a stronger, better fellow than I have ever been before; you shall find me changed from to-night; you shall find I’ll be a new man.’ Do you remember that?”
It was a trying moment; and, for the life of him, Philip Chater found it difficult to keep his voice quite steady, when he answered, after a pause—“Yes—I remember.” For this girl, with her hands locked on his arm, and with her eyes looking so trustfully and confidingly into his, had heard those words, of repentance, and hope, and well-meaning, however lightly said, from the lips of a man she would see no more, and who was now washing about horribly, a disfigured thing, with the life beaten out of it. And the man who stood beside her, in his place—in his very clothes—was a fraud and an impostor.
“Did you mean it, Dandy dear? Was it true?”
He answered from his heart, and spoke the truth, in that instance at least. “Yes—God knows it was true,” he said.
They had left the road, and had turned through a gate into a little wood, which belonged, he supposed, to his own estates. Here, quite suddenly, she stopped, and held out both her hands to him. Very gravely—and, it must be said, with a growing anxiety which matched an expression in her own eyes—he took the hands in his, and looked, as steadily as he might, into her face.
“Dandy—my dear boy—as friends—as man and woman—we have said some bitter things to each other—have parted in anger, more than once. You have been wild, I know—have made some blunders, as we all must make them, in our poor journey here on earth. But you have sworn to me that those old tales, about you—you and Patience Miller—forgive me; I promised never to mention the subject again; but I must—I must—you have told me that all that story was mere malicious gossip. As Heaven is my witness, I believed you then; but tell me once again. Tell me,” she pleaded—“that no woman need hide her face to-day, because of you; tell me that—reckless and foolish as you may have been—no living creature weeps to-day, because of you.”
He paused for a moment; a dozen new thoughts and ideas seemed to dart through his mind. The name she had mentioned had brought again to his memory the scene with the girl, on the road outside the village, on the night of his first visit to Bamberton—the girl whom Dandy Chater was to have married, and who failed, after all, to accompany him to London. But, for all that, he had a double reason for setting her doubts at rest, and for speaking clearly and without fear. In the first place, the man to whom the question referred was dead, and beyond the reach of any earthly judgment; in the second place, Philip Chater was, of course, blameless in the matter. Therefore he said, after that momentary pause—
“Indeed—no living creature weeps to-day on my account, Madge”—he felt that he must attempt the name, and was relieved to observe no start of surprise on her part. “I have had your letter; I—I wanted to thank you for it. I wish I could think that I deserved——”
“Hush, dear,” she broke in, hurriedly. “All that is past and done with; haven’t I said that we start from to-day afresh. Perhaps—who knows?”—she laughed happily, and came a little nearer to him—“perhaps I’ve helped to change you—to make a new man of you. And I won’t believe a word that any one says against you—never any more!”