For five days after that burning afternoon of the flower-show Juliet scarcely left Vera Fielding's side. During those five days Vera lay at the point of death, and though her husband was constantly with her it was to Juliet that she clung through all the terrible phases of weakness, breathlessness, and pain that she passed. Through the dark nights—though a trained nurse was in attendance—it was Juliet's hand that held her up, Juliet's low calm voice that reassured her in the Valley of the Shadow through which she wandered. Often too spent for speech, her eyes would rest with a piteous, child-like pleading upon Juliet's quiet face, and—for Juliet at least—there was no resisting their entreaty. She laid all else aside and devoted herself body and soul to the tender care of the sick woman.

Edward Fielding regarded her with reverence and a deep affection that grew with every day that passed. She was always so gentle, so capable, so undismayed. He knew that her whole strength was bent to the task of saving Vera's life, and even when he most despaired he found himself leaning upon her, gathering courage from the resolute confidence with which she shouldered her burden.

"She never thinks of herself at all," he said once to Saltash between whom and himself a friendship wholly unavoidable on his part and also curiously pleasant had sprung up. "I suppose in her position of companion she has been more or less trained for this sort of thing. But her devotion is amazing. She is absolutely indispensable to my wife."

"Juliette seems to have found her vocation," observed Saltash with a lazy chuckle. "But no, I should not say that she was specially trained for this sort of thing, though certainly it seems to suit her passing well. All the same, you won't let her carry it too far, will you? Now that Mrs. Fielding is beginning to rally a little it might be a good opportunity to make her take a rest."

"Yes, you're right. She must rest," Fielding agreed. "She is so marvellous that one is apt to forget she must be nearly worn out."

It was the fifth day and Vera had certainly rallied. She lay in the sombre old library, that had been turned into the most luxurious bedroom that Saltash's and Juliet's ingenuity could devise, listening to the tinkle of the water in the conservatory and watching Juliet who sat in a low chair by her side with a book in her lap ready to read her to sleep.

There was a couch in the conservatory itself on which sometimes on rare occasions Juliet would snatch a brief rest, leaving the nurse to watch. Columbus regarded this couch as his own particular property, but he always gave his beloved mistress an ardent welcome and squeezed himself into as small a compass as possible at the foot for her benefit. Otherwise, he occupied the middle with an arrogance of possession which none disputed. The door into the garden was always open, and Columbus was extremely happy, being of supremely independent habits and quite capable of trotting round to the kitchen premises of the castle for his daily portion without disturbing anyone en route. How he discovered the kitchen Juliet never knew. Doubtless his exploring faculty stood him in good stead. But his appearance there was absolutely regular and orderly, and he always returned to the conservatory when he had been fed with the bustling self-importance of one whose time was of value. He never entered the sick-room except on invitation, and he never raised his voice above a whisper when in the conservatory. It was quite evident that he fully grasped the situation and accommodated himself thereto. All he asked of life was to be near his beloved one, and the snuffle of his greeting whenever she joined him was ample testimony to the joy of his simple soul. Just to see her, just to hear her voice, just sometimes to kiss and be kissed, what more could any dog desire?

Certainly an occasional scamper after rabbits in the park made a salutary change, but Columbus was prudent and he never suffered himself to be drawn very far in pursuit. A sense of duty or expediency always brought him back before long to the couch in the conservatory to lie and watch, brighteyed, for the only person who counted in his world.

He was watching for her now, but without much hope of her coming. She seldom left Vera's bedside in the afternoon for it was then, in the heat of the day, that she usually suffered most. But to-day she had been better. Today for the first time she was able to turn her head and smile and even to murmur a few sentences without distress. Her eyes dwelt upon Juliet's quiet face with a wistful affection. She had come to lean upon her strength with a child's dependence.

"Quite comfortable?" Juliet asked her gently.

"Quite," Vera made whispered reply. "But you—you look so tired."

Juliet smiled at her. "I dare say I shall fall asleep if you do," she said.

"You ought to have a long rest," said Vera, and then her heavy eyes brightened and went beyond her as her husband's tall figure came softly in from the conservatory.

He came to her side, stooped over her, and took her hand. Her fingers closed weakly about his.

"Send her to bed!" she whispered. "She is tired. You come instead!"

He bent and kissed her forehead with a tenderness that made her cling more closely. "Shall I do instead?" he asked her gently.

She offered him her lips though she was panting a little. "Yes, I want you. Make Juliet—go to bed!"

He turned to Juliet, his wife's hand still in his. All the hard lines were smoothed out of his face. There was something even pathetic about his smile.

"Will you go to bed, Juliet," he said in that new gentle voice of his, "and leave me in charge?"

She got up. "I will lie down in the conservatory," she said.

