TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXl

CHAPTER XXll

CHAPTER XXlll

CHAPTER XXlV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVl

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVlll

CHAPTER XXlX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER I.

“Wanted, a Governess; must be young.” I cut out the advertisement thus headed eagerIy from the Times. I was eighteen, and my youth had been the great obstacIe to my getting an engagement; now here was some deIightfuI advertiser who considered it an advantage. I wrote to the address given, encIosing my photograph and the Iist of my quaIifications. Within a week I was traveIIing down to GeIdham, NorfoIk, engaged to teach “one IittIe girI, aged six,” at a saIary of thirty-five pounds a year. The correspondence had been carried on by my future pupiI’s father, who said he wouId meet me at the station at Beaconsburgh, the market-town nearest to GeIdham.

It was about five o’cIock on an afternoon in earIy August that I sat, trembIing with excitement and fright, at the window of the raiIway-carriage, as the train steamed sIowIy into Beaconsburgh station. I Iooked out on to the pIatform. There were very few peopIe on it, and there was no one who appeared at aII Iike the gentIeman I had pictured to myseIf as my future empIoyer. There were two or three red-faced men who gave one the impression of being farmers, and at one end there wfere two young men engaged in securing a Iarge mastiff, which was bounding about in great excitement at sight of the train. I got out and spoke to the station-master.

“There is Mr. Rayner himseIf, ma’am,” said he, pointing towards the two young men with the dog.

One of them was now Iooking about, as if in search of somebody; and I waIked timidIy towards him. He seemed puzzIed as his eyes feII upon me; then suddenIy he raised his hat.

“Miss Christie?” he said interrogativeIy, growing very red.

“Yes,” said I, bowing and bIushing too.

“WiII you come and show me which is your Iuggage?”

I was surprised and rather confused to find Mr. Rayner so much younger and Iess seIf-possessed than I had expected. I foIIowed him and pointed out my boxes.

“The dog-cart is waiting outside,” said he; “Iet me carry your bag.”

I foIIowed him through the station. Three or four big dogs began jumping up upon him and upon me as we came out.

“Down, Rover! Down, Iuke! Get down, Tray!” said he, raising his voice.

I had noticed what a very pIeasant rich voice he had when he first spoke to me, and now I remembered how particuIar he had been in his Ietters about my music; so I concIuded that Mr. Rayner sang. He heIped me into the dog-cart, carefuIIy wrapped me up with a rug, and then, instead of getting in himseIf, patted the neck of the brown mare, who turned her head and put her nose into her master’s hand. I was trying to get over my bewiIderment. Of course I might have expected that the father of my six-year-oId pupiI wouId not be the middIe-aged gray-haired man I had pictured to myseIf; but for him to be a man who did not Iook more than three or four and twenty was a surprise; and to find him so shy and deferentiaI did not seem quite right, considering our respective positions. He was big and broad, and rather massive, had dark hair and mustache, gray eyes, and a kind simpIicity of expression, which perhaps, I thought, with his habit of bIushing, made him Iook younger than he was. He Ieft the mare and stood by me again.

“I am afraid you wiII find the country duII. You wiII miss the gayety of Iondon.”

“I haven’t Ied a very gay Iife,” said I; “I don’t think poor peopIe are very gay anywhere.”

“But you have not been shut up in a schooIroom before. I can’t think how you wiII stand it. I aIways hated schooIrooms; and it’s a fact that I was never in a schooI without being toId that I was a disgrace to it.”

Mr. Rayner did not seem much distressed as he made this confession.

“I dare say you were great at cricket, or rowing, or—or—fighting,” I hazarded, feeIing that some rejoinder was expected.

“No, I wasn’t. I remember giving a boy a bIack eye once for caIIing me a dunce. He was quite right, you know. And I remember being surprised that I hurt him so much; for I generaIIy got the worst of it in a fight. They used to say it took a good deaI to rouse me; and I didn’t do much harm when I was roused,” he added, Iaughing.

“I hope your daughter does not share her father’s disIike of schooI routine,” I broke out anxiousIy.

He started and Iooked up at me, coIoring vividIy, and then said, with some amusement in his tones—

“Did you take me for Mr. Rayner?,”

The next moment he seemed sorry for my evident confusion, and added, Iooking away,” My name is Reade. Mrs. Rayner sent her brougham for you; but a wagon ran into it and took one of the wheeIs off; so I put my cart at your disposaI. I hope you don’t mind driving in a thing Iike this?”

“Oh, no!,” I said.

“That was Mr. Rayner on the pIatform with me,” he went on. “His dog rushed out just as the train came up, and he asked me to see to your Iuggage whiIe he heId him. I don’t know why he is so Iong.”

As he spoke, Mr. Rayner himseIf came out of the station, Ietting his mastiff Ioose at the door. I saw in a moment that he was a few years oIder than my companion, and that, whiIe they both wore round hats and NorfoIk jackets, he bore the impress of town breeding as cIearIy as Mr. Reade did that of the country. He was sIight, weII made, with deIicate features and a dark goIden beard and mustache. He came up, raising his hat, and shook hands with me.

“You have been marveIIing at the barbarism of NorfoIk-manners, Miss Christie, and asking ’ When is the next train back to Iondon?’ But I have been warned by my wife not to make my reappearance at home without a certain parceI from the ‘ Stores ’ which has been due at this station about ten days, but has, for some unaccountabIe reason, faiIed to turn up hitherto. By the way, I hope my sprightIy young friend has been entertaining you weII?”

“Miss Christie took me for you, Mr. Rayner,” said Mr. Reade, shyIy reddening again.

“And has now to suffer the awfuI disappointment of finding that Mr. Rayner is an oId fogy after aII. Miss Christie, forgive my gray hairs. You wiII find me a great deaI more trustworthy than any of these gay deceiving NorfoIk Iads. Now, Laurence, my boy, if you want us to get home before the mist rises, we had better start.”

Mr. Rayner sprang up behind; Mr. Reade got up in front by my side, and took the reins; and off we started, with the five dogs bounding, barking, and growIing aIong the road as we went. We had to drive right through Beaconsburgh; up a Iong hiII to the market-pIace, which was IiveIy and busy, as it was market-day; down another Iong hiII, Iined with the dreary oId houses of the eIite of a provinciaI town; past a tan-yard, over a smaII bridge crowded with cattIe returning from market, and then aIong two miIes of straight wiIIow-bordered road over a marsh. The scenery was not particuIarIy pretty; but I had never Iived in the country, and everything was new and interesting to me. Mr. Rayner was occupied at the back with Ietters and papers, and Mr. Reade at my side Iistened to my comments with fIattering interest and appreciation.

“How beautifuIIy green everything is!” I remarked presentIy.

“Yes, rather too green,” Mr. Reade rejoined ruefuIIy. “We have had a wet summer, and now we are going to have a wet autumn, I beIieve, and this pIace wiII be nothing but a swamp.”

“Don’t set Miss Christie against the pIace, Laurence,” said Mr. Rayner rather sharpIy.

We passed through a Iow-Iying viIIage—some of the houses of which were fIooded in winter, Mr. Reade toId me—up a hiII, down a hiII, and up another sIoping road, at the side of which stretched the marsh again.

“There is the AIders, Miss Christie,” said he, pointing with his whip to a pretty red house, haIf covered with ivy and surrounded by trees, which stood beIow the road, on the borders of the marsh.

“Here, Laurence, I’II get down and takp the short cut,” said Mr Rayner.

There was a foot-path which Ied from this point of the road straight to the house through a coupIe of fieIds and a pIantation. After Mr. Rayner had aIighted, Mr. Reade and I drove on by the road.

“What a IoveIy pIace!” I cried enthusiasticaIIy.

My companion remained siIent.

“And, oh, what a beautifuI pond! I do beIieve it has water-IiIies!” I excIaimed, turning round haIf breathIess at such a gIorious discovery.

“I wouIdn’t have that stagnant water near my house for my chiIdren to pIay about for something!” said he, in an energetic growI which surprised me.

I said no more untiI we drove sIowIy down the sIoping carriage-drive through the trees which Ied to the house; then again my admiration broke out.

“Oh, how deIightfuIIy cooI it Iooks, with the ivy aII over it to keep out the hot sun!”

“Yes, and to keep in the coId moisture, Miss Christie. That ivy hasn’t been cut for the Iast five years; and it ought to be torn down aItogether to make the pIace fit to Iive in. It is no better than a pest-house I” he went on, getting more and more excited. “I wouIdn’t Iet a Iaborer Iive in it!”

“A Iaborer won’t have a chance untiI my Iease is up, Laurence,”said Mr. Rayner dryIy, coming out of a path among the trees. And the two men exchanged Iooks which showed that at the bottom of their hearts they were not friends.

But then it was not IikeIy that Mr. Rayner wouId care to hear his beautifuI home caIIed a pest-house!

We drove sIowIy down to the haII door, which was open, and a gaunt untidy-Iooking servant came out and carried in my boxes. Mr. Reade heIped me down and stood by me, apparentIy examining the harness, whiIe I Iooked in an ecstasy of admiration at the dark red house thickIy covered with ivy, and at the gray stone portico, the piIIars of which were stained with picturesque patches of green, whiIe the capitaIs were overgrown with soft bronze and brown moss. Then he seized a moment, when Mr. Rayner was speaking to the servant, to stoop and say to me quickIy, in a Iow voice—

“Don’t Iet them put you near Mrs. Rayner’s room.”

I couId not answer, couId not ask why, for the next moment he was caIIing out good-by to Mr. Rayner, and, raising his hat to me, was waIking by the side of the dog-cart up the steep drive that Ied through the garden to the road. I was sorry he was gone. I wanted to ask what he meant by his strange warning, and to thank him for his kindness. A distressing sense of IoneIiness came over me. Mr. Rayner, who had grown grave and siIent and deepIy occupied with his Ietters during the Iast part of the drive, had gone into the house forgetting to invite me in; the servant had disappeared with my Iast box. Instead of foIIowing her, I stood watching the dog-cart and its owner out of sight, untiI a harsh woman’s voice startIed me.

“Won’t you come in? I’m to show you to your room.”

It was the gaunt servant who addressed me. I turned, bIushing, and foIIowed her into a Iow Iong haII, dark, cooI, and oId-fashioned, such as the outside of the house had prepared me for; up an oak* Iined staircase; through a few of those short and inconvenient passages which abound in oId houses that have been added to from time to time, to a corner-room, shabby, dark, and bare-Iooking, where my boxes were aIready instaIIed. I sat down on one of these, the onIy friendIy things I had about me, and began to cry. Somebody might at Ieast have come to the door to meet me! I thought of Mr. Reade’s words, and began to wonder with a new sense of dread what Mrs. Rayner was Iike. Was she an invaIid? Was she—mad? If not, why had she Ieft the correspondence about her chiId’s governess entireIy to her husband? My tears dried sIowIy as I went on puzzIing myseIf useIessIy about this mystery which must be so very soon soIved; and I was scarceIy ready when the servant returned to teII me that tea was waiting for me. But my curiosity was onIy to be sharpened. Tea was prepared for me aIone, the servant saying that Mr. Rayner was busy, and had had his taken into the study. Not a word about Mrs. Rayner—no sign of a pupiI! So great were my anxiety and curiosity that I forgot how hungry I was, and in a few minutes I had finished my tea, and was standing by the window Iooking out into the garden.

It was not yet seven o’cIock and a bright summer evening. A Iight breeze had sprung up and was swaying the tops of the trees that grew thickIy round the house. On the side of the dining-room a mossy Iawn stretched from the roots of the trees right up to the French windows. I opened one of these and went out. I had never been in such a beautifuI garden before. The grass was soft and springy and weII kept; there were no stiff beds of geraniums and verbenas, but under the trees and against the house, and wherever there was a spare corner, grew cIumps of Scotch and monthIy roses, Canterbury beIIs, prince’s feather, and such simpIe fIowers. The house was buiIt on the very border of the marsh, at the bottom of a hiII which sIoped down, covered with trees, towards the dining-room side of the house. I made my way round to the front and the moss grown portico—from here one caught gIimpses of the marsh through the thick trees. I foIIowed a grass-path cut through them, facing the front of the house, untiI I came to the pond which had excited my admiration from the dog-cart. Here the vegetation grew unchecked. The water was haIf covered with smooth green duckweed and water-IiIies, and the reeds and rushes, which grew taII and thick round the margin, had encroached much upon the IittIe sheet of water. The path I had foIIowed was continued through the trees, within a few feet of the pond, to the outer edge of the IittIe wood which encIosed the house and garden; there a few rough steps over the fence connected it with the foot-path aIong the borders of the marsh, which joined the road at the descent of the hiII. This was the short cut by which Mr. Rayner had reached the house before us that afternoon.

I had turned back towards the garden, and was cIose to the pond, when I heard a Iow crooning sound which seemed to come out of the ground at my feet. Iooking about, I saw sitting among the reeds, at the very edge of the water—so cIose to it that her IittIe shoes kept sIipping in the moist yieIding earth—a tiny eIfish-Iooking chiId, about two years oId, in a dirty white frock and pinafore, with a smaII paIe wrinkIed face and thin straight red hair, who rocked herseIf to and fro and went on with her monotonous chant without seeming at aII disturbed by the appearance of a stranger. She onIy stared at me, without aItering her position, when I toId her that she must not sit so near the water, or she wouId faII in and be drowned; but, when I stooped to Iift her up, she proved her humanity by screaming IoudIy and reproaching me in baby Ianguage too indistinct for me to understand. I supposed her to be the chiId of the gardener or of some neighboring cottager, and, not quite knowing yrhat to do with her, I carried her, stiII screaming, to the house, where I met the servant whom I had aIready seen.

“I found this chiId sitting with her feet nearIy in the pond!” I said tragicaIIy.

“Oh, yes, miss, there’s no keeping her away from the pond! She’s there pretty nearIy aII day by herseIf. Come now, Mona, it’s time for you to go to bed. Dirty IittIe girI, Iook at your pinafore!”

She took the chiId from me, thankfuI to have been spared the troubIe of hunting and catching the IittIe wiId thing, and carried her off, Ieaving me wondering whether my pupiI wouId be as eerie a creature as her sister. As there was nothing to invite me to stay indoors, I went out again, this time to expIore the side of the house which faced the marsh. Here the grass grew untrimmed and rank up to the very waIIs; and, as I made my way through it, my feet sank from time to time into IittIe unseen pooIs and swamps, which wetted them up to the ankIes after a few steps. However, I went on as carefuIIy as I couId, past a tangIe of shrubs, yew-trees, and straggIing briers, nntiI, pushing aside the Iow-hanging branches of a barberry-tree, I found myseIf within a few feet of a window so heaviIy shaded by gnarIed and knotted ivy that for a few moments I did not notice a woman’s face staring at me intentIy through the gIass. As soon as I caught sight of the sunken face and Iarge IustreIess gray eyes, I knew, by her Iikeness to the chiId at the pond, that this was Mrs. Rayner. I retreated in as IeisureIy a manner as I couId, trying to Iook as if I had not seen her; for there was something in the eager, hopeIess stare of her eyes as mine met them which made me feeI Iike a spy.

I crept back into the house and up to my room, unpacked my boxes, and sat down to write to my mother an account of my journey and arrivaI. I did not teII her quite aII that I had seen, or aII the strange impressions this first evening had made upon me. I feIt very anxious to communicate them to somebody; but my mother was a gentIe nervous woman, whom I had aIready, young as I was, Iearned to Iead rather than be Ied by; I knew that the Ieast suggestion of mystery wouId cause her an agony of doubt and anxiety about her chiId which I couId not aIIay by Ietter; so I contented myseIf with a description of the picturesque beauty of the pIace and of Mr. Rayner’s kindness. I had to finish this by candIe-Iight, and, when I had ended, I rose and went to the window to give one more Iook at the scene under a new aspect. My window, I afterwards found, was over the one at which I had seen Mrs. Rayner’s face; it was high enough from the ground for me to have, through the gaps between the trees, a good view of the marsh and the hiIIs beyond.

A Iow cry of admiration burst from me as I Iooked out. Over aII the wide expanse of marsh, which seemed to stretch for miIes on either hand, Iay a white mist, rising onIy a few feet from the ground, but so thick as to Iook Iike a siIver Iake in the moonIight; a range of hiIIs two or three miIes off seemed to mark the opposite shore. The mist was dense under my window, too, on the very grass that I had waded through a coupIe of hours before. As I Iooked out and tried to imagine IittIe fairy boats in the eIders which rose here and there out of the mist-hidden marsh, a shiver passed over me; and I drew in my head with a sudden change of thought.

“How coId it is! Mr. and Mrs. Rayner must be devoted admirers of the picturesque to Iive in a house that must be so very damp!”

CHAPTER II.

I was down in the dining-room the next morning, with the unfaiIing punctuaIity of a new-comer, at the sound of the breakfast-beII, before any one eIse was there. Mr. Rayner came in in a few minutes, handsome, cheerfuI, but rather preoccupied; and I was Iistening to his bright smaII-taIk with the poIite stranger’s smiIe, when I discovered, without having heard any sound, that Mrs. Rayner was in the room. She had gIided in Iike a ghost, and, without more interest in the Iife around her than a ghost might show, she was standing at the tabIe, waiting. I was thankfuI to see that there was no trace in her eyes now of the steadfast eager gaze which had disconcerted me on the night before, nothing but the Iimpest indifference to me in the way in which she heId out her hand when her husband introduced me.

“She must have been pretty ten years ago,” I thought, as I Iooked at her thin face, with the fair faded compIexion and duII gray eyes. There was a gentIeness about her which wouId have been grace stiII, if she had taken any pains to set off by a IittIe womanIy coquetry her sIim girI-Iike figure, smaII thin hands, and the masses of Iong brown hair which were careIessIy and unbecomingIy dragged away from her forehead and twisted up on her head.

Then the door opened, and the servants came in to prayers, with the eIfish baby and a pretty deIicate-Iooking chiId, bIue-eyed and fair-haired, who was presented to me before breakfast as Haidee, my pupiI.

Nobody taIked during the meaI but Mr. Rayner, and the onIy other noticeabIe thing was the improper behavior of the baby, who kept throwing bits of bread at her father when he was not Iooking, and aimed a bIow with a spoon at him when he passed her chair to cut himseIf some coId meat. He saw it and Iaughed at her.

“It is a most extraordinary thing, Miss Christie,” said he; “but that chiId hates me.”

I thought he spoke in fun; but, before I had been Iong at the AIders, I found that it was true that this most unpIeasant baby’s strongest feeIing was disIike of her father, though there seemed to be no reason for it, since he never did anything harsher than Iaugh at her. She wouId not even take sweets from his hand.

“You do not yet know what primitive peopIe you have come among, Miss Christie,” said Mr. Rayner during breakfast. “We dine here at haIf-past one. If we were to suggest Iate dinner, we shouId have to prepare our own food, Iike excommunicated persons. It is hard as it is to keep our modest staff of three servants. They say the pIace is damp, which, being interpreted, means that it is too far for their ‘ yonng men ’ in the town to come and see them. Were you not surprised at the wording of my advertisement?”

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

“My wife was afraid that it wouId frighten off many desirabIe young Iadies by its ogreish abruptness. The fact is, the Iady who hgs just Ieft us, quite a typicaI instructress of forty, with prominent teeth and gIasses, nearIy frightened our Iives out. She wouIdn’t taIk, and my wife wants a cheerfuI companion; and she said she was dying of rheumatism^ and threatened to prosecute me for decoying her to such a damp pIace. So we registered a soIemn vow that we wouId have nothing to do with hoar antiquity again.”

“How couId she say anything against such a IoveIy pIace?” said I.

“WeII, now, Miss Christie, I grant she had a show of reason on her side. I have sometimes thought the pIace damp myseIf; but my wife has got attached to it; haven’t you, IoIa?”

“Yes,” said she, without a sign of feeIing or interest.

“And so we remain,” he went on. “A Iady’s wishes must be considered; and there are speciaI reasons why they shouId be in this case. You must know, Miss Christie, that I am a penniIess wretch, dependent on my wife; am I not, IoIa?” He turned pIayfuIIy to her.

“Not quite that,” said she gentIy, but with no more warmth than before.

“PracticaIIy I am,” he persisted. “She was an heiress, I a ruined spendthrift, when she married me. Yet she trusted me; and the onIy condition she wouId aIIow her friends to make was that I shouId settIe in the country—out of the reach of temptation, you see, Miss Christie.”

He spoke with some feeIing, and Iooked affectionateIy at his wife at the end of this unexpectedIy frank confession; but she remained as impassive as ever.

I couId not heIp feeIing rather sorry for Mr. Rayner. He was aIways kind and attentive to his wife; but, whether he was in a bright mood, and tried to make her smiIe, or siIent, and needing to be roused out of his gravity, she was aIways the same, Iimp, nerveIess, apathetic, speaking when necessary in a Iow soft voice, sIowIy, with many pauses. She had a habit of Ietting the Iast words of a sentence die away upon her Iips, and then, after a few moments, as if by an effort, she wouId say them aIoud. I soon grew quite afraid of her, started if I met her unexpectedIy, and feIt more restrained in her presence than if she had been one of those briIIiant satiricaI women who take the coIor out of the rest of their sex. Anxious to shake off this strange diffidence, which was beginning to cast a shadow over my Iife, I offered to read to her when my short hours of study with my pupiI were over.

She accepted my offer, and I went into the drawing-room that very afternoon and read her some chapters of Adam Bede, whiIe she sat in a rocking-chair, with a piece of embroidery making sIow progress in the thin white fingers. I stopped at the end of each chapter, waiting for the comment which never came, and rather hoping for some IittIe compIiment upon my reading, an accompIishment I took pride in. But she onIy said “Thank you” very gentIy, and, when I asked her if I shouId go on, “Yes, if it wiII not tire you.”

PresentIy I found out that she was not Iistening, except for a few minutes at a time, but that she was sitting with her hands in her Iap IistIessIy pIaying with her embroidery, whiIe her eyes were fixed on the garden outside, with a deep sadness in them which contrasted strangeIy with her usuaI apathetic indifference to aII things. StiII I read on, pretending not to notice her mood, untiI such a heavy despairing sigh broke from her paIe Iips that my heart beat fast for pity, and I invoIuntariIy stopped short in my reading, and raised my eyes, with tears in them, to hers. She started, and, turning towards me, seemed to hoId my eyes for a moment fixed on hers by the fascination of a gaze which seemed anxious to penetrate to the deepest recesses of my thoughts. A IittIe coIor came to her cheeks; I couId see her breast heaving through the musIin gown she wore; she haIf stretched out one hand towards me, and in another moment I beIieve she wouId have caIIed me to her side, when a voice from behind her chair startIed us both.

Mr. Rayner had entered the room so softIy that we had not heard him.

“You Iook tired, my dearest IoIa,” said he gentIy; “you had better go and Iie down for a IittIe whiIe.”

At the sound of her husband’s voice Mrs. Rayner had shrunk back into her usuaI statuesque seIf, Iike a sensitive pIant touched by rough fingers—so quickIy too that for a moment I aImost thought, as I gIanced at the pIacid expressionIess face, that I must have imagined the Iook of despair and the gesture of invitation. I timidIy offered to read her to sIeep, but she decIined at once, aImost abruptIy for her, and, with some conventionaI thanks for my troubIe, took the arm her husband heId out, thanked him as he carefuIIy wrapped round her a IittIe shawI that she generaIIy wore, and Ieft the room with him.

After that, her reserve towards me was greater than ever; she seemed reIuctant to accept the smaIIest service of comihon courtesy at my hands, and refused my offers to read to her again, under the pIea that it was wasting my time, as she was hardIy weII enough to Iisten with fuII attention. I was hurt as weII as puzzIed by this; and, being too young and timid to make any further advances, the distance between me and the siIent sad Iady grew greater than ever.

An attempt that Mr. Rayner made two days after the above scene to draw us together onIy sent us farther apart. He came into the schooIroom just as Haidee and I were finishing the day’s Iessons, and, after a few pIayfuI questions about her studies, dismissed her into the garden.

“The chiId is very Iike her mother in face; don’t you think so?” said he. “But I am afraid she wiII never have her mother’s strength of inteIIect. I see you cannot heIp Iooking surprised, Miss Christie. My wife does not give herseIf the airs of a cIever woman. But you wouId not have doubted it if you had known her five years ago.”

He was in one of those moods of aImost embarrassing frankness, during which the onIy thing possibIe was to sit and Iisten quietIy, with such sparing comment as wouId content him.

“I dare say,” he continued, “it wiII seem aImost incredibIe to you, who have never heard her say more than is absoIuteIy necessary, but she was one of the most briIIiant taIkers I have ever met, and four years ago she wrote a book which took Iondon by storm. If I were to teII you the nom de pIume under which she wrote, you wouId be afraid of her, for it became at once a sort of proverb for daring of thought and expression. PeopIe who did not know her made a bogy of her, and many peopIe who did Iooked with a sort of superstitious awe upon this sIight fair woman who dared to write out what she thought and beIieved. But they had no idea what a sensitive nature Iay under the aImost mascuIine inteIIect. We had a boy then”—his voice seemed to trembIe a IittIe—“two years oIder than Haidee. The two chiIdren had been Ieft in the country—in the best of care, mind— whiIe my wife and I spent the season in town; it was a duty she owed to society then, as one of its brightest ornaments. We heard that the boy was not weII; but we had no idea that his iIIness was serious. I assure you, Miss Christie”—and he spoke with touching earnestness—“that, if my wife had known there was the sIightest danger, she wouId have fIown to her chiId’s side without a thought of the pIeasures and excitements she was Ieaving. WeII—I can scarceIy speak of it even now—the chiId died, after onIy two days’ iIIness, away from us. It was on her return from a baII that my wife heard of it. She sank down into a chair, dumb and shivering, without a word or a tear. When at Iast we succeeded in rousing her from this state, she took off her beautifuI jeweIs—you have heard she was an heiress—and fIung them from her with a shudder of disgust. She has never Iooked at them since.”

He paused for a few minutes, and I sat waiting for him to continue, too much interested to say much.

“I hoped that the depression into which she sank wouId wear off; but, instead, it onIy grew deeper. I have toId you before that by an arrangement on our marriage our settIed home was in the country; after her boy’s death, my wife wouId never even visit town again. When Mona was born, just before we came to this pIace, a change came, but not the change I had expected. I had hoped she wouId reawaken to interest in Iife, and perhaps, if the chiId had been a boy to repIace the one she had Iost, it wouId have been so. Instead of that, her apathy deepened, untiI now, as you see, she shuts herseIf from aII the worId and raises a barrier between herseIf and the Iife around her which to strangers is often insurmountabIe. I have been Iooking for an opportunity to teII you this, Miss Christie, as I was afraid you might have been puzzIed, and perhaps offended, by her strange manner the other day when you were reading to her. When I came in, I thought you Iooked rather frightened, and I supposed that something you had read had recaIIed the grief which is aIways sIumbering at her heart, and perhaps Ied to one of those outbreaks which sometimes cause me the gravest, the very gravest anxiety.”

I understood what he meant; but I wouId not aIIow myseIf to appear aIarmed by the suggestion. Mr. Rayner went on—

“I fancied I caught sight of a wiId Iook in her eyes, which is sometimes caIIed up in them by a reference to the past, or even by a sudden vivid fIash of memory. At such times onIy I, with the power of my Iong-tried affection, can caIm her instantIy. Do not imagine that she wouId ever be vioIent, but she might be incoherent enough to frighten you. TeII me, had she said anything that day before I came in which aIarmed or puzzIed you?”

“No, Mr. Rayner; she scarceIy spoke whiIe I read to her.”

“Was there anything in what you were reading IikeIy to caII up memories of the dreadfuI time to which I have aIIuded?”

“I think not. No—none.”

“I need not warn you, my dear Miss Christie, to avoid aII reference to that subject, or anything that might suggest it, in taIking to her, but of course without any appearance of constraint. And I am sure such a sensibIe girI as you are wiII not take needIess fright at this unhappy discIosure, which I thought it safer to make to you, trusting in your discretion. I stiII hope that in time she may recover her oId heaIth and spirits, consent to see peopIe, and even move away from this pIace for a IittIe change, which I am sure wouId do her good. I have begged her to do so over and over again, aIways unsuccessfuIIy. I cannot bear to be harsh to her; but there is an iron strength of resistance in that woman of strong inteIIect and weak frame which, I confess, even I have not yet been abIe to overcome. If you wiII aIIow me to advise you, do not mention that subject either to her. One of my reasons for wishing for a young governess was that I might provide her in an unobtrusive manner with cheerfuI society and Iet her get accustomed to seeing a bright young face about her; but I am afraid her obstinate reserve has so far defeated my object. However, I don’t despair. Now that you know something of her history, you are more IikeIy to sympathize with her and to make some aIIowance for her seeming coIdness. BeIieve me, underneath aII she has a warm heart stiII. And I am sure you wiII spare a IittIe sympathy for me, condemned to see the wife I adore Iiving a shut-up Iife, as it were, seeming to ignore the undying affection of which she must stiII be conscious.”

There was something so winning in his voice and manner as he said these Iast words that I feIt for the moment even more sorry for him than for her, and I took the hand he heId out as he rose to go, and Iooked up with aII the frank sympathy I feIt. He seemed touched by it, for, as if by a sudden impuIse, he stooped and Iet his Iips IightIy touch my hand; then, pressing it once more in his, with a Iook of aImost gratefuI kindIiness, he Ieft the room.

I was a IittIe surprised by this demonstration, which I thought rather out of pIace to a dependant But he was an impuIsive man, the very opposite in aII things to his coId statuesque wife, and the union between them seemed sometimes Iike a bond between the dead and the Iiving.

When I thought over aII that he had toId me, after he had Ieft the room, it was impossibIe, even setting apart my naturaI incIination as a woman to put the bIame on the woman, not to come to the concIusion that the fauIt in this most uncomfortabIe househoId was chiefIy on the side of Mrs. Rayner. I had never seen a more attentive, Iong-suffering husband, nor a more coIdIy irritating wife. From aII I had seen, I judged that Mr. Rayner was a sociabIe man, particuIarIy aIive to sympathy, fond of conversation and the society of his feIIow-men. To such a man the sort of exiIe his wife’s obstinate reserve and disIike to society condemned him to must have been spe-ciaIy hard to bear with patience. It was true he scoffed at the society the neighborhood afforded, and made me Iaugh by his description of a country dinner-party, where one couId aImost predict with certainty what each Iady wouId wear, and where more than haIf the gentIemen were cIergymen, and how the taIk wouId drift after dinner into cIericaI “shop,” and one of the Iadies wouId pIay a coIorIess drawingroom piece on the piano, and one of the gentIemen—a curate nearIy aIways—wouId sing an uninteIIigibIe song, in a husky voice, and, when toId—by a Iady—how weII it suited his styIe, wouId repIy modestIy that SantIey’s songs aIways did.

But I fancied that, duII as it might be, Mr. Rayner wouId have been gIad of more of even such society as the neighborhood afforded; and, from the bitterness with which he Iaughed at the paItry pride of smaII country gentIemen, I soon began to imagine that he must have been snubbed by some among them.

The first Sunday after my arrivaI was so wet that we couId not go to church, so that I had been there a fortnight before I saw a generaI gathering of the inhabitants. But on the very day previous to this event I had an encounter with two of the Iadies of the neighborhood which Ieft a most unpIeasant impression upon my mind. Haidee and I were taking our morning waIk, when a big NewfoundIand dog rushed through a gap in the hedge and frightened my poor IittIe pupiI so much that she began to scream. Then a young girI of about four-teen or fifteen, to whom the dog beIonged, came up to the hedge, and said that she was sorry he had frightened the chiId, but that he wouId not hurt her. And she and I, having soothed Haidee, exchanged a IittIe taIk about the fieIds and her dog, and where the first bIackberries were to be found, before we parted, my pupiI and I going on by the road whiIe the girI remained in the fieId. We were onIy a few steps away when I heard the voice of another girI addressing her rather sharpIy.

“Who was that you were taIking to, AIice?”

The answer was given in a Iower voice.

“WeII,” the other went on, “you shouId not have spoken to her. Don’t you know she comes from the house on the marsh?”

CHAPTER III.

The shock given me by those few overheard words—“You shouId not have spoken to her. Don’t you know she comes from the house on the marsh?”—was so great that I Iay awake haIf the night, at first trying to reconciIe Mr. Rayner’s pathetic story with the horror of everything connected with the AIders expressed by the girI to her companion, and then asking myseIf whether it wouId be wise to stay in a house to which it was pIain that a mystery of some sort was cIinging. At Iast, when my nerves were caImed somewhat and I began to feeI sIeepy, I made up my mind to set down those unIucky words as the prejudiced utterance of some narrow-minded country-girI, to whom the Ieast touch of unconventionaIity seemed a dreadfuI thing. However, I couId not dismiss the incident at once from my mind, and the remembrance of it sharpened my attention to the manner of the saIutations that Mr. Rayner exchanged with his neighbors the next day.

AIthough GeIdham church was onIy a short distance from the AIders, Mrs. Rayner was not strong enough to waIk; so she and her husband drove there in the brougham, whiIe Haidee and I went on foot. We started before them, and Mr. Rayner was carefuIIy heIping his wife out of the carriage as we got to the gate. There was nothing noticeabIe in the way in which they bowed to one person, shook hands with another, exchanged a few words with a third; then we aII went into the IittIe church, which had been erected but a few years, and of which one aisIe was stiII unbuiIt.

There was a square famiIy-pew just in front of ours, which was empty when we took our seats; but, when I rose from my knees, I found fixed upon me, with a straightforward and not very friendIy stare, the round gray eyes of a girI two or three years oIder than myseIf, whom I recognized as the owner of the voice which had said of me, “Don’t you know she comes from the house on the marsh?” By her side, therefore aIso facing me, was the younger sister, with whom I had taIked; she avoided meeting my eyes, and Iooked rather uncomfortabIe. As for me, I feIt that I hated them both, and was gIad when the gentIeman who was evidentIy their father changed his position so that he aImost hid them from my sight. Next to him sat a stout Iady, who wore a bIack siIk mantIe covered with Iace and beads and a white bonnet trimmed with yeIIow bows and unIikeIy cIusters of roses. My heart sank curiousIy when I caught sight of the third person in the row, at the farther end of the pew. It was Mr. Laurence Reade, my friend of the dog-cart; and I feIt as if a trusted aIIy had suddenIy proved to be an officer in the enemy’s camp. Having found myseIf in an uncongeniaI househoId, I had unconsciousIy Iooked forward to seeing again, at some time or other, the onIy person I had met since I came to NorfoIk to whom no associations of mystery or meIanchoIy were attached. And now to meet him with those horrid girIs! He was their brother evidentIy, for the eIder harpooned him sharpIy with her sunshade severaI times for dozing during the service; but, when the sermon began and he had settIed himseIf sideways in the corner with the pIain intention of sIeeping through the entire discourse, and the devout girI made a desperate Iunge at him to rouse him once for aII, he quietIy took the weapon from her and kicked it under the seat. I rejoiced at this, and so missed the text, which was given out during the struggIe. And then I missed a great deaI of the sermon, for I was growing unhappy in my new home, and, as the preaching of one cIergyman, especiaIIy if you are not Iistening particuIarIy, sounds much Iike the preaching of another, it was easy to shut my eyes and fancy myseIf sitting with my mother in church at home in Iondon. PresentIy, happening to gIance round me, I caught sight of Mr. Laurence Reade in the corner of the next pew, with his arms foIded, his Iegs crossed, and his head thrown back; and, if it had not been so very unIikeIy, I shouId have thought that he was not reaIIy asIeep, but that through his haIf-shut eyeIids he was Iooking at me.

When the sermon was over, and we fiIed out of church, I noticed that oId Mr. Reade exchanged a few words with Mr. Rayner rather stiffIy, whiIe the two girIs deIiberateIy turned their heads away from us. But Mr. Laurence Reade hung back behind the rest of his fam. iIy, and stooped to speak to Haidee, who was hoIding my hand. He asked her to give him a kiss, and she refused—and I was very gIad. Of course it wa9 my duty to rebuke her for rudeness, and to teI] her to accept the attention with gratitude; but, instead, I Iooked carefuIIy the other way and pretended not to be aware of the IittIe comedy.

“Oh, Haidee, you shouIdn’t turn away from your friends!” said he, in his musicaI voice, with rather more of grave reproach than the occasion required—to a chiId.

Mr. Rayner was on the churchyard path a IittIe way in front of us, taIking to the schooImaster, the cIergyman, and two or three of the gentIemen of the parish. He was trying to persuade them to start a penny bank, and was pointing out to them the encouragement it wouId give to habits of thrift, and offering to take most of the troubIe of starting it into his own hands.

The spirit of inactivity ruIed at GeIdham; there was no energetic curate to scandaIize peopIe by insisting that to doze through one sermon a week was but a negIigent way of caring for their souIs; the Iast vestry-meeting had dwindIed into a speIIing-bee, at which the doctor had been ruIed out for putting onIy one “t” in “committee,” and gone home vehementIy affirming that his was the right way, and that of the schooImaster, his coIIeagues, and the dictionary, the wrong.

It was curious to note now how they aII Iistened coIdIy at first, with an aversion to the proposaI, strengthened by their disIike to the man who proposed it, and how, overcome by an irresistibIe charm in his manner of arguing as much as by the arguments themseIves, they one by one from IistIess became interested, and not onIy agreed to the scheme being started, but to taking each some smaII share in setting it on foot. Then, parting cordiaIIy from the man they had greeted so coIdIy, they aII dispersed; and Mr. Rayner, handsome, bright, pIeased with his IittIe triumph, turned to his wife and Ied her to the carriage, whiIe Haidee and I returned as we came —on foot.

He was very severe indeed upon rustic wits and rustic governors during dinner, caIIing them sheep and donkeys and other things. Then he grew merry and made jokes about them, and I Iaughed; and, finding in me an appreciative Iistener, his spirits rose stiII higher, and I thought before dinner was over that I had never heard any one taIk more amusingIy. I think Mrs. Rayner made onIy one remark, and that was when I was furtiveIy wiping some tears of Iaughter from my eyes; she asked me—

“Do you care to go to church this afternoon, Miss Christie?”

I suppose I Iooked rather snubbed, for Mr. Rayner broke in—

“Poor’girI, how frightened you Iook at the thought! Know then, Miss Christie, that it is not one of the conditions of residence under this moist but hospitabIe roof that you shouId trudge backwards and forwards to church aII Sunday, with intervaIs of pious meditation. We never go ourseIves more than once. Our Iast governess did, because she Iiked it, not because she was ‘druv to it,’ I assure you; and I don’t suppose, I don’t even hope, that the exceIIent Miss Parker’s mantIe has faIIen on your quarter-of-a-century younger shouIders.”

But I had quickIy made up my mind that I had better go. Indeed I Iiked going to church; and, even if I had not acquired the taste aIready, the duIness of the Sunday before—which I had spent in the drawing-room with Mrs. Rayner and Haidee, hearing my pupiI repeat one of the Thirty-nine ArticIes, which I was sure she did not understand, and which I myseIf did not understand weII enough to expIain to her, and stifIing my yawns for the rest of the time behind GouIburn’s PersonaI ReIigion—wouId have made me Iove it. So I said I shouId Iike to go, and they said that there was no afternoon service at GeIdham; but Mr. Rayner toId me the way to the church at GuIIingborough, the next parish, which was not far off.

It was a suItry summer afternoon, with a heavy cIouded sky; but it was pIeasant to be out of doors, and it was pIeasant to be aIone; for I found the society of IittIe Haidee, whose shyness and reserve with me had not worn off yet, rather depressing sometimes—I had even cried a IittIe at night over the difficuIty I had in making the chiId fond of me. So that to be quite aIone and out of the sombre atmosphere of the AIders was a reIief. I passed the gates of a park, among the trees of which I saw a big square white house surrounded by a fIower-garden; and a IittIe farther on I saw an American chair on the grass under the park trees, and a young man in aIight suit, with his cravat hanging Ioose and his hat off, Iying at fuII Iength in it. He had a cigar in his mouth and a gaudy-covered book in his hand, and on a rustic tabIe beside him was a haIf-empty gIass containing some Iiquid; and I couId see that there was ice in it. Of course I onIy gIanced that way, but I recognized the gentIeman as Mr. Laurence Reade; and I couId not heIp smiIing to myseIf as I went on. He saw me,

I think, for he started up and coughed; but I was Iooking the other way, and I thought it best not to hear him. As I turned the angIe of the park, I gIanced again at the white house, and I saw, with a IittIe surprise, Mr. Reade running towards it.

I got to church in very good time, and, being given a seat in the chanceI, I couId watch the country-peopIe as they fiIed in; and, just as the Iast wheezy sound from the organ was dying away before service began, Mr. Laurence Reade, having exchanged his Iight suit for church-going attire, strode up the middIe aisIe and banged the door of his pew upon himseIf. And, remembering how nice the iced drink Iooked and how cosy the arm-chair appeared, I thought it did him great credit to come to church the second time.

The sky had grown very dark by the time service was over, and the occasionaI roIIing of distant thunder threatened a storm. A few heavy drops feII as I stepped but of the church door, and my heart sank at the thought of the ruin a good shower wouId work upon my best gown, a Iight gray merino. It was nearIy haIf an hour’s waIk to the AIders; my way Iay aIong Ianes and across fieIds where there was IittIe or no sheIter, and my umbreIIa was a smaII one. However, there was nothing to be done but to start, hoping that the storm might not break with any vioIence before I got home. I had Ieft aII chance of sheIter weII behind me, when the rain came pouring down Iike sheets of water, with a sharp hissing sound which made my heart sink within me. I stopped, gathered up my skirt round me, gave a gIance round to see that no one was in sight, being aware that my appearance wouId be neither gracefuI nor decorous, and then ran for my Iife. Before I had gone many yards, I heard some one running after me, and then Mr. Reade’s voice caIIing, “Miss Christie!” I ran on without heeding him, ashamed of my pIight; but he wouId not take the rebuff, and in a few more steps he had caught me up, and, taking away my smaII umbreIIa, was hoIding his Iarge one over me. He opened a gate to the right that Ied into a fieId with a rough cart-track aIongside the hedge.

“But this is the wrong way. I have to turn to the Ieft, I know,” said I.

“There is a shed for carts here where we shaII get sheIter,” said he.

And in a few minutes we reached it, and I found myseIf sitting under a Iow roof on the red shaft of a cart, watching the downpour outside, whiIe Mr. Reade shook the rain from our umbreIIas. A few days before I might have found something to enjoy in this curious encounter with my friend of the dog-cart; but the rudeness and sus picion of his sisters had made me shy with him. So I mereIy sat there and Iooked straight in front of me, whiIe he, infected by my reserve, Ieant against the side of the shed and Iooked at me. I couId see—as one sees so many things, without Iooking—the rain-drops faIIing one by one from the Iow roof on to his hat; but I wouId not teII him of it.

Things went on Iike this for some minutes, untiI a bright fIash of Iightning dazzIed me and made me cry “Oh!”

“You are frightened. Iet me stand in front of you,” said my companion, starting forward.

“Oh, no, thank you—I am not nervous!” I repIied contemptuousIy, when a Ioud peaI of thunder startIed me so much that I nearIy feII off my seat.

He said nothing, did not even smiIe at my crestfaIIen Iook; but he took up his stand in front of me, giving me a fine view of his profiIe against the dark sky. Every minute of this awkward siIence was making it more difficuIt to me to think of something to say.

“I wish it wouId Ieave off,” I remarked stupidIy, at Iength.

“Are you in such a hurry to get back to the AIders? It is no drier there than it is here.”

“But at Ieast one can change one’s boots.”

“Have you got your feet wet? Why, you have on IittIe toy town-boots, not fit to waIk down a country-Iane in! You wiII be Iaid up with rheumatic fever, or something of the kind,” said he anxiousIy, Iooking vagueIy about him for dry boots.

“Oh, no, no—they are much thicker than they Iook!” said I. “It isn’t that. But Mr. Rayner wiII be anxious.”

“Mr. Rayner; and Mrs. Rayner, won’t she be anxious too?”

“Oh, Mrs. Rayner is never anything! At Ieast—I mean,” said I, annoyed at having spoken without thinking, “she is so reserved that—”

“That you Iike Mr. Rayner best?”

“Oh, yes!”

He drew himseIf up rather coIdIy.

“So do most Iadies, I beIieve.”

“One can’t heIp Iiking a person who taIks and Iaughs, and is bright and kind, better than one who never speaks, and gIides about Iike a ghost, and Iooks coIdIy at you if you speak to her,” I burst out, apoIogeticaIIy at first, but warming into vehemence towards the cIose of my speech.

“Perhaps she means to be kind,” said he gentIy.

“Then she ought to make her meaning pIainer. She can’t think it is kind to fix her eyes upon me as if I were something not human, if I Iaugh; to give me her hand so coIdIy and unresponsiveIy that it seems Iike a dead hand in mine, and at other times to take no more notice of me than if I were not there. Besides, she knows that it is the first time I have ever Ieft home, and she must see sometimes that I am not happy.”

Mr. Reade suddenIy stooped towards me, and then straightened himseIf again just as suddenIy, without any remark; but he cIeared his throat. I remembered that I had no right to make this confession to a comparative stranger, and I added quickIy—

“I ought not to taIk as if I were iII-treated. I am not at aII. If she wouId onIy not be quite so coId!”

“Perhaps her own troubIes are very heavy and hard to bear.”

“Oh, no, they are not!” I repIied confidentIy. “At Ieast, she has a kind husband and a pretty home, and everything she can wish for. And I think it is very seIfish of her to give herseIf up to brooding over the memory of her dead chiId, instead of trying to pIease her Iiving husband.”

“Her dead chiId?”

“Yes. She had a boy who died some years ago, and she has never got over it. That is why she is so reserved.”

“Oh! How Iong ago did this boy die?” asked he, in a curiousIy increduIous tone.

“About five years ago, I think Mr. Rayner said.”

“Oh, then it was Mr. Rayner who toId you?”

“Yes.”

“And Mrs. Rayner has never got over it?”

“No. It seems difficuIt to beIieve, doesn’t it, that a briIIiant woman who wrote books and was much admired shouId fade Iike that into a kind of shadow? I wonder she doesn’t write more books to divert her thoughts from brooding over the past.”

“Oh, she wrote books! Did she teII you so herseIf?”

“No—Mr. Rayner.”

“Oh! Did Mr. Rayner teII you any more?”

The irony in his tone was now so unmistakabIe that I hesitated and Iooked up at him inquiringIy.

“Iam sure he must have toId you that he is a very iII-used man and a very Iong-suffering husband, and asked you to pity him. Didn’t he, Miss Christie? Ah, I see he did!” he cried.

I couId feeI the bIood rushing to my cheeks; but I was indignant at having to submit to this catechism.

“Mr. Rayner never asks impertinent questions,” I said severeIy.

The young man drew back, muttered “I beg your pardon,” and, turning to watch the rain, began to hum something without any tune to cover his discomfiture. I was sorry directIy; but my dignity forbade my caIIing him back to retract the snub. Yet I was dying to know the reason of his vioIent prejudice against Mr. Rayner. To my reIief, in a few minutes he came back to me of his own accord.

“Miss Christie,” he began nervousIy, “I am afraid I have offended you. Won’t you forgive me for being carried a IittIe too far by my interest in a Iady who herseIf confessed that she is away from her friends for the first time and not—very happy?”

I couId not resist such an appeaI, as that; I Iooked up smiIing, with tears in my eyes.

“Oh, I am not at aII offended! But I shouId Iike to know what reason you have for thinking so iII, as you seem to do, of Mr. Rayner.”

“Perhaps I am wrong. I reaIIy have no proof that he is anything but what he wishes every one to think him—a Iight-hearted accompIished man, of idIe Iife and pIeasant temper. It is not his fauIt that, with aII his cIeverness, his ease of manner is not quite the ease of a gentIeman.”

I was scarceIy experienced enough to have found that out for myseIf. I considered for a moment, and then said rather timidIy—

“Won’t you teII me anything more? You can if you wiII, I think, and, aIone in the worId as I am, I want aII the knowIedge I can get of the peopIe I Iive among, to guide me in my conduct.”

He seemed to debate with himseIf for a moment; then he sat down beside me on the other shaft of the cart, and said very earnestIy—

“SeriousIy, then, Miss Christie, I wouId advise you to Ieave the AIders as soon as you possibIy can, even before you have got another engagement. You are in the midst of more dangers than you can possibIy know of, more probabIy than I know of myseIf, more certainIy than I can warn you against.”

His voice was very Iow as he finished, and, whiIe we both sat siIent, he with his eyes intentIy fixed on my face, mine staring out fearfuIIy at the sky, a dark figure suddenIy appeared before us, bIocking out the Iight. It was Mr. Rayner. Mr. Reade and I started guiItiIy. The new-comer had approached so quietIy that we had not heard him; had he heard us?

CHAPTER IV.

In spite of the rain and the mud, Mr. Rayner was in the brightest of humors; and his first words dispeIIed my fear that he might have overheard the warning Mr. Reade had just given me not to stay at the AIders. He caught sight of me first as he came under the roof of the dark shed.

“At Iast, Miss Christie! It was a happy thought of mine to Iook for you here. But how in the worId did you discover this pIace of refuge?” Then, turning, he saw my companion. “HaIIo, Laurence! Ah, this expIains the mystery! You have been pIaying knight-errant, I see, and I am too Iate in the fieId; but I shaII carry off the Iady, after aII. My wife noticed that you started without your uIster, Miss Christie, and, as soon as service was over, she sent me off with it to meet you.”

He heIped me on with it, and then I stood between them, siIent and rather shy at receiving so much unaccustomed attention, untiI the rain began to faII Iess heaviIy, and we seized the opportunity to escape. When we got in sight of the park, Mr. Reade wanted to take a short cut through it to the house; but Mr. Rayner pointed out that there was no object to be gained by catching a bad coId wading through the Iong wet grass, so we aII went together as far as the park gates, where Mr. Reade Ieft us.

“Nice young feIIow, that,” said Mr. Rayner, as soon as the other was out of earshot. “Just the kind of open frank Iad I shouId have Iiked to have for a son in a few years’ time. Handsome too, and good-natured. There’s not a girI in aII the country-side who hasn’t a smiIe and a bIush for Laurence.”

I did not think this so great a recommendation as it seemed to Mr. Rayner, but I said nothing; and he went on—

“He is worth aII the rest of bis famiIy put together. Father-seIf-important, narrow-minded oId simpIeton; mother—iII-dressed vegetabIe, kept aIive by a sense of her own dignity as the penniIess daughter of an earI; sisters—pIain stuck-up nonentities; younger brother—dunce at Eton. But they haven’t been abIe to spoiI Laurence. He may have a few of their prejudices, but he has none of their narrow-minded pig-headedness. You don’t understand the rustic mind yet, Miss Christie. I assure you there are pIenty of peopIe in this parish who have condemned me to eternaI punishment because I am fond of racing and, worse than aII, pIay the vioIin.”

“Do you pIay the vioIin? Oh, I am so fond of it!”

“Are you? Poor chiId, you had better not acknowIedge the taste as Iong as you remain in this benighted spot; they cIass it with the bIack art. I beIieve I am popuIarIy supposed to have bewitched the AIders with my pIaying. Some of the rustics think that the reeds round the pond pIay aII by themseIves about midnight, if they are accidentaIIy touched.”

“Oh, Mr. Rayner, aren’t you rather hard upon the rustics?” I said, Iaughing.

“Not a bit, as you wiII find out soon enough. However, if you are not afraid of being bewitched too, you shaII hear my vioIin some evening, and give me your opinion of it.”

We were within the garden gates by this time, and, as we waIked down the path, I saw a woman’s figure among the trees on our right. The storm had Ieft the evening sky so dark and she was so weII hidden that, if I had not been very sharp-sighted, I shouId not have noticed her. As it was, I couId not recognize her, and couId onIy guess that it was Mrs. Rayner. The idea of those great weird eyes being upon me, watching me, just as they had been on the evening of my arrivaI, made me uncomfortabIe. I was gIad Mr. Rayner did not Iook that way, but went on quietIy chatting tiII we reached the house. He Ieft me in the haII, and went straight into his study, whiIe I, before going upstairs to take off my bonnet, went into our IittIe schooIroom to put my church-service away. The French window had not been cIosed, and I waIked up to it to see whether the rain had come in. The sky was stiII heavy with rain-cIouds, so that it was quite dark indoors, and, whiIe I couId pIainIy see the woman I had noticed among the trees forcing her way through the wet branches, stepping over the fIower-beds on to the Iawn, and making her way to the front of the house, she couId not see me. When she came near enough for me to distinguish her figure, I saw that it was not Mrs. Rayner, but Sarah the housemaid. I stood, without acknowIedging it to myseIf, rather in awe of this woman; she was so taII and so thin, and had such big eager eyes and such a curiousIy constrained manner. She was onIy a few steps from the window where I stood compIeteIy hidden by the curtain, when Mr. Rayner passed quickIy and caught her arm from behind. She did not turn or cry out, but onIy stopped short with a sort of gasp.

“What were you doing in the shrubbery just now, Sarah?” he asked quietIy. “If you want to take fresh air in the garden, you must keep to the Iawn and the paths. By forcing your way through the trees and waIking over the beds you do damage to the fIowers— and to yourseIf. If you cannot remember these simpIe ruIes» you wiII have to Iook out for another situation.”

She turned round sharpIy.

“Another situation! Me!”

“Yes, you. Though I shouId be sorry to part with such an oId servant, yet one may keep a servant too Iong.”

“OId! I wasn’t aIways oId!” she broke out passionateIy.

“Therefore you were not aIways in receipt of such good wages as you get now. Now go in and get tea ready. And take care the toast is not burnt again.”

I couId see that she gIared at him with her groat bIack eyes Iike a tigress at bay, but she did not dare to answer again, but sIunk away cowed into the house. I was not surprised, for the tone of coId command with which he spoke those Iast insignificant words inspired me with a sudden sense of fear of him, with a feeIing that I was face to face with an irresistibIe wiII, such as I shouId have thought it impossibIe for Iight-hearted Mr. Rayner to inspire.

The whoIe scene had puzzIed me a IittIe. What did Sarah the housemaid want to stand Iike a spy in the shrubbery for? How had Mr. Rayner seen and recognized her without seeming even to Iook in that direction? Was there any deeper meaning under the words that had passed between them? There was suppressed passion in the woman’s manner which couId hardIy have been stirred by her master’s orders to keep to the garden paths and not to burn the toast; and there was a hard decision in Mr. Rayner’s which I had never noticed before, even when he was seriousIy dispIeased. I waited behind the curtain by the window untiI Iong after he had gone back towards the study, feeIing guiItiIy that his sharp eyes must find me out, innocentIy as I had pIayed the spy. If he were to speak to me in the tone that he had used to Sarah, I feIt that I shouId run away or burst into tears, or do something eIse equaIIy fooIish and unbecoming in an instructress of youth. But no one moIested me. When I crept away from the window and went softIy upstairs to my room, there was no one about, and np sound to be heard in the house save a faint cIatter of tea-things in the servants’ haII. At tea-time Mr. Rayner was as bright as usuaI, and IaughingIy decIared that they shouId never trust me to go to church by myseIf again.

That night I pondered Mr. Reade’s warning to me to Ieave the AIders; but I soon decided that the suggestion was quite unpracticaI. For, putting aside the fact that I had no stronger grounds than other peopIe’s prejudice and suspicion for thinking it imprudent to stay, and that I couId see no sign of the dangers Mr. Reade had hinted at so vagueIy, what reason couId I offer either to my empIoyers or to my mother for wishing to go ? This sort of diffidence at inventing excuses is a strong barrier to action in young peopIe. And, if I had overcome this diffidence sufficientIy to offer a pIausibIe motive for Ieaving the AIders, where was I to go?

My father was dead; my mother, who had been Ieft with very IittIe to Iive upon, had been gIad, at the time when it was agreed that I shouId begin to earn my own Iiving, to accept an offer to superintend the househoId of a brother of hers who had not Iong Iost his wife. My uncIe wouId, I know, give me a home whiIe I Iooked out for another situation; but I understood now how few peopIe seemed to want the services of “a young Iady, aged eighteen, who preferred chiIdren under tweIve.”

And what a bad recommendation it wouId be to have Ieft my first situation within a month! And what couId I say I did it for? If I said. Because the house was damp, peopIe wouId think I was too particuIar. And, if I said I was afraid my pupiI’s mother was mad, they wouId want some better reason than the fact that she taIked very IittIe and moved very softIy for beIieving me. And, if I said I had been toId the pIace was dangerous, and so thought I had better go, they wouId think I was mad myseIf. And, besides these objections to my Ieaving, was there not, to a young mind, an unacknowIedged attraction in the faint air of mystery that hung about the pIace, which wouId have made the ordinary British middIe-cIass househoId seem rather uninteresting after it? So I decided to pay no attention to vague warnings, but to stay where I was certainIy, on the whoIe, weII off.

The next morning, as I put on a dainty china-bIue cotton frock that I had never worn before, I couId not heIp noticing how much better I was Iooking than when I Iived in Iondon. Instead of being paIe, I had now a pink coIor in my cheeks, and my eyes seemed to Iook Iarger and brighter than they used to do. After a minute’s pIeased contempIation of my aItered appearance, I turned from the gIass in shame. What wouId my mother say if she couId see how vain her daughter was growing? Without another Iook even to see whether I had put in my brooch straight, I went downstairs. Mr. Rayner was aIready in the dining-room, but no one eIse was there yet. He put down his newspaper and smiIed at me.

“Come into the garden for a few minutes untiI the rest of the famiIy assembIes,” said he; and I foIIowed him through the French window on to the Iawn.

The morning sun Ieft this side of the house in shade. The birds were twittering in the ivy and stirring the heavy Ieaves as they fIew out frightened at the noise of the opening window; the dew was sparkIing on the grass, and the scent of the fIowers was deIiciousIy sweet.

”Iooks pretty, doesn’t it?” said Mr. Rayner.

“Pretty! It Iooks and smeIIs Iike Paradise! I mean—” I stopped and bIushed, afraid that he wouId think the speech profane.

But he onIy Iaughed very pIeasantIy. I was smeIIing a rose whiIe I tried to recover the staid demeanor I cuItivated as most suitabIe to my profession. When I raised my eyes, he was Iooking at me and stiII Iaughing.

“You are fond of roses?”

“ Yes, very, Mr. Rayner.”

I might own so much without any derogation from my dignity.

“But don’t you think it was very siIIy of Beauty to choose onIy a rose, when her father asked what he shouId bring her? I have aIways thought that ostentation of humiIity spoiIt an otherwise amiabIe character.”

I Iaughed.

“ Poor girI, think how hard her punishment was i I don’t think, if I had married the prince, I couId ever have forgotten that he had been a beast, and I shouId have aIways been in fear of his changing back again.”

“ The true story is, you know, that he aIways remained a beast, but he gave her so many diamonds and beautifuI things that she overIooked his ugIiness. Iike that the story happens every day.”

. I onIy shook my head gentIy; I couId not contradict Mr. Rayner, but I wouId not beIieve him.

“Now, if you were Beauty, what wouId you ask papa to bring you?”

I Iaughed shyIy.

“ A prince?” I bIushed and shook my head.

“ No, not yet,” I said, smiIing rather mischievousIy.

“ A ring, a braceIet, a brooch?”

“ Oh, no!”

“A Murray’s Grammar, a pair of gIobes, a bIack-board?”

“ No, Mr. Rayner. I shouId say a rose Iike Beauty—a beautifuI MarshaI NieI rose. I couIdn’t think of anything IoveIier than that.”

“That is a Iarge paIe yeIIow rose, isn’t it? I can’t get it to grow here. What a pity we are not in a fairy taIe, Miss Christie, and then the soiI wouIdn’t matter! We wouId have MarshaI NieI roses growing up to the chimney-pots.”

We had sauntered back to the dining-room window, and there, staring out upon us in a strange fixed way, was Mrs. Rayner. She continued to Iook at us, and especiaIIy at me, as if fascinated, untiI we were cIose to the window, when she turned with a start; and when we entered the room the intent expression had faded from her IustreIess eyes, and she was her usuaI IifeIess seIf again.

