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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: A Woman Against The World, an electronic edition
Author: Moberly, Lucy Gertrude
Publisher: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited
Place published: London, Melbourne and Toronto
Date: 1909
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A WOMAN AGAINST THE WORLDMARGARET MERRIVALE.A Woman Against The World.]Frontispiece of Moberly's "A Woman Against the World"A WOMAN AGAINST THE WORLD. BY  L.G. MOBERLY. AUTHOR OF "HOPE, MY WIFE," "DIANA," ETC. WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO. 1909DEDICATIONTO DR. E. KINGSCOTE. A VERY SMALL "THANK-YOU" FOR A VERY GREAT BENEFIT.Table of contents included in front of Moberly's "A Woman Against the World"Table of contents included in front of Moberly's "A Woman Against the World"CHAPTER I"FOND OF LITTLE CHILDREN."'NOT wishin' to make meself unpleasant, Mrs. Merivale, you'll please to remember there's four weeks' rent owin'—and me a pore woman with me own rent to pay.""I am so sorry, Mrs. Stubbs, so very, very sorry—but I can't find any work, and—until I get some work I cannot pay my back rent. I—I have done everything I could to get money—but now I seem to have come to the end."The voice that spoke, was the refined and musical voice of a lady, the face into which Mrs. Stubbs' face glared wrathfully was a lady's face—beautiful and refined as her voice—and the shabby clothing could not detract from the stateliness of her build, the graceful lines of her figure."And if you've come to a end, what price me?" questioned the indignant landlady, putting her arms akimbo, and staring insolently into the beautiful, troubled face; "ain't there nothin' in your bloomin' boxes as you can sell, to pay my rent? There ain't no sense nor reason in me lettin' you have your room for nothin'."A hot tide of colour rushed over the whiteness of Margaret Merivale's face; she backed a little before the threatening aspect of the other woman, and as she leant against the wall in the narrow passage, she trembled, as though she were too weak to stand upright after a weary hour spent in looking through newspaper advertisements, in a neighbouring Free Library. She had just re-entered the lodging-house, which was now her only home, and as her breakfast had consisted solely of a piece of dry bread, and a cup of milkless tea, she was weak from exhaustion: and her landlady's tempestuous greeting had come as the last straw on her mountain of misery. Hearing her lodger's key in the lock, Mrs. Stubbs had dashed out of her own sitting-room into the passage, determined, as she mentally phrased it, to give that stuck-up fine lady of a Mrs. Merivale, a piece of her mind."Well, you can take it or leave it," she went on, when Margaret did not speak. "I can't afford to let my room go for nothin', and if you ain't able to pay, the best thing you can do is to get out of it.""Are you giving me notice?" The tones of her voice were very weary and lifeless. It was almost as if speech was too much of an effort, and now that the hot flush had died out of her face, it was almost ashen in its whiteness."I persume you didn't think you was goin' to stop on 'ere without payin' no rent, did yer? Or was you labourin' under the delusion as this is a Free Home for the pore?"The woman leaning against the wall, drew herself into an upright position, and her eyes flashed."It is not necessary to insult me because I am poor," she said quietly, though there was a quaver in her voice. "I have told you that the whole of the back rent owing shall be paid as soon as I have the money. But—if you wish to give me notice—I will leave at once.""You can stop your week out," Mrs. Stubbs answered grudgingly, and with a slightly shamed expression. "P'raps you'll find a situation through the paper as you've got there," and she nodded her frowsy head towards a Morning Post under her lodger's arm."I brought this in because I could not manage to see the Morning Post at the library," Margaret answered; "but—it seems very difficult to find work." Hard and unsympathetic as Mrs. Stubbs habitually was, she was at least another human being—the only human being to whom Margaret Merivale ever spoke just now—and her pent-up misery found relief in speaking even to her landlady. "I never dreamt it could be so hard to get the kind of situation I want; and when one is willing to work, it seems cruel that work can't be found. Not one of the agencies to which I have applied can help me to get anything.""Ah, well, I suppose these agencies and such would be very particular about references, wouldn't they? " With gimlet-like probing Mrs. Stubbs' eyes searched Margaret's face, and again that hot flush mounted to Mrs. Merivale's very forehead."They—seem to find it impossible to get me the work—I want," she said falteringly, "but—I hope I may find something in this paper, and—the rent shall be paid as soon as possible."With some inaudible mutterings, Mrs. Stubbs drew back and allowed her lodger to make her slow way to the narrow staircase, up which she climbed wearily to the top floor of the dingy London lodging-house. The long climb left her very breathless, and she stood panting for a moment, outside her room before she unlocked the door and slowly entered. It was