It was barely ten o’clock the next morning when Mrs. Wingfield, telling her maid that she felt that this was going to be one of her good days, got her seat moved out of the shady part of the terrace into the region of the fitful sunlight that had followed a liquid dawn. The day was a grey one, with lazy pacing clouds very high up in the air; and the occasional glimpses of tempered brilliance which the land was allowed between the folds of the billowy vapour, were very grateful to the lady. She had letters and a book and a writing-case.

She had scarcely settled herself down among her cushions before she heard the sound of wheels on the carriage drive—she could not have heard it if her chair had remained on the shady part of the terrace. Then came the sound of a man’s voice—imperative—insistent—set off by the murmured replies of the butler. The insistence became more insistent, and the replies louder—more staccato. Then the butler appeared on the terrace.

“Mr. Wadhurst is here, ma’am—says his business is important. I told him that you were not at home to anyone in the morning unless by appointment; but he said it was very important—in fact that he must see you, ma’am. I did my best to put him off—-I did indeed, ma’am; it was no use. He’s not easy put off. So I said I would see if you would. If not, ma’am, I’ll——-”

“Certainly I’ll see Mr. Wadhurst,” said Mrs. Wingfield when the butler had murmured his explanations to her. “Ask him to be good enough to come on the terrace. Draw that cane chair closer.”

“Very good, ma’am,” said the butler, retiring with dignity and leaving the lady to wonder what Farmer Wadhurst could possibly want with her at that hour of the morning. She had never seen Farmer Wadhurst.

She saw him now. A large man with big bones, a slight stoop and a suggestion of Saxon sandiness about his hair and beard.

She rose to greet him, and the butler once more retired.

“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Wadhurst,” she said. “I think it is very likely that, if you had not come here to me, I should have ventured to pay you a visit.”

“What, have you heard something?” he asked eagerly.

“Heard something? Well, nothing more than your daughter told me, Mr. Wadhurst,” she replied. “But, surely, if my son and your daughter have made up their minds, you and I should not turn cold shoulders to them. Priscilla, I know, feels deeply your——”

“Where’s your son to-day, ma’am?” cried Farmer Wadhurst, interrupting the gracious words of the lady. “Where is he to-day, and where has he been for the past fortnight?”

“He has been in several places,” she replied. “He went to look after an agent—Mr. Dunning has left us—it was very awkward—first to Buckinghamshire, then to Lincoln. I got a letter from him yesterday from Sandy-cliffe; he is having some yachting—a week of yachting. I fancy he saw his chance now that Priscilla is visiting her friend. I don’t think he would have been so ready if she——”

“Read that,” cried the man, interrupting her once again, laying a telegram—almost flinging it—on the table before her.

“What is this?” she enquired, looking about for her pince-nez. “It is a telegram from Jack. What—what—oh, don’t tell me that something has happened—that he is hurt—something dreadful—that you were sent to break it to me.”

“Read it,” he said. “Something dreadful! Maybe not so dreadful to you; not so strange either. You are his mother; you may have heard something like it about him before.”

She had found her glasses, and picked up the telegram with shaking fingers.

“Priscilla no longer here left week yesterday?

“What does this mean?” she asked. “She was staying with Miss Branksome at Lullton Priory. Is this from General Branksome?”

“I got wind of something being wrong,” said he, “and I telegraphed last evening to the Branksomes asking if she was with them. That’s the answer I got. You know what it means. But I warned her. God knows I did my duty by her in warning her against him. She would not listen to me.”

“I don’t know what you are thinking of. Can you not tell me what it is that is in your mind? You surely do not suppose that Priscilla—that my son—-”

“What’s in my mind is that your son is a scoundrel, ma’am—that’s what’s in my mind—a rank, foul scoundrel! He has induced her to run away with him, and for the past week they have been living together as man and wife, wherever he is.”

“You lie, sir; I tell you, you lie. My son may have his faults, but he was never a seducer of women.”

“Then he has begun now; every wickedness must have a start. He has started with my daughter. I knew that he meant no good. I warned her—God knows that I warned her, not once, but twice—every time that I’d a chance of words with her. It wasn’t often of late; she had a way of stalking out of the room every time that I opened my lips to warn her against him.”

“Mr. Wadhurst, you are mistaken. I feel certain that you are mistaken,” she cried. “What object could he have in carrying out so shocking a scheme? There was no obstacle in the way of their marriage. I had received Priscilla as a daughter.”

