"Well, May," said Lady Dashwood, leaning back into her corner and speaking in a voice of satisfaction, "we've done our duty, I hope, and now, if you don't mind, we'll go on doing our duty and pay some calls. I ought to call at St. John's and Wadham, and also go into the suburbs. I've asked Mr. Bingham to dinner—just by ourselves, of course. Do you know what his nickname is in Oxford?"

May did not know.

"It is: 'It depends on what you mean,'" said Lady Dashwood.

"Oh!" said May. "Yes, in the Socratic manner."

"I dare say," said Lady Dashwood. "What did you think of the Hardings?"

May said she didn't know.

"They are a type one finds everywhere," said Lady Dashwood.

The afternoon passed slowly away. It was the busy desolation of the city, a willing sacrifice to the needs of war, that made both May and Lady Dashwood sit so silently as they went first to Wadham, and then, round through the noble wide expanse of Market Square opposite St. John's. Then later on out into the interminable stretch of villas beyond. By the time they returned to the Lodgings the grey afternoon light had faded into darkness.

"Any letters?" asked Lady Dashwood, as Robinson relieved them of their wraps.

Yes, there were letters awaiting them, and they had been put on the table in the middle of the hall; there was a wire also. The wire was from the Warden, saying that he would not be back to dinner.

"He's coming later," said Lady Dashwood, aloud. "Late, May!"

"Oh!" said May Dashwood.

There was a letter for Gwen. It was lying by itself and addressed in her mother's handwriting. She laid her hand upon it and hurried up to her room.

Lady Dashwood went upstairs slowly to the drawing-room. "H'm, one from Belinda," she said to herself, "asking me to keep Gwen longer, I suppose, on some absurd excuse! Well, I won't do it; she shall go on Monday."

She turned up the electric light and seated herself on a couch at one side of the fire. She glanced through the other letters, leaving the one from Belinda to the last.

"Now, what does the creature want?" she said aloud, and at the sound of her own voice, she glanced round the room. She had taken for granted that May had been following behind her and had sat down, somewhere, absorbed in her letters. There was no one in the room and the door was closed. She opened the letter and began to read:

Lady Dashwood's hand that held the letter was trembling, and her eyes shifted from the lines. She clung to them desperately, and read on:

"Yours affectionately,
"Belinda Scott."

Lady Dashwood laid the letter on her knees and sat thinking, with the pulses in her body throbbing. A dull flush had come into her cheeks, and just below her heart was a queer, empty, weak feeling, as if she had had no food for a long, long while.

She moved at last and stood upon her feet.

"I will not bear it," she said aloud.

Her voice strayed through the empty room. The face of the portrait stared out remorselessly at her with its cynical smile. All the world had become cynical and remorseless. Lady Dashwood moved to the door and went into the corridor. She passed Gwen's room and went to May Dashwood's. There she knocked on the door. May's voice responded. She had already begun to dress.

"Aunt Lena!" she exclaimed softly, as Lady Dashwood closed the door behind her without a word and came forward to the fireplace, "what has happened?"

Lady Dashwood held towards her a letter. "Read that," she said, and then she turned to the fire and leaned her elbow on the mantelpiece and clasped her hot brow in her hands. She did not look at the tall slight figure with its aureole of auburn hair near her, and the serious sweet face reading the letter. What she was waiting for was—help—help in her dire need—help! She wanted May to say, "This can't be, must not be. I can help you"; and yet, as the silence grew, Lady Dashwood knew that there was no help coming—it was absurd to expect help.

May Dashwood stood quite still and read the letter through. She read it twice, and yet said nothing.

"Well!" said Lady Dashwood, her voice muffled. As no reply came, she glanced round. "You have read the letter?" she asked.

"Yes," said May, "I've read it," and she laid the letter on the mantelpiece. There was a curious movement of her breathing—as if something checked it; otherwise her face was calm and she showed no emotion.

"What's to be done?" demanded Lady Dashwood.

