By midnight of the same day Haworth had had time to half forget his scruples. He had said to his visitors what he had said to Murdoch, with his usual frankness.
"It's the last time. We've done with each other after this, you know. It's the last time. Make the most on it."
There was a kind of desperate exultation in his humor. If he had dared, he would have liked to fling aside every barrier of restraint and show himself at his worst, defying the world; but fear held him in check, as nothing else would have done,—an abject fear of consequences.
By midnight the festivities were at their height. He himself was boisterous with wine and excitement. He had stood up at the head of his table and made a blatant speech and roared a loud song, and had been laughed at and applauded.
"Make the most on it," he kept saying. "It'll be over by cock-crow. It's a bit like a chap's funeral."
He had just seated himself after this, and was pouring out a great glass of wine, when a servant entered the room and spoke to him in a low tone.
"A lady, sir, as come in a cab, and——" And then the door opened again, and every one turned to look at the woman who stood upon the threshold. She was a small woman, dressed in plain country fashion; she had white hair, and a fresh bloom on her cheeks, and her eyes were bright with timorous excitement and joy.
"Jem," she faltered, "it's me, my dear."
Haworth stared at her as if stunned. At first his brain was not clear enough to take in the meaning of her presence, but as she approached him and laid her basket down and took his hand, the truth revealed itself to him.
"It's me, my dear," she repeated, "accordin' to promise. I didn't know you had comp'ny."
