Gwendoline

"No. Stay where you are. Your tea shall be brought to you."

Lady Halcot moved away, and Gwendoline was glad to rest her head among the cushions.

By the time Spurrell and a little tray appeared, she had regained her collectedness; but, to Gwendoline's amazement, Spurrell did not appear alone. Lady Halcot swept in before her.

"Do not talk. Take the tea," said Lady Halcot, when Gwendoline would have protested. "You may leave the tray, Spurrell."

And presently, as Gwendoline set down the emptied cup, she asked, with some abruptness, "Do you say your prayers in the middle of the day?"

Gwendoline blushed vividly. "Sometimes," she said, in a low voice.

"Then that is what you were doing?"

Gwendoline's eyes had their pleading look. "I don't think I was exactly saying any prayers," she answered gently. "I only felt as if I wanted help."

"Help?" repeated Lady Halcot.

"I could not feel rightly. It was not right to be unhappy because of what you said. I wanted to be perfectly willing to have whatever God might will for me."

"I see no particular objection to your manner of expressing yourself," said Lady Halcot, after a pause, as if for consideration. "But I have a very strong dislike to infatuation on religious subjects. I hope you will keep clear of it."

"I hope so," was the best answer Gwendoline could think of.

"Your tea has done you good, but you are pale still. I should like you to rest on your sofa for half an hour. Then you may come down."

Gwendoline submitted unquestioningly, and at the end of the half-hour descended to the drawing-room, white-checked and spiritless still.

She was no better next day. The weariness which had seized upon her that afternoon continued, and Gwendoline fought with it in vain. There were no signs of discontent about her; but the brown eyes had grown languid and the cheeks colourless, and interest in life seemed to have forsaken her. She was submissive and grateful, but her face rarely lighted up with its old flashes of brilliancy. Lady Halcot tried to recall her to painting; and the effort was a failure. If she walked in the garden, she had to lie down afterwards, and if she attempted to read, she dropped asleep.

"This cannot be allowed to go on," Lady Halcot said one day to Miss Withers. "I must consult Mr. Fosbrook, if she does not mend soon."

"I do not imagine there is much amiss," that lady said mildly. "Except—possibly—a little home-sickness,—quite natural—"

"I do not believe Miss Halcombe is home-sick," said Lady Halcot. But she did not like the suggestion, and she did not forget it.

CHAPTER XIV.

AN ENCOUNTER.

"I AM not ill, I assure you. There is nothing wrong with me. It is only a spirit of idleness," Gwendoline said, blushing.

"We must consider how the spirit of idleness can best be met," said Mr. Fosbrook, in his drily polite manner, glancing from Gwendoline to Lady Halcot. "I should not imagine idleness to be Miss Halcombe's usual failing."

"On the contrary, she has an energetic temperament," said Lady Halcot. "But I do not think she is very strong just now."

"What are Miss Halcombe's favourite occupations, may I ask?" Mr. Fosbrook addressed the remark generally.

"Painting—has been," Gwendoline answered, as the elder lady remained silent.

"And is it not now?"

"I can't take it up yet. I am idle," repeated Gwendoline.

"A little reaction, possibly, from too steady application in the past."

"That did not occur to me," said Lady Halcot.

"Don't try the painting at present. You will return to it with more zest by and by if you give yourself a few weeks of thorough rest first. Are you fond of riding?"

"I have never been on horseback."

"And how about walks? I do not mean mere garden-strolls, but brisk country walks and seashore rambles."

Gwendoline coloured brightly, and Lady Halcot did not look quite pleased. "Miss Halcombe spends at least an hour in the grounds every morning; but walking seems to fatigue her."

"I would not think too much of that. Let her take a sharp walk, and, if necessary, go to sleep afterwards for an hour. Perhaps a morning on the beach would be a pleasant change sometimes. Are you devoted to sea-anemones, Miss Halcombe?"

"I do not know much about them. I should like—" and she paused.

"I could lend you a little book on the subject." He had noted her expression of pleasure. "Merely as a guide to your own researches on the beach."

Lady Halcot counted all this beside the mark, and she intimated with dignity that Gwendoline's presence was no longer required. Mr. Fosbrook stood up to shake hands, remarking, "You had better leave art alone for a while, and take to nature instead."

Gwendoline went away, smiling, and the doctor had a somewhat lengthy interview with Lady Halcot. After his departure, Gwendoline was recalled.

"Would you like to go to the shore this morning?"

Gwendoline's face said more than words in response.

"Mr. Fosbrook does not think there is much wrong with you, but he recommends sea-bathing and as much fresh air and exercise as possible. It is unfortunate that Miss Withers is such a poor walker. You cannot, of course, go alone into the country, but Mr. Fosbrook assures me that you will be perfectly safe upon the beach. He thinks you will enjoy yourself more alone than if I sent Frith as your attendant. I am willing to try the experiment, trusting to your discretion. I need scarcely say that you will, of course, exchange words with no one. I have a great objection to the making of stray acquaintances."

Gwendoline did her best to put the old lady's mind at rest, and speedily started upon her solitary ramble, feeling like a caged bird set free. She had not passed an hour of such enjoyment for many a day. It was a sunny morning, and the half high tide, as it came in, was dropping little lines of froth along the pebbles. Small green waves washed up and broke in quick succession; while the pale blue, farther out, reflecting the sky, was varied by snatches of grey from passing clouds. Gwendoline paced to and fro, restlessly happy. The sea never saddened her, as it saddens some people, but it preached her a sermon that morning. The great ocean was so hard at work, climbing the little belt of shore, seeming to expend much energy on a small object, and gaining that object only to fall back beaten so soon as victory was obtained. Yet was it thus in reality? If in that hour its appointed work was done, its Maker's will was accomplished, could the object have been slight, or the apparent failure real?

"I think not," Gwendoline murmured half-aloud. "I suppose one ought to be willing and ready for anything, advance or retreat, conquest or defeat, no matter what, so long as God chooses it for us. I should like to feel so about my every-day life,—just to have my whole heart set on the simple doing of His will."

Lady Halcot counted her experiment successful when Gwendoline returned, fresh and hungry, from her ramble.

"Mr. Fosbrook is right," she said. "We must follow his advice."

And during several successive mornings the same plan was pursued.

Gwendoline had taken with her one day a little volume of poetry, and was busily reading, seated on a low rock, the first of that same jutting series where had taken place her adventure with the little boy. Voices near made her turn her head mechanically.

Gwendoline sprang to her feet, as if from an electric shock. "Honor!" burst from her lips, and she was in Honora Dewhurst's arms.

The instant's impulse over, Gwendoline woke up to the realities of her position, and she stepped back, yet not before Honora was gravely putting her off.

"Oh, Honor, why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"Why, Honor, if this isn't your pretty young friend, Miss Gwendoline Halcombe! How do you do, my dear,—how 'do' you do? Allow me to congratulate you heartily on the rise in your circumstances. I hope her ladyship, Lady Halcot, is quite well."