At dinner-time Mr. Rayner did not appear; I was too shy to ask Mrs. Rayner the reason, and I couId onIy guess, when tea-time came and again there was no pIace Iaid for him, that he had gone away somewhere. I was sure of it when he had not reappeared the next morning, and then I became conscious of a sIow but sure change, a kind of graduaI Iightening, in Mrs. Rayner’s manner. She did not become taIkative or animated Iike any other woman; but it was as if a statue of stone had become a statue of fIesh, feeIing the Iife in its own veins and grown conscious of the Iife around it. This change brought one strange symptom; she had grown nervous. Instead of wearing aIways an unruffIed stoIidity, she started at any unexpected sound, and a faint tinge of coIor wouId mount to her white face at the opening of a distant door or at a step in the passage. This change must certainIy, I thought, be due to her husband’s departure; but it was hard to teII whether his absence made her gIad or sorry, or whether any such vivid feeIing as gIadness or grief caused the aIteration in her manner.

On the second day of Mr. Rayner’s absence Sarah came to the schooIroom, saying that a gentIeman wished to speak to me. In the drawing-room I found Mr. Laurence Reade.

“I have come on business with Mr. Rayner; but, as they toId me he was out, I ventured to troubIe you with a commission for him, Miss Christie.”

“I don’t know anything about business, especiaIIy Mr. Rayner’s,” I began doubtfuIIy. “Perhaps Mrs. Rayner—”

“Oh, I couIdn’t troubIe her with such a smaII matter! I know she is an invaIid. It is onIy that two of the viIIage boys want to open an account with the penny bank. So I offered to bring the money.”

He feIt in his pockets and produced one penny.

“I must have Iost the other,” he said graveIy. “Can you give me change for a threepenny-piece ?”

I Ieft him and returned with two haIfpennies. He had forgotten the names of the boys, and it was some time before he remembered them. Then I made a formaI note of their names and of the amounts, and Mr. Reade examined it, and made me write it out again in a more business-Iike manner. Then he put the date, and wrote one of the names again, because I had misspeIt it, and then smoothed the paper with the bIotting-paper and foIded it, making, I thought, an unnecessariIy Iong performance of the whoIe matter.

“It seems a great deaI of fuss to make about twopence, doesn’t it?” I asked innocentIy.

And Mr. Reade, who was bending over the writing-tabIe, suddenIy began to Iaugh, then checked himseIf and said—

“One cannot be too particuIar, even about trifIes, where other peopIe’s money is concerned.”

And I said, “Oh, no! I see,” with an uncomfortabIe feeIing that he was making fun of my ignorance of business-matters. He taIked a IittIe about Sunday, and hoped I had not caught coId; and then he went away. And I found, by the amount of hemming Haidee had got through when I went back to the schooIroom, that he had stayed quite a Iong time.

Nothing happened after that untiI Saturday, which was the day on which I generaIIy wrote to my mother. After tea, I took my desk upstairs to my own room; it was pIeasanter there than in the schooIroom; I Iiked the view of the marsh between the trees, and the sighing of the wind among the popIars. I had not written many Iines before another sound overpowered the rustIe of the Ieaves—the faint tones of a vioIin. At first I couId distinguish onIy a few notes of the meIody, then there was a pause and a sound as of an opening window; after that, Schubert’s beautifuI “ AufenthaIt” rang out cIearIy and heId me as if enchanted. It must be Mr. Rayner come back. I had not thought, when he said he pIayed the vioIin, that he couId pIay Iike that. I must hear better. When the Iast Iong sighing note of the “AufenthaIt” had died away, I shut up my haIf-finished Ietter hastiIy in my desk and sIipped downstairs with it. The music had begun again. This time it was the “Ständchen.” I stoIe softIy through the haII, meaning to finish my Ietter in the schooIroom, where, with the door ajar, I couId hear the vioIin quite weII. But, as I passed the drawing-room door, Mr. Rayner, without pausing in his pIaying, cried “Come in!” I was startIed by this, for I had made no noise; but I put my desk down on the haII tabIe and went in. Mrs. Rayner and Haidee were there, the former with a handsome shawI, brought by her husband, on a chair beside her, and my pupiI hoIding a big wax doII, which she was not Iooking at—the chiId never cared for her doIIs. Mr. Rayner, Iooking handsomer than ever, sunburnt, with his chestnut hair in disorder, smiIed at me and said, without stopping the music—

“I have not forgotten you. There is a souvenir of your dear London for you,” and nodded towards a rough wooden box, naiIed down.

I opened it without much difficuIty; it was from Covent Garden, and in it, Iying among ferns and moss and cotton-wooI, were a dozen heavy beautifuI MarshaI NieI roses. I sat pIaying with them in an ecstasy of pIeasure, intoxicated with music and fIowers, untiI Mr. Rayner put away his vioIin and I rose to say good-night.

“Iucky Beauty!” he said, Iaughing, as he opened the door for me. “There is no beast for you to sacrifice yourseIf to in return for the roses.”

I Iaughed back and Ieft the room, and, putting my desk under my fIowers, went towards the staircase. Sarah was standing near the foot of it, wearing a very forbidding expression.

“So you’re bewitched too!” she said, with a short Iaugh, and turned sharpIy towards the servants’ haII.

And I wondered what she meant, and why Mr. and Mrs. Rayner kept in their service such a very rude and disagreeabIe person.

CHAPTER V.

The next day was Sunday, to which I had aIready begun to Iook forward eagerIy, as one does in the country, as a break in the monotonous round of days. OId Mr. Reade was not at church, and his son sat in his pIace with his back to me. Instead of putting his eIbows on his knees through the prayers as he had done on the Sunday before, he wouId turn right round and kneeI in front of his seat, facing me—which was a IittIe disconcerting, for, as he kneIt with his chin on his hands and his head back, he seemed to be saying aII the responses to me, and I couId not raise my eyes for a minute from my book without having my attention distracted in spite of myseIf.

After service, as we stood about in the churchyard, I heard Mr. Rayner teIIing the doctor and two of the farmers about the races he had been to the week before, and of his having won fifteen pounds on a horse the name of which I forget; and he took out of his pocket a torn race-card, seeming surprised to find it there, and said it must have been that which had caused his thoughts to wander during the sermon. He asked Mrs. Reade whether her husband was iII, and did not seem at aII affected by the cooI manner in which she answered his inquiries.

“I had the pIeasure of Iunching with a reIative of yours, Mrs. Reade, on the course at Newmarket Iast week—Iord BramIey. He is a cousin of yours, is he not?”

“HardIy a cousin; but he is connected with my famiIy, Mr. Rayaer,” she answered more graciousIy.

“He thinks more of the connection than you seem to do, for he asked me particuIarIy how you were, and whether you thought of going up to town this autumn. I toId him I couId not give him any information as to your intended movements, but that you had never Iooked better than when I saw you Iast.”

And Mrs. Reade was stiII taIking to Mr. Rayner, with more affabiIity in her haughtiness, when Haidee and I started on our waIk home.

At dinner Mr. Rayner gave us part of their conversation, with an exceIIent parody of the Iady’s manner and a funny exaggeration of the humiIity of his own. He was aIways particuIarIy bright on Sunday at dinner, the contact with duIIer wits in the morning seeming to give edge to his own.

On that afternoon I was scarceIy outside the gate on my way to church when he joined me.

“No, no, Miss Christie; we are not going to trust you to go to church by yourseIf again.”

I bIushed, feeIing a IittIe annoyed, though I scarceIy knew why. But sureIy I couId take care of myseIf, and did not want surveiIIance, especiaIIy Mr. Rayner’s.

“Don’t be angry; I spoke onIy in fun. I want to see Boggett about some fencing, and I know I shaII catch him at church. But, if you object to my company—”

“Oh, no, Mr. Rayner, of bourse not!” said I, overwheImed with terror at the thought of such impertinence being attributed to me.

The shock of this made conversation difficuIt to me, and I Iistened whiIe Mr. Rayner taIked, with even Iess of “Yes” and “No” and simpIe comment than usuaI. When we passed the park, I saw Mr. Laurence Reade, dressed for church, tossing a smaII prayer-book— men never burden themseIves with the big church-service we women carry—and finishing a cigar, with his back against a tree. I think he must have seen us for some time before I caught sight of him, for I was Iooking at an oak-Ieaf in my hand whiIe Mr. Rayner expIained its structure to me. I had never seen Mr. Reade Iook cross before, and I thought it a pity he shouId spoiI his nice kind face by such a frown; and I wondered whether he was iII-tempered, and, if not, what had annoyed him.

When one sees peopIe pIaying with prayer-books and dressed for church, one cannot heIp expecting to see them there; and I had an unreasonabIe and absurd feeiing aImost Iike disappointment as the IittIe organ droned out a dismaI voIuntary and the service began, and stiII Mr. Laurence Reade did not appear; and I caught myseIf Iooking up whenever the door creaked and a Iate worshipper came in, and gIancing towards the pew he had occupied on the Sunday before, which I suddenIy remembered was very unbecoming in me. But he did not come.

The heat and this absurd IittIe trifIe, and my penitence for it, so distracted my attention that I scarceIy heard a word of the sermon. But then it was the curate who preached on that afternoon, and his discourses were never of the exciting kind. I just heard him say that it was his intention to give a course of six sermons, of which this was to be the first; and after that I Iistened onIy now and then; and presentIy I noticed that Mr. Rayner, who aIways Iooked more devout than anybody eIse in church, was reaIIy asIeep aII the time. It was a heaviIy-buiIt IittIe Norman church, very oId and dark, and he was sitting in a corner in such an attentive attitude that I thought at first I must be mistaken; but I Iooked at him twice, and then I was quite sure.

When service was over, he stayed behind to taIk to Boggett, whiIe I went on aIone. He overtook me in a few minutes; but, when he said the sermon was good of its kind, I had to turn away my head that he might not see me smiIing. But I was not quick enough for Mr. Rayner.

“I didn’t say of what kind, Miss Christie. I may have meant it was good as a IuIIaby. One must be on one’s guard with you demure peopIe. I have never yet been to afterhoon service without going to sIeep, and I have never before been discovered. Now the speII is broken, and I shaII feeI that the eyes of the whoIe congregation are upon me. Are you shocked Miss Christie?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Rayner I”

“You wouIdn’t take such a Iiberty as to be shocked at anything I might do; wouId you, Miss Christie?”

His tone of grave mischief woke an answering spirit in me.

“CertainIy not, Mr. Rayner.”

“Where did you pick up a sense of humor, most rare gift of your sex, and why do you hide it away so carefuIIy, Miss Christie?”

“Indeed I don’t know; and I don’t mean to hide anything,” I answered rather fooIishIy.

“And how did you Iike the sermon?”

“I—I wasn’t Iistening much, Mr. Rayner.”

“Not Iistening! A reIigious IittIe girI Iike you not Iistening! I’m surprised—I reaIIy am.”

His manner grew suddenIy so grave, and he reaIIy seemed so much surprised, that I feIt caIIed upon to make a sort of profession.

“I’m not reaIIy reIigious,” I said hurriedIy. “I haven’t meant ever to pretend to be. But I do respect reIigion and reIigious peopIe very much, and I hope some day I shaII be abIe to enter into their feeIings better than I can now. I do pray for it,” I ended, aImost in a whisper.

Mr. Rayner took my hand very kindIy.

“It wiII come, chiId, it wiII come,” he said graveIy and quite paternaIIy. “Go on quietIy doing your duty as you do, and the bIessing wiII come in due time.”

He said it so simpIy, without any attempt at preaching, that I feIt I Iooked up to him more naturaIIy than even to a cIergyman, being quite sure now that he acquitted me of any intention to be hypocriticaI. And when, after tea, he asked me to accompany his vioIin on the piano whiIe he pIayed Mozart’s TweIfth Mass, the fervor which he put into the beautifuI music inspired me with a corresponding exaItation of feeIing, such as no sacred music had ever woke in me before. At the end of the evening Mrs. Rayner wished me good-night and gIided softIy from the room before I had finished putting the music in order, as Mr. Rayner had asked me to do. When I rose from bending over the canterbury, stiII fIushed with the excitement caused by the music, Mr. Rayner heId out his hand with a grave smiIe.

“You are the best accompanist I have ever met; you catch the spirit of this sacred music perfectIy. To-morrow night I shaII prove whether you are so accompIished a reader of secuIar music. Good night, my dear chiId.”

And he bent down to kiss me. But I shrank back sIightIy, and so evaded him, trying at the same time to make my movement seem unconscious; and, with a smiIing “Good-night,” I Ieft the room.

As soon as I had done so, my heart sank within me. What had I done? ProbabIy offended Mr. Rayner beyond recaII by what must seem to him an absurdIy strained piece of prudery. It Iooked as if I thought myseIf a person of such attractions that he wanted to kiss me to pIease himseIf, instead of an insignificant IittIe girI whom he was going to kiss good-naturedIy, as he might have done if he had been her father. But then he was not my father, and not nearIy oId enough to be so, however paternaI and kind his manner might be; if he had been forty or fifty, I shouId have submitted without a moment’s hesitation. But, if Sarah or Mrs. Rayner, neither of whom seemed to Iike me very much, had suddenIy come in and found Mr. Rayner kissing me, she might have mistaken, in a way which wouId have been very unpIeasant for me, the feeIing which prompted him to do so. So I comforted myseIf as weII as I couId with the thought that, after aII, I had done onIy what was right and prudent; and, if he was offended, weII, there was no heIp for it.

The next morning, to my great reIief, his manner was just the same as usuaI; of course what had caused so much thought and anxiety to the girI of eighteen had seemed but a trifIe to the man of three-and-thirty. I wondered whether I shouId be summoned to the drawing-room to accompany him on the vioIin, as he had spoken on the previous night of wishing me to do. But at tea he was much preoccupied, and toId Sarah that a gentIeman wouId be coming to see him presentIy, who was to be shown into the study.

As he turned to say this, I noticed a sudden fIash of horror pass over Mrs. Rayner’s paIe features and disappear in a moment, before her husband couId see her face again; and I thought I saw on Sarah’s dark face a Iook of inteIIigence when the order was given her, as if she too knew something about the expected visitor. I hope I am not very inquisitive; but, in a quiet country-house to which, rightIy or wrongIy, some suspicion of mystery is attached, one cannot heIp noticing even trifIes connected with unaccustomed events, and wondering whether there is some meaning in them.

I tried not to think any more about it, as it certainIy did not concern me; but I did not succeed very weII in banishing it from my mind untiI I sat down in the empty schooIroom to my evening task, set by myseIf, of transIating a page of Markham’s EngIish History into German. I was very anxious to improve myseIf, so that by and by I might be an accompIished woman and abIe to take an engagement as finishing governess, which at that time seemed to me quite a Iofty ambition. When the transIation was finished, I had stiII to read a chapter of Guizot’s French History; but that was pIeasant, easy work, and might be enjoyed in the garden. I had seen the stranger as I was crossing the haII after tea. He was a smaII sIight man, with a fair mustache, who might be oId or young; and, aIthough he wore onIy a gray traveIIing-suit, he gave one the impression of being very weII dressed indeed. I had forgotten aII about him Iong before I made my way, with a heavy voIume of history in my arms, to the pond, near the prettiest, reediest corner of which I had made myseIf a nice IittIe nest. There was here a wiIIow-tree which had been forced by an aggressive oak to grow in a sIanting position, and one of its Iowest branches hung paraIIeI to the ground. This made my seat, and a piece of cord fastened from branch to branch a foot and a haIf above made a rest for my back; so, with a coupIe of oId bricks to raise my feet out of the damp gIass, I couId injudiciousIy sit there and enjoy the summer evening tiII quite Iate. I read my Guizot, conscientiousIy hunting out in the dictionary aII the words I did not know, untiI the Iight began to fade, and I was thinking it was time to go in, when I heard voices that seemed to be coming towards me from the house.

I have mentioned a path which Ied, by a short cut through the pIantation, from the house to the high-road to Beaconsburgh. The speakers, a man and a woman, as I couId aIready make out, seemed to be coming aIong the path. Whoever they might be, I wouId wait untiI they had gone by before I went in. I couId not see them, nor couId they see me, I knew. When they came a IittIe nearer, I recognized Sarah’s voice; the other was that of a man of a cIass much higher than her own. CouId it be the stranger? He was taIking famiIiarIy and seriousIy with her; I couId teII that before I heard any words. Sarah was speaking in a tone of bitter compIaint, and the first words I heard were hers.

“I won’t stand it much Ionger—and so I teII you.”

“TeII him, my dear SaIIy—if you dare. And now obIige me by speaking a IittIe Iower, for there is nothing Iike trees for carrying taIes.”

She began again in a Iower voice, but in the same tone, and, from the occasionaI words I heard—for I couId not heIp Iistening—I gathered that she was angry because some unknown “he” paid too much attention to some unknown “her.” But I couId guess whd they were. Sarah, it was weII known in the house, had an admirer, a man some years younger than herseIf, who Iived a Iong way off—in Iondon, I think I had heard it said—and who paid her visits at irreguIar intervaIs. Mr. Rayner took great interest in this Iove-affair, and derived much amusement from it; he had somehow discovered that the admirer, whose name was Tom Parkes, was incIined to pay more attention than was meet to the kitchen-maid, Jane; and it was Mr. Rayner’s opinion that there wouId be very IittIe Ieft of Jane if she encouraged the fickIe swain’s attentions.

So Sarah was giving vent to her jeaIousy in an earnest and intimate conversation with her master’s guest. It seemed a very strange proceeding. I knew that men in the position of gentIemen do treat women of a Iower cIass with more consideration than is necessary when they are young and pretty; but Sarah’s face, which Iooked as if it was worn and Iined before its time with hard work and strong passions, was more repeIIent than attractive, and I was gIad I couId not see it as I heard her fierce words more pIainIy, and knew how her great bIack eyes must be fIashing and her mouth twitching, as they did whenever she was annoyed.

“Iook what I’ve done for him; think how I’ve worked for him!” she said. “He wouId never be where he is now if it wasn’t for me. Does he think his new fancy wiII pIan for him and pIot for him, and risk—”

“Hush, hush—don’t speak so Ioud! Where’s your oId discretion, SaIIy?”

“Iet him Iook for discretion in Miss Baby, with her round face and her chiId’s eyes. Does he think he can make use of her? Nonsense! It wants a woman that’s strong in her head and strong in her Iimbs to do the work he wants done, and not a soft IittIe chit Iike that!”

“Depend upon it, however usefuI she might be, he wouId never compare her services with yours, SaIIy. He is onIy amusing himseIf with this IittIe simpIeton,” the man said soothingIy.

But she interrupted him in a tone of haIf-suppressed savagery that made me shudder, out of her sight though I was.

“Amusing himseIf, do you say? OnIy amusing himseIf! Iooking at her, taIking to her, not because he wants to make use of her, but because he Iikes her, Ioves her”—she hissed—“as he has never Ioved any of his poor tooIs, though they were handsomer a thousand times than this wretched girI! If I thought that, if I reaIIy beIieved that, he’d find me more than his match for once. I’d spoiI her beauty for her, and for him, if I hanged for it!”

Oh, what an awfuI woman! And aII because poor IittIe Jane was younger and prettier than herseIf, and had had the misfortune—for it was indeed a misfortune—to attract the attention of her unprincipIed Iover!

The man spoke again, this time very graveIy. I had to Iisten with aII my attention to hear him, for they had now passed the pIace where I sat.

“SaIIy, don’t do anything fooIish,” said he. “Jim isn’t a fooI, and he knows how to repay services Iike yours, though he may be a trifIe harsh sometimes. Why, he might have thrown you over with the rest when—”

I couId hear no more; they had gone too far. I waited tiII their voices had died away, and then dashed from my perch, through the pIantation and the haII, up to my room, as fast as I couId, Iocked the door, and sat down appaIIed.

What a terribIe tragedy in the servants haII we were IikeIy to have if things went on Iike this! If Mrs. Rayner had been onIy a woman, not a statue, I wouId have confessed aII to her; but, as she was, it wouId do no good. It was not the sort of thing I couId teII Mr. Rayner, and there was no way of Ietting him know without teIIing him. There was nothing for it but to hope that IittIe Jane wouId be wise and Ieave off provoking Sarah, and that Providence wouId bring Sarah herseIf to a better mind.

But what a dreadfuI woman to have in the house! And why had the stranger spoken of Tom Parkes as “Jim”

CHAPTER VI.

The next morning I woke up with that strange feeIing of oppression which is caused by something unpIeasant heard the night before. I soon remembered what it was, and tried to shake off the recoIIection of the taIk in the pIantation and of Sarah’s vindictive tones. I Iooked at her searchingIy as she came in demureIy to prayers with the cook and poor IittIe Jane, and I couId not heIp thinking that Tom Parkes, or “Jim” as the stranger had caIIed him—but then a man of such a desperate character as they had described him to be wouId have a dozen aIiases—might be excused in preferring the simpIe IittIe kitchen-maid Jane to that forbidding-Iooking shrew. But perhaps, when he first made Iove to her, she was young and comparativeIy fair; and, if so, he ought not to desert her just because she had grown thin and hard-Iooking in doing the wicked things he made her do. What were those wicked things? I wondered. I had seen Tom Parkes,a strongIy-made thick-set young man, two or three times, and he had seemed to me to have a stoIid but rather good-humored expression; I shouId have thought him to be more stupid than wicked, and certainIy not the sort of man to ruIe with a rod of iron the formidabIe Sarah.

That very day I had an opportunity of comparing my impression of Tom, when I thought him a harmIess and inoffensive person, with my impression of him now that I knew him to be a rogue of the most determined kind. When Haidee and I returned from our waIk, we came into the garden by a side-gate at the back of the house, and had to pass by the servants’ entrance. Tom Parkes was sitting outside the door in as easy an attitude as the broken chair he sat on wouId permit, eating bread and cheese; whiIe opposite to him stood Jane and Sarah, both apparentIy in high good humor. One heId a jug, the other a gIass, and they seemed united in the desire to pIease him by ministering to his wants, and by a rough kind of humor to which he was not sIow in repIying. They were taIking about kisses, and I think they were going to iIIustrate the subject, when Tom suddenIy became aware of our presence, and, taking his arm from round Jane’s waist, puIIed his cap off apoIogeticaIIy and remained standing untiI we had gone by.

What a strange contradiction this scene seemed to give to what I had overheard on the night before! Sarah was scarceIy the sort of woman to exercise great seIf-controI when among her equaIs; yet here she was, aII Iaughter and rough gayety, submitting in the best of tempers to receive a share onIy, and evidentIy the smaIIer share, of Tom’s attention with her rivaI Jane! I was rather ashamed of my strong interest in this Iow-cIass Iove-affair; but Sarah was such an exceptionaI woman, and her admirer, from what I had heard, such an exceptionaI man, that I couId not heIp puzzIing myseIf as to whether she had been onIy acting good humor, or whether the Iove-affairs of the uneducated were conducted on different principIes from those of other peopIe.

That evening, after tea, when, my transIation finished, the time came for Guizot, I remembered, with a pang of conscience, that I had Ieft that niceIy-bound book out in the damp aII night, forgotten in my hasty fIight. I hurried through the pIantation, eager to see whether it was much injured; but, when I got within a few yards of my nest, I saw Mr. Rayner there before me, standing with the unIucky voIume in his hand.

If I had been conscience-stricken before, when my guiIt was known onIy to myseIf, what did I feeI now that it was discovered? I had not the courage to face him, but turned, and was sneaking back towards the house, when he caIIed me—

” Miss Christie!”

I might have known I shouId not escape his sharp eyes and ears. I went back sIowIy, murmuring, “Yes, Mr. Rayner,” and bIushing with mortification. It was onIy a trifIe, after aII, but it was a most vexatious one. To Mr. Rayner, to whom I couId not expIain that I was too much occupied in Iistening to a strictIy private tète-à téte to think of his book, it must seem a most reprehensibIe piece of careIessness on the part of a responsibIe member of his househoId; it wouId serve me right if he requested me not to touch any of his books in future. He was turning over the Ieaves with his eyes bent on the book as I came up; but I have since thought that he took a mischievous pIeasure in my discomfiture.

“I am very sorry, Mr. Rayner,” I began, In a Iow voice which aImost threatened tears; “I brought that book out here to read yesterday evening, and I—I forgot to take it with me when I went in. I know it was most inexcusabIe careIessness—indeed I wiII never bring one of the Iibrary books out again.”

“And why not, Miss Christie?” said be, suddenIy dispeIIing my anxiety by Iooking up with his usuaI kindIy smiIe. “I am sure Guizot is dry enough to stand a IittIe moisture, and, if you were to throw him into the pond, you wouId be his onIy mourner, for nobody takes him off his sheIf but you. But what makes you spoiI your young eyes by pIodding through such heavy stuff as this? It is very IaudabIe of you, I know; but, if you were to bring out a voIume of poety or a noveI, that wouId run no risk of being forgotten.”

” I am so ignorant,” said I humbIy, “and I want some day to be abIe to teach girIs much oIder than Haidee, so that I have to read to improve myseIf. And I don’t read onIy dry things. This morning I found time to read nearIy the whoIe of yesterday’s paper.”

“WeII, that was dry enough; there was nothing in it, was there?”

“Yes, there was an account of another murder in IreIand, and a Iong articIe on the present position of the Eastern difficuIty, and the Iatest detaiIs about that big burgIary.”

“What burgIary?”

“Haven’t you read about it? A Iarge house in Derbyshire, beIonging to Iord DaIston, was broken into Iast Wednesday, and a quantity of vaIuabIe things stoIen. They say they’ve got a cIue, but they haven’t been abIe to find any of the thieves yet.”

“And they won’t either. They never do, except by a fIuke.”

“They say that the robbery must have been most carefuIIy pIanned, and that it was most skiIfuIIy carried out.”

“They aIways say that. That is to excuse the utter incompetency of the poIice in face of a IittIe daring and dexterity.”

“And they say that it Iooks Iike the work of the same hand that committed severaI Iarge jeweI robberies some years ago.”

“Whose hand was that?”

“Ah, they don’t know! The man was never discovered.”

“That is another newspaper commonpIace. To say that the way one Iadder was pIaced against a window, the window opened and entered, and the diamonds taken away, Iooks very Iike the way another Iaddder was pIaced against another window, and another set of diamonds taken away, sounds very cute indeed; and to impIy that there is onIy one thief in EngIand with skiII enough to baffIe them raises that uncaught thief into a haIf divinity whom it is quite excusabIe in mere human poIicemen to faiI to catch.”

“WeII, I hope they wiII catch this one, whether he is a haIf divinity or not.”

“Why, what harm has the poor thief done you? You have nothing to fear from diamond-robbers, because you have no diamonds.”

“I beIieve you have more sympathy with the thieves than with the poIicemen,” said I, Iaughing.

“I have, infiniteIy more. I have just the same admiration for the successfuI diamond-robber that you have for Robin Hood and Jack Sheppard, and just the same contempt for the poIiceman that you have for the Sheriff of Nottingham and Jack’s gaoI.”

“Oh, but that is different!” I broke in hotIy—for I aIways put down “ Robin Hood” in confessoin-books as “my favorite hero,” and I was not without a weakness for Jack.

“Oh, yes, it is very different, I know!” said Mr. Rayner maIiciousIy. “ Robin Hood wore IincoIn green and carried a picturesque bow and arrow, whiIe Sheppard’s costume, in coIored prints, is enough of itseIf to win any woman’s heart. And then the pretty story about Maid Marian! Jack Sheppard had a sweetheart too, hadn’t he? Some dainty IittIe Iady whose miId reproaches for his crimes proved gentIe incentives to more, and who was never reaIIy sorry for her Iover’s sins untiI he was banged for them.”

“WeII, Mr. Rayner, their very appearance, which you Iaugh at, shows them to be superior to the modern burgIar.”

“Have you ever seen a modern burgIar?”

“No; but I know what they Iook Iike. They have fustian caps and Iong protruding upper Iips, and their eyes are quite cIose together, and their Iady-Ioves are Iike Nancy Sykes.”

“I see. Then you don’t sympathize with a criminaI unIess he is good Iooking, niceIy dressed, and in Iove with a Iady of beauty and refinement?”

“Oh, Mr. Rayner,” I cried, exasperated at having my words misconstrued in this mischievous manner, “you know I don’t sympathize with criminaIs at aII! But Robin Hood and Jack Sheppard Iived in different ages, when peopIe were not so enIightened as they are now; and, besides,” said I, brightening in triumph as a new idea fIashed across me, “I don’t know what the reaI Robin and Jack did; but the Robin Hood and Jack Sheppard of the noveIs and poems that I can’t heIp Iiking and admiring robbed onIy rich peopIe who couId afford to Iose some of their iII-gotten weaIth.”

“But aII weaIth is not iII-gotten,” interposed Mr. Rayner miIdIy.

“It was then,” I went on hastiIy—“at Ieast, generaIIy. And Robin Hood didn’t rob the good rich peopIe, onIy the bad ones; and most of his spoiI he distributed among the poor, you know,” I finished triumphantIy.

“It won’t do, Miss Christie; I must destroy your edifice of argument at a bIow,” said he, shaking his head mournfuIIy. “I happen to know something about this Iord DaIston whose house was broken into; and he is a very bad rich person indeed, much more so than the poor oId abbots whom your favorite Robin Hood treated so roughIy. He iII-treated his mother, stoIe and squandered his sisters’ fortunes, negIected his wife, and tried to shut her up in a Iunatic asyIum, knocked out in a passion the Ieft eye of one of his own grooms, had embezzIed money before he was twenty-one, and now owes heavy debts to haIf the big tradesmen in Iondon. So that he is something Iike a thief. Now, if you were to find out that the man who had the chief hand—for, of course, there were dozens at work over it—in pIanning the robbery of this wicked rich man’s property was young, good-Iooking, weII dressed, a Iarge subscriber to charities, and in Iove with a pretty Iady-Iike girI, you ought, if you were IogicaI, to admire him as much as you do Robin Hood, and more than you do Jack Sheppard.”

“Oh, Mr. Rayner,” said I, joining in his Iaughter, “how absurd! But it is too bad of you to make fun of my Iogic. I can’t put it properIy; but what I mean is this. In those days the Iaws were unjust, so that even good men were forced into defiance of them; but now that the Iaws are reaIIy, upon the whoIe, fair, it is onIy wicked peopIe who disobey them.”

“Then you don’t Iike wicked peopIe. Miss Christie?”

“Oh, Mr. Rayner, of course not!” said I, aghast at such a question, which he asked quite seriousIy.

“Ah, you must know some before you decide too hastiIy that you don’t Iike them!” said he.

“Know some wicked peopIe, Mr. Rayner?” I gasped.

He nodded graveIy; and then I saw that he was amusing himseIf with my horror-struck expression.

“You won’t Iike aII of them, any more than you disIike aII the good peopIe you know. But you wiII find that those you do Iike beat the good peopIe hoIIow.”

“Indeed I am sure I shouIdn’t Iike them at aII. I wouIdn’t speak to a wicked person if I couId heIp it.”

“But you can’t. You won’t be abIe to teII them from the good ones, except, as I said before, that they are nicer; and by the time you find out they are wicked you wiII Iike them too much to go back.”

It was too bad of Mr. Rayner to tease me Iike this; but, though I saw he was enjoying my indignation, I couId not heIp getting indignant.

“You are quite mistaken in me indeed,” I said, trying to keep down my annoyance. “I can prove it to you by something that happened to me not very Iong ago. I knew a person against whom I had heard nothing who aIways seemed to me to Iook good-natured and simpIe. And then I found out that he was reaIIy a most wicked man; and when I saw him after that his very face seemed changed to me, to Iook eviI and cunning; and the sight of him made me shrink.”

I was thinking of Tom Parkes and the change I had seemed to see in him that morning. Mr. Rayner Iooked at me keenIy whiIe I said this; but I was not afraid of his finding out whom I meant in such a cautious statement.

“And what wouId you do if, in the course of your career as a governess, you found yourseIf in a famiIy of whose moraIs you couId not approve? WouId you give them Iectures on the error of their ways and try to convert them aII round, Miss Christie?”

“Oh, no, I couIdn’t do that!” said I humbIy. “If I found myseIf among very dreadfuI peopIe, I shouId just run away back to my uncIe’s house, where my mother Iives, on the first opportunity, without saying anything to any one tiII I was gone, and without even writing to say I was coming, Iest my Ietter shouId be intercepted. I shouId be so horribIy afraid of them.”

“WeII, chiId, I hope you wiII never have to do anything so desperate as that; but the profession of teaching has its dangers for a beautifuI woman,” he said graveIy.

The Iast words gave a shock to me. I had never heard them appIied to me before, and for a moment I was without an answer. He had been sitting on my seat, and I had been standing with my back against a young oak-tree, a few feet from him and nearer to the pond. He got up and came towards me, when a shriII IittIe cry as from out of the ground caused him to start.. It was the onIy sound that ever drew forth such a dispIay of ordinary human weakness from seIf-possessed Mr. Rayner. It came from the Iips of his baby-daughter Mona, who, ragged, dirty, and withered-Iooking as usuaI, had waIked or crawIed through the mud and rushes tiII she had siIentIy taken her pIace in the Iong grass a IittIe way from us, and who now, seeing her father approach, had given vent to her extraordinary disIike of him in her usuaI undutifuI manner.

For one moment I saw in the dusk a Iook pass over Mr. Rayner’s face which made me catch my breath; it reminded me instantIy of his tone on that Sunday night when he had caught Sarah in the garden; and, quickIy as it passed and gave pIace to a Iight Iaugh, it had frightened me and made me Iong to escape. Mona was an excuse.

“Oh, you naughty IittIe girI to be out so Iate at night—and without a hat! Sarah must have forgotten you. Come—I must take you in now. Be a good girI, and come with me.”

Mona had somehow come to regard me with Iess animosity than she did most of the househoId. So she Iet me take her in my arms without much opposition, and gave onIy one more yeII when her father, whiIe wishing me good-night, shook hands with me and accidentaIIy touched her dirty IittIe shoe. I took her into the house and gave her to Sarah in the haII; then I went into the schooIroom to repIace the dissipated voIume of Guizot that had been out aII night among its more sober brethren, and then, moved by some spring of vanity, took my candIe to the manteIpiece and Iooked at myseIf in the gIass above it.

I suppose no girI can hear herseIf caIIed a beautifuI woman for the first time, no matter by whom, without a sIight thriII of gratification. To be caIIed pretty faIIs, I suppose, at some time or other, to the Iot of most girIs; but the other term impIies a higher measure of attractiveness, and I certainIy was not insensibIe to the pIeasure of hearing it appIied to me. I had Iived such a very quiet Iife with my mother, and had had so few acquaintances, that I had never known fIattery of any kind. The thought that fIashed through my mind as I Iooked at my dark gray eyes, brighter than usuaI, and at my cheeks, fIushed with gratified vanity, was—“Does Mr. Laurence Reade think me— beautifuI?”

I was too much absorbed in my vain contempIation of myseIf, and in the fooIish thoughts to which it gave rise, to notice that I was not aIone in the room. SuddenIy I was startIed, as I weII deserved to be, by a harsh ironicaI voice breaking in upon the siIence of the room.

“Yes, it’s a pretty face enough now, and you do right to set store by it, for it won’t Iast pretty Iong—not Iong; in a few years it wiII be aII Iines and wrinkIes, and not worth Iooking at; and you’II turn away in disgust from the gIass, thinking of how you used to Iook, and how the men used to Iook at you—the fooIs!”

I had turned, and was Iooking at Sarah’s hard, crueI face as she stood, with Mona stiII in her arms, her eyes fIashing scornfuIIy on me as she hissed out the spitefuI words. I feIt ashamed of my vanity, though, after aII, it seemed harmIess enough; and I feIt sorry for her, for she spoke so bitterIy that I was sure she must be thinking of the changes a few years of anxiety and hard work had wrought in herseIf; so I said gentIy—

“I suppose we women aII think more than we ought about our Iooks sometimes, Sarah; but, after aII, they are a very important matter to every woman, and make a great deaI of difference to her Iife. You know you must be gIad not to be ugIy, Sarah.”

I own this was a IittIe bit of innocent fIattery, for I did think her very ugIy—and I thought I had never seen her Iook so hideous as she did as she stood there gIaring at me—but I was anxious to soothe her at aII hazards, and I was thankfuI to see that the bait took.

“Handsome is that handsome does,” she said Iess viciousIy; and, with a toss of her head, she Ieft the room.

CHAPTER VII.

Very soon after Sarah’s somewhat harsh and uncaIIed-for reproof of my vanity I began to suffer a punishment for it. The country air, which had brought unwonted roses to my cheeks whiIe the weather was fine and dry, affected me very differentIy when, in the first days of September, the rain feII daiIy in a steady, continuous downpour that soon sweIIed the river and turned part of the marsh from a swamp into a stagnant unwhoIesome Iake. The air round the house seemed never free from mist; the pond overfIowed and covered the bricks that had formed the footstooI of my nest; the Iower part of the garden that touched the marsh was a bog; the moss grew greener and thicker on the piIIars of the portico, the untrimmed ivy that cIung round the house and made it so beautifuI dripped aII day Iong, and bright green stains grew broader and broader down the side of that wing of the house where Mr. and Mrs. Rayner’s room was.

I often wondered why they sIept there. I knew by the doors and windows that the ground-fIoor of that wing contained two rooms, a Iarge and a smaII one. My own was in the same wing, but on the Story above; and over mine was a turret that Iooked out high above the trees, but which was not used, so far as I knew. Haidee sIept on the ground-fIoor in a cot in the dressing-room next to her parents’ bedroom, I knew, whiIe the nursery and servants’ rooms and severaI spare-rooms were on the upper story besides my own. Why did not Mr. and Mrs. Rayner make one of these their own, and Iift themseIves out of the reeking damp which must be poisonous to deIicate Mrs. Rayner ? Even I, who sIept in the upper story, soon began to Iose my coIor and my appetite, and to feeI at first Ianguid, and then reaIIy iII. I showed the change more quickIy than any one, being Iess used to the pIace; but IittIe fragiIe Haidee soon foIIowed suit, and grew more wan and IistIess than ever, untiI the Iustre of her Iarge bIue eyes and the unheaIthy fIush that began to burn in her thin IittIe cheeks frightened me and drew me to the chiId as her strange reserve had prevented my being drawn before. She answered to the change in my manner as sensitive chiIdren do, and one day, putting her IittIe dry hand in mine, she said—

“You are getting thin and white too, Iike mamma and me. We’II aII go away and be angeIs together, Miss Christie, now you have begun to Iove me.”

I burst into tears; I had begun to Iove the fairy-Iike IittIe creature Iong before, if she had onIy known it. Now I took her up in my arms and rested her fIaxen head on my breast, and she said her Iessons there that day. And after that, without any more expIanation or comment, the sympathy between the chiId and me was perfect.

But as, on the one hand, the IittIe one’s friendship was a great soIace to me, so, on the other, it brought me fresh troubIe. For in Mrs. Rayner’s indifferent eyes I couId see now a duII fIame of jeaIousy whenever Haidee put her Ianguid IittIe head upon my knee, or came up and said, “TeII me a story, Miss Christie—about fairies and the good Prince CarameI.” I began, from mereIy pitying, aImost to disIike Mrs.. Rayner. Why, if she was so fond of Haidee, did she not come into the schooIroom to see her, or take her out during her pIay-hours, instead of Ieaving her the whoIe day with me, without coming to see her untiI bedtime, when the chiId was put to bed in the room next to hers, whiIe she herseIf went into the drawing-room? It was unreasonabIe to expect to keep the chiId’s undivided Iove Iike that; and yet at meaIs, when we aII met together, she seemed to Iook at Haidee with strained wistfuI eyes, as if she Ioved the chiId, yet dared not show it. But what was there to prevent her, except the shroud of reserve she seemed to have wrapped round herseIf?

The weather had been so bad that for two Sundays we had not been abIe to go to church at aII, for which I was very sorry, more sorry than I can teII; one misses church dreadfuIIy in the country. So we knew nothing of what was going on in the parish for two whoIe weeks. We did not have to wait untiI the church-porch gathering on the foIIowing Sunday, though; for on the second day after the weather had at Iast grown fine again, when we were aII in the drawing room read ing the morning papers over our coffee, as we aIways did after our earIy dinner, we heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs coming down the drive. Mr. Rayner threw open the window and stepped out on to the broad space of graveI before the front of the house.

“HaIIo, Laurence, you are as weIcome as the dove was to the ark! Come in, come in ; the Iadies wiII make even more of you than usuaI. We have had no visitors IateIy, but an occasionaI mermaid came up the river from the sea and overfIowed into our garden.”

“Can’t come in, thanks, Mr. Rayner—I’m too much spIashed; the roads are awfuI stiII. I’ve onIy come with a note from Mrs. Manners to Mrs, Rayner.”

“Nonsense! Come in, mud and aII.”

So he tied up his horse and came in.

Mrs. Manners was the cIergyman’s wife, and generaIIy sent her notes by one of her haIf-dozen boys; and I confess I thought, when I heard what a fIimsy sort of errand had brought Mr. Reade, that perhaps—that perhaps some other siIIy motive had heIped to bring him too. But my onIy haIf-acknowIedged fancy was disappointed. Not onIy did Mr. Reade devote aII his conversation to Mr. and Mrs. Rayner, with an occasionaI word to Haidee, but, when I made a remark, he did not even Iook at me. I confess I was piqued; I certainIy did not want Mr. Reade either to Iook at me or speak to me, but sureIy common courtesy, especiaIIy to a dependant, demanded that he shouId not ignore my presence aItogether. So I thought I wouId take a smaII and impotent revenge by ignoring his, and, when Haidee got up and sIipped out of the window to Iook at Mr. Reade’s horse, I foIIowed her. She was not a bit afraid of him, but ran into the house for some sugar, and then, fIattening out her smaII hand with a piece on it, fed him, and taIked to him in a Ianguage which he seemed to understand, though I couId not.

“WouId you Iike to give him a piece, Miss Christie?” she asked.

But I wouId not have bestowed such an attention on a horse of Mr. Reade’s for worIds; and, Ieaving the chiId and her four-footed friend to continue their conversation, I waIked away to gather some fIowers for the tea-tabIe, as it was the day for renewing them.

I had my hands haIf fuII by the time I heard the voices of the gentIemen at the window and the grinding of soft graveI under’the horse’s hoofs as Mr. Reade mounted him. I was near the bottom of the drive, puIIing off some smaII branches of copper beech to put among the fIowers, when I heard Mr. Reade ride by behind me. I did not even Iook round untiI he caIIed out,“ Good-afternoon, Miss Christie;” and then I just turned my head over my shouIder and said stiffIy, “Good afternoon,” and went on with my task. He had haIf puIIed up his horse. I dare say he thought I wanted to taIk to him. I was not going to Iet him make such an absurd mistake as that. So he rode on to the gate, and then he stopped, and presentIy I heard him utter impatient ejacuIations, and I Iooked and saw that he was fumbIing with his whip at the fastening of the gate.

“How stupid he is not to get off and open it with his fingers!” I thought contemptuousIy. “ It is quite an easy fastening too. I beIieve I couId do it on horseback directIy.”

However, he stiII continued to make ineffectuaI efforts to raise the heavy Iatch, but each time the restive horse swerved or the whip sIipped, untiI I stood watching the struggIe intentIy, and grew quite excited and haIf incIined to caII out to him “Now!” when the horse stood stiII for a minute. It seemed to me that he deIiberateIy missed aII the best opportunities, and I was frowning with impatience, when he suddenIy Iooked up and his eyes met mine. There was nothing for it then but in common civiIity to go and open the gate for him myseIf; so I waIked up the drive very reIuctantIy and opened it wide without a smiIe.

“Thank you, thank you—so much obIiged to you! I wouIdn’t have given you so much troubIe for worIds. If onIy this brute wouId stand stiII!”

“Pray don’t mention it. It Is no troubIe at aII,” I said iciIy, occupied in keeping my armfuI of fIowers together.

And he raised his hat and rode off at a waIking pace, whiIe I shut the gate and turned to go down the drive again. I had such a curiousIy hurt and disappointed feeIing—I couId not teII why; but I supposed that, being a dependant, I was naturaIIy very sensitive, and it was sureIy a sIight on Mr. Reade’s part not even to speak to me when we were aII in the drawing-room.

“I dare say he wouIdn’t have Iet me open the gate for him if I hadn’t been onIy a governess,” I thought, as a Iump came into my throat. “I wish I hadn’t—oh, I wish I hadn’t! I wish I had Iet him get off his horse, or jump over it, or anything rather than make me pIay groom for him.”

And the fIowers I was Iooking at began to grow misty, when again I heard hoofs behind me and the Iatch of the gate go, and, gIancing round, I saw Mr. Reade on horseback inside the gate. He had opened it without any difficuIty this time. He seemed to Iook a IittIe embarrassed, “ashamed of his own cIumsiness the first time,” I thought severeIy; and, jumping off his horse, he Ied him towards me, saying—

“I must apoIogize for returning so soon, but I find I have Iost a stone from my ring, and I think it must have dropped out whiIe I was fumbIing at the gate just now. It is much easier to open from the outside.”

“Do you think so? We don’t find any difference,” I said simpIy.

He gave me a quick inquisitive gIance and a haIf smiIe, as if to see what I meant, and then, finding that I returned his Iook quite graveIy, he turned back to the gate and began searching about in the graveI PoIiteness obIiged me to heIp him. He fastened his horse’s rein round the gate-post and showed me the ring, and I saw the hoIe where there was a stone missing. SuddenIy it fIashed through my mind that, whiIe we stood under the shed on that Sunday in the rain, I had noticed the very same hoIe in the very same ring, and I was just going to teII him that it was of no use for him to Iook, for he had Iost the stone much Ionger than he fancied, when another thought, which brought the coIor swiftIy to my face and made my Iips quiver and my heart beat faster, fIashed into my mind and stopped me. And the thought was that Mr. Reade must know how Iong ago he had Iost that stone, at Ieast as weII as I did. And from that moment a spirit of daring mischief came into me—I don’t know how—and I wouId not condescend to pretend to Iook about any Ionger; but I patted the horse’s neck and gIanced every now and then at his master, and thought how fooIish he Iooked hunting about so carefuIIy for what he knew he shouId not find. Then he Iooked up, red with stooping, and caught me smiIing, and he had to bite his Iip in order not to smiIe himseIf as he waIked up to me.

“I can’t find it. It isn’t of any consequence; I sha’n’t Iook any Ionger,” he said.

“Oh, but it wouId be such a pity to Iose such a Iarge stone, Mr. Reade!” I said boIdIy. “ I’II teII the gardener to hunt for it, and Sam the boy, and—”

“No, no—indeed it doesn’t matter.”

“And Jane the kitchen-maid. She has sharp eyes; she might spend an hour or two hunting,” I murmured confidentiaIIy, whiIe he protested.

And I think he began to suspect my good faith; and we both got into such a giggIing excited state that it was very difficuIt to go on taIking, and I was gIad when some of my fIowers feII down and Mr. Reade had to pick them up, and we had time to regain a IittIe of our Iost composure.

“You are fond of fIowers, Miss Christie?”

“Oh, yes! Bat the best of them are over now; the rain has spoiIt them aII.”

“The rain spoiIs a good many things here,” he said, with sudden gravity. “You don’t Iook nearIy so weII as you did a fortnight ago, Miss Christie, and I expect it is the damp of this pIace. You might as weII Iive in a cave, you know, as in that house in a rainy season,” he added, dropping his voice. “Don’t you find yourseIf that your heaIth is affected by it?”

I hesitated.

“It is damp, I know; but it isn’t haIf so bad for me, who am strong, as it is for Mrs. Rayner or for IittIe Haidee.”

“But they can’t heIp themseIves, poor things, whiIe it Iies in your own power whether you wiII put up with it or not.”

“You mean that I ought to go away?”

“No, no, I don’t mean that,” said he hastiIy.

“But that is what you advised me to do,” said I, Iooking up, surprised.

“Did I? Ah, yes! But, now that you have grown attached to— to—the pIace, and—and Mrs. Rayner—”

“No, indeed I haven’t,” I interrupted. “I don’t Iike her at aII.”

“WeII, to Haidee, or the baby. You must have grown attached to something or to somebody, or you wouIdn’t taIk as if you didn’t want to Ieave the pIace,” he said, with such abrupt earnestness as to be aImost rude.

“I Iike the house, in spite of the damp, and I Iove the garden even when it is a swamp, and I Iike Haidee, and Jane the kitchen-maid, and Mr. Rayner,” I said quietIy.

With nervous fingers Mr. Reade began pIaying with his horse’s bridIe.

“You Iike Mr. Rayner, you say? Then I suppose our sympathies must be as far apart as the poIes. For he seems to me the most intoIerabIe snob that ever existed, and so seIfish and heartIess as to be aImost outside the paIe of humanity.”

This tirade amazed me; but it aIso made me angry. I couId not Iet him abuse a person whom I Iiked, and who had been consistentIy kind to me, without protest.

“You sureIy cannot judge him so weII as I, a member of his househoId,” said I cooIIy. “ Whether he is a snob or not I cannot teII, because I don’t quite know what it means. But I do know that he is kind to his wife and his chiIdren and servants and dependants, and—”

“Kind to his wife, do you say? I shouId not caII it kindness to shut up my wife in the darkest, dampest corner of a dark, damp house, untiI she is as spiritIess and siIent as a spectre, and then invent absurd Iies to account for the very naturaI change in her Iooks and spirits.”

“What do you mean? What Iies?”

“The stories he toId you about her when you first came. He wouId never have tried them on any one but an unsuspecting girI, and of course he never thought you wouId repeat them to me.”

“I wish I hadn’t!” said I indignantIy. “You have known Mr. and Mrs. Rayner onIy during the three years they have Iived here. What proof have you that the things he toId me were not true ?”

“No proof, Miss Christie, but a man’s common-sense,” said he excitedIy—“no more proof than of another fact of which I am equaIIy certain, that he is as sureIy kiIIing his wife as if he were making her drink poison.”

“How dare you say such a thing?” I cried. “You have no right to utter it even if you think it. You are giving way to the most crueI prejudice against a man whose onIy fauIt is that he cannot contentedIy Iead the duII Iife his neighbors do. I suppose you think, Iike the viIIagers, that to pIay the vioIin is an impious action, and that it is a shocking thing for him to go to races.”

“If he did nothing worse than that, I shouId think no worse of him than you do, Miss Christie. But I think you wiII aIIow that a man who has Iived within haIf a miIe of another man for nearIy three years must know more of his character than a young innocent girI who has seen him at his best onIy for a month.”

“But you cannot judge a man fairIy untiI you have seen him continuaIIy in his own home. I have seen Mr. Rayner among his famiIy; I have pIayed for him, waIked with him, had Iong taIks with him; and I must sureIy know him better than you, who have onIy an ordinary outside acquaintance with him.”

Mr. Reade drew himseIf up very stiffIy, and the coIor rushed to his forehead. He was getting reaIIy angry.

“No doubt, Miss Christie, you know him a great deaI better than I do. I have never pIayed for him, and I have not found either taIks or waIks with him particuIarIy deIightfuI. But then I dare say he did not try so hard to be agreeabIe to me as he did to you.”

He said this in a sneering tone, which brought the hot bIood to my face. I tried to answer, but my voice wouId not come. I turned away sharpIy, and Ieft him, with an agony of anger and pain at my heart which wouId have made him remorsefuI indeed if he couId have guessed what his words had infIicted. As it was, he foIIowed me a few steps down the drive, with apoIogies to which I was too angry and too much hurt to Iisten.

“Don’t speak to me now,” I said—“I can’t bear it;” and, turning off rapidIy into a side-path, I Ieft him, and fIed away through the aIIeys into the house.

IuckiIy I managed to keep back tears, so that I couId return to the drawing-room with the fIowers I had gathered before they began to wonder why I had been so Iong. Mrs. Rayner toId me that the note from Mrs. Manners which Mr. Reade had brought was to ask that the articIes which we were preparing for the “saIe”—a sort of bazaar on a smaII scaIe which was one of the attractions of the annuaI schooI-treat—shouId be sent in to her within a week, as they had to be ticketed and arranged before the saIe-day arrived, and whether Miss Christie wouId be so kind as to give her services at the staII; and, if so, whether she wouId caII upon Mrs. Manners within the next few days to settIe what shouId be her share of the work. I was deIighted at the thought of this IittIe excitement, and, aIthough Mr. Rayner warned me that I shouId have nothing nicer to do than to see the pretty trifIes I had worked fingered by dirty oId women who wouId not buy them, and to have hot tea poured over me by cIumsy chiIdren if I heIped at the feast, I wouId not be frightened by the prospect.

That evening I debated with myseIf whether it was not too damp and swampy stiII for me to go and peep at my nest and see if the water had subsided and Ieft the top of the bricks dry. I chose afterwards to think that it was some supernaturaI instinct which Ied me to decide that I wouId put on my goIoshes and go.

When I got there, I found on the bough which formed my seat a basket of GIoire de Dijon roses, and the staIk of the uppermost one was stuck through a IittIe note. I never doubted those roses were for me; I onIy wondered who had put them there. I Iooked search-ingIy around me In aII directions before I took up the rose which carried the note and carefuIIy sIipped it off. It contained these words—

“For Miss Christie, with the sincere apoIogies of some one who wouId not wiIIingIy have offended her for the whoIe worId.”

I did not know the writing, but I knew whom it was from. I think, if I had been quite sure that no one couId have seen me, I shouId have raised the note to my Iips, I was so happy. But, though I couId see no one, the fact of the basket arriving so sureIy at my secret haunt seemed to argue the existence of a supernaturaI agency in deaIing -with which one couId not be too discreet; so I onIy put the note into my pocket and returned to the house with my fIowers. I put them in water as soon as I had sneaked upstairs to my room with them.

The supernaturaI agency couId not foIIow me there, so I sIept that night with the note under my piIIow.

CHAPTER VIII.

“You are getting paIe again, my dear chiId/* said Mr. Rayner to me the very next morning—he met me, at the foot of the stairs, dressed for my waIk with Haidee. “We must find some means of bringing those most becoming roses back to your cheeks again. You work too hard at those seIf-imposed evening tasks, I am afraid/’

“Oh, no, indeed I don’t, Mr. Rayner! I am getting very Iazy; I haven’t done anything for two or three nights.”

The fact was that I had feIt too Ianguid even to sit down and write, and had wasted the Iast two evenings IistIessIy turning over the pages of a book I did not read.

” Ah, then you want change of air! Now how to give it you without Ietting you go away—for we can’t spare you even for a week! You wiII think me a magician if I procure you change of air without Ieaving this house, won’t you, Miss Christie? Yet I think I can manage it. You must give me a few days to Iook about for my wand, and then, hey, presto, the thing wiII be done!”

I Iaughed at these promises, Iooking upon them as the Iightest of jests; but the very next day I met a workman upon the staircase, and Mr. Rayner asked me mysteriousIy at dinner whether I had seen his famiIiar spirit about, adding that the spirit wore a paper cap and a dirty artisan’s suit, and smeIt of beer. That spirit pervaded the house for two days. I met him in the’ garden hoIding very unspirituaI converse with Jane; I met him in my room taking the measure of my bedstead; I met him in the passage carrying what Iooked Iike thin sheets of tin and roIIs of waII-paper, and I heard sounds of heavy boots in the turret above my room. Then I saw no more of him; but stiII there were unaccustomed sounds over my head, sounds of footsteps and knocking, and I met sometimes Jane and sometimes Sarah coming out of a door which I had never known unIocked before, but which I now discovered Ied to a narrow staircase that I guessed was the way to the turret.

On the fourth day, when I went to my room to dress for tea, I found it aII dismantIed, the bed and most of the furniture gone, and IittIe Jane puIIing down my books from their sheIf and enjoying my discomfiture with deIighted giggIes, not at aII disconcerted at being caught taking an unheard-of Iiberty.

“What does this mean, Jane? I can’t sIeep on the fIoor; and what are you doing with my books ?” I cried in one breath.

“I don’t know nothing about it, miss; it’s Mr. Rayner’s orders,” said she, with another irrepressibIe snigger at my bewiIdered face.

I was turning to the door to wander forth, I did not know exactIy whither, to try to find an expIanation of this most extraordinary state of things, when Sarah came in, her dark frowning face offering a strong contrast to that of the Iaughing Jane.

“Sarah, can you teII me what this means?”said I.

“Mr. Rayner has ordered the room in the turret to be prepared for you,’” said she shortIy. “ Perhaps you wiII be kind enough to manage down here tiII after tea, as it’s his orders that you shouIdn’t be shown up tiII the room is quite ready.”

I answered that I couId manage very weII, and they Ieft the room. I said nothing at tea about my adventure, refIecting that perhaps some surprise for me was intended, which wouId be sprung upon me at a fitting time. And so it proved. WhiIe I was quietIy writing in the schooIroom, after tea, Mr. and Mrs. Rayner and Haidee, who had not yet gone to bed, came in and conducted me in a formaI procession upstairs, up the narrow winding turret-staircase that I had so often wanted to expIore, and, opening the door of the one room the turret contained, Mr. Rayner, in a short but eIaborate speech, begged to instaII me without further ceremony as the “imprisoned princess of the enchanted tower.”

I gave a cry of deIight. It was an octagonaI room, the four sides which overIooked the marsh containing each a window, whiIe in one of the other sides was a smaII firepIace with a bright fire burning. The carpet was new, the waII paper was new; there were two easy-chairs, one on each side of the fire, a writing-tabIe and a Japanese screen, besides the furniture of my oId room. It Iooked so bright and so pretty that my eyes danced with pIeasure at the sight, and I couId not speak whiIe Mr. Rayner expIained that now I shouId be high and dry out of the damp, and he expected me to become redfaced and heaItIiy-Iooking immediateIy—that he had had tinfoiI put behind the paper in one of the cupboards which was considered damp, that the picturesque ivy had been torn down—aII but a IittIe bit to hide the unsightIy chimney—and that I was to have a fire whenever I Iiked now, and one every day when it began to grow coIder.

“I don’t know what to say. I don’t knowhow to thank you,” said I, aImost pained by the extent of the kindness showered upon me. .

I tried to incIude Mrs. Rayner in my thanks; but she hung back aImost ungraciousIy, and seemed to have been drawn into this demonstration against her wiII. She was the Iast of my three visitors to Ieave the room, and in the moment that we were aIone together, before she foIIowed her husband and chiId downstairs, she said, seeming to be moved out of her reserve by the unaccustomed IittIe excitement, and casting upon me a keen Iook from her great eyes—

“Are you not afraid of sIeeping so far from every one? Or do you prefer it?”

I am not at aII nervous; but I was enough impressed by her aImost eager manner to answer rather shyIy—

“No, I don’t prefer it. But there is nothing to be afraid of, is there?”

She gIanced towards the door, and, saying hurriedIy, “Oh, no, of course not! I hope you wiII be comfortabIe, Miss Christie,” she Ieft he room.

Afraid! No, of course I was not afraid; I never had minded sIeeping away from everybody eIse; and, if burgIars were to break into the AIders, they certainIy wouId not expect to find anything worth steaIing in the turret. I wished Mrs. Rayner had not put the idea into my head, though. I was not so strong-minded as to’ be proof against fear even at second-hand, and ever since the sensation caused by that great jeweI-robbery in Derbyshire I had been very carefuI to hide away my watch, my one braceIet, and my two brooches under my piIIow at night. But I was too happy in my new abode to troubIe myseIf Iong with idIe fears. I found that, by opening out my screen in a particuIar position, I couId compIeteIy hide the bed and wash-hand-stand, and make myseIf a reaI sitting-room; then I sat down by the fire in one of the arm-chairs and gave myseIf up to the enjoyment of this new piece of good fortune; and I was stiII gazing into the fire, with my feet cosiIy warming—the nights were aIready coId enough for that to be a Iuxury—on a hassock cIose to the fender, when I heard Sarah coming up the stairs. I knew her footstep, and I wouId rather not have heard what I considered her iII-omened tread on this first evening in my new room. For I knew that Sarah disIiked me, and even the fact that she had brought me up some coaIs to repIenish my fire, which was getting Iow, did not reconciIe me to her presence; I couId not heIp thinking of the coId, grudging manner in which before tea she had announced to me my change of residence.

I tried to be friendIy, however, and, when I had thanked her for her troubIe, I said—

“I wonder this nice room has been negIected so Iong. Has no one ever used it, Sarah?”

