She pulled desperately at Sydney's dress; she called to Susan to help her. With tears in her eyes, the girl did her best to help them both. "Miss Westerfield will wait here," she said to Kitty, "while you speak to your mamma.--Say Yes!" she whispered to Sydney; "it's our only chance."
The child instantly exacted a promise. In the earnestness of her love she even dictated the words. "Say it after me, as I used to say my lessons," she insisted. "Say, 'Kitty, I promise to wait for you.'"
Who that loved her could have refused to say it! In one form or another, the horrid necessity for deceit had followed, and was still following, that first, worst act of falsehood--the elopement from Mount Morven.
Kitty was now as eager to go as she had been hitherto resolute to remain. She called for Susan to follow her, and ran to the hotel.
"My mistress won't let her come back--you can leave the garden that way." The maid pointed along the path to the left and hurried after the child.
They were gone--and Sydney was alone again.
At the parting with Kitty, the measure of her endurance was full.
Not even the farewell at Mount Morven had tried her by an ordeal so cruel as this. No kind woman was willing to receive her and employ her, now. The one creature left who loved her was the faithful little friend whom she must never see again. "I am still innocent to that child," she thought--"and I am parted from her forever!"
She rose to leave the garden.
A farewell look at the last place in which she had seen Kitty tempted her to indulge in a moment of delay. Her eyes rested on the turn in the path at which she had lost sight of the active little figure hastening away to plead her cause. Even in absence, the child was Sydney's good angel still. As she turned away to follow the path that had been shown to her, the relief of tears c ame at last. It cooled her burning head; it comforted her aching heart. She tried to walk on. The tears blinded her--she strayed from the path--she would have fallen but for a hand that caught her, and held her up. A man's voice, firm and deep and kind, quieted her first wild feeling of terror. "My child, you are not fit to be by yourself. Let me take care of you--let me comfort you, if I can."
He carried her back to the seat that she had left, and waited by her in merciful silence.
"You are very young to feel such bitter sorrow," he said, when she was composed again. "I don't ask what your sorrow is; I only want to know how I can help you."
"Nobody can help me."
"Can I take you back to your friends?"
"I have no friends."
"Pardon me, you have one friend at least--you have me."
"You? A stranger?"
"No human creature who needs my sympathy is a stranger."
She turned toward him for the first time. In her new position, she was clearly visible in the light. He looked at her attentively. "I have seen you somewhere," he said, "before now."
She had not noticed him when they had passed each other at Sandyseal. "I think you must be mistaken," she answered. "May I thank you for your kindness? and may I hope to be excused if I say good-night?"
He detained her. "Are you sure that you are well enough to go away by yourself?" he asked anxiously.
"I am quite sure!"
He still detained her. His memory of that first meeting at the seaside hotel reminded him that he had seen her in the company of a man. At their second meeting, she was alone, and in tears. Sad experience led him to form his own conclusions. "If you won't let me take care of you," he said, "will you consider if I can be of any use to you, and will you call at that address?" He gave her his card. She took it without looking at it; she was confused; she hardly knew what to say. "Do you doubt me?" he asked--sadly, not angrily.
"Oh, how can I do that! I doubt myself; I am not worthy of the interest you feel in me."
"That is a sad thing to say," he answered. "Let me try to give you confidence in yourself. Do you go to London when you leave this place?"
"Yes."
"To-morrow," he resumed, "I am going to see another poor girl who is alone in the world like you. If l tell you where she lives, will you ask her if I am a person to be trusted?"
He had taken a letter from his pocket, while he was speaking; and he now tore off a part of the second leaf, and gave it to her. "I have only lately," he said, "received the address from a friend."
As he offered that explanation, the shrill sound of a child' s voice, raised in anger and entreaty, reached their ears from the neighborhood of the hotel. Faithful little Kitty had made her escape, determined to return to Sydney had been overtaken by the maid--and had been carried back in Susan's arms to the house.
Sydney imagined that she was not perhaps alone in recognizing the voice. The stranger who had been so kind to her did certainly start and look round.
The stillness of the night was disturbed no more. The man turned again to the person who had so strongly interested him. The person was gone.
In fear of being followed, Sydney hurried to the railway station.
By the light in the carriage she looked for the first time at the fragment of the letter and the card.
The stranger had presented her with her own address! And, when she looked at the card, the name was Bennydeck!