Gwendoline stood still in blank dismay. She remembered Lady Halcot's prohibition,—yet what could she do? Mr. Widrington came near with outstretched arm and beaming face; and she slowly put her little hand into his. One shake did not satisfy Mr. Widrington. He moved her hand up and down energetically, renewing his congratulations with an air of paternal encouragement.

"Quite a pleasure to see you again, Miss Halcombe,—I do assure you it is quite a pleasure. We haven't forgotten you in our little home,—no, no, my old wifie and I we often talk of you, and she used to think at first you'd maybe drop in some day, and have a cup of tea with us. But I said to her, 'No, no, wifie,' says I, 'Miss Halcombe's a grand young woman now, in a sphere above us, and depend on it she's got other fish to fry, so we needn't look to see her in our humble dwelling!' And sure enough we didn't. Not as I'm offended, so don't you think it, Miss Halcombe. But I'm not sorry for this opportunity to congratulate you on your prospects, and I'm sure you'll accept the congratulations as meant."

Honora, who had been studying Gwendoline's face, spoke suddenly: "Gwen, is this permitted?"

Gwendoline's lips scarcely formed the monosyllable, "No."

"Then we will say good-bye at once."

"Oh, Honor, let me have a few words, just a few words with you," Gwendoline said pleadingly. "I don't think she would mind that, really."

"I understand." Honora considered for a moment, then turned to her uncle. "Would you mind leaving us together for two or three minutes?" she asked. "Miss Halcombe must not stay, and we have not met for so long."

"To be sure, my dear, to be sure; it's a true saying that three is no company. I'll make for the cliff, and wait your leisure; and don't you hurry yourselves on any account. Women always have plenty to say to one another. I don't mind if I'm an hour waiting."

"Kind old man!" Gwendoline murmured, as after another vigorous hand-shake, he withdrew.

"Now, Gwen, tell me what is permitted."

"I may correspond with you, and that of course means that you are acknowledged as my friend. I do not think Lady Halcot would mind my meeting you, here or elsewhere."

"I see. She would tolerate me as an artist. But you are not to meet my uncle as an acquaintance."

Another soft "No" was the answer.

"It has been spoken about?"

"I told her all at first. I thought it right. And she said—'that' must stop."

"The other must stop too," said Honora quietly.

Gwendoline gave only a look.

"I do not mean that the correspondence must stop, or the friendship, my darling. But when I am staying with my uncle, I cannot have differences made that would pain him. If you must pass him without notice, you must pass me too. Your meeting him occasionally is unavoidable, especially now you are allowed to go about more alone. I shall tell him simply what he has to expect, and that it is by Lady Halcot's desire; and if I put myself in the same category with himself, he will not be hurt. Gwen, don't sob!"

"Oh, Honor!—If I could but go home!"

"Hush, you must not wish that. For your mother's sake, Gwennie dear, don't wish it. Think how comfortable and easy they all are now, in comparison with the past. And you are happy at the Leys, are you not?"

"I suppose so," Gwendoline could hardly utter.

"Don't cry, Gwen,—you make me feel myself so cruel. Yet surely you see with me that I cannot act differently."

"I don't know. I think I only see my own side of the matter," said Gwendoline, with a tearful smile. "I do try to be brave, but sometimes I have such a heart-thirst for you and mother. Lady Halcot is very kind; but nobody loves me here, Honor, and nothing seems really worth doing. Miss Withers does everything for Lady Halcot, and I never have a chance of being useful in that direction. Lady Halcot won't hear of my taking a class in the Sunday school; and if I propose to work for the poor, she says I may give orders to my maid to do anything I like. And, though I have a large allowance, she expects me to spend so much upon myself, and overlooks the spending so closely, that I cannot give away much. What am I to do, Honor? I know you won't say anything of all this to mother; but I have been longing to ask somebody, and I have no friend here. What ought I to do?"

Honora looked very tenderly into the sweet face, with its brimming sorrowful eyes. "It is not so very hard a question to answer, my darling," she said. "Just do what your Master gives you to do."

"But, Honor, He gives me nothing."

"Then be content to do that."

"Nothing!"

"Certainly, if such is His will for you just now. A master is entirely at liberty to bid his servant stand with folded hands for an hour, if he please."

Gwendoline looked dreamily towards the horizon.

"Yes," she said, "of course he is. And the servant ought to obey without grumbling."

"Unquestionably."

"But doesn't it seem a waste of time? So much needs to be done."

"The seeming is not reality. God knows the need better than you or I can do. Perhaps you are being prepared for some work, which you would never be able to undertake without some such previous testing of your will as this."

"But if it lasts a long time?"

"It will not last longer than is good for you."

There was a brief pause, and Honora said gently, "Gwen, we must part."

"Just five minutes more."

Honora yielded, and the five minutes grew into ten of low-voiced conversation. After that she would consent to no longer delay.

Gwendoline stood like a statue, watching her friend rejoin Mr. Widrington on the cliff, watching still until the two disappeared. Then with a full heart, yet cheered and comforted, she made her way homewards.

Leisure for thought came now, and a sense of fear crept over her. What would Lady Halcot say? Had she acted wrongly?

One thing was clear. The whole truth would have to be told without delay, cost what it might. Gwendoline had no manner of hesitation there.

Reaching the Leys, she was met in the hall by Miss Withers.

"You have come back," that lady observed, with what struck Gwendoline as a singular expression.

"Yes," Gwendoline said simply. "Where is Lady Halcot?"

"Her ladyship is occupied, and desires not to be interrupted at present."

There was nothing remarkable in this. Gwendoline passed on silently to her own rooms, and there indulged in so absorbing a dream of home-faces and home-news that she lost count of time, and the luncheon-bell rang unexpectedly. Gwendoline hastened down-stairs, regretting that she had not made an effort to see Lady Halcot. It was too late now.

Luncheon proved to be a silent meal that day. Lady Halcot's nose and mouth wore their most rigid look; Conrad Withers seemed conscious and uncomfortable; and Miss Withers bore an aspect of humble satisfaction. Gwendoline became conscious of something unusual in the atmosphere. Whether or no this something unusual were connected with herself, she wisely resolved to be prompt in what she had to do.

"You have all finished?" Lady Halcot said at length, glancing round and rising. Other words were on her lips, but Gwendoline forestalled them.

"May I speak to you alone, if you please?"

"Certainly," Lady Halcot said, casting a swift glance at the girl's pale face.

She did not see how another face in the room fell, but led the way to her own boudoir, and placed herself in her favourite arm-chair. Gwendoline stood near, trembling slightly, but resolutely calm.

"Miss Withers said you were engaged when I came in, or I would have told you sooner. I have seen my friend, Honora Dewhurst!"

"Where?" asked Lady Halcot.

"On the beach. She is staying for a night or two with her uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Widrington, and she came there with her uncle. I was taken by surprise, and I did not know what to do. He and I shook hands."