"Nothing can be done," said May, and she spoke breathlessly.

"Nothing!" exclaimed Lady Dashwood. "May!"

"Nothing, not if it is his wish," said May Dashwood, and she cleared her throat and moved away.

"If he knew, it would not be his wish," said Lady Dashwood. "If he knew about the other letter; if he knew what those women were like! Of course," she went on, "men are such fools, that he might think he was rescuing her from Belinda! But," she burst out suddenly, yet very quietly, "can't he see that Gwen has no moral backbone? Can't he see that she's a lump of jelly? No, he can't see anything;" then she turned round again to the fire. "Society backs up fraud in marriage. People will palm off a girl who drinks or who shows signs of inherited insanity with the shamelessness of horse-dealers. 'The man must look out for himself,' they say. Very well," said Lady Dashwood, pulling herself up to her full height, "I am going to do—whatever can be done." But she did not feel brave.

May had walked to the dressing-table and was taking up brushes and putting them down again without using them. She took a stopper out of a bottle, and then replaced it.

Lady Dashwood stood looking at her, looking at the bent head silently. Then she said suddenly: "This letter was posted when?" She suddenly became aware that the envelope was missing. She had thrown it into the fire in the drawing-room or dropped it. It didn't matter—it was written last night. "Gwen must have posted her news at the latest yesterday morning by the first post. Then when could it have happened? He never saw her for a moment between dinner on Monday, when you arrived, and when she must have posted her letter." Lady Dashwood stared at her niece. "It must have happened before you arrived."

"No," said May. "He must have written—you see;" and she turned round and looked straight at Lady Dashwood for the first time since she read that letter.

"Written that same night, Monday, after Mr. Boreham left?"

May moved her lips a moment and turned away again.

"I don't believe it," said Lady Dashwood.

"If it is his wish—if he is in love," said May slowly, "you can do nothing!"

"He is not in love with her," said Lady Dashwood, with a short bitter laugh. "If she speaks to me about it before his return, I—well, I shall know what to say. But she won't speak; she knows I read the first sentences of her mother's letter, and being the daughter of her mother—that is, having no understanding of 'honour'—she will take for granted that I read more—that I read that letter through."

May remained silent. Just then the dressing gong sounded, and Lady Dashwood went to the door.

"May, I am going to dress," she said. "I shall fight this affair; for if it hadn't been for me, Jim would still be a free man."

May looked at her again fixedly.

"What shall you say to Lady Belinda?" she asked.

"I shall say nothing to Belinda—just now," said Lady Dashwood. "The letter may be—a lie!"

"Suppose she comes on Saturday?" said May.

Lady Dashwood's eyes flickered. "She can't come on Saturday," she said slowly. "There is no room for her, while you are here; the other bedrooms are not furnished. You"—here Lady Dashwood's voice became strangely cool and commanding—"you stay here, May, till Monday! I must go and dress."

May did not reply. Lady Dashwood paused to listen to her silence—a silence which was assent, and then she left the room as rapidly and quietly as she had entered.

Outside, the familiar staircase looked strange and unsympathetic, like territory lost to an enemy and possessed by that enemy—ruined and distorted to some disastrous end. Some disastrous end! The word "end" made Lady Dashwood stop and to think about it. Would this engagement that threatened to end in marriage, affect her brother's career in Oxford?

It might! He might find it impossible to be an efficient Warden, if Gwendolen was his wife! There was no telling what she might not do to make his position untenable.

Lady Dashwood went up the short stair that led to the other bedrooms. She passed Gwendolen's door. What was the girl inside that room thinking of? Was she triumphant?

Had Lady Dashwood been able to see within that room, she would have found Gwendolen moving about restlessly. She had thrown her hat and outdoor things on the bed and was vaguely preparing to dress for dinner. Mrs. Potten had not said one word about asking her to come on Monday—not one word; but it didn't matter—no, not one little bit! Nothing mattered now!

