In the little drawing-room at ForkÉd Pond Catharine and Mary Elsmere were sitting at work. Mary was embroidering a curtain in a flowing Venetian pattern—with a handful of withered leaves lying beside her to which she occasionally matched her silks. Catharine was knitting. Outside the rain was howling through the trees; the windows streamed with it. But within, the bright wood-fire threw a pleasant glow over the simple room, and the figures of the two ladies. Mary's trim jacket and skirt of prune-coloured serge, with its white blouse fitting daintily to throat and wrist, seemed by its neatness to emphasize the rebellious masses and the fare colour of her hair. She knew that her hair was beautiful, and it gave her a pleasure she could not help, though she belonged to that type of Englishwoman, not yet nearly so uncommon as modern newspapers and books would have us believe, who think as little as they can of personal adornment and their own appearance, in the interests of some hidden ideal that "haunts them like a passion; of which even the most innocent vanity seems to make them unworthy."

In these feelings and instincts she was, of course, her mother's daughter. Catharine Elsmere's black dress of some plain woollen stuff could not have been plainer, and she wore the straight collar and cuffs, and—on her nearly white hair—the simple cap of her widowhood. But the spiritual beauty which had always been hers was hers still. One might guess that she, too, knew it; that in her efforts to save persons in sin or suffering she must have known what it was worth to her; what the gift of lovely line and presence is worth to any human being. But if she had been made to feel this—passingly, involuntarily—she had certainly shrunk from feeling it.

Mary put her embroidery away, made up the fire, and sat down on a stool at her mother's feet.

"Darling, how many socks have you knitted since we came here? Enough to stock a shop?"

"On the contrary. I have been very idle," laughed Catharine, putting her knitting away. "How long is it? Four months?" she sighed.

"It has done you good?—yes, it has!" Mary looked at her closely.

"Then why don't you let me go back to my work?—tyrant!" said Catharine, stroking the red-gold hair.

"Because the doctor said 'March'—and you sha'n't be allowed to put your feet in London a day earlier," said Mary, laying her head on Catharine's knee. "You needn't grumble. Next week you'll have your fells and your becks—as much Westmoreland as ever you want. Only ten days more here," and this time it was Mary who sighed, deeply, unconsciously.

The face above her changed—unseen by Mary.

"You've liked being here?"

"Yes—very much."

"It's a dear little house, and the woods are beautiful."

"Yes. And—I've made a new friend."

"You like Miss Puttenham so much?"

"More than anybody I have seen for years," said Mary, raising herself and speaking with energy; "but, oh dear, I wish I could do something for her!"

Catharine moved uneasily.

"Do what?"

"Comfort her—help her—make her tell me what's the matter."

"You think she's unhappy?"

Mary propped her chin on her hand, and looked into the fire.

"I wonder whether she's ever had any real joy—a week's—a day's—happiness—in her life?"

[Illustration: "'I wonder whether she's ever had any real joy—a week's—a day's—happiness—in her life?'"]

She said it musingly but intensely. Catharine did not know how to answer her. All the day long, and a good deal of the night, she had been debating with herself what to do—toward Mary. Mary was no longer a child. She was a woman, of nearly six and twenty, strong in character, and accustomed of late to go with her mother into many of the dark places of London life. The betrayal—which could not be hidden from her—of a young servant girl in their employ, the year before, and the fierce tenderness with which Mary had thrown herself into the saving of the girl and her child, had brought about—Catharine knew it—a great deepening and overshadowing of her youth. Catharine had in some ways regretted it bitterly; for she belonged to that older generation which believed—and were amply justified in believing—that it is well for the young to be ignorant, so long as they can be ignorant, of the ugly and tragic things of sex. It was not that her Mary seemed to her in the smallest degree besmirched by the experience she had passed through; that any bloom had been shaken from the flower. Far from it. It was rather that some touch of careless joy was gone forever from her child's life; and how that may hurt a mother, only those know who have wept in secret hours over the first ebbing of youth in a young face.

So that she received Mary's outburst in silence. For she said to herself that she could have no right to reveal Alice Puttenham's secret, even to Mary. That cruel tongues should at that moment be making free with it burnt like a constant smart in Catharine's mind. Was the poor thing herself aware of it?—could it be kept from her? If not, Mary must know—would know—sooner or later. "But for me to tell her without permission"—thought Catharine firmly—"would not be right—or just. Besides, I know nothing—directly."