"That 'did not know what to do' is not quite ingenuous, Gwendoline," said Lady Halcot coldly. "You could scarcely have forgotten my desire."

"No, but—with Honor there—I did not know how, indeed," said Gwendoline in distress. "I could not refuse to notice him."

"Certainly you could. I expect you to do so in future."

Gwendoline thought of a dozen different things to say, and said none of them.

"Your only excuse is that you were, as you say, taken by surprise. But it must not happen again. The Widringtons are not to be received as acquaintances in any sense by you. Have you told me all?"

Gwendoline considered painfully, finding some difficulty in commanding her thoughts, with those stern bright eyes upon her.

"Honor asked if it was allowed, and I said 'No;' and she asked him to leave us. I thought you would not mind my talking to Honor herself for a few minutes."

"Only a few minutes?"

"I don't think it could have been more than a quarter of an hour, but I cannot be sure. She was telling me about all of them at home, and the time went very fast."

"Did you talk of nothing else?"

Gwendoline blushed vividly. "Yes; I was telling her I wished I could be of more use to—to somebody—to people."

"You are of use to me. That ought to be sufficient. Have you told me all?"

"Not quite. I am afraid I kissed Honora at the first moment more warmly than you would have liked. But it was so sudden."

"I do not approve of school-girlish ecstasies, especially in public. But I have not had to complain of your manner before."

"You shall not again, if I can help it," said Gwendoline quietly.

"And about the Widringtons? That has to be put an end to, decisively. Either you must not meet them, or you must make them understand your respective positions."

"I think I had better not go on the shore again at present."

"Mr. Fosbrook wishes you to bathe."

"Yes, twice a week; I can manage that safely by going early,—but I will not sit about on the beach again. I do not want to give pain unnecessarily."

"Very well," Lady Halcot said, and she sat looking at Gwendoline thoughtfully.

"You need not stand," she remarked. "Gwendoline, it is well that you have acted with openness. I had already heard of this interview."

Gwendoline's astonishment was unmistakable.

"It does not matter how,—still, I have no objection to your knowing. Mr. Withers was on the cliff during the early part of the affair, and on arrival here, he naturally told his aunt what he had seen. Miss Withers felt it her duty to inform me. It is well therefore that you have been frank. If you had kept back any particulars, my trust in you would have suffered. The only complaint I have now to make is of your want of presence of mind. There was plainly no deliberate intention to disobey."

"I hope there never will be," Gwendoline said, in a low voice, smothering with difficulty a sharp sense of indignation at Miss Withers' conduct.

"It would have been singular," Lady Halcot said, in a musing tone, unusual with her,—"singular if to-day of all days I had found cause to think less well of you. You do not understand me, of course, and there is no need that you should. Still, it is well that you should see clearly the relations in which we stand to one another. By certain alterations made in my will, and completed this very morning, you are made heiress to the greater part of that property which lies at my own disposal,—not the Halcot estate, but that which came to me from my mother. Unless you give me reason to revoke this step, you will some day be a tolerably rich woman."

Gwendoline showed no excitement, as the old lady had expected. She received the news in silence, and, after some serious thought, she said simply, "I hope that if I ever am rich, I shall use my money rightly."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"No, I ought to thank you," said Gwendoline. "And I do, indeed I do. Only I wish—"

"You wish what?"

"That it could be left to my mother instead of to me."

"There is no need to enter upon that question," said Lady Halcot, with less displeasure than she would have shown some weeks earlier. "Your mother took her deliberate choice, and she must abide by it. I do not wish this matter talked about, remember."

"No," replied Gwendoline; "I will be very careful—and of course you might change your mind again. Shall I tell my mother, or would you rather not?"

"I leave that to your discretion."

"Did Mr. Selwyn come?" asked Gwendoline suddenly.

"To Riversmouth—to-day? No; I wished it, but he was unable. Had he done so, I should have remembered that he was an old acquaintance of yours. Now you may dress for our drive."

Gwendoline understood that no more was to be said, and she moved away, outwardly quiet, but inwardly much stirred. As she passed along the corridor leading to her room, Conrad Withers suddenly darted towards her from some unknown corner, and brought himself to an abrupt pause.

"Miss Halcombe!—Miss Halcombe! Just one word, I entreat of you! The old lady has let the cat out of the bag! I knew she would. I see it in your look. Can you ever forgive me?"

Gwendoline stood still, and gravely scrutinized his perturbed face. "How much have I to forgive?" she asked.

"I assure you I didn't mean any harm, but I'm a most unlucky fellow—always putting my foot in it! I saw you were awfully delighted to get hold of the young lady, and it made me laugh to see old Widrington sawing your hand up and down and speechifying! I just told my aunt out of fun, and never dreamt of anything else, till I saw she took it as a serious matter. I assure you I didn't mean any harm."

"It was nothing worse than a little gossip on your part," said Gwendoline.

"Well, you see it's so tremendously dull here. If I didn't have a little fun sometimes, I should die of the dumps, I do believe. But you'll forgive me, won't you?"

"There has been no harm done," said Gwendoline, with a certain quiet dignity which Conrad thought fascinating. "But there might have been. Another time I shall feel much obliged to you and your aunt if you will leave me to make my own explanations. Miss Withers may be perfectly sure that Lady Halcot will not fail to hear everything from me. Perhaps you will kindly say this to your aunt."

"I'll see that she understands. And I'll bite off my tongue before ever I tell her anything about you again," said Conrad.

"Stay," Gwendoline said, as he made a move. "When did Miss Withers tell her story to Lady Halcot?"

"Oh, she just kept watch outside the door till the lawyer's man—Mr. what d'you call him?—was gone, and then she went in, and never left Lady Halcot till the luncheon-bell rang. 'I' knew what it meant, the moment I saw the old lady's face; and wasn't I mad with myself? Hallo! There she comes! I must be off, or I shall catch it!" And Conrad sped past Lady Halcot, receiving a sharp glance of questioning as he went.

CHAPTER XV.

CLOUDS.

A YEAR had gone its round, spring yielding to summer, summer fading into autumn, autumn giving place to winter, winter once more budding into spring.

Gwendoline lived still at the Leys, and had lived there through all these months, with only one slight break of a fortnight at Malvern with Lady Halcot. The old lady rarely cared now to leave Riversmouth.

Sometimes Gwendoline found it difficult to believe that only one year had passed since she was banished from her home. The time seemed interminable to look back upon; and the busy happy London life appeared to lie indefinitely far behind. Gwendoline wondered often how she could ever have murmured at the surroundings of that dear life. The troubles in it seemed so small to her now, the happiness so great. She did so thirst to be again in an atmosphere of lovingkindness, away from all this cold grandeur.

Strange to say, Gwendoline had found no friends in Riversmouth. Lady Halcot kept everybody at a distance. Mr. Fosbrook had made one attempt to advance acquaintanceship between Gwendoline and his sister-housekeeper; but Lady Halcot did not like Miss Fosbrook, and she gave him so decided a snubbing that the offence could hardly be repeated. Gwendoline stood entirely alone.