A letter lay on her dressing-table. From time to time Gwendolen came up to the dressing-table and glanced at the letter and then glanced at her own face in the mirror.

The letter was as follows:—

"Your own
"Mother."

Gwen had found a slip of paper folded in the letter, on which was written in pencil, "Of course you are engaged. Dr. Middleton is pledged to you. Tear up this slip of paper as soon as you have read it, and give my letter to you to the Warden to read. This is all-important. Let me know when you have given it to him."

Gwen had read and had burned the slip of paper, and had even poked the ashes well into the red of the fire.

When that was done, she had walked about the room excitedly.

How was it possible to dress quietly when the world had suddenly become so dreadfully thrilling? So, after all her doubt and despair, after all her worry, she was engaged. It was all right! All she had to do was to give her mother's letter to the Warden and the matter was concluded. She was going to be Mrs. Middleton, and mistress of the Lodgings. How thrilling! How splendid it was of her mother to make it so plain and easy! And yet, how was she to put the letter into the Warden's hands? What was she to say when she handed the letter to him?

When Louise appeared to attend to Gwen's dress, she found that young lady fastening up her black tresses with hands that showed suppressed excitement, and her eyes and cheeks were glowing.

She turned and glanced at Louise. "I'm late, as usual, I suppose," she said and laughed.

"Mademoiselle has the appearance of being trÈs gaie ce soir," said Louise.

"Oh, not particularly," said Gwen; "only my hair won't go right; it's a beast, and refuses," and she laughed again.

When she was Mrs. Middleton she would have a maid of her own, not a French maid. They were a nuisance, and looked shabby. Yes, she dared think of being engaged and of being married. It wasn't a dream: it was all real. She would buy a dog, a small little thing, and she would tie its front hair with a big orange bow and carry it about in her arms everywhere. It would be lovely to be dressed in a filmy tea-gown with the dog in her arms, and she would rise to meet callers and say, "I'm so sorry—the Warden isn't at home; but you know how busy he is," etc., etc., and the men who called would pull the dog's ears and say "Lucky beggar!" and she would scold them for hurting her darling, darling pet, and she would sit in the best place in the Chapel, wearing the most cunning hats, and she would appear not to see that she was being admired.

In this land of fairy dreams the Warden hovered near as a vague shadowy presence: he was there, but only as a name is over a shop window, something that marks its identity but has little to do with the delights to be bought within.

And why shouldn't she imagine all this? There was the letter to be given to the Warden—that must be done first. She must think that over. Louise's presence suggested a plan. Suppose the Warden came home so late that she didn't see him? She would write a tiny note and put her mother's letter within it, and send it down to the library by Louise. That would be far easier than speaking to him. So much easier did it seem to Gwen, that she determined to go to bed very early, so that she should escape meeting the Warden.

And what should she write in her little note?

How exciting the world was; how funny it was going down into the drawing-room and meeting Lady Dashwood and Mrs. Dashwood, both looking so innocent, knowing nothing of the great secret! How funny it was going down to the great solemn dining-room, entered by its double doors—her dining-room—and sitting at table, thinking all the time that the whole house really belonged to her, and that she would in future sit in Lady Dashwood's chair! How deliciously exciting, indeed! All the plate and glass on the table was really hers. Old Robinson and young Robinson were really her servants. What a shock for Lady Dashwood when she found out! Gwen's eyes were luminous as she looked round the table. How envious some people would be of her! Mrs. Dashwood would not be pleased! For all her clever talk, Mrs. Dashwood had not done much. What a bustle there would be when the secret was discovered, when the Warden announced: "I am engaged to Miss Scott, Miss Gwendolen Scott!" How young, how awfully young to be a Warden's wife! What an excitement!

During dinner, Lady Dashwood told Robinson to keep up a good fire in the library, as the Warden would probably arrive at about a quarter to eleven.

That decided Gwen. She would go to bed at ten, and that would give her time to write her little note and get it taken to the library before the Warden arrived home. He would find it there, awaiting him.

