Alison watched the maid and the young man for half a minute, then drew back a little way into the room; Jenny followed as far as the piano and stood leaning her elbows on the top of it, smiling at him in mockery.

"That's a fair question, perhaps. But the idea is—staggering!"

Jenny raised her brows. "But why? Has she practiced deceit and betrayed trust? Has she broken faith or threatened anybody's honor? Or done worse things still? Is she no fit wife for a young man? What have you against her, Mr. Alison? Why is this pretty nearly as bad as the other?"

Alison was sadly put about and flustered. His confident air of authority vanished with the unimpeachable ground on which it had been founded. He had shifted his base; the new base failed him. "Surely you must see!" he protested.

"I see a dear beautiful girl and a charming handsome young man of high degree," answered Jenny in gay mischief, "and they look very much in love with one another. Is that dreadful?"

"It's quite a different case, of course—but really, really, just as hopeless!"

"You'd better not call this hopeless—neither you nor anybody else who has anything to say to it!"

"Octon's daughter!" He ejaculated the words in a low murmur, flinging his hands out wide.

"Yes, that's it!" said Jenny, her smile getting harder, and with a rather vicious look in her eyes. "That's why, isn't it? That's why she's not good enough for Amyas Lacey, not good enough to be mistress of Fillingford Manor! There's nothing else against her? Only—she's Leonard Octon's daughter! Well, now, I say to you that that shall not be against her. It shall be for her—mightily for her. To that she shall owe everything; that shall give her all she wants. If you have any influence, don't use it against her. Use it for her, back her up. It will be wiser in the interests of the friends whom you're so concerned for." She left the piano and came into the middle of the room, facing him. "Because it's the alternative to that unnatural hideous thing of which you came here to speak—and spoke so plainly. If I'm not much mistaken, I can turn this thing the way I choose. And I tell you that in spite of all you've said, and in spite of all I've said, your friends will be wise to accept the lesser evil. Margaret is better than me, at all events!"

She was on her high horse now. Very handsome she looked, with a glowing color in her cheeks; her voice was full of temper, hard-held. It was the turning point of the scheme which she was working out; through Alison she launched her ultimatum to Fillingford: "Margaret or myself—there is no other alternative."

Alison was recovering himself. He dropped into a chair and looked up at her commanding figure with a smile of kindness—with an admiration wrung from him by her coup.

"You're really wonderful," he told her. "I'll say that for you—and I'll be as worldly as you like for a minute."

"Yes, do try for once. There is such a thing as this world."

"Then—even setting aside the obvious objection, the objection our friends at the Manor are bound to feel—Lacey is Lacey, and will be Fillingford. The girl—I think her as charming as you do—comes from nowhere and has, I suppose, nothing?"

"She'll come from Breysgate Priory—and not empty-handed."

"Of course you'd behave kindly to her, but——"

Back to Octon's phrase went Jenny—back to the words in which he had bequeathed his "legacy" to her. Her face softened. "I shall do the handsome thing by her," she said in a low voice. "Can't you understand why I do this?" she asked him. "You were one of the few people who seemed to understand why I brought her here—to be with me. Can't you understand this?"

"Perhaps I can—a little. But is it fair to Lord Fillingford?"

"I can't think always and forever of Lord Fillingford," she told him impatiently. "He isn't all the world to me. I am thinking of Leonard—this is all I can do for him now. I'm thinking of the child—and of myself. I can give up for myself, but this is my compensation. What I could have she is to have—because she loves Amyas, and I love her—and because I loved her father. That's what I mean. I daresay you've some very hard names for it. They made me give up Leonard once—at any rate behave as if I was ashamed of him. Very well. They must take Leonard's daughter now—or that worse thing you and I know of."

"I'm still on the worldly plane," Alison said, smiling. "You can, of course, if you're so minded, abolish all objections except the sentimental. If it's a hundred thousand for an Institute, what mightn't it be for a whim, Miss Driver?"

"And what mightn't it be for my dear man who's dead?" said Jenny, very low.

He got up, went to her, and took her hands. She did not repel him. He whispered a word or two to her—of comfort or sympathy, as his manner indicated. Then he looked round at me. "You've had a hand in this mischief, I suppose, Austin?"

"Oh, we just take our orders in this house," said I.

"Heaven humble your heart!" he said to her, but now the rebuke was kindly, almost playful.