The Halcombes had not quitted their old home, though Mr. Halcombe's present clerkship, bringing in about £150 per annum, lay at an inconvenient distance. The said clerkship, together with Lady Halcot's settlement, and Victor's lately increased pay, tended to keep them all in greater comfort. Two or three of the boys had been sent to a boarding-school, which lessened the amount of home-work. Gwendoline knew that her parents' cares were much lightened. Sometimes she and her mother exchanged by post some words of sorrowful longing; but generally each wrote cheerily for the other's sake, suppressing any mention of troubles, and neither, perhaps, quite knew how the other pined for a sight of her face.

Conrad Withers no longer filled the post of secretary to Lady Halcot. A grave and elderly man of greater competence gave her the assistance which of late she had increasingly needed. Conrad had taken it into his simple head to fall in love with Gwendoline. Miss Withers did not exactly discourage him; but she counselled patience not without secret hopes of bringing the matter to pass. Gwendoline, as Lady Halcot's adopted child, was distasteful to her; but Gwendoline, the probable heiress, as Conrad's "fiancée," would have been quite another thing.

Miss Withers over-estimated, in some degree, her own influence with the old lady; for probably nothing would ever have induced Lady Halcot to consent to such an engagement, had Gwendoline herself become willing. She also over-estimated Conrad's powers of self-command. The gradual and subtle working out of plans, which suited Miss Withers, was an impossibility to him. He endured a few weeks of delay, in deference to her wishes; then, under a sudden impulse, he precipitated matters by making a direct proposal.

Gwendoline, a good deal astonished at his boldness, refused him at once, kindly yet decisively. She passed some hours of painful hesitation as to her next step; and then followed her usual habit of telling Lady Halcot what had occurred.

The delay was unfortunate. Miss Withers, feeling convinced that Gwendoline would certainly speak, took her own measures, and made use of the interim. By some delicate manipulation of the tale, and a little additional colouring, she caused it to appear that the "poor silly boy," as she called him, had been the victim of Gwendoline's trifling—the helpless fly caught in the web of her attractions, and flung carelessly away so soon as Gwendoline had had her amusement.

Miss Withers' daily increasing influence over Lady Halcot, and Lady Halcot's own detestation of anything like flirting, caused this tale to carry weight. Gwendoline's own version of affairs, following after, came too late to counteract the mischief. Lady Halcot was angry with everybody,—angry with Conrad for his temerity; angry with Miss Withers for not preventing the thing; doubly angry with Gwendoline, alike for her delay in speaking, and for her supposed conduct towards the unfortunate Conrad.

Conrad was dismissed from his employ on the spot, with a quarter's salary in advance, and a promise of recommendation to work elsewhere,—"if he could find anything he was fit for," Lady Halcot grimly added.

Miss Withers could not forgive Gwendoline this banishment of her nephew, for which poor Gwendoline was certainly not responsible. While enduring meekly her own share of Lady Halcot's annoyance, Miss Withers stealthily fanned into continued existence Lady Halcot's displeasure towards Gwendoline.

To Gwendoline the change in Lady Halcot's bearing was an utter mystery. She was unable to imagine any reason why Conrad's foolish fancy should be visited upon her so heavily. Lady Halcot's air of cold vexation, persisted in week after week, was simply inexplicable. Sometimes she fancied she caught glimpses of strong dislike to herself underlying Miss Withers' soft civility of manner, and she wondered whether the clue lay there; but again she would blame her own thoughts as unkind and suspicious, and would resolve to wait patiently for a lightening of the cloud. At times she felt strongly disposed to ask an explanation from Lady Halcot; and the step might have been a wise one. It was, however, impossible to tell how such a request would be received, and Gwendoline's courage failed. Her bright free spirit was growing positively timid under the long pressure of her present life.

Matters had gone on thus during many weeks, when one day Gwendoline received by post a short note from Conrad Withers. It ran as follows:—

   "DEAR MISS HALCOMBE,—I have not any right to send you a letter, of course, but you'll forgive me this once. I want to say something to you, and that is—Mind you beware of my aunt. She is a good woman, I suppose, as good people go,—at least, she has been good to me and my sisters; but she has claws beneath her velvet pads, and she hates you from the very bottom of her heart. Mind, if she can oust you from the Leys, she will! I think you ought to be warned, for you are too good to suspect anybody—a different sort of goodness from the 'other!' I didn't mean to say so much when I began. Of course this is strictly in confidence. I depend on you not to say a word to anybody, for you'll get me into an awful mess if you do. But you must just keep your eyes open.—Yours ever,—

"C. WITHERS."

Gwendoline read and re-read the scrawl in painful bewilderment. What should she do? How could she betray the poor fellow's well-meant effort to warn her? Yet might she venture to keep his secret? Gwendoline was naturally impulsive, and an impulse seized upon her now. The letter had been brought to her room by a servant, and she did not know that it had lain for a few minutes in the hall, with some others by the same post, and that Miss Withers had inspected them. Conrad had endeavoured to disguise his handwriting in the address; an abortive attempt, so far as his aunt's eyes were concerned.

Gwendoline, ignorant of this, and hearing a footstep approaching, crumpled sheet and envelope together and flung them into the fire. The blackened edges were curling still when Miss Withers entered with some slight message from Lady Halcot; and they did not escape that lady's notice.

Miss Withers withdrew, leaving Gwendoline a prey to troubled thought. The deed was done, but the question was scarcely settled thereby. For many hours she was tossed to and fro in utter perplexity as to her right course. Inclination would have led her, for her own sake, to divulge the whole to Lady Halcot; but a fear of bringing trouble upon Conrad, and a conscientious shrinking from anything like betrayal of confidence, withheld her.

Days passed, and nothing was said. Gwendoline did not speak, neither did Lady Halcot. It was not Lady Halcot's fashion to ask an explanation which she expected, as her due, to come spontaneously. Miss Withers had not failed to inform Lady Halcot of the arrival of the letter, adding to her information regrets as to "the poor boy's folly," and mild surmises that some encouragement from Gwendoline must have caused the deed.

"I do not believe that," Lady Halcot said. "I have always found Miss Halcombe straightforward and obedient hitherto. Your nephew is by no means wanting in assurance, Miss Withers. I shall no doubt hear all from Miss Halcombe before night."

But in a little while, Lady Halcot did believe it—naturally, perhaps, since Gwendoline said nothing.

So the cloud upon Gwendoline grew darker, she herself unknowing why. She could not see the weaving of the web behind the scenes, could not tell how the gradual process of alienation was carried on, could not guess how her most unimportant remarks were detailed to Lady Halcot, with new meanings of which she herself had never dreamt. She was conscious of a wall of separation growing up between herself and Lady Halcot, but the manner of its growth was a mystery to her. That Miss Withers had a hand in the matter she could no longer doubt. Conrad's letter supplied her with a clue thus far. It supplied her, however, with no means of circumventing the evil.