He smiled. “Mothers know nothing of the ways of their sons,” he said. “I’ve known some that looked on their sons as saints, when all the time——”

“I don’t care what you knew,” she said. “I know my son, and let me add that I also know your daughter—apparently I know her a good deal better than you ever knew her. Don’t behave like a fool Mr. Wadhurst. Don’t waste your time in this foolish way—every moment may be precious. Priscilla may have gone to pay another visit; but on the other hand, something may have happened to her. She may be in danger. One reads of such things in the papers, never fancying that they may one day happen to our own friends—in our own families. No time should be lost in making enquiries. I will telegraph to my son, and you may be sure that he will do his best—he will know what should be done. He would be distracted at the thought that she is in danger.”

Mr. Wadhurst smiled more bitterly than before. “In danger! She has been in danger from the first moment she set eyes upon him. An evil hour it was—an evil hour. What have I done that these evils should fall upon me?” He had turned away from the lady, and was standing with his hand clenched over the crumpled telegram as if he was addressing the carved satyrs’ heads on the stone vases that stood on the piers of the balustrade. “What have I done that these things should happen to me?” He seemed to have an idea that Providence kept books on a proper system of double entry, and every now and again, by the aid of a competent staff of recording angels, posted up the ledgers and struck balances. Farmer Wadhurst could not understand how, if this was done systematically, he should be so badly treated. He believed that he had still a large balance to his credit.

“Don’t waste any more time; it may be precious,” suggested the lady again; and he turned upon her with an expression of fierceness.

“I’ll take your advice,” he cried. “I’ll not waste any more time. I’ll find her—and him—and him. I know where to look for her; wherever he be, she’ll be there too. I’ll go to her—and him.”

“And I’ll go with you,” she said, rising. “I’ll go with you to Sandycliffe, and he will, I know, confide in me. He is certain to know where she is to be found; but if he does not, he will know what should be done. He would be distracted if anything were to happen to her.”

He seemed to be startled by the suggestion. He looked at her for several seconds; then his eyes fell.

“You think that I mean to kill him?” he said in a low voice.

“No,” she replied. “You would not try to kill him unless you-found them together, and I am confident that they are not together.”

“You need not be afraid for him—it is not him that I mean to kill.”

“I am afraid neither for him nor for her, Mr. Wadhurst.”

“Come, then, if you’re not afraid. It’s only a two-hour journey to the coast. There’s a train in forty minutes from now—no, half an hour from now. I’ve been here ten minutes. I looked it up. You will catch that train if you mean to come. I’ll make sure of it myself.”

He spoke almost roughly, and when he had spoken he turned round and strode away. She called to him, begging him to come back, but he paid no attention to her. He seemed anxious to make it plain to her that he refused to recognize the fact that they were acting in concert in this business—to make it plain that he was going for one purpose, and she for quite another. She felt that he was a nasty man—a detestable man. She liked Priscilla not merely because Jack loved her, but also because Priscilla embodied all that she considered admirable in a girl; but now she wished with all her heart that she had never come across her son’s track.

She perceived that there was no time to lose if she meant to catch the 10.47 train from Framsby to Gallington Junction, where one changed for Sandycliffe.

She also perceived that it would never do to allow that man to go alone to the place. She was positive that Jack and Priscilla were not together, but she distrusted Mr. Wadhurst. She had no confidence in his powers of deduction or in his self-restraint. She saw as in a picture the meeting between that man and her son—she could hear the irritating words that the former would speak—-the sharp and contemptuous replies of the other—exasperation on both sides, and then perhaps blows—blows or worse.

It would not do to miss that train.

She had set the household moving within a minute or two, and the motor was ordered to be at the door in ten minutes. Her maid was overwhelmed at the very idea of a start like this at a moment’s notice. She began to remonstrate, but her mistress was peremptory; and amazed her by the vehemence with which she commanded her to hold her tongue and get out a travelling dress. It was only by much straightforward speaking that the flight was accomplished in good time, and the railway station reached with four minutes to spare. The maid found such a period all too short for the full expression of her grievances in being compelled to start on a journey in her house-dress with a most inappropriate wrap to conceal its true character as far as possible—it was too short a space of time for her purpose, but she certainly did her best.