"The present question is of humbling Lord Fillingford's," retorted Jenny.

Alison walked back to the window. Jenny gave me a quick nod of satisfaction; the fight was going well. "Are they still there?" she asked.

"Oh, dear me, yes! He's sat down by her on the ground—looking up, you know!"

"Yes, I can imagine, Mr. Alison."

"A fine pair!" He turned round with a sigh. "And very fond of one another! And yet you think you could—? Well, perhaps you could—who knows?" He seemed to study her thoughtfully.

"I don't want to, you know—unless I'm driven," said Jenny.

"You mustn't do it," he told her, with some return of his authority. He softened the next moment; "I don't believe you would."

"Run no risks—advise your friends to run none. You've seen enough of me now to know that it's not safe to conclude I shan't do a thing just because I think it's wrong—or even because I don't at this moment mean to do it. I have to reckon with a temper; others had better reckon with it, too."

Alison looked at me, pursing up his lips. "I think that she points out a real danger."

"I'm sure she does," I rejoined. "And you must reckon with it."

"Yes," he murmured, his eyes again searching her face. She nodded her head ever so slightly at him with a defiant smile. "But losing your temper oughtn't to be relied on as a resource. Reckon with it if you like—not on it, Miss Driver."

Jenny laughed outright at that. "He hits me hard—but it makes no difference," she said to me. "The plan stands." She turned quickly on him: "In the end, what do you make of it?" She stretched out her right hand. "Are even good things soiled if they are taken from that hand?"

"The pity of it!" he murmured, with a soft intonation of profound sorrow.

"The child's a pearl. Let her be happy! Is the beauty of it nothing to you?"

"Yes, it's much—and your love for her is much." He paused a moment. "And perhaps I should be overbold to speak against that other love of yours—now. Maybe it lies beyond the jurisdiction committed to us here on earth."

Jenny was, I fear, entirely devoted to earth and, at that moment, to arranging her own bit of earth as she wanted to have it. She gave him no thanks for what was, from him, a very considerable concession. Rather she fastened on his softer mood as affording her an opportunity.

"Then you oughtn't to be against me," she urged.

"I'm not against you. This is not my ground—not my business."

"You might even help me." He looked doubtful at that. "Simply in one way. There's one little thing you can do easily, though it's difficult for me. For all the rest, I leave you to do anything or nothing, just as you think proper."

"What's the one little thing?" he asked.

"Bring Lord Fillingford and Margaret together. It's very easy—except for me—and it commits you to nothing. Give her her chance. Anyhow, none of the trouble's her fault, is it?"

"There doesn't seem much harm in that."

"Give him no hint of what I've said. It would be so much better if the idea could come from himself."

"Impossible!" he cried.

"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "He seems to be very frightened. How about some idea of—the lesser evil? He'd still be shocked—but his mind might be a little prepared."

"You're altogether too—well, shall I say diplomatic?—for me."

"Come, come," I interposed, "don't do the Church injustice!"

"Let's go out," said Jenny. "Wait a minute—I'll get a hat, and join you on the terrace. I expect Margaret and Amyas are still there." She walked out of the room with a light buoyant tread. Alison turned to me with a bewildered gesture of his arms, yet with a reluctant smile on his face.

"What am I to work on? I don't believe the woman has any conception of what sin means!"

"She has a considerable conception of the consequences of her actions."

"My dear fellow, as if that was at all the same thing! And what's her new game? What's she taking me on the terrace for?"

"To have a cup of tea, I suppose. It's nearly half-past five."

"I'll never give her credit for being as simple as that!" He was disapproving, but good-natured—and altogether occupied with Jenny in his mind. "I shall never get hold of her—I once thought I should. A pagan—a mere pagan!" He paused again and added with a reluctant admiration, "A splendid pagan!"

"There are fifty roads to town—and rather more to heaven," I quoted.

"Who said that?"

"William Mackworth Praed—and you ought to have known it."

"I daresay he knew the roads to town, Austin."

"In both cases the criticism is obvious—much depends on where you start from."

We were on the terrace now. At the other end of it we saw Margaret and Lacey walking up and down together. The tea table was deserted, and probably the tea was cold; we were neither of us thinking about it. Alison had put on his hat, but now he bared his head again to the evening breeze.