Gwendoline had never passed through a trial of this description before. Accustomed, up to the time of leaving her London home, to be petted, beloved, and sought after, in her little circle of acquaintances; accustomed, since coming to Riversmouth, to be admired and trusted and made much of,—it was an experience no less new than painful to find herself thrust out into the cold. The cessation of Lady Halcot's interest in her concerns revealed to her how much she had valued that interest. She was still looked after, told what to do, desired where to go; but the manner of the superintendence exercised was sharp and cold, as to a child in disgrace. Sometimes she wondered whether Lady Halcot were growing tired of her, and would one day decide to send her home; and her heart sprang at the thought. But no hint of such an intention ever dropped from Lady Halcot's lips.

Gwendoline drooped under this icy atmosphere like a hothouse plant turned out into the frost. Without any definite ailment, she grew thin, pale, and listless, and the days seemed to her to drag by interminably, lacking life and interest. She had nothing particular to do for anyone except herself, and the mental energy necessary for steady self-improvement seemed of late to have died away. The weariness of long patience was upon her.

Yet she did not murmur, and she was patient still. Whatever results this time of trial might have in the end remained to be seen; but its present effect was distinctly to draw her nearer to her God. In her lack of earthly friends, she clung the more closely to her Heavenly Friend. The unsatisfied thirst for earthly love made her drink more deeply of the river of Divine love. Even now, in the pain of her loneliness, Gwendoline knew that the pain was "good for her."

Mr. Selwyn came down to Riversmouth one spring day, by the old lady's request, to discuss certain matters divulged by her to nobody. The change in Gwendoline's position, and in Gwendoline herself, struck him forcibly. He had been down several months earlier, just before the Conrad affair, and had seen Gwendoline well and happy, seemingly established as Lady Halcot's especial favourite. Lady Halcot had been giving her riding-lessons, and had just presented her with a beautiful little horse. He well remembered Gwendoline's eager pleasure and gratitude, and her brilliant prettiness on horseback, together with Lady Halcot's evident satisfaction and pride in her. He had counted the whole arrangement a most happy success.

But this sunny May day, when he found himself once more in the old mansion of the Leys, he perceived at once a change. Gwendoline's wistful face and subdued voice, as she met him, told their own tale. She could hardly speak for threatening tears, and she had to turn away lest others should see. At luncheon, he noted with regret her constrained and even timid manner, together with Lady Halcot's cold and repressive bearing, nor did he fail to perceive the covert dislike and silken satisfaction of Miss Withers' air towards Gwendoline.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE CODICIL.

"I WISH to have a codicil added to my will," said Lady Halcot.

She spoke very decidedly, after her wont, and sat upright in her chair, facing the lawyer, while the muscles round her mouth worked nervously.

"I have decided not to make Gwendoline Halcombe my heiress to the full extent that I purposed some months ago. Circumstances have occurred to alter my determination."

"Indeed!" Mr. Selwyn said, not without a touch of surprise.

Lady Halcot took umbrage at it immediately.

"I suppose I am at liberty to dispose of my property as I see fit," she said sharply. "I am not under obligations to explain my reasons to all the world."

"Certainly not; certainly not," Mr. Selwyn answered, with all politeness.

"I intend to leave the sum of thirty thousand pounds for the building and endowing of a small hospital in Riversmouth; and also the sum of ten thousand pounds for the building of some almshouses. I did not realize till lately the need for these two institutions. Miss Withers has been drawing me some neat plans for the almshouses. She has quite a gift that way."

"Ha! That is it," thought the lawyer. "So 'she' is at the bottom of the matter."

"Also, I intend to leave the sum of four thousand pounds to Miss Withers."

"Miss Withers ought to be grateful," said Mr. Selwyn.

"Miss Withers is always grateful for kindnesses. I find her increasingly useful,—a most devoted attendant. I am not so young as I was, and I do not know what I should do without her. It is my wish to mark my appreciation of her services. If I could depend upon others as entirely as I can depend upon her—"

The old lady's tone was combative, and the unfinished sentence plainly pointed to Gwendoline.

The lawyer again said, "Certainly," in a soothing tone. Secretly he thought Lady Halcot nervous and irrational, as if something had thrown her off her balance.

A pause followed, and he observed cautiously, "It is, of course, no concern of mine, but perhaps I should recall to your memory, Lady Halcot, that in a letter to Miss Halcombe you undertook to provide handsomely for her future. There would not be much remaining to her, after what you propose to do. Thirty thousand to the hospital, ten thousand to the almshouses, four thousand to Miss Withers, twenty thousand, roughly, in various bequests and legacies,—out of some seventy thousand pounds."

"Seventy thousand is a low estimate, if I am not mistaken. I promised to provide handsomely for Gwendoline Halcombe, if she gave me satisfaction," Lady Halcot said, rather too much as if speaking of a housemaid. "But I have had reason of late to be disappointed in Miss Halcombe. She has shown a want of ingenuousness, a want of entire straightforwardness, with which it is impossible to be satisfied. And within only the last week she has displayed a want of propriety in her manner of speaking about me—not, of course, to my face, but behind my back—which I could never have expected in her."

"I am surprised, I confess," said Mr. Selwyn, while "Miss Withers again" flashed through his mind. "I should not have imagined the thing possible, knowing Miss Halcombe as I do. Is your ladyship sure that the information is completely reliable?"

"Completely," Lady Halcot said, with her most decided air. "However, I am not in the habit of forgetting my promises, or of swerving without sufficient cause from my intentions. I intend to leave Miss Halcombe sufficiently provided for. Your suggestion was therefore superfluous."

Mr. Selwyn felt that he had given offence, and he bowed slightly, with an air of apology.

"The five hundred a year, settled upon her parents for their lifetime, will revert to Miss Halcombe after their death. This is already so arranged; and the arrangement shall remain undisturbed. Also there will be at my death a few thousands to become hers immediately,—some seven or eight thousand, if I am not mistaken. This is, at least, as much as I have ever pledged myself to do; although for a time I intended to go much farther."

Mr. Selwyn found the old lady as usual keenly interested in business details. It struck him, however, that she was not so clear as she had once been. She forgot herself repeatedly, asked the same questions over again, and seemed not fully to grasp the sense of his answers. Still, her resolution was plainly taken.

The interview was a long one, leaving Mr. Selwyn barely time to catch his train. He would have liked a few words alone with Gwendoline; but to defer his return until a later hour was not possible; and he learnt that Gwendoline had gone out for a drive. Was it by her own wish? Mr. Selwyn shrewdly suspected that Gwendoline would have been at least as pleased as himself to exchange a few remarks.

"The upshot of the matter is that Miss Halcombe is unhappy at the Leys."

Mr. Selwyn had said little about his visit to Riversmouth that same evening in the drawing-room,—much less than he was wont to say. Isobel's questioning had proved almost fruitless; for her husband was, of course, an adept at fencing. Mortimer Selwyn had listened silently, drawing his own conclusions; and these conclusions took shape suddenly in the above remark.

