The events of Monday had cast a shadow over Rowan-Tree House. Cecil no longer sang as she went to and fro, Mr. Boniface was paying the penalty of a stormy interview late on Monday evening with his partner, and was not well enough to leave his room, and Mrs. Boniface looked grave and sad, for she foresaw the difficulties in which Frithiof’s disgrace would involve others.

“I wish Roy had been at home,” she said to her daughter as, on the Wednesday afternoon, they sat together in the verandah.

Cecil looked up for a moment from the little frock which she was making for Gwen.

“If he had been at home, I can’t help thinking that this never would have happened,” she said. “And I have a sort of hope that he will find out some explanation of it all.”

“My dear, what explanation can there be but the one that satisfies your father?” said Mrs. Boniface. “Frithiof must have taken it in a fit of momentary aberration. But the whole affair shows that he is not so strong yet as we fancied, and I fear is a sign that all his life he will feel the effects of his illness. It is that which makes me so sorry for them all.”

“I do not believe that he took it,” said Cecil. “Nothing will ever make me believe that.”

She stitched away fast at the little frock, in a sudden panic, lest the tears which burned in her eyes should attract her mother’s notice. Great regret and sympathy she might allow herself to show, for Frithiof was a friend and a favorite of every one in the house; but of the grief that filled her heart she must allow no trace to be seen, for it would make her mother miserable to guess at the extent of her unhappiness.

“Did you see him last night at the concert?” asked Mrs. Boniface.

“Yes,” said Cecil, choking back her tears; “just when he arranged the platform. He was looking very ill and worn.”

“That is what I am so afraid of. He will go worrying over this affair, and it is the very worst thing in the world for him. I wish your father were better, and I would go and have a talk with Sigrid; but I hardly like to leave the house. How would it be, dearie, if you went up and saw them?”

“I should like to go,” said Cecil quickly. “But it is no use being there before seven, for Madame Lechertier has her classes so much later in this hot weather.”

“Well, go up at seven, then, and have a good talk with her; make her understand that we none of us think a bit the worse of him for it, and that we are vexed with Cousin James for having been so disagreeable and harsh. You might, if you like, go to meet Roy; he comes back at half-past eight, and he will bring you home again.”

Cecil cheered up a good deal at this idea; she took Lance round the garden with her, that he might help her to gather flowers for Sigrid, and even smiled a little when of his own accord the little fellow brought her a beautiful passion-flower which he had gathered from the house wall.

“This one’s for my dear Herr Frithiof!” he exclaimed, panting a little with the exertions he had made to reach it. “It’s all for his own self, and I picked it for him, ’cause it’s his very favorite.”

“You know, Cecil,” said her mother, as she returned to the seat under the verandah and began to arrange the flowers in a basket, “I have another theory as to this affair. It happened exactly a week after that day at the seaside when we all had such a terrible fright about Roy and Sigrid. Frithiof had a long run in the sun, which you remember was very hot that day; then he had all the excitement of rowing out and rescuing them, and though at the time it seemed no strain on him at all, yet I think it is quite possible that the shock may have brought back a slight touch of the old trouble.”

“And yet it seemed to do him good at the time,” said Cecil. “He looked so bright and fresh when he came back. Besides, to a man accustomed as he once was to a very active life, the rescue was, after all, no such great exertion.”

Mrs. Boniface sighed.

“It would grieve me to think that it was really caused by that, but if it is so, there is all the more reason that they should clearly understand that the affair makes no difference at all in our opinion of him. It is just possible that it may be his meeting with Lady Romiaux which is the cause. Sigrid told me they had accidentally come across her again, and that it had tried him very much.”

Cecil turned away to gather some ferns from the rockery; she could not bear to discuss that last suggestion. Later on in the afternoon it was with a very heavy heart that she reached the model lodgings and knocked at the door that had now become so familiar to her.

Swanhild flew to greet her with her usual warmth. It was easy to see that the child knew nothing of the trouble hanging over the house. “What lovely flowers! How good of you!” she cried.

But Sigrid could not speak: she only kissed her, then turned to Swanhild and the flowers once more.

“They are beautiful,” she said. “Don’t you think we might spare some for Mrs. Hallifield? Run and take her some, dear.”

When the child ran off she drew Cecil into their bedroom. The two girls sat down together on the bed, but Sigrid, usually the one to do most of the talking, was silent and dejected. Cecil saw at once that she must take the initiative.

“I have been longing to come and see you,” she said. “But yesterday was so filled up. Father and mother are so sorry for all this trouble, and are very much vexed that Mr. Horner has behaved badly about it.”

“They are very kind,” said Sigrid wearily. “Of course most employers would have prosecuted Frithiof, or, at any rate, discharged him.”

“But, Sigrid, what can be the explanation of it? Oh, surely we can manage to find out somehow! Who can have put the note in his pocket?”