"Phew, that was a fight!" he said. "And I suppose I'm beaten! But if she yields to that temper of hers, I'll have no more to do with her."

"But if she doesn't—if she needn't?" I suggested.

He made no answer. I saw his eyes wander to the shapely couple that walked up and down.

"Why shouldn't the child have her chance?"

"You're tempters all in this house!" he declared.

Margaret and Lacey suddenly came toward us—no, toward Jenny, who had just come out of the house. She stood there, near the door, quite quietly—with all her gift of serene immobility brought into play. There was no signing to them, no beckoning: but at once, out of the midst of their delighted preoccupation, they came. I permitted myself a discreet glance at Alison; he was watching. I wondered whether he were any nearer to a theory of why Jenny had proposed that we should come out on the terrace.

Margaret Octon ran on ahead of her companion and caught hold of Jenny's arm. Lacey came up a second later. I saw Jenny give him a smile of the fullest understanding. The young man flushed suddenly, then laughed in an embarrassed way.

"I know I've been here an awful time. I thought you were never coming out," he said.

"The time seemed so long till I came, did it?" asked Jenny. She stooped and kissed Margaret on the forehead. The girl laughed—very gently, very happily. Jenny looked at Alison across the few feet that divided the two small groups. Her look was an appeal—an appeal from the shy happiness on the girl's face to the natural man that was beneath Alison's canonicals. "Shan't the girl have her chance?" asked Jenny's eyes.

Suddenly Alison left my side and walked up to her.

"I must go now," he said, rather hastily, rather (to tell the truth) as though he were ashamed of himself. "I think I can manage that little commission."

She moved one step forward to meet him. "I shall be very grateful," she told him in her low, rich, steady tones. "The other way wouldn't have been nearly so—convenient." Her bright eyes were triumphant. "Soon?" she asked.

"I can manage it in a day or two at longest. And now good-by. I fear I've tired you with all my business."

The young people listened, all innocent of the covert meanings.

"Let's not be tired till our work's done!" said Jenny.

She risked that "our" and challenged his dissent. He stood swaying between reprobation and admiration, between forswearing and alliance, between sympathy and repulsion. She had so much—yet not that without which, in his eyes, all else was in the end worthless.

But she had brought him—of her subtlety she had brought him—on to the terrace. For no cup of tea tolerably stale! For nothing stale—but that the imploring, aye, the commanding, unconscious desire, the unmeditated appeal, the unmeant urgency, of Margaret's heart might work. "Are you human?" asked Jenny's eyes, traveling with a slow meaning from his face to Margaret's.

The cunning of the serpent—the simplicity of the dove! Ah, dear serpent, what had you in your heart save to make your dove happy? Another thing—yes! The dove must triumph—for she bore Leonard's escutcheon, and must bear it victorious against his enemies. The serpent bade the dove wing her happy way!

Might not the dove be made bearer also of an olive branch, made a harbinger of peace? That was the idea which Jenny sought to put in Alison's mind when she brought him on to the terrace. Could not all that grace and joy avail to blot out the name she bore? It was only a name—a thing intangible—a name, if Jenny's plan prospered, soon to be deleted, buried under a new and newly significant designation. She must bring memories with her—of old wrong and old humiliation? Could she not herself destroy even what she brought? She seemed made to do it. Who could bear a grudge against that simple joyfulness, who resist that unconscious pleading for oblivion? Alison was to go from the terrace with a new zeal for the commission that he had undertaken, to go with his cause much closer to his heart.

While he was still there, Dormer whizzed up the drive in his motor car. He had come to meet Lacey at Breysgate, and drive him over to Hingston to dine and sleep. Lacey affected Hingston for his night quarters more than ever now—and Dormer generally fetched him from Breysgate; it was an arrangement convenient to both parties.

Jenny had told so much truth that she was inclined for a little mischief. She greeted the newcomer with coquettish demureness, marking, with a smile and a glance at me, Dormer's ill-concealed surprise at Alison's presence, and at the good terms on which he seemed to be with his hostess. Dormer asked for whisky and soda, and I went with him to minister to his wants.

"Did Lacey bring the parson?" he asked, after a first eager gulp.

"Oh, no. Alison came of his own accord—came to call, you know," I answered.

"Did he?" He would obviously have liked to ask more questions. "That's being neighborly, at all events," he ventured to comment, with a covert leer. "We shall be seeing Fillingford—or even Lady Sarah—here next!"