As to the other and profounder difficulty involved, Catharine wavered perpetually between two different poles of feeling. The incidents of the preceding weeks had made it plain that her resistance to Meynell's influence with Mary had strangely and suddenly broken down. Owing to an experience of which she had not yet spoken to Mary, her inner will had given way. She saw with painful clearness what was coming; she was blind to none of the signs of advancing love; and she felt herself powerless. An intimation had been given her—so it seemed to her—to which she submitted. Her submission had cost her tears often, at night, when there was no one to see. And yet it had brought her also a strange happiness—like all such yieldings of soul.

But if she had yielded, if there was in her a reluctant practical certainty that Mary would some day be Meynell's wife, then her conscience, which was that of a woman who had passionately loved her husband, began to ask: "Ought she not to be standing by him in this trouble? If we keep it all from her, and he suffers and perhaps breaks down, when she might have sustained him, will she not reproach us? Should I not have bitterly reproached any one who had kept me from helping Robert in such a case?"

A state of mind, it will be seen, into which there entered not a trace of ordinary calculations. It did not occur to her that Mary might be injured in the world's eyes by publicly linking herself with a man under a cloud. Catharine, whose temptation to "scruple" in the religious sense was constant and tormenting, who recoiled in horror from what to others were the merest venial offences, in this connection asked one thing only. Where Barron had argued that an unbeliever must necessarily have a carnal mind, Catharine had simply assured herself at once by an unfailing instinct that the mind was noble and the temper pure. In those matters she was not to be deceived; she knew.

That being so, and if her own passionate objections to the marriage were to be put aside, then she could only judge for Mary as she would judge for herself. Not to love—not to comfort—could there be—for Love—any greater wound, any greater privation? She shrank, in a kind of terror, from inflicting it on Mary—Mary, unconscious and unknowing.

… The soft chatter of the fire, the plashing of the rain, filled the room with the atmosphere of reverie. Catharine's thoughts passed from her obligations toward Mary to grapple anxiously with those she might be under toward Meynell himself. The mere possession of the anonymous letter—and Flaxman had not given her leave to destroy it—weighed upon her conscience. It seemed to her she ought not to possess it; and she had been only half convinced by Flaxman's arguments for delay. She was rapidly coming to the belief that it should have been handed instantly to the Rector.

A step outside.

"Uncle Hugh!" said Mary, springing up. "I'll go and see if there are any scones for tea!" And she vanished into the kitchen, while Catharine admitted her brother-in-law.

"Meynell is to join me here in an hour or so," he said, as he followed her into the little sitting-room. Catharine closed the door, and looked at him anxiously. He lowered his voice.

"Barron called on him this morning—had only just gone when I arrived. Meynell has seen the letter to Dawes. I informed him of the letter to you, and I think he would like to have some talk with you."

Catharine's face showed her relief.

"Oh, I am glad—I am glad he knows!"—she said, with emphasis. "We were wrong to delay."

"He told me nothing—and I asked nothing. But, of course, what the situation implies is unfortunately clear enough!—no need to talk of it. He won't and he can't vindicate himself, except by a simple denial. At any ordinary time that would be enough. But now—with all the hot feeling there is on the other subject—and the natural desire to discredit him—" Flaxman shrugged his shoulders despondently. "Rose's maid—you know the dear old thing she is—came to her last night, in utter distress about the talk in the village. There was a journalist here, a reporter from one of the papers that have been opposing Meynell most actively—"

"They are quite right to oppose him," interrupted Catharine quickly. Her face had stiffened.

"Perfectly! But you see the temptation?"

Catharine admitted it. She stood by the window looking out into the rain. And as she did so she became aware of a figure—the slight figure of a woman—walking fast toward the cottage along the narrow grass causeway that ran between the two ponds. On either side of the woman the autumn trees swayed and bent under the rising storm, and every now and then a mist of scudding leaves almost effaced her. She seemed to be breathlessly struggling with the wind as she sped onward, and in her whole aspect there was an indescribable forlornness and terror.

Catharine peered into the rain….

"Hugh!"—She turned swiftly to her brother-in-law—"There is some one coming to see me. Will you go?"—she pointed to the garden door on the farther side of the drawing-room—"and will you take Mary? Go round to the back. You know the old summer-house at the end of the wood-walk. We have often sheltered there from rain. Or there's the keeper's cottage a little farther on. I know Mary wanted to go there this afternoon. Please, dear Hugh!"