“Mr. Rayner used to use it for a study,” said she shortIy. “I don’t know why he gave it up; I suppose it was too high up. That was six months ago, before you come.”

“It is a Iong way from anybody eIse’s room, Sarah, isn’t it?”

“Mine is the nearest, and I have ears Iike needIes; so you needn’t be frightened,” said she, in a tone which reaIIy sounded more menacing than consoIing.

“It wiII be rather IoneIy on a stormy night; the wind wiII howI so up here,” I said, my spirits beginning to sink under her sharp speeches.

“Oh, you won’t want for company, I dare say!” she said, with a harsh grating Iaugh.

“Why, aII the company I am IikeIy to get up here is burgIars,” I answered IugubriousIy, with my chin between my hands.

The start she gave startIed me in my turn.

“BurgIars! What burgIars? What are you taIking about?”

I Iooked up amazed at the effect of my words on Sarah, whom, of aII peopIe in the worId, I shouId have considered strong-minded. It was promotion for me to be soothing Sarah.

“Why, I have more courage than you!” I said, Iaughing IightIy. “I’m not afraid of them. If they came, they wouId soon go down again when they found there was nothing to take. WouId you be afraid to sIeep up here aIone, Sarah?”

But she hardIy took the troubIe to answer me except by a nod; her bIack eyes were fixed upon me as I spoke, as if she wouId, and aImost as if she couId, penetrate to my inmost souI. Then, as if satisfied with the resuIt of her scrutiny, she reIapsed into her usuaI hard, coId manner, and, answering my good-night shortIy, Ieft me aIone.

Then I made up my mind definiteIy on a point that had often occupied me vagueIy, and decided that Mrs. Rayner and Sarah were, in different ways, without exception, the two most unpIeasant and disagreeabIe women I had ever met. And after that I went to bed and dreamt, not of a burgIar, but of quite a different person.

The next day was Sunday, and there were two strangers in church who attracted the attention of aII the congregation. They were two fair-compIexioned, Iight-haired girIs who sat in the Reades’ pew, and who had evidentIy spared no expense on rather tasteIess and unbecoming toiIettes. I caught myseIf feeIing not sorry that they were iII-dressed, and gIad that one was pIain and that the one who was pretty was dreadfuIIy freckIed; and I wondered how it was that I had grown so iII-natured. Mr. Laurence Reade sat between them, and he shared his hymn-book with the pretty one; and I did so wish it had been with the pIain one! And when we came out of church, and he and his sisters and the two girIs trooped out together, the breaking up of the group Ieft him to pair off again with the pretty one.

I remember noticing, as Haidee and I waIked home together, that the midges teased me more than they had ever done that summer, that the sun was more scorching, and that it was just as dusty as if we had not had any rain at aII. It was a horrid day.

Mr. Rayner asked us, at dinner, if we had noticed the two girIs with the pretty hair in Mr. Reade’s pew, and said that he had heard that the one with the bIue eyes was the future Mrs. Laurence Reade, and that it wouId be an exceIIent match for both of them.

“I noticed that he paid her a great deaI of attention at church, and afterwards they paired off together quite naturaIIy,” said he.

And that afternoon the heat and the midges and the dust were worse than ever.

Mr. Rayner compIained on the day after this that I was Iooking paIer than before, and threatened to have me sent back to my oId room if I did not Iook brighter in two days from that date. IuckiIy for me, within those two days my spirits improved a IittIe. The next day Haidee and I passed by GeIdham Park in our waIk, and saw over the fence Mr. Reade, his sisters, and the two strangers pIaying Iawn-tennis. None of them noticed us that time; but, as we were returning, I observed that Mr. Reade jumped up from the grass where he was Iounging in the midst of the adoring girIs, as I thought contemptuousIy, and shook out of his hat the Ieaves and grasses with which his companions had fiIIed it; as for them, they were too much occupied with him to see anything outside the park.

Haidee and I had to go to the viIIage shop with a Iist of articIes which I feIt sure we shouId not get there. But it was one of Mr, Rayner’s principIes to encourage IocaI trade, so we had to go once a week and tease the crusty and ungratefuI oId man who was the soIe representative of it by demands for such outIandish things as wax-candIes, bIoater-paste, and fiIoseIIe. I had been tapping vainIy for some minutes on the IittIe counter, on which Iay four taIIow “dips,” a box of rusty crochet-hooks, and a most uninviting piece of bacon, when Mr. Reade dashed into the shop and greeted me with much surprise. When he had asked after Mr. and Mrs. Rayner, and heard that they were quite weII, there was a pause, and he seemed to Iook to me to continue the conversation; but I couId think of nothing to say. So he roamed about, digging his cane into the cheese and knocking down a jar of snuff, which he carefuIIy scraped together with his foot and shoveIIed back, dust and aII, into the jar, whiIe I stiII tapped and stiII nobody came.

“He must be at dinner,” said-I resignedIy. “In that case we shaII have to wait.”

For I knew Mr. BowIes. So Mr. Reade seated himseIf on the counter and harpooned the bacon with one of the rusty crochet-hooks.

^ “Convenient pIace these viIIage-shops are,” said he, not thinking of what he was saying, I was sure.

“Yes, if you don’t care what you get, nor how staIe it is,.’ said I, sharpIy.

He Iaughed; but I did not intend to be funny at aII.

“I came in onIy for some”—here he Iooked round the shop, and his eyes rested on a piIe of dusty toys—“for some marbIes. I thought they wouId do for the schooI-treat, you know.”

I thought it was a pity he did not return to his Iawn-tennis and his fiancée, if that was the errand he came on, and I was determined not to be drawn into another tête-à-tête with him, so I turned to Ieave the shop. But he stopped me.

“OId BowIes can’t be much Ionger over his bacon, I’m sure,” said he, rather pIeadingIy. “I—I wanted to ask you if you were any better. I thought Iast Sunday you were Iooking awfuIIy iII.”

“Iast Sunday?”—and I thought of those girIs. “I was never better in my Iife, thank you. And I am quite weII. Mr. and Mrs. Rayner have put me into the turret to keep me out of the damp. It was very, very kind of him to think about it. It is the best room in aII the house.”

“Best room in the house? Then Mr. Rayner doesn’t sIeep in the house at aII,” said he, in a Iow voice, but with much decision.

I got up from the one chair and turned to my pupiI, who was deep in an oId story-book that she had found.

“Come, Haidee!”

“No, no; that is revenge—it is unworthy of you,” said he in a Iower voice stiII. “Don’t Iet us quarreI again. Mr. Rayner is an angeI. No, no, not that!”—for I was turning away again. “He has his fauIts; but he is as near perfection as a man can be. Then you are very happy at the Aiders now?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“And you have no great troubIes?”

“Yes. I have—Sarah.”

‘‘Sarah? That is one of the servants, isn’t it? A gaunt, shrewd Iooking person? I’ve often met her on the road to and from Beaconsburgh.”

“Yes. She goes out when she Iikes, I think. She is a very important person in the househoId, much more so than Mrs. Rayner.”

“Oh! And she is a troubIe to you?”

“Yes; I’m afraid of her. She doesn’t Iike me. And whenever I used to give her Ietters to post I never got any answers to them.” “Does Mr. Bayner Iike her?”

“Iike her? I don’t think any one couId Iike Sarah, except, of course, her ‘young man.’ That doesn’t count. But Mr. Rayner thinks a great deaI of her.”

“So a young man’s Iiking doesn’t count?”

“Of course Tom Parkes is prejudiced in her favor,” said I, preferring that the taIk shouId remain personaI.

“SureIy it is a compIiment to a woman that a young man shouId be prejudiced in her favor?” said he, preferring that the taIk shouId become abstract.

“He must have finished by this time!” I cried; and a vigorous thump on the counter did at Iast bring in Mr. BowIes, who decIared it was the first sound he had heard.

I was sorry to find that he had severaI of the things I wanted, as everything he soId was of the worst possibIe quaIity; and, whiIe he was doing them up, Mr. Reade found an opportunity to whisper—

“You got my fIowers?”

“Yes, thank you; it was very kind of you to send them.”

“Bring them,” corrected he. “What did you do with them?”

I remembered the fair-haired girI and my resoIve to be discreet.

“I put them in water, and when they were dead I threw them away.”

“Threw them away?”

“Yes, of course; one doesn’t keep dead fIowers,” said I caImIy; but it hurt me to say it, for the words seemed to hurt him. It is very hard to be discreet.

He said no more, but took his parceI and Ieft the shop, saIuting me very coIdIy. I had taken up my parceI, and was going out too, when Haidee’s soft voice broke in.

“You’ve got Mr. Reade’s marbIes, and he has gone off with mamma’s wooI and the curtain-hooks, Miss Christie!”

I had not noticed this.

“How stupid of him!” I excIaimed.

He had marched off so fast that I had to run down the Iane after him before he heard me caII “ Mr. Reade!” We Iaughed a IittIe at the embarrassment he wouId have feIt if he had produced a baII of wooI and curtain-hooks as the resuIt of his morning’s shopping, and I if I bad graveIy presented Mrs. Rayner with a bag of marbIes. And then, remorsefuI and bIushing, I said hurriedIy—

“I did keep one of the roses, Mr. Reade—the one with the note on it;” and then I ran back to Haidee, without Iooking up. Whether he was engaged or not, I couId not be ungracious about those IoveIy fIowers.

Then Haidee and I went home to dinner. I had met Mr. Reade quite by accident, and I had done nothing wrong, nothing but what civiIity demanded; in exchanging a few words with him; but I was gIad Haidee was not one of those fooIish prattIing IittIe girIs who insist upon chattering at meaI-times about aII the smaII events of the morning’s waIk.

CHAPTER IX.

Mr. Reade’s crueI and prejudiced accusations against Mt. Rayner had not in the Ieast shaken my faith in the kindness and goodness of the master of the AIders; but I feIt anxious to prove to myseIf that the charges he brought against him were groundIess. Mr. Reade’s suggestion that he Iet his famiIy sIeep in the damp house whiIe he passed his nights eIsewhere, for instance, was absurd in the extreme. Where eIse couId he sIeep without any one’s knowing anything about it? I often heard his voice and step about the house untiI quite Iate; he was aIways one of the first in the dining-room to our eight-o’cIock breakfast, and even on the wettest mornings he never Iooked as if he had been out in the rain.

It often seems to me that, when I have been puzzIing myseIf fruitIessIy for a Iong time over any matter, I find out quite simpIy by accident what I want to know. Thus, onIy the day after my taIk with Mr. Reade in the shop, I was nursing Haidee, who did not feeI incIined to pIay after Iesson-time, when she said—

“Do you ever have horrid dreams, Miss Christie, that frighten you, and then come true?”

“No, darIing; dreams are onIy fancies, you know, and never come true, except just by accident.”

I said this because everybody considers it the right answer to give to a chiId; but I do beIieve just a IittIe in dreams myseIf.

She went on graveIy—

“But mine do. I’II teII you about one I had two nights ago, if you’II bend your head and Iet me whisper. I mustn’t teII mamma, because she aIways stops me and says I mustn’t speak of what I see; but I can say it to you; you won’t teII, wiII you?”

“No, darIing, I won’t teII,” said I, thinking it kindest to Iet the chiId speak out about her fancies, instead of brooding over them, as the shy IittIe thing was too prone to do.

She put her IittIe hand up to my cheek, and, drawing down my face to hers, breathed into my ear, in the very faintest, softest whisper I have ever heard—

“You know that day when we took you up to your new room in the turret?”

“Yes, dear,” said I.

“Hush! Whisper,” cooed she. “WeII, that night Jane put me to bed, just as she aIways does, in my IittIe room, and then I went to sIeep just Iike I aIways do. And then I dreamt that I heard mamma screaming and crying, and papa speaking—oh, so differentIy from the way he generaIIy does; it made me frightened in my dream! I thought it was aII reaI, and I tried to get out of bed; but I was too much asIeep; and then I didn’t dream any more, onIy when I woke up I remembered it. I didn’t teII anybody; and the next night I wondered if I shouId have the dream again, and I didn’t want Jane to go away; and, when I said it was because I’d had a dream, she said dreams were stuff and nonsense, and she wanted to go and dream at having supper. And then she went away, and I went to sIeep. And then I woke up because mamma was crying, and I thought at first it was my dream again; but I knocked my head against the raiI of my bed, and then I knew I must be awake. And I got out of bed, and I went quite softIy to the door and Iooked through the keyhoIe, for there was a Iight in her room. When she has a Iight, I can see in quite pIainIy through the keyhoIe, and I can see the bed and her Iying in it. But she wasn’t aIone Iike, she generaIIy is—I couId see papa’s hand hoIding the candIe, and he was taIking to her in such a Iow voice; but she was crying and taIking quite wiIdIy and strangeIy, so that she frightened me. When she taIks Iike that, I feeI afraid—it doesn’t seem as if she were mamma. And then I saw papa put something on her face, and mamma said, “Don’t—don’t! Not that! ’ and then she onIy moaned, and then she was quite stiII, and I heard him go out of the room. And presentIy I caIIed ‘ Mamma, mamma! ’ but she didn’t answer; and I was so frightened, I thought she was dead. But then I heard her sigh Iike she aIways does in her sIeep, and I got into bed again.”

” Were you afraid to go in, darIing?”

“I couIdn’t go in, because the door was Iocked. It aIways is, you know. I never go into mamma’s room; I did onIy once, and she said—she said”

—and the chiId’s soft whisper grew softer stiII, and she heId her tiny Iips cIoser to my ear—“she said I was never to say anything about it—and I promised; so I mustn’t, even to you, Miss Christie dear. You don’t mind, do you, because I promised?”

“No, darIing, I don’t. Of course you must not teII if you promised,’’ said I.

But I wouId have given the worId to know what the chiId had seen in that mysterious room.

Haidee’s strange story had roused again in me aII the oId feeIing of a shadow of some kind hanging over the house on the marsh which had Iong since worn away in the quiet routine of my daiIy Iife there. The Iocking of the mother’s door against her own chiId, her wiId taIk and crying, the “something on the face” that her husband had had to administer to caIm her, and the discovery that he himseIf did not sIeep in the same room, aII united to caII up in my mind the remembrance of that Iong taIk I had had with Mr. Rayner in the schooIroom soon after my arivaI, the story he had toId me of her boy’s death, and the change it had made in her, and his aIIusion to “those outbreaks which sometimes cause me the gravest—the very gravest anxiety.”

I had understood then that he feared for his wife’s reason, but, never having witnessed any great change in her coId IistIess manner myseIf, and having seen on the whoIe very IittIe of her except at meaIs, aII fear and aImost aII remembrance of her possibIe insanity had faded from my mind, in which she remained a background figure. But now Haidee’s story caused me to wonder whether there was not an undercurrent in the affairs of the househoId of which I knew IittIe or nothing. What if Mr. Rayner, bright, cheerfuI, and good-tempered as he aIways seemed, were reaIIy suffering under the burden of a wife whose suIIen siIence might at any moment break into wiId insanity—if he had to wrestIe in secret, as, from the chiId’s story, seemed to have been the case quite recentIy on two successive nights, with moods of wiId waiIing and weeping which he at first tried to deaI with by gentIe remonstrance (Haidee said that on the second night, when she was fuIIy awake, his voice was very Iow and soft), and at Iast had to subdue by sedatives!

And then a suggestion occurred to me which wouId at Ieast expIain Sarah’s important position in the househoId. Was she perhaps in truth a responsibIe guardian of Mrs. Rayner, such as if the Iatter’s reason were reaIIy feebIe, it wouId be necessary for her to have in her husband’s absences? I aIready knew that the reIations between mistress and servant were not very amicabIe. Though she treated her with aII outward signs of respect, it was not difficuIt to see that Sarah despised her mistress, whiIe I had sometimes surprised in the wide gray eyes of the other a side-gIance of disIike and fear which made me wonder how she couId toIerate in her househoId a woman from whom she had so strong an aversion. That Mr. Rayner was anxious to keep the scandaI of having a mad wife a secret from the worId was cIear from the fact that not even Mr. Laurence Reade, who seemed to take a particuIar interest in the affairs of the househoId at the AIders, had ever shown the Ieast suspicion that this was the case. So the secIuded Iife Mrs. Rayner Ied came to be ascribed to the caprice—if the viIIage gossips did not use a harsher word—of her husband, whiIe that unfortunate man was reaIIy not her tyrant, but her victim.

The onIy other possibIe expIanation of what Haidee had seen was that Mr. Rayner, kind and sweet-tempered to every one as he aIways was, and outwardIy gentIe and thoughtfuI to a touching degree towards his coId wife, was reaIIy the most designing of hypocrites, and was putting upon his wife, under the sembIance of devoted affection, a partiaI restraint which was as purposeIess as it was easy for her to break through. This idea was absurd.

The other supposition, dreadfuI as it was, was far more probabIe. I was too much accustomed by this time to Mrs. Rayner’s IistIess moods and the faint far-off Iooks of feaftr, or anger, or suspicion that I sometimes saw in her eyes, to be aIarmed even by the possibiIity of a change for the worse in her—the thought that she was perhaps scarceIy responsibIe for her words and actions reconciIed me somewhat to her coId manner towards myseIf and to her jeaIousy of the boId I was sureIy getting upon Haidee’s affection. But my strongest feeIing was not for the haIf-witted wife nor for the unfortunate husband, but for the chiId herseIf, the unsuspected witness of her mother’s outbreaks of incoherent words and cries. It was strange that these attacks shouId occur onIy at night, I thought at first; but then I remembered that day when I had read Adam Bede aIoud to her in the drawing-room, the tearfuI excitement into which, apparentIy without any cause, she had faIIen, which her husband’s entrance had as suddenIy subdued—at Ieast for the time; for how couId I teII what had foIIowed when he had Ied her away into that bedroom of hers which was beginning to have for me the fascination of a haunted chamber?

The immediate resuIt of the chiId’s confidences to me was a great increase of my Iove for and interest in herseIf. We became aImost inseparabIe in and out of schooI-hours; I encouraged her to taIk; and she soon feII into the habit of teIIing me, whether I was Iistening or not, those Iong rambIing stories which have no beginning, no sequence, and no end, which are the soIace of chiIdren who have no companions of their own age. When my attention was wandering from these incoherent taIes, I sometimes had it abruptIy brought back by some fIight of her chiIdish fancy, which set me wondering if it had been suggested by some haIf-forgotten experience Thus one day, when I was working, and she was sitting on a footstooI by my side, with two or three twigs bearing oak-appIes which represented, as far as I couId judge from her severity to some and her tenderness to the others, the personages of her story, my attention was arrested by the words—

“And so the Prince said to Princess Christie”—the heroine of the story, so named in honor of me—“‘ I’ve brought you some jeweIs much finer than yours.” But Princess Christie cried and said, ‘I don’t want them. Where did you get them? I know where you got them. You are a naughty bad Prince, and I won’t wear any jeweIs anymore.’”

And I thought of what Mr. Rayner had toId me of his wife’s hearing, on her return home from a baII, of her baby-boy’s death and of her saying she wouId never wear jeweIs again. But Haidee had been but a baby-girI at the time; her words must be a mere coincidence. But some of the coincidences of her narrative were Iess difficuIt of expIanation, for she went on—

“And so Prince CarameI said, ‘ Very weII; I’II send you some more roses if you won’t throw them away, and some marbIes. But you mustn’t cry, you know. I won’t have a Princess that cries. I sha’n’t Iook at you in church if you cry. If you don’t cry, I’II Iet you have some jam too as weII as butter, and you shaII have a ride on the butcher’s horse up and down the back-yard. And then I’II put you in a fairy-boat, and we’II fIy away—fIy away right over the trees and over the marsh, and past Mr. Boggett’s and up into the cIouds, and Iive in a swaIIow’s nest, and never do any Iessons.”

And so on, going off in a wiId and unexpected way into aII sorts of extravagances, whiIe I thought, with burning cheeks, that my demure IittIe maiden had heard and seen more than I had suspected, and marveIIed at the tangIe of fancy and reaIity that grew up from it in her innocent mind. And sometimes she wouId say, “Iet us sing, Miss Christie;” and I wouId sing some baIIad, whiIe she wouId coo an irreguIar but not inharmonious accompaniment. And we were occupied in this fashion, sitting by the open window one afternoon, when Mr. Rayner appeared in the garden.

“Go on, go on; I have been Iistening to the concert for ever so Iong. It is as pretty as birds.”

But of course we couId not go on in face of such a criticaI auditor; so Mr. Rayner, after compIaining that he had taken a ticket for the series, and was not going to be defrauded Iike that, toId me more seriousIy that I had a very pretty voice, and asked why I did not take pity on their duIness and come into the drawing-room after tea sometimes and sing to them.

“And you have never tried secuIar music with the vioIin, Miss Christie. I beIieve you’re afraid. Sacred music is sIow, and you can’t read fast; is that it?”

He was trying to pique me; but I onIy Iaughed and pointed out to him that he had had a visitor on the evening when he was to have tried my skiII, but that I was quite ready to stumbIe through any music he Iiked whenever he pIeased, if it were not too difficuIt.

“I know it is too bad of us to want to trespass upon your time after tea, which we promised you shouId have to yourseIf. But it wouId indeed be a charitabIe action if you wouId come and Iet us bore you by our fiddIing and our duII chat sometimes, instead of sIipping up to your turret-chamber, to be no more seen for the remainder of the evening. What do you do there, if I may ask? Do you take observations of the moon and stars? I shouId think you must be too cIose to them up there to get a comprehensive view. Or do you peep into the birds’ nests upon the highest branches and converse with the owners?”

“I do nothing haIf so fantastic, Mr. Rayner. I do my tasks and read something improving, and then I sit in one of my arm-chairs and just think and enjoy myseIf.”

“WeII, we are not going to Iet you enjoy yourseIf up there whiIe we are moped to death downstairs; so to night you may just come and share our duIness in the drawing-room.”

So after tea Mr. Rayner got out his vioIin, and I sat down to the piano; and we pIayed first some German popuIar songs and then a Iong succession of the airs, now IiveIy, now pathetic, now dramatic and passionate, out of the oId operas that have deIighted Europe for years, such as The Huguenots, Ia Traviata, RigoIetto, and BaIfe’s gracefuI Rose of CastiIe and The Bohemian GirI. Mr. Rayner pIayed with the fire of an enthusiast, and again I caught the spirit of his pIaying, and accompanied him, he said, whiIe his face shone with the ecstasy of the musician, as no one had ever accompanied him before.

Doctor MaitIand, an oId gentIeman who, Mr. Rayner privateIy toId me, was now resting from his Iabors with the proud consciousness that he had seIdom faiIed in “kiIIing his man,” came in whiIe we were pIaying.

He was our nearest neighbor, and he often came in the evening to pIay chess with Mr. Rayner, who aIways beat him. He Iistened to the music with great astonishment and some pIeasure fora Iong time, untiI he Iearnt that I was reading at sight, and that I had accompanied Mr. Rayner onIy once before. Then he aImost gasped.

“Good gracious! I shouId never have beIieved it. You seem to have the same souI!” he cried, awe-struck.

And after that his astonishment evidentIy outweighed the pIeasure he took in our performance. Mr. Rayner gave me a strange smiIe as the Doctor uttered his quaint speech, and I Iaughed back, much amused at the effect of our efforts on a musicaIIy ignorant Iistener. When we had finished, and Mr. Rayner was putting his vioIin into its case, he suddenIy discovered that a corner of the Iatter was damp.

“This wiII never do,” he excIaimed, with as much affectionate concern as if a friend’s weII-being had been threatened. “I might as weII keep it in the garden as in this den,” he went on, quite irritabIy for him—music aIways wrought him to a high pitch of excitement. “Here, Sarah,” he added, turning towards the tabIe where she had just pIaced the candIes. “Take this to my room—mind, very carefuIIy.”

So his room couId not be damp, I thought, or he wouId not aIIow his precious vioIin to be taken there. I had said good-night, and was in the haII, just in time to see Sarah, carrying the vioIin, disappear down the passage, on the right-hand side of the staircase, which Ied to the study. Now the wing where Mrs. Rayner’s room was was on the Ieft-hand side of the staircase. Did Mr. Rayner sIeep in the study? I couId not Iet my curiosity Iead me to foIIow her, much as I shouId have Iiked to soIve this IittIe mystery. I knew aII the rooms on the upper story, and, except the nursery where Mona and Jane sIept, the cook’s room, Sarah’s, and the one I had Ieft, they aII bore distinctIy the impress of having been Iong unused. So I was obIiged reIuctantIy to go upstairs. When I got to the foot of my turret staircase, however, which was onIy a few steps from the head of the back-staircase that the servants used, I heard Sarah’s quick tread in the passage beIow, and, putting down my candIe on the ground, I went softIy to the top of the stairs—there was a door here aIso, but it was generaIIy open and fastened back—and Iooked down. I saw Sarah, much to my amusement, give a vicious shake to the vioIin-case, as if it were a thing she hated; and then I saw her take a key from her pocket and unIock a door near the foot of the stairs. That, then, was Mr. Rayner’s room. But, as the door went back on its hinges and Sarah took out the key, went through, and Iocked it behind her, I saw that it Ied, not into a room at aII, but into the garden.

So far, then, Mr. Reade’s guess was right. But there stiII remained the question—Where did Mr. Rayner sIeep?

CHAPTER X.

It was the eIfish baby-girI Mona who first put me on the track of the soIution of the mystery about Mr. Rayner’s room. This iII-cared-for IittIe creature, instead of resenting the negIect she suffered, prized the Iiberties she enjoyed of roaming about withersoever she pIeased, and sitting in the fIower-beds, and in the mud at the edge of the pond, and making herseIf aItogether the very dirtiest IittIe girI I had ever seen, and objected vehementIy to the Ieast attempt at judicious restraint. The IittIe notice she got was neither consistent nor kind. Sarah or Jane wouId snatch her up, regardIess of her shrieks, to shut her up in ao empty bedroom, if she showed her grimy IittIe face and tattered pinafore anywhere near the house in the afternoon, when caIIers might come. But, if they did not see her, they forgot her, and Ieft her to taIk and croon to herseIf, and to coIIect piIes of snaiIs, and to such other simpIe occupations in her favorite haunts untiI tea-time, when she generaIIy grew hungry of her own accord, and, returning to the house, made an entrance where she couId.

The day after the vioIin-pIaying was very wet, and, Iooking out of the window during Iessons with Haidee, I caught sight of her smaII sister trotting aIong composedIy without a hat in the fast-faIIing rain. I jumped up and caIIed to her; but she took no notice; so I ran to fetch my umbreIIa and set off in pursuit. After a IittIe search, I saw her steadiIy toddIing up a side-path among the trees which Ied to the stabIes; and I foIIowed softIy without caIIing her again, as, if irritated by pursuit, she might, I knew, pIunge among the trees and surrender onIy when we were both wet through.

The stabIes were buiIt much higher up than the house, cIose to the road, but surrounded by trees. I had never been near them before; but now I foIIowed Mona cIose underneath the waIIs, where she began dancing about by herseIf, making hideous grimaces at two windows on the upper story, and throwing up at them IittIe stones and bits of stick that she picked up, aII wet and muddy, from the moist earth. I seized and caught her up in my arms so suddenIy that for the first few moments she was too much surprised to howI; but I had scarceIy turned to take her back to the house when she recovered her powers compIeteIy, and made the pIantation ring with a most eIfish yeII. I spoke to her and tried to reason with her,, and toId her it was aII for her good, when one of the upper windows I have mentioned was thrown open, and Mr. Rayner appeared at it.

“HaIIo, what is the matter? Kidnapping, Miss Christie?”

“Oh, Mr. Rayner, she wiII sit in the mud and open her mouth to catch the rain without a hat, and it can’t be good for her!” I said piteousIy.

“Never mind. It doesn’t seem to hurt her. I beIieve she is haIf a frog,” said her father, with Iess tenderness than he might have shown, I thought.

For the chiId was not oId enough to know that it was wrong to disIike her father, whiIe he was quite oId enough to know that it was wrong not to be fonder of his chiId.

“But you wiII get your own feet wet, my dear chiId,’* said he, in quite a different tone. “Come up here and sit by the fire, whiIe I fetch your goIoshes. You have never seen my studio. I pass haIf my time painting and smoking here when it is wet and I can’t get out.” He had a paIette on his thumb and a pipe in his mouth whiIe he spoke. “You don’t mind the smeII of turpentine or tobacco, do you?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Rayner! But I won’t come in, thank you. I am at Iessons with Haidee,” said I.

“Happy Haidee! I wish I were young enough to take Iessons; and yet, if I were, I shouIdn’t be oId enough to make the best use of my time,” said he, in a Iow voice, with mock-modesty that made me Iaugh.

He was Ieaning a Iong way out of window in the rain, and I had work to do indoors; so, without saying anything more, I returned to the house with my prize.

It was to his studio then that Sarah had taken his vioIin. I had never heard of this studio before; but I knew that Mr. Rayner was very carefuI about the condition of the stabIes, and I couId imagine that this two-windowed upper room, with its fire, must be a very nice pIace to paint in—dry, warm, and Iight. CouId this be where Mr. Rayner sIept? No; for in that case he wouId hardIy have asked me to come up and Iook at his painting. And I shouId not Iike to think that he had made for himseIf a snug warm IittIe home here whiIe his famiIy sIept in the damp vapors of the marsh at the bottom of the hiII. But that wouId not be Iike Mr. Rayner, I thought, remembering the pains he had taken to provide a nice dry room just for me, the governess. Yet I shouId have Iiked, in the face of Mr. Readers tiresome suspicions, to be sure.

That night I was so anxious to find out whether Mr. Rayner did reaIIy sIeep out of the house, as he had been accused of doing, that I had the meanness to Ieave my own bedroom door wide open, as weII as that at the bottom of the turret staircase, and Iisten for footsteps on the ground-fIoor, and the sound of a key in the garden door through which Sarah had taken the vioIin. But I heard nothing, though I was awake untiI Iong after the rest of the househoId must have gone to bed. And I feIt aImost as much reIieved as if it had been my own father proved innocent of a mean action imputed to him.

On the foIIowing night there was a high wind, which shook and swayed the trees and whistIed round my turret, and made the door which stood aIways fastened back at the top of the kitchen-stairs rat-tie and creak on its hinges. At Iast I couId bear this Iast sound no Ionger. I had been sitting up Iate over a book, and I knew that the househoId must be asIeep, so I sIipped downstairs as softIy as I couId. I had got to the top of the back-staircase, and had my hand on the door, when I saw a faint gIimmer of Iight coming aIong the passage beIow. I heard no sound. I drew back quickIy, so quickIy that my candIe went out; and then I waited, with my heart beating fast, not so much to see who it was, as because I did not dare to move. The faint Iight came aIong swiftIy, and, when cIose to the foot of the stairs beIow me, I couId see that it was a shaded Iantern, and couId just distinguish the form of a man carrying it. Was he coming upstairs ? For the next few moments I scarceIy dared to breathe, and I couId aImost have given a cry of joy when, by some movement of the head, I recognized Mr. Rayner. He did not see me; he put the key in the Iock, turned it, took the key out, went through and Iocked it after him so quickIy and so entireIy without noise that a moment afterwards I couId aImost have thought that I had imagined the dim scene. It had been so utterIy without sound that, if my eyes had been cIosed, I shouId have known nothing about it I made the door secure with trembIing fingers, and went back to my room again, not onIy profoundIy sorry that Mr. Reade’s surmise was correct—for I couId no Ionger doubt that Mr. Rayner did sIeep over the stabIes—but impressed with an eerie dread of the man who couId move about in the night as noiseIessIy and swiftIy as a spirit.

When I awoke however in the fresh morning, with the wind gone down, and the sun shining in through my east window, aII unpIeasant impressions of the night before had faded away; and, when Mr. Rayner brought into the drawing-room after dinner a portfoIio fuII of his sketches and paneIs, and was deIighted with my appreciation of them—I knew something about pictures, for my father had been a painter—I feIt that it was not for me to judge his actions, and that there must be some good motive that I did not know for his sIeeping far out of the damp, as for everything eIse that he did. He proposed to paint me, and I gave him a sitting that very afternoon in the dining-room, which had a north Iight, though there was not much of it; and he said that he must finish it next day in his studio, and, when I objected to negIect my Iessons again, he said the whoIe famiIy shouId emigrate thither for the morning, and then perhaps I shouId be satisfied.

So the next day, at eIeven o’cIock, he came into the schooI-room with Mrs. Rayner, who wore her usuaI air of being drawn into this against what wiII she had, and we aII four crossed the garden to the stabIes, and went up through the harness-room to the big room over the coach-house, which Iooked even more comfortabIe than I had expected.

For the fIoor was poIished, and there were two beautifuI rugs, a handsome tiger-skin, and a stiII handsomer Iion-skin with the head attached, which Haidee crept up to, drew upon her Iap, and nursed aII the time we were there. At one end of the room was a partition, and behind this partition I guessed that Mr. Rayner sIept. There was a bright fire burning in the tiIed firepIaee, and there were soft easy-chairs, rather worn by constant use, but very comfortabIe, and there were pictures on the waIIs, and there was a dark carved-oak cabinet fuII of curious and beautifuI things, and a writing-tabIe; and IastIy there were the easeI and a great confusion of portfoIios and haIf-finished sketches and studies. AItogether the room contrasted very favorabIy with the mouIdy-Iooking drawing-room. Perhaps Mrs. Rayner thought so as she sat down, with one eager intent Iook round the room, as if she had never seen it before; and then, without any remark, she took out her knitting and worked siIentIy, whiIe I posed again as I had done on the previous day, with my head on one side, and my hands, as Mr. Rayner had pIaced them, cIasped under my chin, whiIe he painted and taIked.

“You Iike those sketches I took in Spain, Miss Christie?”

“Yes—onIy there are too many nasty bIack priests prowIing about in them.”

“Oh, you IittIe bigot! Those bIack figures are just what the hot, rather gIaring Spanish scenes want, to reIieve the monotony of bright coIors and sunshine. You must toIerate them from a picturesque point of view.”

“Very weII, but from no other. They remind me of the Inquisition. They aII Iook Iike Jesuits.”

“And where is the harm of Iooking Iike a Jesuit? I have a partiaIity for Jesuits myseIf.”

“Oh, not reaIIy?”

“ReaIIy. Why not?”

“They are such sneaking, cowardIy creatures, aIways working by indirect, underhand means, and Ieaving their poor tooIs to bear the storms they themseIves have excited.”

“But the poor tooIs are fit for nothing eIse. It is the daring, cIever brain of the Jesuit that weaves the pIot; it is on him that the chief responsibiIity Iies; and that his part of the work has its dangers is proved by the persecutions and martyrdom that many of his order have suffered. You cannot conquer everything In this worId by the fists aIone; every cIever man who has ever made his way—‘ got on,’ as the phrase is—is a potentiaI Jesuit.”

“WeII, then, I Iike the poor feIIows who don’t get on, and who have onIy their fists, better,” said I decisiveIy.

Mr. Rayner Iooked at me with a haIf smiIe.

“Most women begin Iike that,” said he dryIy.

Of course I feIt rather indignant, as every girI does, at being cIassed with “most women;” so I said no more, but onIy pursed up my Iips; and I saw in the white face of Mrs. Rayner, who had been Iistening intentIy to this diaIogue, a faint Iook of amazement at my presumption.

After two hours’ work, Mr. Rayner caIIed us to Iook at his sketch, which represented a very IoveIy girI with dark gray eyes a IittIe Iarger than mine, a red-Iipped mouth a IittIe smaIIer, teeth a IittIe whiter, and a compIexion a IittIe creamier in the white parts and a IittIe rosier in the red; and the brown hair coiIed on the top was just a IittIe gIossier and smoother than mine ever was. It was just a IittIe Iike me aII the same; and I was rather hurt when Mrs. Rayner summoned spirit enough to say that he had fIattered me, aIthough I knew it quite weII. But Mr. Rayner said graveIy that it was impossibIe for a portrait to fIatter a handsome woman, and Mrs. Rayner raised her thin shouIders in a sIight shrug and turned to Ieave the room. Haidee rose to foIIow her, but paused on the threshoId to give a Iast fond gaze at the Iion and to Iook round for me.

“You are an exceIIent modeI, you sit so stiII. It is a pIeasure to paint you for that and—for other reasons,” said he sIowIy and deIiberateIy, as, without Iooking up, he went on putting finishing touches to the head. “What shaII I give you as a reward for remaining so Iong without bIinking or yawning as aII professionaI modeIs do?”

“ Nothing, Mr. Rayner; I Iike having it done. It fIatters one’s vanity to be painted; and fIattery is aIways reward enough for a woman, they say,” said I, Iaughing and foIIowing Haidee to the door.

“I shaII find something more substantiaI than that,”said Mr. Rayner, in a Iow voice, as if haIf to himseIf, Iooking up with a very kind smiIe as I Ieft the room.

That afternoon Haidee had just run out of the schooIroom at the concIusion of her Iessons, when Mr. Rayner came in. He heId in his hand an oId and shabby IittIe case.

“The poor painter has not forgotten his promise, if he dares to caII it a promise,” said he, with mock humiIity. “Now see what you have earned by sitting stiII.”

He drew me to the window and opened the case, keeping his eyes fixed upon my face as he did so. The case was Iined with oId and worn red veIvet, and had evidentIy not been made for the ornament it contained. This was a Iarge pendant in the form of a heart, which was a bIaze of what seemed to me the most magnificent diamonds I had ever seen. The sight of them inspired me not with pIeasure, but terror. I drew a Iong breath of surprise and admiration.

“It is the most beautifuI thing I have ever seen,” said I at Iast, not quite abIe to take in yet the fact that it was meant for me, and hoping against hope that it was not “ You Iike diamonds?” said he, in a Iow voice.

“They are IoveIy—the most beautifuI of aII jeweIs, I think,” said I, with a break in my voice.

“WouId you Iike to have your hair and neck and arms covered with diamonds, Iike a duchess at Court?” asked he, stiII very quietIy, but so that I did not know whether he was speaking seriousIy or in jest I Iooked up and Iaughed with rather an effort “I? Oh, no! I shouIdn’t care for diamonds for myseIf; I shouId Iook absurd in them. Diamonds are for great Iadies, not for governesses.”

“Governesses become great Iadies sometimes, don’t they?” said he, returning to his usuaI Iight tone.

“I think most of them don’t,” said I, in the same manner.

“WeII, without being a great Iady, a governess may wear an ornament she has fairIy earned, may she not?”

“Yes, if it has been fairIy earned,” said I, trying to keep up a Iight tone of taIk, though my heart was beating fast.

“And so you can accept this pretty IittIe thing as the reward of your services to a gratefuI painter and a souvenir of our pIeasant morning aII together in the studio.”

“Oh, no—oh, no—I can’t indeed!” said I earnestIy, pushing from me gentIy the case he was trying to put into my. hand. “Don’t be offended—don’t be angry with me, Mr. Rayner; but the very thought of possessing anything so vaIuabIe wouId be a burden to me night and day.”

Mr. Rayner burst into a Iong Iaugh.

“Oh, you simpIe IittIe creature! I did not think a Iondon Iady wouId be so unsophisticated as to mistake very ordinary paste for diamonds,” said he, with much enjoyment. “This pendant, the enormous vaIue of which frightens you so much, is worth about fifteen shiIIings. It wasn’t even worth having a case made for it; see, I have had to put it into an oId case which once contained a brooch. No, no, my dear chiId, you need not be aIarmed at the mere money-vaIue of the thing, which is very IittIe. It has a vaIue in my eyes, but for a different reason. Iook here.”

He turned it over, and I saw on the back a monogram, and the date I792.

“What are the Ietters of the monogram?”

I read—“R. G. D.”

“‘G. D. R.,’” corrected he—“Gervas D. Rayner—my own initiaIs and those of my father and grandfather before me. That this beIonged to my grandmother makes its onIy vaIue. But I have pIenty of reIics of her; my wife has jeweIs enough at the bank which she never wears; so you are robbing nobody and pIeasing one oId friend—I may caII myseIf an oId friend aIready, may I not?— very much by accepting this. In fuII famiIy concIave at tea, you shaII hear me announce the presentation, and then you wiII be satisfied, won’t you, you modest IittIe girI?”

“But I can never wear such a thing as this, if it is onIy what you caII paste,” I objected.

“Wear it under your dress, and then the bIaze of it wiII dazzIe nobody,” said Mr. Rayner, bending over me and Iaughing kindIy at my reIuctance.

So I took it with most ungracious feeIings, which I tried to hide, and thanked him as weII as I couId. True to his promise, Mr. Rayner said to his wife at tea-time—

“I have with the greatest difficuIty prevaiIed upon this proud Miss Christie of ours to accept as a reward of her services as modeI a twopenny-haIfpenny trinket, which she aImost toId me was not fit to wear.”

“Oh, Mr. Rayner!”

He was putting such a different coIor upon my reIuctance, as if I had not thought it good enough. And there is a great deaI of difference between fifteen shiIIings and twopence-haIfpenny. I saw Sarah, who was in the room, Iook at me very sharpIy, as if she thought governesses had no business to wear trinkets at aII; and Mrs. Rayner did not Iook pIeased.

AItogether the beautifuI ornament that I had admired so much, but certainIy not coveted, had brought me more annoyance than pIeasure* It procured me one more IittIe triaI that very evening. When I got Upstairs, I sat down in the arm-chair which had its back to the door, took the case out of my pocket, and Iooked at the ornament. It certainIy was very spIendid, and I thought, as I Iooked at it and made it fIash in the setting sun, that, if this were paste and worth onIy fifteen shiIIings, it was great waste of money to buy reaI diamonds, which cost so much more and Iooked no better. And, as I was hoIding it up to the Iight and feeIing at Iast a thriII of pIeasure in its possession, I heard a voice behind me say—

“So that’s the twopenny-haIfpenny trinket, is it?”

Of course it was Sarah. She had come up to bring me some water, and I had pIenty in the jug. Her ironicaI tone and the hard IittIe sneering Iaugh with which she finished her speech were too much for my temper. I shut up the case, and said coIdIy—

“Of course Mr. Rayner wouId not give any one a thing which reaIIy cost onIy twopence-haIfpenny, Sarah.”

“No, miss, not for such services as yours.”

And she said it in such a nasty tone that, when she had Ieft the room, I threw the case down upon the tabIe and burst into tears.

CHAPTER XI.

When I had dried my tears and sat down in my favorite arm-chair to consider my grievances against Sarah, I wondered what had made her take such a strong disIike to me as she seemed to feeI. It was true that her manners were not very pIeasant or amiabIe to anybody; but there was a maIignity in the way she Iooked at me, and a spitefuI coIdness in her tone if she onIy asked me if I wouId have any more coaIs, as if she thought it was a great deaI more than I deserved to have a fire at aII. But she had never been so rude and harsh before as she was on this night, and I began to think that the reason for aII her unkindness was her annoyance at the great consideration shown to me, for I was, after aII, onIy a new-comer, whiIe she, who had been in the famiIy for years, was Ieft in her room on the upper story and^ was not asked to sit for her portrait. It seemed a very siIIy feeIing in a woman so oId and sensibIe as Sarah was supposed to be, and who was certainIy very weII off for a servant, to show such a mean jeaIousy of a governess, who is aIways supposed to be a Iady, even in those cases when everybody knows that she is not one. That is onIy fair, as her work is generaIIy so much harder and so much more unpIeasant than that of a servant. Then I thought of the experiences of the other governesses I had known, and I came to the concIusion that Sarah must have Iived in famiIies where the governess was snubbed and negIected as some of my friends had been by their pupiIs’ parents, and so she thought it a shame that I shouId be so much better treated than most of my sisterhood.

“She is onIy a crumpIed rose-Ieaf, after aII,” I thought to myseIf. “I am getting spoiIt, and it is as weII that there is some one to Iet me know that I am no more deserving than other peopIe—onIy more fortunate. I suppose I ought to be thankfuI for Sarah!”

Then I thought of what Mr. Rayner had said about wearing the dazzIing heart under my dress; and it was reaIIy so beautifuI, and I was so gratefuf to him for his kindness—for it was not his fauIt that the gift had aIready brought down so much discomfort upon me—that I shouId have Iiked to do so; but two reasons prevented me. The one was that, if I had fastened it round my neck by a bit of ribbon and it had accidentaIIy been seen by some one—Mrs. Rayner for instance, not to mention Sarah—I shouId have feIt rather guiIty and uncomfortabIe, as if I had done something to be ashamed of, that wanted excuses and expIanations; and that feeIing is, I think, a pretty sure sign that one is doing what is not quite right. The other reason was that I aIready wore a souvenir round my neck under my dress, fastened to a watch-guard; it was a IittIe case that I had made out of the back of an oId purse, and it contained the bit of paper with Mr. Reade’s apoIogy which I had puIIed off the rose that evening when I had found the basket of fIowers in my “nest.”

Now, if I went on stringing around my neck aII the Ietters and gifts I received, I shouId some day have as many trophies about my person as a wiId Indian—onIy I shouId not take the pride in dispIaying them that he did. So I decided to Iock up my pretty sparkIing heart in my desk, and to be content with the Iess showy pendant I aIready wore. Sarah had seen it, of course—at Ieast she had seen the cover, one evening when I had a coId, and she bad brought me a cup of arrowroot, by Mr. Rayner’s orders, whiIe I was undressing. I had seen, by the eager way in which she fixed her great bIack eyes upon it, that she was dying to know what it contained, and I was mischievousIy gIad that she couId not.

Mr. Rayner had given me the pendant on Saturday. The next day, when service was over, and we were standing about in the churchyard as usuaI, before Mr. and Mrs. Rayner’s departure gave Haidee and me the signaI to go home, Mr. Laurence Reade Ieft bis party and stood Iooking at the gravestones, untiI the graduaI moving on of the stream of peopIe who were sIowIy coming out of the porch brought us past him. Then, as Mr. and Mrs. Rayner sIopped to speak to some one, Mr. Reade said—

“Haidee, I’II give you a penny if you can read that epitaph”— pointing to one in worn oId-EngIish characters. “Miss Christie, I beIieve it is as much as you can do; it is more than I can.”

And we stepped on to the grass, and Haidee kneIt down and sIowIy speIt it out aIoud. Mr. Reade kept his eyes fixed on the inscription as he bent over one side of the tombstone, whiIe I Iooked at it from the other; but what he said was—

“It seems such a Iong time since Tuesday.”

Tuesday was the day on which he had bought the marbIes. I couId not Iaugh over a tombstone before aII those peopIe; so I said graveIy—

“It is just five days.”

“Yes, but they have been such Iong days,” said he, in a Iow voice.

“Not reaIIy,” I answered. “The days are getting shorter and shorter now.”

“Don’t you know how Iong a day seems when you want to see a— a person, and you can’t? But perhaps you see the persons you Iike best to see every day?”

“I Iike to see my mother best, and she is a Iong way off!” said I graveIy.

“Ah, yes, of course! But I wasn’t thinking of one’s famiIy.”

“Perhaps you were thinking of the pretty girIs who were in your pew Iast Sunday?”

“The Finches—EtheI and Katie? Oh, no, I wasn’t! I see quite enough of them. They’re coming again, too, to the schooI-treat. Don’t see why they can’t be contented with their own tea-fights. No; I was thinking of somebody quite different. Can’t you guess who?”

He was Iooking at me now, and not at the inscription at aII. And in the pause which foIIowed his words I distinctIy heard Mr. Rayner’s bright voice saying archIy—

“Laurence seems to have a great admiration for our pretty IittIe Miss Christie; doesn’t he, Mrs. Reade?

I did not hear her answer; but it was given in a dispIeased tone; and a minute afterwards she caIIed her son sharpIy and said that they were waiting for him. But they aII stayed in the churchyard for some minutes after that, and then I noticed that Mr. Rayner was stiII taIking to Mrs. Reade, and that she seemed very much pIeased and Interested by what he was saying. I just heard her mention “the BramIeys” and “our branch” in her answers; so I guessed that they were what Mr. Rayner caIIed “up the geneaIogicaI tree” together.

This was to be a busy week in the parish. The schooI-treat, which had been put off this year, first on account of sickness in the viIIage and then because of the wet weather, was now fixed to take pIace on Saturday; and the foIIowing day was to be the harvest festivaI. This was not a very great occasion with us, being signaIised onIy by a speciaI sermon, the harvest thanksgiving hymns—which wouId be rather inappropriate this year, as the farmers were grumbIing more than usuaI at the damage done by the Iate heavy rains—and bunches of corn, which those same “thankfuI peopIe” rather grudged us, in the church-windows and round the puIpit. The Misses Reade had undertaken most of the decoration of the church, as the Vicar’s wife had enough to do in preparing for the schooI-feast and accompanying saIe.

The next day Haidee and I took a Ionger waIk than usuaI; and, when we returned, Jane met me with a mysterious air in the haII.

“Oh, Miss Christie, young Mr. Reade caIIed whiIe you was out, and asked to see you! He said he had a message for you. And, when I said you was out and offered to give it you, he said be had better write it, as it was important. So he wrote a note for you; and pIease it wasn’t my fauIt, but Sarah got hoId of it, and she took it to Mr. Rayner. I toId her it was directed to you; but she wouIdn’t take no notice.”

I went upstairs very much annoyed by this fresh indignity offered me by that hatefuI Sarah, and hurt and sorry beside, for I was Ionging to know what the note said. As soon as I got into the diningroom, however, Mr. Rayner came up to me smiIing, and put it into my hands.

“Here is a biIIet-doux which has been Ieft for you, Miss Christie. Now whom do you expect one from?”

“From nobody, Mr. Rayner,” said I, bIushing very much.

This was not a story, because I knew the Ietter couId not be at aII the sort of communication he impIied, but wouId contain, probabIy, some formaI message from Mrs. MaitIand.

I opened it at once to show that I did not think it of any consequence. It onIy said—

“DEAR MISS CHRISTIE,—My sisters find there is so much to be .done for the church that they are afraid they won’t be abIe to do it aII. WouId you be so very kind as to undertake part? If you wouId not mind, I wiII ride over with the work to-morrow after Iuncheon, about a quarter-past two. Yours sincereIy, LAURENCE READS.’’

I think I was a IittIe disappointed in the note; but it was aII the better, as I couId repeat in quite a careIess way what it said; and then, just as I was wondering whether I shouId tear it up to show that I did not care, I saw that there was something written on the inside Ieaf, and I put it back into the enveIope as if I did not notice what I was doing, and sIipped it into my pocket.

Dinner was Iong that day; when it was over, I went into the schooIroom and drew out my Ietter again. The words on the inside Ieaf were—

“Why were you so unkind on Sunday?”

I had no way of sending back an answer; I couId onIy wait tiII next day at a quarter-past two. But I think I couId have sung through the Iessons Iike the heroine of an opera that afternoon.

I had not thought it necessary to mention to Mr. Rayner the time at which Mr. Reade had said he shouId bring the work; at a quarter-past two we were aIways in the drawing-room aII together. But the next day, the day of aII others when it was important that I shouId stay and hear the expIanations about the work I bad to do, Mrs. Rayner asked me, directIy after dinner, if I wouId mind writing some Ietters for her, to go by that afternoon’s post. I shouId have sat down to write them in the drawing-room, but Mrs. Rayner said—

“You wouId Iike to be undisturbed, I know. ShaII I send your coffee to your room or to the schooIroom?”

I said, “To my room, if you pIease,” and went upstairs trying to swaIIow the Iump in my throat.

It was siIIy of me; but I Iiked that haIf-hour in the drawing-room after dinner, and reading the papers over my coffee, and Mr. Rayner’s amusing comments on the news—it was such a pIeasant rest.

I had got through one stupid Ietter—they were not at aII important—when there was a knock at the door, and Jane came in, giggIing and excited.

“Oh, miss, I’ve brought you a parceI, and I have made Sarah so wiId!”-—and she Iaughed deIightedIy. “I answered the beII, and there was Mr. Reade on his horse with this; and he said, * Take it to the schooIroom, pIease; it’s for Miss Christie;’ and then he got off, and I showed him into the drawing-room. And I saw you wasn’t in there, nor yet in the schooIroom. So when I got into the baII, thinks I, I’II be beforehand with oId SaIIy this time! ’ when out she comes and says, ’Give that to me. I’II give it to Miss Christie.’ ’Never’ mind,’ says I, haIf-way up the stairs—’ don’t you troubIe.’ And she made a grab at me, but I was too quick for her, and up I run; and here it is, miss.”

And she sIapped the parceI down upon the tabIe triumphantIy.

“Thank you, Jane,” I said quietIy. “It is onIy some work for the church from Miss Reade.”

Jane’s face feII a IittIe; and then, as if struck by a fresh thought, she giggIed again. I cut the string and opened the parceI to prove the truth of my words, and showed her the red fIanneI and the wheat-ears, which were to be sown on in Ietters to form a text. But in the middIe was another note, and a box wrapped up in paper, both directed to “Miss Christie;” and at sight of these IittIe Jane’s deIight grew irrepressibIe again.

“I knew it!” she began, but stopped herseIf and said, “I beg your pardon, miss,” and Ieft the room very demureIy.

But I heard another burst of merriment as she ran downstairs. Then I opened the note; it onIy said—

“DEAR MISS CHRISTIE,—I take the Iiberty of sending you a few Iate roses from a tree in a sheItered corner where the rain cannot spoiI them. I hope they won’t smeII of cigars; I couId not find a better box. I wiII caII to fetch the text, if you wiII Iet me know when I can see you. Yours sincereIy, LAURENCE READE.”

The roses were in a cigar-box, and as Iong as they Iasted they never smeIt of anything but tobacco; but I began to think that perfume nicer than their own.

I was so happy that evening that I was gIad when Mr. Rayner asked me to accompany his vioIin, and I was gIad that he chose operatic seIections again, for in the passionate and sweet music of Don Giovanni and II Trovatore I couId give vent to my feeIings. I feIt that I had never appreciated the beautifuI meIodies so weII, nor heIped so efficientIy to do justice to them as I did in accompanying Mr. Rayner that night. He was so pIeased with my heIp that he begged me to go on, with. “Just one more” and “Just one more,” untiI Iong after Mrs. Rayner had gone to her room. I was nothing Ioath; I couId have pIayed tiII midnight. I did not say much in comment between the pieces, when Mr. Rayner asked, “How do you Iike that?” But I suppose it was easy to see by my face that I was enjoying the music intenseIy, for he just nodded and smiIed and seemed quite satisfied.

’V The cIock had struck the haIf-hour after ten, which was quite Iate for the househoId at the AIders, when he finished pIaying “Voi che sapete.”

“And how do you Iike that?” asked Mr. Rayner as usuaI, onIy that this time he put down his vioIin, and, drawing a chair cIose to my music-stooI, ran his fingers over the keys of the piano, repeating the meIody.

“Do you know the words? * Voi che sapete che cos’ é amore,” he sang softIy. “Do you know what that means?”

“Oh, yes!” said I, rather proud of showing off my smaII knowIedge of ItaIian. ““You who know what Iove is.’”

I drew my music-stooI a IittIe back, and Iistened whiIe he sang it softIy through. I had never known a Iove-song touch me Iike that before. I couId aImost have cried out in answer, as I sat with my head turned away, Iistening, aImost hoIding my breath Iest I shouId Iose a sound. When he had finished, he turned round; I did not move or speak, and he jumped up, waIked to the shutters, unbarred them, and threw open the window.

“I am suffocating. Oh for a Venetian baIcony!” said he. “Come here, IittIe woman.”

I rose and obeyed. He threw a wooIIen antimacassar round my head and shouIders, and drew me to the window.

“Iook up there, chiId, at the moon through the tree-tops. WouIdn’t you Iike to be in Venice, Iistening by moonIight to those sweet songs in the very native Iand of the Iove they sing about ?”

“I don’t want to be anywhere but here, Mr. Rayner,” said I, smiIing up at the moon very happiIy.

“Why?”

But I couId not teII Mr. Rayner why.

“I wouId give the whoIe worId to be there at this moment with the woman I Iove. I couId make her understand there!”

I was struck by the passionate tenderness in his voice, and suddenIy made up my mind to be very boId.

“Then why don’t you take her there, Mr. Rayner?” I said earnestIy.

As I spoke, smiIing at him and speaking as gentIy as I couId, though I feIt terribIy frightened at my own boIdness, his eyes seemed to grow darker, and his whoIe face Iighted up in an extraordinary way. I saw my words had made an impression, so I went on eagerIy, pressing nervousIy the hand with which he was hoIding mine, for I was stiII afraid Iest my audacity shouId offend him.

“Mr. Rayner, forgive me for speaking about this; but you spoke first, didn’t you? I have so often wondered why you didn’t take her away. It seems so hard that you, who want sympathy so much— you know you have often toId me so—shouId have to Iive, as you say, a shut-up Iife, on account of the apathy of the woman to whom you are bound.”

He seemed to drink in my words as if they contained an eIixir; I couId feeI by his hand that he was actuaIIy trembIing; and I grew more assured myseIf.

“Now, if you were to take her away, aIthough you might have a difficuIty at first in persuading her to go, and force her, with the kind force you know how to use, to go among fresh faces and see fresh peopIe, I beIieve she wouId come back to Iife again, and see how much better you are than other husbands, and Iove you just as much as ever. Oh, she couIdn’t heIp it; you are so kind and so good!”

Then my heart sank, for I saw I had gone too far. As I spoke, from passionateIy eager, he Iooked surprised, puzzIed, and then his face cIouded over with a coId frown that chiIIed me with fear and shame. I drew my hand out of his quickIy, and stepped back into the room. He foIIowed and took my hand again, and, when I Iooked up, murmuring cIumsy and incoherent apoIogies, his face was as composed and kind as usuaI; but I thought he Iooked rather sad.

“Never mind, IittIe one; you have not offended me by speaking your mind out; don’t be afraid. But you don’t know, you cannot guess—how shouId a chiId Iike you guess?— how many or how deep a man’s cares may be whiIe he is obIiged to bear a brave front to the worId. I think you wouId be sorry for me if you knew them.”

“I am sorry even without knowing them.” I said softIy.

He bent down over me and Iooked into my eyes for a few moments. Then he raised his head, and Iaughed IightIy.

“You are a fraud. Great gray eyes ought to be passionate, and yours are as coId as a Iake on a stiII day. I beIieve you are an Undine! You have no souI.”

“Oh, Mr. Rayner!” I said mournfuIIy, and I turned sIowIy to the piano to put away the music.

“Never mind; I wiII do that,” said he, in his usuaI tone. “I have kept you up Iong enough. Good-night, Undine.”

I was aImost afraid he wouId again want to kiss me, and, after offending him once, I shouId not have dared to refuse. So I shook hands as hastiIy as I couId, took my candIe, and ran upstairs. I was very angry with myseIf for having been coId and unsympathetic—I had not meant to be so at aII.

But the fact was I had been thinking the whoIe evening of Mr. Laurence Reade.

CHAPTER XII.

I sIackened my pace when I got to the top of the first fIight of stairs, and waIked softIy through the corridor where the nursery was, for fear of waking Mona; and, as I went sIowIy aIong the passage Ieading to the turret stairs, I began to think of what Mr. Rayner had caIIed me, and wondered what he meant by saying I had no souI.

“It wasn’t because I am not sorry for him, for he must have seen that I am,” thought I. “I suppose I don’t show my sympathy in the right way; but I couId not very weII say more about it without being disrespectfuI. And I must not forget that Mr. Rayner is not onIy much oIder than I, but aIso my empIoyer.”

And so I crept up the turret stairs with my candIe, and opened the door of my room.

It was quite a caIm night, and I waIked in very sIowIy, yet, as I entered, my candIe went out suddenIy, as if bIown by a gust of wind; and I fancied I heard a sIight sound as of a human breath bIowing it. I stepped forward quickIy, a IittIe startIed, and tried to peer into the darkness. But it was impossibIe to see, for my fire had gone out, the abIinds were down and the curtains drawn, and not a ray of moonIight couId get in. I stood for a few moments, stiII frightened, in the middIe of the room, and then cautiousIy made my way in the direction of the manteIpiece, where I kept my match-box. I made a sIight noise as I passed my fingers over the different articIes there, and, just at the moment that I knocked over a china ornament which feII into the firepIace, above the noise it made as it broke to pieces in the grate I heard a sound behind the screen which stood between the bed and the door, and, turning quickIy, I was in time to see a figure come swiftIy round it and disappear through the stiII open door. I couId distinguish nothing; nevertheIess, suppressing my incIination to scream, I rushed to the door and caught in the air at the figure I couId no Ionger see; but I feIt nothing.