“What!” cried Sigrid. “Do not you, too, hold Mr. Boniface’s opinion, and think that he himself did it unintentionally?”

“I!” cried Cecil passionately. “Never! never! I am quite sure he had nothing whatever to do with it.”

Sigrid flung her arms round her.

“Oh, how I love you for saying that!” she exclaimed.

It was the first real comfort that had come to her since their trouble, and, although before Frithiof she was brave and cheerful, in his absence she became terribly anxious and depressed. But with the comfort there came a fresh care, for something at that moment revealed to her Cecil’s secret. Perhaps it was the burning cheek, that was pressed to hers, or perhaps a sort of thrill in her companion’s voice as she spoke those vehement words, and declared her perfect faith in Frithiof.

The thought filled her with hot indignation against Blanche. “Has she not only spoilt Frithiof’s life, but Cecil’s too?” she said to herself. And in despair she looked on into the future, and back into the sad past. “If it had not been for Blanche he might have loved her—I think he would have loved her And oh! how happy she would have made him! how different his whole life would have been! But now, with disgrace, and debt, and broken health, all that is impossible for him. Blanche has robbed him, too, of the very power of loving; she has cheated him out of his heart. Her hateful flirting has ruined the happiness of two people, probably of many more, for Frithiof was not the only man whom she deceived. Oh! why does God give women the power to bring such misery into the world?”

She was recalled from her angry thoughts by Cecil’s voice; it was sweet and gentle again now, and no longer vehement.

“Do you know, Sigrid,” she said, “I have great hopes in Roy. He will be home to-night, and he will come to it all like an outsider, and I think, perhaps, he will throw some light on the mystery. I shall meet him at Charing Cross, and as we drive home, will tell him just what happened.”

“Is it to-night he comes home?” said Sigrid, with a depth of relief in her tone. “Oh, how glad I am! But there is Swanhild back again. You wont say anything before her, for we have not mentioned it to her; there seemed no reason why she should be made unhappy, and Frithiof likes to feel that one person is unharmed by his trouble.”

“Yes, one can understand that,” said Cecil. “And Swanhild is such a child, one would like to shelter her from all unhappiness. Are you sure that you don’t mind my staying. Would you not rather be alone to-night?”

“Oh, no, no,” said Sigrid. “Do stay to supper. It will show Frithiof that you do not think any the worse of him for this—it will please him so much.”

They went back to the sitting-room and began to prepare the evening meal; and when, presently, Frithiof returned from his work, the first thing he caught sight of on entering the room was Cecil’s sweet, open-looking face. She was standing by the table arranging flowers, but came forward quickly to greet him. Her color was a little deeper than usual, her hand-clasp a little closer, but otherwise she behaved exactly as if nothing unusual had happened.

“I have most unceremoniously asked myself to supper,” she said, “for I have to meet Roy at half-past eight.”

“It is very good of you to come,” said Frithiof gratefully.

His interview with Carlo Donati had done much for him, and had helped him through a very trying day at the shop, but though he had made a good start and had begun his new life bravely, and borne many disagreeables patiently, yet he was now miserably tired and depressed, just in the mood which craves most for human sympathy.

“Lance sent you this,” she said, handing him the passion-flower and making him smile by repeating the child’s words.

He seemed touched and pleased; and the conversation at supper-time turned a good deal on the children. He asked anxiously after Mr. Boniface, and then they discussed the concert of the previous night, and he spoke a little of Donati’s kindness to him. Then, while Sigrid and Swanhild were busy in the kitchen, she told him what she knew of Donati’s previous life, and how it was that he had gained this extraordinary power of sympathy and insight.

“I never met any one like him,” said Frithiof. “He is a hero and a saint, if ever there was one, yet without one touch of the asceticism which annoys one in most good people. That the idol of the operatic stage should be such a man as that seems to me wonderful.”

“You mean because the life is a trying one?”

“Yes; because such very great popularity might be supposed to make a man conceited, and such an out-of-the-way voice might make him selfish and heedless of others, and to be so much run after might make him consider himself above ordinary mortals, instead of being ready, as he evidently is, to be the friend of any one who is in need.”

“I am so glad you like him, and that you saw so much of him,” said Cecil. “I wonder if you would just see me into a cab now, for I ought to be going.”

He was pleased that she had asked him to do this; and when she had said good-by to Sigrid and Swanhild, and was once more alone with him, walking through the big court-yard, he could not resist alluding to it.

“It is good of you,” he said, “to treat me as though I were under no cloud. You have cheered me wonderfully.”

“Oh,” she said, “it is not good of me—you must not think that I believe you under a cloud at all. Nothing would ever make me believe that you had anything whatever to do with that five-pound note. It is a mystery that will some day be cleared up.”

“That is what Signor Donati said. He, too, believed in me in spite of appearances being against me. And Sigrid says the same. With three people on my side I can wait more patiently.”

