Poor Milly Harrington had faithfully kept her promise of amendment. She was as loyal and serviceable to her mistress as any one could be, and evidently did her utmost to show her gratitude to Lettice, studying her tastes, and, as far possible, anticipating her wishes. But it was plain that she was not happy. When not making an effort to be cheerful as part of her daily duty, she would sit brooding over the past and trembling for the future; and, though she tried to conceal her hopeless moods, they had not altogether escaped notice.

Lettice was troubled by Milly's unhappiness. She had taken deep pity on the girl, and wanted, for more reasons than one, to save her from the worst consequences of her mistakes. To see her, in common parlance, "going to the bad"—ruined in body and in soul—would have been to Lettice, for Sydney's sake, a burden almost heavier than she could bear. For this reason had she brought the girl up to London and taken her into her own service again; and from day to day she watched her with kindly interest and concern.

Milly's good looks could scarcely be said to have come back to her, for she was still thin and haggard, with the weary look of one to whom life has brought crushing sorrow and sickness of heart. But her eyes were pretty, and her face, in spite of its worn expression, was interesting and attractive. Lettice was hardly surprised, although a little startled, to find her talking one day in a somewhat confidential manner to a man of highly respectable appearance who was walking across the Common by her side as she came home one day from a shopping expedition. It was, perhaps, natural that Milly should have acquaintances. But Lettice felt a sudden pang of anxiety on the girl's account. She did not know whether she had been seen, and whether it was her duty to speak to her maid about it; but her hesitation was ended by Milly herself, who came to her room that night, and asked to speak with her.

"Well, Milly?"

"I saw you to-day, Miss Lettice, when I was out," said Milly, coloring with the effort of speech.

"Did you? Yes? You were with a friend—I suppose?"

"I wanted to tell you about him," said Milly, nervously. "It's not a friend of mine, it was a messenger—a messenger from him."

Lettice sat speechless.

"He does not know what has become of me; and he set this man—his clerk—to find out. He wants to send me some money—not to see me again. He was afraid that I might be—in want."

"And what have you done, Milly?"

"I said I would not take a penny. And I asked the clerk—Mr. Johnson, they call him—not to say that he had seen me. I didn't tell him where I lived."

"Did he say that he would not tell his master?"

"Yes, he promised. I think he will keep his word. He seemed—kind—sorry for me, or something."

"You were quite right, Milly. And I would not speak to the man again if I were you. He may not be so kind and friendly as he seems. I am glad you have told me."

"I couldn't rest till I had spoken. I was afraid you might think harm of me," said the girl, flushing scarlet again, and twisting the corner of her apron.

"I will not think harm of you if you always tell me about your acquaintances as you have done to-day," said Lettice with a smile. "Don't be afraid, Milly. And—if you will trust to me—you need not be anxious about the future, or about the child. I would rather that you did not take money from anyone but myself for your needs and hers. I have plenty for you both."

Milly could not speak for tears. She went away sobbing, and Lettice was left to think over this new turn of affairs. Was Sydney's conscience troubling him, she wondered, after all?

This was early in November, soon after she came to Bute Lodge, and as the time went on, she could not but notice that the signs of trouble in Milly's face increased rather than diminished. Lettice had a suspicion also that she had not managed to get rid of the man with whom she had been walking on the Common. She was sure that she saw him in the neighborhood more than once, and although he never, to her knowledge, spoke to Milly or came to the house, she saw that Milly sometimes looked unusually agitated and distressed. It was gradually borne in upon Lettice's mind that she had better learn a little more of the girl's story, for her own sake; and coming upon her one day with the signs of trouble plainly written on her face, Lettice could not forbear to speak.

Milly was sitting in a little dressing-room, with some needlework in her hand. The baby was sleeping in a cradle at her side. She sprang up when Lettice entered; but Lettice made her sit down again, and then sat down as well.

"What is it, Milly? Is there anything wrong that I don't know of? Come, don't give way. I want to help you, but how can I do that unless you tell me everything?"

"There is nothing to tell except what you know," said Milly, making an effort to command herself. "But, sometimes, when I think of it all, I can't help giving way. I did not mean you to see it though, miss."

"I have never asked you any questions, Milly, about all that happened after you left me, and I do not want to know more than you wish to tell me. But don't you think I might do something to place matters on a better footing, if I knew your circumstances a little better?"

"Oh, I could never—never tell you all!" said Milly hiding her face.

"Don't tell me all then. You have called yourself Mrs. Beadon so far. You have heard nothing of Mr. Beadon lately except what you told me the other day?"

"Only what Mr. Johnson said." Milly averted her head and looked at her child. "The name," she went on in a low voice, "the name—is not—not Beadon."