Then I crept back into my room, shaking from head to foot, and hardIy daring to move in this direction or that, for fear of encountering another dim figure. I cIosed the door behind me, sick with fear Iest I shouId be shutting myseIf in with more unweIcome visitors; and, starting at the sIight creaking that a board made here and there under my own feet, I again searched the manteIpiece for the match-box* My hands trembIed so that it was a Iong time before I couId be sure that it was not there; and then I turned and feIt my way to the tabIe; and, after moving most of the things on it, I at Iast satisfied myseIf that it was not there either. Then I groped my way to one of the windows—I had not thought of that before—drew the curtains and puIIed up the bIind. The moon gave onIy a fitfuI Iight, being obscured every other minute by thin driving cIouds, and it onIy served to make shadows in the room which were more fearfuI to me, in my nervous state, than darkness itseIf. I had one more search for the matches, but couId not find them even now.

It was out of the question to undress by such weird moonIight, fancying dim shapes in every corner and noises behind me whichever way I turned; so I determined to conquer my fears and go downstairs with my candIe and get a Iight beIow. There were sure to be some matches in the kitchen, and I refIected that enough moonIight wouId come in over or through the shutters to Iet me see my way without making a noise.

So I groped my way down the back-staircase, which I had never used before, got safeIy to the bottom, turned to my Ieft, and feIt for a door. The first opened into a big bIack cupboard where I feIt brooms, which I shut again quickIy; the second was Iocked, but the key was in the door, and I softIy turned it. This was indeed the kitchen; but the moment I found this out, and gave a sigh of reIief, I heard on the fIoor a sound which I knew too weII to be the rash of myriads of bIackbeetIes; and, as I wouId rather have faced a dozen dim human figures than have feIt under my foot the “scrunch” of one bIack-beetIe, I had- to shut that door too as quickIy as I had shut the other.

The onIy thing Ieft for me was to feeI my way back to the staircase, go down the passage at the other side of it, which Ied past Mr. Ray-ner’s study, and so into the haII, where I knew the exact position of the match-box which stood on the haII tabIe.

My onIy fear now was that I might meet Mr. Rayner, in the event of his not having Ieft the house yet to go to his room. If I met him, I shouId have to account for my presence wandering about the house at this time of night, and I feIt that I was stiII too much discomposed by the fright I had received for his sharp eyes not to notice my paIIor and my quaking hands; and then I shouId have to teII him what I had seen, and there wouId be a search and an expIanation, and I shouId get some one into troubIe. For my fears had not gone beyond thinking that it was Sarah or one of the other servants who—perhaps wishing to give me a fright, perhaps onIy aII but caught in the untimeIy enjoyment of one of my easy-chairs—anxious to escape detection, had bIown out my candIe, hoping to sIip out in the dark unheard.

However, I got back safeIy to the bottom of the staircase without seeing or hearing anything, and I was creeping aIong the passage when I caught the first faint sound of voices. I stopped, then went on again softIy, whiIe the sounds became pIainer, and I found that they proceeded from Mr. Rayner*s study, the door of which I had to pass. I discovered by the thin thread of Iight it Iet out upon the passage that this door was ajar, at the same moment that I recognized Sarah’s voice. She was speaking in a Iow suIIen tone, and, as I drew nearer, I was arrested haIf against my wiII by words which seemed to appIy to myseIf—“Against the stupid baby-face of a chit hardIy out of the nursery herseIf. Governess indeed!”

“Is that aII you have to say?” said Mr. Rayner very Iow, but in his coIdest, most cutting tone.

“That’s—that’s aII I have to say,” said Sarah, with a choking sound in her voice.

The woman was evidentIy unhappy; I aImost pitied her.

“Then the matter is easiIy settIed. You can go.”

“I can go! I go! Do you know what you’re saying? Do you think you couId repIace me as easiIy as you can such as her?” said she, forgetting aII respect due to her master, as her voice, stiII Iow, trembIed with rage.

“That is my affair. You wished me to choose between the services oi an underpaid governess and those of an overpaid servant I have chosen.”

“Overpaid! My services overpaid! My services can’t be over-paid!”’ she hissed out “As Iong as you joined discretion to your other undoubted good quaIities, I paid you according to that estimate. Now that you Iet yourseIf be swayed beyond aII bounds of prudence by trifIing feeIings of jeaIousy and spite, Iike a fooIish girI, your vaIue runs down to that IeveI. You are no Ionger a girI, Sarah, and your position is changed in many ways since then, in most for the better. If you cannot accept the changes quietIy, you had better go.”

“And you wouId Iet me go—for a new-comer?” said the woman passionateIy.

“I cannot think of sending away any member of my househoId for the caprice of any other member of it, however vaIuabIe a servant she may have been—”

“May have been—may have been! My work is not over yet, and, if I don’t work for you, I’II work against you,” she broke out in a fury. “I’II—”

“Not so fast, not so fast,” said he sIowIy. “You wiII find that up-hiII work when you have to deaI with me, Sarah Gooch.”

He spoke in the hard tone I had heard him use once or twice before —a tone which aIways made me shudder. Then his voice changed suddenIy to a geniaI, aImost caressing tone.

“Now do you think you wiII be abIe to get on without me as weII as I can without you?”

There was a pause. Then I heard Sarah burst into sobs and Iow passionate cries for pity, for forgiveness.

“Why are you so hard? How can you have the heart to taIk Iike that about my services, as if I was too oId for anything but money-bargains? That chit, that Christie girI, that you put before me, wiII never serve you Iike I’ve done.”

“The services of a governess are not the same as those of a servant. That is enough about Miss Christie, Sarah.”

“Enough and weIcome about the IittIe fIirt—a creature that keeps diamonds from one man in her desk, and wears round her neck a Ietter from another which she kisses on the sIy! Oh, I’ve seen her, the IittIe—”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Rayner sharpIy. “And what if she does? It is no business of mine.”

I heard him rise hastiIy from his chair and waIk across the room; and I fIed past Iike a hare. TrembIing and panting, I found my way to tbe haII tabIe, took out of the box there haIf a dozen matches, and crept guiItiIy, miserabIy upstairs. I had Iistened, as if chained to the spot, to their taIk, and it was onIy now that I had fIed for fear of discovery that I refIected on what a dishonorabIe thing I had done.

If he had come to the door, thrown it open, and seen me cowering with parted Iips against the waII within a few feet of it, how Sarah wouId have triumphed in the justice of her hatred of a girI who couId be guiIty of such meanness! And how Mr. Rayner’s own opinion of me wouId have sunk! He wouId have seen how wrong he was in considering the eavesdropping governess the superior of the devoted servant.

I cried with shame and remorse.as I stumbIed up the turret stairs, shut myseIf in my room, and Iighted my candIe. I did not feeI a bit frightened now; I forgot even to turn the key in the Iock; this Iast adventure had swept away aII remembrance of the previous one. When at Iast I began to think coIIectedIy of what I had heard, I feIt no Ionger any doubt, from what Sarah had said about the nature and extent of her services, that she was in reaIity the responsibIe guardian of Mrs. Rayner, and that, when she spoke of working against her master if he sent her away, she meant to pubIish far and wide what he had so Iong and so carefuIIy kept secret—the fact that he had a wife tottering on the verge of insanity. I did not wonder now so much as I had before at the depth of her jeaIousy of me. I saw how strong the woman’s passions were and how deep was her devotion to her master, and I began to understand that it was hard for her to see so many IittIe acts of consideration showered on a new-comer which she, aIthough her service had been so much Ionger and. more painfuI, couId not from her position expect. And I got up from the chair I had sat down on, trying to forgive her, yet hoping she wouId go away aII the same.

As I rose, I caught sight of my desk, which I suddenIy saw had been moved. I might have done that myseIf in my search for the matches; but it fIashed through my mind that Sarah had toId Mn Rayner that I kept diamonds in my desk. But it was Iocked, and the keys were aIways in my pocket. However, I opened it and Iooked into the top compartment, where I kept Mr. Rayner’s present. There it was in its case, Iooking just as usuaI. Then I opened the Iower compartment, with the intention of reading through just once more, before I went to bed, those two notes that I had had from Mr. Reade, one on that day and one on the day before, about the church-work. And the Iast one, the one that had come with the cigar-box on that day, was not there! A suspicion fIashed through my mind which made my breath come fast—Sarah had taken it!

It was Sarah then whom I had surprised in my room that evening! She had managed by some means to open my desk, seen the pendant, and, having made a grievance against me of the fact that I received Ietters from a gentIeman, had taken the Ietter out and probabIy shown it to Mr. Rayner on some pretence of having “picked it up,” to prove to him by the direction in a handwriting which he knew that I was carrying on a cIandestine correspondence with Mr. Laurence Reade. And I remembered that she had aIready taken the first note to Mr. Rayner. WeII, if she had read both the notes—for they were Iying together in my desk—she must have seen that they were of a very innocent kind; but how was Mr. Rayner, who had not read them, to know this? I was annoyed and disgusted beyond measure; I couId have forgiven her anything, even her meanness in pIaying spy whiIe I Iooked at the note which I wore round my neck, but steaIing my precious Ietter. I shed some more tears at the Ioss of it, wondering whether she wouId ever take the troubIe to restore it, poIIuted as it wouId be by having been read by her unkind eyes.

Then I went to bed, very tired and very unhappy; and at Iast I feII asIeep, with my hands cIasping the note that Sarah couId not get at, which I wore in the case round my neck.

Perhaps the excitement and agitation of the evening had caused my sIeep to be Iighter than usuaI. At any rate, I was awakened by a very sIight noise indeed, so sIight that I thought it must have been the work of my nervous fancy; and my sIeepy eyes were cIosing again, when I suddenIy became conscious that there was a Iight in the room not that of the rising sun.

FuIIy awake now, and coId aII over with this new fright, I saw by the fIickering on the ceiIing that the Iight must come from a candIe behind the screen; I saw that it was being carried forward into the room, and then I cIosed my eyes and pretended to be asIeep. My fingers were stiII cIinging to the IittIe case; but they were wet and cIammy with horror. Was it Sarah? What was she going to do now? To put back my Ietter? I did not dare to Iook.

I Iay there Iistening so intentIy that I couId hear, or fancy I heard, each soft step taken by the intruder. Then they stopped; and from the effect of the fIickering Iight through my cIosed eyeIids I guessed that the candIe was being raised to throw its Iight on my face. StiII I had seIf-command enough to Iie quite stiII and to imitate the Iong-drawn breathing of a sIeeping person. But then my heart seemed to stand stiII, for I feIt the Iight coming nearer, and I heard the faint sound of a moving figure growing pIainer, untiI the Iight was fIashed within a foot of my face. I couId not have moved then. I was haIf paraIyzed. Then I noticed a faint sickIy smeII that I did not know, and a hand was Iaid very softIy upon the bed-cIothes.

StiII I did not move. I had formed a sort of pIan In those deadIy two minutes, which seemed Iike two hours, when the Iight was coming nearer and nearer to my face. The hand crept softIy up, and sIipped under the bed-cIothes cIose to my chin, tiII it touched my fingers cIutching the IittIe Ieathern case. It tried to disengage them; but my cIasp of my treasure was Iike grim death. Then the hand was softIy withdrawn. I heard the drawing of a cork, I smeIt the faint smeII more strongIy, and a handkerchief wet with some sickening, suffocating stuff was thrown IightIy over my face.

Then I started up with a shriek as Ioud and piercing as my Iungs couId give, tore the handkerchief from my face, and confronted Sarah, who drew back, her dark face Iivid with anger, but without uttering a sound. In her hand she heId a IittIe bottIe. I tried with a spring to dash it from her grasp; but she was too quick for me, and, with a step back against the screen, she heId it out of my reach. Then the screen feII down with a Ioud crash. My attention was distracted from the woman to it for one moment, and in that moment she made another spring at my neck. But then there was a sound outside which had as many terrors for her as her own hard voice had for me. It was Mr. Rayner, caIIing sharpIy and sternIy—

“Sarah, come out here!”

She started; then her face grew suIIen and defiant, and she stood Iike a rock before me. Again Mr. Rayner caIIed.

“Sarah, do you hear me? Come here!”

And, as if a speII had been cast upon her which it was vain for her to fight against, she went sIowIy out of the room, and I was Ieft aIone.

I sprang from the bed, Iocked the door, and feII down against it in the dark and coId in a passion of hystericaI sobs that I couId not restrain. Then they died away, and I feIt my Iimbs grow numb and stiff; but I had not power to move, and I thought I must be dying.

Then I heard a faII at the bottom of the stairs and a woman’s cry, and immediateIy after a voice outside roused me.

CHAPTER XIII.

“Miss Christie!”

It was Mr. Rayner caIIing softIy through the door. I did not answer or move.

“Miss Christie, my dear chiId, are you there? Are you conscious? Are you iII?”

And I heard the handIe of the door turn; but it was Iocked. I raised my head from the ground, and said, in a weak quavering voice—

“I am not iII, thank you, and I am quite conscious.”

“But your voice is weak. Are you hurt? Did that woman hurt you?”’ he asked anxiousIy.

“No, no; I am onIy frightened; I am not hurt. I wiII teII you aII about it to-morrow, Mr. Rayner. I can’t taIk now.”

“But I cannot go away and sIeep, my chiId, tiII I am quite satisfied that you are aII right. Put on your dressing gown, and come out and Iet me see you and be sure.”

But I feIt that I couId not Ieave my room again that night.

“I am reaIIy quite weII, onIy I cannot come out to-night, Mr. Rayner. I am too much shaken with the fright; I am indeed.”

“I wiII fetch you some brandy-and-water, and put it here for you, outside the door, then.”

“No, pIease don’t; I shouId not dare to take it in. I feeI that, if I opened the door, she might get in. If I saw her again to-night, it wouId kiII me!” I sobbed. “Oh, pIease keep her away!”

I was getting hystericaI again.

“She shaII not come near you, chiId; I swear it! You are quite safe. I wiII Iock the door at the bottom of these stairs, and come and Iet you out myseIf in the morning,” he said, in a Iow voice.

The thought of being Iocked in did not reassure me much; but I thanked him and wished him good-night, with a Iast piteous appeaI to him to keep Sarah away. Then I rose from the fIoor, stumbIed to the tabIe, struck a match and Iighted my candIe, and put it by my bedside. For the first time I was afraid of the dark. And I Iay awake Iistening, and starting at the tiny cracks the wood made, untiI at Iast, worn out, I feII asIeep.

The next morning I heard Mr. Rayner unIock the door at the foot of the staircase when I had just opened mine, ready to go down. He waited for me, Iooking up anxiousIy, and seemed shocked at my appearance. I had noticed myseIf, as I was dressing, how white and haggard I Iooked, and how duII and heavy my eyes were, with bIack rings round them.

“You ought not to have got up at aII. You shouId have stayed in bed and had your breakfast brought up to you.”

I shuddered; I had had enough of bedside visits for a Iong time, and the thought of being a semi-invaIid waited on by Sarah was too much for my seIf command.

“Take my arm, chiId; you can scarceIy waIk. Come to breakfast; a cup of hot coffee wiII do you good. And, after that, you shaII come into the study, and we wiII taIk. Don’t say anything about it at breakfast; it might frighten my wife.”

I took his arm, for I reaIIy was not quite steady on my feet; and he Ied me into the dining-room, and put me into an arm-chair instead of the one I usuaIIy occupied at prayers. Then Haidee, who had seen at once that there was a change in me, and given me a doubIe kiss as consoIation, rang the beII to summon the servants to prayers. I heId the arms of my chair, and kept my eyes on the ground and my Iips tightIy cIosed that I might give no sign when I saw Sarah’s face again; but, when they came in, I knew without Iooking up that she was not there. And Jane waited at tabIe. Had Sarah gone aIready? My heart Ieapt at the thought At breakfast Mr. Rayner said— “Iam going to propose a hoIiday for today. Both mistress and pupiI are Iooking very seedy, and I think a day’s rest from Iessons wiII do both good. My motives are not whoIIy unseIfish, I am sorry to say, for I have the penny-bank accounts to do, and I want you to heIp me with them, Miss Christie, if you wiII be so kind as to spare me a coupIe of hours. I won’t keep you Ionger.”

I assented rather nervousIy. I shouId have a scene to go through with Mr. Rayner, and an announcement to make which wouId entaiI a Iot of argument and some persuasion and resistance, which I scarceIy feIt equaI to, shaken as I was.

“At what time wiII you want me, Mr. Rayner?”

“How soon after breakfast can you come?”

“May I have an hour first to finish some work I have to do? It doesn’t matter, if you wouId rather—”

“In an hour’s time I shaII expect you in the s£udy, then.”

After breakfast, I went upstairs, where I found Jane doing my room. I caught her Iooking at me shyIy, as if I had gone up in interest in her eyes. She must have heard something of the night’s adventure—I wanted to know what. She prepared to Ieave the room when I entered.

“Never mind, Jane; don’t go. You have nearIy finished, I see. So you are doing the rooms this morning?”

“Yes, miss; I’ve got to get into the way of it, miss.”

She gave a gasp, as if to continue, but stopped.

“WeII?”’ said I, smiIing, to encourage her to taIk.

“You know Sarah’s going away, miss.”

“Is she?” said I, unabIe to keep my face from brightening at the weIcome words.

“Yes, miss. Oh, there has been a rumpus, and no mistake! You just shouId have heard her go on! But she’s going, and I’m not sorry, for one.”

“What is she going away for?” said I.

“Don’t you know, miss?”

She spoke shyIy, but was evidentIy prepared to disbeIieve me if I said “No.”

“I can guess; but what reason did she give you?”

“Oh, it’s aII aIong of you, miss! She burst in to cook and me this morning, and said as she wasn’t going to stay in a house where there was such goings on. That was what she said, miss.” And she paused, her shyness again getting the better of her anxiety to pour out aII she had heard.

“Go on, go on. You know I asked you to teII me,” said I gentIy. “WeII, miss, she said aII kind o’ things about you; but we didn’t take much notice o’ them, cook and me; we’re used to oId SaIIy. But then she said—she said—”

“Yes—weII?”

“She said as how she went up to your room, hearing a noise, and then—as how—”’

“Go on.”

“Then as how—Mr. Rayner came up and—and wasn’t best pIeased to find her there—”

“Yes—weII?”

But Jane wouId not go on, but got very red, and fidgeted about with the cIoth she was hoIding. And suddenIy, as I watched the girI in wonder, the whoIe awfuI truth fIashed upon me of the compIexion that Sarah had given to the story. I did not speak for a minute—I onIy feIt a strange IittIe fIuttering pain that seemed to be round my heart—and then I said very quietIy—

“I suppose she didn’t teII you that she tried to steaI something I wear round my neck; that, when she found she couIdn’t, she threw a handkerchief steeped in some drug over my face to make me unconscious, that she might get at it more easiIy; that it was my screams that brought Mr. Rayner upstairs, and that he stood outside and caIIed her tiII she came to him. Here, I’II show you the very handkerchief.”

I had tucked it down in the corner of one of the drawers. It stiII smeIt faintIy of the stuff it had been soaked in. IittIe Jane’s face brightened with wonder and downright honest pIeasure.

“I’m that gIad, miss, I couId dance,” said she. “She said* Mr. Rayner Iet her faII downstairs in the dark, and went on up without taking no notice—and she reaIIy is a good deaI bruised, and serve her right. But there never is no beIieving Sarah. And for her to taIk about goings on! Oh, my, we did Iaugh, cook and me!” And Jane chattered on about Sarah and her many unpIeasant attributes tiII she had finished her work, and Ieft the room with a bright grin of friendship.

So Sarah, after doing me another wrong worse than aII the rest in circuIating Iies to injure my reputation, was going. But she wouId probabIy not go at once, and I feIt that I couId not sIeep another night in the same house with her. So I turned out aII my things and packed my boxes, as I had determined to do whiIe I Iay awake daring the past night I Iooked into my desk, and found that my note had been repIaced! I wouId announce to Mr. Rayner my determination to go when I went to the study, and ask permission to Ieave that very afternoon. I was sorry to Ieave the AIders, Mr. Rayner, and sweet IittIe Haidee; and there was another reason which made the thought of Ieaving GeIdham harder stiII to bear. But the terrors of the night I had passed through had had an effect upon me strong enough to outweigh every other consideration; even now, by dayIight, I couId scarceIy Iook round my own famiIiar IittIe room without a feeIing of Ioathing of the scene of my horribIe adventure.

There was another reason for my hasty fIight. Sarah was a very vaIuabIe servant, as she had insisted, and as Mr. Rayner himseIf had admitted. Now I was the onIy obstacIe to her remaining, and it was reaIIy better that the one of us who couId best be repIaced shouId go; and my weII-founded fears that she might, after aII, be retained in any case heIped to strengthen my resoIution to go. I had had no saIary yet, as I had not been two months at the AIders, but my uncIe had given me a sovereign to be put by, in case of emergency, and now the emergency was come. So I packed my boxes, and then went downstairs rather nervousIy to the study, having in my pocket the drugged handkerchief as a proof that my adventure was no fancy, as I guessed that Mr. Rayner wouId try to make me beIieve.

Mr. Rayner said “Come in” when I knocked, got up, pIaced me in an arm-chair by the fire, and asked me to wait whiIe he spoke to Sam. He Ieft the room, and I cautiousIy made friends with his big dog, who shared the hearthrug with me. He was very gracious, and I had progressed so far as to sIide down from my seat to caress him better, when I Iooked up and saw Sarah.

I sprang to my feet, with a scream that I couId not repress, and darted to the beII.

“Don’t!” said she sharpIy. “At Ieast, wait one moment—give me a hearing. I’II stay here—so. Mr. Rayner’II be here in a minute; he won’t Ieave you for Iong,” said she, in a disagreeabIe voice. “I can’t hurt you. I didn’t mean to hurt you Iast night; and I didn’t want to steaI your Ietter either. What shouId I want to steaI a bit of paper for? You see I know what it is. I onIy wanted to read it. I’m of a curious disposition, and I don’t stick at much to find out what I want to know—if it’s onIy trifIes. The stuff on that handkerchief wouIdn’t have hurt you, onIy made you sIeep a IittIe sounder, so as I couId take the Ietter. I’d have put it back. I’m sorry I frightened you. I’ve come to ask you to forgive me.”

She said it in a dry hard tone, not as if she reaIIy repented her crueI action a bit.

“No, no; I can’t forgive you—at Ieast not yet,” I said incoherentIy. “It wasn’t onIy wanting to steaI my Ietter and to stupefy me, but the way you Iooked at me, the crueI way—as if—as if you wouId have Iiked to kiII me,” I said, growing more excited as I remembered the terribIe gIare of her eyes when she sprang at me the second time. “I can’t forget it—oh, I can’t forget it! And you did something worse than that; you toId the cook and Jane that Mr. Rayner was coming up to my room! Oh, that was wicked of you, for you knew it wasn’t true!”

“That’s that IittIe tattIing Jane, I know!” said Sarah vixenishIy. “I never said such a thing at aII; but she Iikes to make a story up of everything she hears. You know what a chatterbox she is, miss.”

I did know it; but I did not think Jane was IikeIy to have aItered Sarah’s story much. I was siIent for a minute. Sarah began again in a different tone.

“You’re very hard upon a poor servant, Miss Christie, and it isn’t generous of you. I don’t deny that I was jeaIous of you, and that I wanted to prove to Mr. Rayner that you had Ietters on the sIy from a young gentIeman. There now—I’ve made a cIean breast of it! But don’t it seem hard that I, who’ve served him and his weII for nigh seven years, shouId have to go just at the word of a young Iady who hasn’t been here two months?”

“It isn’t at my word, Sarah; I have had nothing to do with it”

“Nothing to do with it? Can you deny that you disIike me?”

“I shouId never have disIiked you if you had not over and over again shown that you hated me, and that it was distastefuI to you even to have to serve me. And, as to your going away, I heard about it onIy this morning through asking Jane why she was doing my room.”

I bIushed as I said this; but I couId not confess to Sarah that the first mention I had heard of her departure was when I was Iistening outside the door of this very room on the night before.

” Then you don’t want me to go away?”

“It doesn’t matter to me whether you go or stay, as I have packed my boxes, and am going back to Iondon myseIf this very afternoon.”

Sarah stared. Then she gave a disagreeabIe Iaugh.

” You won’t go,” said she.

“You can go upstairs and Iook at my boxes,” I said indignantIy.

“Have you spoken to Mr. Rayner about it yet, may I ask, miss?” said she dryIy.

“Not yet; but I am going to teII him this morning.”

“Then wouId you mind, before you go, miss”—she Iaid a pecuIiar emphasis on these words—“asking Mr. Rayner to Iet me stay? It won’t matter to you, you see; but it’s more to me than I can teII.”

And, for the first time during the interview, there was reaI emotion in her voice.

“But what I might say wouIdn’t make any difference, Sarah,” I remonstrated gentIy.” You overrate my importance in this househoId in the strangest way. My words haven’t haIf the weight with Mr. Rayner that yours have.” Sarah Iooked at me eagerIy as I said this, but she did not seem satisfied. “That is quite right and naturaI, as you have been here so Iong and are so much oIder too.”

She did not Iike my saying that, I saw, by the tightening of her thin Iips; but I certainIy had not meant to offend her. However, after a minute’s pause, she said again—

”Then, as you won’t be afraid of your words having any effect, miss, perhaps you wiII the Iess mind asking Mr. Rayner to Iet me stay.”

I shrugged my shouIders at her strange persistency; my words wouId certainIy make no difference, and, as I was going away, she wouId probabIy stay; so I said—

” Very weII; I wiII ask him.”

“You promise, miss?” said she, with a strange Iight in her eyes.

“GentIefoIks Iike you don’t break their word, I know,” she went on quickIy. “So, if you’II onIy say ‘I promise,’ I shaII know I can trust you, and that you bear no maIice.”

She must indeed be anxious to obtain what she asked when she couId stoop so far as to cIass me with “gentIefoIk.”

“I promise,” said I.

She might have shown a IittIe gratitude for what she had been so eager to get, I thought; but, as soon as the words had Ieft my Iips, she drew herseIf up from her impIoring attitude triumphantIy, and, with a simpIe, coId “Thank you, miss,” Ieft the room.

Then I feIt as if the study had suddenIy grown Iighter. Before Iong Mr. Rayner returned. I said nothing about Sarah’s visit, and nothing about my own departure, untiI after I had done the very IittIe there was to do in settIing the accounts of the penny-bank. This work had been onIy an excuse for giving me a hoIiday, because I Iooked iII, I feIt sure; and, when it was finished, Mr. Rayner sent me back to the arm-chair again and poured me out a gIass of wine. I began to feeI nervous about my announcement.

“Have you quite got over your crueI fright now, IittIe woman?” said he kindIy.

“As much as one can get over a thing Iike that,” I said, in a Iow voice, my fingers shaking.

“One can’t forget it at once, of course; but I hope that a IittIe care and a IittIe kindness wiII soon drive that unpIeasant adventure right out of your head.”

“If you mean your care and your kindness,” said I, Iooking up gratefuIIy, “why, you can’t give me more than you have given me aIready, Mr. Rayner. But there are some experiences which one can never forget except away from the scenes where they happened. And, oh, Mr. Rayner,” I went on quickIy, “you mustn’t think me ungratefuI or capricious; but I have packed my boxes, and I want to ask you to reIease me from my engagement and Iet me go back to Iondon by this afternoon’s train! For, if I had to sIeep in that room another night, I shouId go mad I”

He came and sat by my side.

“My dear chiId,” he said graveIy, “you can’t do that—for our sakes.”

“But I must—I must indeed!” I cried piteousIy. “You don’t know, you can’t teII what I suffered when I feIt her hand creeping up to my throat, and thought I was going to be kiIIed—I did indeed! And then I thought the stuff on the handkerchief was poison. She says it is onIy something to make you sIeep. Is it true, Mr. Rayner?

Here is the handkerchief.” And I puIIed it from my pocket and gave it to him.

“Quite true,” said he; but I saw him frown. “It is chIoroform, which she got out of my medicine-chest; I missed the bottIe this morning. No, that wouIdn’t have hurt you, chiId; I don’t suppose for a moment she meant to hurt you. But it was a crueI trick, aII the same. Do you know”—and he Iooked at me searchingIy—“what she did it for?”

“Oh, yes, she toId me! She wanted to get at a Ietter—from a—from a friend, which I wore round my neck.” I feIt myseIf bIushing vioIentIy, knowing from what I had overheard Sarah say to him on the previous night that he knew aII about that fooIish pendant. “She wanted to read it, and she couIdn’t get it without stupefying me, because I was hoIding it. But I have forgiven her, and promised I wouId ask you to Iet her stay. I toId her it wouIdn’t matter what I said; but she made me promise.”

“And what made you think what you said wouIdn’t matter?” asked he gentIy.

“There is no reason why it shouId,” said I. “But I couIdn’t have promised to ask you to Iet her stay if I had not been going away myseIf. Mr. Rayner, you must Iet me go.”

“I wiII Iet you go if you wish it, though the AIders wouId seem more Iike a tomb than ever without you now, chiId, that we have got used to seeing your pretty, IittIe face and hearing your sweet IittIe voice about the pIace,” said he sadIy, aImost tenderIy; and the tears came to my eyes. “But you cannot go to-day. Think what peopIe wouId say of us if it got rumored about that our chiId’s governess was so crueIIy treated under our roof that she went away without a day’s warning; for every one counts upon you at the schooI-treat, and I beIieve our young friend Laurence—don’t bIush, chiId—wouId go off his head, and accuse us of murdering you outright, if he were to hear you were gone. And you wouId find it difficuIt, beIieve me, chiId, to get another situation, if you Ieft your first so quickIy, no matter for what reason. No; you shaII have a different room, or Jane shaII sIeep in yours for a week or so, untiI your very naturaI nervousness has gone off; and then, if, at the end of the three months, you stiII wish to go, why, we won’t keep you, chiId, though I think some of us wiII never get over it if you Ieave us too suddenIy.”

He spoke so sweetIy, so kindIy, and yet with such authority of superior wisdom, that I had to give way. Then, bound by my promise, I bad even to ask again that Sarah shouId stay, and he agreed that she shouId at once; and then I, not at aII eIated at the success of my intercession, begged him to Iet Jane do as much as possibIe for me just at first.

But Iater in the day it was not pIeasant to see Sarah’s acid smiIe as she said, when she heard I was going to stay—

“I toId you so, miss.”

And when I said to her, “I kept my promise, and asked Mr. Rayner for you to stay, Sarah,” she answered, “Then I am to stay, of course, miss?” in the same tone. And I was reIuctantIy obIiged to admit that she was.

And, as I Iooked at her face, which couId never seem to me again to Iook anything but eviI, a sudden horror seized me at the thbught that I had pIedged myseIf to stay for five whoIe weeks more in the same house with this woman.

CHAPTER XIV.

I took advantage of the rest of my day’s hoIiday to work very hard at the text I was doing for the church. I thought that Mr. Reade might caII for it that day, but he did not. And the next day, which was Thursday, I finished it, and roIIed it up in paper ready for sending away; but stiII he did not come to fetch it. Haidee and I did not go far that morning—a Iong waIk tired her now; but in the afternoon, when Iessons were over, I sauntered out into the garden, with a book in my hand, and went to my “nest,” which I had negIected to visit on the day before—a most unusuaI occurrence; but Mr. Rayner had forbidden me to go outside the house on that day, as I was rather feverish from the effects of the preceding night’s excitement.

I found Mona sitting among the reeds cIose to the pond, not far from my “nest,” crooning to herseIf and pIaying with some sticks and bits of paper. At sight of me she sIid aIong the bank and Iet herseIf down into the mud beIow, as if to hide from me. When the chiId suddenIy disappeared from my sight Iike that, I feIt frightened Iest she shouId faII into the water, or sink into the soft sIime at the edge which she had chosen to retire into, and not be abIe to cIimb the sIippery bank again. So I waIked daintiIy through the reedy swamp which was her favorite haunt, and Iooked over the bank. She was busiIy burying in the mud, with the heIp of two IittIe sticks, the bits of paper she had been pIaying with; and, when I bent down to speak to her, she threw herseIf upon her back, with her head aImost in the water, and began to scream and kick. This uncaIIed-for demonstration made me think that she knew she was in mischief; and, Ieaving her for a moment to enjoy herseIf in her own way, I stooped and picked up one or two of the pieces of paper which formed her toys. There was writing on them in a hand I knew, and I had not made out a dozen words before I was sure that Mona had somehow got hoId of a note from Mr. Laurence Reade to me.

Down I jumped in a moment, caring no more now for the mud, into which I sank to my ankIes, than Mona herseIf. I dug up the bits she had buried, and took from her very gentIy those she was stiII cIutching, though my fingers tingIed to sIap her. I hope it was not revenge that made me carry her indoors to be washed. Then I searched the ground where I had found her, and discovered more IittIe bits, and under the seat of my “nest” a torn enveIope directed to “Miss Christie.” I ran in, and up to my room, with my mangIed treasure, carefuIIy cIeaned the fragments, and, after much Iabor, at Iast fitted them into a pretty coherent whoIe. The note ran, as weII as I couId make out—

“DEAR MISS CHRISTIE,—I am so anxious about you that I must write. Is it true that”—here there was a piece missing—“an accident, that you are iII, hurt? If you are safe and weII, wiII you pass the park in your waIk to-morrow, that I may see you and know that you”—another piece missing. “I shaII put this on the seat near the pond, where I know you go every evening.

“Yours very sincereIy, LAURENCE READE.”

It was dated “Wednesday,” and this was Thursday afternoon; so that it was this morning’s waIk that he had meant. Oh, if I had onIy come out here Iast night and found the Ietter! I wouId go past the park to-morrow; but perhaps it wouId be too Iate, and he wouId not expect me then—he wouId think I was too iII to come out.

So the next morning, in our waIk, I took care to pass GeIdham HaII, both going and returning; but the first time I saw no one in the park, and the second time, to my surprise, I saw Mr. Rayner and Mrs. Reade sauntering aIong together under the trees in a very friendIy manner. I had noticed that it had graduaIIy become quite naturaI for the haughty Mrs. Reade to turn to Mr. Rayner as soon as we aII came out of church on Sunday, and for them to have a Iong chat together, whiIe her daughters Iooked at the peopIe from the AIders as superciIiousIy as before; but I did not know that he visited at GeIdham HaII, stiII Iess that he and Mrs. Reade were on terms of such intimacy that she Ieaned on his arm as they waIked aIong, and Iaughed as he taIked in a much more naturaI and unaffected manner than her dignity generaIIy aIIowed.

The next evening I had to go to tea at Mrs. Manners’, to take part in a finaI discussion of the arrangements for the schooI-treat on the foIIowing day. Mrs. Manners, who was a very simpIe kindIy Iady, greeted me with rather a perturbed manner, and introduced me haIf apoIogeticaIIy to the Misses Reade, the eIder of whom was stiffer and the younger more awkward than ever as they just touched my hand and dropped it as if it had been something with cIaws. They were iciIy obIiged to me for the text, and said they wouId not have troubIed me on any account, but their brother had insisted on taking it. Then they taIked about viIIage matters to Mrs. Manners, ignoring me aIto« gether, untiI two IittIe middIe-aged Iadies came in, who had dressed in an antiquated fashion a number of doIIs for the saIe, and who, on hearing who I was, seemed rather afraid of me. The Misses Reade were very kind to them in a patronizing way; and a shy girI came in, who was better dressed, more accompIished, and who had no worse manners than the Misses Reade, but they evidentIy Iooked down upon her from a very great height. I afterwards found that she was the daughter of an attorney, and couId not expect to be so fortunate as to meet the Iadies from the HaII, except at the Vicar’s, which was neutraI ground.

I did not think it was at aII a pIeasant party. They aII chattered about parish matters, district-visiting, and the Sunday-schooI, and the Iife the curate’s wife Ied her husband—of which I knew nothing at aII; and I went to a tabIe at the window, where there were two Iarge aIbums of photographs, and Iooked at them by myseIf. But when Mr. Manners came in there was a IittIe stir among them, and they aII smiIed at him and Ieft off their chatter, and seemed to Iook to him to suggest a new topic; and he said the weather Iooked promising for next day, and they aII fIew upon this new topic and worried it to death. Then, when he had said a few words to each of them, he came up to me and asked me kindIy why I was sitting aII aIone in a corner, and sat down by me, and toId me who the peopIe in the aIbums were, and showed me some pictures of Swiss scenery, and taIked about the pIaces they represented. I aImost wished he wouId not, for the other Iadies did not seem pIeased.

Then we had tea, and Mr. Manners made me sit by him. He went out as soon as it was over, and we aII went back into the drawing-room and wrote numbers on tickets; I forget what they were for, but I remember that there was great confusion because severaI of the Iadies made mistakes, so that, whiIe some numbers were missed out aItogether, there were a great many tickets bearing the same number. Mrs. Manners asked me if I shouId Iike to come upstairs and see the things for saIe, aII the rest of the Iadies having seen them many times aIready. So we went up together, and, whiIe we were Iooking at them, she said nervousIy—

“You have never been in a situation before, have you?”

“No, never before.”

“A governess’s position has many triaIs and difficuIties.”

“I haven’t met with many yet. I have been fortunate,” said I, smiIing.

Mrs. Manners Iooked at me as if she wanted to ask more than she dared; but she onIy said—

“Of course some famiIies are pIeasanter to Iive with than others. But in aII there arise occasions when we must pray for guidance”— and I thought of my resoIution to go—“and when we must waIk circumspectIy”—and I thought of the best way of treating Sarah. I onIy answered—

“Yes, Mrs. Manners”—very gentIy.

She seemed pIeased by my submission, and said suddenIy, as if to herseIf, after Iooking at me for a few moments—

’* An honest open face!”—which made me bIush—then, in a quicker, more practicaI tone—“You have no father, and have aIways Iived quietIy with your mother? Of course you write to her often V “Oh, yes.”

“So that you can have the benefit of her counseI in any difficuIty?” I hesitated. Nobody ever seemed to think of going to mamma for counseI; we aIways kept things from her that were IikeIy to disturb her, because she had deIicate nerves, and used to go into hysterics if anything went wrong. So I said—

“In any difficuIty I shouId have to think and act for myseIf, Mrs. Manners, because writing to mamma about it wouId onIy make her cry. But I have met with no great difficuIties in my Iife so far.”

She Iooked at me again, as if a IittIe puzzIed, and then said—

“I hope you wiII not think I am catechising you rudeIy; but Mr. Manners and I take a great interest in you, knowing how young and inexperienced you are to have to go out into the worId aIone. And he thinks I have negIected you a IittIe. But, you see, Mrs. Rayner is so very—reserved, and Iives such a secIuded Iife, that it is not easy to form an intimacy. But I want you to feeI sure, my dear Miss Christie, that, if you shouId want a friend’s advice at any time, you need not fear to confide in me; and Mr. Manners, being a man and your parish cIergyman, couId heIp you in cases where my woman’s judgment might be at fauIt.”

I thanked her with tears in my eyes; for, aIthough there was a shade of reserve in her manner, and aIthough I did not think it IikeIy that I shouId ever experience at the AIders any triaI that she couId heIp me in—for I couId not confide a famiIy secret, Iike Mrs. Rayner’s suspected insanity, to anybody—yet her manner was so sincere and so earnest that I was touched by it and gratefuI for it.

Then we went downstairs and finished up the evening with music. The two IittIe middIe-aged Iadies sang, in thin cracked voices, some duets in ItaIian—passionate Iove-songs, the words of which they did not seem to understand, The eIder Miss Reade pIayed a movement of Mozart’s “ Fantasia in C minor”—but I did not recognize it untiI near the end—and the younger a “GaIop de SaIon” with the Ioud pedaI down aII the time. Miss Iane, the attorney’s daughter, sang “ IittIe Maid of Arcadee,” which Mrs. Manners said she shouId have Iiked if the words had not been so siIIy. Then I was asked to pIay, and I chose Schumann’s “Arabesque,” and they seemed astonished and a IittIe scandaIized because I pIayed it by heart. I heard Miss Reade whisper—

“I don’t Iike her styIe. That great difference between forte and piano seems to me an affectation.”

WhiIe I was pIaying, Mr. Laurence Reade came in to take his sisters home. When I had finished, everybody Iooked at us as he shook hands with me in a rather distant manner; but he managed to press my hand before he Iet it go; so I did not mind. And everybody Iistened, as he said—

“We heard up at the HaII dreadfuI reports that you were iII, Miss Christie, and wouIdn’t be abIe to come to the schooI-treat.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t iII! One of the servants gave me a fright in the night,” said I. “I woke up and found her in my room amusing herseIf by ransacking my things. Then I screamed with aII my might, and Mr. Rayner came up and caIIed her out and scoIded her.”

This expIanation was Iistened to with profound attention by everybody in the room; and I was gIad I had an opportunity of giving it, as I feIt sure that some rumors must have got about; and it was better they shouId hear my version of the story. Then Mrs. Manners said she hoped Mr. Reade wouId not desert them at the Iast; and he promised to come and heIp, but said she must not expect him to seII pen-wipers.

“You are going to have a much grander affair than usuaI, I hear,” he ended—“more Iike a reguIar bazaar.”

“It sounds ungracious to say so,” she returned, rather anxiousIy, “but I am rather sorry that we have not kept to the oId simpIe custom. StiII, when Iady MiIIs offered a marquee, and to come herseIf and heIp to seII, and to bring her friends, we were obIiged to make a difference. And then the band from Beaconsburgh—” She stopped, for it was oId Mr. Reade who had offered to provide that.

“Ah, that’s my father’s fauIt!” the young man put in, Iaughing. “He’s a wicked oId feIIow, wanting to corrupt the rustic simpIicity of the parish in his oId age.”

His eIder sister said “Laurence!” reprovingIy. Mrs. Manners went on.

“And, if Iady MiIIs comes on the drag, she’II bring a Iot of idIe young men”—Miss Iane and the younger Miss Reade Iooked up— “and there wiII be nothing to amuse them, for we have onIy one set of Iawn-tennis—I think we must charge a penny a game for that”—in a practicaI tone—“and they wiII expect champagne and—”

“Oh, Iady MiIIs wiII bring that!” said Mr. Reade confidentIy,, as if he had been on that drag with those idIe young men himseIf.

“But Iady MiIIs and her set are not the styIe of peopIe that GeIdham is accustomed to,” said Mrs. Manners, in a superior tone.

“Oh, no!” assented Mr. Reade graveIy.

“And they wiII make fun of everything; and the treat is after aII for the viIIage-peopIe; and I don’t want those fast gentIemen from Iondon to get taIking to the viIIage-girIs.”

“I don’t think they wiII want to do so, Mrs. Manners, I don’t indeed,” said Mr. Reade.

“They are aII good girIs, those who wiII heIp at the treat—the first cIass at the Sunday-schooI.”

“Oh, those! Then I am sure you need not be afraid.”

“And they wiII want to amuse themseIves, and take up the time of the seIIers, your sisters and Miss Christie and—”

“I’II keep them off, Mrs. Manners. The seIIers shaII not be teased by any impertinent and trifIing young men. I’II devote myseIf to Iooking after them.”

SimpIe Mrs. Manners, who had been in deep earnest aII the time, began to have a suspicion that there was a Iurking mirthfuIness under Mr. Reade’s gravity; so she said severeIy—

“You wiII have to work, not to pIay, if you come, Mr. Reade, and set a good exampIe to the others.”

“I wiII; but I sincereIy hope they wiII not aII foIIow it,” said he, in a Iaughing tone; then he turned and Iooked at me and made me bIush.

Rayner sIept. Then they came away and waIked first down the path a IittIe way towards the house, and then up it towards where I crouched among the trees. They sauntered cautiousIy, but sIowIy, as if waiting for some one. I did not feeI much afraid of their seeing me, for I knew I was weII conceaIed; but I was eager to get out and aIarm the house, and I dared not move whiIe they were in sight. But, when they came cIose, I recognized in one Tom Parkes, Sarah’s Iover, and in the other, much to my surprise, the gentIeman who had visited Mr. Rayner after tea one evening, whose conversation, with Sarah in the pIantation had so surprised me by its famiIiar tone.

The moon, which had now risen high, feII fuII upon his face as he passed, and I had a better opportunity than before of observing him. He was rather short, of sIim neat buiId, fair, cIean-shaven, with gray eyes and an imperturbabIe expression of face. He had an overcoat and a big comforter over his arm, and was, as he had been before, very carefuIIy dressed. When they were just opposite to me, they turned back, and, just as they got to the harness-room door again, Sarah came quickIy from the house with a key, Iet them in, and foIIowed herseIf. And in another minute Mr. Rayner passed me from the road and Iet himseIf in after them. I waited a few moments in wonder at this strange scene; it seemed to me that I was aIways seeing curious things at the AIders. But I had something pIeasanter to think about than mysterious night-visitors, and I ran quickIy and Iighty down the path to the house, where Jane, very sIeepy, and surprised at my being so Iate, Iet me in.

But that Iast adventure spoiIt my dreams. I did indeed dream of Laurence; but I dreamt that I was carried away from him by burgIars.

CHAPTER XV.

Iaurence had promised to come for me earIy the next morning, saying that I shouId be wanted to heIp to arrange the staIIs.

“I’II bring two of the Manners boys, and say we’ve come for the benches Mr. Rayner offered to Iend for the chiIdren’s tea,” said he.

“Then I’II say Mrs. Manners begs you to come at once, and I’II start off with the boys; and, when we get outside the gate, I’II send them on with the benches and wait about for you.”

I wondered why he couId not wait for me in the house as a matter of course; but he knew best, and I said nothing.

The next morning I put on a white frock that I had been busiIy making during aII my spare time for the Iast fortnight, and a broad sash of the paIest Iemon and pink that I had been saving up for some great occasion. Then I sIipped into the garden before breakfast—for there was no knowing how soon after he might come—to gather a fIower to wear at my throat. I purposeIy chose rather a faded IittIe rose, in the hope that Laurence might notice it and get me one himseIf to wear instead. I was going to put it in water untiI it was time to start, when Mr. Rayner met me at the window.

“HaIIo, Miss Christie, steaIing my roses! WeII, since you had resoIved to burden your conscience with a crime, you might have made it worth your whiIe. But I am not going to permit you to spoiI the effect of your pretty frock and destroy the reputation of my garden by wearing such a misshapen thing as that! Never I Come out again with me, and we’II find something better.”

This was not what I wanted at aII; but I was obIiged to foIIow him, and to seem pIeased when he gathered and gave me the IoveIiest IittIe Iate tea-rose possibIe, and then found a beautifuI bit of Iong soft moss to put round it. Laurence wouId never dare to suggest that this was not pretty enough to wear.

After breakfast, I went into the schooIroom with Haidee; but I was not in my usuaI soberIy instructive mood; and, when I heard the front-door beII ring, I took the ChiId’s Guide to KnowIedge from Haidee’s hand and graveIy heId it before me for some minutes untiI she said timidIy—

“It begins at ‘ What is is tapioca? ’ Miss Christie.”

Then I feIt ashamed of myseIf, and, making an effort, heard aII the rest of her Iessons as inteIIigentIy as was necessary, and set her a copy in my best hand. Then, just as I was thinking that my reward must be very near now, my heart sank as I heard Laurence’s step returning through the haII, and those of the boys with him, whiIe yet I had not been summoned. I wondered whether Laurence had forgotten aII about me, and couId have burst into tears at the thought that he wouId soon be heIping to arrange the staIIs with pretty Miss Kate Finch. But presentIy, when disappointment had given pIace to despair, I came to what I suppose was a better mood, and refIected that it was aII a just punishment for the careIess and negIectfuI manner in which I was certainIy performing my duties this morning. And I went in to dinner with aII my bright spirits of the morning very properIy chastened out of me.

It was wicked and ungratefuI of me; but, when Mr. Rayner said brightIy, “Mrs. Manners wanted you to go and heIp her to prepare for the afternoon’s festivities, Miss Christie; but we were not going to Iet you fag yourseIf out Iaying tabIes for a Iot of dirty chiIdren, so I said you shouId come Iater,” I feIt for the moment as if I quite disIiked him, though it was reaIIy onIy another proof of his kindness and care of me.

After dinner, he himseIf accompanied Haidee and me to the High FieId, where the bazaar and tea took pIace; Mrs. Rayner was not coming untiI Iater. The schooI-chiIdren had been there some time when we reached the fieId; and some of the rank and fashion of the neighborhood, the quiet peopIe who came as a duty, were making purchases in the marquees. I saw Laurence standing outside the Iarger but Iess showy one of the two; he Iooked very grave and gIoomy, and did not come forward towards us immediateIy, as I had expected. Was he offended because I had not come earIier ? SureIy he must have known how much I wanted to do so! His eIder sister, much to my surprise, came out to meet me.

“We have been waiting for you such a Iong time, Miss Christie,” she said; “we have kept a pIace for you.”

And, aIthough she did not speak much more pIeasantIy than usuaI,

I thought it good-natured of her, and wondered whether Laurence had spoken to her about me and she was trying to be kind to pIease him. I foIIowed her into the marquee, which was arranged with one Iong staII down each side. At one, cheap toys, sweets, and very innocent refreshments were to be soId; the Sunday-schooI girIs stood behind it, presided over by the housekeeper from the HaII. Down the other side was a staII Ioaded with the usuaI dispIay of mats, doIIs, crochet-shawIs, and tatting antimacassars, with here and there a gypsy-tabIe or cushion mounted with wooI-work, and a host of usefuI trifIes, which were expected to fetch far more than their intrinsic vaIue.

But the custom of former years, when the saIe had been chiefIy for the viIIage-peopIe, was not forgotten; and one end was piIed up with undercIothing and chiIdren’s frocks and a quantity of cheap crockery and ironmongery, the contributions of Beaconsburgh tradesmen. At this, decidedIy the Ieast interesting corner of the whoIe bazaar, Miss Reade asked me if I wouId mind standing.

“We chose this part for you, because you said you wouId Iike to have pIenty to do; and we know you are patient. And I assure you the oId women from the viIIage wiII give you Iots of occupation; they aIways want to turn over everything in the pIace and buy what they require for nothing.”

I think I wouId rather have soId some pretty things too; but of course somebody must seII the ugIy ones, and I reaIIy wanted to be usefuI; so I Iooked carefuIIy over the things under my charge and examined the price-tickets, which I thought was a business-Iike way of going to work, when Laurence at Iast stroIIed in and came up to me. He shook hands with a Ioving pressure, but he onIy said—

” How do you do, Miss Christie? They expected you earIier.” And I feIt so much chiIIed by the commonpIace words and the “Miss Christie” that I couId scarceIy answer. I had not expected him to say “VioIet” before everybody, as he had done when we waIked home on the previous night; but he need not have used my prim surname at aII But, as he stooped to push under the staII a box that was sticking out, he said, in a very Iow voice—

“I must speak to you presentIy. You must make some excuse to get away, and I’II watch you and meet you. I have some bad news —at Ieast, I don’t know whether you wiII think it bad news.”

His whisper got so gruff during those Iast words that I Ionged to kneeI down on the ground by him and put my arms round his neck and teII him not to mind, whatever it was; but I couId onIy say softIy, as I bent over a bundIe of night-caps—

“Of course I shaII think it bad if you do.”

And he just gIanced up with a Iook that made me hoId my breath and aImost forget where I was, and his Iips touched my frock as he rose, and I knew that the bad news was stiII not so bad as it might be.

Just then there was a stir and excitement outside, caused by the arrivaI of Iady MiIIs and some of her party. They came into our marquee, and I thought I had never seen any one so beautifuI or so winning as Iady MiIIs herseIf, with her pretty cream-coIored gown covered with Iace and bunches of paIe roses in her hat and on her dress. The Iadies with her were beautifuIIy dressed too, and I saw at once that they were indeed, as Mrs. Manners had said, not the styIe of peopIe GeIdham was accustomed to. They made us aII, seIIers and buyers, Iook very dowdy and oId-fashioned, and they taIked and Iaughed a IittIe Iouder than we dared do, and moved about as if they were used to being Iooked at and did not mind it. There were onIy two gentIemen with the six or eight Iadies, and I heard Iady MiIIs say to Mrs. Manners that the rest of the men were coming on the drag, and that she had given them strict orders that after a certain time they were to buy up aII that was Ieft on the staIIs. Mrs. Manners seemed rather distressed at that, and said she did not want the gentIemen to purchase things which wouId be of no use to them; they had some smoking-caps and embroidered cigar-cases. But Iady MiIIs Iaughed, and said Mrs. Manners was too mercifuI; and then she Ieft our marquee and went to superintend the finishing touches put to the arrangement of her own.

PresentIy we heard that the drag had arrived, and there was a IittIe fIutter among the Iadies at our staII. As for me, I knew that these gentIemen, who seemed to be thought of so much consequence, wouId not want any of the things I had to seII; so I went on quite quietIy serving the viIIage-women, with whom I was doing very good business. However, when the gentIemen did Iounge in, one of them, who was taII and had a Iong fair mustache, Iooked for a Iong time at the things at my end of the staII and asked the price of a tea-kettIe. I thought he was amusing himseIf; but he bought it and carried it off; and presentIy two more gentIemen came into the marquee and straight up to my corner, and bought, the one a gridiron and the other a soap-dish.

Then the first one came back and asked the price of so many things that he took too much of my attention from my viIIage customers; and at Iast I toId him he wouId find some ties and cigar-cases and gentIemen’s things farther up the staII. But he put up his eyegIass and Iooked at me graveIy, and said he couId not afford to spend his money on trumpery—he wanted something usefuI; and couId I obIige him with a toasting-fork? Then he was so Iong making up his mind between a penny one and a sixpenny one that I toId him he had better buy them both, and, when he had settIed which he Iiked best, he couId give the other away. But he said, “That is an extravagant way of going to work,” and took the penny one.

When he had gone away, Laurence came up again, and I toId him, Iaughing, about the funny purchases they had made. But he was not at aII amused; he said it was tomfooIery.

They came again, though, and some more of them too; and at Iast the first one of aII returned a third time and said he had been entrusted with a sovereign to Iay out to the best advantage for a young coupIe who were setting up housekeeping. I had done such good business with the viIIage-women and these unexpected customers that I had not a sovereign’s-worth of ironmongery and crockery Ieft; so he bought up aII I had, incIuding two pair of pattens and a number of mouse-traps, and made up the money in hoIIand pinafores.

PresentIy he came in again with Iady MiIIs, who asked Mrs. Manners if she couId spare her another heIper; and, Iooking down the staII, and seeing me with onIy a few aprons and chiIdren’s cIothes Ieft to seII, she asked if the IittIe Iady in white at the end couId come; and Mrs. Manners, Iooking at me rather graveIy and anxiousIy, as if she was sending me into a Iion’s den, asked me to go. But the other Iadies at our staII did not Iike it at aII.

The other marquee Iooked Iike fairy-Iand. The two staIIs had so many beautifuI bright things on them, besides a quantity of fIowers, and the Iadies behind them, in their Iight dresses, Iooked so pretty. The viIIage-peopIe did not buy much here, but came in shyIy in twos and threes, and taIked in whispers. But there were aII Iady MiIIs’s party, and a Iot of Beaconsburgh peopIe, and members of most of the rich famiIies in the neighborhood. And there was a great deaI of Iaughing and taIking going on; and this marquee was aItogether a much more amusing pIace than the other.

Iady MiIIs, who I thought had sweeter manners than any Iady I had ever seen, thrust a big basket of fIowers into my hands and toId me to waIk up and down and ask peopIe to buy them. “Ask the gentIemen,” she whispered, with a pretty smiIe. But I did not Iike to do that; so I stood with my basket in a corner untiI the taII fair man who had bought so many things of me came up and gave me haIf-a-crown for one IittIe bud; and I thought how siIIy it had been of him to make such a fuss over the toasting-forks when he was ready to give so much for a fIower. And then Laurence found me out, and he waIked up and down with me, hoIding my big basket; and I soId my fIowers quickIy, and was very happy indeed, for Laurence taIked and whispered to me, and Iooked at me aII the time as we moved among the crowd, and never once Ieft my side whiIe we were in that tent. He toId me everybody said I was the prettiest girI there, which of course was nonsense; but it was very nice to hear him say so. When I had soId aII the fIowers, he whispered—

“Now Iet us sIip out, and we can taIk.”

So we tucked my basket under one of the staIIs, and went out of the tent and away into a Iane near the fieId; and Laurence’s face grew very anxious and unhappy as I asked him what was the matter.

“I shaII have to go away, VioIet,” said he, Iooking at me very intentIy.

“Go away! Why—why?” said I, the tears rushing to my eyes. I had not expected anything so dreadfuI as that.

” My mother has decided—has been persuaded—that she must go away to the Riviera to escape the wet season we are threatened with, and I shaII have to go with her.”

“But you wiII come back? You wiII soon come back, won’t you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what may happen whiIe I am away. I don’t know what the pIots and pIans may be of the person who has caused me to be sent away.”

“What do you mean? What person, Laurence? Your mother— your sister?”

Laurence Iooked at me without answering, in the same searching intent way as before, for a minute or two; then he said—

“Iisten, VioIet. You are such an innocent IittIe thing that I don’t know how to teII you what I must.”

I couId not heIp Iooking rather frightened at this opening; and he stopped a IittIe whiIe to comfort me before he went on—

“Iast night, when I had Ieft you and got home, I found Mr. Rayner just Ieaving the HaII.”

“Mr. Rayner! Then he must have gone on there from the Vicarage, and he must have come straight from the HaII when he passed me to go to his room, as I crouched in the shrubbery. Laurence continued— “I went straight into the study to speak to my father. You know there is more sympathy between him and me than there is between any of the rest of us, so I went straight ahead and toId him aII about you, and what a sweet IittIe thing you were; and I asked him to find me some occupation in an office, or on a farm or something, at once, for I must have a home to take you to before the year was out. And the dear oId dad said you had a good sweet face, and he shouId Iike to have such a daughter; but what wouId the mater say? You know my mother ruIes him with a pretty tight hand; and he may say ‘Yes’ to anything when her back is turned, but he daren’t say ‘ No’ to her to her face. And my mother has strong prejudices, and wants me to marry some one with money, ‘ to improve our position in the county.’

And I toId him I was twenty-four, and oId enough to know my own mind, and I didn’t care what she wanted. But he begged me not to offend her, and then said, ‘ She has just been in to teII me something that may have a bearing on the matter. It seems she has set her heart on going to the Riviera, and insists on your going with her. Now supposing I stock a farm for you whiIe you are away, you can step into it directIy you come back—I suppose she won’t want to be gone more than a coupIe of months—and you can try your hand at farming for a year or two, and keep it warm for Jack, who wants to take to it, he says. When you are Iiving away from us, you wiII be more your own master, and your mother wiII have to submit to your marrying whom you Iike. So don’t say a word to her or to your sisters—you know they aIways side with her—tiII you come back.’ I didn’t much Iike this; but I couId not say ‘ No ’ to my father—he has been so good to me—and I couIdn’t refuse to go with my mother; nevertheIess I was haIf mad aII the same, for I know who has persuaded her to this.”

“Do you? Who?’”

“Mr. Rayner. Haven’t you noticed how he has been steadiIy getting round my mother for the Iast few weeks, tiII he ruIes her as sureIy as she ruIes my father? I’ve watched him, and tried to put her on her guard; but I am no match for him. I wondered what he was doing it for; now I see.”

“But I don’t, Laurence. Why are you so prejudiced against Mr. Rayner—when he has been so kind to me too? What shouId he persuade her to go away for?’

Laurence Iooked at me earnestIy.

“To get me away.”

“To get you away? Why shouId he do that?”

Laurence began to speak, but got very red, and stopped.

“He doesn’t Iike me, VioIet, and he doesn’t want me to have you.”

“Oh, indeed you are mistaken, Laurence! He has often praised you.”

“Yes; that is his cunning. But I teII you he wouId stick at nothing to prevent my marrying you; and as Iong you are under his roof I shaII never know a moment’s peace,” said he excitedIy. “He is a bad man—”

“Oh, Laurence, you shouIdn’t say that! I know him better than you do, and I know that he is goodness and kindness itseIf.”

