My own eyes were full of tears.  I was obliged to wait a moment before I could trust myself to speak to him.

CHAPTER II

“Betteredge!” I said, pointing to the well-remembered book on his knee, “has Robinson Crusoe informed you, this evening, that you might expect to see Franklin Blake?”

“By the lord Harry, Mr. Franklin!” cried the old man, “that’s exactly what Robinson Crusoe has done!”

He struggled to his feet with my assistance, and stood for a moment, looking backwards and forwards between Robinson Crusoe and me, apparently at a loss to discover which of us had surprised him most.  The verdict ended in favour of the book.  Holding it open before him in both hands, he surveyed the wonderful volume with a stare of unutterable anticipation—­as if he expected to see Robinson Crusoe himself walk out of the pages, and favour us with a personal interview.

“Here’s the bit, Mr. Franklin!” he said, as soon as he had recovered the use of his speech.  “As I live by bread, sir, here’s the bit I was reading, the moment before you came in!  Page one hundred and fifty-six as follows:—­’I stood like one Thunderstruck, or as if I had seen an Apparition.’  If that isn’t as much as to say:  ’Expect the sudden appearance of Mr. Franklin Blake’—­there’s no meaning in the English language!” said Betteredge, closing the book with a bang, and getting one of his hands free at last to take the hand which I offered him.

I had expected him, naturally enough under the circumstances, to overwhelm me with questions.  But no—­the hospitable impulse was the uppermost impulse in the old servant’s mind, when a member of the family appeared (no matter how!) as a visitor at the house.

“Walk in, Mr. Franklin,” he said, opening the door behind him, with his quaint old-fashioned bow.  “I’ll ask what brings you here afterwards—­I must make you comfortable first.  There have been sad changes, since you went away.  The house is shut up, and the servants are gone.  Never mind that!  I’ll cook your dinner; and the gardener’s wife will make your bed—­and if there’s a bottle of our famous Latour claret left in the cellar, down your throat, Mr. Franklin, that bottle shall go.  I bid you welcome, sir!  I bid you heartily welcome!” said the poor old fellow, fighting manfully against the gloom of the deserted house, and receiving me with the sociable and courteous attention of the bygone time.

It vexed me to disappoint him.  But the house was Rachel’s house, now.  Could I eat in it, or sleep in it, after what had happened in London?  The commonest sense of self-respect forbade me—­properly forbade me—­to cross the threshold.

I took Betteredge by the arm, and led him out into the garden.  There was no help for it.  I was obliged to tell him the truth.  Between his attachment to Rachel, and his attachment to me, he was sorely puzzled and distressed at the turn things had taken.  His opinion, when he expressed it, was given in his usual downright manner, and was agreeably redolent of the most positive philosophy I know—­the philosophy of the Betteredge school.