a cheerless enough place, lacking everything but the most absolutely necessary furniture, all of which showed obvious need of repair. The view from the window was as uninviting as the room and its contents, for from it nothing was visible but the grey backs of houses in a neighbouring street, with a strip of sky between the countless chimney-pots. Margaret Merivale shivered a little as she looked round the desolate apartment, which for many weeks now had been her only home—and, instead of taking off the golf cape she wore, she drew it more closely round her shoulders. Through the open window, to the woman accustomed to country freshness, the March wind blew in with cutting vigour, but the small, ill-ventilated room seemed to need all the air it was possible to admit; and, covering her knees with her shabby shawl that hung at the foot of the bed, she spread the Morning Post before her on the table. Sitting there, with the March sunlight streaming in upon her, she looked even more tired and wan than when standing in the passage downstairs with her landlady, and the sunshine showed mercilessly what dark shadows lay under her eyes, what deep lines of sorrow and suffering were carved about her mouth. Yet, in spite of all the marks that life's bitter experience had set upon it, the face was a beautiful one—a face that no one who had once seen it would ever be likely to forget. The deep-set eyes, green, and soft as a mountain stream, the clear-cut lips, the shapely head with its crown of bronze hair, the delicately chiselled features—all these made up a whole of rare and exquisite charm. And ill and tired though she looked on this March morning in her dreary lodging-house room, nothing could destroy that charm."How tired I am—how tired!" she whispered under her breath. "Tired—and hungry! I—Margaret Merivale—tired and hungry. If it wasn't so dreadfully sad and real, it would almost be funny, when I remember—not so very long ago." Glancing up from the paper spread on the table, to the strip of sky above the chimney-pots, a vision swept before her eyes, a vision whose surroundings were the very antithesis of those in which she now sat. A stately house, up whose wide, softly-carpeted staircase moved a smartly-dressed throng of men and women; electric lights that flashed on gleaming satins and shining jewels; a babel of refined and modulated voices; the fragrance of thousands of roses piled high along the stairs, and in the great hall, and on every side of the magnificent drawing-room. And on the landing at the stair head, close to the drawing-room door, stood a woman—a woman whose gown of shimmering satin, green as the wave that curls over and falls upon the beach, set off the whiteness of her neck, the bronze glory of her hair, the green depths of her eyes. There were diamonds about her neck, and diamonds sparkling in the coils of her hair; her own reflection in the big glass beside her, told her that she was as fair and stately as a queen, and in the eyes of those who streamed up the great staircase and greeted her, she read unfailing homage to her beauty.A smile crept about the lips of the woman who saw that vision, a bitter little smile that changed suddenly into a short laugh, when memory flashed into her mind the picture of a long supper-room, fragrant with roses, as all the house had been—the tables laden with the choicest delicacies that money could buy—the electric lamps shining on costly wines and fruits, whose price would have kept a poor family in comfort for a week."Tired—and—hungry!" With the laugh those words dropped from the dreaming woman again, and she brushed her hand across her eyes, as though to shut out the vision of all the luxury and loveliness that seemed like a mockery to her present misery."And I am likely to stay tired and hungry if I don't go on fighting," she exclaimed more loudly. "A woman—against the world!" She laughed again, a laugh that would have wrung a listener's heart, if there had been anyone to hear it; but Mrs. Merivale shared Mrs. Stubbs' top floor with a sempstress who was out all day, and the little woman's powers of observation at the best of times, were exceedingly limited. Resolutely thrusting into the background of her mind those haunting visions of the past which contrasted so terribly with the present, she opened the newspaper, and passed her fingers slowly along the advertisement column setting forth the requirements of those who wanted lady helps and companions, until, at the very bottom of the column her finger paused, and she sat staring at the printed page with fascinated gaze."If—I—could—only get this," she said, with a little breathless gasp, "if only I could!"The advertisement at which she gazed, was unlike the stereotyped ones to which she had now become so sadly accustomed, and Margaret Merivale read it slowly aloud, a new ring of hopefulness in her voice."Wanted, by a gentleman in the country, lady to act as nurse to, and have entire charge of, one little girl, aged 4. Only a lady of good birth, and really fond of little children, need apply."Replies were to be sent addressed to the newspaper office, and some of the clouds of despair rolled from Margaret's heart, as she rose to fetch her writing-case from the cupboard. In all her wearisome and fruitless search for work, her chief difficulties