What stung Gwendolen, what made her smart almost beyond endurance, was that she had exchanged the Warden for an umbrella. The transaction had been simple, and sudden, and inevitable. The Warden was in London, a free man, and there was the umbrella in the corner of the room, hers. It was looking at her, and she had not paid for it. The bill would be sent to the Lodgings, the bill for the umbrella and the gloves. The bill would be re-directed and would reach her—bills always did reach one, however frequently one changed one's address. Private letters sometimes got misdirected and mislaid, but never bills. Friends sometimes say, "We couldn't write because we didn't know your address." Tradespeople never say this, they don't omit to send their bills merely because they don't know your address. If they don't know your address, they search for it!

The pure imbecility of her behaviour at Christ Church about that ten-shilling note was now apparent to Gwendolen. She could not think, now, how she could have done anything so inconceivably silly, and so useless as to put herself in the power of Mrs. Potten. She would never, never in all her life, do such a thing again. Another time, when hard up and needing something necessary, she would borrow, or she would go straight to the shop and order "the umbrella" (as after all, she had done), and she would take the sporting chance of being able to pay the bill some time. But never would she again touch notes or coins that belonged to people she knew, and especially those belonging to Mrs. Potten! Oh, what a wickedly cruel punishment she had to bear, merely because she had had a sort of joke about ten shillings belonging to Mrs. Potten.

One thing she would never forgive as long as she lived, and that was Mrs. Potten's meanness. She would never forget the way in which Mrs. Potten took advantage of her by getting her into Potten End alone, with nobody to protect her.

First of all Mrs. Potten had pretended to be merely sorry. Then she spoke about Mr. Harding and Mr. Bingham being witnesses and made the whole thing appear as a sort of crime, and then she ended up with saying: "The Warden must not be kept in ignorance of all this! That is out of the question. He has a right to know." That came as an awful shock to Gwendolen, and made her burst into tears.

"Are you afraid, child, he will break off the engagement?" was all that Mrs. Potten said, and then the horrid old woman asked all sorts of horrid questions, and wormed out all kinds of things: that the Warden had not actually said he was in love, that he had scarcely spoken to her for three days, and that he had not said "good-bye" that morning when he left for London. How Mrs. Potten had managed to sneak it out of her Gwendolen did not know, but Mrs. Potten gave her no time to think of what she was saying, and being so much upset and so much afraid of Mrs. Potten lots of things came out. And yet all the time she knew things were going wrong because of the wicked look on Mrs. Potten's face.

However, Gwendolen had all through stuck to it (and it was the truth) that she had never intended to do more than "sort of joke" with the note, and this Mrs. Potten simply wouldn't understand. And when she, Gwendolen, promised, on her honour, to make it "all right," by wiring to her mother to send her a postal order for ten shillings by return, Mrs. Potten sprang like a tiger on her: "Why wire for it? Why not return it now?" Oh, the whole thing was awful!

After this Mrs. Potten's voice had changed to ice, and she put on a perfectly beastly tone.

"Gwendolen, you shock me beyond words, and oblige me to take a very decided step in the matter."

Then she stopped, and Gwendolen could recall that horrible moment of suspense. Then came words that made Gwendolen shudder to think of.

"I have a very great respect for the position of a Warden—it is a position of trust; and I have also personally a very great respect for the Warden of King's. I give you an alternative. Break off your engagement with him at once, quietly, or I shall make this little affair of the note known in Oxford, so that the Warden will have to break the engagement off. Which alternative do you choose?"

The very words repeated themselves over and over in Gwendolen's memory, and she flung herself on her bed and gave way to a passion of tears. No, she would never forgive Mrs. Potten.

When the bell sounded for dinner, Gwendolen struggled off the bed and went to look at herself in the glass. She couldn't possibly go downstairs looking like that, even if she were dressed. Yet pangs of hunger seized Gwendolen. She had eaten one wretched little slice of bread and butter at Potten End, moistening it with her tears, and now she wanted food. Several minutes passed.

"They won't care even if I'm dead," moaned Gwendolen, and she listened.

A knock came at her door, and Louise entered.

"If mademoiselle has a headache would she like to have some dinner brought up to her?"

"Yes, thanks," said Gwendolen, and she kept her face away from the direction of the door so that Louise could not see it.