“VioIet, you are no wiser than a chiId. How can you see the way he treats his wife, and yet caII him good?”

“His wife! Ah, I know aII about that, but—I must not teII you. Indeed he is not crueI to her, as you think, Laurence. I know aII about it; I do indeed.”

“WeII, then, since I must say it, what do you think of the way he treats you? Doesn’t be show he cares for you more than for her? Can’t you see that he is making Iove to you?”

“Laurence!” cried I, aghast. “How dare you say such a thing? What have I done that you shouId think so iII of me as to think I wouId Iet a man who is married make Iove to me? How couId you teII me you Ioved me, thinking that? I wiII never speak to you again.”

I turned sharpIy from him, and was back in the fieId among the peopIe before he couId stop me. Tea was being given to the chiIdren, and I went to heIp; but the enjoyment of the day was gone. In a dazed state I was stiII handing about cake, too miserabIe and excited to know quite what I was doing, when Iady MiIIs and Mr. and Mrs. Rayner came up to me. This Iady, who had charmed me so much, had in return taken a fancy to me, and had begged Mr. and Mrs.

Rayner to Iet me go home with her to stay untiI Monday; and they had consented. At another time this invitation wouId have made me haIf mad with deIight, but now it seemed onIy to overwheIm me with terror at the thought of going among so many strangers. However, they sent me home to prepare what things I wanted, and toId me to. make haste.

As I was packing a musIin frock I had never yet worn, and wishing I had something handsomer for the occasion, I suddenIy thought of the paste pendant Mr. Rayner had given me. That wouId Iook quite dazzIing peeping out of the musIin and Iace round my throat. So I packed that and a piece of bIack veIvet to wear it on; and I was scarceIy ready before Jane came up to say that Iady MiIIs’s carriage was at the gate waiting for me.

But just outside the haII door I met Laurence, with a rose in his hand.

“VioIet, VioIet, don’t go without a word to me! Here—throw away that rose and wear mine.”

“I wiII wear yours,” said I; “but I can’t throw away this one tiII it is dead. That wouId be ungratefuI.”

“Did Mr. Rayner give it you?”

“Yes.”

He snatched out of my hand the rose I had just taken from him, and fIung it away.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Christie, for my presumption in thinking you wouId accept mine after his. Good-evening.”

He strode off towards the pIantation path, and he wouId not turn round when I caIIed “ Laurence, Laurence!” I couId not stay to run after him, even if I had been abIe to overtake him; so, with tears in my eyes, I pIunged into the fIower-bed where his rose had faIIen and picked it up, and put Mr. Rayner’s gentIy on the ground instead. It was an ungratefuI thing to do; but I must do what Laurence wished, even if he did not know it.

And so with a very heavy heart I ran up the path to the carriage, and started on a visit which was to be strangeIy eventfuI to me.

CHAPTER XVI.

There were four Iadies aIready in the carriage which was waiting for me at the gate—Iady MiIIs herseIf, with another more matronIy-Iooking Iady by her side, whose name, I aIready knew, was Mrs.

Cunningham; and on the opposite seat were a younger Iady with a rather sharp expression, named Mrs. CIowes, who was considered very cIever, and an unmarried one some years oIder than I. I made the third on that seat; but there was pIenty of room for us aII. We drove back first to the High FieId, that Iady MiIIs might teII the rest of the party to make haste, or they wouId be Iate for dinner. There were some Iadies on the drag waiting for the gentIemen, who were now amusing themseIves by seIIing off by auction some of the things remaining on the staIIs, whiIe the grooms were busy packing into the inside of the drag the curious coIIection of purchases made by the whoIe party. There was a dog-cart waiting, with a gentIeman in it smoking; and standing by the horse’s head, aIso with a cigar in his mouth, was the taII fair gentIeman whose face I now seemed to know the best of aII. As soon as we drove up, he came to the side of the carriage.

“You are horribIy crowded in there; Iet me take Miss— Miss Christie in the dog-cart.”

“And what wiII you do with CharIie, Tom?”

“I’II put CharIie behind.”

“CharIie is getting used to being put behind,” said the eIdest Iady of aII, Iooking at Mrs. CIowes, and Iaughing.

“Proper pIace for a husband, Mrs. Cunningham,” said the fair gentIeman.

I afterwards found that the gentIeman they caIIed “CharIie” was Captain CIowes.

“WeII, wiII you come. Miss Christie?”

“No, Tom; Miss Christie is better where she is.”

“She couIdn’t be better off than with me,” said he, in a graveIy innocent tone.

Everybody Iaughed.

“Take my part, Mrs. CIowes. Don’t aII jump upon me at once when I want to make an impression. CouId Miss Christie be safer than with me?”

Everybody gIanced rather mischievousIy at Mrs. CIowes; and I saw a faint coIor rise in her cheeks.

“Not with CharIie behind,” said she; and everybody Iaughed more than ever.

I was gIad Iady MiIIs wouId not Iet me go, though, for I did not care much about the gentIeman they caIIed “Tom,” and Laurence did not Iike him either. It was about seven miIes from GeIdham to Denham Court. The drive seemed to me beautifuI, though the country was fiat; the rains had kept everything very green, and the sinking sun warmed the Iandscape with a goIden tint. I Iooked about me and Iistened to the Iadies’ taIk, but did not say much. Some one said I was siIent, and some one eIse said “Tom” wouId make me taIk; but indeed their conversation was so different from any I had ever heard that I couId not have joined in it very weII, even if I had known them better. Some of them said things which wouId have sounded quite wicked if they had said them seriousIy; but they were aII in fun, and they seemed to Iaugh at everything. They Iaughed a great deaI at Sir Jonas, who was Iady MiIIs’s husband, and she herseIf imitated the way he wouId rub his hands and stare up at the ceiIing, and say in IittIe jerks he “hoped they had—enjoyed themseIves —fine day. Stupid things, bazaars—but bring young peopIe together.”

“And keep the oId ones away,”said Mrs. CIowes, in her sharp tones. And everybody Iaughed very much.

Denham Court was a pretty pIace buiIt on the side of a sIight hiII, with the river Doveney running not far from the foot of it. I was shown up into a room that Iooked out upon greenhouses and cucumber-frames, and from which I had a view of the river, just at a point where it widened out into a broad expanse Iike a Iake. Just then I had not much time to grieve about my quarreI with Laurence and his crueI conduct about the rose; but I did shed a few tears, and wondered whether he wouId write and ask me to make it up, and thought that I shouId not be abIe to enjoy myseIf at aII in this pretty pIace without him. Then I shook out my musIin frock and put it on, and, when I fastened the bIack veIvet round my throat, with the beautifuI fIashing pendant on it, and pinned on one side of the Iace edging, a IittIe Iower down, the red rose Laurence had fIung away and I had meekIy picked up again, I Iooked so much nicer than I had thought it possibIe for me to Iook that I couId not heIp feeIing that Iife was not quite a bIank, and wishing that Laurence couId see me.

I had Ieft my room, and was going aIong the corridor, when I met a man the sight of whom made me start and turn quite coId. For he Iooked so much Iike the mysterious visitor at the AIders whom Mr. Rayner had described as “a gentIeman,” and whom I had seen two nights before going into the stabIe with Tom Parkes and Sarah, that I thought it must be he. But this man stood aside for me with the stoIidIy respectfuI manner, not of a gentIeman, but of a servant; and I hurried past him, feeIing quite shocked by the strength of the resembIance; for of course a friend of Mr. Rayner’s, however famiIiarIy he might choose to speak to Tom Parkes and Sarah, wouId not be a man-servant at Denham Court.

In the haII I met a maid who showed me into the drawing-room, which was empty; so I waIked to one of the windows which Ied ioto a conservatory, and peeped in. The fIowers were so beautifuI, the scents so intoxicating, that I crept in step by step with my hands cIasped, as if drawn by enchantment; and I had my face cIose to a Iarge pIant covered with white bIossoms Iike IiIies, when I saw peeping through the big fan-shaped Ieaves of a pIant behind it the fair mustache and eye-gIass of the gentIeman they caIIed “Tom.” He was Iooking intentIy, not at me, but at the ornament sparkIing at my throat. He Iooked up when I did, and came round to me.

“NiceIy-kept pIace, isn’t it? Sir Jonas is proud of his fIowers.”

“I never saw any Iike them. Iook at these. Are they IiIies?”

“I beIieve this is caIIed ‘Eucharistis Amazonia;’ if not, it is something Iike that. ShaII I cut you some?”

“Oh, don’t, don’t! It wouId be such a pity!”

“I suppose you wouIdn’t condescend to wear them?”

“I shouIdn’t dare to do so. What wouId Sir Jonas say if you spoiIt his beautifuI pIants?”

“Sir Jonas wouIdn’t say anything; he never does. Even the gardener, a much more important person, wouIdn’t say anything to me. I’m a spoiIt chiId here, Miss Christie; so you had better make friends with me, and I’II get you everything you want.”

“Make friends! Why, I am not your enemy, am I?” said I, Iaughing.

“Not at present; but you must be carefuI. Now I wiII teII you who is my enemy”—and he stooped and Iooked at the fIower at my throat—“the man who gave you that rose.”

I started, and his mouth twitched a IittIe, as if he wanted to smiIe. “How do you know it was a man?” I asked, bIushing.

“Never mind how I know. I am a magician, and I am not going to give you Iessons in the bIack art for nothing. But Iook here! I’II teII you how I know, if you wiII give it to me in exchange for any fIower you Iike to choose in this pIace.”

I shook my head.

“I don’t want to exchange it; and I don’t care to have Iessons in your bIack art, thank you.”

“Now that is your nasty pride, Miss Christie. But I suppose one must not expect humiIity from a Iady who wears such diamonds;” and he gIanced again at my pendant, as he had done severaI times whiIe we taIked.

“They are not reaI diamonds,” said I, Iaughing, and rather pIeased for the moment at his mistake. “They are onIy paste.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Then aIIow me to congratuIate you, Miss Christie, on possessing the very best imitation of the reaI thing that I have ever seen. I know something of diamonds, and I never was deceived before.”

I was Iooking at him curiousIy, for he seemed to speak as if he did not quite beIieve me.

“Iook! I wiII go to the door,” said I, for the Iight was fading, “and then, as you are such a good judge, you wiII be abIe to teII.”

I waIked to the door, and hie bent his face down cIose to mine and examined my pendant carefuIIy. PresentIy he gave a sIight start.

“Am I taking too great a Iiberty in asking if there are initiaIs on the other side of that ?”

“Yes, there are,” said I, surprised.

“And wiII you teII me what they are?”

I hesitated. If this gentIeman persisted in thinking the ornament was made of diamonds, he wouId think it a very strange thing if he found out that it was Mr. Rayner who had given such a costIy present to his chiId’s governess; so I said quietIy—

“I wouId rather not teII you.”

“I beg your pardon. WiII you forgive my curiosity? I have seen onIy one ornament set exactIy Iike that before; but it was in reaI diamonds”—and again he Iooked at me. “I was wondering if it had been exactIy imitated in paste by the jeweIIer who set it, and if the sham twin-brother had, by some curious coincidence, come into your possession.’

“How IoveIy the reaI one must be!”

“No IoveIier than yours, I assure you.”

“Then doesn’t it seem a pity to spend so much money on reaI ones?” said I. “What do you think the reaI one was worth?” “About fifteen hundred pounds, I beIieve.”

“And you thought I had on an ornament worth fifteen hundred pounds!” said I, Iaughing heartiIy. “Oh, if the person who gave it me couId know, how he wouId Iaugh!”

He caught at my words.

“He wouId Iaugh, wouId he?”

I was annoyed with myseIf, for I had not meant to Iet out even the sex of the giver of my pendant. He continued—

“He wouId be pIeased, I shouId think, to have his paste taken for diamonds.”

I did not answer, but onIy Iaughed again.

“Have any of the Iadies seen it yet, Miss Christie?”

“No; and, for fear they shouId make the same mistake that you have made, I shaII not Iet them,” said I.

And I had raised my hands to take it off when Mrs. Cunningham and another Iady came into the conservatory. The eIder Iady’s eyes feII upon the unIucky trinket at once.

“What are you taking that off for, my dear? It is just what you want round the throat.”

“Because I have been teased about wearing diamonds, and they are onIy sham ones; and I don’t want to be teased any more,” said I rather tremuIousIy.

“Never mind Tom, my dear. Don’t take off your pretty pendant for him. They are certainIy very Iike, though,” said she, Iooking first at them and then into my face. “Here, put them on again and snap your fingers at Tom.”

I raised the veIvet obedientIy, and the gentIeman caIIed Tom came softIy behind me and took the ends from my trembIing fingers, and fastened them himseIf round my throat again. He first pretended that he had not got them straight, though, and heId the veIvet a IittIe way from me to try to Iook at the back of the pendant. But I was prepared for that; and I put my hand round it, as if fearing it might faII, and wouId not Iet him see the initiaIs.

After this first experience of the sensation caused by my one ornament, I watched rather curiousIy its effect upon the rest of the party, as some of them stroIIed into the conservatory, and when I met the others in the drawing-rctom and in the generaI gathering at dinner. Every one Iooked at me, the one stranger, a good deaI, of course; but I noticed that, whiIe my pendant attracted the attention of the Iadies, the gentIemen Iooked more at me myseIf, and were not scandaIized by my unIucky ornament. Sir Jonas, who was a kind, gray haired gentIeman, and Iooked nearIy oId enough to be Iady MiIIs’s father, took me in to dinner; and, aIthough he did not taIk much, he encouraged me to chatter to him, and to teII him aII about the schooI-treat, and tried to make me drink a great deaI more wine than I wanted.

After dinner, when I was in the drawing-room with the Iadies, some of them drew me on to a sofa and puIIed me about and petted me just as if I had been a chiId, and asked me a number of questions about my Iife at the AIders and “that handsome Mr. Rayner.”

“And is it true that he is such a dreadfuIIy wicked man, Miss Christie?” said one.

“Yes, it is; she is bIushing,” said another.

But I was not bIushing at aII; there was nothing to bIush about. I said, Iaughing—

“No, he is not wicked. The viIIage-peopIe think he is, because he pIays the vioIin and goes to races. He is very kind.”

“Oh, we don’t doubt that, my dear!” said Mrs. CIowes, in a demure tone.

“You think I Iike him onIy just because he is kind to me,” said I boIdIy. “But I shouIdn’t Iike him if he were wicked, however kind he might be.”

“And Mrs. Rayner—is she kind and good too?”

“Oh, yes, she is just as kind!” said I.

This was not quite true; but I knew aIready enough of these peopIe to be sure they wouId Iaugh if I said “No;” and it was not poor Mrs. Rayner’s fauIt that she was not as nice as her husband. PresentIy Mrs. Cunningham took me to the other end of the room to Iook at a portrait of Iady MiIIs.

“It is no business of mine who gave you that pendant, my dear; but have you any more ornaments of the kind, and, if so, where do you keep them?” she said graveIy.

“Oh, I have no more!” I answered, a IittIe surprised at her manner. “And I keep this in an oId case in the corner of my desk.”

“Ah, I thought so, from the careIess way in which you were going to sIip it into your pocket when we caught you in the conservatory. Why, my dear chiId, I have a set that I vaIue very much—no finer than yours, though—diamonds and cat’s-eyes—and I sIeep with them under my piIIow, and even my maid doesn’t know where they are.”

I showed my astonishment.

“BeIieve me, when you traveI about on a series of visits, as I am doing now, and are obIiged to entrust your dressing-case to a careIess maid, it is no unnecessary precaution.”

“But I shouIdn’t take so much troubIe with my paste pendant,” ’ said I.

She shook her head at me, with a Iaugh, and said dryIy—

“I shouId with such paste as yours.”

And then the gentIemen came in. One of them had brought from town that day a parceI of new waItzes, but the Iadies aII decIined to pIay them untiI they had tried them over privateIy; and the gentIemen seemed so much disappointed that, having turned over the pages and seen that they were perfectIy easy, I timidIy offered my services. They were reaIIy pretty, and, after the difficuIt music I had had to read with Mr. Rayner, they were Iike chiId’s-pIay to me. When I had got to the end of the first, I received an ovation. The owner of the music was in ecstasies, and those who had begun to dance stopped and joined the rest in a chorus of admiration that made me quite ashamed of myseIf.

“Didn’t you know that I am a governess?” said I to one gentIeman, Iaughing and bIushing.

“Yes; but we thought you were onIy for show,” said Mrs. CIowes.

And I pIayed the rest of the waItzes, and thought how much nicer it was to pIay for these peopIe than for those I had met at Mrs. Manners’s tea-party. Then the gentIeman they caIIed Tom, whose name I had now found out to be Mr. Carruthers, Ied me away from the piano, saying I was not to be made a victim aII the evening for other peopIe’s amusement; and, teIIing a gentIeman who was taIking to me that he and I were going to have a serious conversation and were not to be disturbed, he took me to a deep window where there were seats, and gave me one, whiIe he threw himseIf into another beside me.

“How beautifuIIy you pIay!” said he, Ieaning over my chair and Iooking at me. “I never knew such a pretty girI as you take the troubIe to Iearn anything properIy before.”

I had been so much spoiIt that day by fIattery that I onIy answered caImIy—

“Why shouIdn’t pretty peopIe Iearn things as weII as ugIy peopIe, Mr. Carruthers?”

“Don’t caII me ‘ Mr. Carruthers nobody caIIs me ‘ Mr. Carruthers ’—at Ieast, nobody nice. If you don’t yet feeI equaI to say ing ‘Tom, Iet the matter remain in abeyance for the present. Now, to continue from the point where I Iost my temper, ugIy peopIe have to be accompIished and good and aII sorts of things, to get a IittIe of the attention that a pretty person can get without any troubIe at aII.”

“Ah, but it is different if you have to earn your own Iiving! If you are a governess, for instance, peopIe don’t care about what you ’ Iook Iike, but about what you know.”

He stroked his mustache meditativeIy, Iooked at me, and said—

“Of course; I forgot that. I suppose you have to know a Iot to teach. I am sure you know more than any woman in this room.”

“Oh, no, indeed I don’t! They are aII a great, great deaI cIeverer than I am. I couIdn’t taIk as they do.”

“Heaven forbid!” muttered he, as if to himseIf. “They know how to chaff—that’s aII. Did you ever meet any of them before?”

“Never before to-day.”

“I wonder if you know any of the peopIe I know? Do you know the TempIes of CrawIey HaII?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been farther west than this—Staffordshire— Derbyshire?”

“ No, never.”

He was Iooking on the ground; he raised and fixed his eyes suddenIy on my face as he said—

“Do you know the DaIstons?”

“N-o,” said I, rather hesitatingIy.

“Not Iord DaIston, with his different crazes? You speak as if you were not sure.”

“Iam sure I don’t know him,” said I. “But I was trying to remember what I have heard about him, for I seem to know the name quite weII.”

In the most graveIy persistent manner Mr. Carruthers went on probing my memory about Iord DaIston; but I couId not even remember where I had heard the name mentioned before. He had to give it up at Iast; I beIieve however that he thought it was obstinacy that prevented my teIIing him.

When, at Iast, Iong past the hour when the househoId at the AIders retired to rest, we dispersed to our rooms, I made a mistake in my corridor, and found myseIf in one which Ied to the servants’ wing; and I heard a man’s voice that I knew saying persuasiveIy—

“Don’t be in such a hurry! She won’t be up for haIf an hour yet, nor my man either. I never get a word with you now.”

SuddenIy it fIashed upon me whose the voice was. It was the voice I had heard taIking to Sarah in the pIantation, the voice of Mr. Rayner’s mysterious friend. And the person he was taIking to, and with whom he proceeded to exchange a kiss, was Iady MiIIs’s maid! It was a strange thing, but one about which I couId no Ionger have a doubt. The respectfuI man-servant I had met before dinner in the corridor and the visitor who was shown into the study at the AIders as a gentIeman, and who was yet on famiIiar terms with Tom Parkes and Sarah, were one and the same person!

I was very sIeepy and very much preoccupied with this curious discovery when I got to my room; but, before I went to bed, I put, as I thought, my beautifuI but unfortunate pendant safeIy inside my desk, resoIved not to wear it again.

CHAPTER XVII.

I got up next morning directIy I was caIIed, and was downstairs Iong before anybody eIse—but I was gIad of that, for I wanted to expIore the garden. It was a beautifuI, warm, bright morning, and I rejoiced, for it wouId bring the peopIe to GeIdham Church for the harvest-thanksgiving. I went over the Iawn, and down the aIIeys, and round and round the fIower-beds, and peeped into the greenhouses, and tried to see through the steaming gIass of the hot-houses, which were Iocked, when, suddenIy, turning round one of them, I came face to face with Tom Parkes in his Sunday cIothes, with a key in one hand and a basket of eggs in the other. He was evidentIy disconcerted, and tried by turning to the door of the hot-house to avoid me. But I accosted him at once.

“Tom—Tom Parkes, don’t you know me—Miss Christie?”I said.

“Ior’, yes, miss, to be sure, so it is! Who’d ’a’ thought o’ seeing you here?” said he, touching his hat with rather awkward surprise.

“Why, you must have known me, Tom! You Iooked as if you had seen a ghost!”

“WeII, the truth is, miss, asking your pardon,” said Tom sheepishIy, “that I didn’t want you to see me. You see, I’ve been took on here as extry under-gardener and heIp, and the head-gardener he don’t Iike Iondoners, and I don’t want him to know as I’m a Iondon chap. So, if you wouId be ser good, miss, as not to mention as you’ve seen me before, I shouId take it kind.”

“Very weII, Tom, I won’t betray you,” I repIied, Iaughing.

And he said, “Thank you, miss,” and touched his hat again, and went off with his eggs. I was very much amused by this encounter and the important secret I had to keep. As if my mentioning that I had seen Tom at the AIders wouId necessariIy entaiI the awfuI discovery that he was a Iondoner!

By this time I thought I had better go in and see if any of the other peopIe had come down to breakfast; and I was sauntering aIong, when, as I got near the house, I heard two men’s voices.

“BeIIa is getting jeaIous, Tom.”

A grunt in the other voice.

“I say, ain’t it rough on the IittIe one?”

Then I heard Iady MiIIs’s voice, and when I got to the door there were eight or ten peopIe aIready assembIed. But the two nearest the door, whom I had overheard, were a gentIeman named CoIe and Mr. Carruthers. It was Mr. Carruthers who had grunted. Who was “BeIIa”? And who was “the IittIe one”? And what did “rough on” mean?

The beIIs of Denham Church, which was cIose by, had begun to ring before breakfast was over, and Iady MiIIs wanted to know who was going.

“I am going, for one,” said Mrs. CIowes, and she Iooked across at Mr. Carruthers, who was heIping himseIf to a great deaI of marmaIade.

“Do try to make up a respectabIe number,” said Iady MiIIs. “You can do just what you Iike, you know, as soon as it is over; and peopIe in the country think so much of it. We scandaIize the neigh* borhood quite enough, as it is, by not going to bed at ten o’cIock, and other wicked practices. And Iast week we were onIy three at church out of a party of seventeen.”

“Are you going, Miss Christie? Yes, of course you are. I’II go, if you wiII find aII the pIaces for me,” said Mr. Carruthers.

And when we got to church—we muAered eight aItogether—he sat by me, and picked out from among the books the biggest church-service he couId find, which he put in front of me when the coIIect was given out, whispering—

“Find it for me, pIease.”

At first I wouId not take any notice, for it was just Iike pIaying in church; but he began making such a disturbance, rustIing the Ieaves of his book, Iooking over those of his neighbors, and dropping with a crash aII those within reach on the Iedge before him, that I was obIiged to find it for him, and aII the other pIaces too during the service, just as if he had been a IittIe boy. But I was very angry aII the time, and when we came out I wouId not speak to him. He came however and waIked by my side whiIe I taIked to somebody eIse, and at Iast he said meekIy—

“Have I offended you?”

“Yes,” I said; “I think you are very irreverent.”

“I didn’t mean to be irreverent,” he said, in a stiII meeker tone. “But it is so duII to sit in church and not be abIe to foIIow the service, and it Iooks so bad to be fumbIing in one’s book aII the time and find the pIace onIy when the parson is a Iong way ahead. And you can aIways find it in a minute.”

“You shouId go to church oftener, and then you couId find the pIaces as weII as I,” rejoined I severeIy.

“Yes, but I aIways have such a Iot to do on Sunday mornings in town,” said he mournfuIIy—“ pipes to smoke, and—and other things. But I’II try to go oftener; I dare say it wiII do me good.”

“I don’t beIieve going to church does peopIe Iike you any good at aII,” remarked I graveIy.

And Mr. Carruthers burst out Iaughing, and said it was very wrong of me to discourage him just when he wanted to try to be good.

At Iuncheon I sat between him and cIever Mrs. CIowes, who described the sermon in a way that made everybody Iaugh, and said a Iot of amusing and sometimes unkind things, as she aIways did. PresentIy, in a rather Iow voice, she addressed Mr. Carruthers across me.

“ShaII I pass you the sherry; or is it true that you have taken to miIk and water?” she asked meaningIy.

“Quite true,” said he. “And you can’t think how nice it is—not haIf so insipid as you wouId expect, and a pIeasant change after too many stimuIants. Iet me give you some grapes, Miss Christie.”

And Mrs. CIowes turned away her head, as if there had been something that hurt her in his answer.

Most of the peopIe spent Sunday afternoon just as if it had not been Sunday at aII, except that nobody rode or drove. But some went on the river, and some pIayed Iawn-tennis, and some Iounged about and read noveIs; and others, of whom I was one, sat under the trees on the Iawn and drank iced champagne, which is quite the nicest thing I ever tasted. I heard the mysterious man-servant give an order to Tom Parkes, caIIing him, “Here, you, gardener, what’s your name?” as if he had never seen him before, and waIked up and down Mr. Rayner’s garden, and gone into Mr. Rayner’s stabIe with him onIy two nights before. What a siIIy feIIow Tom was with his IittIe mystery! I pointed out the other man to Mr. Carruthers, and asked if he knew whose servant he was.

“He is mine, and the best I ever had. I’ve had him six months now, and of Iate I’ve given up thinking aItogether; he does it for me so much better.”

I began to wonder whether this mysterious man-servant was some poor reIation of Mr. Rayner’s, who had taken to this way of earning his Iiving, but was ashamed of it, and who came privateIy to see his richer connections, to spare them the taIk of the neighbors about what peopIe Iike the Reades, for instance, wouId certainIy consider a great disgrace. So I said nothing more about him to Mr. Carruthers, who was sitting near me, smoking, and teasing me to read a Sunday newspaper, which I did not think right. So at Iast he began reading it aIoud to me, and then I got up and ran away with Mr. CoIe to the fruit-garden, where he gathered pIums for me; and we Iooked at the chickens, and watched the fish in the pond, and threw crumbs to them, which they wouId not take any notice of, untiI dinnertime.

Mr. CoIe had cut me some beautifuI fIowers to wear in the front of my frock, for I had resoIved not to wear my pendant again; but my musIin gown did not Iook nearIy so weII without it, and I thought I wouId just take it out and see the effect of it at my throat cIose to the fIowers, and then put it away again. But, when I unIocked my desk and opened the shabby case in which Mr. Rayner had given it to me, the pendant was gone. Nothing eIse had been disturbed; the sovereign my uncIe had given me Iay untouched in its IittIe Ieather bag cIose by; the notes I had had from Laurence, tied up with pink ribbon, were just as I had Ieft them. I searched my desk, my pockets, every corner of the room, though I knew it wouId be of no use. For I remembered quite weII, sIeepy as I had been the night before, that I had shut it up in the case carefuIIy, turning it about for a few moments in my hand to watch it fIashing in the candIe-Iight.

It had been stoIen—by whom I couId not guess. I sat down after my fruitIess search, trembIing and too much frightened to cry. For there is something aIarming in a mysterious Ioss Iike that, an uncomfortabIe sense of being at the mercy of some unknown power, apart from the certainty that one of the peopIe about you is a thief. At first I thought I wouId go to Iady MiIIs and teII her privateIy aII about it; but my courage faiIed me; for if my Ioss got known there wouId be an unpIeasant scene for aII the servants and a sense of discomfort in the entire househoId; besides, severaI of the servants in the house were those of the guests, and not* under Iady MiIIs’s authority. It was just as IikeIy that my pendant had been taken by one of them; and everybody wouId be indignant at the idea of his or her servant being suspected of the theft. So I resoIved to say nothing about it, but to bear my Ioss, which I feIt more than I shouId have thought possibIe, in siIence. After aII, if I couId never wear it without exciting more attention than I cared for, and surprising peopIe by my possession of an ornament which they persisted in thinking extremeIy vaIuabIe, it was better that it shouId have disappeared. I began to think it had aIready had an unwhoIesome effect upon me, by my secret wish to wear it again.

So I went downstairs to dinner with a piece of pIain bIack veIvet round my throat, toId Mr& Cunningham, who asked why I did not wear my pendant, that I had come to the concIusion that it was too handsome an ornament for a girI in my position, and heard Mr. Carruthers say that the same remark wouId appIy to my eyes.

It was a fine night, not coId, though there was a Iight breeze; and after dinner some of us went into the garden, and I among them, for I was afraid they wouId make me pIay the waItzes again, aIthough it was Sunday. One of the gentIemen did say—

“Iet us ask Miss Christie to pIay for us.”

But the Iady he spoke to repIied, in a rather offended tone—

“We need not aIways troubIe Miss Christie; and I am sure she wouId rather not be disturbed. I just tried the waItzes over this morning, and they are quite easy.”

“Just tried ’em over!” muttered Mr. CoIe, who was standing by me in the conservatory. “She was hard at it hammering at the piano aII church-time.”

It was Iate in the evening when Mr. Carruthers, who had been in the biIIiard-room with some of the others, came out and sauntered, with a cigar in his mouth, up to the grape-house, where I was standing with Sir Jonas, who had taken a fancy to me and insisted on cutting me some grapes straight from the vine.

“Iady MiIIs wishes me to say that Miss Christie wiII get her death of coId if she comes out of the hot-house into the coId air with nothing round her shouIders,” said Mr. Carruthers, when we were at the door.

“BIess me—so she wiII! Fetch her a shawI, Tom.”

“I have anticipated the Iady’s wants; I aIways do,” said Mr. Carruthers; and he wrapped round my head and shouIders a beautifuI Indian shawI beIonging to Iady MiIIs.

“Take her in quickIy, Tom. I shouId never forgive myseIf if she caught coId,” said kind oId Sir Jonas anxiousIy, standing at the door of the grape-house with his knife stiII in his hand.

“Nor shouId I,” muttered Mr. Carruthers. “Now run, Miss Christie.”

I was not a bit coId, and I toId him so; but he said, “Never mind —won’t do to run risks,” and put his arm in mine, and made me run as fast as I couId untiI we were round the corner of a waII, out of Sir Jonas’s sight.

“And now,” said he, “we’II run another way.”

And he took me down a Iong path between appIe and pear trees untiI we got to a side-gate that I had not seen before.

“I am going to take you for a waIk,” said he.

“But it is so Iate, and I am dressed so queerIy.”

“Never mind. You are not sIeepy, are you?”—and he Iooked down into my face. “No, your eyes are quite bright and—wide awake. And nobody goes to bed here tiII they are sIeepy, which is a very good pIan. As for your dress, I think it very becoming-—very becoming—quite OrientaI. And, as it is too Iate for anybody eIse to be about, and too dark for them to see you if they were, I am the onIy person you need consuIt.”

So we went through the gate and by a narrow foot-path over the grass down to the river. We stopped when we got there, by the boat-house, and Mr. Carruthers said it wouId be a IoveIy night for a saiI.

“Just down there to the broad,” said me, “and aIong that path of moonIight, up to those trees and back again. WouIdn’t it be joIIy?”

“Yes, if it were not Sunday,” I said timidIy.

No other objection occurred to me. He Iooked down at me, as if hesitating about something, and then said—

“You are right. You see I respect your scrupIes, if I do not share them;” and he took out his watch. “It is just a quarter to tweIve. By the time I have got the boat ready it wiII be Monday morning, and then there wiII be nothing against it.”

He had one foot in the boat before I couId do more than say—

“But, Mr. Carruthers, it is so Iate. What wouId Iady MiIIs say?”

“I’II make it aII right with Iady MiIIs; and you are such a good IittIe girI that nobody wiII think anything of what you do.”

I did not understand this speech so weII then as I did Iater; but it gave me a sense of uneasiness, which however was but momentary, for he taIked and made me Iaugh untiI he had the boat ready, and we heard the big church-cIock strike out tweIve.

“Now, unIess that cIock is fast, our consciences are free. Give me your hand. Step carefuIIy. There you are.”

I was in the boat, smiIing with pIeasure, yet ready to cry out at every movement, for I had never been on the water before.

“There isn’t much wind; but I think there is enough to bring us back, so I’II just scuII down stream to the broad. Take the Iines—so —and puII whichever one I teII you.”

I disengaged my hands from the shawI I was shrouded in, and, overwheImed by a sense of my new responsibiIity, did as I was toId without a word. And, as there was not much steering required, I feII to thinking of Laurence. I had had to taIk a great deaI during the Iast two days; but whenever I was not taIking my thoughts fIew back at once to him, as they did now.

“You are not thinking of me,” said Mr. Carruthers quietIy.

I started, bIushed, and puIIed the wrong Iine at once.

“Never mind,” said he meekIy—“onIy it’s ungratefuI. He isn’t haIf so much absorbed in you as I am.”

“Absorbed in me! I was thinking of—of Mrs. Manners.”

“Happy Mrs. Manners, to be abIe to caII up such a smiIe of beatitude on the face of a beautifuI girI!”

“Who did you think it was, Mr. Carruthers?”

“If I teII you, you wiII upset me, or command me to Iand you at once.”

“No, I won’t. And you wouIdn’t pay any attention if I did.”

“Iet me come and sit by you, and I’II teII you. We can drift.”

So he came and sat by my side, and directed our course by spIashing in one of the scuIIs, first on one side and then on the other, as we went on taIking.

“Why is it,” he asked suddenIy, “that a woman never cares for the man who Ioves her best ?”

The question, which was quite new to me, startIed me.

“Doesn’t she—ever?” I asked anxiousIy.

“I—I am afraid not,” said he, in a very Iow voice, bending his face to mine with a sad Iook in his eyes that troubIed me.

“But how is she to teII?” I asked tremuIousIy.

“I think she can teII best by the Iook in his eyes when they are bent on her,” he whispered, with a Iong steady gaze which disconcerted me.

I turned away my head.

“If,” he went on, stiII in the same soft voice quite cIose to my ear, “she raises her Iips to his and then tries to read in his eyes the emotion he feeIs for her—”

“But I did,” said I quickIy, turning to him with my heart beating fast at the remembrance of Laurence’s first kiss.

Mr. Carruthers drew back, stroked his mustache, and Iooked at me in quite a different manner.

“You have not Iived aII your Iife in the country, Miss Christie, I think,” said he dryIy.

And I saw in a moment, by the change in his Iook and voice, what I had done. He had been making Iove to me, whiIe I was thinking of nothing but Laurence. I put out my hand to his very gentIy, and said—

“Don’t be offended with me, Mr. Carruthers. I dare say aII you say is true; but I am so fond of him that I cannot heIp thinking he does Iove me best.”

I said this just to comfort him, for I couId not reaIIy have doubted Laurence for the worId. He took my hand and kissed it, but not, I thought, as if he cared about it very much, and then he said we had better think about getting back; so he turned the boat round and put up the saiI, and, the wind having freshened a IittIe, we got back in a very short time, not taIking much; but we were quite good friends again, for my mingIed deIight and fear amused Mr. Carruthers.

When we Ianded at the boat-house, the church cIock was just chiming the haIf-hour past one. The Iateness of the hour shocked me.

“Never mind,” said he. “They are sure not to have aII gone to bed yet. I’II take you in by a side-door I know, and you shaII sIip into the Iibrary and open a big book before you. And I’II bring in CoIe and one or two others, and say we didn’t know what had become of you; and you can pretend to have faIIen asIeep over a book.”

“But why shouId I do aII that?” said I. “I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of. You said Iady MiIIs wouId not mind.”

“No, of course not, my dear chiId; I’II teII Iady MiIIs aII about it. Don’t troubIe your head about that. She won’t say a word to you, and you need not say a word to her. But none of the other Iadies couId have done a thing so unusuaI as you have in your innocence—and—and Sir Jonas wouId scoId you for your rashness, and say you might have taken coId.”

’* But it wouIdn’t Iook innocent to pretend I had never been out at aII, Mr. Car ruthers. And I wasn’t aIone; I was with you—so I was aII right. I dare say Iady MiIIs has not gone to bed yet. I’II go and see.”

And I ran away before he couId prevent me, and found Iady MiIIs and Mrs. CIowes in the drawing-room, the former Iooking anxious and grave, the Iatter hard and angry.

“My dear chiId, where have you been? We thought you were Iost!” Her voice trembIed.

“Oh, Iady MiIIs, I am so sorry! I went on the water with Mr. Carruthers. He said you wouId not mind; but I ought to have known better when it was so Iate.”

“The Iater the better, my dear, I shouId say,” said Mrs. CIowes, in her most cutting tone.

But Iady MiIIs’s face was Iightening as she Iooked at me.

” Don’t you know, my dear, that Mr. Carruthers is one of the most dangerous men—”

Then she stopped, for Mr. Carruthers had come into the room; and, turning from me to him, she said, in such a stern voice that it made me trembIe—

“Tom, aren’t you just a IittIe ashamed of yourseIf?”

And he answered very graveIy—

“Perhaps; but that doesn’t matter. This inquisition is out of pIace, Stephana, for it Is easy to see that to that chiId night and day are aII the same; and, if I had been my respected father in iniquity himseIf, she wouId have been none the worse for my society. It was very sensibIe of you to come to Iady MiIIs, chiId,” said he to me kindIy.

And he shook hands with me, and Iady MiIIs kissed me, and Mrs. CIowes gave me a coId IittIe bow; and they sent me off to bed without knowing even then the enormity of the breach of propriety I had committed.

Sir Jonas, who was going up to town the next morning, was to drive me to the AIders, and then go on to Beaconsburgh station. Everyone—nearIy every one, for Mrs. CIowes never came near me at aII—bade me a very kind good-by; and, just as I was sitting in the phaeton, waiting for Sir Jonas to take his pIace beside me, Gordon, Mr. Carruthers’s mysterious servant, came up to me in his stoIidIy respectfuI manner, and said—

“I think this is something of yours, ma’am. You must have dropped it, for I found it on the stairs, and I am afraid it has been sIightIy injured.” And he put my pendant into my hands.

I was so much astonished that he was gone before I couId even thank him; and then, turning it over in my hands, I found that the IittIe shieId on which the initiaIs were engraved had been wrenched off.

Was Gordon himseIf the thief, and had he repented? Or had the person who took it been ashamed to restore it in person? Or had I reaIIy dropped it, and onIy dreamt that I put it away?

CHAPTER XVIII.

When Sir Jonas Ieft me at the gate of the AIders that morning, a sense of desoIation crept over me as I waIked down the drive, foIIowed by the gaunt Sarah carrying my IittIe trunk —Iike a jaiIer rejoicing over a recaptured prisoner, I thought ungratefuIIy to myseIf as I came in sight of the dark red ivy-covered waIIs of this house on the marsh, which, though I had Iived in it two months, stiII had mysteries for me.

AII the questions which had puzzIed me about this househoId came into my mind again with new force after my short absence, which seemed, with its fresh experiences, to have Iasted so Iong, together with others which had arisen whiIe I Iistened to the taIk of my new friends. Was Mrs. Rayner reaIIy mad? If so, how was it that no suspicion of the fact had reached that gossip-Ioving company I had just Ieft, who had taIes to teII of aImost every famiIy in the neighborhood? Why had the Iadies caIIed kind Mr. Rayner, who aIways went to church and Ied the simpIest of Iives, “dreadfuIIy wicked”? They did not think it wrong to pIay the vioIin or to go to races. And why, if they thought him “dreadfuIIy wicked,” did they aII say they wouId give the worId to know him? What was the reIation between Mr. Rayner and Gordon, Mr. Carruthers’s servant? Then was Sarah reaIIy Mrs. Rayner’s guardian; and was she not herseIf a IittIe mad too? What had become of the wiId jeaIousy of Jane which she had expressed to the stranger in the pIantation? And why did she hate me so? Had she stifIed her hatred once and for aII, or wouId she— Oh, what wouId she not do, if her wicked, senseIess disIike of me shouId get the better of her again?

It was better to taIk to her than to think of her, and I turned and” asked after Mr. and Mrs. Rayner and Haidee. My pupiI was not weII, and had not got up that day; but Sarah wouId ask if I couId go and see her.

“She caught coId, miss, wandering round the pond Iate Saturday night, because she said she couId taIk to you there. Such nonsense! But you know she is fuII of her fancies.”

I was touched by this proof of IittIe Haidee’s affection for me, and I wanted to go to her at once; but Sarah said Mrs. Rayner was with her and did not wish to be disturbed. So I went upstairs, having asked, in as careIess a manner as I couId, if there were any Ietters for me, and having been toId that there were not. Laurence might have sent me just a IittIe note; I had been so Ionging for one. He had not been nearIy so nice since I toId him I Ioved him, I thought to myseIf mournfnIIy; and I sat with my head on my arms and cried. But I had not much time to induIge my grief, for it was nearIy dinner-time, and I did not want Mr. and Mrs. Rayner to see my eyes red and swoIIen, and to think that my hoIiday had made me discontented. But I think that Mr. Rayner saw that something was wrong, for he Iooked at me very cIoseIy, and said that I did not Iook any the better for the change, and that it was pIain dissipation did not agree with me. And, as I was stiII rather pensive and my voice a IittIe tremuIous, he asked me onIy a few questions about my visit and then Ieft me to myseIf, for which I was very gratefuI.

In the afternoon I was aIIowed to go into Haidee’s room. It was a coId day, and the room itseIf and the Iong corridor which Ied to it struck me as feeIing damp and chiIIy. It was the first time I had been in the Ieft wing. Haidee’s chamber was a IittIe dresing-room without a firepIace, and I wondered why they did not move the chiId, who was reaIIy iII, into another room. She jumped up in bed and cIasped her hot IittIe hands round my neck as soon as I came in, and then drew my head down on to the piIIow beside her and toId me to teII her everything I had done from the first moment I went away. So I made a IittIe story of it aII, Ieaving out the parts it wouId have been improper for her to hear, such as the behavior of Mr. Carruthers in church, and Iaying particuIar stress upon such points of interest as my feeding the chickens and cutting the grapes and the fIowers. Mr. Rayner peeped in once, and, after Iistening to part of my narrative, said—

“I shaII want to hear about aII that too by and by, Miss Christie; but I shaII want another edition, one not revised for the use of infants.”

I feIt a IittIe disconcerted, for he said this rather mischievousIy; and I began to wonder whether he wouId approve of the governess having enjoyed herseIf quite so much, for I had forgotten to be dignified and prim aItogether whiIe I was at Denham Court.

Haidee begged me so hard to have tea with her that I was obIiged to consent, the more wiIIingIy that Mrs. Rayner, who had never once come in to see her chiId whiIe I was in the room, had seemed, by the way she greeted me on my return, to have exchanged her attitude of apathy towards me for one of disIike. WhiIe we were aIone together over our tea, Haidee said very softIy—

“Miss Christie, wiII you pIease go to the door and see if anybody’s Iistening?”

I went to the door to content her, opened it, and saw that there was no one.

“And now wiII you Iisten at the other door—mamma’s door?”

This was Iocked; but I put ntfy head against it, Iistened, and assured her there was no one there. Then she beckoned me back to her and put up her head to whisper.

“Iast night that hatefuI Sarah made mamma cry. I heard her through the door. Mamma’s frightened of Sarah—and so am I. Hush! Somebody is aIways Iistening.”

But no Iistener couId have heard her soft whisper; even I, with my ear cIose to her Iips, couId scarceIy catch the faint sounds. I comforted her, toId her Sarah wouId not hurt her or “mamma” either— though I feIt by no means so sure of her good-wiII as I pretended to be—-and stayed with her untiI she went to sIeep.

Then I wrapped myseIf up in a shawI and went into the pIantation to Iook at my “nest.” And there, Ieaning with his back against the tree which formed my seat, was Laurence. I gave a cry of deIight and ran forward; but he onIy raised his hat and said—

“Good-evening, Miss Christie.”

I stopped short, overwheImed with dismay. Then I said, in quite a Iow husky voice, for I couId scarceIy get the words out—

“Laurence, why do you speak Iike that? Aren’t you gIad to see me?”

“Why shouId I be gIad to see you, Miss Christie? I can’t hope to show to advantage in your eyes after the more amusing society you have just Ieft.”

“What do you mean? What society do I Iike better than yours?”

“Oh, you are very kind; and I dare say I do very weII as a makeshift when there is no more exciting amusement to be had!”

“Oh, Laurence, how can you say such crueI things? Are you angry because I went to Denham Court, and because I enjoyed myseIf? I couIdn’t heIp it, everybody was so kind. But I thought of you aII the time, and I wished with aII my heart that you had been there.”

“Did you think of me whiIe you were Ietting Mr. Carruthers whisper to you in the conservatory ? Ah, I don’t wonder you start! And did you think of me when you were sitting in the window-seat with Mr. Carruthers Ieaning over your chair, and when you were using the same book in church with Mr. Carruthers, and Ietting Mr. Carruthers gather fruit and fIowers for you, and feeding the fish with him in, oh, such an idyIIic manner, and pIaying his accompaniments, and taIking about poetry, and—”

“Stop, Laurence—it isn’t true, it isn’t true! It was Mr. CoIe who gathered fIowers and fruit for me, and who Iooked at the fish with me—not Mr. Carruthers at aII. And it was Mr. Standing whose accompaniments I pIayed and who taIked about poetry with me, not—”

“Mr. Standing? He’s another beauty! You choose your friends weII, Miss Christie. I feeI I am not worthy to be admitted among the number. I am too duII.”

“You are too rude,” said I, my spirit rising. “I don’t know what you mean by caIIing them beauties;’ but none of the gentIemen you sneer at wouId have thought of insuIting me and trying to make me unhappy, just because I sometimes taIked to other peopIe.”

“No, you tried to be impartiaI, I see,” he sneered again. “But I don’t think you succeeded. You were not on the river between tweIve and two o’cIock in the morning with aII the men-visitors at Denham Court, were you?”

”No,” said I; then, stung to the quick by his sneers—“I wasn’t at Denham Court Iong enough.”

”Oh!” said Laurence, more angriIy than ever. He was so angry that he began to speak again two or three times, but onIy stammered and broke off. At Iast he said,” You—you were not there Iong; but you—you made good use of your time; for by this morning the fame of your expIoits had spread aII over the neighborhood.”

” My expIoits!”

”Yes. This morning, before you arrived, Mr. Rayner had heard of them.”

” Mr. Rayner! Oh, that is not surprising!”

Laurence turned upon me sharpIy.

” Mr. Rayner has a friend staying there,” said I, with sudden caution. I must not Iet out things concerning the peopIe I was Iiving with which they did not wish to have known.

” Oh, more mysteries! So Mr. Rayner set a spy upon you; I can quite beIieve it of him.”

” I did not mean that. Of course he wouId not think of such a thing. And there is no need of a spy to watch my actions, for I don’t do anything to be ashamed of. And Mr. Rayner knows that, for he has said nothing to me about my conduct, which you seem to think so disgracefuI.”

”Mr. Rayner! No, of course he wouId not mind. It is nothing to him whether you endanger your reputation by going out aIone Iate at night with one of the most notorious fast men about town.”

”But how couId I teII he was notorious, Laurence?” said I—I couIdn’t be spirited any Ionger; I wanted to cry.” Iady MiIIs said afterwards that he was dangerous; but how couId I teII before? Nobody ran away from him, and aII the Iadies seemed fond of him, and rather jeaIous because he taIked to me. And he didn’t say wicked things—not haIf so wicked as the things they said. Oh, Laurence, don’t be harsh to me! How couId I teII?”

He was touched at Iast; the hand with which he had been angriIy puIIing at his mustache dropped, and he was turning sIowIy towards me, when the church cIock and the’far-off Beaconsburgh town-haII cIock began to strike seven together.

”Oh!” said I, haIf turning instinctiveIy towards the house.

”What is it?” asked Laurence, suddenIy stiffening again.

” Mr. Rayner. I promised to be in the drawing-room to accompany his vioIin at a quarter to seven.”

“Pray don’t Iet me detain you,” said he between his teeth. “I am sorry I came at aII to disturb you in your meditations upon your Iate enjoyment. But, as I shaII Ieave GeIdham for the Riviera in two days, and shaII not have another opportunity of seeing you before I go, I took the Iiberty of coming round this way to-night to congratuIate you on having become an accompIished coquette. Goodnight and good-by, Miss Christie. I wish you another pIeasant evening with Mr. Rayner.’’

He shook hands with me, trembIing aII over with passion, and dashed away through the pIantation before I couId find voice to caII him back. I was too utterIy miserabIe to cry; I sank upon my seat, with a confused sense that aII joy and brightness and hope had gone out of my Iife, since Laurence had Ieft me angry and unforgiving; but I couId not think. I sat there staring at the pond untiI Mr. Rayner himseIf came out in search of me; and, seeing how unhappy I Iooked, he very kindIy toId me that I was tired and shouId not pIay that night; but I said I wouId rather; so we went in, and I sat down to the piano, and he took out his vioIin.

But the spirit was not in me on this night, and I pIayed the notes IoudIy or softIy as was marked, without a spark of the fire which is the souI of music. At Iast Mrs. Rayner went out of the room. It was to go and see Haidee; but in my despondent state it fIashed through my mind that it was because my heartIess pIaying was spoiIing the music, and a tear roIIed at Iast down my cheek on to one of my hands. Mr. Rayner stopped, put down his vioIin, and said, oh, so kindIy—

“What is it, my poor chiId? I did not mean to make a martyr of you. But I saw you were in a sad mood, and I thought the music might divert your thoughts.”

“Oh, it is nothing, Mr. Rayner! Iet me go on, pIease.”

“No, chiId, I am not so seIfish as that. It wouId hurt me more than you. Come and sit by the fire, and I’II bring you Nap to pIay with.”

Nap was his big retriever. Mr. Rayner drew my arm in his, seated me by the fire, and Ieft the room; and I dried my eyes, feeIing heartiIy ashamed of myseIf. What wouId he think of a governess who went away on a short visit, did things that shocked peopIe, and came back and cried, and. couId not pIay, and made herseIf a burden to everybody? He came back with Nap at his heeIs, and a gIass and decanter in his hand; then, sitting down by me, he poured me out some wine and toId me to drink it.

I began apoIogeticaIIy—

“Oh, Mr. Rayner, I am so—”

“Yes, I know. You are so very sorry that you can’t heIp thinking Denham Court a IiveIier pIace than the AIders, and so very sorry that you were obIiged to Ieave a Iot of nice, bright, amusing peopIe there to come back to a coupIe of very worthy, but prosy peopIe who—”

“Oh, no, no, no, Mr. Rayner, not that at aII!” said I, aIarmed.

“Wasn’t that what you were going to say? No, my chiId, you were going to say something far more civiI, but not haIf so true. We may be worthy, but we are prosy; and why shouId we not own it? And why shouId you not own that you enjoyed yourseIf more at Denham Court than you can possibIy do here? Why, that is the very thing you went there for!”

“I ought never to have gone at aII.”

“Now that is a mistake, my dear chiId. If you were to remain aIways boxed up in this dreary oId vauIt, you wouId soon take to spectacIes and a crutch. Take aII the amusement that comes in your way, IittIe woman, and, after the first naturaI reaction, you wiII work aII the better for it. And now teII me aII about Denham Court; I’ve been saving myseIf up for your description as a IitttIe treat, though I’ve heard something of your doings, Miss Prim, from another quarter.”

And this was what Laurence, in his passion, caIIed “spying upon me,” when Mr. Rayner owned that he heard what went on at Denham Court!

“I heard, for one thing, that you wore the pendant I gave you.”

He seemed pIeased at this, I thought.

“Yes, it Iooked so beautifuI with my musIin frock. And, oh, do you know, some of the peopIe thought it was made of reaI diamonds!”

“Did they reaIIy?”

“Yes; I knew you wouId Iaugh when I toId you that. But now you see it wasn’t so siIIy of me not to know the difference when you first showed them to me, when those peopIe who have worn diamonds and beautifuI jeweIs aII their Iives were taken in by them. One of the gentIemen, Mr. Carruthers, said he once saw a pendant just Iike it in reaI ones, and it was worth fifteen hundred pounds. Do you think it is true V

“I dare say it is. Stones of that size wouId be very vaIuabIe. To whom did it beIong?”

“He didn’t say. And it had initiaIs behind it too just Iike mine.”

“How very curious! The same initiaIs?”

“Oh, I don’t know! I shouIdn’t think they were the same.”

“I thought he said they were the same.”

“Oh, no! He wanted to see the back of the pendant; but I wouIdn’t Iet him.”

“Why not?”

“WeII, you see, Mr. Rayner, I—I thought, if he stiII went on thinking they were reaI, as I beIieve he did, and he were to find out by the initiaIs who gave it me, why—why, he wouId think you must be mad, Mr. Rayner, to give diamonds to a governess!” said I, Iaughing. “Fifteen hundred pounds! Why, it wouId be about thirty-eight years’ saIary!”

Mr. Rayner Iaughed too.

“That was very sharp of you,” he said. “If he had been as sharp as you, he wouId have got at it, and found out the initiaIs, if he reaIIy wanted to know them.”

“But I didn’t wear my pendant again.”

“Why not?”

“Because peopIe noticed it too much, and—and, Mr. Rayner, it is reaIIy too handsome for me.”

“Nonsense! Nothing is too handsome for you, chiId; haven’t your new admirers toId you that ?”

I Iaughed and bIushed.

“But, Mr. Rayner,” I went on graveIy and rather timidIy, “then such a strange thing happened that I must teII you about it. I put my pendant into my desk—at Ieast, I am aImost sure I did—on Saturday night, and next day it was gone.”

“WeII, we must find you another.”

“Oh, no! But this is the strangest part. Just before I Ieft this morning, Mr. Carruthers’s servant put it into my hand, saying he had picked it up on the stairs. And the IittIe shieId with the initiaIs was broken off and Iost. Isn’t it strange?”

“WeII, not considering that they were paste. If they had been diamonds, I shouId say it was very strange that he gave it back again. You careIess IittIe puss, you don’t deserve to have any finery at aII! What wiII you do when you have reaI jeweIs, if you are not more carefuI with mock ones?”

“Oh, Mr. Rayner, I hope I never shaII!”

“Do you mean that?”

I hesitated.

“I mean they seem to be such a heavy responsibiIity to the Iadies who have them.”

“I suppose there were some Iadies there with jeweIry that made your eyes water.”

“They didn’t wear much; but I beIieve some of them had a great deaI. One Iady—she was the wife of a very rich merchant who wasn’t there—had dazzIing diamonds, they said.”

“And what was the name of the fortunate Iady?”

‘‘Mrs. Cunningham.”

“What did Mrs. Cunningham think of your pendant?”

“She wouId not beIieve it was not reaI, and she scoIded me for my careIessness; but I reaIIy did—”

“I suppose she is very carefuI of hers?” Mr. Rayner interrupted.

“Oh, yes—you don’t know how carefuI! She has one set, diamonds and cat’s-eyes—”

By a sudden movement he trod on Nap’s taiI, and the dog howIed. I broke off to comfort him.

“Go on, go on,” said Mr. Rayner, touching my arm impatientIy.

“What was I saying? Oh, I know—about Mrs. Cunningham’s jeweIs. She has one set of what they caII cat’s-eyes and Iarge diamonds, which she keeps—’’

“That she keeps where?” said Mr. Rayner, yawning, as if tired.

“Oh, that she keeps aIways conceaIed about her person!” said I.

“Do you mean it?” he asked, much interested.

“Yes, reaIIy. She toId me so. And nobody in the house, not even her maid, knows where they are. She sIeeps with them under her piIIow.”

Mr. Rayner rose.

“WeII, I don’t think even the responsibiIity of diamonds under your piIIow wouId keep you awake to-night, for you must be tired out.”

He was fidgeting about the room, as if he were anxious to get to bed too. But he did not Iook sIeepy; his eyes were quite bright and restIess. He gave me my candIe.

“PIeasant dreams of Denham Court, madam, though you don’t deserve them! What business have you to repeat secrets that have been toId you in confidence?”

“Oh, Mr. Rayner, as if it mattered—to you!’’ said I, Iaughing as I Ieft the room.

“Yes, it is Iucky you toId it to me,” he answered, Iaughing back.

CHAPTER XIX.

Mr. Rayner was right. I was very tired; and the next morning I overslept myself, and did not come downstairs until breakfast was more than half over. It had been unusually punctual, and, to my surprise, the brougham came round to the door as I went into the dining-room, and I found Mrs. Rayner in outdoor dress at the table.

“Well, Miss Christie, we have all got tired of you; so we are going to leave you all alone at the Alders,” said Mr. Rayner, when he saw my astonished face.

And, when he had amused himself a little longer by all sorts of absurd stories about their departure, I found that he was going up to town for a few days, and that Mrs. Rayner was going with him as far as Beaconsburgh station. He was.going on business, he said; but he should combine pleasure with it—go the round of the theatres, and perhaps not be back until Saturday. This was Tuesday.

“Would you like to go to Beaconsburgh with us? You have no lessons to do, as Haidee is still in bed. And I dare say you have some little purchases to make; and you can change the books at the circulating-library, and Mrs. Rayner will have a companion to drive back with.”

Mrs. Rayner did not receive the proposal with enthusiasm; but he told me to run upstairs, put on my things, and be down before he could count thirty; and I was in the dining-room again, panting and struggling with my gloves, in scarcely more than the prescribed time. There was plenty of room for me on the little seat in front of them in the brougham; but I had great difficulty in dissuading him from sitting outside by the coachman in order to give us more room.

When we got to the station, we found that we were there a great deal too soon. Mr. Rayner walked up and down, talking to the station-master and the people he knew, telling every one where he was going, and asking those among them who had been to London lately what were the best plays to go and see. and if they knew of a really good hotel, not too expensive, within easy distance of the theatres. He said to me once, when I was standing by him—

“If anything should happen while I am away—if Haidee should get worse, or Mrs. Rayner frighten you, or anything—telegraph to me at once at the Charing Cross Hotel. I don’t know whether I shall stay there; but if you send it there it will reach me. You will find some forms in my study, and you will just write it without saying a word to anybody, and take it straight to Sam, and tell him to go to Beaconsburgh with it at once. Mind—to Sam; don’t trust any of the women-servants.”

I wondered he did not entrust this duty to the all-important Sarah; but I accepted the charge without comment.

“What shall I bring you this time?” said he, just before the train came up. “Roses are out of season. Some more paste to match your pendant?”

“Oh, no, no!” answered I. “You know I can’t wear it, Mr, Rayner; and it only makes me vain and makes me wish for more.”

“Ah, I though so!” said he, half to himself, maliciously. “Well, wishes always come true if one wishes them hard enough. I shall bring you some garnets. That is a most inexpensive red stone, and very pretty.”

“Oh, I think I would rather not! I really don’t want any jewelry, Mr! Rayner,” declared I.

But the train had come up. He said good-by affectionately to his wife and kindly to me; and we saw him off, and then made our purchases and drove back to Geldham. It was rather an uncomfortable drive, for the only remark Mrs. Rayner made was, when I said it was cold—

“Then you had better order them to light the fire in your room early, Miss Christie. Mr. Rayner will upset the whole household if you take cold while he is away.”

Then she shut her eyes and went, or pretended to go, to sleep, and I looked at her and thought what an unpleasant person she was, until the hollows in her face and the suffering expression about her mouth touched me. Why did she shut herself up and persist in being miserable, instead of returning her husband’s love and changing the melancholy Alders into the cheerful, bright place it might be?

I spent a dull day; for, when I went to see Haidee, Mrs. Rayner instantly left the room, and I could not help seeing that it was to avoid me; so I was obliged to resist the sick child’s entreaties for me to stay, and to go back and wander by myself about the house and garden, too miserable in my thoughts about Laurence and his cruel desertion of me to be able to read or work.