"More unlikely things than that have happened."

"That's what I always remember," he remarked, nodding sagaciously over his long tumbler. "What I say is—try your luck, even if it does need a bit of cheek."

I had a notion that Dormer was inclining toward the confidential.

"If it doesn't come off, you're no worse than you were before. If it does, there you are, by Jove!"

"I should think that must be every successful man's philosophy. But what, may I ask, makes this call on your reserve of cheek, Dormer?—which will, I make no doubt, be equal to it."

"Wait and see," he answered, with a pronounced wink. Having executed this operation, his eye turned to Lacey, visible through the window of the smoking room where we were. "There'll be a row at Fillingford Manor some day soon—that's my opinion."

"Let's wait and see about that, too," I suggested mildly. Now he was trying to make me confidential.

He winked again. "You're a pretty safe old chap, Austin," he was good enough to tell me.

When we returned to the terrace, Lacey was ready to start and, with a look at his watch, Dormer went up to Jenny to say good-by. During our brief absence Alison had departed—to set about his commission, as I hoped.

"I say, may I come over the day after to-morrow? Shall you be here?" Dormer asked.

"The day after to-morrow? Thursday? Yes, I shall be delighted to see you. I want to know how you're getting on in those negotiations with Mr. Cartmell, you know." This referred to those farms of his—she had by now settled on three—which she wanted to round off her frontier.

Dormer smiled slyly at her. "All right, we'll talk about that, too."

"Have we any other business?" she asked, lifting her brows in feigned surprise.

"Something may crop up," he answered with a laugh. "Till then, Miss Driver!"

The young men got in and drove off, Margaret watching and waving her hand as they went—a salutation copiously acknowledged by Lacey; Dormer was busy with his handles.

"If Mr. Alison is prompt with his commission, Thursday may be a busy day," Jenny remarked, as she sat down in a low chair and lay back in it with an air of energy relaxed. Sitting down by her, I began to smoke my pipe. Margaret passed us, smiling, and went into the house.

"That was a fight," said Jenny presently, "rather a stiff one—but we've got our stiffest still to come. Lord Fillingford will fight; I must move all my battalions against him. I shall bribe—perhaps I shall still have to bully." She sighed. For the moment, the afternoon's struggle done, a weariness was upon her. She sat silent again for a long while, her brows knit in meditation or in sorrow.

"I won't tell anybody else," at last she said. "I have told you, because I wouldn't have you live here on false pretenses—because you're my friend. I told Mr. Alison to-day for the reason you heard. I'll tell nobody else. The old attitude toward the rest! It's really no use telling—I can't tell it right; I can't put it into words. For myself even I can't recover the past—can't quite see how I did it—what woman I was then, or how that woman stands to the woman I am now. A mist has come between the two."

"For Heaven's sake, vex yourself no more! Let the dead bury its dead. Alison has upset you."

"I'm in the mist—but Leonard isn't. He grows clearer and clearer, and" (she smiled faintly) "larger and larger. His great kind loving-roughness fills all my vision. I suppose it filled all my vision then, and so—it happened!" She turned to me with a quick question. "Do you think I'm right in the determination I've come to about myself?"

"I should be far from holding it obligatory either on you or on anyone else. Good things pass by—and things indifferent—and things bad. The disturbance passes off the face of life's stream; the stream pursues its course. There's no duty on you, in my opinion. Yet I think that for yourself you're right."

"I'm glad you do," she told me. "At that we'll leave it—a fixed point!"

"Unless Lord Fillingford is very obstinate?"

As she looked at me, a smile broke slowly over her face. "From the way you say that, I think you suspect me of having indulged in a little bluff this afternoon. But I think I was honest. I don't mean to do it, I should hate doing it—but they might make me angry enough."

"I don't believe you'd ever go through with it. We should have flight again!"

"Too awful!" sighed Jenny, frowning, yet almost smiling. She smiled frankly the next moment, as she turned to me and laid her hand on my arm. "Do let's agree—you and I—that I'm quite incapable of it and was bluffing most audaciously!"

"We'll agree to that with all my heart."

"So you spoil me—so you go on spoiling me!" she said very gently.

I went down the hill to my own house, leaving her still sitting there, a stately solitary figure, revolving many thoughts in the depths of her mind.