At first Mrs. Wingfield thought that Mr. Wadhurst had not arrived at the station. He was nowhere to be seen. It was not until the train had come in, and Mrs. Wingfield and her maid had taken their seats, that the man appeared—he had hidden himself in the goods office, utilizing his time by an enquiry regarding some crates of machinery which he expected. He went past the first-class carriages without looking into any compartment. When the change was being made at the junction she failed to see him. But when Sandyclifle was reached she found that he had travelled in a second-class compartment, that was next to her first-class carriage. He took no notice of her, but walked with those long strides of his out of the station in front of her.

He was in a position to take notice of her when she met him face to face coming out of the hotel door when she was at the point of entering.

“Go in and make your enquiries, ma’am,” he said grimly. “You will find out whether your opinion or mine of your son is the true one.”

“What, is it possible that—that—he—they——”

“They are here. Make your enquiries.”

He went away, and she entered the hotel and hastened to the office.

Oh, yes; Mr. Wingfield was staying there, the young lady said.

“Alone?” asked the mother.

“Only Mrs. Wingfield. They will be in for lunch at one. They have been sailing since morning,” was the reply.

Mrs. Wingfield could scarcely walk so far as the coffee-room. When she managed to do so, she found that her maid had justified the character she had always borne for thoughtfulness: a slice of cold chicken and a small bottle of dry Ayala were on the table in front of her.

“You must eat and drink now,” she said. “This promised to be one of your good days; but that rush to the train and that long journey will go far to make it one of your worst if we are not careful.”

Of course the maid knew, as did every one at the Manor, of the ridiculous visit of Farmer Wadhurst, and she was one of the few who guessed rightly what was its purport. She was fully aware of all that was meant by this breathless flight to the coast, and, as she had had something like forty years’ experience of the world and the wickedness of men and the credulity of women and the ambiguity of the word Love, she had never for a moment doubted what would be the issue of this journey. It was not at all necessary for Mrs. Wingfield to say to her, as she did while the champagne was creaming in the glass:

“Walters, Mr. Wingfield is here, and I have just learned that Miss Wadhurst is here also—you saw Mr. Wadhurst and you will know, I am sure, that it would never do for them to meet.”

“It must be prevented at any cost, ma’am,” acquiesced Walters. “Where’s Mr. Wingfield and Miss Wadhurst just now?”

“They are out sailing; they will be here for lunch at one. It is necessary that I should meet them.”

“Quite so, ma’am. It’s a pity; but you’ll do it. This is one of your good days. To-morrow will most likely be one of your worst. But it can’t be helped.”

“It cannot be helped. If I were to fail to meet them before—before anyone else can meet them—there would be no more good days for me in the world, Walters.”

“Drink the champagne, ma’am, and rest quite still for half an hour and you’ll be able to do it without risk.”

Mrs. Wingfield obeyed her. She took some mouthfuls of the chicken and then drank two glasses of the champagne. Her maid had spied a comfortable chair overlooking the tennis lawns close at hand and the sea in the distance. To this she led Mrs. Wingfield, and there she left her with a wrap about her knees, to wait for her anxious half-hour.

The day was less grey at Sandyclifife than it had been at the Manor, and certainly the air was cooler. A breeze was blowing shorewards, bearing in every breath the sweet salt smell of the Channel. It came very gratefully to that poor weary lady sitting there waiting for what the next hour should bring to her.

But what could it bring to her except disaster? The man had told her that he had no intention of making an attempt to punish her son; but what did it matter about the man or his intentions? It was not the consequences of the act that troubled her, it was the sin of the act.

The thought that a son of hers—her only son—should be guilty of anything so base, so cruel, so mean, so selfish, made her feel sadder than she would have felt had the news been brought to her that he was dead.

She felt that so long as she lived there would cling to her the consciousness that she had brought into the world a son who had been guilty of an act of vice which she could never condone. That was what her whole future would be—clouded with that consciousness, when she had been hoping so much that was good for the days to come.

And then, like every other good woman who is a mother of sons whose feet have strayed from the straight road, she began to think if she had any reason to reproach herself for his lapse. Had anything that she had said or done led up to his commission of the baseness? Was she to be reproached because of the ease with which she had withdrawn whatever distaste she had at first felt for the idea of his wishing to marry a girl who was not socially in his own rank of life? Surely not. If she had opposed his wishes as so many other mothers would have done, she might find reason for some self-reproach; but she had been kind and sympathetic and had taken the girl to her heart; and yet this was how he had shown his appreciation of her kindness—of her ridding herself of every prejudice that she might reasonably have had in regard to his loving of a girl situated as Priscilla was. This was how he was rewarding her!

