The long French windows, their curtains drawn, stood open.  All day a hot September sun had beaten upon the earth, but with the fall of twilight a soft wind had sprung up and the candles in their sconces flared at its touch.  It came out of wide solitudes laden with the familiar night sounds.  It gave Betty a sense of vast unused spaces, of Belle Plain clinging on the edge of an engulfing wilderness, of her own loneliness.  She needed Charley as much as he seemed to think he needed her.  The life she had been living had become suddenly impossible of continuance; that it had ever been possible was because of Charley; she knew this now as she had never known it before.

Her thoughts dealt with the past.  In her one great grief, her mother’s death, it had been Charley who had sustained and comforted her.  She was conscious of a choking sense of gratitude as she recalled his patient tenderness at that time, the sympathy and understanding he had shown; it was something never to be forgotten.

Unrest presently sent her from the house.  She wandered down to the terrace.  Before her was the wide sweep of the swampy fore-shore, and beyond just beginning to silver in the moonlight, the bend of the river growing out of the black void.  With her eyes on the river and her hands clasped loosely she watched the distant line of the Arkansas coast grow up against the sky; she realized that the moon was rising on Betty Malroy for the last time.

She liked Charley; she needed some one to take care of her and her belongings, and he needed her.  It was best for them both that she should marry him.  True she might have gone back to Judith Ferris; that would have been one solution of her difficulties.  Why hadn’t she thought of doing this before?  Of course, Charley would have followed her East.  Charley met the ordinary duties and responsibilities of his position somewhat recklessly; it was only where she was concerned that he became patiently determined.

“I suppose the end would have been the same there as here,” thought Betty.

A moment later she found herself wondering if Charley had told Carrington yet; certainly the Kentuckian would not remain at Thicket Point when he knew.  She was sure she wished him to leave not Thicket Point merely, but the neighborhood.  She did not wish to see him again—­not see him again—­not see him again — She found herself repeating the words over and over; they shaped themselves into a dreadful refrain.  A nameless terror of the future swept in upon her.  She was cold and sick.  It was as though an icy hand was laid upon her heart.  The words ran on in endless repetition—­not see him again—­they held the very soul of tragedy for her, yet she was roused to passionate protest.  She must not think of him, he was nothing to her.  She was to be married to another man, even now she was almost a wife—­but battle as she might the struggle went on.

There was the sound of a step on the path.  Betty turned, supposing it to be Tom; but it was not Tom, it was Carrington himself who stood before her, his face haggard and drawn.  She uttered an involuntary exclamation and shrank away from him.  Without a word he stepped to her side and took her hands rather roughly.