Cecil had spoken very quietly, and quite without the passionate vehemence which had betrayed her secret to Sigrid, for now she was on her guard; but her tone conveyed to Frithiof just the trust and friendliness which she wished it to convey; and he went home again with a fresh stock of hope and courage in his heart.

Meanwhile Cecil paced gravely up and down the arrival platform at Charing Cross. She, too, had been cheered by their interview, but, nevertheless, the baffling mystery haunted her continually, and in vain she racked her mind for any solution of the affair. Perhaps the anxiety had already left its traces on her face, for Roy at once noticed a change in her.

“Why, Cecil, what has come over you? You are not looking well,” he said, as they got into a hansom and set off on their long drive.

“Father has not been well,” she said, in explanation. “And I think we have all been rather upset by something that happened on Monday afternoon in the shop.”

Then she told him exactly what had passed, and waited hopefully for his comments on the story. He knitted his brows in perplexity.

“I wish I had been at home,” he said. “If only James Horner had not gone ferreting into it all this would never have happened. Frithiof would have discovered his mistake, and all would have been well.”

“But you don’t imagine that Frithiof put the note in his pocket?” said Cecil, her heart sinking down in deep disappointment.

“Why, who else could have put it there? Of course he must have done it in absence of mind. Probably the excitement and strain of that unlucky afternoon at Britling Gap affected his brain in some way.”

“I cannot think that,” she said, in a low voice. “And, even if it were so, that is the last sort of thing he would do.”

“But that is just the way when people’s brains are affected, they do the most unnatural things; it is a known fact that young innocent girls will often in delirium use the most horrible language such as in real life they cannot possibly have heard. Your honest man is quite likely under the circumstances to become a thief. Is not this the view that my father takes?”

“Yes,” said Cecil. “But somehow—I thought—I hoped—that you would have trusted him.”

“It doesn’t in the least affect my opinion of his character. He was simply not himself when he did it. But one can’t doubt such evidence as that. The thing was missed from the till and found pinned into his pocket; how can any reasonable being doubt that he himself put it there?”

“It may be unreasonable to refuse to believe it—I cannot help that,” said Cecil.

“But how can it possibly be explained on any other supposition?” he urged, a little impatiently.

“I don’t know,” said Cecil; “at present it is a mystery. But I am as sure that he did not put it there as that I did not put it there.”

“Women believe what they wish to believe, and utterly disregard logic,” said Roy.

“It is not only women who believe in him. Carlo Donati has gone most carefully into every detail, and he believes in him.”

“Then I wish he would give me his recipe,” said Roy, with a sigh. “I am but a matter-of-fact, prosaic man of business, and cannot make myself believe that black is white, however much I wish it. Have you seen Miss Falck? Is she very much troubled about it?”

“Yes, she is so afraid that he will worry himself ill; but, of course, she too believes in him. I think she suspects the other man in the shop, Darnell—but I don’t see how he can have anything to do with it, I must own.”

There was a silence. Cecil looked sadly at the passers-by, lovers strolling along happily in the cool of the evening, workers just set free from the long day’s toil, children reveling in the fresh sweet air. How very brief was the happiness and rest as compared to the hard, wearing drudgery of most of those lives! Love perhaps brightened a few minutes of each day, but in the outside world there was no love, no justice, nothing but a hard, grinding competition, while Sorrow and Sin, Sickness and Death hovered round, ever ready to pounce upon their victims. It was unlike her to look so entirely on the dark side of things, but Frithiof’s persistent ill-luck had depressed her, and she was disappointed by Roy’s words. Perhaps it was unreasonable of her to expect him to share her view of the affair, but somehow she had expected it, and now there stole into her heart a dreary sense that everything was against the man she loved. In her sheltered happy home, where a bitter word was never heard, where the family love glowed so brightly that all the outside world was seen through its cheering rays, sad thoughts of the strength of evil seldom came, there was ever present so strong a witness for the infinitely greater power of love. But driving now along these rather melancholy roads, weighed down by Frithiof’s trouble; a sort of hopelessness seized her, the thought of the miles and miles of houses all round, each one representing several troubled, struggling lives, made her miserable. Personal trouble helps us afterward to face the sorrows of humanity, and shows us how we may all in our infinitesimal way help to brighten other lives—take something from the world’s great load of pain and evil. But at first there must be times of deadly depression, and in these it is perhaps impossible not to yield a little for the moment to the despairing thought that evil is rampant and all-powerful. Poverty, and sin, and temptation are so easily visible everywhere, and to be ever conscious of the great unseen world encompassing us, and of Him who makes both seen and unseen to work together for good, is not easy.

Cecil Boniface, like every one else in this world, had, in spite of her ideal home, in spite of all the comforts that love and money could give her, to “dree her weird.”