"Never mind the name. Perhaps it is as well that you should not tell me. When did you see him last?"

"In May."

"Never since May?"

"Not once." Milly hung her head and played with the ring on her finger. "He does not want to see me again!" she broke out almost bitterly.

"Perhaps it is better for you both that he should not. But I will not ask any more," said Lettice. "I can understand that it must be very painful, either to tell me your story or to conceal it."

"I hate to conceal it from you!" Milly said passionately. "Oh, I wish I had never seen him, and never listened to him! Yet it was my fault—I have nobody to blame but myself. I have never forgiven myself for deceiving you so!"

"Ah, if that were the worst, there would not be much to grieve about!"

"I almost think it is the worst. Miss Lettice, may I really tell you my story—all, at least, that it would be right for you to hear?"

"If you would like to tell me, do! Perhaps I can help you in some way when I know more."

"There are some things I should like you to understand," said Milly, hesitatingly, "though not because it will take away the blame from me—nothing can do that. When I first knew Mr. Beadon (I'll call him so, please), I was very giddy and foolish. I longed to see the world, and thought that all would go well with me then. I don't know where I picked up the idea, but I had read stories about beautiful women who had had wonderful good fortune, through nothing at all but their looks—and people had told me I was beautiful—and I was silly enough to think that I could do great things, as well as those I had read about. I suppose they must have been very clever and witty—or, perhaps, they had more luck. I wanted to be free and independent; and I am afraid I was ready to listen to any one who would flatter my vanity, as—as Mr. Beadon did."

"When did he first begin to say these things to you? Was it after you came to London?"

"Yes—not long after. He was above me in station, and very handsome, and proud; and when he began to speak to me, though I was all the time afraid of him, and uneasy when I spoke to him, my head was fairly turned. It shows I was not meant to shine in the world, or I should not have been so uneasy when I spoke to him. For some time he said nothing out of the way—only kind words and flattery; but when he found what I had set my heart on, he was always telling me that I was fit to be a great lady, and to make a noise in the world. That set me all on-fire, and I could not rest for thinking of what I might do if I could only find my way into society. It makes me mad to remember what a fool I was!

"But I was not quite bad, Miss Lettice. When he said that he would give me what I wanted—make me a lady, and all the rest of it—I shrank from doing what I knew to be wrong; or perhaps I was only afraid. At any rate, I would not listen to him. Then he declared that he loved me too well to let me go—and he asked me to be his wife."

"Oh!" said Lettice. It was an involuntary sound, and Milly scarcely heard it.

"If you knew," she said, "what a proud and dignified gentleman he was, you would laugh at me thinking that he really meant what he said, and believing that he would keep his word. But I did believe it, and I agreed at length to leave you and go away with him."

"Did you think that I should have anything to say against your marriage, Milly?" said Lettice, mournfully.

"I—I thought you might. And Mr. Beadon asked me not to mention it."

"Well!—and so you trusted him. And then, poor girl, your dream soon came to an end?"

"Not very soon. He kept his word——"

"What?"

"He married me, on the day when I left you. Not in a church, but somewhere—in Fulham, I think. It looked like a private house, but he said it was a registrar's. Oh, Miss Campion, are you ill?"

Lettice was holding her side. She had turned white, and her heart was throbbing painfully; but she soon overcame the feeling or at least concealed it.

"No. Go on—go on! He married you!"

"And we went on the Continent together. I was very happy for a time, so long as he seemed happy; but I could never shake off that uncomfortable fear in his presence. After a while we came back to London, and then I had to live alone, which of course I did not like. He had taken very nice rooms for me at Hampstead, where he used to come now and then; and he offered to bring some friends to visit me; but I did not want him to do that—I cared for nobody but him!"

"Poor Milly!" said Lettice, softly.

"I had been suspicious and uneasy for some time, especially when he told me I had better go to Birchmead and stay with my grandmother, as he was too busy to come and see me, and the rooms at Hampstead were expensive. So I went to Birchmead and told them that Mr. Beadon was abroad. He was not—he was in London—and I went up to see him every now and then; but I wanted to put the best face on everything. It would have been too hard to tell my grandmother that I did not think he cared for me."

She stopped and wiped the tears away from her eyes.

"There was worse than that," she said. "I began to believe that I was not his lawful wife, or he would not behave to me as he did. But I daren't ask, I was so afraid of him. And I felt as if I could not leave him, even if I was not his wife. That's where the badness of me came out, you see, Miss Lettice. I would have stayed with him to the end of my days, wife or no wife, if he had wanted me. But he tired of me very soon."

"Did he tell you so, Milly?"