Dinner passed swiftly, though the two ladies were rather dull and silent. Gwen had so much to think of that she ate almost without knowing that she was eating. When they went upstairs to the drawing-room, the time went much more slowly, for there was nothing to do. Lady Dashwood and Mrs. Dashwood both took up books, and seemed to sink back into the very depths of their chairs, and disappear. It was very dismal. Perhaps Lady Dashwood hadn't read that letter all through. Anyhow she had not been able to interfere. That was clear!

Gwen went and fetched the book on Oxford, and read half a page of it, and when she had mastered that, she discovered that she had read it before. So she was no farther on for all her industry. How slowly the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece moved; how interminable the time was! Everybody was so silent that the clock could be heard ticking. That Lady Dashwood hadn't been able to interfere and make mischief with the Warden, showed how little power she had after all.

At last the clock struck ten, and Gwen got up from her chair.

"Ten," said Mrs. Dashwood, and she raised her face from her book.

"Ten," said Lady Dashwood.

"Yes, ten," said Gwendolen. "I think I'll go to bed, Lady Dashwood, if you don't mind."

"Do, my dear," said Lady Dashwood.

The girl stood up before her, slim and straight as an arrow. Both women sat and looked at her, and she glanced at both of them in silence. Her very beauty stung Lady Dashwood and made her eyes harden as she looked at the girl. What were May Dashwood's thoughts as she, too, leaning back in her large chair, looked at the dark hair and the flushed cheeks, the white brow and neck, the radiant pearly prettiness of eighteen!

Gwen was conscious that they were examining her; that they knew she was pretty—they could not deny her prettiness. She felt a glow of pride in her youth and in her power—her power over a man who commanded other men. And this drawing-room was hers. She glanced at the portrait over the fireplace.

"Mr. Thing-um-bob," she said dimpling, "is looking very sly this evening."

May Dashwood took up her book again and turned over a few pages, as if she had lost her place. Lady Dashwood did not smile or speak. Gwen made a movement nearer to Lady Dashwood.

"Good night," she said. She seemed to have a sudden intention of bending down, perhaps to kiss Lady Dashwood. Vague thoughts possessed the girl that this rather incomprehensible and imposing elderly woman, who wore such nice rings, was going to be a relation of hers. Would she be her sister-in-law? How funny to have anybody so old for a sister-in-law! It was a good thing she had, after all, so little influence over Dr. Middleton.

"Good night, Gwen," said Lady Dashwood, without appearing to notice the girl's movement towards her. "Sleep well, child," she added and she turned her head towards May Dashwood.

Gwen hesitated a brief moment, and then walked away. "I always sleep well," she said, with a laugh. "I once thought it would be so nice to wake up in the night, because one would know how comfy one was. But I did wake once—for about a quarter of an hour—and I soon got tired and hated it!"

At the door she turned and said, "Good night, Mrs. Dashwood. I quite forgot—how rude of me!"

"Good night," said May.

The door closed.

Lady Dashwood stared deeply at her book, and then raised her eyes suddenly to her niece.

May had risen from her chair. "Do you mind, dear Aunt Lena, if I go off too?" She came close to Lady Dashwood and laid a caressing hand on her shoulder.

Lady Dashwood looked up into her face, and May was startled at the expression of suffering in the eyes.

"Go, dear, if you want to! I shall stay up—till he comes in. Yes, go, May!"

"You won't feel lonely?" said May, and she sighed without knowing that she did so.

"No," said Lady Dashwood.

May bent down and kissed her aunt's brow. It was burning hot. She caressed her cheek with her hand, then kissed her again and went out. As May met the cooler air of the staircase, she murmured to herself, "I'm a coward to leave her alone—alone when she is so wretched. Oh, what a coward I am!"

She shivered as she went up the stairs, and as soon as she was in her own room she put up the lights, and then she locked the door, and having done this she took off her dress and put on her dressing-gown. She sat down by the fire. How was she to stay on here till Monday: how was she to endure it? It would be intolerable! May groaned aloud. What right had she to call it intolerable? What had happened to her? What was demoralising her, turning her strength into weakness? What was it that had entered into her soul and was poisoning its health and destroying its purpose?