had arisen from the fact that she could produce no certificates, that she had had no professional training; and in an age when the trained and the certificated are above all things in request, the woman who was neither, found herself hopelessly at a discount. And then, her name had been against her. More than once, oh! many times more than once, over and over again, when an employer had been on the very point of engaging her, that question had been put, to which the one damning answer was the only one to be given—the question of her name.These thoughts swung to and fro in Margaret's brain now, whilst she opened her writing-case and took from it a sheet of paper—cheap white paper, so different, so very different, as she remembered, with a sad smile, from the thick, stamped paper which at one time was the only kind she had felt it possible to use.She dipped her pen into the ink, and slowly wrote her address at the top of the paper; then paused, and looked again at the advertisement."Only a lady of good birth, and really fond of little children, need apply.""Of good birth." A smile of infinite sadness crossed Margaret Merivale's face, but a sigh followed the smile."I think my birth is all right," she said. Long months of loneliness had engendered in her the habit of speaking aloud. "I can honestly vouch for the respectability of my ancestors—and—little children. 'Really fond of little children!' Ah! I can say with all my heart that I love little children." Almost mechanically her hand went to her neck, and drew from within her dress a fine gold chain, at the end of which hung a gold locket of the simplest pattern. Opening it with fingers that shook a little, Margaret looked at the pictured face within, her own eyes growing dim as they met the innocent child eyes that looked out at her. It was the face of a little child that the locket held—eyes blue as the summer heavens, soft golden curls framing features dainty in colouring as a briar rose—all these swam mistily before Margaret's sight, and a choking sob rose in her throat."Fond of little children," she whispered, pressing her lips passionately to the fair face of the portrait; "if I did not love every child for its own sake, I should love them all for yours, my sweet."She gently closed the locket again, putting it into its safe hiding-place within her dress, and once more took up her pen."To have the entire care of a little child would be—almost happiness," she whispered. "It is the work in all the world that I like the most, and could do the best. I suppose this poor man is a widower, as he says, ' wanted by a gentleman.' But will he ever take me when he hears my name—when he knows——"Her sentence trailed away into silence; she looked wistfully across the bare room, to the blue March sky above the roofs, to the grey walls that seemed to press in upon her window, and shut out the chief brightness of the spring day."I must find work soon—I must—I must," she exclaimed desperately, "unless I mean to starve, or go to the workhouse; I must find work at once, and this work would be such a joy—such a joy—if only——"Again her sentence broke off abruptly; again she laid down her pen, and read the advertisement through with as much care as though every word of it were not already graven on her mind, and then the. colour crept slowly to her face again, and a strange look leapt into her eyes."Why should I not do it?" she whispered, glancing fearfully about her as though she were in actual fear of being overheard. "I must live, and it is my name that stands in my way. I—should not be doing anything—wrong; I do not think it can be really wrong." She spoke jerkily, with long pauses between her words; "my name—does not make any real difference to the sort of woman I am. I shall not be a worse woman if I call myself by a name—that is not—notorious. Nobody—in this country place will be any the wiser—if they know me as Mrs. Roberts—instead of Mrs. Merivale. I shall be what—I say I am—a widow—who—has—lost—husband—and child. A name—need not alter the truth—and—that is the truth. And—no one in a country place—could ever know that all the truth had not been told. And—why should I tell it. Why must I spoil every chance of earning my bare living, by telling—what—need not be told?"Pushing back her chair from the table, she rose and began to pace the room with hurried, restless steps, stirred by that imperious necessity for rapid movement, common to the greater part of humanity when some momentous decision hangs in the balance."Is it honourable to do it?" she reflected, "or would it be doing a great wrong?"Backwards and forwards in her brain, to and fro, with wearying persistence, swung that maddening question: should she answer this advertisement in her own name, thereby ensuring a certain rejection of her proffered services, or should she for ever sink into oblivion the name that set her so damnably apart from her fellows, and adopt for the future her mother's maiden name?"Roberts is so non-committal, so simple," she argued; "no one can take exception to it, no one can ask me awkward questions about it—and—to call myself Roberts, will not alter me. I am still the same woman, only anxious to live a quiet, decent life, to earn enough money to keep me from actual want. I love little children; I could be happy with a