"He wrote to me to go back to the Hampstead rooms, miss. And I thought that everything was going to be right between us. I had something to tell him which I thought would please him; and I hoped—I hoped—even if things had not been quite right about the marriage—that he would put them straight before my baby came. For the child's sake I thought maybe he wouldn't give me up. I had been dreadfully afraid; but when he sent for me to London again, I thought that he loved me still, and that we were going to have a happy time together.

"So I went to Hampstead; but he was not there. He sent his clerk instead—the man you saw me walking with the other day. And he told me that Mr.——Beadon did not wish to see me again, that I had been deceived by the mock marriage, and that he sent me twenty pounds, and I might have more by writing to his clerk. Not to him! I was never to see him or speak to him again."

"And what did you do then, Milly?"

"It was very hard for me. I fainted, and when I came to myself Mr. Johnson was gone, and the money was stuffed into my pocket. Perhaps it was mean of me to keep it, but I hadn't the heart or the spirit to send it back. I did not know what I should do without it, for I hadn't a penny of my own. I stayed for a little time at the Hampstead lodgings, but the landlady got an idea of the true state of things and abused me shamefully one day for having come into her house; so I was forced to go. I don't know what I should have done if I hadn't met Mr. Johnson in the street. He was really kind, though he doesn't look as if he would be. He told me of nice cheap lodgings, and of some one who would look after me; and he offered me money, but I wouldn't take it."

"How long did your money last?"

"It was all gone before baby came. I lived on the dresses and presents that Mr. Beadon had given me. I heard nothing from Birchmead—I did not know that my grandmother was dead, and I used to think sometimes that I would go to her; but I did not dare. I knew that it would break her heart to see me as I was."

"Poor girl!" said Lettice again, below her breath.

"You must despise me!" cried Milly, bursting into tears. "And you would despise me still more—if I told you—everything."

"No, Milly, it is not for me to despise you. I am very, very sorry for you. You have suffered a great deal, for what was not all your fault."

"Yes, I have suffered, Miss Lettice—more than I can tell you. I had a terrible time when my baby was born. I had a fever too, and lost my hair; and when I recovered I had nothing left. I did not know what to do. I thought of throwing myself into the river; and I think I should have done it when I came to Birchmead and found that grandmother was dead, if it had not been for you. You found me in the garden that night, just as I had made up my mind. There's a place across the meadows where one could easily get into a deep pool under the river-bank, and never come out again. That was where I meant to go."

"No wonder you have looked so ill and worn," said Lettice, compassionately. "What you must have endured before you brought yourself to that! Well, it is all over now, and you must live for the future. Put the past behind you; forget it—think of it only with sorrow for your mistakes, and a determination to use them so that your child shall be better guarded than you have been. You and your baby have your own lives to live—good and useful lives they may be yet. No one would blame you if they knew your story, and there is no reason why you should be afraid. I will always be your friend, Milly, if you will work and strive—it is the only way in which you can regain and keep your self-respect."

Milly bent her head and kissed Lettice's hand with another outburst of tears. But they were tears of gratitude, and Lettice did not try to check them now.

Whilst they were still sitting thus, side by side, the servant knocked at the door with a message for her mistress; and her voice broke strangely through the sympathetic silence that had been for some time maintained between mistress and maid.

"Mr. Campion wishes to see you, ma'am."

Lettice felt the face which still rested on her hand flush with sudden heat; but when Milly raised it it was as white as snow. The baby in its cradle stirred and began to wake.

"I will come at once, Mrs. Jermy," said Lettice.

"Milly, you had better finish your work here, and let me give baby to Mrs. Jermy for a few minutes. She will be quite good if I take her downstairs."

She did not look at Milly as she spoke; or, if she did, she paid no heed to the mute pain and deprecation in the mother's eyes. Folding the baby in the white shawl that had covered it, she took it in her arms, and with slow, almost reluctant steps, went down to meet her brother.

Sydney had come upon what he felt to be a painful errand.

Although the session had begun, and the House of Commons was already hard at work on a vain attempt to thresh out the question of Parliamentary Procedure, he was not yet able to devote himself to the urgent affairs of the nation, or to seek an opening for that eloquent and fiery speech which he had elaborated in the intervals of his autumn rest. Before he could set his mind to these things there was an equally urgent question of domestic procedure which it was necessary for him to arrange—a question for which he had been more or less prepared ever since he heard of the flight of Lettice from Florence, but which had assumed the gravest possible importance within the last few hours.

A terrible and incredible thing had come to the knowledge of Sydney Campion. That morning he had looked in at his chambers in the Temple, and he had found there, amongst other letters, one written about three weeks before by Cora Walcott, which had made his blood run cold.