A few days ago and she had been steadily pursuing her work. She had been stifling her sorrow, and filling the vacancy of her life with voluntary labour. Having no child of her own, she had been filling her empty arms with the children of other women. She had fed and nursed and loved babies that would never call her "Mother." She had had no time to think of herself—no time for regrets—for self-pity. And now, suddenly, her heart that had been quieted and comforted, her heart that had seemed quieted and comforted, her heart dismissed all this tender and sacred work and cried for something else—cried and would not be appeased. She felt as if all that she had believed fixed and certain in herself and in her life, was shaken and might topple over, and in the disaster her soul might be destroyed. She was appalled at herself.

No, no; she must wrestle with this sin, with this devil of self; she must fight it!

She got up from her chair and went to the dressing-table. There she took up with a trembling hand a little ivory case, and going back to her seat she opened it reverently and looked at the face of her boy husband. There he was in all the bloom of his twenty and six years. It was a young pleasant face. And he had been such a comrade of her childhood and girlhood. But strangely enough he had never seen the gulf widening between them as she grew into a woman older than her years and he into a man, young for his years; boyish in his view of life, mentally immature. He was quite unconscious that he never met the deeper wants of her nature; those depths meant nothing to him. There had been a tacit understanding between them from their childhood that they should marry; an understanding encouraged by their parents. When at last May found out her mistake; that this bondage was irksome and her heart unsatisfied, he had suddenly thrown the responsibility of his happiness, of his very life, upon her shoulders, not by threats of vengeance on himself, but by falling from his usual buoyant cheerfulness into a state of uncomplaining despondency.

May had had more than her share of men's admiration. Her piquancy and ready sympathy more even than her good looks attracted them. But she had gone on her way heart whole, and meanwhile she could not endure to see her old comrade unhappy.

They became formally engaged and he returned to his old careless cheerfulness. He was no longer a pathetic object, and she was a little disappointed and yet ashamed of her disappointment. Why should she have vague "wants" in her nature—these luxuries of the pampered soul? The face she now gazed upon, figured in the little ivory frame, was of a man, not over-wise, a man who was occupied with the enjoyment of life, yet without sinister motives. During those brief six months of married life, he had leant upon her, delighted and yet amused at her sterner virtues; and yet this man, not strong, not wise, when the call of duty came, when that ancient call to manhood, the call to rise up and meet the enemy, when that call came, he went out not shrinking, but with all honourable eagerness and fearlessness to offer his life. And his life was taken.

So that he whom in life she had never looked to for moral help, had become to her—in death—something sacred and unapproachable. In her first fresh grief she had asked herself bitterly what she—in her young womanhood—had ever offered to humanity? Nothing at all comparable to his sacrifice! Had she ever offered anything at all? Had she not, from girlhood, taken all the joys that life put in her way, and taken them for granted?

She had been aware of an underworld of misery, suffering and vice, had seen glimpses of it, heard its sounds breaking in upon her serenity. She had, like the travelling Levite, observed, noted, and had gone about her own business. So with passionate self-reproach she had thrown herself into work among the neglected children of the poor, and had tried to still the clamour of her conscience and fill the emptiness of her heart.

And until now, that life had absorbed her and satisfied her—until now!

"I am not worthy to look upon your face," she murmured, and she closed the ivory case, letting it fall upon her lap. She hid her face in her hands. Oh, why had she during those six months of marriage patronised him in her thoughts? Why had she told him he was "irresponsible," jestingly calling him "her son," and now after his death, was she to add a further injustice and become unfaithful to his memory—the memory of her boy, who would never return?

Sharp, burning tears oozed up painfully between her eyelids. She tried to pray, and into her whole being came a profound silent sense of self-abasement, absorbing her as if it were a prayer.