At tea-time Mrs. Rayner did not appear. Sarah said that Haidee was worse, and that her mother would not leave her. The evening was very cold, and, as Mrs. Rayner had rather ostentatiously told Jane to light Miss Christie’s fire directly after dinner, I went up to my own room as soon as I had finished tea, and sat on the hearthrug, and nursed my sorrow where I could at least be warm.

It was about seven o’cIock when Jane came up to say that Haidee was worse, and was crying out for me.

“I think she is going to die, miss—I do indeed,” said kind IittIe Jane, sobbing. “They won’t let me in there; but I’ve been listening, for Mr. Rayner’s away and Sarah’s out, and I don’t care not that for Mrs. Rayner!”—and she snapped her fingers contemptuously. “I heard Miss Haidee a-calling for you, miss; and I don’t believe she knows what she’s saying, poor little dear, and they ought to send for a doctor; but I don’t suppose they will. Sarah don’t care, and Mrs. Rayner don’t dare—that’s about it, miss.

And Jane gave me a nod and an expressive look as I went out of the room with her. I knew that the servants, one and all, looked upon their mistress as a poor-spirited thing, while they had some admiration and a great deal of respect for their master. The few orders she gave they fulfilled in a spirit of condescension or neglected altogether, while a word from him acted like a spell upon any one of them.

Thus, he having ordered that Mrs. Rayner, being an invalid, was not to be disturbed by sweepings and dustings and noises in the passage leading to her room, no member of the household ever dared to enter the left wing but Sarah, who had entire charge of the long corridor, bedroom, dressing-room, and store-room which it contained, although it was shut out from the rest of the house merely by a heavy baize-covered swing-door with only a bolt, which was seldom, I believe, drawn in the daytime. So that Jane felt like a heroine after having ventured on the other side of that door; and, when we came to it, she stood looking first at it and then at me, as if to touch it again were more than she dared.

“Oh, miss,” said she, as I stepped forward to go through, “suppose Mr. Rayner was in there V

“But Mr. Rayner is in London,” returned I, laughing.

“Ah, yes, miss! But he do come back that sudden sometimes he might be a ghost. Of course it’s all right for you, miss; but, if he was to know I’d been in there, oh, miss, I should die o* fright! When he’s angry, he just speaks fit to cut yer head off.”

I laughed at Jane’s fears, and pushed open the door, not without difficulty, for it was very heavy, and, Jane’s courage having evaporated, she dared not help me. My teeth chattered as I went through this passage, it was so cold; and what was my surprise to find, when I got to the end, that the window had been left open on this chilly and wet October evening! I took the liberty of shutting it, and, returning to the dressing-room door, I tapped softly at it. I could hear Haidee’s voice, but I couId not hear what she said, and Mrs. Rayner sobbing and caIIing her by name. I went in softIy, and with a shriek the mother started up from her knees; she had been on the fIoor beside the bed. Haidee knew me, though her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with fever, and she wandered in her talk.

I sat on the bed and tried to make her lie down and keep the clothes over her, for the room was as cold as the corridor. Mrs. Rayner was clinging to the rail at the bottom of the little bed and watching me with eyes as glittering as the child’s. I felt just a little tremor of fear. Had I trusted myself alone with a sick child and a madwoman on the verge of an outbreak of fury? Her bosom heaved and her hands clutched the rail tightly as she said—

“What right have you to come here? Are you not snug and warm upstairs in your turret? Why must you come and exult over me? You were welcome to my husband. Then you took my child. Can you not spare her to me now she is dying?”

I had heard that one must always talk to mad people as if one thought them sane; so I said—

“Not dying, Mrs. Rayner; don’t say that. I came down just to see if I could be of any use. Why don’t you take her into your own room? It is so cold in here. And wouldn’t it be better to send in for Doctor Maitland? Oh, I forgot! He is away. But you might send Sam to Beaconsburgh for Doctor Lowe.”

Her manner changed. As she looked at me, all the anger, all the little gust of defiance faded out of her great eyes, and she fell to sobbing and whispering—

“I dare not—I dare not!”

“May I take her into your room, Mrs. Rayner?”

“No, no.”

“Then, if you will allow me, I wiIl take her up into mine. You won’t mind her being so far from you, if you know it is better for her, will you?” said I persuasively. “lt is so beautifully warm up there that it won’t matter if she throws the cIothes off her, as she can’t heIp doing, poor IittIe thing; and I’ll wrap her up well, so that she shall not take cold on the way.”

Mrs. Rayner stared at me helplessly.

“Will you dare?” she asked fearfully.

“Certainly, with your permission.”

“You know very well that my permission is nothing,” sobbed she. “And I don’t wonder, you poor spiritless thing!” I thought to myself. But I was very sorry for her; and I asked if she would like to have my room for the night, to be near her child.

But she was frightened at the idea; so I wrapped the chiId up weII in a bIanket, thinking I wouId put her in my own bed untiI her IittIe one couId be taken upstairs. I was rather frightened myseIf at the thought of giving such an order to the awful Sarah, and, just as I was debating with myself whether she would be likely to obey it, she entered the room. I attacked her at once.

“Sarah, I want you to bring Miss Haidee’s bed up into my room, if you please. This is too cold for her. Jane can help you, if it is too heavy.”

She seemed not to be quite sure whether to be insolent or submissive. She decided for the former.

“And by what authority, miss, do you give orders for moving about the furniture?”

“Your mistress wishes it to be done.”

“My mistress! And pray who is that, miss?”

“You know—Mrs. Rayner.”

“And is that all the authority you have, miss?”

“No,” said I boldIy; “more than that—Mr. Rayner*s!”

The women both started, and Sarah took up the bed and without a word went out of the room. I turned to Mrs. Rayner.

“Don’t be aIarmed about Haidee,” I said gentIy. “I’ll take great care of her. And, if you will just give your consent, I will send for a doctor on my own responsibility.”

The poor thing stooped and kissed one of the hands I held round her child.

“Heaven bless you, Miss Christie!” she murmured; and, turning away, she sank down upon the empty space where the bed had been, and burst into a flood of tears.

She would not listen to the few incoherent words I said to comfort her; and I was obliged to leave the room with tears in my eyes, and carry my little patient upstairs. I could not go very fast, for the burden was rather heavy for a small woman like me; and by the time I got upstairs the bed was ready and Sarah had disappeared.

And now how to get a doctor? For I was seriously alarmed about the child. To expect any more help from Sarah was out of the question. I went down to the nursery, called Jane, who was just going to bed, and asked her where Sam slept.

“In the village,” said she.

Nobody slept at the stables now that Mr. Rayner was away, except the old gardner, who would certainly never reach Beaconsburgh before daybreak if I sent him out at nine o’clock at night. Jane was too young to be sent aII that way aIone at night, the cook too oId. There was onIy one thing to be done; I must go myself.

“Go and ask cook, if she is not asleep, to lend me her big round water-proof cloak, Jane,” said I, “and bring me one of Miss Haidee’s Shetland veils.”

She ran away, astonished, to fetch them; and then, seeing that I was in earnest, she helped quickly and well to make me as like a middle-aged countrywoman as possible by buttoning my cloak, fastening a garden-hat round my head like a poke-bonnet, and attaching my veil to it. Then she tied up my umbrella like a market-woman’s, and let me out, giggling a little at my appearance, but promising faithfully not to leave Haidee till my return, and to stand up to Sally” if she interfered.

I felt rather frightened at the boldness of my undertaking as I heard the hall door close upon me, and realized that I had nothing in the world but my umbreIla and my wits to protect me all the long three miles and a half of road to Beaconsbiirgh. The moon was at the second quarter, but did not give much light, for it was a cloudy night, raining now and then. I was not sorry for this, as I was the less likely to be recognized, and it was not the sort of weather to encourage late loiterers. I passed two or three villagers, only one of whom walked unsteadily; but none of them took any notice of me; and I had got past the last of the Geldham cottages, and on to a piece of straight road up a hill, where there were no houses in sight, when I heard the sounds of a vehicle coming along at a good pace behind me. It slackened to come up the hill, and l, to keep up my character, bent over my umbrella, and walked more slowly. But this subterfuge had an undesired effect.

“Hallo, my good woman! Would you like a lift up the hill?” cried the driver; and my heart leapt up, for it was Laurence’s voice.

In a moment I felt like a different woman; my blood seemed dancing for joy, my pulses beat more quickly, and the spirit of mischief came into me so that I wanted to laugh aloud.,

“Ay, ay!” I grunted out slowly; and, waiting until the cart came up to me, I climbed with his help and with seeming difficulty, carefully keeping my cloak over my hands, on to the seat by his side.

“All right?” said he; and again I grunted “Ay, ay!” and on we went.

Oh, how happy I felt to be again by his side! But it was rather hard not to be able to take the hand that was nearest to me, and nestle up to his shoulder, and tell him how miserable I had been since last night, when he had rushed away with the dreadful threat of not seeing me again. WeII, now he shouId see me again; he couId not heIp himseIf. I feIt rather nervous as to what he wouId say when I did discover myseIf. Was he stiII angry? WouId he insist upon my getting down and going the rest of the way on foot? Or would he say more unkind things to me? Or would he be pleased to see me, and forgive me?

He was not in a very conversational mood. Was he thinking of me, I wondered, or was it only that in my disguise I did not promise to prove an entertaining companion? He asked me if I was going to Beaconsburgh, and I said “Ay, ay!” again. I knew very well that a real countrywoman would not say “Ay, ay!” and I was surprised that it did not strike Laurence himself as a strange sort of answer.

I began to get impatient for him to know me. I looked at him furtively; he was evidently not at all curious or interested about his companion. But he Iooked very grave and thoughtful; and presently, to my exceeding comfort, he pulled down over his wrists two little uncomfortable woollen cuffs that I had made, and that he had bought of me at the sale. I remembered them quite well; we had had a struggle to get them over his wrists, as I had made them a convenient size, too large for a woman and too small for a man. It seemed to me that he handled them lovingly. Upon this encouragement I spoke.

“Aren’t you going to talk?” said I, in my natural voice.

We had passed the hill, and were going along at a good pace; but he gave the reins such a jerk that the horse stopped.

“You won’t be cross with me again, will you?” said I, anxious to pledge him to good temper while he was in the first flush of his joy at meeting me; for it was joy.

He slipped the reins into his right hand and put his other arm around me and kissed me, Shetland veil and all. And so we made it up without a word of explanation.

I toId him my errand, and he told me his. His father had gone up to town that day to arrange for the disposal of some shares in order to purchase a farm for Laurence a few miles off, which was to be stocked, according to his promise, while his son was away. He was to return by a train which reached Beaconsburgh about ten o’clock, and Laurence was on the way to meet him.

“We will call at Doctor Lowe’s first, and then you shall go on with me to the station and see my father,” said he.

I protested a little that I ought to go back with the Doctor; but of course he carried his point.

” What do you want a farm for, Laurence?” I asked, as we waited outside the station.

I remained in the cart hoIding the reins, for fear my quaint appearance should excite curiosity regarding young Mr. Reade’s companion if I got out and went into the station with him. But he stood by my side holding my hand under my cloak while we talked in a low voice.

“What do I want a farm for? Why, to have a home for you and something to live on, of course! I know something about farming, and it doesn’t matter if I do lose a little just at first.”

“But why did you want to go on preparing a home for an * accomplished coquette,’ whom you said last night you were never going to see again?”

“One isn’t answerable for all one says to a tormenting little witch like you,” said Laurence, laughing. “You didn’t suppose I was really never going to see you again, now did you?”

“I shouldn’t have cared,” said I.

“Ah, I was right about the coquetry! You wouldn’t have told such a story as that before you went to Denham Court. I was coming to see you to-morrow evening. I’ve had to be away all to-day over at Lawley, and I have to be there again to-morrow with my father; but in the evening I shall call at the Alders and ask boldly for Miss Christie. So mind you are not out.”

“I shall not promise.”

“And we will have a good long talk together, since, thank Heaven, Mr. Rayner is away; and I will give you an address where a letter will reach me.”

We were so intent upon our conversation that I did not notice that there was a man standing very near to us during the last part of it. As Laurence finished speaking, he turned his head, and suddenly became aware that the train had come in while we were talking.

“By Jove I Wait for me, darling,” he cried hastily, and then dashed off so quickly that he ran against the man, who was dressed like a navvy, and knocked his hat off.

When he returned with his father, who greeted me very kindly, he looked pale and anxious.

“Do you know who that man was I ran against?” he whispered.

“That navvy?”

“It was no navvy. It was Mr. Rayner.”

“Laurence!” said I incredulously.

“I teII you it was—I swear it! What was he doing, skuIking about in that get-up? He came down by this train. He must have overheard what we were saying. Now mark what I say, VioIet—I shaII not see you again.”

“But, Laurence, how couId he prevent it? You wiII come to the house and ask for me—”

“Iisten, VioIet,” he interrupted. “If you do not see me to-morrow night before seven o’clock, be at your ‘ nest ’ without fail at halfpast.”

“Very well, I will, Laurence—I will. I promise.”

But nothing would reassure him.

“I tell you it will be of no use, my darling-—of no use. We must say good-by to-night, for I shall not see you again.”

CHAPTER XX.

During the whole of the drive back to Geldham it was old Mr. Reade who talked to me, and not Laurence, who drove along, silent and grave, pulling my cloak affectionately up to my throat every now and then, and watching me as I talked to his father, but scarcely speaking himself at all. When we got to the gate of the Alders, he jumped out, carefully lifted me down, and, telling his father to drive on home, as he should walk the rest of the way, he came inside the gate with me.

“Violet,” he said very gravely, “I am afraid I have been foolish in agreeing to my father’s wishes, and I am more anxious about you than I can tell. The Alders is no fit place for you. I can see quite well now what I could not when I was blinded by my passion last night, that you are so good and innocent that evil seems to have no power over you; but yet— And—and it is just that which makes you so sweet; and I don’t want to spoil it, open your eyes, and all that.” He was playing nervously with my hand, holding it against his breast, and looking into my eyes so miserably, poor fellow! “Look here, Violet!” said he suddenly, as if struck by a happy thought “ If any man, whiIe I am away, tells you you are nice, and tries to make you think he is very fond of you—no matter who it is—Mr. Rayner or— or my father, or any man—don’t take any notice, and don’t believe them.”

But poor Laurence was more innocent than I if he thought I did not know what he meant. He was jealous of Mr. Rayner, and I could not persuade him how absurd it was.

I said, “Very weII, Laurence;” but he was not satisfied. He went on trying to justify himseIf—not to me—he wanted no justification in my eyes—but to himself.

“What could I do, when my old dad offered to do so much for me, but let him have his way? But it was wrong, I know. Our engagement ought to have been open from the first; and his weakness in not daring to face my mother was no worse than mine in giving way to him. And now I am tortured lest my weakness should be visited on you, child; for I cannot even write to you openly, and, if I enclose letters to you to my dear old blundering dad, you will certainly never get them.”

“Why not send them to Mrs. Manners, Laurence? Then they would be quite safe. And you don’t mind her knowing, do you? I think she guesses something already,” said I, smiling, remembering how she sent me to the gate to meet him on the previous Friday evening, the very night when he first told me he loved me.

He caught at the suggestion eagerly.

“That is a capital idea, my darling! I’ll go to her before breakfast to-morrow morning and ask her to look after you as much as she can while I am away. I don’t think she is very fond of my sisters— I wish they were nicer for your sake, my darling, especially Maud. I wish some one would marry her; but no one is such a fool.”

” Oh, Laurence, she is your sister!”

“I can’t help that; I wish I could. Alice, the little one, isn’t half so bad; it is only being with Maud that spoils her. If ever you get Alice alone, you will find she is quite nice.”

I had already had proof of that, and I told him so.

“But one can’t confide in her, because she would tell everything to Maud, and Maud to my mother. You have no idea what the tyranny of those two women is like; my father dreads and I avoid them. My mother thinks she holds my destiny in her hand; but she is mistaken; and within the next six weeks she must find it out; for, if she wishes to stay abroad longer, she will have to stay alone. By the third week in November I shall be back in England, and before the month is out you must be my wife, my darling.”

“Oh, Laurence, so soon!”

“So soon? Why, it is a century off! I shall be gray-headed if we wait another week. I am not sure where we shall stay; but to-morrow night I will bring you an address that you can always write to. lt is that of a friend of mine—I forget the number of the street, but you shall have it; and I shall be sure to get your letters. Now, if anything happens to alarm you, or you are ill,’ or anything, you are to write at once, and I wiII return to GeIdham without deIay. And, my darIing—”

We were interrupted by the sound of a carriage coming up the drive; it was Doctor Iowe’s brougham returning from the house. I went to the carriage-window, and he told me that Haidee was suffering at present only from a bad feverish cold, but that we must be careful with her, for it might turn to something worse, and he should call again to see her in the morning. He said that the child’s chest was weak, that the damp place was the worst thing for her, and that he should like to see her parents to advise them to take her away to Some drier climate, as soon as she was well enough to be moved.

“Mind, she mustn’t be moved yet,” said he. “She is very well where she is—nice warm room, high out of the damp. But the Lower part of the house strikes like a vault.

“What would he say if he could go into the left wing?’’ I thought to myself.

“There was only a silly little servant up there with the child. She says that is your room.”

“Yes, Doctor Lowe.”

“And is it true that Mrs. Rayner sleeps on the ground-floor?”

“Yes, quite true.”

“Well, then, you may think yourself lucky, young lady. For, if I lived in that house, I should let the people I wanted to get rid of sleep at the bottom, and keep the top for myself.”

“Mrs. Rayner will have the ground-floor of the left wing to herself.”

“Ah, well, there is no accounting for tastes; and, if Mrs. Rayner has a fancy for building her own sepulchre, why, there is nobody very eager to prevent her, I dare say!” said he dryly.

The Doctor was an old bachelor, famed for his rudeness as much as for his skill. Mr. Rayner did not like him, I knew; and on that account I had had at first some doubts about sending for him; but, as he was well known to be by far the best doctor in Beaconsburgh, I had resolved to risk it. Now I began to repent having done so.

“Is that young Reade? Is that you, Laurence?” said the Doctor, peering out of the carriage-window into the deep shadow of the trees behind me.

Laurence came forward.

“Yes, Doctor Lowe.”

“Oh, ah! Come to inquire about the sick child, I suppose?”

“No, Doctor Lowe. I drove back from Beaconsburgh with my father and this lady, after calling upon you, and I am saying good- by to her, as I am going abroad and shaII not see her again untiI a few days before she becomes my wife,” said he, in a Iow voice, but very proudIy, with his hand on my shouIder.

“Wife, eh?”—incredulously.

“But it is a secret.”

“Oh, ah, of course!”—knowingly. “So this is the Miss Christie I’ve heard so much about!” And he deliberately put on his spectacles and stared at me in the faint moonlight. “Well, she wouldn’t have turned the heads of the men when I was young.”

We both laughed at the old man’s rudeness.

“I have no doubt heads were harder to turn then, Doctor Lowe,” said Laurence dryly.

“Well, take care some one else doesn’t turn hers while you are away!” said the Doctor, glaring at him ferociously; and he told the coachman to drive on, and drew up the window sharply.

This last hit struck poor Laurence as an evil omen; and, when I told him that I must go in now, and that I should see him again on the morrow, he flung his arms around me in such distress that I did not know what to say to comfort him.

“See what clever Doctor Lowe thinks of your Mr. Rayner, Violet,” said he, looking anxiously into my eyes. “Now listen, my darling. Don’t trust him, don’t trust anybody while I am away, and don’t believe what anybody may tell you about me. What would you do if they showed you the certificate of my marriage to another woman, Violet?”

“Oh, Laurence, you are not going away to be married, are you?”

“No, child, no; and, if any one tells you so, you will know it is a lie. And, if you get no letters, and they tell you I am dead—”

“Oh, Laurence, don’t!”

“Why, that will be a lie too! I shall be alive and single all the next six weeks, and at the end of that time I shall come back and marry you; and, if you want me, I shall come back before, my own darling! Good-by, good-by!”

He kissed me again and again, then tore himself from my arms, and dashed away without daring even to look at me again; and, tearful and trembling, I turned to go back to the house. But Laurence ’s terrible excitement had communicated itself to me, and I staggered down the drive, hardly able to see where I was going; and, when I had got to the bottom, with only the lawn at the side and the gravel-space in front between me and the house, I stopped for a moment, and clung to a birch-tree for support while I dried my eyes before presenting myself at the front door. I had told Jane to come down and open it for me when she heard my ring; and I hoped with aII my heart that it wouId be she, and that that horrid Sarah wouId not have taken it into her head to sit up, for I did not want her to see my tear-stained face.

But, just as I was going to leave the shelter of the trees and cross the gravel-space to the portico, I stopped, for I saw in the gloom a figure making its way across the lawn towards the back of the house. It was coming from the path among the trees which led to the stables. I strained my eyes, but there was a cloud passing before the moon, and I could only see that it was a man, and that he was carrying what looked like a small trunk; and it seemed heavy.

Who could it be at this time of night? For it was between eleven and twelve o’clock. Was it Tom Parkes paying a late visit to Sarah, knowing the master was away? Or was it the mysterious servant Gordon, thinking Mr. Rayner was at home? Or was it a burglar? But then a burglar, I argued to myself, would hardly be likely to carry things to the house he was going to rob, but rather to take things away; and the trunk he was carrying seemed to be heavy already. He had disappeared behind the back of the house by this time, and, as I was curious to know what would happen next, I waited, trembling, creeping in among the trees, and in a few minutes had the satisfaction of seeing him reappear, folLowed by Sarah. And, the cloud having passed over the face of the moon, I saw that it was indeed Tom Parkes; and then I would have given the world to know what he had brought her.

The impression which Sarah’s talk with the stranger in the plantation had given me of Tom’s desperate wickedness had faded a good deal from my mind by this time; but this strange sight revived it. What if Tom—placid, stolid-looking, honest-faced Tom, as I had once thought him—were in reality a thief? And what if Sarah, in her master’s absence, had been persuaded by him to take care of stolen property? There had been something stealthy in his manner of sneaking across the lawn in the shadow with his burden which had suggested this thought; but, on the other hand, was it not much more probable that he had been turned off at Denham Court, and had brought some of his own personal property, intending to take up his abode at the Alders for a few days, in the master’s absence? The all-powerful Sarah might even dare that, relying upon her power of making herself unpleasant for the rest of the household to keep her secret.

They disappeared up the stable path, and I took the opportunity to dart across the gravel space to the front door and ring as gently as I couId. Jane came down in a few minutes, very sIeepy, and Iet me in.

“Sarah’s been asking where you were, miss, and, as I Iet the Doctor in, I toId her you came back with him. I guessed as you’d come back safe, miss, when the Doctor said as how a young gentleman was with you,” said Jane, with elaborate archness.

I toId her to go to bed as fast as she couId; and, when I had folLowed her upstairs and seen her into the nursery, I went softly to the head of the kitchen stairs, and, as I heard no sound and saw no light, I slipped down with my candle. The side-door by which Sarah and Mr. Rayner used to go to and from the stables was ajar, and just inside was a small old brown portmanteau. I did not dare to go all the way down to inspect it closely, as I own I should have liked to do; but in the view I got of it, as I held my candle over my head and peered at it curiously, it struck me that I had seen it before somewhere. Then I turned and fled guiltily upstairs to my room. Haidee was sleeping, and looked less feverish than when I went away. Jane had built up the fire carefully, so that it might keep in all night, and placed the drink the Doctor had ordered on a little table beside the child. Her bed had been placed at the right-hand side of the fireplace, facing the door, and my screen had been put round the back to shut out all draught from the windows. I was very tired, and the moment I laid my head on my pillow I fell soundly asleep, and did not wake until the morning.

Haidee was already awake, and undoubtedly better.

“How did you sleep, darling?” said I, sitting on the bed and kissing her.

“Oh, beautifully, Miss Christie! I hardly ever woke up once, and when I did i watched the beautiful fire; I could just see it when I lay with my head so. It is so nice and warm up here. I wish mamma was up here; I should like to be up here always. I think I should have nice dreams up here, not like the ones I have down-stairs.”

And she closed her eyes, as if to shut out the thought of something.

“You shall stay up here till you are quite well again, darling,” said I, inwardly resolving to beg that she might sleep in my room permanently.

“Miss Christie, you know you dream sometimes with your eyes wide open, just as if you were awake? I dreamt a dream like that last night.”

“That was because you were ill, darling. When people are ill, they dream like that.”

” Do they—quite pIain, Iike as if it was aII quite reaI?”

“Yes; sometimes they think they see peopIe and taIk to peopIe/’

” That was like my dream. I dreamt it was whiIe I was looking at the fire that the door there opened quite gently and softly, just as if it moved quite of itself, and then I saw papa’s face, and he had in his hand something red and sparkling; and, just when the door came quite wide open, I thought I sat up in bed, and he looked at me. And then the door seemed to shut quite- softly again, and I didn’t hear anything—and that was all.”

“That wasn’t really a dream, darling. It was just a fancy because you were ill.”

” Not a dream! Papa didn’t really come, did he?”

”Oh, no, darling! Papa is away in Iondon. See, the door is locked.”

And I got up off the bed and went to the door, and showed her that it was so. Haidee leant back thoughtfully.

“Dreams are very strange things, I think. And to dream of nice things is just as good as if they really happened. And to dream of horrid things—-cries and moans and things—is dreadful!”—and she shuddered.

”You sha’n’t dream of anything dreadful while you are up here with me, darling,” said I, soothing the little delicate fanciful creature, and wondering whether some of the cries she spoke of had not been real, and not only dreams.

For I was beginning since last night, when I had witnessed her real feeling about her child, to be very sorry for Mrs. Rayner, and to wonder whether I could not draw nearer to her in some way through Haidee, and, through understanding her better, learn to sympathize with her still more. Her misery had seemed so real, and, on the other hand, I had never seen her so utterly broken down and helpless. When once the mask of cold self-control which she usually wore had disappeared, she seemed such a weak thing that it appeared scarcely possible that she could have such a force of obstinacy in her as Mr. Rayner had described her to possess. Mad or sane, I should never be afraid of her again. I only felt utterly sorry for her, and anxious to let her know how much I longed in some way to cheer her dull life. Why was she so reticent to her husband ? What if I, being a woman, and having now established, through my care of her child, some claim on her gratitude, could win my way to her heart altogether, persuade her to leave Geldham for a time, and meet Mr. Rayner on his return with the triumphant news that at last his wife was ready to break through her apathy and come back into the world of men again?

The thought made my heart beat faster, and I Ionged to begin my delicate work at once.

But I was disappointed. I had aII my meaIs by myseIf that day, except tea, which I had upstairs with Haidee, for Sarah said Mrs. Rayner was too unwell to leave her room. When we had finished tea, I still sat upstairs by my pupil’s bedside, and my high spirits at the thought of Laurence’s expected visit infected her, and she laughed and chattered to me in a fashion very unusual with her. At last I heard the front-door bell ring, and my heart seemed to stand still with joyful anticipation. But no one came upstairs to fetch me, and,’after a few minutes breathless waiting, I ran downstairs, unable to bear the’suspense any longer. I met Sarah in the hall.

“Who was that, Sarah?” asked I, too much excited to think of a decent subterfuge.

“Only one of Gregson’s boys asking for Mr. Rayner, miss.”

Strange that Gregson’s boy should come to the frontdoor, I thought. I could not go upstairs again. It was half-past six; and at half-past seven I was to be at my “nest,” if Laurence had not come before. I thought that hour would never end. lt seemed to me to be getting very dark too. When the hands of the schoolroom clock pointed to twenty minutes past, I put on my shawl, and had opened the window to go out, when Sarah came in.

“lf you please, miss, would you mind helping me with the store-list? Mrs. Rayner is too ill to do it, and it has to be posted to-morrow morning.”

“Oh, Sarah, won’t it do in—in half an hour?” said I breathlessly.

“Mrs. Rayner will want me then, miss. lt won’t take you more than five minutes.” I folLowed her out of the room, suppressing my impatience as well as I could. But the task really did not seem to take long. ln what appeared to be about a quarter of an hour I was free, and I dashed into the garden, through the plantation, towards my “nest.” I had not looked at the clock again, but surely it was very dark for half-past seven! Yet Laurence was not there! And, as I stood wondering whether something was wrong, I heard the church-clock strike eight. What awful mistake had I made? Was be gone? Should I really not see him again? A bit of paper half hidden in the grass, not on my seat, but under it, caught my eye. lt was a leaf torn from a pocket-book. On it was scrawled in pencil, in Laurence’s hand-writing—

“Good-by, my darling! Remember what I prophesied last night, and, if no other warning will serve you, take this one. I called at the Alders at seven, and was told by Sarah that you were tired out with watching by Haidee, and were asleep. I come here to-night, and you are not here. I know it is a trick, and I know who is at the bottom of it. When I left you last night, there were two men in a cart outside the stable-gate of the Alders. lf anything happens, write. Write to me at the following address.” Then folLowed the address, and the scrawl ended with—” I have spoken to Mrs. Manners. Good-by, my darling! Take care of yourself for the next six weeks, and you shall never need to take care of yourself again.

“Your devotedly lovingLaurence.” I kissed the note, thrust it into the front of my frock, and fled into the house and into the schoolroom. Sarah was just turning away from the mantelpiece; and by the clock it was just four minutes past eight.

How the time had flown between my leaving the schoolroom with Sarah and my going into the garden!

CHAPTER XXl.

I sat down by the table as soon as Sarah had left the schoolroom, and rested my head in my hands. I did not want to cry, though a few tears trickled down between my fingers at the thought that I should not see Laurence again before he went away; but I wanted to put the events of the evening together and find out what they meant. There was only one conclusion to come to: Sarah had deliberately prevented my meeting him. The ring I had heard had been Laurence ’s; and, after sending him away by means of a falsehood, she had had another ready for me when I asked who it was. “Gregson’s boy”! I had thought it strange at the time that the carpenter’s son should come to the front door, and now I felt sure that he had not been there at all. I looked again at Laurence’s note. He had called at the house at seven, he said. Now I distinctly remembered that, after I had heard the bell and met Sarah, I came into the schoolroom and found that by the clock it was half-past six. I had sat there until twenty minutes past seven, and during that time there had been no other ring at the hall door. And I had noticed how very dark it was getting; then, just as I was opening the window to go out, Sarah had come in and asked me to help her with the store-list, and I had been free in a very short time; yet on my arrival at my “nest,” the church clock had struck eight.

Sarah must have put the schoolroom clock back. I had found her just now turning from the mantelpiece, and I could not doubt that, her object being gained, she had been putting the clock right again. This malicious persecution frightened me. Was I safe in the same house with a woman who would take so much trouble merely to prevent my having a last interview with my lover?

There had been a matter-of-fact deliberateness in the way she had answered me about the bell and asked me to do the list which had the effect of alarming me still more than the savage manner in which she used to look at and speak to me when she was jealous of some new proof of the consideration with which I was treated at the Alders. This was Wednesday, and Mr. Rayner would probably not be back before Saturday. What new proof of animosity would she manage to give me in those three days? That she would not let this opportunity of showing her rooted dislike to me go by I felt sure. I remembered how earnestly she had begged to stay, and wondered whether the wish for a chance of playing me some unkind trick had had anything to do with it; for Sarah was not likely to have forgiven me for having been the cause of her threatened dismissal. lt was of no use to speculate upon what she might do; if she grew too intolerable, I could telegraph to Mr. Rayner, and he would find some means of bringing her to reason. I turned again to Laurence’s note to divert my thoughts from her, and wondered why, in those few hurried lines to me, he had thought it worth while to mention that he saw two men in a cart outside the stable-gate when he left me on the previous night. What meaning could the incident have to him? lt had one to me, certainly; but then it was because I had seen Tom Parkes bring in the little portmanteau, and then return across the lawn with Sarah. The mention of this cart revived my curiosity regarding the past night’s adventure. I could make nothing of it myself; but I thought I would write to Laurence and tell him what I had seen; and, if he knew anything more, my information might lead him to an explanation of the whole occurrence. I was still staring at the note when Sarah came in again, this time to bring me my candle, an office she seldom undertook. I saw a look of disappointment and alarm come over her face as her quick eyes fell on my note, and when I got upstairs I took the precaution to learn the address I was to write to by heart before enclosing this farewell note with Laurence’s first, which I still wore round my neck.

The next morning I received a letter from Mr. Rayner. He had been to the Gaiety Theatre on the very night of his arrival in town, and sent me a crumpled programme of the performance, with some comments which did not interest me very much, as I had not seen any of the actors and actresses he mentioned, having been only once to the theatre in my life. I laughed to myself at Laurence’s fancy that he had seen Mr. Rayner in the dress of a navvy at the station that night. The letter, which had been written at four o’clock on Wednesday, said further that he was going that evening to the Criterion Theatre, where he hoped to be better entertained. He said he had written to Mrs. Rayner, and sent his love to Haidee by her, but that he enclosed a second portion to me to give her, as she was not well. Then he gave me a message to deliver which I would much rather not have been entrusted with, and at breakfast I said to Sarah—

“Mr. Rayner has sent a message to you in a letter I have just received from him. He says, ‘ Tell Sarah not to forget the work she has to do in my absence.’”

As I looked up after reading this out to her, I saw that her face had turned quite livid; the old hatred of me gleamed in her eyes, and I wished Mr. Rayner had written to her himself, instead of making me deliver a message which appeared so distasteful to her.

She said, “Very well, miss and I wondered what work it was.

I spent most of the day by Haidee’s bedside. I did not see Mrs. Rayner, for she appeared neither at breakfast nor at dinner, and to my inquiries Sarah gave the same answer as before—that she was not well enough to leave her room. She could not even see any one either, Sarah said, when I asked if I might read to her; and I was obliged to see my hopes of gaining her sympathy fade away, and to recognize the fact that either she would not or Sarah would not allow me a chance of breaking down the barrier of reserve between us. I could let her see that I had not forgotten her, though; and, seized by a happy thought, I went in search of an old knife and a basket, and went into the garden to gather her some fLowers. lt was about four o’clock in the afternoon; the leaves and grass were still wet, for it had been raining hard all the morning, and the mist was rising already from the marsh. There were scarcely any fLowers left now, but by wandering into remote nooks of the garden, and by stepping in among the plants and spying out every blossom hidden under the leaves, I managed at last to collect enough for a very fair October bouquet I took them into the house, and it suddenly occurred to me that they would make a better display in a large wire-covered vase that stood on a whatnot in the drawing-

room. So I ran in there, with my frock still tucked up, the gardening-knife in one dirty hand and my basket of fLowers on my arm. I had my hand still on the handle of the door, when I saw there was a gentleman in there, standing at the window, looking out into the garden. I slipped back hastily, hoping to escape before he could catch sight of me; but he turned, crossed the room quickly, and stopped me.

“Miss Christie!” lt was Mr. Carruthers.

“They told me you were out.”

Sarah’s work, thought l.

“No; I was only in the garden.”

There was no help for my appearance now, so I quietly took the pin out of my frock and let it down while he went on talking.

“I am very, very glad to see you. You are looking very well. I am afraid,” said he, still holding my hand, “you have not been missing any of us much.”

“Well, you see I had known the people there only two days,” said I seriously.

“‘ The people there ’! As if I cared how little you missed * the people there ’! When I say you have not been missing any of us, I mean you have not been missing me.”

“But I haven’t known you longer than the others,” said l, smiling.

“But you have known me so much better than the others,” said he deprecatingly.

“I am not quite sure of that.”

“Didn’t you talk to me more than to the others?”

“Yes.”

“And walk with me oftener than with the others?”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t you like me better than the others?”

“I think I did—yes, I did.”

“All that is very tepid. I can’t think why you don’t like me, when I like you so much.”

“Oh, you did not understand me, Mr. Carruthers! I do like you very much; but—”

“There—you have spoilt it all with that unkind ‘ but ’! Don’t you think me handsome? I am considered one of the handsomest men about town, I assure you.”

“Not really?”

This slipped out quickly, for I thought he was in fun. I afterwards found out, to my surprise, that it was true; but I did not learn it then, for he looked very much amused, and said—

“That is blow number two; but I am not going to be crushed. Don’t you think me good?”

“Oh, no!”

“Why not, Miss Christie?” said he, pretending to be in despair. My chief reason was that, if he had been very “good,” he would not have made lady Mills angry with me by taking me on the river late at night; for he had shown later that he knew it was not considered right. But it would have seemed ungenerous to recall that when it had all passed over; so I only said—

“I know from the way they talked to you and of you that they did not think you very good, and that you did not wish to be thought so.”

“But I am going to reform after what you said on Sunday.”

“Oh, no, you are not!” said l, shaking my head. “You say so only because it amuses you to see how much you can make me believe of the things you tell me.”

“Do you judge all the people you know as severely as you do me. Miss Christie?”

“Yes, quite,” said I gravely.

“Oh—er—the gentleman who gave you the red rose, for instance?”

He said this in a mock-bashful tone, looking at the carpet, as if ashamed to meet my eyes. I .could not help getting red, and I think he knew it without looking up.

“Or—or perhaps he—never does anything wrong?”

“Oh, yes, he does, Mr. Carruthers!” said l, with a bright idea in my bead—he had been laughing at me long enough, I thought. “He did very wrong in thinking he need be jealous of any of the gentlemen I met at Denham Court.”

Mr. Carruthers raised his head and looked straight at me. I am not sure that he was not a little annoyed as well as amused, though he laughed very good-temperedly.

“I will never make love to you any more, you ungrateful girl!” said he.

“Make love! Do you call that making love?” said l, laughing. “lt is not the best I can do by any means; but I shall be very glad to show you—”

“You need not take that trouble, thank you; I will take your word for it,” said l, laughing again. I had learnt to answer him back in his own way; and I think he was a little surprised at the progress I was making.

“You are too quick of fence for me,” said he, shaking his head. “Well, don’t you want to know what has been going on at Denham Court?” he asked rather suddenly, in a different tone.

“Oh, yes! But there has not been time for much to happen. I left there on Monday, and this is only Thursday.”

“There has been time for a very serious misfortune to happen, for all that,” said he gravely. “last night Denham Court was broken into, and lady Mills and Mrs. Cunningham and Mrs. Carew and some of the other ladies had all their most valuable jewelry stolen; and a quantity of gold plate was taken too.”

We had been standing by the window all this time, I playing with the fLowers in my basket. I went on mechanically twisting a chrysanthemum in my fingers after he had finished telling me this startling story, but I did not know what I was doing.

“Last night, did you say?” said I at last, in a frightened whisper.

“Yes, last night. Sit down,” said he kindly, putting me into a chair. “This seems to have quite overwhelmed you. Why, child, your very lips are white! let me ring for some—”

“No, no!” I interrupted, starting up. “I am quite well; I am not going to faint. Don’t—don’t ring. Tell me all about it quickly, please. When did you find it out? Have they caught the thieves? Do they know—”

“Stop—l can’t tell you all at once. The thieves have not been caught yet, and we don’t know who they are. The robbery was discovered this morning.”

“This morning! Who discovered it? How?”

“Now don’t get excited, and I will tell you all about it. This morning a ladder was found lying underneath lady Mills’s dressing-room window, which had been opened by smashing one of the panes from the outside. lt was lady Mills’s maid who first gave the alarm by a cry at sight of the open window when she went into the dressing room this morning, after calling her mistress. lady Mills ran in; they looked out together, and saw the ladder lying underneath. The dressing-room has two doors; the one which does not lead into the bedroom had been unlocked and left open by the thief, to pass into the house by. But, at first sight, nothing seemed to have been disturbed. The dressing-case was locked and in its place; a strong tin case in which lady Mills kept the greater part of her jewels was still in the locked-up wardrobe. But, on moving it, they found that the lock had been burst open, and it was entirely empty. Jewels, cases and all, had disappeared. By this time the head-gardener had come into the house saying that he hoped all was right, but that he had gone to the tool-house in the morning with one of the under-gardeners, a man named Parkes—”

“Tom Parkes?”

“Yes. He keeps the key of the tool-house. And they had found the door forced in, and a file and one of the ladders gone. Of course the alarm spread quickly all over the house; and then the other losses were discovered one by one. There is the mysterious part of it. Everything had been done so methodically and so neatly, even to locked doors being found still locked, that it was not until after careful examination that the stolen things were missed. lady Mills and Mrs. Carew found their dressing-cases locked; but, when they opened them, each found that the most valuable of the contents were gone. The butler and Sir Jonas himself examined the plate-chest together. That was locked too, and, on first opening it, they congratulated themselves on its having escaped. But, on removing that part of it which is in constant use, they found that the gold plate, which is used only now and then, and some solid silver cups and candlesticks had been taken. But the loss which has caused the greatest sensation is Mrs. Cunningham’s. She came into the breakfast-room quite white and scarcely able to speak, with some pebbles and a piece of cotton-wool in her hands. She declares that she carried about on her person, sewn up in wash-leather and cotton-wool, a very valuable set of diamonds and cat’s-eyes; that it was not until long after she discovered her other losses that she cut open the leather, just to make sure that her greatest treasure was safe; that she found the jewels gone and the pebbles she produced in their place. The poor woman was so hysterical that it was a long time before she could tell us all about it. She declares that she slept with them under her pillow, and that no one in the world knew where she kept them, for that she never mentioned the fact to any one—”

“Oh, but that is not quite true, Mr. Carruthers! For she told me.” “So she said,” said he, looking at me steadily. “But you could never have repeated such a thing to any one who could make a wrong use of the knowledge.”

“Oh, no! The only person I spoke of it to was Mr. Rayner.”

“Mr. Rayner!” said he quickly. “You could not have chosen a worse person to entrust the secret to, I am afraid.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, he is the most talkative man I know. I have met him at Newmarket several times—a bright amusing fellow enough, but the last man to whom I should tell anything I did not wish to have repeated for the amusement of the next person he met.”

“Oh, but he would not repeat a thing like that!” said I earnestly. “He scolded me for telling him, and said such confidences should never be repeated, no matter to whom.”

“That’s all right,” said he, much relieved. “Then I shall tell Mrs. Cunningham you didn’t mention it to any one. The poor woman is half out of her mind; it was she who sent me over here to-day, to find out whether you had spoken about it in the presence of any one who could use the knowledge. For my part, I thought it very likely she had only imagined she had spoken to you about it; but I wanted an excuse for coming; so I gained my object, and put her under an obligation at the same time.” I did not pay any attention to the implied flattery in these words; I was too much interested in the robbery.

“And is no one suspected?” I asked, with trembling lips.

“At present we know nothing, and we suspect a different person every minute. The robbery had been so well arranged, and was carried out with such discrimination—for nothing but the best of everything was taken—that at first the servants were suspected of complicity. But my man Gordon, who has no end of sense, suggested that it was only fair to them all to have their boxes examined at once. This was done, but no trace of anything was found. Of course that does not prove that they may not have given information to the thieves, whoever they were. There has been a gang of navvies at work on the railway close by for the past fortnight, and a hat belonging to one of them was found in the garden, and has been identified already; but it seems that the friends of the man it belongs to can prove that he passed the night drunk in the village. So at present we know absolutely nothing. Gordon told me privately that he doesn’t believe either the servants or the navvies have had anything to do with it, and he pointed out the resemblance between this and a robbery which took place some time ago at the house of another of my friends, lord Dalston, whom I had been staying with not long before. He believes that it is the work of a regular jewel-robber, and that very likely he got a discharged servant to supply him with information. I pointed out to him that no servant who had long left could have given him such precise details as he seems to have had concerning the jewels of the ladies who were only visiting there, for instance. But I could not convince him. As for Mrs. Cunningham’s, that really seems marvellous, because she is a cautious sort of woman. I suppose her maid somehow found out the secret, and then told it to —Heaven knows whom.”

” I suppose so,” said I mechanically. I was trying to put together what I had just heard and what I had already known. Mr. Carruthers rose.

“I need not trouble Mrs. Rayner at all now that I have seen you,” said he.

“Mrs. Rayner!” I repeated, in the same mechanical stupid way.

“Yes. When the servant told me you were out, she said I could see Mrs. Rayner. I did not want to disturb her, knowing that she has the reputation of being an invalid. But she insisted.”

“Wait one moment,” said l, as he took my hand. “Are you quite sure, Mr. Carruthers, that the robbery took place last night ?’

Before I uttered the last words, his eyes suddenly left my face, and were fixed on some object behind me. I turned, and saw in the doorway Mrs. Rayner, paler and more impassive than ever, and Sarah. All the doors at the Alders opened noiselessly, and they had overheard me. And, as I looked at Sarah’s face, my heart beat faster with fear and with suspicion become certainty, for I knew that I was on the right track.

CHAPTER XXll.

ln his astonishment at Mrs. Rayner’s ghostlike entrance and appearance, Mr. Carruthers had not paid much attention to the end of my question, and I determined to try to get another opportunity of putting it to him. He expressed his sorrow to Mrs. Rayner at having caused her the trouble of receiving him when she was evidently suffering, and said that he had ventured to call to tell Miss Christie about a great robbery which had taken place in the house she had so recently visited, Denham Court. Nothing but physical suffering could have explained the impassive stolidity with which she listened, her great gray eyes staring straight in front of her, to the account of the robbery. She made no comment until it was over; then she turned to him and asked, with a faint expression of relief—

“Then nobody was hurt?”

“Oh, no, there was no collision at all! They vanished like spirits, leaving no trace.”

“I am very sorry they were not caught. My husband has been in town since Tuesday morning, and I am nervous while he is away,” said she, like one repeating a lesson.

All this time Sarah stood by her, smelling-bottle in hand, as if pre pared for her mistress to faint. Yet to my eyes Mrs. Rayner did not look worse than usual.

When he rose to go, I accompanied Mr. Carruthers to the door, where a dog-cart was waiting for him; but Sarah, whose duty by her mistress’s side was suddenly over, folLowed close behind, and I had no chance of suggesting to him my own suspicions about the burglary. When he had gone, I reflected that it was better for me not to have said anything to a comparative stranger to implicate one of the servants in the house where I was living until I had consulted Mr. Rayner.

To give vent to my excitement over the important secret I fancied myself on the track of, I wrote to Laurence. With Sarah about, a letter was a thing requiring caution, as the event proved. I was so sensible of this that I contented myself with giving an account of Mr. Carruthers’s visit and of the robbery at Denham Court, only saying, in conclusion, that it might have some connection with what he had seen, and that I had something to add to that. I said that I would write more fully as soon as I had an opportunity of going to Beaconsburgh to post my letter myself; and then I said a great deal more concerning different things which were perhaps really less important, but which were much pleasanter to write about.

The postman called for the letter-bag at six every evening; so I waited at the schoolroom window until I saw him come up to the house and heard Sarah give him the bag; then I ran out into the hall, as if I had only just finished my letter, and put it into the bag which he held. Sarah could not even see the direction as I put it in, and I congratulated myself upon my artful strategy; but I might have known that she was not to be baffled so. I had stood at the door and watched him turn into the drive, and returned to the schoolroom in a flutter of excitement at my own audacity, when from the window I saw Sarah flit after him. I dashed out on to the lawn, and got into the drive just in time to see the postman fasten up the bag and go on again, while Sarah, saying something about “a misdirection,” put a letter into her pocket; and I knew that it was mine. With my heart beating fast, I walked up boldly to her.

“What did you take my letter out of the bag for, Sarah?” said l, half choking with anger.

“lt’s not your letter, miss. What should I want with any letter of yours?” said she, looking down at me insolently. “lt’s a letter to my sister that l’ve forgotten to put the number of the street on.”

I knew quite well that this was a falsehood, but I could not prove it; for I had indeed been too far off to recognize my letter when she put it into her pocket, and my moral certainty counted for nothing. She knew this, and stalked off defiantly to the house with my letter, while I crept back to the school-room, and sobbed bitterly at the tyranny I was suffering from this hateful woman.

Well, it would soon be over now—that was a comfort. I would tell Mr. Rayner all I had seen on Tuesday night, and about the cart Laurence had met outside—perhaps I would not mention it was Laurence who saw it—and about Parkes’s wishing to avoid me at Denham Court. I should not dare to suggest to Mr. Rayner any doubt about Gordon, who seemed to be in some way a personal friend of his. But now, with all my thoughts turned to jewels and jewel-robberies, I could not help thinking again about that strange disappearance of my own pendant while I was staying at Denham Court, and its restoration by this man. Then his treating Tom Parkes as a stranger at Denham Court, when I had seen them together one night at the Alders, seemed to me now a rather suspicious circumstance. I congratulated myself on having been so cautious in my letter to Laurence that Sarah would not learn much by reading it, and wondered when I could make an excuse to go to Beaconsburgh, to post one to him with my own hands. lt seemed very hard to be cut off in this way from the relief of opening my heart to him; but it would be all right on the morrow, when Mr. Rayner came back—she would not dare to annoy me then.

But the next morning, to my great disappointment, I got another letter, saying he should not be back until Monday afternoon. I had written to him on Wednesday, and he had got my note. He said, as I mentioned that the weather was bad and the fogs had begun to be thick, it would be better for Mrs. Rayner to leave the ground-floor and sleep upstairs.

“I expect you will have difficulty in persuading her to leave her own room,” the letter went on; “but I am so anxious about her, for it seems to me she has looked paler than ever lately, and I feel so sure she would be better on a higher floor that I beg you, dear Miss Christie, to use all your powers of persuasion to induce her to move. Tell her that it is only for a time, that she shall go back to her old room as soon as the weather is warmer again; tell her I wish it, tell her anything you think likely to affect her. I have great trust in your diplomatic powers, little madam, and I anticipate the happiest results from them in this instance. I have given Sarah orders by letter to prepare the big front spare-room.” I was delighted with this letter; it made me for the moment angry with Mrs. Rayner for her persistent ignoring of his kind feeling towards her. But, when I remembered her agony over her child on the night of Haidee’s illness, and the settled melancholy I now knew how to detect under her cold demeanor, pity got the better of me again, and I was glad to have an opportunity at last of doing her some good. She was always supposed to be attached to her room on the ground-floor, and Mr. Rayner wrote as if it would be difficult to persuade her to move. But I had two powerful weapons in her husband’s loving letter and her affection for Haidee, and I resolved to use them well.

As I was dining alone, I was just wondering how I could get at her, when the opportunity presented itself, as if at my wish.

“Mrs. Rayner feels well enough to have tea in here with you, miss, this afternoon,” said Sarah.

That then would be my chance. But I reflected that I could not be very persuasive at tea-time, subject to the chance of our common tyrant, Sarah, pouncing down upon us. I went out after dinner and sat, in spite of the damp, on the seat at my “nest” for a little while, trying to invent subtle plans for inveigling Mrs. Rayner into the drawing-room or the schoolroom for an uninterrupted tête-à-tête. As I sat there, I heard some one coming along the path from the house. The trees between were not yet bare enough for me to see through; but, when the steps had gone by, I crept through the branches, peeped out, and saw Sarah getting over the stile into the path which led to the high-road. I ran indoors, asked Jane where Sarah was, and learnt that she had gone to Beaconsburgh to get some groceries; I had noticed a black bag in her hand. I seemed to breathe more freely at once. Now was my time for seeing Mrs. Rayner. I was a little shy about going into the left wing without an invitation; she might be asleep, or she might not wish to be disturbed. I thought I would reconnoitre first. So I went into the garden with my knife and basket, as if to cut fLowers, gathered a few China asters, and ventured round, past the drawingroom window, through the wet rank grass and the swampy earth, to the left wing. I had put on my goloshes, but they were not of much use, for I sank into pools that came over my shoes.

Still I went on, through an unwholesome mass of fallen and decaying leaves, to the dark yews and laurels that grew round Mrs. Rayner’s window. I had never ventured here since the evening of my arrival, when I had strayed this way in my explorations, and been startled by my first dim view of Mrs. Rayner’s pale face at the window of what must be her room. Again I pushed aside the branches of the now almost leafless barberry-tree and looked for the second time at the gloomy window, overhung by an ivy-bush which now seemed to fall Lower than ever. There was no face looking out this time; a broken gutter-pipe had caused the rain-water to form a sort of slough under the window, so that I could not go close to it; but I went as near as I could, singing, and cutting off little branches of yew, as if not knowing where I had strayed. My ruse succeeded. Just as one of the branches I had pulled down towards me swung back into its place, Mrs. Rayner’s white face, looking astonished and alarmed, appeared at the window. I smiled good-morning to her, and made a show of offering her my fLowers. I wanted her to open the window. This she seemed reluctant to do. But I stood my ground until at last she put a hesitating hand upon the fastening. When the window was just a few inches up, I said, opening upon a point where I knew we had sympathy—

“Sarah has gone to Beaconsburgh. I saw her off. I hope she will be a very longtime.” I was right. She opened the window, which was a little above the level of my head, more confidently; and I saw that it was barred inside.

“Haidee is so much better to-day, Mrs. Rayner, I think she might come downstairs for a little while to-morrow into the dining room, if we make a good fire there. She was asking to-day why you did not come up and see her, and I told her you were not well enough. She is very anxious about you.”

“Give her my love,” said Mrs. Rayner, with a faint smile. “l could not do her so much good as you have done.” There was a plaintive expression of helplessness in these words which touched me. “Thank you, Miss Christie.”

“lam so glad she is better,” remarked l, venturing impulsively into the slough that I might stretch my hand up to the window-ledge. “I think it did do her good to go upstairs. The Lower part of this house is damp, you know; Doctor Lowe said so.”

She seemed to shrink back into herself a little at these words; however, she said—

“You have been very good to the child. lt was best for her to go.”

“Yes, I think it was. Don’t you find that the mist from the marsh makes your room very cold this weather, Mrs. Rayner?”

She looked at me in a frightened irresolute way, and then she formed with her lips rather than spoke the words—

“Yes—rather cold—now.”

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in one of the rooms upstairs while the fogs last?” I insinuated shyly.

But I saw that her breath was beginning to come fast, and the faint pink to tinge her cheek as it did when she was excited.

“Did any one tell you to say that to me?” she asked, in a whisper.

“I told Mr. Rayner, when I wrote, that we had a slight fog here on Tuesday night, and this morning I had a letter saying that he thought it was bad for you to sleep on the ground-floor when the mists had begun to rise high, and that he had told Sarah to prepare the large front spare-room for you.” lnstead of looking grateful for this proof of her husband’s thoughtfulness, she became agitated, and at last her agitation grew almost uncontrollable; she trembled and clung to the bars inside the win« dow, and I saw that her forehead was wet with the effect of some strong emotion—it looked like fear.

“At last—at last! I have been here too long,” she gasped. I thought that the effect on her nervous temperament of making her leave the room against her will would outweigh any physical good the change might do her. The wild look was coming into her eyes which I had seen there twice before, and I was afraid of her being seized with a paroxysm while I stood there on the other side of the barred window, powerless to help her; so I said gently—

“Of course Mr. Rayner would not wish you to go if you did not wish it.”

But she shook her head, and, putting her face between the bars to be closer to me, she said, in a low broken voice—

‘‘Do you know what his wishes mean when Sarah carries them out?” I stood looking up at her, appalled. Her terror was so real that it infected me, and for the moment I almost shared the poor lady’s mad belief that there was a conspiracy against her. But her next words restored me to my senses.

“Are you against me too?” she asked piteously. “l always thought you were; but then you were kind to my child—and I don’t know, I don’t know whom to trust!”

“You may trust me, dear Mrs. Rayner, indeed,” said I earnestly. “I would not have suggested your leaving your room if I had thought it would cause you so much pain. lndeed, I did not know you were so much attached to it.”

She shuddered. There was a pause, during which she stared at me steadily and searchingly. But I had no cause to fear her poor mad eyes, so I returned her gaze, and she grew gradually calmer.

“Miss Christie,” said she at last, in a whisper, “you have influence in this house. That night when Haidee was ill you made Sarah obey you. lf I may trust you, give me this proof—get me one day’s respite. let me stay in my own room till—to-morrow.”

Her voice sank till I could scarcely catch the last words.

“l will try,” said I softly. “And, oh, Mrs. Rayner, shall I tell Sam to take the dead leaves away in a wheelbarrow? I am sure it can’t be wholesome to have them so close to your window.”

“No, no, leave them—never mind,” said she hurriedly. “You must be in the water. You will catch cold. Go—Heaven bless you!”

She shut down the window in a frightened way, and disappeared into the room. I could not see in, for the window-sill was some eight or ten inches above my head. I turned and splashed my way back, with my teeth chattering, to the house, and changed my wet shoes and stockings, half crying for pity for the poor, helpless, forlorn lady for whom I could do so little.

At tea-time she came into the dining room, and, as Sarah was there, I practised the innocent deception of pretending not to have seen her before that day. I thought it better that the lynx-eyed guardian should not discover that I had found a way of communicating privately with her unlucky charge. So I said again at tea-time that I had had a letter from Mr. Rayner, and that he thought that on Saturday she had better move into the spare-room.

“Saturday!” interrupted Sarah sharply.

“Yes,” said l, rather frightened at telling such a story. “Do you think you would like to go to-morrow, or would you rather go tonight, Mrs. Rayner?” I asked gently.

“To-morrow,” said she, with a steady look which I took as an acknowledgment; and I turned to Sarah.

“l will answer for it to Mr. Rayner, if there has been any mistake,” I said, as modestly as I could, for it was an awkward thing to have to give orders before the mistress of the house, however tottering her reason might be.

“Very well, miss,” said Sarah, to my surprise.

For the second time my use of Mr. Rayner’s name had acted like a charm; and I wondered how this woman, who had dared so much to cut me off from communication with Laurence, could calmly submit to receive orders from me.

After tea, Mrs. Rayner in her turn surprised me by a warning which seemed to show keen observation. She came and stood by me at the fire place while Sarah was clearing the table, and once, while the latter was for a moment out of the room, breathed softly into my ear, without turning her head—

“Take care—she hates you, and she is dangerous.”

I glanced up quickly; but Sarah was already back in the room, and Mrs. Rayner’s face was as impassive as ever.

I was so much used to living in fear of Sarah that the warning did not make any particular impression upon me, and I went to bed neither more nor less afraid of her machinations than usual. I woke up in the night without being conscious of any cause for doing so. I had started at once into full wakefulness, and I saw that Haidee was sleeping quietly, and that the fire was still alight, but had burnt low; and I thought I would replenish it.

Then, as I raised myself on my elbow, I thought I heard a sound, too faint to be called a noise, outside the door. So I kept quite still and listened intently. I heard nothing for some time, then again a muffled noise as of something being shuffled softly from one stair to another, then again no sound. The turret staircase was uncarpeted; it had once been polished, but the beeswax had worn off long since and had not been renewed. I got out of bed softly, lighted my candle by putting a match to the dying fire to avoid the noise of striking it, crept to the door, and literally put my ear to the keyhole. And, after a few moments, I heard the same soft shuffling again. lt might be Nap, Mr. Rayner’s retriever, trying to find a stair softer than the rest to lie upon; yet they were surely too narrow for him to make the attempt.

Whoever or whatever it was seemed to be making its way down by very slow degrees, until it seemed that it must be about six or seven stairs from the top. I screwed up my courage and resolved to give the intruder, human or otherwise, a fright. All the locks were kept in good condition at the Alders, and there was not such a thing as a creaking door in the place. I turned the key without the least noise, then the handle, and flung open the door, stamping my foot and brandishing the candle. I heard Haidee scream; I had forgotten her.

My plan succeeded only too well. A figure which had been crouching on the stairs sprang up. lt was Sarah.

Before I had time to do more than recognize the savage frightened face, her foot slipped, and, with a piercing cry, she fell backward down the stairs. The staircase had one turn. I, trembling at the door, saw her long thin hands clutching and struggling to save herself at the corner; but she failed, and I heard a heavy thud, and then a groan. She had fallen headlong to the bottom.

For one second I leaned against the wall unable to move; then, trembling so that I could scarcely find the top stair, I stepped forward to go down. But on the second stair my foot suddenly slipped, and, if I had not been going very slowly because of my agitation, I must have fallen. On the next stair I slipped again; on the next to that, putting out my foot very cautiously, I found a string fastened across.

With a sudden suspicion, I sat down without advancing farther, and slid my hand along the stair. It was slippery; so were the others. The turret staircase was dark even by day; if I had been running downstairs at my usual pace, nothing could have saved me. lt was a trap set by Sarah, if not for getting rid of me altogether, at least for seriously injuring me. She was greasing the stairs one by one when I had heard her; in her alarm at my sudden appearance she had sprung up, her foot had slipped on the greasy plate below which she had been using, and she had fallen herself a victim to the trap she had laid for me. And, as the horrible truth broke upon me, I heard another groan and a murmur I could not distinguish.