"What would mademoiselle like? Some soup?"

Oh, how wretched it all was! And when all might have been so different! And soup—only soup!

"I don't care," said Gwendolen, "some sort of dinner—any dinner."

"Ah, dinner!" said Louise.

When she had gone, Gwendolen tied two handkerchiefs together and fastened them round her forehead to look as if she had a headache—indeed, she had a headache—and a heartache too!

Presently dinner was brought up, and Gwendolen ate it in loneliness and sadness. She did not leave anything. She had thought of leaving some of the meat, but decided against it. After she had finished, and it had been cleared away, she had sat looking at the fire for a few minutes with eyes that were sore from weeping. Then she got up and began to undress. Life was a miserable thing! She got into bed and laid her hot head down on the cool pillow and tried not to think. But she listened to every sound that passed her door. It was horrible to be alone and forgotten. She had asked to be left alone, but she had not meant to be alone so long. Then there suddenly sprang into her mind the recollection of the strange form she thought she had seen in the library. She really had thought she had seen him. Were such things true?

What about the disaster? Perhaps it was her disaster he had come to warn her about and that was why she saw him. Perhaps God sent him! This thought thrilled her whole being, and she lay very still. Perhaps God had meant to tell her that she must be careful, and she had not been careful. But then how could she have guessed?

Gwendolen had been confirmed only two years ago. She remembered that the preparation for confirmation had been a bore, and yet had given her a pleasant sensation of self-approbation, because she was serving God in a manner peculiarly agreeable to Him by being in the right Church, especially now in these times of unbelief and neglect of religion. She had a pleasant feeling that there were a great many people disobeying Him; and that heaps of priggish people who fussed about living goody-goody lives, were not really approved of by Him, because they didn't go to church or only went to wrong churches.

Then she recalled the afternoon when she was confirmed. She was at school and there were other girls with her, and the old bishop preached to them, and went on and on and on so long, and was so dull that Gwendolen ceased to listen. But she had gone through it all, and had felt very happy to have it over. She felt safe in God's keeping. But now she was alone and miserable, and felt strangely unprotected by God, as if God didn't care!

Was that strange form she had seen in the library sent not by God but by the devil to frighten her? If the Warden had been in the house she would have felt less frightened, only now—now she was so horribly alone. Even if he had been in the house, though she couldn't speak to him, she would have been less frightened.

Gwendolen listened for footsteps in the corridor—would any one come to her? Why had she spoken to Lady Dashwood as if she didn't want to be disturbed? Suppose nobody came? And what about the devil? Should she ring?

At last, unable to bear herself and her thoughts any longer she rose from her bed and put on her dressing-gown. She opened her door and peeped out into the corridor. There was just a glimpse of light, and she could see pretty clearly from end to end. She could hear what sounded like a person near the head of the staircase. Gwendolen darted forwards towards the curtained end of the corridor. But when she reached the curtain she saw old Robinson going down the staircase.

Gwendolen went back a few steps along the corridor and returned to her room. She pushed the door open. It was too silent and too empty, it frightened her. Should she ring the bell? If she rang the bell what would she say? The dinner had been cleared away. What should she ask for if she rang?

With a groan of despair she went outside again and again listened. Somebody was approaching the corridor. Somebody was coming into the corridor. She stood where she was. It was Mrs. Dashwood who was coming. She had mounted the steps, and here she was walking towards her. Gwendolen stood still and waited.

May saw the figure of the girl, clutching her dressing-gown round her, and staring with large distended eyes like a hunted animal.

"What is it?" asked May. "Do you feel ill, Gwen?"

"Oh!" said the girl, with a shiver, "I'm so glad you've come! I can't go into my bedroom alone. Oh, I am so wretched!"

"I'll take you into your bedroom," said May, and she led Gwen in and closed the door behind them.

"You were in bed," she said. "Get in again and I will straighten you up." She helped Gwendolen to take off her dressing-gown.

"You can't stay with me a little?" demanded Gwen, and her lips trembled. "I've such a headache."

The handkerchiefs were still bound round her head, and were making her hot and uncomfortable.

"Poor Gwen!" said May. "Yes, I'll stay a little. I dare say some Eau-de-Cologne would help your headache to go."