This letter had exasperated Sydney beyond endurance. He did not know Lettice's address; but, thinking it possible that Mrs. Graham might have it, he went the same afternoon to Edwardes Square. Clara, being at home, was able, though in some trepidation, to tell him what he wanted; and thus it was that he found himself at Bute Lodge.

Lettice came into the room where he had been waiting, intrepid, and yet boding something which could not be entirely pleasant for him, and might be very much the reverse. She did not want to quarrel with Sydney—she had made many efforts in the past to please him, without much effect, and had been pained by the increasing interval which separated them from each other. But she believed that to earn his good word would imply the forsaking of nearly all that she valued, and the bowing down to images which she could not respect; and therefore she was content that his good word should be a thing beyond her reach.

She carried the baby on her left arm, and held out her right to Sydney. He barely touched her fingers.

"You are back again," she said. "I hope you had a pleasant time, and that your wife is well."

"She is pretty well, thank you. We should have gone on to Florence if you had remained there, as we expected. You have taken your fate in your hands, Lettice, and cut yourself adrift from those who care for you!"

"Not willingly, Sydney. You might believe that at every step I have done what seemed to be my duty."

"How can one believe that? I only wish I could. Read this letter!"

She looked at him first, and her eyes flashed at his expression of unbelief. She drew herself up as she took Cora's letter in her hands, and read it through with a curl of contempt upon her lips. Then she dropped the paper, and, clasping Milly's child to her breast, looked long and steadily at her brother.

"Why did you give me that to read?" she said quietly.

"There could be only one reason," he replied; "to ask you if it is true?"

"You ask me? You expect an answer?"

"I don't see why you should object to say 'yes' or 'no' to a charge which, if true, must destroy all brotherly and sisterly feeling between us."

"But you are my brother! Ask me your own questions, and I will answer. I will not answer that woman's!"

She stood in front of him, by far the more proud and dignified of the two, and waited for him to begin.

"Did you bring that man with you here from the prison?"

"I brought Mr. Walcott here."

"And is he here now?"

"Yes."

"What more is there to be said? Wretched woman, it is well for you that your parents are beyond the reach of this disgrace!"

Whether he meant it or not, he pointed, as he spoke, to the infant in her arms.

Lettice heard a step outside. She went to the door, and spoke in a low voice to Mrs. Jenny. Then she came back again, and said,

"What do you mean, Sydney, by 'this disgrace'?"

"Can you say one word to palliate what you have already admitted? Can you deny the facts which speak for themselves? Great Heaven! that such a shameful thing should fall upon us! The name of Campion has indeed been dragged through the mire of calumny, but never until now has so dark a stain been cast upon it!"

Theatrical in his words, Sydney was even more theatrical in his action. He stood on the hearth-rug, raised his hands in horror, and bowed his head in grief and self-pity.

"You pointed at the child just now," said Lettice, steadily; "what do you mean by that?"

"Do not ask me what I mean. Is not its very existence an indelible disgrace?"

"Perhaps it is," she said, kissing the little face which was blinking and smiling at her. "But to whom?"

"To whom!" Sydney cried, with more of real indignation and anger in his voice. "To its miserable mother—to its unscrupulous and villainous father!"

Lettice's keen ears caught the sound of light and hesitating footsteps in the passage outside. She opened the door quickly, and drew in the unfortunate Milly.

Sydney started back, and leaned for support upon the mantelpiece behind him. His face turned white to the very lips.

"Milly," said the remorseless Lettice, "tell Mr. Campion who is the father of this child!"

The poor mother who had been looking at her mistress in mute appeal, turned her timid eyes on Sydney's face, then sank upon the floor in an agony of unrestrained weeping.

Except for that sound of passionate weeping, there was complete silence in the room for two or three minutes, whilst Sydney's better and worse self strove together for the mastery.

"Milly!" he ejaculated at last, in a hoarse undertone, "I did not know! Good God, I did not know."

Then, to his sister—"Leave us alone."

So Lettice went out, but before she went she saw him stride across the floor to Milly and bend above her as if to raise and perhaps to comfort her. He did not ask to see his sister again. In a short ten minutes, she saw him walking hastily across the Common to the station, and she noticed that his head was bent, and that the spring, the confidence of his usual gait and manner had deserted him. Milly locked herself with her baby in her room, and sobbed until she was quieted by sheer exhaustion.

But there was on her face next day a look of peace and quietude which Lettice had never seen before. She said not a word about her interview, and Lettice never knew what had passed between her brother and the woman whom he had wronged. But she thought sometimes, in after years, that the extreme of self-abasement in man or woman may prove, to natures not radically bad or hopelessly weak, a turning-point from which to date their best and most persistent efforts.