Where Highways Cross/Part 3/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI
WHERE HIGHWAYS CROSS
It was the middle of the evening when Hepworth reached the cottage in which Elisabeth lived. The old woman who kept it was standing at the garden gate as he approached.
"Shoo's gone out," she said, before Hepworth could speak.
Hepworth paused, his hand on the gate-latch.
"Where?" he said.
"Naay, maistef, I doön't know. Shoo sed it wor a grand evenin', and shoo'd hev a bit on a walk. Shoo thowt ye wadn't be comin' so soon, happen."
"Which way did she go?" he asked.
"Shoo went up t' hill yonder," answered the old woman. "I see'd her crossin' t' fields hafe-an-hour agöa."
Hepworth went away in the direction indicated. The path which the old woman pointed out to him led towards the grove of trees where he had left Verrell.
Elisabeth had been busied within the house for the greater part of the day, concluding her preparations for her wedding. Towards evening she felt that a breath of fresh air would do her good, and she accordingly took her hat and went out, intending to be home again within the hour. She knew that Hepworth would come to see her that night, but she did not expect him before eight or nine o'clock. Once out of doors she went further than she had intended. The evening air was cool and delicious to breathe; birds were singing in every hedgerow and coppice, and the laughter of the village children rang in subdued cadences up the low hillsides. She walked on and on, and ere long came to the grove of trees where Hepworth and Verrell had parted.
Verrell, after watching Hepworth drive away, went into the grove and looked for the hut. He found it in the centre of a clearing—a rude, decaying structure of pine-logs, with a thatched roof, gradually falling into ruin and wreck. He went in, and finding it cold and comfortless left it and sat outside on a fallen tree. The place was quiet—there seemed to be no life near it other than that of the birds and insects that sang and hummed in the undergrowth. He brought out a pipe and tobacco and began to smoke. When one pipe was finished he filled another. For two hours he sat there, smoking and thinking, and listening for the sound of a footstep on the dry brushwood.
At last a sound, the cracking of a broken twig pressed by a human foot, reached him. With the instinct of quick fear he left the fallen tree and made for the hut, hiding himself in its darkest corner. Through a window destitute of glass, he peered into the trees without. The sound came nearer; suddenly 
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Elisabeth had often visited this spot. In spring she went there to seek primroses; in summer she sought its privacy in order to think quietly over the new departure in her life. Finding herself near the grove of trees that night she had turned in there for half-an-hour's quiet thought. When Verrell saw her he concluded that Hepworth had sent her to find him, but he almost immediately perceived that in this supposition he was mistaken. Elisabeth sat down on the fallen tree, almost on the spot he had just left, and he saw that she believed herself to be quite alone and unobserved.
Verrell remained at the window watching his wife. Elisabeth sat, thoughtful and quiet, her hands folded idly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the ground. She was evidently deep in thought. He noticed that she was graver than he remembered her, and that a certain womanly dignity had replaced the girlish light-hearted air that he had never forgotten. A curious feeling of wonder came over him as he looked at her. It seemed to him that she was the same, yet not the same.
Presently Elisabeth drew something from her pocket and looked at it long and thoughtfully. A turn of her hand showed Verrell that it was his own photograph. "She is thinking of me," he said to himself, and at the thought his eyes filled with tears and a new wave of life welled up within him. Then he saw that Elisabeth was softly crying to herself. She raised the photograph to her lips and kissed it. Verrell waited no longer. He stepped to the open door of the hut.
"Elisabeth!" he said. "Elisabeth!"
Elisabeth looked up. She saw her husband standing before her. At the sight she felt herself swooning—it was a dream, she thought, a dream that must suddenly change, and yet it was burning itself into her heart and brain with a reality which no dream can possess. She rose to her feet, and stood gazing and trembling. Verrell moved swiftly towards her. "Elisabeth!" he said again.
"Walter!"
Her voice came faint and low. She held out her hands as if she were suddenly going blind and needed guidance.