"I haven't got any. I've only got scent," said Gwen, as she stepped into bed.

"I have some," said May. "I'll go and fetch it. I'll be back in a moment."

Gwendolen sat up in bed, drawing the clothes up to her neck, waiting. The moment she was alone in the room, the room seemed so dismal, and the solitude alarming. There was always the devil——

"Sitting up?" said May, when she came back with the Eau-de-Cologne in her hand.

Gwendolen sank down in the bed. How comforting it was to have Mrs. Dashwood waiting on her and talking about her and being sympathetic. She had always loved Mrs. Dashwood. She was so sweet. Now, if only, only she had not made that horrible blunder, she would have had the whole household waiting on her, talking about her and being sympathetic! Oh!

May brought a chair to the bed, and began to smooth the dark hair away from Gwen's face.

"I think you would be cooler with those handkerchiefs off," she said. "I can't get to your forehead very well with the Eau-de-Cologne."

Gwen signified her consent with a deep sigh, and May slipped the bandage off and put it away on the dressing-table.

Then she dabbed some of the Eau-de-Cologne softly on to the girl's forehead.

"I suppose you know," whispered Gwen, as the scent of the perfume came into her nostrils.

"Yes," said May.

"I hope the servants don't know," groaned Gwen.

"I don't think any one knows, but just ourselves," said May, in a soothing voice; "and no one but ourselves need know about it."

"Oh, it's horrible!" groaned Gwen again. "I can't bear it!"

"It is hard to bear," said May, as she smoothed the girl's brow.

After a little silence Gwendolen suddenly said—

"You don't believe in that ghost?"

"The ghost?" said May, a little surprised at this sudden deviation from the cause of Gwendolen's grief.

"You thought it was silly?" said Gwen, tentatively.

"Not silly, but fanciful," said May.

Gwendolen moved her head. "I think I was; but I still see him, and I don't want to. I have begun to think about him, now, this evening. I had forgotten before——"

"You must make up your mind not to think of it. It isn't a real person, Gwen."

Gwendolen still kept her head slightly round towards May Dashwood, though she had her eyes closed so as not to interfere with the movements of May's hand on her brow.

"Do you think the devil does things?" she asked in an awed voice.

May hesitated for a moment and then said: "We do things, and some of us call it the devil doing things."

"Then you don't believe in the devil?" asked Gwendolen, opening her eyes.

"I don't think so, Gwen," said May. "But God I am sure of."

Gwendolen lay still for a little while. She was thinking now of her troubles.

"You don't do any wrong things?" asked Gwendolen, tentatively.

"We all do wrong things," said May.

"I mean wrong things that people make a fuss about," said Gwendolen, thinking of Mrs. Potten, and the drawing-room at Potten End.

"Some things are more wrong than others," said May. "It depends upon whether they do much harm or not."

Gwendolen pondered. This was a new proof of Mrs. Potten's meanness. What she, Gwen, had done had harmed nobody practically.

"I'm miserable!" she burst out.

"Poor Gwen!" murmured May.

Gwendolen lay still. Her heart was full. When she had once left the Lodgings, and was at Mrs. Potten's she would be among enemies. Now, here, at least she had one friend—some one who was not mean and didn't scold. She must speak to this one kind friend—she would tell her troubles. She must have some one to confide in.

"I didn't want to break off the engagement," she said at last, unable to keep her thoughts much longer to herself.

"You didn't want to!" said May gently. It was scarcely a question, but it drew Gwendolen to an explanation of her words.

"Mrs. Potten made me," she said.

"No one could make you," said May, quietly. "Could they?"

"She did," said Gwen, with a burst of tears. "I wanted to make it all right, and she wouldn't let me. If only I could have seen the Warden, he would have taken my side, perhaps," and here Gwen's voice became less emphatic. "But Mrs. Potten simply made me. She was determined. She hates me. I can't bear her."

"Had you done absolutely nothing to make her so determined?" asked May wondering.

"Nothing—except a little joke——" began Gwen. "It was merely a sort of a joke."

"A joke!" said May, and her voice was very low and strange.

The umbrella standing in the corner of the room in the shadow seemed to make faces at Gwen. Why hadn't she put the horrid thing in the wardrobe?