"I have not said so," Mr. Selwyn cautiously answered.

"Not in words, precisely," said Mortimer, "Is she well, father?"

"I should say not thoroughly. She has lost her colour."

"And her spirits?"

"I thought her looking rather depressed. But, as I tell you, I had no opportunity of speaking with her."

"Is the old lady as fond of her as she was six months ago?" inquired Isobel.

Mr. Selwyn could have laughed. "Fondness" was not a word to apply to Lady Halcot under any circumstances, and he said so.

"Call it anything you like, Stuart. You know what I mean. Does Lady Halcot care for Gwendoline Halcombe as much as ever? Or has she begun to throw her overboard? You need not be afraid to speak. Mortimer and I are perfectly safe."

Thus pressed, Mr. Selwyn yielded in some measure. He said nothing about the proposed change in the will; but he spoke with regret of Gwendoline's altered look, and of the old lady's seeming coldness.

"I'll tell you what it is," Isobel cried indignantly. "It is all that little wretch of a Miss Withers, and her stupid nephew!"

"My dear! You are not acquainted with Miss Withers."

"Yes, I am, through you, quite as much as I am acquainted with Lady Halcot. Do you think I don't understand the expression of your face when you mention Miss Withers' name? I have no doubt she is a most estimable person, in people's opinion generally; but she isn't in your opinion, Stuart. And I haven't the least grain of doubt that she is at the bottom of the mischief, and you haven't either."

Mr. Selwyn would not confirm or deny the assertion. He said merely, "You are too observant, Isobel, and you have a quick imagination. But, remember, this must not go farther. Not a word must reach Gwendoline's parents."

"What! You would leave that poor girl to pine away for want of a kind word!"

"I hope matters are not quite so bad. We have no business to interfere; and it would be positive cruelty to tell her parents, when nothing can be done. Gwendoline is bound to remain at the Leys so long as Lady Halcot desires to keep her."

Isobel fumed, but could not explain away the truth of the assertion.

Later in the evening, when she had retired, Mortimer took the opportunity to say quietly, "You consider seriously that no steps can be taken?"

"About Gwendoline? Certainly not. She is entirely in Lady Halcot's hands. You and I have nothing to do with the matter."

"I am not so sure that I have not."

"Eh!" Mr. Selwyn said doubtfully; and Mortimer's pleasant eyes met his.

"I do not know whether I shall ever marry, father. But this I know, that if I do, Gwendoline will be my wife."

Mr. Selwyn made a sound of regret and disapproval.

"I should wish you to understand so much. I have had as yet no opportunity of endeavouring to win her."

"And you will not have," said Mr. Selwyn.

"I should not wait long but for your position with Lady Halcot. As it is, I could take no step without your approval."

"The last step which I could approve would be your going to Riversmouth with such an aim. She is a good girl and a sweet girl, Mortimer; but she is utterly out of your reach at present. Lady Halcot has her own plans. I am sorry for you. Perhaps I should be right to mention to you in confidence that Gwendoline will not be so rich as many suppose."

"So much the better," Mortimer said quietly.

CHAPTER XVII.

RICH TOWARD GOD.

ONE June Sunday there came into the parish church a new preacher, never before seen within its precincts. A charity sermon was foretold for that morning, and Mr. Rossiter had summoned a clerical acquaintance from a distance. He did not very often indulge his congregation with variety in their spiritual fare. Charity sermons and strange preachers were contrary to the traditions of Riversmouth, and he was at all times anxious to avoid giving needless offence to his aged patron. Occasionally, however, he broke through this rule, and he had done so now.

Lady Halcot was in her pew, as she seldom failed to be, despite her increasing infirmities. She counted it her duty to set a good example; and, though unwell for some days past, she was there.

Charity sermons are not, as a rule, peculiarly spirit-stirring addresses; but this charity sermon promised early to be somewhat exceptional in its nature. The preacher was a middle-aged man, of a rugged and fervid aspect, yet a gentleman. He said little about the immediate object for which help was needed, taking at once a broader stand. Also, he kept away from the smooth and sleepy lines of much pulpit phraseology, and spoke in terse every-day language, such as he might have used in conversation, always to the point, nevertheless always reverent. Such clothing of ideas in words might almost take the place of eloquence. Mr. Rossiter, with all his earnestness, had not yet learnt this secret of speaking straight to men's hearts in strong Saxon English; and he began to take a lesson for himself, as he sat watching his congregation wake up from its ordinary air of drowsy submission.

"Twelfth chapter of St. Luke, twentieth and twenty-first verses. 'But God said unto him, Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee: then whose shall those things be which thou hast provided? So is he that layeth up treasure for himself, and IS NOT RICH TOWARD GOD.'"

The closing words rang solemnly through the building. The clergyman, indulging in no circumlocutions, with the half-closed Bible clasped in his hands, went straight to the point.

"Which among you all, my friends, can count himself thus 'rich toward God'?

"You are strangers to me, and I am a stranger to you. Of your families, your homes, your circumstances, I know nothing. But this much I know, that not one among you is without his treasure laid up, whether for himself or for his God.

"Wealth is a matter which men see differently from different standpoints. A man may be rich in his own or others' estimation with five hundred a year. A man may be poor, at least in his own estimation, with ten thousand a year. The exact 'how much' that each one has is not the question. You have your wealth, more or less; you have your possessions, great or small; you have your treasures that you have provided; you have these things in some sort, every one of you. Now comes the vital question. Is it only treasure for self, mere pelf of earthly storehouses, subject to mildew, moth, and flame? One night or day thy soul shall be required of thee. Then whose shall that poor worthless rubbish be which thou hast so carefully provided? Not thine, in any case.

"'Not rich toward God.' There is the gist of the matter. You may have your 'much goods laid up for many years.' You may have your thousands or tens of thousands descending to you from your forefathers. You may have your luxurious home, your high position, your care and comfort and delicate fare, fruits of industry in generations past. Or you may have striven and fought your own way upwards from poverty to comparative wealth, till now you can sit with your hands before you, and look placidly round, confident in the knowledge that want and poverty cannot touch you. Of course that 'cannot' is far from absolute. Riches do 'take to themselves wings' unexpectedly sometimes. You know this, yet you feel secure. You have your possessions inherited by descent or gained through labour of hand or brain, and you know you are comfortably provided for, till—till—

"My friends, till when?"

The question came sharply, breaking into the slowly-uttered syllables which preceded it. He paused for an instant, and the silence was intense. Lady Halcot looked stern and pale. She thought the preacher meant herself. Mr. Widrington, seated near, felt equally sure that he was the person intended.

"'This night,' the summons came thus. It may be 'this night' to any one of us. Suppose the call came now to you, whose should those things be which you have provided—those things which have filled your hearts and lives hitherto? Have you treasure laid up in the heavens?