He looked at her in astonishment. Then through the large French window he too saw the advancing form. In an instant he had disappeared by the garden door. Catharine went into the hall, opened the door of the kitchen and beckoned to Mary, who was standing there with their little maid. "Don't come back just yet, darling!" she said in her ear—"Get your things on, and go with Uncle Hugh. I want to be alone."

Mary stepped back bewildered, and Catharine shut her in. Then she went back to the hall, just as a bell rang faintly.

"Is Mrs. Elsmere—"

Then as the visitor saw Catharine herself standing in the open doorway, she said with broken breath: "Can I come in—can I see you?"

Catharine drew her in.

* * * * *

"Dear Miss Puttenham!—how tired you are—and how wet! Let me take the cloak off."

And as she drew off the soaked waterproof, Catharine felt the trembling of the slight frame beneath.

"Come and sit by the fire," she said tenderly.

Alice sank into the chair that was offered her, her eyes fixed on Catharine. Every feature in the delicate oval face was pinched and drawn. The struggle with wild weather had drained the lips and the cheeks of colour, and her brown hair under her serge cap fell limply about her small ears and neck. She was an image not so much of grief as of some unendurable distress.

Catharine began to chafe her hands—but Alice stopped her—

"I am not cold—oh no, I'm not cold. Dear Mrs. Elsmere! You must think it so strange of me to come to you in this way. But I am in trouble—such great trouble—and I don't know what to do. Then I thought I'd come to you. You—you always seem to me so kind—you won't despise—or repulse me—I know you won't!"

Her voice sank to a whisper. Catharine took the two icy hands in her warm grasp.

"Tell me if there is anything I can do to help you."

"I—I want to tell you. You may be angry—because I've been Mary's friend—when I'd no right. I'm not what you think. I—I have a secret—or—I had. And now it's discovered—and I don't know what I shall do—it's so awful—so awful!"

Her head dropped on the chair behind her—and her eyes closed. Catharine, kneeling beside her, bent forward and kissed her.

"Won't you tell me?" she said, gently.

Alice was silent a moment. Then she suddenly opened her eyes—and spoke in a whisper.

"I—I was never married. But Hester Fox-Wilton's—my child!"

The tears came streaming from her eyes. They stood in Catharine's.

"You poor thing!" said Catharine brokenly, and raising one of the cold hands, she pressed it to her lips.

But Alice suddenly raised herself.

"You knew!"—she said—"You knew!" And her eyes, full of fear, stared into Catharine's. Then as Catharine did not speak immediately she went on with growing agitation, "You've heard—what everybody's saying? Oh! I don't know how I can face it. I often thought it would come—some time. And ever since that woman—since Judith—came home—it's been a nightmare. For I felt certain she'd come home because she was angry with us—and that she'd said something—before she died. Then nothing happened—and I've tried to think—lately—it was all right. But last night—"

She paused for self-control. Catharine was alarmed by her state—by its anguish, its excitement. It required an effort of her whole being before the sufferer could recover voice and breath, before she hurried on, holding Catharine's hands, and looking piteously into her face.

"Last night a woman came to see me—an old servant of mine who's nursed me sometimes—when I've been ill. She loves me—she's good to me. And she came to tell me what people were saying in the village—how there were letters going round, about me—and Hester—how everybody knew—and they were talking in the public-houses. She thought I ought to know—she cried—and wanted me to deny it. And of course I denied it—I was fierce to her—but it's true!"

She paused a moment, her pale lips moving soundlessly, unconsciously.

"I—I'll tell you about that presently. But the awful thing was—she said people were saying—that the Rector—that Mr. Meynell—was Hester's father—and Judith Sabin had told Mr. Barron so before her death. And they declared the Bishop would make him resign—and give up his living. It would be such a scandal, she said—it might even break up the League. And it would ruin Mr. Meynell, so people thought. Of course there were many people who were angry—who didn't believe a word—but this woman who told me was astonished that so many did believe…. So then I thought all night—what I should do. And this morning I went to Edith, my sister, and told her. And she went into hysterics, and said she always knew I should bring disgrace on them in the end—and her life had been a burden to her for eighteen years—oh! that's what she says to me so often! But the strange thing was she wanted to make me promise I would say nothing—not a word. We were to go abroad, and the thing would die away. And then—"

She withdrew her hands from Catharine, and rising to her feet she pressed the damp hair back from her face, and began to pace the room—unconsciously—still talking.