"No—no!" He put his free hand on her arm with a touch of his customary imperiousness. "That won't do. You're to go to bed properly—and sleep till you can't sleep any longer. Yes, that's an order, see?" He smiled again at her, his sudden transforming smile. "Be a good child and do as I tell you! Cox is within call. We'll certainly fetch you if we find we can't do without you."

Juliet's eyes went to Vera.

"Yes, she wants to get rid of you too," said the squire. "We're pining to be alone. No, we won't talk. We won't do anything we ought not, eh, Vera, my dear? Nurse will be getting up in another hour so we shan't have it to ourselves for long."

He had his way. He could be quite irresistible when he chose. Juliet found herself yielding without misgiving, though till then he had only been allowed at Vera's bedside for a few minutes at a time. Vera was certainly very much better that day, and she read in her eyes the desire to meet her husband's wishes. She paused to give him one or two directions regarding medicine, and then went quietly to the door of the conservatory.

Columbus sprang to greet her with a joy that convulsed him from head to tail, and she gathered him up in her arms and took him with her, passing back through the library in time to see the squire lay his face down upon the slender hand he held and kiss it.

In the great hall outside she found Saltash loitering. He came at once to meet her, and had taken Columbus from her before she realized his intention.

"He is too heavy for you, ma chÉrie," he said, with his quizzing smile. "Lend him to me for this afternoon! He's getting disgracefully fat. I'll take him for a walk."

Relieved of Columbus' weight, she became suddenly and overpoweringly aware of a dwindling of her strength. She said no word, but her face must have betrayed her, for the next thing she knew was Saltash's arm like a coiled spring about her, impelling her towards the grand staircase.

"I'll take you to your room, Juliette," he said. "You might miss the way by yourself. You're awfully tired, aren't you?"

It was absurd, but a curious desire to weep possessed her.

"Yes, I know," said Saltash, with his semi-comic tenderness. "Don't mind me! I knew you'd come to it sooner or later. You're not used to playing the sister of mercy are you, ma mie, though it becomes you—vastly well."

"Don't, Charles!" she murmured faintly.

"My dear, I mean no harm," he protested, firmly leading her upwards. "I am only—the friend in need."

She took him at his word though half against her will. He guided her up the branching staircase to the gallery above, bringing her finally to a tall oak door at the further end.

"Here is your chamber of sleep, Juliette! Now will you make me a promise?"

She left his supporting arm with an effort. "Well, what is it?"

"That you will go to bed in the proper and correct way and sleep till further notice," he said. "You can't go for ever, believe me. And you need it."

He was looking at her with a softness of persuasion that sat so oddly on his mischievous monkey-face that in spite of herself, with quivering lips, she smiled.

"You're very good, Charles Rex," she said. "I wonder how much longer you will manage to keep it up."

He bowed low. "Just as long as I have your exemplary example before me," he said. "Who knows? We may both fling our caps over the windmill before we have done."

She shook her head, made as if she would enter the room, but paused. "You will take care of Columbus?" she said.

"Every care," he promised. "If I fail to bring him back to you intact you will never see my face again."

She had opened the door behind her, but still she paused. "Charles!"

Her voice held an unutterable appeal. A grin of sheer derision gleamed for a second in his eyes and vanished. "They ring up from the Court every day, Juliette. Presumably he gets the news by that channel. He has not troubled to obtain it in any other way."

"How could he?" Juliet said, but her face was paler than before; it had a grey look. "He is busy with his work all day long. What time has he for—other things?"

"Exactly, ma chÉrie! One would not expect it of him. Duty first—pleasure afterwards, is doubtless his motto. Very worthy—and very appropriate, for one of his profession. Unquestionably, it will become yours also—in time."

A faint, sad smile crossed Juliet's face. She made no response, and in a moment Saltash bent and swept up Columbus under his arm.

"Adieu, sister of mercy!" he said lightly. "I leave you to your dreams."

He went away along the gallery, and she entered the room and shut herself in.

For a second or two she stood quite motionless in the great luxurious apartment. Then slowly she went forward to the wide-flung window, and stood there, gazing blankly forth over the distant fir-clad park. He had said that he would see her again. It seemed so long ago. And all through this difficult time of strain and anxiety he had done nothing—nothing. She did not realize until that moment how much she had counted upon the memory of those last words of his.

Ah well! Perhaps—as Charles Rex hinted—it was better. Better to end it all thus, that midsummer madness of theirs that had already endured too long! They had lived such widely sundered lives. How could they ever have hoped ultimately to bridge the gulf between?

Charles was right. His shrewd perception realized that dwelling as they did in separate spheres they were bound to be fundamentally strangers to one another. Surely Dick himself had foreseen it long since down on that golden shore when first he had sought to dissuade her from going to the Court!

Her heart contracted at the memory. How sweet those early days had been! But the roses had faded, the nightingales had ceased to sing. It was all over now—all over. The dream was shattered, and she was weary unto death.