He started to his feet
and ran towards the door, seizing his hat, which lay on a seat. He
wanted it to bring back some water. As he passed out of the door he saw
Leonard a little distance off, but took no notice of him. He ran to the
stream, filled his hat with water, and brought it back. When he came
into the church he saw Stephen, already partially restored, sitting up on
the cushions with Leonard supporting her. He was rejoiced; but somehow disappointed. He would rather Leonard had
not been there. He remembered--he could not forget--the white face of
the boy who fled out of the crypt leaving Stephen in a faint within, and
who had lingered outside the church door whilst he ran for water. Harold
came forward quickly and raised Stephen, intending to bring her into the
fresh air. He had a shrewd idea that the sight of the sky and God's
greenery would be the best medicine for her after her fright. He lifted
her in his strong arms as he used to do when she was a very little child
and had got tired in their walks together; and carried her to the door. She lent herself unconsciously to the movement, holding fast with her arm
round his neck as she used to do. In her clinging was the expression of
her trust in him. The little sigh with which she laid her head on his
shoulder was the tribute to his masculine power, and her belief in it. Every instant her senses were coming back to her more and more. The veil
of oblivion was passing from her half-closed eyes, as the tide of full
remembrance swept in upon her. Her inner nature was expressed in the
sequence of her emotions. Her first feeling was one of her own fault. The sight of Harold and his proximity recalled to her vividly how he had
refused to go into the crypt, and how she had intentionally deceived him,
negatively, as to her intention of doing that of which he disapproved. Her second feeling was one of justice; and was perhaps partially evoked
by the sight of Leonard, who followed close as Harold brought her to the
door. She did not wish to speak of herself or Harold before him; but she
did not hesitate to speak of him to Harold:

'You must not blame Leonard. It was all my fault. I made him come!' Her
generosity appealed to Harold. He was angry with the boy for being there
at all; but more for his desertion of the girl in her trouble. 'I'm not blaming him for being with you!' he said simply. Leonard spoke
at once. He had been waiting to defend himself, for that was what first
concerned that young gentleman; next to his pleasure, his safety most
appealed to him. 'I went to get help. You had let the candle drop; and how could I see in
the dark? You would insist on looking at the plate on the coffin!' A low moan broke from Stephen, a long, low, trembling moan which went to
Harold's heart. Her head drooped over again on his shoulder; and she
clung close to him as the memory of her shock came back to her. Harold
spoke to Leonard over his shoulder in a low, fierce whisper, which
Stephen did not seem to hear:

'There! that will do. Go away! You have done enough already. Go! Go!' he added more sternly, as the boy seemed disposed to argue. Leonard ran
a few steps, then walked to the lich-gate, where he waited. Stephen clung close to Harold in a state of agitation which was almost
hysterical. She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing brokenly:

'Oh, Harold! It was too awful. I never thought, never for a moment,
that my poor dear mother was buried in the crypt. And when I went to
look at the name on the coffin that was nearest to where I was, I knocked
away the dust, and then I saw her name: "Margaret Norman, aetat 22." I
couldn't bear it. She was only a girl herself, only just twice my
age--lying there in that terrible dark place with all the thick dust and
the spiders' webs. Oh, Harold, Harold! How shall I ever bear to think
of her lying there, and that I shall never see her dear face? Never! Never!' He tried to soothe her by patting and holding her hands. For a good
while the resolution of the girl faltered, and she was but as a little
child. Then her habitual strength of mind asserted itself. She did not
ask Harold how she came to be out in the church instead of in the crypt
when she recovered her senses. She seemed to take it for granted that
Leonard had carried her out; and when she said how brave it had been of
him, Harold, with his customary generosity, allowed her to preserve the
belief. When they had made their way to the gate Leonard came up to
them; but before he could speak Stephen had begun to thank him. He
allowed her to do so, though the sight of Harold's mouth set in scorn,
and his commanding eyes firmly fixed on him, made him grow hot and cold
alternately. He withdrew without speaking; and took his way home with a
heart full of bitterness and revengeful feelings. In the park Stephen tried to dust herself, and then Harold tried to
assist her. But her white dress was incurably soiled, the fine dust of
the vault seemed to have got ingrained in the muslin. When she got to
the house she stole upstairs, so that no one might notice her till she
had made herself tidy. The next day but one she took Harold for a walk in the afternoon. When
they were quite alone and out of earshot she said:

'I have been thinking all night about poor mother. Of course I know she
cannot be moved from the crypt. She must remain there. But there
needn't be all that dust. I want you to come there with me some time
soon. I fear I am afraid to go alone. I want to bring some flowers and
to tidy up the place. Won't you come with me this time? I know now,
Harold, why you didn't let me go in before. But now it is different. This is not curiosity. It is Duty and Love. Won't you come with me,
Harold?' Harold leaped from the edge of the ha-ha where he had been sitting and
held up his hand. She took it and leaped down lightly beside him. 'Come,' he said, 'let us go there now!' She took his arm when they got
on the path again, and clinging to him in her pretty girlish way they
went together to the piece of garden which she called her own; there they
picked a great bunch of beautiful white flowers. Then they walked to the
old church. The door was open and they passed in. Harold took from his
pocket a tiny key. This surprised her, and heightened the agitation
which she naturally suffered from revisiting the place. She said nothing
whilst he opened the door to the crypt. Within, on a bracket, stood some
candles in glass shades and boxes of matches. Harold lit three candles,
and leaving one of them on the shelf, and placing his cap beside it, took
the other two in his hands. Stephen, holding her flowers tightly to her
breast with her right hand, took Harold's arm with the left, and with
beating heart entered the crypt. For several minutes Harold kept her engaged, telling her about the crypt
in his father's church, and how he went down at his last visit to see the
coffin of his dear father, and how he knelt before it.