"I asked her what was to happen about Richard—about the Rector. I said he must bring an action, and I would give evidence—it must all come out. And then she fell upon me—and said I was an ungrateful wretch. My sin had spoilt her life—and Ralph's. They had done all they could—and now the publicity—if I insisted—would disgrace them all—and ruin the girls' chances of marrying, and I don't know what besides. But if I held my tongue—we could go away for a time—it would be forgotten, and nobody out of Upcote need ever hear of it. People would never believe such a thing of Richard Meynell. Of course he would deny it—and of course his word would be taken. But to bring out the whole story in a law-court—"

She paused beside Catharine, wringing her hands, gathering up as it were her whole strength to pour it—slowly, deliberately—into the words that followed:

"But I—will run no risk of ruining Richard Meynell! As for me—what does it matter what happens to me! And darling Hester!—we could keep it from her—we would! She and I could live abroad. And I don't see how it could disgrace Edith and the girls—people would only say she and Ralph had been very good to me. But Richard Meynell!—with these trials coming on—and all the excitement about him—there'll be ever so many who would be wild to believe it! They won't care how absurd it is—they'll want to crush him! And he—he'll never say a word for himself—to explain—never! Because he couldn't without telling all my story. And that—do you suppose Richard Meynell would ever do that?—to any poor human soul that had trusted him?"

The colour had rushed back into her cheeks; she held herself erect, transfigured by the emotion that possessed her. Catharine looked at her in doubt—trouble—amazement. And then, her pure sense divined something—dimly—of what the full history of this soul had been; and her heart melted. She put out her hands and drew the speaker down again into the seat beside her.

"I think you'll have to let him decide that for you. He's a strong man—and a wise man. He'll judge what's right. And I ought to warn you that he'll be here probably—very soon. He wanted to see me."

Alice opened her startled eyes.

"About this? To see you? I don't understand."

"I had one of these letters—these wicked letters," said Catharine reluctantly.

Alice shrank and trembled. "It's terrible!"—her voice was scarcely to be heard. "Who is it hates me so?—or Richard?"

There was silence a moment. And in the pause the stress and tumult of nature without, the beating of the wind, and the plashing of the rain, seemed to be rushing headlong through the little room. But neither Catharine nor Alice was aware of it, except in so far as it played obscurely on Alice's tortured nerves, fevering and goading them the more. Catharine's gaze was bent on her companion; her mind was full of projects of help, which were also prayers; moments in that ceaseless dialogue with a Greater than itself, which makes the life of the Christian. And it was as though, by some secret influence, her prayers worked on Alice; for presently she turned in order that she might look straight into the face beside her.

"I'd like to tell you"—she said faintly—"oh—I'd like to tell you!"

"Tell me anything you will."

"It was when I was so young—just eighteen—like Hester. Oh! but you don't know about Neville—no one does now. People seem all to have forgotten him. But he came into his property here—the Abbey—the old Abbey—just when I was growing up. I saw him here first—but only once or twice. Then we met in Scotland. I was staying at a house near his shooting. And we fell in love. Oh, I knew he was married!—I can never say that I didn't know, even at the beginning. But his wife was so cruel to him—he was very, very unhappy. She couldn't understand him—or make allowances for him—she despised him, and wouldn't live with him. He was miserable—and so was I. My father and mother were dead! I had to live with Ralph and Edith; and they always made me feel that I was in their way. It wasn't their fault!—I was in the way. And then Neville came. He was so handsome, and so clever—so winning and dear—he could do everything. I was staying with some old cousins in Rossshire, who used to ask me now and then. There were no young people in the house. My cousins were quite kind to me, but I spent a great deal of time alone—and Neville and I got into a way of meeting—in lonely places—on the moors. No one found out. He taught me everything I ever knew, almost. He gave me books—and read to me. He was sorry for me—and at last—he loved me! And we never looked ahead. Then—in one week—everything happened together. I had to go home. He talked of going to Sandford, and implored me still to meet him. And I thought how Ralph and Edith would watch us, and spy upon us, and I implored him never to go to Sandford when I was at Upcote. We must meet at other places. And he agreed. Then the day came for me to go south. I travelled by myself—and he rode twenty miles to a junction station and joined me. Then we travelled all day together."

Her voice failed her. She pressed her thin hands together under the onset of memory, and that old conquered anguish which in spite of all the life that had been lived since still smouldered amid the roots of being.