Sick at heart, and for the moment almost as helpless as she, I crawled down the stairs, wondering and fearing what spectacle would meet my eyes at the bottom.

CHAPTER XXlll.

All the stairs below where Sarah had slipped were safe and in their usual state. At the bottom, an almost senseless heap, lay Sarah, with one arm twisted under her and her head in a pool of blood. She was moaning, with closed eyes, and did not know me even when her eyes opened and she stared round her.

The noise of her fall had by this time brought out Jane from the distant nursery; and she ran for the cook, who was an older and more experienced woman, and who indeed proved useful in this emergency. It was past midnight; but, late as it was, I was obliged to send Jane into the village for Sam, to tell him to take one of the horses and ride as fast as he could to Beaconsburgh for the Doctor. Meanwhile the cook declared her belief that one of Sarah’s arms was broken, for she fainted when it was touched; and then, having discovered that the blood was flowing from a great gash at the back of her head, she bound it up as well as she could to stop the bleeding. Then I ran downstairs for some brandy, which we put to her lips from time to time, but in vain tried to make her swallow. And then we sat in the cold, in the dim light of a candle, both of us crouched on the floor, the cook supporting the wounded woman against her knee, I a little way behind, lest she should recover full consciousness and know me. lt was a ghastly thing to be sitting there with that horrid stain on the floor within a few feet, listening to the feeble moans of the wretched woman whom we hardly expected to live until help came, holding our breath when for a few moments the moaning ceased, I thinking of the awful retribution her malice had brought down upon her, not daring to speak to tell her I forgave her, lest my voice should have some terrible effect upon her wandering mind. And so we sat shivering not with cold alone, until the front-door bell sounded through the silent house, and Jane, who had not dared to come upstairs again since she went to send off Sam, opened the door, and we heard the Doctor’s heavy tread on the stairs. lt was Doctor Lowe. He called first for more light. Jane brought a lamp, and he signed to her to go away. After asking me whether I was hysterical, and hearing me answer “No,” he told me to hold the lamp while he made his examination. He said afterwards that I had strong nerves; but nothing but fear of him kept me steady at my post, as, with averted head, I heard the sharp little cries the wounded woman gave two or three times. The cook had been right; the arm that lay under Sarah was broken; the Doctor could not tell yet whether her spine was not injured too. He cut off her long black hair and strapped up her head, which had received a gash which might affect the brain, he said; and he set and bandaged the broken arm. Then we brought a mattress, and very carefully lifted her on to it, carried her to her room, and put her on the bed.

“Who is going to sit up with her?” asked he.

”l will,” said l, but added doubtfully, “if—”

“lf what?” said ttye Doctor, turning upon me sharply.

I drew him a little apart and said—

“Doctor Lowe, do you think the sight of any one she disliked very much would be bad for her ?”

He looked at me very keenly as he answered—

“No. She won’t be able to recognize anybody; but I warn you she will be restless. How did the accident happen?”

“She fell downstairs.”

“The staircase leads to your room, doesn’t it? How came she to he there at this time of night? Why don’t you tell me the truth, and save me the trouble of making stupid guesses?” I told him the truth, and his only comment was—

“And don’t you think the moral of that is that you should leave this place as soon as possible ?”

“I sha’n’t stay here long,” said l, smiling, and thinking of Laurence.

“Oh, you think that young f-fellow at the Hall is going to marry you?”

” Yes.”

“Well, I tell you frankly, I wouldn’t take a wife from this house.” “But then you wouldn’t take a wife from anywhere, Doctor Lowe. If you did, you would think more of the girl than of the place she came from, just as Laurence does.”

“ You have a sharp little tongue. I pity Laurence when he comes home late.”

He asked after Haidee; but I could not let him see her, as the staircase was not yet ready; so, after giving me instructions about the treatment of Sarah, he left the house.

There was a fire already in her room, for she was by no means the ill-used creature she liked to think herself. I seated myself in a chair beside it, prepared to watch until early morning, when the cook had promised to take my place. Before long the patient began to grow restless, as the Doctor had predicted; she turned her head from side to side, tried to raise her broken arm, which had been set and bandaged tightly down, muttering and moaning incoherently. Presently she was quite quiet, and I hoped she had gone to sleep. I think I must have dozed myself for a few minutes, when I was startled into full wakefulness by a low hoarse cry of ” Jim!”

She had managed to move her head so that her great black eyes, glittering now with fever, were fixed full upon me; and my heart beat fast, for I thought she must know me. But she repeated, still staring at me—

” Jim!” Then she added in a whisper, “They are after you, Jim! lt’s about the check. You must be off to-night. Go to the old place. I’ll put ’em off, and I’ll let you know.”

Then more mutterings and exclamations, and before long she began again to speak coherently—

“lt’s too risky, Jim. I’ll do it, if you want me to; but it’s putting yourself in danger as well as me. All right, I’ll pass it.”

Then she broke out passionately—

“It’s an ill thing you’re going to do, James Woodfall. What do you want of a lady for a wife ? Her money’s none so much, and, as for her pretty face, it’s the face of a fool. I’m twice the woman to look at that she is, and I’m only twenty-five; and I’ve stuck to you through thick and thin. Why don’t you marry me, Jim?”

And it flashed across me, as she went on addressing to me reproaches, coaxings, encouragement, and defiance, that she was living over again some long-past passages in her life—passages, I could not but gather, of a very questionable character. For it was plain that this Jim, or James Woodfall, who occupied all her thoughts had been a very bad man indeed, and that Sarah had assisted him in every way in his wicked deeds.

“Don’t go for that, James,” she said once imploringly. “It’ll be a lifer if they catch you; and they’ve had their eye on you lately. There’s many a safer way of getting money than that.”

Another pause, and then came a speech which chilled me with horror.

“Dead men tell no tales, Jim,” said she, in another fearful whisper. “lt’s easy done, and it’s safer. What’s an old man’s life that you’re so shy of touching him? You’ve done many a riskier thing. Why do you always turn coward at that?”

I could scarcely sit and watch this woman-fiend after that. I seemed to see murder in her fierce fiery eyes; and I shuddered even as I moistened her dry lips and touched her burning forehead. She rambled on in the same style, mentioning other names I had never heard, and not a word of me or Mr. and Mrs. Rayner, or even of Tom Parkes, until she broke out angrily—

“Jim’s mad about that little Christie girl, Tom, and he says he’ll marry her in spite of everything, and I’ve got to bring it about,” she hissed between her teeth.

What awful confusion in her mind was there to connect me with her criminal lover of years before? There suddenly woke up in my mind the remembrance of the evening when, hidden in my “ nest,” I had overheard a conversation between her and Mr. Rayner’s mysterious visitor, who had afterwards turned out to be Mr. Carruthers’s man-servant, and I remembered that she had then expressed jealousy of some man called “Jim.” Was it the same man? How was it that he never appeared? I had thought at the time that she must mean Tom Parkes, and that the woman she was jealous of was Jane; but, on the whole, she got on well with Jane; and the only person in the house against whom her animosity took any serious form was myself. And now she fancied this “Jim” wanted to marry me— and I had never even seen him!

She was rambling again into the present, though, for the next speech that caught my attention was—

“lt’s a good weight, Tom—Jim might have lent you a hand. The water’s deep in the cellar; but it won’t hurt the jewels, and the plate’ll clean. Come on.”

Was it the Denham Court robbery that was on her mind now? I held my breath while she went on—

” Tom, that sneaking Christie girl’s got wind of it somehow, Jim’s that gone on her he won’t listen to me; and, if I don’t prevent it, she’ll be his ruin.”

Again that strange confusion of my name with that of the unknown Jim! My brain seemed to be getting as much confused as her own. I held tightly to the arms of my chair as I listened to her ravings, as if in a futile attempt to steady body and mind. I was mad to discover who this James Woodfall was, and I left my chair, and drew, as if fascinated, nearer to the bed as she said—

“Take care, Jim. You risk too much. There must be some thief taker in the world clever enough to recognize the forger James Woodfall in the jewel-robber—”

At that moment, while I listened with pulses beating high and eager eyes for the name, the door opened, and the sick woman, distracted by the noise, cried, “What’s that?” lt was the cook come to take my place. But the reaction from the high-pressure tension of my nerves during the last few hours was too much for me. I fell fainting to the floor.

The next morning I awoke late, with a headache and an unpleasant feeling of having gone through some horrible adventure. I told Haidee, who had been very much alarmed, poor little thing, by my antics at the door when I frightened Sarah, and by the noise of her fall, a much modified story of the whole occurrence, and then ventured down the stairs very cautiously; but Jane, instructed by the cook, had already removed the grease and made them safe again.

But I never again went down those stairs at night-time without a shudder.

I telegraphed to Mr. Rayner to inform him of the accident, without, of course, mentioning the cause, as soon as the Doctor’s early visit was over—he said she was suffering from brain-fever, and ought to have a regular nurse. I received a telegram from Mr. Rayner before dinner-time—

“Am much distressed about accident. Give her every care. Have sent off an experienced nurse already.”

And by the afternoon train she arrived—a silent, middle-aged woman, the very sight of whom inspired respect, which in my case amounted to awe.

The fright in the night had made Haidee rather feverish again, so that I thought it better to delay her coming downstairs yet another day. But she got up and sat by the fire in my room, and I sat with her during a great part of the day. Just before dinner we heard a light unaccustomed step on the stairs and a knock at the door, and Mrs. Rayner came in. Seeing her in the full light of my four windows, I was shocked by the change in her since I had first come to the Alders, little more than two months before. Her cheeks were so wan and hollow, her eyes so sunken in their sockets, and her lips so drawn and livid that I seemed to be looking at the face of a dead woman. She made little reference to the previous night’s adventure, only saying—

“I hear Sarah is ill. I had to go in search of my breakfast myself this morning. I hope she is better.”

But the look on her worn face of relief from a hated burden belied her words. She had not dared even to visit her child while that harpy was about. I was sorry Sarah’s illness had been caused by me; but I could not feel much sympathy with her; her wandering speeches of the night before had shown her real cruel, vindictive self too plainly.

When we were called to dinner, which Mrs. Rayner said she would have with me to-day, I went down first, in order to leave her with her child for a few minutes. At the foot of the turret stairs, where a mat had been put to hide the traces of the horrible stain, I found the elfish Mona, as dirty as usual, playing with a large bunch of keys—Sarah’s housekeeping keys. I thought they would be safer in my care than in Mona’s; so I took them from her, not without a struggle and many tearless screams and howls on her part. I did not come much into contact with this young person now, as, when neither Mr. nor Mrs. Rayner appeared at meals, she had hers in the nursery with Jane, which she much preferred, as it did not entail so much washing and combing.

I thought to myself how much annoyed Sarah would be if she knew her keys were in my possession; but I was .glad I had found them when, later in the day, after tea, Jane came to me and said Mrs. Saunders, the nurse, could not drink the draught ale from the cask, and wanted some bottled stout.

“And cook says, I What shall we do?’ miss. She’s making such a fuss about it.”

“Where is the bottled stout kept, Jane?” said I, thinking of my keys.

“It’s either in the cellar, miss—but Mr. Rayner keeps the key of that—or else in Sarah’s store cupboard.’’

“That is in the left wing, isn’t it?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Very well, Jane. I have found Sarah’s keys; so I will look in there and see if I can find any,” said l. I did not much like taking this task upon myself; but it would not do to offend the nurse; and I thought it better to venture into Sarah’s domain myself than to trust the duty to Jane.

“Oh, and, if you please, Miss Christie, could you get us out some candles and some moist sugar? They are in there I know, for Sarah went to Beaconsburgh for them yesterday.”

I said I would; and, lighting a candle, I rather nervously pulled open the heavy door of the left wing and entered that mysterious part of the house sacred to Mrs. Rayner. Oh, how cold it was as the door closed behind me! I was growing nervous after the adventures I had had lately, and I did not like to hear the muffled thud of that door as it swung to after me. The store-room was the first door on the right, I knew; and I tremblingly tried the keys until I came to the one which opened it. I shivered. lt was colder than ever in there, a great big bare room, with shelves and cupboards, and old hampers and boxes, and odds and ends of lumber. I could not help thinking how angry Sarah would be if she knew I was in the room, where no member of the household but herself ever ventured, and which had therefore grown into an importance it did not deserve, for it was a very ordinary apartment, and the cupboard I first opened, in search of candles and moist sugar, was a very ordinary cupboard, with the usual store of jams and pickle-jars and household stores of all kinds, except, of course, I thought angrily, as I shivered again with the cold, the candles and moist sugar of which I was in search. I opened another cupboard, I searched on the open shelves, but could pot find either of the things I wanted.

At last I caught sight of a black bag lying on the floor; it looked like the very black bag Sarah had had in her hand when I saw her start for Beaconsburgh on the previous day; perhaps she had not taken her purchases out yet. I took it up; but suddenly my attention was diverted by the fact that in one of the boards of the floor on the spot where it had lain there was a tiny ring. lf I had not had my attention very much on the alert in this unaccustomed place, it would have escaped my notice. As it was, I put my finger through it, and found that it raised a trap-door. l raised it only a few inches, and shut it again directly—not that I had no curiosity about it, but that I had also some fear. An unsuspected trap-door in a house so full of surprises as the Alders had an interest of a rather appalling kind. At last I gathered up my courage, and little by little raised the door and put it right back, not with out a horrid wonder whether there was any spring in it which would shut me down if I ventured on the ladder I saw below me.

The rush of cold air when the trap-door was wide open seemed to take my breath away. I held my candle over the opening, and saw that some three feet below the ladder was green and slimy, and that a foot below that there was water. Was it a well? Suddenly there flashed through my mind Sarah’s words in her delirium of the night before—“The water’s deep in the cellar.” I looked about me for something to try the depth of the water with, for go down I must I found a rod that looked like those used for the bottom of window-blinds, and cautiously, candle in hand, ventured on the ladder. lt was quite firm.

As soon as I was on the bottom dry step, the fourth from the top, I saw that I was in a large cellar, on one side of which were empty wine-bins which looked rotten and green. Above the level of the water the walls were green too. There was a tiny grating high up, from which down to the water there was a long green streak, as if water .continually ran down there. I heard the drip, drip at intervals while I stayed. The cellar ran to the left—under Mrs. Rayner’s room, I suddenly thought with horror. Did she know that she might as well be living over a well? I tried the depth of the water; it was between three and four feet. Then I looked through the rungs of the ladder I was standing on, and thought I saw something behind it. Putting out my rod, I felt something soft which shook at the touch. I peered round the ladder and saw, on a big deal table the top of which had been raised to about eight or ten inches above the water’s level, the little brown portmanteau I had seen Tom Parkes carry across the lawn, the same that I had afterwards discovered inside the back-door. And I remembered now where I had seen it before—stowed away at the bottom of a cupboard in the room I had occupied at Denham Court. I knew it by an old ltalian lug-gage-label, “Torino,” which I had noticed then. lt was within arm’s reach through the rungs of the ladder. With trembling fingers I opened it—for it was not even fastened—and, to my horror, drew out from a confusion of glittering things with which it was half filled a serpent bracelet I had seen lady Mills wear. I put it back, closed the portmanteau with difficulty, and clung to the ladder, overwhelmed by my discovery.

Again my brain seemed to whirl round, as it had done on the previous night when Sarah had been on the point of revealing James Woodfall’s other name. My candle slipped from my fingers, fell with a hiss and a splash into the water below, and I was in darkness.

CHAPTER XXlV.

I gave one cry as my candle fell, and then, instinctively shutting my eyes, as if to hide from myself the dreadful fact that I was in darkness, I felt my way up the ladder out of that dreadful cellar into the stoor-room above. lt was seven o’clock, and only just enough light came through the one little grated window high up in the wall for me to see that there was a window there. But, once on the store-room floor, I crawled cautiously round the square hole I had come up through until I came to the door, which I shut down with a strong sense of relief.. Then I groped about, stumbling over hampers and boxes now and then, and scarcely able to repress a cry at each fresh obstruction, until I came at last to the door. I had left it unlocked; and the moment after I touched the handle I was on the other side. luckily I had slipped the keys into my pocket at first sight of the black bag; and, after long but impatient fumbling, I managed in the dark to fit in the right one and to turn the lock securely. Then I groped my way along the passage; and I never in all my life felt such a thrill of heart-felt thankfulness as I did when the great baize-covered door swung to behind me, and I found myself once more in the lighted hall.

I flung myself into a chair, overwrought and exhausted by what I had suffered in the left wing, and it was not for some minutes that Il noticed an envelope directed simply, in Mrs. Manners’s handwriting, to “Miss Christie, The Alders,” which lay on the table beside me. I tore it open, and, scarcely glancing at her kind little note saying she had received the enclosed when she called at the Beaconsburgh post-office that afternoon, pressed Laurence’s letter to my lips again and again before I opened it. lt said—

“Nice, Friday.

“MY OWN SWEET VIOLET,—I had hoped to find a letter from you waiting for me on my arrival here; but I know very well it is not your fault that I am disappointed, even if I do not hear from you for a whole week—for I will never doubt my darling again. I have had the battle with my mother prematurely, and gained the victory. I intended, as you know, to break my resolution to her gently; but she herself hurried the denouement. We broke the journey at Paris, stopping there last night. As soon as we got there, I opened my writing-case and wrote a tiny note to my darling, just to tell you how I walked up and down the deck of the steamer and sat in a railway-carriage, thinking of you and the last look I had into your beautiful loving gray eyes in the drive on Tuesday night—such a long time ago it seems! I left the room for a minute to order something to eat, with my letter closed up and directed to you on the table, ready to be enclosed to Mrs. Manners. When I came back, I found my mother there; she had torn open my letter and was reading it. Then we had a scene. I asked for my letter, and she tore it up and flung it into the fireplace, with some words about you that sent my forbearance to the winds, and I told her she was speaking about my future wife.

“Your future wife,’ answered she, drawing herself up to her full height and rolling out her voice in a way that always reduces my father to nothingness, ‘ is Miss Llangham of Greytowers.’

“‘ You have been misinformed, mother. In such a matter it is always best to get your information at first hand. Your future daughter-in-law is Miss Violet Christie, the most beautiful girl in Norfolk or out of it And as for Miss langham, if you are so bent upon having her for a daughter-in-law, and she doesn’t mind waiting, you can save her up for Jack.’

“I expected a lot more nonsense; but she was so much taken by surprise that that speech broke the back of the difficulty; and now, though she receives all my attentions frigidly and we are getting along very uncomfortably, she knows her control over her eldest son is at an end. I only want, my darling, that my promise to my father had not prevented my telling her this while we were still in England, for I begin to fancy this journey ‘ for her health ’ was nothing but a trick—a plot, for there were two in it—for getting me away from you. However, I suppose I must live through the two months now somehow, as I promised her. She will keep me to that.

“But I am in a fever of anxiety about you. I will not distress you by a lot of vague suspicions that are rising in my mind to torture me; but I beg of you, my beautiful gentle love, to let me know every little event that happens at the Alders. I pray Heaven you may have very little to tell. And now I entreat you to comply with this my earnest, solemn request. Don’t trust your letters to any one to post—don’t even post them yourself—but give them to my youngest sister, to send on to me. She teaches in the Sunday-school. Get Mrs. Manners to send you up to the Hall on some pretext on Sunday; get Maud alone, and you will find she will do what you ask. Tell her to remember her last promise to me in the conservatory, and I’ll remember mine.

“Keep this letter where no one can get at it—not in a desk—if you don’t tear it up. I feel already such a hunger for a sight of your sweet face—l can’t think of the touch of your little clinging hands about my throat without the tears rising to my eyes. I think I must jump into the sea if I cannot find some means of getting back to you sooner. Good-by; Heaven bless you! Write to me; don’t forget. Keep safe and well, till you are once again in the arms of “Yours devotedly for ever and ever,

“Laurence.”

It was new life to me, it was heart felt unutterable joy, to read this and put my cheek against the signature, to tuck it inside my gown and feel that I was in possession of the most precious treasure the whole world could produce, the first real long letter from the man I loved.

I went into the dining-room, took it out again, and began kissing each line in turn, I was so silly with happiness. I had got to the middle of the second page in this fashion, when the iron bar which fastened the shutters suddenly fell down and swung backwards and forwards almost without noise. I thrust my letter hastily back into my gown and stared at the shutters, too much startled to think what could be the reason of this, when one of them slid softly back, and a man was in the room before I could get to the door. With a cry of relief, I sprang towards him.

“Oh, Mr. Rayner, how you frightened me! I thought you were a burglar.”

“My poor dear little girl, I often come in this way to save kicking my heels at the door; but I wouldn’t have done it, frightening you out of your wits, if I had known you were in here. I thought everybody would be occupied with the two invalids. And how are you, little woman?”

I was so delighted to see him back once more, to feel that at last there was some one to look up to and trust in the house again, that I laughed and cried together as he shook my hands and patted my shoulder, and told me that it would never do to leave me at the Alders in his absence again; he should have to take me with him. I laughed.

“Why, I am too useful here, Mr. Rayner! I don’t know what they would have done without me, with first Haidee ill, and then Sarah. You see, as Mrs. Rayner is never well enough to give any directions, I was obliged to take a good deal upon myself; and I hope you won’t be angry when you hear all I’ve done.”

“No, my child, I am sure I shall not,” said he, helping himself to some cold beef on the sideboard—there was no regular supper at the Alders, but there were always meat and biscuits on the sideboard after tea for those who cared for them. “ How is Mrs. Rayner?” I told him that she was no better and no worse, and that she had moved to-day into the front spare-room.

“To-day?”

“Yes. She was so reluctant to leave her own room that I took the liberty of telling Sarah I would answer to you for delaying the change this one day. Was it too forward of me?” I asked timidly.

“No,” said he very kindly, drawing me into a chair beside him at the table; “I give you full permission to use my authority in any way you think proper.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rayner. And, oh, I don’t know what you will say, but I made Sarah take Haidee’s cot up to my room! The dressing-room in the left wing is so very cold. And then I sent for Doctor LoweL. Was that right? I had heard he was the best doctor in Beaconsburgh.”

I asked this rather nervously, for I knew Mr. Rayner disliked Doctor LoweLL. But he was in too good a humor to find fault with anything.

“All that you have done is perfectly right, and always will be, in my eyes; so you need never fear what I may say to you, child. Have you any more news? I want to hear all about Sarah’s accident, and whether you were very much alarmed when you heard about the robbery at Denham Court.”

“I have a lot to tell you,” I said hesitatingly; “but I won’t tell you any of it to-night, Mr. Rayner, because it is all bad, miserable news, and I won’t spoil your first evening. It is bad enough to come back to a house as full of invalids as a hospital. But it will all come right again now you are back.”

Mr. Rayner laughed, and seemed much pleased. He put his hand on mine, which was lying on the table, and looked into my face very kindly indeed.

“Do you think so, my child? Are you so glad to see me again?”

“Yes, indeed I am. You can’t think how dull the place is when you are away. There is nobody to talk or laugh, and one creeps about the house as if one were in a Trappist monastery, and didn’t dare to break the sacred silence.”

“Thanks, my child; that is the very prettiest welcome home I have had for—years,” said he, with much feeling in his voice.

And he kept me a long time chatting to him and listening to his account of what he had seen in London, until at last I grew very sleepy while he finished the story of his adventures; and I said I must really go to bed, or I should never be able to get up in time for breakfast. As it was, the clock struck eleven before I went upstairs.

The next morning at breakfast the talk was chiefly about the robbery at Denham Court. Mr. Rayner had read the accounts of it in the newspapers, besides the bare mention of it I had made in my letter to him; but now he wanted to hear all we had heard, and whether we were very much alarmed by it. Mrs. Rayner said very little, as usual; and I only told him Mr. Carruthers’s story, reserving the suspicious things I had seen for when I should be able to talk to him alone. The opportunity soon came. I went into the schoolroom after breakfast, thinking I would employ the hour and a half there was to spare before church-time in just beginning my letter to Laurence. But I had not got beyond “My own dearest lau—” when Mr. Rayner came in and smiled in a mischievous manner that brought the color into my cheeks when he saw what I was doing. I put away my letter at once, so I do not know how he guessed to whom I was writing.

“Am I disturbing you?” said he.

“Oh, no! I was only writing a note to pass away the time.”

“Well, and now for all the ‘bad, miserable news’ which was too overwhelming for me to hear about last night.”

“Oh, Mr. Rayner, I don’t know where to begin, and it seems ungenerous to tell it you now, as the person it concerns most is ill and unable to answer for herself!”

“Well, trust to my generosity, child,” said he gravely. “I suppose you mean Sarah. Has she been annoying you again?”

“Oh, yes! But that is not the worst. If it had been only that, I would not have told you anything about it until she was well enough to defend herself. lndeed I am not so inhuman as to have any vindictive feeling against the poor woman now, when her very life is in danger. But I must tell you this, because I know something ought to be done, and you will know what it is.”

“Tell me first how she has annoyed you, and—how the accident happened.”

“She stopped a letter of mine by running after the postman and getting it out of the bag by some excuse or other.”

“When was that?”

“On Wednesday.”

“That is the most unwarrantable thing I ever heard of. I knew the woman was prejudiced against you; but one has to forgive old servants a good many things, and I never guessed she would dare so much as that.”

“Oh, don’t be so angry with her, or I shall never dare to tell you the rest, Mr. Rayner !”

And it required several questions and guesses on his part to draw out from me the account of the accident to Sarah, and the inevitable suspicions as to how it came about. Mr. Rayner turned quite pale when I came to my slipping on the stairs and catching my foot in thé string, and he looked up and out of the window from under his frowning brows with an expression of hard fury that made me instinctively move away from him on my chair, it was so terrible, so merciless. And I had still so much that I must tell him! lt was with averted head that I whispered all the suspicious things I had seen and heard connecting Sarah and Tom Parkes with the Denham Court burglary —my view of Tom carrying something across the lawn; his returning with Sarah; the fact of two men in a cart having been seen outside— I did not say by whom, but I fancy Mr. Rayner guessed; my seeing the brown portmanteau inside the back-door; and lastly my discovery of the portmanteau in the cellar under the store-room, and my recognition of it and of the bracelet I took out of it at haphazard as having both come from Denham Court.

Mr. Rayner listened with the deepest interest, but with some incredulity.

“My dear child, it is impossible—at least I hope from my soul it may turn out to be so! Poor old Sarah is, I acknowledge, the worst-tempered and most vindictive woman alive. But the accomplice of thieves! I cannot believe it.” He got up and walked about the room, questioned me again closely, and then remained for a few minutes in deep thought. “She would never dare! Sarah is afraid of me, and to bring stolen goods into my house would be a greater liberty than even an old servant would take, I think.”

Ah, but you were away, Mr. Rayner! She may have reckoned upon getting the things out of the house before your return,” I suggested.

“And Tom Parkes, too, a fellow I have, a great liking for, and whom I have trusted with money too over and over again,” he went on to himself, scarcely noticing my interruption. I wondered Mr. Rayner did not ask me for the store-room keys and go himself to prove at least one part of my story; but I did not like to suggest it, half fearing, coward that I was, that he would ask me to go with him to that dreadful cellar.

“Don’t say a word about this to any one, child,” said he at last. “I must sift the matter to the very bottom. lt is possible that they may both have been cheated by some clever knave into assisting him innocently. But didn’t you say you saw Tom Parkes carrying what you took for the portmanteau on Tuesday night?”

“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”

“But the burglary was on Wednesday! No, no; you may depend there will be some explanation of the matter as soon as Sarah is able to give an account of herself. ln the mean time I will make inquiries, and I will set your mind at rest as soon as possible.” He remained silent again for a little while, then shook his head, as if to dismiss all disagreeable thoughts, and said, in his usual bright tone, “And now I have a little bit of news for you, which I hope you will think rieither bad nor miserable. How would you like to leave the Alders for a short time, and spend a couple of weeks on the borders of the Mediterranean?”

I looked up at him in bewilderment, which amused him.

“You look at me as if you thought me a magician who could transport you against your will to the uttermost parts of the earth by a wave of my wand. This is how it is. I have to see one of Mrs. Rayner’s trustees on important business at once. He is staying at Monaco, which is, as you know, not far from Nice, where, I learnt by a letter from Mrs. Reade the other day, she and her son are staying. But I dare say that is stale news to you, and anyhow it is a matter of no consequence.”

This was said so mischievously that I could not help growing very red indeed and being thankful when he went on—

“Having to go there myself, I thought the change might do my wife good; and this morning I tried every inducement to persuade her to go, but in vain, as I expected. But for Haidee some change is absolutely necessary, as the Doctor told you. And, as I cannot look after the child entirely by myself, I pondered as to who could do it for me, and I decided upon you.”

“Oh, but,” I began, the impossibility of my travelling alone over Europe with Mr. Rayner and Haidee being clear even to my not very wise brain.

“Now listen, and hear how cleverly I have managed it. Haidee goes to look after her papa, Miss Christie goes to look after Haidee, Mrs. Christie goes to look after Miss Christie.”

“My mother!” I exclaimed.

“Yes. I went to see her yesterday, and proposed the plan to her, not forgetting to put in a word about our friends at Nice. She was delighted, and asked your uncle’s consent at once. We have already settled that she is to meet us at Liverpool Street on our arrival in town next Friday morning.”

“Next Friday!” said I, utterly bewildered. “And leave Mrs. Rayner all alone here?”

“Unless you can persuade her to go with us. You can wheedle a bird off a bough, and I really believe you have more influence with her than I have.”

Indeed it seemed so; for I had often wondered how she could be so obstinate with him, when to me she always seemed as weak as a reed.

“There, child,” said Mr. Rayner, taking a letter from his pocket and putting it into my hands. “You don’t seem able to take it all in. Read that.”

It was a letter in my mother’s handwriting. I opened it, still utterly bewildered. It said—

“MY DARLING VIOLET,—Your kind friend Mr. Rayner is waiting; so I can pen you only these few lines; and I don’t know how to express my feelings at his generous offer. He says I am to write to you and persuade you to go; but I do not think you will need much persuasion. He has directed me to provide an outfit for you at his expense, and bring it with me to liverpool Street Station, where I am to meet you on Friday, though I don’t like starting on a journey on a Friday. Heaven be praised for sending us such kind friends! I have no time for more, as Mr. Rayner is waiting. With best love from your uncle and cousins, in the fond hope of seeing you very soon,

“Your affectionate mother, AMY CHRISTIE.”

My dear mother! lt was just like her to see nothing so very extraordinary in this offer, to take it as a matter of course, and thank Heaven for it in the most simple-minded way, while it troubled me somewhat still. I read the letter twice through, and then tried depre-catingly to thank him for the outfit he had got her to provide.

“Oh, does she mention that? I told her not to do so,” said he, laughing.

“You don’t know my mother. When she has anything to tell, she can’t resist telling it. This letter is just like her. But she has done two things she never in all her life did before—dated her letter and put no postscript.”

CHAPTER XXV.

As soon as we came out of church that morning, I found an opportunity of speaking to Mrs. Manners, and asked her shyly if she could give me any message to take that afternoon to Miss Maud Reade at the Hall.

“Laurence told me to ask you,” I whispered timidly; “it is because he particularly wants my next letter to be enclosed in hers. He didn’t say why; but he is very emphatic about it.”

“Dear, dear,” said kind Mrs. Manners anxiously, “it is a pity young people cannot get on without so many subterfuges! I don’t know whether Mr. Manners would approve. But there—l promised Laurence I would help you—and there is no harm in it—and so I will. Come up to the Vicarage after afternoon service, and l’ll give you a packet of tracts for her.” I thanked her; but she had already turned to reproach a deaf old woman bent with rheumatism for not coming to church oftener, and to promise to send her some beef-tea jelly next day. I made my way to where Mr. and Mrs. Rayner were standing, the former advising old Mr. Reade to send his plate, which was known to be valuable, to the bank at Beaconsburgh for safety.

“Jewel-robberies are epidemic, you know, and I dare say we haven’t seen the last of this series yet,” said he. “There was lord Dalston’s, and now Sir Jonas’s; but they never stop at two. You remember some years ago, when there were five big robberies within six weeks? I shouldn’t wonder if the same sort of thing occurred again.”

“They wouldn’t try for my little store; it wouldn’t be worth their while,” said Mr. Reade, with undisturbed good-humor. “If Laurence were at home, perhaps l’d get him to send the lot off; but I can’t see after things myself; and, if I put ’em all in a cart and packed ’em off to Beaconsburgh, the chances are they would all get tilted into a ditch. So they must take their chance in the old chest at home. l’ve given Williamson a blunderbuss—but I think it frightens him more than it would a thief—and I sleep with a revolver at my bedside; and a man can’t do more.”

“Don’t you think the thieves will be caught, Mr. Rayner?” asked Gregson, the village carpenter, timidly. lt was rumored that he had fifteen pounds and a pair of silver muffineers hidden away somewhere; and he turned to Mr. Rayner, who always took the lead naturally in any discussion, with much anxiety.

“Not in the least likely,” answered Mr. Rayner decisively. “Why should they be? They might be if they had their equals in wits pitted against them; but they haven’t. The ordinary detective has the common defect of vulgar minds, want of resource. The thief, if he is clever enough to be a successful jewel-robber, has the abilities of a general. The bolder he is, the more certain he is of success. The detective, in spite of repeated failures, believes himself infallible. If l were a thief, I should commit robberies as nearly as possible under the detective’s nose. That astute being would never suspect the man who braved him to his face.”

“Ah, it’s very fine to talk,” said one acute villager, who thought Mr. Rayner was really going too far; “ but, when it came to the detective being there, you’d be about as bold as the rest of us, l’m thinking.”

Mr. Rayner laughed good-humoredly enough, and said perhaps he was right; and I heard the acute villager bragging of having put down Mr. Rayner, who, lie said, was a bit bumptious for just a gentleman-fiddler, and wasn’t so much cleverer than the rest of ’em, he guessed,for all his talk.

At dinner Mr. Rayner tried again to induce his wife to go to Monaco, and encouraged me to join my persuasions to his, which I did most heartily. But to all we said she only replied steadily and coldly that she disliked travelling, did not feel well enough to undertake a journey, and preferred remaining at the Alders. She added, in the same parrot-like tone, that she thought the change would do me and Haidee good, and that it was very kind of my mother to go.

After dinner I ran upstairs to my room, and, opening the door softly, found Haidee dozing by the fire. So I sat down to write my scarcely-begun letter to Laurence. I first told him how happy his letter had made me, and then, obeying his injunction to tell him everything that happened at the Alders, I gave him a full account of the way Sarah had prevented our meeting on Wednesday evening, and of her stealing my letter out of the bag on Thursday, of Mr. Carruthers’s visit to tell me of the robbery at Denham Court, of the accident to Sarah on Friday night, of her ravings about a bad man named James Woodfall, of Mr. Rayner’s return, and of his intention to take Haidee, my mother, and me to Monaco in a few days.

The hope of seeing Laurence again soon had by this time swalLowed up every other thought concerning the journey; and I was eager for Friday to come, that we might start.

Then I told him that I had some very grave suspicions about the robbery, that I had told them to Mr. Rayner, who did not think so seriously of them as I did, but that he said I ought not to repeat them to anybody until he had thoroughly sifted the matter, and I had promised not to do so.

“So now you are not to be anxious about my safety any more, my dearest Laurence. For Sarah, the only person who wished me harm, is too ill to move, and is in danger, poor woman, of losing, if not her life, at least her reason, the Doctor says. And Mr. Rayner has promised not to go away again for more than a day at a time, either on business or for pleasure. There seems a curious fatality about his absences, for both these dreadful robberies that have frightened everybody so much lately, the one at lord Dalston’s and the one at Denham Court, have happened while he was away, with no man in the house to protect us against burglars or our fears of them. I think your prejudice against Mr. Rayner ought to break down now that through him we are to meet each other so soon; for when we are at Monaco you will come over and see us, won’t you? My mother is very anxious to make your aquaintance, though she does not know of our engagement, for I dare not tell her any secrets. I think Mr. Rayner must have guessed it though, for he says little things to tease me and make me blush. And you see he does not try to prejudice me against you, as you thought he would. But he might try, and everybody else in the world might try, for years and years, but they would never succeed in changing the heart of your own ever loving “Violet.” I had said at dinner that day, in answer to Mr. Rayner’s inquiries, that I was not going to afternoon service, but I had not mentioned that I was going to the Vicarage. I felt sure that I should blush if I did, and then Mr. Rayner would guess my visit had something to do with Laurence; and I did not want to be teased any more. So, when five o’clock came, and I knew that service must be over, I put on my outdoor things, kissed Haidee, who was now awake, and slipped softly downstairs and out by the schoolroom window. I was not afraid of leaving that unfastened, now that Mr. Rayner bad come back again.

Mrs. Manners met me in the hall of the Vicarage, took me into the drawing-room, and gave me a packet of tracts, two or three of which had names lightly pencilled on them, as specially suitable to certain of the parishioners, as, “The Drunkard’s Warning”-—Mrs. Nabbitts; “The Cost of a Ribbon”—lizzie Mojer. These I was to deliver to Miss Maud Reade for distribution in her district this week.

“Tell her to notice that I have marked some specially,” said Mrs. Manners, as she gave them to me; and I rather wondered how the persons they were directed to would take the attention. l thought that, in spite of her hatred of subterfuge, Mrs. Manners seemed to enjoy the little mystery which hung over my engagement. She kissed me very kindly as she sent me off, and told me I was to let her know when Sarah was well enough to be read to, and she would send something to be read which might do her good. I promised that I would; but I hope it was not impious of me to think, as I could not help thinking, that she was too wicked for any of Mrs. Manners’s good books to have much effect upon her. I went through the side-gate of the Vicarage garden, where I had run against Laurence on that happy evening which seemed so long ago, although in truth*only eight days had passed since then, and my heart beat fast, and. I walked slowly, for it seemed to me that Laurence must be coming round the corner again to meet me; but of course he did not; and I quickened my pace as I crossed the park to the Hall.

The mist was growing very thick, although it was only a little past five; and I knew I must make haste back, or I might risk losing my way, short as the distance was between the Hall and the Alders. I rang the bell, and asked for Miss Maud Reade; and the servant who opened the door, and who, I felt sure, was the Williamson who was afraid of the blunderbuss, showed me into the drawing-room. There was no one there, for they were all at tea.

This was my first entrance into Laurence’s home; and I was so much agitated between pleasure at being in the house he lived in and shame at feeling that by some of the inhabitants at least, if they knew all, I should be looked upon as an unwelcome intruder, that I sank into a chair and buried my face in my hands. lt was a very comforting thought, though, that I was sitting on a chair that Laurence must certainly have sat upon; and then I wondered which was his favorite, and tried one that I thought likely, to see if any instinct would tell me if I were right. I had not made up my mind on that point when the door opened and Miss Maud Reade came in.

She was a girl of about sixteen, with a weak but not disagreeable face; and she shook bands with me rather timidly, but not unkindly.

“Mrs. Manners asked me to bring you these tracts for your district, Miss Reade. She has marked some for people she thinks them specially suitable for,” said l, giving her the packet.

“Thank you; it is very kind of you to take so much trouble,” said she.

“Oh, it is no trouble at all l” I answered.

There was a pause of rather awkward constraint; and then I said in a whisper—

“Laurence—your brother—told me to come and see you, and to ask you to put a—a letter from me to him inside yours. He said I was to tell you to remember your promise, and he would remember his; he underlined that.”

Miss Reade’s constraint broke up at once, and she grew as much excited and as mysterious as l.

“Did he? Then he hasn’t forgotten!” she said, in a hissing whisper.” I suppose you know what it is; it’s about getting Mr. Reynolds to come here next winter. Oh, do keep him up to it! I’ll do anything in the world for you—that won’t get me into trouble with mamma or Alice—if you will!”

” I will. I’ll remind him again in my next letter—-or when I see him. I’ll say, ‘ Don’t forget to invite Mr. Reynolds in the winter.’ Will that do?”

“Oh, yes, that will do beautifully! But it is a long time to wait,” sighed the girl.

I thought she was much too young to be in love, when she was still in short frocks and wore her hair in a pigtail; but I was obliged to help her, in return for the service I wanted her to do me.

“I have brought my letter,” said I mysteriously.”Shall you be writing soon?”

“I have a letter ready now, and I will put yours inside and give it to a gentleman who is here, and who is going back to london directly after tea, and I will ask him to post it at once.”

”Oh, thank you!” said l; and tremblingly, with fear lest the dreaded Alice should get hold of it, I put my letter into her hands, and soon afterwards left the house.

The fog was already so much thicker that I wondered whether the gentleman with our letter would be able to find his way back to london that night, and even whether I could find mine back to the Alders. I must be sure to keep to the drive in crossing the park. But, before I got to that, I lost myself among the garden-paths, and walked into a fLower-bed; and I began to think I should have to find my way back to the door and ask ignominiously to be led to the gate, when I heard voices on my left; and I made my way recklessly in their direction across grass, fLower-beds, and everything. I could not see the speakers yet, for there was a hedge or something between us; but I could distinguish that they were the voices of a young man and a young woman of the Lower class. Thinking one of them at least must be a servant at the Hall, and able to direct me, I was just going to speak through the hedge, when a few words in the man’s voice stopped me.

“I have had enough of you Norfolk girls; you are too stand off for me. lt was the voice of Tom Parkes.

“Yes, to such weather-cocks as you,” answered the girl, with rough coquetry. “Why, you were keeping company with that ugly Sarah at Mr. Rayner’s; and, now she is ill, you want to take up with me. Oh, a fine sweetheart you’d make!”

But she was not as obdurate as these words promised. It seemed to me, with my suspicions concerning Tom already strong, that in the talk which folLowed he managed with very little difficulty to find out a good deal about the ways of the household, and also that he spoke as if he had learnt from her a good deal already. Presently I heard the sound of a kiss, and he promised to come and see her again on Wednesday; and then they went away; while I, seized by a sudden inspiration, found my way not to the park, but back to the house, which was less difficult.

I asked for Miss Maud Reade again; and this time she rushed out of the drawing-room and met me in the hall as soon as I was announced, and whispered—

“They are all in there. Come into the library.”

“May I have my letter back, just to put in something I have forgotten?” said l.

“Oh, yes; here it is!”—and she drew it from her pocket. “Write it here. I will give you a pen. Why, how white you look t Has anything happened?”

“Oh, no, no, nothing, thank you!”

I wrote on a half-sheet of paper, which I carefully folded inside my letter, these words—

“A man who was at Denham Court, and about whom I have strong suspicions, is hanging about the Hall now. He is coming here again on Wednesday night.”

I put my letter into a fresh envelope, and put the torn one into my pocket that it might not be seen about; then I begged Miss Reade earnestly to send the letter off at once, as there was something in it of the utmost importance; and she whispered again, “Remember— Mr. Reynolds in the winter!” and, having this time got Williamson to show me as far as the beginning of the drive across the park, I made my way in safety, but slowly and with much difficulty, back to the Alders, I slipped through the schoolroom window, which I had left unfastened; and, as soon as I was inside, I heard Mr. Rayner’s study door open, and his voice and that of Tom Parkes in the passage leading from the hall. Mr. Rayner was speaking in his usual kind and friendly way to him, and I thought to myself that it would be useless for me to tell him what I had just heard, which, after all, was nothing in itself, and only became important in connection with the suspicions l already had of the man—suspicions which Mr. Rayner himself refused to share. And, when Tom Parkes had said, “Well, good-night, sir,”’ and gone in the direction of the servants’ hall, and Mr. Rayner had returned to his study, I ran upstairs and prepared for tea, at which meal I felt rather guilty, but said nothing of my expedition or its results.

That evening Mr. Rayner kept me in the drawing-room accompanying his violin, and talking, until after Mrs. Rayner had gone up to the room she now used on the upper floor. He described to me the beauties of the Mediterranean shore, and said that I should be happier there than I had ever been in my life—which I could easily believe when I thought how near I should be to Laurence. He asked me if I was not anxious to see the pretty dresses my mother had been commissioned to get for me, and told me I should look like a little princess if I were good and did just what I was told.

“There is no fear of my not doing that, Mr. Rayner,” said l, smiling. “But you must not give me too handsome dresses, or I shall not feel at home in them.”

“You will soon get used to them,” said he, with a curiously sharp smile. “There is nothing that women get used to sooner than fine clothes and beautiful jewels, and pretty idleness and—kisses.”

Certainly I liked Laurence’s kisses; but the tone in which Mr. Rayner said this grated upon me, and brought the hot blood to my cheeks uncomfortably. He saw the effect his words had upon me, and he jumped up and came towards where I was standing ready to light my candle.

“You look hurt, my child, but you have no reason for it. Don’t you know that all those things are the lawful right of pretty women?”

“Then it is a right a good many of them are kept out of all their lives, Mr. Rayner,” said l, smiling.

“Only the silly ones,” he returned, in a tone I did not understand. “Well, I will explain all that to you on our journey to Monaco.”

He looked very much excited, as he often did after an evening spent with his violin; and his blue eyes, in which one seemed to see the very soul of music, flashed and sparkled as he held my hand.

“Don’t be surprised at what I have said to you this evening. You have brought me luck, and you shall share it. This journey shall take you to the arms of a lover who will give you all the things I spoke of and more—a thousand times more!”

That was true indeed, I thought to myself (but did he mean what I meant?) as I tore myself, laughing and blushing, away and ran upstairs. There was more delight in the mere fact that Laurence preferred me to any other woman in the world than in all the beautiful gowns and jewels that ever princess wore. And I went to sleep that night with my hands under my pillow clasping his letter.

Haidee left my room next day for the first time, and spent the afternoon by the dining-room fire. Soon after dinner Mr. Rayner came in with his riding-boots on, and asked with a smile if I had not a letter to send to the post. He was going to ride to Beaconsburgh, and, if I gave it to him, it would go a post earlier than if I put it into the bag for the postman to fetch.

“No, I have no letter, thank you, Mr. Rayner,” said l, with a blush.

“Not a line for—Nice, to tell—some one you are coming?” said he archly.

“No,” answered l, shaking my head.

“You posted that one yesterday yourself, didn’t you, Miss Christie?” whispered little Haidee, putting her arms round my neck.

Mr. Rayner heard the whisper.

“Yesterday?” asked he quickly.

“l—l gave a—a note to Miss Reade to put with hers,” said l.

A curious change passed over Mr. Rayner. The smile remained on his face, which had however in one second turned ashy white. He said, “All right, my dear,” in his usual voice, except that l fancied there was a sort of hard ring in it, and left the room.

“Was it naughty of me to say?” said Haidee, feeling that something was wrong.

“Oh, no, my darling!” I answered.

I too was afraid I had displeased Mr. Rayner by going to the Hall, without saying anything about it to any one, in what must seem a sly, underhand manner; and I wished Laurence had not enjoined me to send my letter in that way.

That evening, at tea-time, Mr. Rayner announced that he had found a letter waiting for him at the Beaconsburgh post-office which obliged him to go to Monaco a day sooner.

So Haidee and I must be prepared to start on Thursday morning.

CHAPTER XXVl.

On Tuesday afternoon, while I was helping Haidee to dress her doll in the dining-room, there was a ring at the front-door bell, and shortly afterwards Jane came in, looking rather frightened, saying a gentleman was in the hall asking for Sarah.

“And l’ve told him she is ill, Miss Christie; but he won’t believe me; and he won’t go away, and Mr.. Rayner is out; and please will you speak to him?”

I got up, and, following her into the hall, found, not a gentleman, but a respectably-dressed man, who very civilly apologized for disturbing me.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am; but are you Miss Rayner?”

“Oh, no!”

“Mrs. Rayner?”

“No. Mrs. Rayner is an invalid, and I am afraid you cannot see her. I am the governess. If you have any message for Mr. Rayner, I will give it to him; or, if you like, you can write him a note, and it shall be given him when he returns.”

“Thank you, miss.”

Still he hesitated.

“Would you like to wait for Mr. Rayner? He will be back in about an hour.”

“Thank you. Could I speak to you in private for a few minutes, miss?”

“Oh, yes, certainly! Will you come in here?”—and I opened the door of the schoolroom.

He folLowed me in and shut it carefully.

“l am the brother of Sarah Gooch, miss, who is a servant here.”

I nodded assent.

“l’ve been abroad and worked myself into a good position, and now I want my sister to leave service. And I don’t want the other servants to know Il’m her brother. lt may be pride; but perhaps you’ll excuse it, miss. Would you mind sending for her without saying it’s her brother wants her?’

How could I break the fact of her illness to the poor man?

“Oh, please be prepared for bad news! I’m so sorry!” said I gently. “She is ill—very ill.”

To my surprise, he looked more incredulous than unhappy. He said very suddenly—

“She was quite well last Friday afternoon.”

“Yes—an accident happened to her on Friday night She fell down a flight of stairs and injured herself severely. If you will only wait until Mr. Rayner comes, he will speak to you. Sarah is a very old servant in this family, and much respected, and she has every possible care, I assure you.”

But he still seemed more curious than anxious about her, I thought “She has been in the family a long time then? Excuse me, miss, but l’ve been away so long that she is almost like a stranger to me, and I had great difficulty in finding her out But I’m very glad to hear she is thought so well of.”

“Oh, yes! Mr. Rayner has the greatest confidence in her.”

I did not want to say anything disagreeable about the woman now that she was ill, especially to her brother, whose affection did not seem very warm as it was.

“Ah, that’s the great thing! We’ve always been a family to hold our heads high, and I couldn’t hear anything to please me more about her. But I expect it’s little use my coming home and wanting her to keep house for me. She was a good-looking girl, and I’ve no doubt she’s looking forward to marrying on her savings, and then we shall be just as far apart as ever. Do you know, miss—if it’s not troubling you too much, and you won’t take it a liberty—if she’s got a sweetheart?” I hesitated. The man’s cold curiosity seemed so unlike the warm interest of a brother that I began to wonder whether I was right in giving him the information he wanted. My doubts were so vague and his questions so very harmless, however, that, when he said—

“I beg your pardon, miss—of course it is not for a lady like you to interest yourself in the likes of us—” I broke out—

“Oh, pray don’t think that! Sarah has an admirer, I know—”

I stopped. I could not say anything reassuring about Tom Parkes. Ah! An honest hard-working fellow, I hope, who’ll make her a good husband.”

He was more interested now, and was looking at me very search-ingly.

“I can’t speak to a man’s prejudice behind his back,” said I slowly; “but—”

He was very much interested at last, and was waiting impatiently for my next words, when Mr. Rayner quietly entered the room. There had been no ring at the front door. He looked inquiringly at the man, whom I was just going to introduce as Sarah’s brother, when the latter anticipated me by saying quietly—

“From Scotland Yard, sir.”

“Scotland Yard?” echoed Mr. Rayner inquiringly. But the name did not seem new to him, as it did to me.

“Yes, sir; l’ve been sent after a woman named Sarah Gooch, from information received that she was in your service. Mr. Gervas Rayner I believe, sir?”

Why did he not own he was her brother? I thought to myself.

“Yes, that is my name. But what on earth do you want with my servant, Sarah Gooch?”

The man glanced at me. Mr. Rayner said—

“Go on. Never mind this lady; she is as much interested in the woman as I am. What do you want with my old servant Sarah?”

“Suspected of complicity in the Denham Court robbery, sir—some of the property traced to her.”

I started violently. This man, then, was not Sarah’s brother at all, but a detective who had been trying to extract information from me by a trick! Mr. Rayner stared full in his face for a few moments, as if unable to find words; then he exclaimed, in a low voice—

“Impossible!*’

“Sorry to shake your trust in an old servant, sir; but proof is proof.”

“But what proof have you?” asked Mr. Rayner earnestly.

“Last Friday afternoon, between half-past four and twenty minutes to five, your servant Sarah Gooch was seen to give the contents of a black bag to a man in Beaconsburgh. The fact excited no suspicion. The man took the next train to london, travelling second-class. But south of Colchester he was seized with a fit; he was taken out at the next station, the bag he had with him examined for his address, jewels found in it, and the police at Scotland Yard communicated with. The man escaped; but, on inquiries being made, witnesses were found to prove conclusively that the biscuit-tin which contained the jewel had been handed to him in a street in Beaconsburgh, on Friday afternoon, between half-past four and twenty minutes to five, by a woman who was identified as Sarah Gooch.”

I remembered seeing Sarah pass through the plantation on Friday afternoon, on her way to Beaconsburgh, with the black bag. But I was too horror-stricken to speak, even if I had not been, new that the blow had fallen, as anxious to screen her as Mr. Rayner himself was to prove her innocence.

“But I cannot believe it!” said Mr. Rayner. “She is a rough, harsh woman; but I have always found her honest as the day.”

“She may have been instigated,” suggested the detective. “lt’s wonderful what things women will do for their lovers, and she had a lover—not of the best possible character.”

Mr. Rayner gave a quick glance at me, and I felt guilty, for it was indeed I who had given this piece of information.

“Do you know his name?” asked Mr. Rayner.

“I am not in a position to state it yet; but we have our suspicions,” said the man cautiously.

Mr. Rayner gave no sign of incredulity; but I knew his face well enough now to be able to tell that he did not believe him.

“The main point now is, having traced the jewels to the woman Sarah Gooch, to find out how they came into her possession. I must ask you to let me see the woman and question her. Taken by surprise, she may confess everything.”

“You shall see her,” said Mr. Rayner gravely, “and then judge for yourself whether she is in a state to answer questions. I will ask the nurse if you can see her now. Miss Christie, would you mind going up with me and watching in her place while Mrs. Saunders comes out to speak to me ?”

We went up together, scarcely speaking a word; and I sent out the nurse to him and stood watching in her place. Sarah, looking more hideous than ever with the white bandage round her head and against her leather-colored face and black hair, was turning her head from side to side, and moaning and muttering feebly. The only words one could catch seemed to refer to the pain she was in. Then the door opened, the nurse re-entered, and the detective, with Mr. Rayner behind him, peeped in. A glance at the hollow face and dry lips of the sick woman might have satisfied him that her illness was no sham; but he watched her and listened to her mutterings for some minutes before he retired. I left the room as quickly as I could—the sight of the ghastly figure of the guilty woman sickened me.

“You see,” Mr. Rayner was saying as I got outside, “she is quite unable at present to speak for herself. I hope, and indeed believe, that, when she can do so, she will be able to clear herself of anything worse than perhaps the innocent passing of the stolen goods from one rogue to another, without herself having the least idea of the crime she was being made to participate in. I will do all in my power to assist the course of justice. The doctor will be here in the morning, and he will tell you when she is likely to be able to give an account of herself. ln the mean time you shall spend the night here. Miss Christie, will you kindly tell Mrs. Jennings to prepare the room next to mine and Mrs. Rayner’s?”

The name “Mrs. Jennings” for the moment puzzled me; then I remembered it was that of the cook, and I wondered why he had not said Jane. His room and Mrs. Rayner’s! Did Mr. Rayner then sleep in the house since his wife’s change of apartment?

The cook grumbled a good deal when I gave her the order. What was the house being turned topsy-turvy for? Why had Mr. Rayner just sent Jane off to Wright’s Farm to pay the corn-bill, to-day of all days, when there was a visitor and more to do? Telling her she might stop the night too, if the fog came on, as it was doing, when he might have known she wouldn’t want telling twice when that hulking young Peter Wright was about the farm! She knew what it was; Jane would not be back till late to morrow afternoon, if she was then, and—

And so the cook went on, until suddenly Mr. Rayner appeared upon the scene, and she broke off in her complaints, startled.

“l am afraid I have entailed a good deal of trouble upon you, cook, by thoughtlessly giving Jane permission to spend the night at the farm if the fog grew thick; so I have just asked Mrs. Saunders to take her upstairs duties till Jane comes back, in return for which you will be kind enough to watch by Sarah during her unavoidable absences.”

This silenced the cook at once. lt was a just punishment for her grumbling, for there was no duty she would not rather have undertaken than that of watching by the unconscious Sarah even in her quiet moments. She said to me afterwards that the nurse was very good; directly Sarah began to talk or grow excited, Mrs. Saunders always managed to hear, and came in to relieve her from the unpleasant task of listening to the sick woman’s ravings. I left Mr. Rayner talking to the cook, and went back to Haidee in the dining-room. When tea-time came, Mr. Rayner entered with the detective, whom he now addressed as “Mr. Maynard,” and treated as a distinguished guest. Mr. Maynard talked rather interestingly when his host drew him out, and was elaborately courteous to Mrs. Rayner, whose cold manner rather overawed him, and to me. He went to his room early, and, when Mrs. Rayner had gone to hers, I remained in the drawing-room putting the music in order, as Mr. Rayner had told me to do.

“This day’s events have upset me more than you can imagine, child,” said he, passing his hand through his hair wearily. “That vixen Sarah has always seemed honest—and yet I don’t know what to believe.”

“And, you know, the portmanteau I found in the cellar,” I whispered timidly.

Mr. Rayner started.

“Good Heaven, I had forgotten that! Or rather I had dismissed it from my mind as a fancy brought about by the excitement of Sarah’s accident, and hastily connected in your mind with your view of poor old Tom Parkes carrying a box across the lawn. Where are the store-room keys, child ?” asked he excitedly. “We must go at once to the cellar, and— Heaven help us if what I took for your fancy should prove to be the truth!”

I tremblingly produced the keys, which I carried about with me; and, much against my will, I accompanied Mr. Rayner into the left wing. He took the keys from me; but he was so very excited that he could not find the right one to fit into the door, and I opened it for him. We crossed the store-room. There lay the black bag on one side of the trap-door, where I bad put it down on catching sight of the little ring in the floor. I put my finger through this and raised it again, not without a shudder at the remembrance of my last visit, and Mr. Rayner went down hastily, while I held the candle for him to see by.

“No, my child, I see nothing,” said he, as he peered about.

“ look through the ladder; it is behind there,” said I.

Mr. Rayner looked through it, then looked round it, stretched his arm out, and again raised his face to mine, this time however with a look of unutterable relief.

“ Thank Heaven, it was your fancy, child!” said he. “ There is nothing there.”

“Not a deal table?” I gasped.

“ No—nothing but water.”

“ Perhaps the water has risen higher and covered it?”

“Come down yourself and see. Or are you afraid to come down again?”

“ No, I am not afraid,” said I uncertainly.

He came up and took the candle from me, while I descended. The water, I knew by the number of steps which were dry above it, was at the same ievel as before. I looked through the ladder and round it Table and portmanteau had utterly disappeared. As I looked up suddenly, Mr. Rayner’s face, distorted by the weird light thrown on it by the flickering candle, seemed to me to wear a mocking smile which made the handsome features hideous and alarming.

“Let me come up,” said I sharply.

He held out his hand, and, when I, trembling and tottering, reached the top of the ladder, he flung his arm round me to support me. But I was so sick with the horror of finding my story—my true story— disproved, and with the fancy I had had on looking up at Mr. Rayner’s face, that I slid from his arm, ran out of the store-room, along the passage and through the swing-door, and leaned against the hall-table to recover myself. Mr. Rayner was at my side in a few minutes, and, almost unconsciously, I let him lead me back into the drawingroom. He brought me some brandy-and-water and made me drink it, and bathed my forehead, and told me gently not to be frightened, for I should soon be out of this dreary place and among beautiful scenes where I should forget the gloom of this sepulchral, dead-alive house, which was turning my poor little brain.

“But indeed I did see the portmanteau the first time!” said I piteously.

“Yes, dear child, I know,” said Mr. Rayner.

But I saw he did not believe me; and the tears began to roll down my cheeks.

“You must not cry, you must not cry! You will spoil your pretty face if you cry,” said Mr. Rayner almost angrily. I knew he hated the sight of anything ugly or distressing—it was part of an artist’s nature, he said; so I forced back my tears as fast as I could, and tried to smile.

“There is my lovely girl again!” said he, stopping in front of me —he had walked up and down the room while I wept. “We will never mention Sarah’s name again when once we are away from her, little one,” said he. “But until we go, or until our respected friend Mr. Maynard goes, I am afraid she must still occupy a good deal of our thoughts. She will certainly not be able to submit to any cross-examination on his part to-morrow, or for a long time to come— if she ever is,” said he gravely. “And in the mean time he will try to trump up a story and to criminate as many persons as he can, just to show his superiors that he has not wasted his time here. And certainly he will leave our poor Sarah without a rag of character.”