The impression of which she was conscious at that moment was only one of disappointment—supreme disappointment—such disappointment as one may feel at the end of one’s life on finding out that the object for which one has lived and laboured from the beginning to the end is absolutely worthless. She felt sad, not angry. She felt that if her son were to appear before her she could weep, but she could not denounce him.

While she sat there thinking over the whole matter, her tears began to fall before she became aware of it; and it was while she was holding her handkerchief to her eyes that they came up, her son and Priscilla, walking across the springy turf of the lawn so that she heard no sound of their approach.

When she removed all the tears that a handkerchief can remove—it only touches the outward ones—they were standing before her.

She did not cry out; she did not start. She only looked at them and turned away her head.

“Speak to her,” said he in a low voice, and he too turned away his face from the accusation of his mother’s tears.

Priscilla took a step forward and knelt before her, leaning across her knees with caressing arms about her waist.

“You will forgive us, dearest mother,” she said. “You will forgive me because I did it out of love for him, and you will forgive him because he did it out of love for me. Whichever of us is most to blame you will forgive the most because that one is the one that loved the most.”

The mother looked down at the lovely thing that pressed against her knees. She laid a hand upon her shoulder, and at the touch the girl’s eyes became full of tears. The other felt them warm on the hand that she was pressing to her lips.

There was a long silence.

“Mother,” he said at last, for he noticed that some of the guests of the hotel were strolling about the further edge of the lawn, and they might choose to enter the dining-room by the French window that opened behind his mother’s chair. “Mother, you will not blame either of us. We had both the same feeling that we should make sure of such happiness as we saw awaiting us lest it should be snatched from us by that malignant Fate which delights to spoil a man’s prospects when they seem brightest. That was why I forced Priscilla to marry me on the sly.”

“I knew that you would detest the very name of a registrar, and I could never bring myself to face the ceremony in the church,” said Priscilla. “But indeed I will be as good a daughter to you as if the Church had had a voice in the ceremony. Bless me, even me also, O my mother, and our marriage will be blessed.”

Then the mother fell on her neck, kissing her, and saying:

“It is I who have to ask your forgiveness, dear. I cannot tell you what—I thought—base—base! Oh, my darling, you have made me so happy; you did what was right. I will never accuse you again.”

She was looking up smiling through her tears as she held out a hand to her son.

“I knew that you would not be like other women,” he said. “You are the best woman in the world—the best mother that a man with a mind for wickedness could have. You don’t know all that you have kept me out of. But why did you come to us to-day, mother? Did you suspect—great Gloriana! Here’s your father, Priscilla. A regular family party—what!” Mrs. Wingfield the elder laughed quite spitefully—quite triumphantly as Mr. Wadhurst hurried across the lawn. He had spent half an hour on the beach waiting for the approach of a yacht that was standing off and on in the light breeze. He could not know that the hotel people had made a mistake and that Mr. and Mrs. Wingfield had not left the shore.

He was hurrying across the lawn, and on his face there was a look which his daughter was able to interpret. That was why she spoke before he had time to utter a word.

“Father,” she said, “I don’t think that you ever met my husband, though I daresay you know him by sight as well as he knows you. Jack, this is my father.”

He looked at her and then at him. His mouth was very tightly closed. He stood quite a yard away from them and ignored Jack’s very cordial salutation.

“You must forgive these light-headed young people, Mr. Wadhurst,” said Mrs. Wingfield the elder. “But it was really very naughty of them to take the law into their own hands and get married by a registrar instead of going properly to the church.”

“Married!” said the churchwarden. “Married within three months of the death of her husband! You did well to do it in that hole-and-corner way; for you knew me too well to hope that I would give my consent.”

“That’s quite true,” said she. “But I told you long ago that I had made up my mind that a woman’s marriage is her own affair, not her father’s. I had one experience of the union that receives the blessing of the father and the blessing of the Church.”

He looked at her. His mouth was tightly shut once again.

“Look here, Mr. Wadhurst,” cried Jack. “We’re just going in to lunch. If you didn’t give your consent to our marriage, you have still time to give us your blessing. Hurry up. The lobsters in the dining-room will be becoming anxious.”

He still kept his eyes fixed upon his daughter. He did not seem to hear Jack speaking. But the moment that Jack had said his last word, Mr. Wadhurst glanced at him, and then, turning round, walked straight across the lawn.

They watched him in silence until he became occulted by the pavilion.

“The lobsters will be getting impatient,” said Jack, helping his mother to her feet.