"I may tell you?" she said at last, with a piteous look. Catharine bent over her.

"Anything that will help you. Only remember I don't ask or expect you to say anything."

"I ought"—said Alice miserably—"I ought—because of Mary."

Catharine was silent. She only pressed the hand she held. Alice resumed:

"It was a day that decided all my life. We were so wretched. We thought we could never meet again—it seemed as though we were both—with every station we passed—coming nearer to something like death—something worse than death. Then—before we got to Euston—I couldn't bear it—I—I gave way. We sent a telegram from Euston to Edith that I was going to stay with a school friend in Cornwall—and that night we crossed to Paris—"

She covered her face with her hands a moment; then went on more calmly:

"You'll guess all the rest. I was a fortnight with him in Paris. Then I went home. In a few weeks Edith guessed—and so did Judith Sabin, who was Edith's maid. Edith made me tell her everything. She and Ralph were nearly beside themselves. They were very strict in those days; Ralph was a great Evangelical, and used to speak at the May meetings. All his party looked up to him so—and consulted him. It was a fearful blow to him. But Edith thought of what to do—and she made him agree. We went abroad, she and I—with Judith. It was given out that Edith was delicate, and must have a year away. We stopped about in little mountain places—and Hester was born at Grenoble. And then for the last and only time, they let Neville come to see me—"

Her voice sank. She could only go on in a whisper.

"Three weeks later he was drowned on the Donegal coast. It was called an accident—but it wasn't. He had hoped and hoped to get his wife to divorce him—and make amends. And when Mrs. Flood's—his wife's—final letter came—she was a Catholic and nothing would induce her—he just took his boat out in a storm, and never came back—"

The story lost itself in a long sobbing sigh that came from the depths of life. When she spoke again it was with more strength:

"But he had written the night before to Richard—Richard Meynell. You know he was the Rector's uncle, though he was only seven years older? I had never seen Richard then. But I had often heard of him from Neville. Neville had taken a great fancy to him a year or two before, when Richard was still at college, and Neville was in the Guards. They used to talk of religion and philosophy. Neville was a great reader always—and they became great friends. So on his last night he wrote to Richard, telling him everything, and asking him to be kind to me—and Hester. And Richard—who had just been appointed to the living here—came out to the Riviera, and brought me the letter—and the little book that was in his pocket—when they found him. So you see …"

She spoke with fluttering colour and voice, as though to find words at all were a matter of infinite difficulty:

"You see that was how Richard came to take an interest in us—in Hester and me—how he came to be the friend too of Ralph and Edith. Poor Ralph!—Ralph was often hard to me, but he meant kindly—he would never have got through at all but for Richard. If Richard was away for a week, he used to fret. That was eighteen years ago—and I too should never have had any peace—any comfort in life again—but for Richard. He found somebody to live with me abroad for those first years, and then, when I came back to Upcote, he made Ralph and Edith consent to my living in that little house by myself—with my chaperon. He would have preferred—indeed he urged it—that I should go on living abroad. But there was Hester!—and I knew by that time that none of them had the least bit of love for her!—she was a burden to them all. I couldn't leave her to them—I couldn't!… Oh! they were terrible, those years!" And again she caught Catharine's hands and held them tight. "You see, I was so young—not much over twenty—and nobody suspected anything. Nobody in the world knew anything—except Judith Sabin, who was in America, and she never knew who Hester's father was—and my own people—and Richard! Richard taught me how to bear it—oh! not in words—for he never preached to me—but by his life. I couldn't have lived at all—but for him. And now you see—you see—how I am paying him back!"

And again, as the rush of emotion came upon her, she threw herself into a wild pleading, as though the gray-haired woman beside her were thwarting and opposing her.

"How can I let my story—my wretched story—ruin his life—and all his work? I can't—I can't! I came to you because you won't look at it as Edith does. You'll think of what's right—right to others. Last night I thought one must die of—misery. I suppose people would call it shame. It seemed to me I heard what they were all saying in the village—how they were gloating over it—after all these years. It seemed to strip one of all self-respect—all decency. And to-day I don't care about that! I care only that Richard shouldn't suffer because of what he did for me—and because of me. Oh! do help me, do advise me! Your look—your manner—have often made me want to come and tell you"—her voice was broken now with stifled sobs—"like a child—a child. Dear Mrs. Elsmere!—what ought I to do?"

And she raised imploring eyes to the face beside her, so finely worn with living and with human service.