"'Surely every man walketh in a vain show; he heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall gather them.' YOU may make your plans and form your wills, and those plans and wills may or may not be carried out after you are gone. What if they are? You will not be here to see it. What of yourself, stripped of all your wealth, of all your position, of all that you have sought and valued and stored and laid up,—yourself, standing, a cold and poverty-stricken soul, before the Eternal God? 'Not rich toward God,' in the hour of death. It is an awful thought. 'Lo, this is the man that made not God his strength, but trusted in the abundance of his riches, and strengthened himself in his "substance."' So in the margin.

"I do not for a moment say that wealth is a sin. No gift of God can in itself be evil. I say only that wealth is a danger. Poverty is a danger too, though of a different kind. No condition of life is without its dangers. If you hold your treasures of any kind as from God, they will not harm you.

"'How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!' Yes, because 'they trust in the abundance of their riches'! That is why. God made Abraham aboundingly rich, and Abraham was none the worse in heart and spirit; for his trust was in God, not in his wealth. So too with Job. When his riches were swept away, he could still say of God, 'Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.' Which of you could speak those words from the bottom of the heart, if your best treasures were taken away? And mark,—treasure does not always mean money. There may be treasures in the shape of mental powers, treasures in the shape of loved friends or relatives, as well as treasures in the shape of wealth. Those who have not one have another of these.

"'The blessing of the Lord it maketh rich, and He addeth no sorrow with it.' My friends, do not make it needful that He should add sorrow. Take heed that your hearts are rich toward God with the wealth which Christ alone can give; and neither riches nor poverty will hurt you then.

"Remember, every one of you, treasure-holders of any kind or degree, that which you have is not your own. It is the Lord's. You have to use it for your God; and by and by He will demand from you a solemn account of the use which you have made of it. Are you prepared to yield this account?

"The need for which I plead to-day is one among many needs. I do not seek merely to move your pity, or to stir your feelings in the hope of loosening your purse-strings. The principle of the matter lies far deeper than any surface stir of pitiful feeling. God has given to each one of us so much of the good things of this world. Are we heaping them together for ourselves, or are we using them for God, counting them as lent, while the true God-given riches of forgiveness and peace and joy are in our hearts for evermore?

"Using them for God means more than an occasional shilling put into the plate at church, or an occasional penny tossed to a beggar. It means more than plans of kindness and schemes of generosity. It means doing what you do for Christ's sake. It means doing what you do as unto the Lord Himself.

"There is a deadly sin spoken of in the Bible. Listen:

"'The wicked shall be turned into hell . . . and all the nations that FORGET GOD.'

"And again,—'The wicked through the pride of his countenance will not seek after God. God is not in all his thoughts.' Only forgetfulness again! How much has God been in our thoughts this past week? Put the question to yourselves. 'Consider this, ye that FORGET GOD.'

"Only forgetfulness! A small matter in the eyes of many. It will not seem a small matter in that hour when you stand face to face with the Eternal God, whom you through long years of life have habitually forgotten.

"Forgotten Him in your work! Forgotten Him in your duties! Forgotten Him in your pleasures! Forgotten Him in your money-earning! Forgotten Him in your money-spending!

"And yet—He is your Father. He has not forgotten your needs. The Lord Jesus did not forget to die for you. The Holy Spirit does not forget to plead with you."

So far the sermon proceeded, the effect of the preacher's brief, clear utterances being enhanced by his impressive earnestness and by a mellow voice of strong feeling.

Suddenly, and without the slightest warning, as regarded the greater number present, there was a heavy "thud." Lady Halcot lay senseless upon the floor of the large square pew.

Two or three friends near said afterwards that they had observed a livid whiteness creeping over the old lady's face, but had not thought much of it. Miss Withers, the only sleepy person in the congregation, had noticed nothing; and Gwendoline, absorbed in attention to the preacher, had been equally oblivious. The collapse of Lady Halcot's powers was so instantaneous that neither could be in time to break the force of her fall, but Gwendoline was the first to lift her head.

A general stir took place, and the thread of close attention was broken. The clergyman came to a sudden pause, and people around craned their necks to observe, with eager whispers, two or three young ladies becoming slightly hysterical. Help was at hand, and before many seconds had elapsed, the little bent figure was carried into the vestry. There, with the help of fresh air and remedies, Lady Halcot slowly revived.

"It must have been the heat. I never fainted in my life before," she said uneasily. "So very strange! If I had guessed that anything of the kind was coming on, I should have walked out. It must have made quite a disturbance. Thanks; I do not require the salts, Miss Withers. I am quite well."

But when she stood up to walk to her carriage, Lady Halcot fell back again in semi-unconsciousness.

The disturbance in church had not been slight, and many found it difficult to give further attention to the sermon. With some, however, the event had rather deepened the effect of the preacher's words, and among these was Mr. Widrington. For so chatty a man, he was strangely silent during the remainder of the day; and a clue to his silence came at night.

"Wife," he said tremblingly, "I can't get out of my head the things I heard this morning. It's an awful thought that all these years I have been forgetting God,—forgetting Him in my getting, and my spending too. I didn't mean to, but I have. It was awful to see the old lady go down like that, and to think it was, maybe, the call come all of a sudden. I hope it isn't, but there's no knowing; and I hope, if it is, she's got her treasure in heaven all right. But I'm sure I haven't. It's time we should see to it, wifie."

The preacher came and went, and his first sermon in Riversmouth was also his last there. But the words flung broadcast upon the soil that day sprang up and grew and bore fruit; not only in the heart of little old Mr. Widrington.

CHAPTER XVIII.

LONELINESS.

SIX weeks had passed since Lady Halcot was first taken ill in church, and she was ill yet. She had not left her room, had, indeed, scarcely quitted her bed, since that day. Mr. Fosbrook found it difficult to say in precise terms what was the matter with her. She seemed to have no definite ailment, beyond a collapse of all her powers. Suddenly, and almost without previous warning, she had sunk into the ways of a confirmed invalid.

Miss Withers from the first moment stepped quietly into the position of head nurse and of general manager in all that appertained to Lady Halcot. Gwendoline found herself gradually excluded from the sick-room. A brief visit once or twice a day was permitted for a while, Miss Withers invariably remaining present. But as time went on, difficulties were raised; and slowly—almost imperceptibly to herself—it came about that her entrance was forbidden.

"I do not think it desirable to-day," in Miss Withers' placid tones, grew into, "I could not possibly allow it, Miss Halcombe."

Gwendoline had no means of knowing whether this was by Lady Halcot's desire. Miss Withers did everything in Lady Halcot's name, spoke much of the necessity of keeping her quiet, and promised to call Gwendoline at once, if at any time the old lady seemed to require her. Gwendoline had no power to separate the true from the false in their utterances. Had she felt the slightest security that her presence was desired by Lady Halcot, she would have taken a firm stand immediately. But this security she could not feel. Lady Halcot's long-continued coldness, and the absence now of any kind message from the sick-room, made her shrink from intruding where, as it seemed, she was not wanted.