"Oh," she cried, as he took her in his arms. "It is you—it is you! I thought you were dead. My dear—my dear—my dear!"
It was half-an-hour after this that Hepworth came into the grove of trees. He had looked for Elisabeth along the lanes and fields and had failed to find her. Thinking that she had returned to the village he had come to the grove to take Verrell away. But as he advanced through the undergrowth he suddenly heard people talking. He went forward cautiously and recognised the voices as those of Elisabeth and Verrell. Advancing quietly towards the clearing he came close behind them. They sat on the fallen tree, talking earnestly. Verrell's arm was about his wife's neck: she leaned against him confidently, and there was a look on her face that Hepworth had never seen there before.
Verrell had told Elisabeth all that had taken place between him and Hepworth. But he had resolved while he waited for the latter to tell her something more, and he was beginning this difficult task when Hepworth came up behind them. Hepworth caught the first words. "Elisabeth," said Verrell, "there is something that I must tell you. My dear, we have to begin our life again, and it will be hard—"
"Oh," she said, "as if I cared, now that I have got you back, Walter! We will go somewhere, far away, and we will be happy—happy, my dear, as we used to be."
"Yes," he said, "but I must tell you, dear, before we go—"
Hepworth seized the situation at a glance. Verrell was going to tell his wife that he had deceived her as to his innocence. The thought flashed rapidly through his mind—why should that confession be made? What good would it do? The expression on Elisabeth's face told him that she would forgive anything. Why should she not continue to believe in the man she loved? He suddenly stepped into the clearing. Elisabeth and Verrell started to their feet.
"So you have found each other?" said Hepworth.
The three stood looking into each other's faces. A moment that seemed a lifetime passed. Then Elisabeth, womanly-quick to see the pain in Hepworth's face, came to his side and laid her hand on his arm.
"Oh," she said, her face full of divine compassion. "I am sorry, I am so sorry. You have been so good, so kind to me. But,"—she turned to Verrell with a wonderful look of love and pride—"he is my husband."
Hepworth gave her hand a quick, strong grip.
"Yes," he said. "I know. Say no more, Elisabeth. "Let your husband come with me for a minute—I must speak to him."
The two men went into the hut. Once inside Hepworth turned to Verrell.
"You were going to tell your wife that you were not innocent?" he said.
"Yes," said Verrell.
"Don't tell her," said Hepworth. "She believes in you—let her continue to believe. No one will ever be able to persuade her to the contrary. Only," here he laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, "promise me to live worthy of her!"
"I will—God help me!" said Verrell.
"Now listen," continued Hepworth. "I have thought things over for you. Here is money in this pocket-book; take it, man, take it!—there is a train leaves Sicaster in an hour for Liverpool, and you must catch it. Go by the first ship to America—do what you can there—if you ever want help, write to me."
"God bless you!" said Verrell.
"Now come outside," said Hepworth.
He went back to Elisabeth, Verrell following close behind him. Hepworth held out his hand to the woman he loved.
"Good-bye, Elisabeth, " he said. "Go with your husband—he will tell you what you are to do. Good-bye—good-bye!"
She took his hand and held it. Their eyes met.
"Good-bye!" she said.
Still they held each other's hands. Verrell turned away. Hepworth felt the bitterness of death upon him as he gazed into Elisabeth's eyes.
"Good-bye!" he said again. "Good-bye, Elisabeth!"
Without another word the three went slowly through the wood and into the lane. Hepworth pointed out the road towards Sicaster and silently motioned them to take it. Elisabeth was weeping as she turned away from him. Verrell paused and held out his hand and wrung Hepworth's within it. Then he hurried on and took his wife's hand and they went along the lane in the fast-gathering twilight. Hepworth stood watching them. At the bend of the road Elisabeth turned and waved her hand to him. He lifted his own in response. The next moment they were gone, and he stood there, alone.
In this way Hepworth said farewell to the love of his life.
THE END