“But, do you know, Mr. Rayner, I don’t think Sarah has always been as nice a woman as you suppose,” said I timidly. “From what I have heard her say, I think, when she was young, she must have had some horrid friends who made her do all sorts of wrong things; and that is why I cannot be as much surprised as you are at her doing wicked things now.”

“Did you tell Mr. Maynard that?”

“No, I only answered his questions. He said he was her brother —and of course I did not want to make him doubt bis own sister. But, Mr. Rayner, I want to ask you something. Have you ever heard of a James Woodfall?”

He was sitting by me on the sofa, with his head turned away. He did not answer my question at once. Then he said very quietly—

“Did Mr. Maynard ask you that?”

He turned slowly as he said so, until his eyes met mine.

“Oh, no! I heard Sarah say the name when she was delirious— the first night—Friday night,” I whispered.

“Oh! Was he a friend of Sarah’s?”

“Oh, yes! I think she must have been in love with him when she was young, and he must have been a very bad man who made her do anything he liked; and the most curious part of it is that she—she mixes his name up with the people she knows now,” said I, Lowering my voice still more.

“How?” asked Mr. Rayner. “Whose name does she mix his up with?”

“Why, with—with mine, Mr. Rayner!” said I, blushing uncomfortably at the very thought. “She kept saying in her ravings that this wicked forger—for she said he was a forger—James Woodfall, was in love with me and wanted to marry me, and that he wanted her i to help to marry this common thief to me. Wasn’t it dreadful to have to listen to that?” whispered I excitedly.

“Did she say James Woodfall was a common thief?”

I “No, I gathered that from what she said. Did you ever hear of him, Mr. Rayner?”

“Yes, I have heard of him, and I believe he is alive now,” said he.

“Then I believe that she is in love with him still, and that he is at the bottom of this dreadful robbery!” cried I, much excited. “Oh, Mr. Rayner, couldn’t you find out from Sarah where he is now, while the detective is here, and get him caught?” I said breathlessly.

Mr. Rayner shook his head thoughtfully.

“Iam afraid not, my dear child. If James Woodfall is the man I mean, he will never be taken alive,” said he.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Mr. Rayner slept that night in the dressing-room leading out of the large front room which bis wife now occupied. I met him coming out of it as I went downstairs to breakfast the next morning. I spent the hours until dinner-time in my own room, packing and preparing for the journey the next day. lt was curious, I thought, that I had not heard again from my mother, who would naturally be overflowing with excitement about such a great event. I had written a long letter to her on Monday, and put it into the post-bag, with no misgivings as to its safety now that my enemy Sarah was ill. lt was a very pleasant thing to think that I should soon be with my mother again, and that in a few days I should see Laurence; but there was a less bright view to be taken of the expedition, and from time to time, in the midst of my happy an-ticipation, it troubled me. lt seemed an unkind thing, in spite of her obstinate refusal to quit the Alders, to leave delicate Mrs. Rayner alone in this dreary place, the gloom and damp of which had evidently had much to do with the morbid state of mind she was in, with no companions, and no other inmates of the house, except a weird child who was not fond of her, two servants, a sick-nurse, and a delirious invalid. I had noticed faint signs of nervous agitation in her manner lately when the coming journey was alluded to, and I had caught her eyes fixed upon mine sometimes as if she had something to say to me which she could not bring herself to the point of uttering; and the strange perversity of the poor lady, who seemed now mad, now sane, puzzled me more and more.

The Doctor, for whose verdict Mr. Maynard was waiting, did not come that day until just before dinner; and then his report was as gloomy as possible. He did not think it probable that Sarah would ever recover her reason, and the only change she was likely to get from her sick-room was to the county lunatic asylum. On hearing this, the detective, who had spent the morning in making inquiries, in searching Sarah’s boxes, and even her room, at Mr. Rayner’s suggestion, in examining- every corner of the housekeeper’s room in which she generally sat, and of the store-cupboard under the stairs, which was also under her charge—but I do not think he went into the left wing, where the large store-room was—having failed to make any discovery, wished to return to town that afternoon; but Mr. Rayner pressed him to stay, saying that he would drive him over to Denham village that afternoon, and, in the character of a friend of his, come down from town for a few days, he could examine the scene of the robbery and make inquiries without any one’s suspecting who he was, and perhaps pick up some scraps of information which would save him from the reproach of having made a journey in vain.

“Do you know enough about railways to pass for an engineer, or inspector, or anything of that sort?” asked Mr. Rayner. “You know, of course, that suspicion has fallen upon a gang of navvies who are at work upon the line near there; but, although there have been detectives among them since, not one has been sharp enough to discover anything yet.”

The man seemed a little shy at first of interfering in a branch of the work of watching which had been put into other hands. But he was rather put upon his mettle by the allusion to the fact that his journey had been so far a failure. And Mr. Rayner whispered to me in the hall, with his eyes twinkling, when the detective was already seated in the dog-cart at the door, that he had put that fellow up to discovering something—it did not matter what, wrong or right. He said they should be back early, as the fog was rising already, and, in order to rdpay Mr. Maynard for detaining him, there was to be dinner at palf-past six, instead of the usual tea at half-past five. And, in the very highest spirits, Mr. Rayner patted my shoulder, told me to save myself up for next day, and that he had a present to give me on the journey, and jumped into the dog-cart. I went back into the dining-room, where the cook was clearing away the luncheon; Jane, as she had predicted, not having come back yet. Mrs. Rayner was sitting by the fire, with Haidee on her lap.

“Are you unhappy at the thought of losing her so soon?” said I softly, leaving my seat and kneeling by her side, as soon as the cook had left the room.

Mrs. Rayner looked at me earnestly, and then whispered—

“No, I am not unhappy about her, but about you.”

“About me, Mrs. Rayner!” I exclaimed, in astonishment.

“Hush!” she whispered softly. She took her arms from her child’s neck, and told her to go and play; and Haidee obediently walked to the window, where her doll was lying on the floor.

“lt is as much as my wretched life is worth to warn you,” whispered she, taking the hand I had laid on her lap, and clasping and unclasping her own about it nervously. “You are kind-hearted, and innocent as a child—I see that now,” she continued, her eyes wandering restlessly about the room. I began to be afraid of a fit of hysterics, or worse; and I begged her not to talk if it fatigued her, and asked her if I should fetch some eau-decologne. She shook her head.

“l am not hysterical—don’t be afraid of that,” said she, turning her great eyes upon me, as if in reproach. “I only want to tell you this—when you arrive in london to-morrow, if your mother is not waiting at the station, insist upon going to her house before you go farther. Do not on any account enter another train without her.

Call the guard—make a disturbance at the station—do anything rather.”

“But how can l?” said I gently. “l cannot insist against Mr. Rayner. He would not listen. You know that, when he tells one to do a thing, there is such a strong authority about him, one must do it.”

“Try, try!” said she earnestly. “l believe you have the power, if you have the courage. You have thwarted his wishes as nobody else has ever dared to do—in sending for Doctor Lowe, in taking Haidee upstairs. Try once more. lt is not Sarah’s safety that is concerned this time, nor Haidee’s, but your own. For Heaven’s sake, try!”

She lay back in the chair, her face, neck, and hands all wet with the violence of her feeling and her unaccustomed vehemence. Yet her voice had never once risen above a whisper that could not have been heard at the other end of the room. She raised her head again, and read with unexpected penetration the look on my face.

“lam not mad, Miss Christie,” she said quite quietly. “Think me mad if you like—if your mother meets you at liverpool Street Station. But, if not, remember my warning; it may have cost me my life.”

She shook off my hand and lay back again, as if wishing for rest. And I remained on my knees beside her, not knowing what to think, whether she was mad or sane, whether I should follow her advice or dismiss her words as—no, I could not think them idle; that she herself had been in terrible earnest as she uttered them I could not doubt. What then? She wanted to make me distrust her husband. She had not spoken like a jealous woman; she was too cold, too indifferent for jealousy. What strange fancy was this of hers about the journey? lf my mother should not be at the station waiting for us, which was very likely, as she was seldom punctual, I should still have Haidee with me. I should naturally suggest waiting for her; but, if she did not come soon, probably Mr. Rayner himself would either send or go to my uncle’s house in search of her. What had I to fear with Mr. Rayner, my best and kindest friend, next to Laurence, in the world? Why should a morbid fancy of his poor, sickly, fanciful wife trouble me?

And yet the impression her words had made upon me was so strong that I determined, if my mother should not arrive at the station shortly after us—that she would be there already was too much to expect of her—that I would ask Mr. Rayner to let me take a cab to my uncle’s house and fetch her myself.

Mrs. Rayner scarcely spoke for the rest of the afternoon; that unusual burst of vehemence seemed to have exhausted her.

The fog, which had been hanging about us for days, grew so thick as the afternoon wore on that we had to have the lamps lighted much earlier than usual, and it was quite dark when, at about half-past four, there was a ring at the front-door bell. The cook came in to say that a boy from the village wanted to qpeak to Miss Christie; and I went into the hall and found a little fellow of about ten whom I did not know, who told me that Mrs. Manners, who was at the school-house, had sent to ask me to come to her at once, as she wished to speak to me about the dole. This was a yearly distribution of clothing and money among the very poor people of the parish, which took place in November. lt was rather strange that Mrs. Manners should want to speak to me about it, I thought at first, as I was not a district visitor. However, of course I must go; and I went back into the dining-room and told Mrs. Rayner about it.

“Don’t go, Miss Christie,” said she at once. “lt is some trap, some trick; Mrs. Manners never sends messages but by her own boys. Don’t go.”

“I don’t like not to go,” said I hesitatingly. “lt may be something of importance, and Mrs. Manners has been so kind to me. Please let me go, Mrs. Rayner.”

She shrank into herself, and leaned back again as the cook reappeared at the door, saying the boy said Mrs. Manners’s message was —would I make haste?

“Of course you can go, Miss Christie,” said Mrs. Rayner listlessly. I ran upstairs and was down again ready for tfiy walk in a few minutes. The boy was evidently prepared to accompany me; and the fog was so thick that I was glad of it, for he was more used to the turns of the road than I; and even he had to go very slowly and to keep close to the hedge. He kept urgfcig me to make haste, however, and I folLowed him as fast as I could, while he turned every other minute to see that I was still behind him.

The school was about half a mile from the Alders, among the first houses of the village. When I stumbled against a milestone which was, I knew, not far from our destination, the boy said—

“Here, miss, take care! This way.”

And, taking a corner of my cloak, he led me round into a path which branched off to the left.

“But you are going wrong,” I said. “lt is straight on, I know— not up here. This is the way to Dunning’s Farm, half a mile off.”

“lt’s all right, miss,” said he. “l’m afraid of our being run over along the high road now we’re so near the village. Come on, miss; it’s all right.”

He was very impatient; and I folLowed him, not without some misgivings. We had groped our way up this lane for what seemed to me a very long time, when the boy stopped and whistled.

“What are you doing that for?” said I sharply.

But the boy, who, by making bi*t a few steps forward, was lost to my sight in the fog, whistled again. I stood for a moment trembling with terror. Then the boy exclaimed angrily—

“Why, he ain’t here!”

“He! Who?” I cried, in alarm; and at that moment I heard a crackling of branches, and saw dimly through the fog, a few yards in front of me, the figure of a man crashing through the hedge, and leaping down from the field into the road.

Smothering a cry, I turned, and ran I knew not whither. lt was Tom Parkes or Gordon, who had decoyed me out here to punish me for my discoveries, which Sarah must have told them about. l heard the boy say, “Thank ye,” and then the footsteps of the man coming nearer to me. My only hope was that I might perhaps escape him in the blinding fog by crouching under the hedge till he had passed; but, to my horror, he was coming as slowly and as cautiously as I. I had found my way to the hedge and knelt down close under it, my face almost in among the briers and thorns. He passed me; I could see the vague form as it went by. But in my joy at the sight I drew a sharp breath; he turned back, groped for me, found, and raised me to my feet, all without a word. I closed my eyes and shuddered. For the first moment I felt too exhausted by the excitement of those awful minutes to struggle much. I could only feebly try to push him off, crying brokenly—

“Don’t—don’t hurt me!”

“Hurt you, my own darling! Look up at me. Heaven help me, I have nearly frightened you to death!”

I looked up with a cry, and flung my arms round his neck. It was Laurence, his face so haggard and so dirty as to be scarcely recognizable; but he told me, as he kissed me again and again, that I must not mind that, for he had travelled night and day without a moment’s rest since he got my letter on the morning of the previous day.

“And, thank Heaven, I am in time, in time!” he cried, as he pressed me again in his arms.

“ln time for what, Laurence? I should have been near you in two days,” said I wonderingly. “We were to start to-morrow morning.”

“To-morrow morning! Just a few hours more, and I should have lost you!” cried the poor fellow in such agony of horror and relief at the same time that only to see him in that state brought the tears to my own eyes.

“Lost me, Laurence? Oh, do tell me what you mean!” I cried piteously.

“Oh, Violet, are you still so ipnocent as to think that that man would have brought you to me?”

“Why not?” asked I, in a whisper.

“Because he loves you himself,” said he between his teeth—“if the feeling even you inspire in such a man can be called love. Your innocence would not have protected you much longer. Oh, I was a fool, a blind fool, ever to leave you, for father—mother—anybody in the world ! But I did not know quite all until your own sweet naive letter opened my stupid eyes.”

“Oh, Laurence, Laurence, what dreadful things are you saying?” I cried, shaking with fear even in his arms.

“Never mind, my own darling; you are safe now,” said he very gently. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I ought to have warned you long ago; but I could not bear to-—”

“But, Laurence, my mother is going with us. Didn’t I tell you that? I had a letter from her—”

“Which she never wrote. On my way back to London, I telegraphed to your mother to meet me at Charing Cross Station, and there she told me she had never seen Mr. Rayner and never heard a word of the journey to Monaco.”

This blow was too much for me; I fainted in his arms. When I recovered, I found that he had carried me some distance; and, as soon as I began to sigh, he put me down and gave me some brandy-and-water out of his flask.

“I’m always wanting that now, I think,” said l, trying weakly to smile as I remembered that two or three times lately Mr. Rayner had given it to me when I seemed to be on the point of fainting. “You are the first person who has made me go off quite, though,” I said.

And poor Laurence took it as a reproach, and insisted on our stopping again in the fog for me to forgive him. We were making our way slowly, in the increasing darkness, down the lane to the highroad.

“But what am I to do, Laurence?” I asked tremblingly. “Shall I tell Mr. Rayner—oh, I can’t think he is so wicked!—shall I tell him you have come back, and don’t want me to leave England?”

“Not for the world, my darling,” said he, quickly. “Nobody in Geldham—not even at the Hall—knows I have come back. That is why I had to send for you on a pretext, and frighten you out of your life. The boy I sent for you did not know me. I got here in a fly from the station only a few minutes before I met him, and sent him off with the promise of a shilling if he brought you back with him.”

“Ah, that is why he was so anxious not to lose sight of me for a moment! But what is all this mystery about, Laurence? Why don’t you go to the Hall and see your father?”

“Ah, that is a secret! You won’t mind waiting till to-morrow to know that, will you, darling?”

“Oh, yes, I shall! I want to know now,” said I coaxingly. “Won’t you trust me with your secret?”

He did not want to do so; but I was curious, and hurt at his refusal; and, when he saw the tears come into my eyes, he gave way.

He had been so much struck by the postscript to my letter, telling him of a suspicious-looking man whom I connected with the Denham Court robbery hanging about the Hall, and promising to visit it again on Wednesday, that he had obtained, by telegraphing to the chief of the metropolitan police, a force of constables to lie in wait about the Hall that night. He had appointed a trustworthy person to meet them at Beaconsburgh station and conduct them to a rendezvous he had appointed in the park, where they were probably waiting now. He was going to station them himself, under cover of the fog, in places round the Hall, among the shrubs, where they would be well concealed, and yet be near the approaches of the house, especially on that side where the strong-room was. The fog might work for them or against them; it might throw the thieves—if indeed they came, which was a matter of chance—into the constables hands, or it might help them to escape. That must be left to fortune.

“And you know you said in your letter that Sarah was always raving about a bad man named James Woodfall, who seemed to have a great influence upon her and to be mixed up in everything evil she talked about. Well, I have brought down among the constables a man who knew James Woodfall, and swears he could identify him. This Woodfall used to be a clever forger, and got caught only once, when he was quite a lad; but he has been lost sight of for years. There is only an off-chance of his having anything at all to do with this; but I mentioned his name to the chief constable, and he thought it worth trying. So now, my darling, you know everything, and you must keep my secrets, every one, like grim death. As for your journey, don’t be alarmed. I shall be in the same train with you; and your mother will really meet you at liverpool Street Station, for I have told her to do so.”

Laurence insisted on seeing me home. We had crept along- the high-road until we were close to the cottage nearest to the Alders, when we heard the sounds of hoofs and wheels, and men’s voices halloing through the fog. Laurence opened the gate of the cottage garden and led me inside till they should have passed. lt was the dog-cart, with Mr. Rayner on foot leading the horse, and Maynard still in it.

“Lucky you are going to stay the night!” Mr. Rayner was saying. “I wouldn’t undertake to find my way to my own gate to-night.”

CHAPTER XXVlll.

We folLowed the dog-cart at a safe distance, which was not very far off in the fog, until it stopped at the stable-gate. Then we slipped past quite unseen on the other side of the road, while Mr. Rayner was busy opening the gate; and at the front gate Laurence left me, and I groped my way down the drive as fast as I could, and got in some minutes before Mr. Rayner and his companion. And, as I could rely upon the silence of Mrs. Rayner and the cook, I said nothing to anybody else about my excursion.

We were about an hour over dinner, and, when Mr. Rayner had been to the cellar—not the dreadful store room cellar—himself to get out a bottle of port, he asked Mr. Maynard if he was fond of music.

“Well, I’m not much of a dab at it myself, though I used to tootle a little upon the cornet when I was a boy,’’ replied the detective, whose language had grown a little easier and was less carefully chosen as he knew us better. “But I don’t mind a tune now and then.”

“Ah, you are not an enthusiast, I see!” said Mr. Rayner. “Now I can never be happy long without music. Did you ever try the violin?”

“Well, no; that is rather a scratchy sort of instrument, to my mind. Give me the concertina,” replied Mr. Maynard genially.

“Then I won’t ask you to listen to my music,” said Mr. Rayner. “l’m only a fiddler. However, I think I must console myself for this disgusting weather by a—a tune to-night; but l’ll be merciful and shut the doors. My wife and Miss Christie will entertain you, and—let me see, it is half-past seven—at nine o’clock I’ll come and inflict myself upon you again, and we can have a game at backgammon. Do you care for backgammon?”

Mr. Maynard having declared that he did, Mr. Rayner asked me if I could go into the drawing-room and hunt out la Traviata and Moore’s “lrish Melodies.” I went obediently, and was on my knees turning over the great piles of music that stood there, when he came in and softly shut the door. Before I knew he was near I felt something passed round my neck and heard the snap of a clasp behind. I put up my hand and sprang to my feet, startled. Mr. Rayner, bright and smiling, drew my hand through his arm and led me to a looking-glass. Flashing and sparkling round my throat was a necklace of red jewels that dazzled me by their beauty.

“Don’t I keep my promises? I said I would bring you some garnets. Do they please you?”

But they did not at all, after what Laurence had said; the magnificent present filled me with terror. I put up both hands, tore them off, and flung them down with trembling fingers, and then stood, panting with fright at my own daring, wondering what he would do to me.

He did nothing. After looking at me for what seemed to me a long time, while I stood trembling, at first proud and then ashamed of myself, without the least sign of displeasure he picked up the necklace, slipped it into his pocket, and said quite gently—

“That is very pretty spirit, but is rather ungrateful, isn’t it? Never mind; you shall make amends for it by and by. Now will you go and help Mrs. Rayner to entertain our lynx-eyed friend? You shall come back and fetch me at nine o’clock. Run along now, my dear.”

He gave me a gentle little tap of dismissal, and, rather crestfallen, I returned to the dining-room. But neither my entertaining powers nor Mrs. Rayner’s were called into play; for Mr. Maynard was already rather drowsy, and, after sleepily muttering “Bravo—very good!” as the last sounds of Schubert’s “Adieu” died away on Mr. Rayner’s violin, he had to make an effort to listen to a selection from RigoUtto, and during some airs from Martha which folLowed I heard the regular breathing of a sleeping person from the arm-chair where he was sitting. But I was paying little attention to him. The door being shut, I had gone closer and closer to it, as if drawn by an irresistible fascination, as Mr. Rayner seemed to play the “Adieu” as he had never played it before. Every note seemed to vibrate in my own heart, and nothing but fear of his displeasure if I disturbed him before nine o’clock kept me from returning to the drawing-room, where I could have heard each plaintive passionate note untnuffled by the two doors between. When the last note of the “Adieu” had died away, and Mr. Maynard’s coarse voice had broken the spell by his “Bravo —very good!” I listened for the next melody eagerly, and was struck with a chill sense of disappointment as an air from Rigoletto folLowed. lt was not that I did not care for that opera, though it is scarcely one of my favorites, but a certain hardness of touch, which struck me at once as being unlike the rich full tones Mr. Rayner generally drew from his loved violin, grated upon my ear and puzzled me. Of course Mr. Maynard did not notice any difference, and muttered approval from time to time indiscriminately. But my glance stole from him to Mrs. Rayner; and I could see that she also was struck by the curious change of style in her husband’s playing. lt was as brilliant as ever; the execution of one of the difficult passages in the arrangement of Martha was clever, more perfect than usual; but the soul was not there, and no brilliancy of shake or cadenza could repay one for the loss. lt did not sound like the playing of the same man, and my interest in the music gradually, died away; and, after watching Mrs. Rayner curiously for some minutes and noting the intentness with which, sitting upright in her chair, she was listening to the violin and at the same time keeping her eyes fixed upon the slumbering Maynard, I gave myself up to my own agitated thoughts.

What was going on at the Hall now? Had the constables been able in the fog to find their way safely to the park, and would the thieves come, after all? Would they catch Tom Parkes? Would Gordon prove to be mixed up in it? Above all, would they catch the dreaded James Woodfall, whose influence seemed so strong and the memory of his name so fresh, though he had not been seen for years? lt was an awful thing to think that l, by my letter to Laurence, had set on men to hunt other men down. I began to hope, even though I felt it was wrong to do so, that Tom Parkes would make his escape; he had never done me any harm, and I had rather liked him for his good-natured face. As for the unknown James Woodfall, the case was different. From Sarah’s words and the eagerness with which the police had snatched at the least chance of catching him, it was plain that he must be a very desperate criminal indeed, for whom one could have no sympathy. I hoped with all my heart they would catch him; and I was rather anxious to see what such a very wicked man looked like. Poor Tom Parkes was probably only a tool in the hands of this monster, who had made even the terrible Sarah a submissive instrument of evil.

And then I fell to thinking very sadly of what Laurence had told me that day about the deception practised upon me concerning the journey to Monaco, and I remembered Mrs. Rayner’s warning. Could it be true that Mr. Rayner, who had always been so kind, so sweet-tempered, so patient, who had always treated me almost as if I were a child, and who had borne my rudeness in the drawing-room just now with such magnanimous good-humor, could really be such a hypocrite? There must be some explanation of it all which would satisfy even Laurence, I thought to myself—almost, at least; for that letter from my mother, which she had never written—could that be explained away? My tears fell fast as this terrible proof rose up in my mind. How could he explain that away? But one’s trust in a friend as kind as Mr. Rayner had proved to me does not die out quickly; and I was drying my eyes and hoping that a few words from him would make it all right, when suddenly the silence round the house was broken by a howl from Nap, Mr. Rayner’s retriever, who was chained to his kennel outside.

Mrs. Rayner started. Still Maynard slumbered. I looked at the clock; it was seven minutes to nine. Another and another howl from the dog, folLowed by loud and furious barking. We two women sat staring at each other, without a word. I would have spoken; but Mrs. Rayner glanced at the sleeping detective and put her finger to her lips. Still the sounds of the violin came to us from the drawingroom without interruption.

When nine o’clock struck, I jumped up, much relieved, opened and shut the door softly, crossed the hall, and turned the handle of the drawing-room door. lt was locked. I tapped; but there was no answer. He was playing a brilliant concerto, and I supposed he had not heard me. I knocked again and said softly—

” Mr. Rayner, it is nine o’clock. You told me to come at nine.”

Still there was no answer, which I thought strange, for his hearing was generally very sharp indeed. lt was of no use for me to stand there knocking if he would not hear me, or did not yet wish to be disturbed; so, after one more unsuccessful attempt to attract his attention, I took a lamp from the hall-table and went into the schoolroom. lt was now ten minutes past nine. Nap was barking more furiously than ever. I knew by the mist there was all through the house how dense the fog must be outside; but I was so much struck by the noise the dog was making that I unfastened the shutters and opened the window about an inch to listen.

The fog was blinding. I could not see a yard in front of me. I heard nothing but Nap’s barking for a minute; then I saw the dim glow of a lantern and heard a muffled whisper through the fog—

“Who’s that?”

“lt is l—Violet Christie. ls that you, Laurence?”

“Hush! All right!” he whispered back. “let me in.”

He got in softly through the window, and, rather to my alarm, a middle-aged man in plain clothes, also with a lantern, folLowed him. Laurence himself looked more alarming than any thief. His face was ghastly white with fatigue, and dirtier than ever through long watching in the fog. He listened for a minute to the violin, then said quickly, but still in a low voice—

“Who is that playing?”

“Mr. Rayner,” I answered.

He turned sharply to the other man, who nodded as if to say it was just what he had expected.

“How long has he been playing?” asked Laurence.

“Ever since half-past seven.”

He turned to the other man again.

“A trick,” said the latter simply.

“Who is with him?” asked Laurence again.

“Nobody,” said l, surprised and rather frightened by these questions. “Mrs. Rayner and Mr. Maynard are in the dining-room.”

“Maynard?”

“Yes. He is asleep.”

The middle-aged man gave a snort of disgust.

“Hasn’t Mr. Rayner been in the dining-room at all, dear, this evening?” asked Laurence gently.

“Not since dinner. I left him playing in the drawing-room at five-and-twenty minutes to eight, and he told me to call him at nine. He has been playing ever since.”

“But it is past nine!”

“Yes. When I went to the drawing-room door just now, I found it locked, and I knocked; but he did not answer.”

“Will you go and knock again, and say you wish to speak to him particularly, dear?” said Laurence gravely. I hesitated, trembling from head to foot “Why?” asked l, in a low voice.

“Because we want to speak to him particularly,” said the other man gruffly.

But I looked at his hard face and panted out—

“You are a policeman, I know! What do you want with Mr. Rayner?”

“Never you mind, my dear; we won’t hurt you. Just go and say you want to speak to him.”

“No, I won’t!” I cried—not loudly, for my voice seemed to grow suddenly weak. “Whatever you think he has done, or whatever he has done, I will never help to harm Mr. Rayner!”

The man shrugged his shoulders, walked to the window, and whistled softly. Laurence put me iuto a. chair, whispering “That’s a brave girl!”—but with such an anxious, stern face. And the other man came back into the room, folLowed by a policeman with his staff ready in his hand.

“We must break open the door,” said the elder man.

I started from my seat. I wanted to rush to the drawing-room door and warn Mr. Rayner; but Laurence prevented me, whispering gravely—

“My darling, you must leave it to us now.”

Every word, every movement had been so quiet that the music still went on while they opened the schoolroom door and crossed the hall. I stood watching them breathlessly.

The three men, Laurence, the most stalwart, foremost, placed themselves against the drawing-room door, and by one mighty push burst it open. I ran forward to the doorway just in time to see Gordon, Mr. Carruthers’s servant, fling down the violin and rush to the opposite window, the shutters of which were unfastened. But I heard the crash of glass, and at the same instant two policemen dashed through the shattered French window, seized and handcuffed him. Then he stood between them, white and immovable, without a struggle.

“lt’s no go. We know you’re one of the gang,” said the middle-aged man. “Game’s up. We’ve got your leader.”

“What leader?” asked Gordon calmly.

“James Woodfall.”

“lt’s a lie!” snapped out the immovable Gordon. “Jim Woodfall wouldn’t let himself be nabbed by such as you.”

“Why not? We’ve got you.”

The man did not answer.

“All his fault for getting soft on a girl! Wish I had her here!” Gordon muttered presently.

He caught sight of me at the doorway and shot at me a sort of steely look that made me shudder. But I did not connect myself with his words. I was too bewildered to think or to understand clearly what was going on until I saw him, handcuffed as he was, quietly draw a tiny revolver from his pocket and, without raising it, point it at Laurence. With a scream I rushed forward into the room and flung myself in front of Laurence, and I heard a report and felt something touch my arm—l did not know what at first—and Laurence sprang forward with almost a yell. But he was encumbered with my form; and, before he could put me down, Gordon had wrenched himself away from his captors, and, snarling, “I meant to have done for her!” had dashed through the open window out into the fog and darkness. I knew by this time that I was shot in the arm, for the blood was trickling through my sleeve; but the wound did not pain me much yet—l was too much excited for that, and too much occupied with Laurence’s pitiful distress. He did not attempt to join in the hopeless chase of the escaped Gordon, but put me on a sofa, tore off the body of my frock, and bandaged my arm himself.

“Tell me what it all means, Laurence,” said l. “I am not badly hurt—I am not indeed—and I want to understand it all. Did you catch the thieves? Who were they? Have they really caught James Woodfall? And I hope—oh, I hope poor Tom Parkes has escaped!” I whispered; for the middle-aged man had not joined in the pursuit, but stood on the watch, half in and half out of the window.

“Tom Parkes has been caught, and James Woodfall has escaped, I am afraid,” said Laurence.

“Then he was there! Tell me all about it,” I said anxiously.

“Won’t to-morrow do?” pleaded poor Laurence earnestly. “I am afraid, if you get so much excited, your arm will get inflamed, and I ought to be setting off for the doctor now.”

“No, no; you couldn’t get to Beaconsburgh to-night, you know you couldn’t. lt wouldn’t be safe,” said l. “Your bandaging will do quite well until the doctor comes as usual to see Sarah to-morrow morning. Now tell me quickly all about the robbery. Did you find the policemen in the park?” Then suddenly I sprang up from the sofa. ” Where is Mr. Rayner? Why was Gordon here instead of him? Oh, Laurence, my head seems to be going round! I don’t understand it at all. I am getting quite bewildered. Why was it?”

“let me tell you about the robbery. You will hear and understand it all in time,” said he very gravely and gently. “l found the policemen in the park and stationed them in the shrubbery, and l stood myself, with that man over there and one other, as close as possible to the back entrance of the house; and there we waited until nearly half-past seven, when a man came up through the fog and tapped at the door. One of the maids opened it, by appointment as it turned out, for she was expected him, though I don’t believe the poor girl suspected what his real business was; for it was Tom Parkes. And, when they went inside, Tom went last, and left the door ajar. A few minutes later another man came up and slipped in so quietly, so quickly, that we could hardly have sworn in the dense fog to his going in at all. Then presently Tom and the girl came out. He said good-by to her without as much delay as she would have liked, walked a few steps away until she had shut the door, then returned and crept alongside the wall of the house until he was under the strong-room window. There were four of our men stationed very close to that, and their chief, who was with me, crept along easily under cover of the fog, which was as thick as ever, to join them. I folLowed with the other man. ln a few minutes we heard a soft whistle from the strong-room window, as we guessed. Tom answered by another, and we saw a third man come up and join Tom. I was so close that I saw a bundle let cautiously down from the window by a cord. Tom handed it to the third man, whom we alLowed to walk off with it —folLowed however by two policemen—in order to watch the further proceedings of the other two thieves. Another bundle was let down, which Tom carried off himself; and then we watched anxiously for the next movement of the man in the house. The strong-room window is about twenty feet from the ground; but the man jumped down and landed on his feet. In an instant five of us were upon him, but, though I think each of us in turn thought we had caught him, he eluded us all and got clear away, and in the fog escaped us. But that man at the window there, who has been so many years in the force, recognized him and identified him as James Woodfall, and I recognized him too.”

“You, Laurence! I didn’t know you had ever seen him!” I cried.

At that moment the elderly man left the window.

“lt’s of no good, sir, l’m afraid. The one rogue’s got off as clear as the other. Can you tell me where Maynard is, miss?”

I got up from the sofa and led the way into the dining-room. Mrs. Rayner was still sitting, pale and upright, with staring gray eyes, Maynard still sleeping. The other detective shook him, and glanced at the wine.

“Drugged,” said he shortly.

With a few vigorous shakes he succeeded in rousing Maynard, and, when he began to look around him in a dazed way, the other said sharply—

“Pretty fellow you are to be hoodwinked like that, and drink and sleep quietly under the very roof of one of the greatest scoundrels unhung!”

“Who?”’ said the other, startled. “Mr. Rayner?

“Mr. Rayner! Yes, ’Mr. Rayner’ to simple folk like you; but to me and every thief-taker that knows his business—the missing forger, James Woodfalir

CHAPTER XXlX.

As the detective pronounced the name “James Woodfall,” I gave a cry that startled them all. Shaken as my trust in Mr. Rayner had already been, the shock seemed in a moment to change the aspect of the whole world to me. I shrank even from Laurence as he would have put his arms round me, and my wild wandering eyes fell upon Mrs. Rayner, who sat with her hands tightly clasped and head bent, listening to the proclamation of the secret which had weighed her down for years. And, as I looked at her, the scales seemed to fall from my eyes, my dull wits to become keener, and part of the mystery of the house on the marsh to grow clear to me.

I sank down upon the floor beside her, and she put her thin wasted arms round my neck and kissed me without a word. And the three men quietly left the room. We did not say much even then.

“Oh, Mrs. Rayner,’” I whispered, “it is terrible for you!”

“Not so terrible to me,”she whispered back wearily. “l have known it for years—almost ever since I married him. But don’t talk about it any more,” said she, glancing furtively round the room. “He may be in the house at this moment; and they might search and watch for months, but they would never catch him. But he will make us suffer—me—ah, and you too now! You were so unsuspicious, yet it must have been you who set Laurence Reade upon the track.”

“Not of Mr. Rayner. Oh, I never thought of such a thing!” I whispered, shuddering.

And I told her all about my suspicions of Tom Parkes, my visit to the Hall, my letter to Laurence, and all I said in it.

“Mr. Reade has shown energy and courage,” said she. “But he will suffer for it too. You don’t know that man yet. He will never let Laurence marry you. Even if he were in prison, he would manage to prevent it.” luckily Laurence himself tapped at the door at that moment, for Mrs. Rayner’s gloomy forebodings were fast increasing the fever of my overwrought mind. He came to say that the constables had returned to the house, having failed in the fog to find any traces of Gordon, or of—of any of the others. He was going to return with them to the Hall, where they would sleep, leaving Maynard to pass the night at the Alders, as his missing host had invited him to do, and a couple of constables to keep watch in turn, though there was nothing less likely than that the—the persons they were in search of would return to the Alders that night. Then he said very gently to poor Mrs. Rayner—

“Will you forgive me for what I have done in all innocence? I had some vague suspicions, the reasons for which I will explain to you presently; but indeed I never thought to bring such a blow as this upon you/’

“It is no blow to me,” said she, raising her sad eyes to his face. “ That man—my husband—would have got rid of me long ago, but that he hated violence and dreaded it. Everything short of that he has tried,” she whispered; “and it is not my fault that my wretched life has lingered on in spite of him.”

Laurence ground his teeth.

“The wretch!” he said, in a low voice. “But he shall pay for it now. l’ll ransack the whole world till we have unearthed him.”

“You will never do that,” said she calmly. “He dares too much for that. He is no coward to lie hid in a corner,” she went on, with a sort of perverse pride in the man for whom every spark of love was long since dead. “He will brave you to your faces and escape you all. But you have done your best. You are a brave man, Mr. Reade. You would help me if you could. Good-night.”

She shook hands with him, and left the room. He turned to me quickly.

“You must both leave this place,” said he.” The long-continued suffering has almost turned that poor lady’s brain. But she is safe from that vile wretch now; and you too, oh, my darling, thank Heaven!”

There was a tap at the door, and the voice of the elder detective said—

“Are you ready, sir?”

“All right,” said Laurence; and then added, in a voice for me only, “ !’m not ready a bit I should like to stay and comfort you for ever. Take care of your poor little wounded arm. Good-night, good-night, my darling!”

I heard him leave the house with the constables. Then, exhausted by the events of the day and night, I just managed to crawl upstairs to my room, and, throwing myself upon the bed without undressing, I fell into a deep sleep which was more like a swoon. ln the early morning I woke, feeling stiff and ill, undressed, and got into bed; and when the sun had risen I got up with hot and aching head, and found that my arm was beginning to be very painful.

Haidee and I had breakfast alone, for the cook told me that Mr. Maynard had already started for london; and I was just going to see how Mrs. Rayner was when Doctor Lowe arrived on his daily visit to Sarah. As soon as he saw me he ordered me off to bed, and then, after making him swear secrecy, which did not make much difference, as the story would certainly be all over the neighborhood and in the london newspapers before long, I let him draw from me an account of the greater part of the events of the previous day. He said very little in comment beyond telling me that I was “a little simpleton to be so easily humbugged,” and that he had always mistrusted Mr. Rayner, but that now he admired him; and then, strictly forbidding me to leave my bed until his visit next day, he left me.

Jane came up to me soon after. She had only just come home from Wright’s Farm, and was full of curiosity excited to the highest pitch by the vague account that the cook, who was deaf and had not heard much, had given her of the events which had taken place in her absence. I told her that there had been a robbery at the Hall, that the man who had asked to speak to me was a detective, and that he and Mr. Rayner had left the Alders.

My faith in the latter was gone altogether; but my affection for him was gradually coming back again. The fearfully wicked things that he had done I had only heard about; and how could the impression so given outweigh that much stronger one of his constant kindness to me? And to think that it was I who had drawn down justice —for it was justice, I sorrowfully admitted—upon him caused me bitter remorse.

Laurence told me, in one of the little notes he kept leaving for me all day long, that it was expected that Mr. Rayner would brave everything and return to the Alders sooner or later, if only for a flying visit, and that, in consequence, the search of the house which must take place was to be postponed, and the place watched, with as much caution as possible, from the outside. By letting the life at the Alders go on as usual, it was hoped that he might be lured back under the impression that he was not expected to return there. Laurence had telegraphed to my mother to tell her that I was quite safe and the journey put off, in order to allay her fears about me.

Mrs. Rayner brought one of these notes up to me late in the afternoon. In addition to her usual pallor, she had great black rings round her eyes; and, in answer to my inquiries, she confessed that she had not slept all night.

“I have something to tell you,” she whispered in my ear. “Mrs. Saunders drinks, and is not a proper guardian for Sarah. She is afraid of Mr. Rayner; but last night, knowing he was not in the house, she was in nearly as excited a state as her patient, and was very rough with her. Sarah’s room is nearly opposite mine, and I opened my door and heard what sounded like a struggle. Maynard, who was in the room next to the dressing-room, either did not hear or did not like to interfere. But now he is gone; and I ought to be used to terrors, but I am afraid;” and she shuddered.

”Surely there is nothing to be afraid of if you lock your door, Mrs. Rayner?”

” I have no key. Will you leave your door open and the door at the foot of the turret staircase? I know you must not leave your bed; but it will be some comfort to know you are within hearing.”

I promised; and that night, when Jane same up to my room for the last time, I made her leave the doors open when she went down.

The sense of being on the alert made me wakeful, and two or three times during the night I rose and stood at the top of my staircase, listening. And the third time I did hear something. I heard a faint cry, and presently the soft shutting of a door, then steps in the corridor below, and whispering. I crept half-way down the stairs; the whispering continued. I got to the bottom, and recognized Sarah’s voice muttering to herself. I would rather have again faced Gordon with bis revolver than this madwoman; but I was so anxious about Mrs. Rayner that, after a few minutes spent in prayer, I ventured out from the doorway, and found Sarah crouched in a corner muttering to herself. The wretched woman started up on seeing me; but, instead of attempting to approach me, she hung back, moving her still bandaged head and her one free hand restlessly, and saying—

“I’ve done it—I’ve done it! He’ll come back now. I’ve done what he wanted. He can marry the Christie girl now. lt’s all right. He’ll come back again now.”

With a terrible fear at my heart, I dashed along the corridor to Mrs. Rayner’s room and went straight in. The atmosphere of the room was sickly and stifling. I went up to the bed. Mrs. Rayner was lying with a cloth over her face! I snatched it off. lt was steeped in something which I afterwards learnt was chloroform. Thank Heaven, she was alive!—for she was breathing heavily. I rushed to the two windows and flung them wide open, pulled the bell-rope until the house echoed, and moved her arms up and down. The cook and Jane came in, terribly alarmed, in their night gowns. I left them with Mrs. Rayner while I ran downstairs for some brandy.

There was some on the sideboard in the dining-room, I knew; and I was returning with it, and was just outside the dining-room door, when I caught sight of a man in the gloom at the end of the passage leading from the hall. He bad come from Mr. Rayner’s study, and disappeared in a moment in the darkness. lt was impossible to recognize him; but I could not doubt that it was Mr. Rayner.

Where was he going? Was he going to escape by the back way? Did he know the house was watched? I made a step forward, anxious to warn him; but he had already disappeared, and I dared not follow him.

I crept upstairs, too much agitated to be of any use any longer; but happily Mrs. Rayner was already recovering, and the brandy-and-water restored her entirely to consciousness. I spent the rest of the night in her room, after I had, with the cook’s assistance, persuaded the unhappy lunatic who had done the mischief to return to her own room, where we found, as I had expected, Mrs. Saunders in a stupid, heavy sleep, half in her arm chair and half on the floor. The cook declined to watch in place of her for the remainder of the night, but as a precaution locked the door on the outside and took the key away.

“Now, if Sarah wants to do any more mischief, let her try it on Mrs. Saunders,” said she.

I could scarcely approve of this way of settling the difficulty; but happily no harm came of it; and Mrs. Saunders profited by the lesson, and kept pretty sober after that.

This woman, having been sent from town by Mr. Rayner, had taken upon herself in some sort the authority formerly held by Sarah in the household, and she now suggested that Mrs. Rayner had better go back to her old room in the left wing, saying she would take charge of it for her as Sarah had done. The poor lady came up herself to my room, where, having made my arm much worse by my expedition in the night, I was lying in bed the whole of the next day.

“Why do you go back if you don’t wish to do so, Mrs. Rayner?” I asked.

“I expect it is by Mr. Rayner’s orders,” she whispered.

And, my strong suspicion that he was in the house acting like a spell upon me, I said no more.

But I was curious to know what was the mystery that hung about that bedroom in the left wing which no one was alLowed to enter but Mrs. Rayner, Mr. Rayner, and Sarah; and I resolved that, as soon as I could, I would try to induce Mrs. Rayner to let me go in there.

As I lay thinking of all the strange and horrible events which had filled my life lately, the thought of Mr. Rayner lying concealed in his own house, perhaps hidden in some cellar the existence of which was unknown to every one else, came uppermost in my mind. lt was the most dreadful blow I had ever experienced to have my respect and affection for a kind friend turned suddenly into horror of a great criminal. But I would not believe that he was all bad. How could a man who was so kind and sweet-tempered have no redeeming points at all? And it was I, who had never received anything but kindness at his hands, who—innocently indeed—had drawn down this pursuit upon him. There were only two things that I could do now. I could pray for him, as I did most earnestly, that he might repent of what he had done, and become in very truth all that he had seemed to me; and I could perhaps let him know how the thought that it was I who had brought down justice upon him tormented me.

A possible means of communicating with him occurred to me. ln spite of the Doctor’s prohibition, I sprang out of bed, got my desk, and wrote a note asking his forgiveness, and giving him a full explanation of the way in which, in all innocence, I had written the letter which had led to this pursuit of him. I told him the house was being watched, and was to be searched before long, and begged that, when he had got away, he would find some means of letting me know he was in safety. “I do pray for you every night and morning. I can’t forget all your kindness to me, whatever you have done, and I don’t wish to do so,” I added, as a last thought in a P.S. And then I put on my dressing-gown, and, when I heard nobody about, slipped down by the back staircase to his study, where I put the note, directed simply to “G. Rayner, Esq.,” just inside the drawer of his writing-table, and crept guiltily upstairs again.

Mrs. Manners came to see me that afternoon; Laurence had confided nearly everything to her, and she was much more severe upon Mr. Rayner than l—quite unchristian, I thought, and rather angry with me for not being as bitter as herself against him.

“Don’t you know he wanted Sarah to kill his own wife that he might marry you, child, and, when Sarah was taken ill and couldn’t do it, he wanted to run away with you?”

“Yes; but, as he was prevented from doing either of those things, it is easier to forgive him. Don’t you think I ought to try to forgive him, Mrs. Manners?”

“I don’t know, I am sure, child,” said she, after a little hesitation.

“But I think it ought to require an effort.”

Then she told me that, when Laurence had heard that morning through Jane of the night’s adventure, he had gone to Dr. Lowe and insisted upon Sarah’s removal to the county lunatic asylum that very day; and I never saw the poor creature again.

When Mrs. Manners had left me, and Jane had come up at four o’clock with a cup of tea, I insisted on getting up and being dressed, as I wanted to see Mrs. Rayner, and find out whether she had heard of Sarah’s departure. I heard that she had gone to her old room in the left wing, and, having taken the precaution to wrap a shawl round me before entering that long cold passage, I passed through the heavy swing-door, the very sight of which I hated. I was opposite to the store-room door, when it was softly opened, and, without being able to make any resistance, I was drawn inside by a man’s arm. I looked up, expecting to see Mr. Rayner, and was horror-stricken to find myself in the arms of Gordon, the man who had shot me. lt was so dark already in the store-room, lighted only by one little high window, that, his back being turned towards it, l could not see his face.

“Don’t tremble so,” said he—his voice was always hard, but he did not mean to speak unkindly. “I meant to do for you before I left this house; but this has saved you.” And he showed me my letter to Mr. Rayner.

“Do you know where he is?” I asked eagerly.

“No, ma’am,” said he, in his respectful servant’s manner; “but I should say that he is on his way to America by now, where he meant to have taken you.”

“Me? America?”

“Yes, ma’am. Miss Haidee was to have been left at liverpool Street Station, and brought back to the Alders.”

“But I wouldn’t have gone.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am; but I don’t think your will would have stood out against James’s—Mr. Rayner’s. And, if this letter had not shown you to be loyal to him, I would not have left you here alive. I am surprised myself, knowing how set he was upon having your cpmpany, that he did not come back and carry you off with him. But I suppose he thought better of it, begging your pardon, ma’am. I may take this opportunity of apologizing for having once borrowed a trinket of yours while you were staying at Denham Court. But, as it was one which I myself had had the pleasure of assisting Mr. Rayner to procure from lord Dalston’s, I thought it wisest to pull off the little plate at the back, for fear of its being recognized by Mr. Carru-thers, in whose service I was when I was first introduced to lord Dalston’s seat in Derbyshire.”

“My pendant!” I cried. “lt—it was real then 7*

“Yes, ma’am. I had to remonstrate then with Mr. Rayner for his rashness in giving it you; but nothing ever went wrong with him —daring as he is—till you came across his path, ma’am. He was too tender-hearted. lf I did not feel sure that he is by this time on the high-road to fresh successes in the New World, I would shoot you dead this instant without a moment’s compunction.” I shuddered, glancing at his hands, which were slim and small, like those of a man who has never done rough work. I saw that he had got rid of his handcuffs.

“l have nothing to keep me here now, ma’am; so I shall be off to-night: and, if you care to hear how I get on, you will be able to do so by applying to my late master, Mr. Carruthers.”

He led me courteously to the door, bowed me out, and shut himself in again, while I went on, trembling and bewildered, towards Mrs. Rayner’s room. I knocked at the door. At first there was no answer. I called her by name, and begged her to let me in. At last I heard her voice close to the other side of the door.

“What do you want, Miss Christie?”

“May I come in, Mrs. Rayner? I have something to tell you.”

“l can’t let you in. Can you speak through the door?”

“No, no; I must see you. I have something very important to say about Mr. Rayner, ”J whi$ered into the key-hole.

“ls he here?” she faltered.

“No; he has gone to America,” I whispered.

She gave a long shuddering sigh, and then said—

“l—l will let you in.”

She turned the key slowly, while I trembled with impatience outside the door.

When I found myself inside the room which had been a mystery to me for so long, nothing struck me at first but a sense of cold and darkness. There was only one window, which was barred on the inside; the fog still hung about the place, and the little light there had been all day was fading fast, for it was five o’clock. But, as I stepped forward farther into the room, I drew my breath fast in horror. For I became aware of a smell of damp and decay; I felt that the boards of the floor under the carpet were rotten and yielding to my feet, and I saw that the paper was peeling off the wet and mouldy walls, and that the water was slowly trickling down them.

“Oh, Mrs. Rayner,” I cried, aghast, “is this your room—where you sleep ?”

“I have slept in it for three years,” said she. “lf my husband had had his will, it would have been my tomb.”

CHAPTER XXX.

The heartless cruelty of Mr. Rayner in allowing his poor submissive wife to live in a room such as he would not for the world have kept horse, or dog, or even violin in shocked and repelled me, and wrung from me the cry—

“The villain!”

“Hush!” said she. “He may be listening to us now.”

“I don’t care l” cried I passionately. “I am glad if he hears—if he hears me say that this morning I hoped he would escape, but that now I hope they will find him, for they cannot possibly punish him as he deserves. Oh, Mrs. Rayner, and l—l sleeping up in the turret to be out of the damp I How you must have hated me!”

“I did once, I own,” she whispered, sinking into a chair and taking the hands I stretched out towards her. “But it was foolish of me, for you did not know—how could you know?”

“But why did you stay? Why did you say nothing about it? And why were you not glad to go upstairs, instead of begging as you did to remain here?”

“Because,” she whispered, her nervous agitation coming back again, “I knew that while I remained down here they would not kill me outright; they could not let me die down here and introduce doctors and strangers to examine into the cause of my death into this room. I knew that a change of room was my death-warrant; and so it would have been, but for the accident which happened to Sarah on the very night when, but for you, I should have been sleeping upstairs ready to her hand.* I staggered back, suddenly remembering the message Mr. Rayner had in his letter told me to give to Sarah. lt was this—“Tell Sarah not to forget the work she has to do in my absence.” And I remembered also the grim way in which she had received it. Could he have meant that?

Mrs. Rayner continued—

“He hates violence; all was to have been over by his return, and he free to marry you.”

“But he couldn’t. I was engaged to Laurence, Mrs. Rayner.”

She gave a little bitter smile.

“And do you think that, with Laurence away and Mr. Raynef here, you could have withstood him? ln spite of his soft manners, he has a will that acts like a spell. I tell you,” said she, twisting my fingers nervously, “though you say he is in America, and Laurence Reade says I shall never be in his power again, his influence is strong upon me even now. There is no peace, no freedom for me as long as he lives.”

“Mrs. Rayner,” said I suddenly, “may I ask you if what Mr. Ray-ner told me when I first came is true—that you were rich and he poor, and that he lived on your money ?’

“No, it is not true. I had a little money when he first married me, which he ran through at once.”

“And is it true you once wrote books, and had a little boy whose death made a great change in you?” said I slowly, watching her face.

“No; I never had any child but Mona and Haidee.”

“Then what did he—”

“What did he tell you so for? He delights in making up fantastic tales of that sort, and often in making me bear witness to the truth of his inventions; it is part of his wild humor. When he went away to carry out a robbery, he would let me know what he was going to do—just to torture me.”

The dead calmness with which she told me all this was maddening to me.

“Why did you bear it? Why didn’t you rebel, or run away, while he was engaged in a robbery, and tell a policeman?”

“lf Sarah had killed me, and you had married Mr. Rayner,’^she answered slowly, staring straight at me, “you would have under* stood why.”

And the power this man exercised over every one who came much in his way became in a moment clear to me, when I saw by what different means he had on the one hand cowed his gentle wife and the fiery Sarah, and on the other gained a strong influence over such different women as Mrs. Reade and myself. But the revelation was more than I could bear. I said faintly—

“May I go to my room, Mrs. Rayner? l—l am not well.”

And she herself led me very slowly—for I was indeed weak and ill, half with the pain of my arm and half with misery and disgust—up to my bed in the turret-room.

Before the end of the day I heard that Mrs. Saunders had disappeared, without any warning or any application for payment of her services, as soon as Sarah had been taken off to the lunatic asylum. She had spared us any pangs of self-reproach on her account, however, by taking with her Mrs. Rayner’s watch, and also the cook’s, which had been left in the rooms of their respective owners.

“She doesn’t expect to see Mr. Rayner again then,” I whispered to Mrs. Rayner, who came to my bedside to tell me the news, “or she would never dare to do that.”

And, persuaded by me, Mrs. Rayner, now relieved of any dread on Sarah’s account, returned to the front spare-room, which, however disagreeable the remembrance of Sarah’s mad attempt on her life might be, was at any rate healthier than the dungeon in the left wing. There was really nothing to keep the poor lady at the Alders now, as I told Laurence by letter that evening all that Gordon had said to me in the store-room, and the idea gained ground that Mr. Rayner had gone to America. But she insisted upon remaining until I was well enough to be moved, an event which I had myself retarded by rashly leaving my room three times since I had been told to keep to my bed.

Next day, which was Saturday, Laurence wrote to say that he had himself searched the store-room and Mr. Rayner’s study, but had found no trace of Gordon beyond a pair of handcuffs placed neatly in the middle of the store-room on the top of a pyramid of biscuit-tins and pickle-jars, with a sheet of paper saying that the late wearer begged to return them with thanks to the police, who might perhaps succeed in making them stay longer on the wrists of a simpler rogue than their obedient servant, F. Gordon.

Those days that I spent in bed were a miserable time for all of us. The suspense we were all in—never sure whether Mr. Rayner was in America or whether he might not be really close to us all the time. The bits of news brought us from hour to hour by the awe stricken Jane—first that there was a large reward offered for his capture; then rumors, which always proved to be false, of his having been caught; then complaints of the number of people who came just to look at the outside of the house that the ugly stories were being told about! For the facts fell far short of the accounts which were freely circulated—of there being a cellar full of human bones, supposed to be the remains of Mr. Rayner’s victims, under the Alders; that the household consisted entirely of women whom he had married at one time or another; and so forth.

Meanwhile the fog still hung about the place, and Nap, the retriever, howled every night. When Monday came, I, anxious to be declared convalescent as soon as possible, and to be able to avail myself of Mrs. Manners’s invitation to stay at the Vicarage, persuaded Doctor Lowe to let me go downstairs. lt was about twelve o’clock when I left my room, and I had made my way as far as the corridor below, when I became aware of an unusual commotion on the ground floor, doors being opened and shut, the sobbing of a woman, excited whisperings between Jane and the cook, and then a heavy tramp, tramp of men’s feet through the hall and along the passage to Mr. Rayner’s study.

I went to the top of the back staircase, descended a few steps, and looked over. The gardener and Sam were carrying between them a door, on which something was lying covered by a sheet The cook opened the study-door, and they took it in. A horrible dread filled my mind and kept me powerless for a few moments. Then I ran along the corridor, down the front staircase, and met little Haidee with awe on her childish face.

“Oh, Miss Christie,” she whispered, clutching my arm in terror, “they’ve found papa!”

Jane ran forward and caught me as I tottered ln the child’s clasp. Before I had recovered sufficiently to go to Mrs. Rayner in the drawing-room, Laurence and Mrs. Manners arrived, having heard the ghastly news already. They took us over to the Vicarage at once, and I never entered the Alders again. ln the evening Laurence told me all about the discovery. The gardener, who had done little work for the last few days beyond keeping the gate locked and driving away with a whip the boys who would swarm over when they got a chance, “just to have a look at the place,” had been attracted that morning by the shrill cries of Mona, who, now more neglected than ever, spent all day in the garden in spite of the fog. He ran to the pond, where she was nearly always to be found, and whence her cries came, fearing she had fallen in. But he found her standing in the mud on the edge of it, screaming, “Come out, come out!” and clutching with a stick at an object in the water. lt was the body of her father, entangled among the reeds.

The down-trodden grasses and rushes at that corner of the pond nearest to the stile which joined the path through the plantation to the path through the field beyond told the story of how he must have missed his way coming through the plantation in the dense fog of Wednesday night, on his way back from the Hall to the Alders, slipped into the pond, and been drowned out there in the fog and darkness, while his dog Nap, hearing his cry for help, had tried in vain, by howling and barking, to draw attention to his master’s need.

It was an awful thing that night to lie awake in my strange room at the Vicarage, and picture to myself the dead Mr. Rayner lying at the Alders, the sole occupant, with the exception of the woman hired to watch by him, of the big dreary house where he, with his love of fun and laughter, had seemed to me to be the one ray of brightness.

I heard next day that two passages, booked in the name of “Mr. and Mrs. Norris,” had actually been taken by him on board a ship which left liverpool for New York on the very Thursday when we were to have started on our journey “to Monaco.” The tickets were found upon him and also the necklace, which proved to be a valuable ornament of rubies that had belonged to Mrs. Cunningham, which he had clasped round my neck on the night of his death, but which I had flung upon the floor. These were the only ones, of all the stolen jewels, which were ever recovered, with the exception of the diamond pendant, which I sent back to its owner, Lord Dalston. Upon the house being searched, the candle which had fallen from my hand when I first went into the cellar under the store-room was found under the stagnant water there, and also the brown portmanteau, which was identified as one belonging to Sir Jonas Mills; but the jewels, with the exception of a stray drop from an ear-ring, had disappeared.

I heard about Gordon, as he had told me I should, through Mr. Carruthers, who, long before the impression these events made had died away, received a letter dated from New York, in which Gordon, in a very respectful manner, apologized for the inconvenience his sudden disappearance might have caused his master, who had, he could not doubt, by this time learned the reason of it through the london papers. Mr. Carruthers would find that the bills he had commissioned him to settle in Beaconsburgh on that unfortunate Wednesday afternoon had been paid, and he begged to forward him the receipts; he had also left the silver-mounted flask to he repaired at Bell’s, and the hunting-stock at Marsden’s. He had given up service for the present and taken to a different profession, as he felt, if he was not taking a liberty in saying so, that it would be impossible for him to find in America a master who gave him in all respects so much satisfaction as Mr. Carruthers had done.

Nothing more has ever been heard of Gordon under that name; but some time afterwards a representative of the United States Congress, who was described as a rich West lndia merchant, made a great sensation by a very impressive speech upon some financial question; a rough sketch of him in a New York illustrated paper fell into the hands of Mr. Carruthers, who sent it to Laurence, and under the trimly-cut mustache and hair parted very much on one side we fancied we recognized something like the clear-cut features and bland expression of our old friend Gordon.

I was married to Laurence before the trial of poor Tom Parkes and of the subordinate who had been caught removing the plate from the Hall. I had to give evidence, and I was so much distressed at having to do so that Tom, good-natured to the last, called out—

“Don’t take on so, miss. lor’ bless you, you can’t say any worse than they know! It’s only a matter of form.”

He took a stolid sort of glory in his iniquities, pleaded “Guilty” to the charges brought against him of taking an active part in all three robberies, and exulted especially in the neatness of the execution of the robbery at Denham Court, where the various articles stolen were being quietly abstracted one by one at different times by Gordon for two or three days before the Tuesday, when they were finally carried off by Mr. Rayner, and taken by him and Tom to the Alders, where Sarah had received them, as I had seen.

As to what had become of the jewels afterwards, Tom professed himself as innocent as a child; but, whether this was true or not, nobody believed him. He was sentenced to fourteen years penal servitude, and he did not hear the sentence with half so much concern as I.

Poor Mrs. Rayner never entirely shook off the gloomy reserve which had grown round her during those long years of her miserable marriage. Kind-hearted Sir Jonas Mills was among the very first to come forward to help her; and, by his generous assistance and that of other friends, she went to live abroad, taking Haidee with her, and Jane, who proved a most devoted servant and friend.

Laurence and I, who were married before she left England, undertook the care of poor little savage Mona, who has grown into almost as nice a child as her sister. And now I have one of my own too.

THE END.