Life dragged on wearily with her through those weeks. She had no friends, no companions. Miss Withers was with Lady Halcot, morning, noon, and night; scarcely quitting the room for even a hurried meal now and then, but "snatching food," as she called it, when she could, and never walking out at all. Yet she showed no signs of being over-taxed, but always appeared placidly neat and satisfied. Gwendoline wondered at her.

What Mr. Fosbrook thought of the old lady Gwendoline did not know. She would have spoken to him, but no opportunity presented itself. So sure as Mr. Fosbrook's carriage reached the front door, the ubiquitous Miss Withers was gliding through the hall to welcome him; and when he left, she accompanied him out upon the steps, talking always in muffled and confidential tones. If Gwendoline came up and asked a question for herself, the answer was snatched from Mr. Fosbrook's lips by Miss Withers. Her after report to Gwendoline was almost invariably the same, "Mr. Fosbrook considered Lady Halcot very feeble still, and desired that she should be kept perfectly quiet."

It was a strange life for Gwendoline, brought up as she had been in a crowd, and now entirely cut off from all whom she loved. Letters were her great comfort, and correspondence was no longer subject to supervision; but Gwendoline was strictly honourable, and she would in no case exceed the bounds marked out for her by Lady Halcot. A feeling of restlessness made it very difficult to settle to any course of study; and rides and drives were melancholy, with no particular object in them, no companion with whom to exchange ideas, nobody to see her off, nobody to welcome her home. Gwendoline had not imagined until now how much of real affection she had learnt to bestow on Lady Halcot, or how keenly the little old lady could be missed out of her daily life.

In despair of other interests, she at length took to her painting again, and spent hours over it daily, struggling with lassitude and disinclination, and trying to revive a shadow of her former delight in the occupation. Some of the old pleasure crept back slowly; but she missed the companionship of her fellow-students, their criticisms, opinions, and judgments, together with the warm interest of her home-circle in all that she undertook. To have painted a picture for her mother would have brought real enjoyment, but Gwendoline knew well that her work, when done, would be Lady Halcot's, not Mrs. Halcombe's.

Sometimes the poor girl flung her pencils down, and sobbed aloud in her heartache, for "Mother, mother!"

Occasionally Miss Withers would drop in, and scan Gwendoline's unfinished canvas, with the monotonous verdict of "So very pretty."

Gwendoline had some difficulty on such occasions in controlling herself to receive politely the unwelcome commendation.

She was alone in Lady Halcot's boudoir early one afternoon, going through an hour of self-prescribed reading, when, to her surprise, Mr. Fosbrook walked in. It was half an hour before his usual time of calling, and Gwendoline said, as she rose, "I did not hear the carriage."

"No; I came on my own feet for once," Mr. Fosbrook answered, not thinking it necessary to add that he had done so for the express purpose of securing a private interview with her. "Finding the door on the latch, I did not ring. Have you been out to-day, Miss Halcombe?"

"No; I did not feel inclined."

"Don't give way to that feeling."

Gwendoline smiled assent, cheered quickly by the interest shown in her well-being. She had had little of such kindness for many weeks.

"You are not looking very well, I think. People cannot get on without fresh air."

"No; I will remember," she said, not wishing to waste valuable time. "Mr. Fosbrook, what do you really think of Lady Halcot? She has been so long ill now. Will she soon be well?"

Mr. Fosbrook looked at her in silence for two seconds. Then he said gravely, "Miss Withers undertook to tell you."

"She tells me nothing," said Gwendoline hastily. "Except that Lady Halcot is weak, and must be kept quiet."

"That is true,—so far. It is not all. There has been a marked failure the last three days."

"A failure of strength?"

"Of vital power."

"I have heard nothing," Gwendoline said, in a trembling voice,—"nothing whatever. Is this right? Why am I to be kept away from Lady Halcot, and to have the truth hidden from me? I am not a child."

"Then it is not by your own wish that you are absent?"

"My own wish! Staying out of the room! No, indeed! Could you think so?" asked Gwendoline reproachfully.

"Miss Withers seemed to think that you were of a nervous disposition, as regarded illness."

Gwendoline exclaimed in amazement. "I am the eldest of a large family," she said. "I have been used to nursing all my life."

"I confess it did not sound very much like the young lady whom I saw leaping from the rock," he said, with a half-smile. "But characters are often inconsistent in their developments. Then you would not really object to seeing Lady Halcot?"

"If I thought Lady Halcot wished to see me, nothing should keep me out of the room," said Gwendoline indignantly. "Afraid of illness indeed!"

"It is possible that Lady Halcot wishes it more than she allows to appear. She is always reserved."

"Has she ever said anything,—ever asked about me?"

"No," Mr. Fosbrook answered. "Your name has not been mentioned by her in my hearing. When I have alluded to you, she has immediately dropped the subject. But this very silence strikes me as unnatural, and inclines me to believe that there is strong feeling of some kind below."

Gwendoline stood with a look of painful perplexity on her face. "If I only knew what to do!" she said. "If I could only see my way clearly! Miss Withers,—'she,' of course, has no right to forbid me the room. If I knew myself to be wanted there, I would go at once. Miss Withers has no real power in the matter. There is only my doubt about Lady Halcot's wishes. Did you mean just now that you think Lady Halcot's state at all serious?—Anything to be anxious about?"

"It would be no kindness to hide the truth from you," said Mr. Fosbrook seriously. "She will never come down-stairs again."

"You don't mean to say that she is dying?"

Gwendoline's startled face was turned upon him in blank distress. But his answer left her in no doubt.

"Lady Halcot is dying."

"Not actually dying I—surely not so bad as that! How long can she live?"

"It may be weeks. It may be only days. I cannot speak with certainty. A temporary rally is not even now impossible, but I hardly expect it."

"And she,—does she know it?"

"I cannot tell. She does not appear to be conscious of danger; but certainly I have an impression that something is weighing upon her mind. It may be that, or it may be your absence."

A light seemed to flash upon Gwendoline. "I see,—I see!" she said. "You think that perhaps Lady Halcot is fretting about me,—perhaps believing, as you did, that I have been staying away out of choice—selfishly."

"I did not believe it, Miss Halcombe. But mistakes are possible, especially in a sick-room, where the mind is not very strong."

"And you advise me to go to her?"

Mr. Fosbrook's answer was unhesitating. "I do. The experiment is at least worth trying."

The boudoir door opened slowly, and Miss Withers entered, a rather disagreeable expression underlying her smile. "Mr. Fosbrook already!" she said, with an accent of surprise. "How do you do? You are early to-day."

"Rather," Mr. Fosbrook answered composedly.

He was, of course, entirely indifferent to Miss Withers' displeasure, and he shook hands in his usual manner, content to have achieved that which might prevent after unhappiness or self-reproaches on the part of Gwendoline. He had suspected the fact of certain not quite straightforward dealings. Having done his part, he left Gwendoline to carry on the matter.