"You must think first of Hester," said Catharine, with gentle steadiness, putting her arm round the bent shoulders. "I am sure the Rector would tell you that. She is your first—your sacredest duty."

Alice Puttenham shivered as though something in Catharine's tender voice reproached her.

"Oh, I know—my poor Hester! My life has set hers all wrong. Wouldn't it have been better to face it all from the beginning—to tell the truth—wouldn't it?" She asked it piteously.

"It might have been. But the other way was chosen; and now to undo it—publicly—affects not you only, but Hester. It mayn't be possible—it mayn't be right."

"I must!—I must!" said Alice impetuously, and rising to her feet she began to pace the room again with wild steps, her hands behind her, her slender form drawn tensely to its height.

At that moment Catharine became aware of some one standing in the porch just beyond the drawing-room of the tiny cottage.

"This may be Mr. Meynell." She rose to admit him.

Alice stood expectant. Her outward agitation disappeared. Some murmured conversation passed between the two persons in the little hall. Then Catharine came in again, followed by Meynell, who closed the door, and stood looking sadly at the pale woman confronting him.

"So they haven't spared even you?" he said at last, in a voice bitterly subdued. "But don't be too unhappy. It wants courage and wisdom on our part. But it will all pass away."

He quietly pushed a chair toward Alice, and then took off his dripping cloak, carried it into the passage outside, and returned.

"Don't go, Mrs. Elsmere," he said, as he perceived Catharine's uncertainty. "Stay and help us, if you will."

Catharine submitted. She took her accustomed seat by the fire; Alice, or the ghost of Alice, sat opposite to her, in Mary's chair, surrounded by Mary's embroidery things; and Meynell was between them.

He looked from one to the other, and there was something in his aspect which restrained Alice's agitation, and answered at once to some high expectation in Catharine.

"I know, Mrs. Elsmere, that you have received one of the anonymous letters that are being circulated in this neighbourhood, and I presume also—from what I see—that Miss Puttenham has given you her confidence. We must think calmly what is best to do. Now—the first person who must be in all our minds—is Hester."

He bent forward, looking into Alice's face, without visible emotion; rather with the air of peremptory common sense which had so often helped her through the difficulties of her life.

She sat drooping, her head on her hand, making no sign.

"Let us remember these facts," he resumed. "Hester is in a critical state of life and mind. She imagines herself to be in love with my cousin Philip Meryon, a worthless man, without an ounce of conscience where women are concerned, who, in my strong belief, is already married under the ambiguities of Scotch law, though his wife, if she is his wife, left him some years ago, detests him, and has never been acknowledged. I have convinced him at last—this morning—that I mean to bring this home to him. But that does not dispose of the thing—finally. Hester is in danger—in danger from herself. She is at war with her family—with the world. She believes nobody loves her—that she is and always has been a pariah at home—and with her temperament she is in a mood for desperate things. Tell her now that she is illegitimate—let your sister Edith go talking to her about 'disgrace'—and there is no saying what will happen. She will say—and think—that she has no responsibilities, and may do what she pleases. There is no saying what she might do. We might have a tragedy that none of us could prevent."

Alice lifted her head.

"I could go away with her," she said, imploringly. "I could watch over her day and night. But let me put this thing straight now publicly. Indeed—indeed, it is time."

"You mean you wish to bring an action? In that case you would have to return to give evidence."

"Yes—for a short time. But that could be managed. She should never see the English papers—I could promise that."

"And what is to prevent Philip Meryon telling her? At present he is entirely ignorant of her parentage. I have convinced myself of that this morning. He has no dealings with the people here, nor they with him. What has been happening here has not reached him. And he is really off to-night. We must, of course, always take the risk of his knowing, and of his telling her. A libel action would convert that risk into a certainty. Would it not simply forward whatever designs he may have on her—for I do not believe for a moment he will abandon them—it will be a duel, rather, between him and us—would it not actually forward his designs—to tell her?"

Alice did not reply. She sat wringing her delicate hands in a silent desperation; while Catharine opposite was lost in the bewilderment of the situation—the insistence of the woman, the refusal of the man.