"It was only meant as a sort of joke," she repeated, and then the overwhelming flood of bitter memory coming upon her, she yielded to her instinct and poured out to May, bit by bit, a broken garbled history of the whole affair—a story such as Belinda and Co. would tell—a story made, unconsciously, all the more sordid and pitiful because it was obviously not the whole truth.

And this was a story told by one who might have been the Warden's wife! May went on soothing the girl's hair and brow with her hand.

"And Mrs. Potten wouldn't let me make it all right. She refused to let me, though I begged her to, and gave her my word of honour," wept Gwen, indignantly. Then she suddenly said, "Oh, the fire's going out and perhaps you're cold!" for she was fearful lest her visitor would leave her. "When my dinner was taken away too much coal was put on my fire, and I was too miserable to make a fuss."

"I'm not cold," said May. "But I will stir up the fire." She rose from her chair and went to the fire, and poked it up into a blaze.

"I'm afraid, Gwen, that you couldn't make it all right with Mrs. Potten, except by——"

"By what?" asked Gwen, becoming suddenly excited. "If only Dr. Middleton had not been away, I might have borrowed from him. Do you mean that?"

"No," said May, with a profound sigh, as she came back to the bedside. "It was a question of honour, don't you see? You couldn't have made it right, except by being horrified at what you had done and feeling that you could never, never make it right! Do you understand what I mean?"

Gwen was trying to understand.

"That would have made Mrs. Potten worse," she said hoarsely.

"No," said May, with a quiet emphasis on the word. "If you had really been terribly unhappy about your honour, Mrs. Potten would have sympathised! Don't you see what I mean?"

"But how could I be so terribly unhappy about such a mere accident?" protested Gwen, tearfully. "I might have returned the money. I very nearly did twice, only somehow I didn't. It just seemed to happen like that, and it was such a little affair."

May sat down again and put her cool hand on the girl's brow. It was no use talking about honour to the child. To Belinda and Co. honour was, what was expected of you by people who were in the swim, and if Mrs. Potten had made no discovery, or had forgiven it when it was made, Gwendolen's "honour" would have remained bright and untarnished. That was Gwendolen's sense of the moral situation! Her vision went no further. Still May's silence was disturbing. Gwendolen felt that she had not been understood, and that she was being reproved by that silence, though the reproof was gentle, very different from the kind of reproof that would probably be administered by her mother. On the other hand, the reproof was not merited.

"Would you," said Gwendolen, with a gulp in her throat, "would you spoil somebody's whole life because they took some trifle that nobody really missed or wanted, intending to give it back, only didn't somehow get the opportunity? Would you?"

"Your whole life isn't spoiled," said May. "If you take what has happened very seriously you may make your life more honourable in the future than it has been. Don't you see that if what you had done had not been discovered you might have gone on doing these things all your life. That would have spoiled your life!"

"But my engagement!" moaned Gwen. "I shall have to go to that horrid Stow, unless mother has got an invitation for me, and mother will be so upset. She'll be so angry!"

What could May say to give the girl any real understanding of her own responsibilities? Was she to drift about like a leaf in the wind, without principles, with no firm basis upon which she could stand and take her part in the struggle of human life?

What was to be done?

May did her best to put her thoughts into the plainest, simplest words. She had to begin at the beginning, and speak as to a child. As she went on May discovered that one thing, and one thing only, really impressed Gwen, and that was the idea of courage. Coward as she was, she did grasp that courage was of real value. Gwen had a faint gleam of the meaning of honour, when it was a question of courage, and upon this one string May played, for it gave a clear note, striking into the silence of the poor girl's moral nature.

She got the girl to promise that she would try and take the misfortune of her youth with courage and meet the future bravely. She even induced Gwendolen then and there to pray for more courage, moral and physical, and she did not leave her till she had added also a prayer for help in the future when difficulties and temptations were in her path. They were vague words, "difficulties and temptations," and May knew that, but it is not possible in half an hour to straighten the muddle of many years of Belinda and Co.

"Have courage," she said at last, "I must go, Gwen. Good-night," and May stooped down to kiss the dark head on the pillow. "God protect you; God help you!"

"Good-night," sighed Gwen; "I'll try and go to sleep. But could you—could you put that umbrella into the wardrobe and poke up the fire again to make a little light?"

And May put the umbrella away in the wardrobe and poked up the fire.