"My advice is this"—continued Meynell, still addressing Alice—"that you should take her to Paris tomorrow in my stead, and should stay near her for some months. Lady Fox-Wilton—whom I have just seen—she overtook me driving on the Markborough road half an hour ago, and we had some conversation—talks of taking a house at Tours for a year—an excellent thing—for them all. We don't want her on the spot any longer—we don't want any of them!" said the Rector, dismissing the Fox-Wilton family with an emphatic gesture which probably represented what he had gone through in the interview with Edith. … "In that way the thing will soon die down. There will be nobody here—nobody within reach—for the scoundrel who is writing these letters to attack—except, of course, myself—and I shall know how to deal with it. He will probably tire of the amusement. Other people will be ashamed of having read the letters and believed them. I even dare to hope that Mr. Barron—in time—may be ashamed."

Alice looked at him in tremulous despair.

"Nobody to attack!" she said—"nobody to attack! And you,
Richard—you?"

A dry smile flickered on his face.

"Leave that to me—I assure you you may leave it to me."

"Richard!" said Alice imploringly—"just think. I know what you say is very important—very true. But for me personally"—she looked round the room with wandering eyes; then found a sudden passionate gesture, pressing back the hair from her brow with both hands—"for me personally—to tell the truth—to face the truth—would be relief—infinite relief! It would kill the fear in which I have lived all these years—kill it forever. It would be better for all of us if we had told the truth—from the beginning. And as for Hester—she must know—you say yourself she must know before long—when she is of age—when she marries—"

Meynell's face took an unconscious hardness.

"Forgive me!—the matter must be left to me. The only person who could reasonably take legal action would be myself—and I shall not take it. I beg you, be advised by me." He bent forward again. "My dear friend!"—and now he spoke with emotion—"in your generous consideration for me you do not know what you are proposing—what an action in the courts would mean, especially at this moment. Think of the party spirit that would be brought into it—the venom—the prejudice—the base insinuations. No!—believe me—that is out of the question—for your sake—and Hester's."

"And your work—your influence?"

"If they suffer—they must suffer. But do not imagine that I shall not defend myself—and you—you above all—from calumny and lies. Of course I shall—in my own way."

There was silence—a dismal silence. At the end of it Meynell stretched out his hand to Alice with a smile. She placed her own in it, slowly, with a look which filled Catharine's eyes once more with tears.

"Trust me!" said Meynell, as he pressed the hand. "Indeed you may." Then he turned to Catharine Elsmere—

"I think Mrs. Elsmere is with me—that she approves?"

"With one reservation." The words came gravely, after a moment's doubt.

His eyes asked her to be frank.

"I think it would be possible—I think it would be just—if Miss Puttenham were to empower you to go to your Bishop. He too has rights!" said Catharine, her clear skin reddening.

Meynell paused: then spoke with hesitation.

"Yes—that I possibly might do—if you permit me?" He turned again to
Alice.

"Go to him—go to him at once!" she said with a sob she could not repress.

Another silence. Then Meynell walked to the window and looked at the weather.

"It is not raining so fast," he said in his cheerful voice. "Oughtn't you to be going home—getting ready and arranging with Hester? It's an awful business going abroad."

Alice rose silently. Catharine went into the kitchen to fetch the waterproof which had been drying.

Alice and Meynell were left alone.

She looked up.

"It is so hard to be hated!" she said passionately—"to see you hated. It seems to burn one's heart—the coarse and horrible things that are being said—"

He frowned and fidgeted—till the thought within forced its way:

"Christ was hated. Yet directly the least touch of it comes to us, we rebel—we cry out against God."

"It is because we are so weak—we are not Christ!" She covered her face with her hands.

"No—but we are his followers—if the Life that was in him is in us too. 'Life that in me has rest—as I—Undying Life—have power in Thee!'" He fell—murmuring—into lines that had evidently been in his thoughts, smiling upon her.

Then Catharine returned. Alice was warmly wrapped up, and Catharine took her to the door, leaving Meynell in the sitting-room.

"We will come and help you this evening—Mary and I," she said tenderly, as they stood together in the little passage.

"Mary?" Alice looked at her in a trembling uncertainty.

"Mary—of course."

Alice thought a moment, and then said with a low intensity, a force to which Catharine had no clue—"I want you—to tell her—the whole story. Will you?"

Catharine kissed her cheek in silence, and they parted.

* * * * *

Catharine went slowly back to the little sitting-room. Meynell was standing abstracted before the fire, his hands clasped in front of him, his head bent. Catharine approached him—drawing quick breath.

"Mr. Meynell—what shall I do—what do you wish me to do or say—with regard to my daughter?"

He turned—pale with amazement.

And so began what one may call—perhaps—the most romantic action of a noble life!