little child to care for—and I must live!"She wrung her hands together with a gesture of despairing misery, her eyes were once more wandering round the ill-furnished room with its unmistakable marks of poverty—its sordid desolation. The sight of two trunks in the corner, brought a mirthless smile to her lips again."Mrs. Stubbs fancies my boxes are full of saleable things," she said; "if she only knew that there is nothing in them worth taking even to the pawn-broker! If she only knew that what was in them when I first came here has been pawned long ago for mere bread, she would understand better. But I still have some shame left—and I can't tell her that everything is pawned, excepting just the clothes I wear and—this." Her eyes turned to the gold ring she wore on the third finger of her left hand—the fingers of her other hand twisted it round "And I must wear a wedding ring, if I say I am a widow. I cannot pawn my ring—but—I can use another name—and oh! God forgive me if it is wrong to do that—but I must live—I—must—live."CHAPTER II"I INTEND TO CHOOSE MAlSIE'S NURSE MYSELF.""I AM quite aware that it is useless to argue with you if you have once made up your mind, my dear Brian, but it is only my duty to tell you that I consider your proposal ridiculous.""I am sorry, mother; I should always prefer to see eye to eye with you about things, especially about these household matters, but where my little Maisie is concerned, I must do what I feel to be best, even at the risk of opposing you.""I never had the slightest hope of altering your decision." The speaker's voice was very frigid. "From a child you have been bent on getting your own way at all costs. You inherit your father'? unlimited obstinacy.""Come, come, mother." Sir Brian Dunbar laughed his good-humoured laugh. "Don't paint me blacker than nature has made me. I confess to having a will of my own, but, after all, that is a prerogative claimed by most men of three-and-thirty. And that I have a predilection for being master in my own house, is also not an uncommon fancy for a man of my age," he added, smiling down the table at his mother's outraged countenance."I do not wish to dispute your mastery over your own house." Lady Dunbar's tone was still frigid; even her son's charming smile had not always the power to melt her, when she was in one of her more icy moods. "But when a question arises about those domestic arrangements which concern a child of four, it would be natural to suppose that I, the child's grandmother, would perhaps know more of the subject than her father.""A mere man," Brian softly interpolated, with another of his delightful smiles; and, rising, he walked to his mother's end of the table and laid his hand caressingly on her shoulder. "Maisie is my daughter—my only daughter," he said "and that which lies behind her must be counter-acted. Her heritage is—not altogether a goodly one." A note of gravity was in his voice, and he sighed heavily. "I did not like that nurse who has just left. She is not the kind of woman I want to have about the child, and, sorry as I am to disagree with you about anything, I must have my way about this."Lady Dunbar shrugged her shoulders, incidentally shrugging off her son's caressing hand. She was not by nature demonstrative, and Brian's "ways" as she called them—ways which another mother would have found delightful in her son—this mother termed "sentimental." She was a handsome woman, with regular features set in a somewhat severe mould, thin lips carved in a determined line, and clear, grey eyes whose prevailing expression was a hard one; her abundant grey hair was piled in becoming yet well ordered confusion, that bespoke an excellent maid, and her exquisitely fitting gown showed the lines of a figure still upright and youthful despite her years.The Dowager Lady Dunbar was a personality, and a personality not at any time to be overlooked or left unreckoned with, and her strong character and iron will had never been successfully opposed, until she met her match in her only son, the present Sir Brian. Old Sir Brian, his father, had been of a meek and yielding disposition, only too glad to be ruled by a wife capable of ruling him, and never either wishing or daring to pit his will against that of his wife. Their married life had been a happy one, for the simple reason that Lady Dunbar had found her husband like wax in her hands, and had moulded him to the pattern she desired.Her son was made of very different clay—of clay, in fact, so extremely like her own, that there was no question of moulding it into what she considered a satisfactory shape. Young Brian inherited all his mother's strength, but none of her hardness. From his father he had taken a sunny disposition, and an agreeable temper, that few things could ever ruffle, and these two qualities had enabled him to keep peace with his mother, who reigned as mistress over his household at Verrymore Court. An exhaustive knowledge of her son's idiosyncrasies had long since taught Lady Dunbar that when he said in those quiet but emphatic tones, "I must have my way about this," it was useless to dispute with him further. And greatly as she detested bending her will to Brian's, she was well aware that beyond a certain point he was adamant, and not to be moved by any protestations. Knowing that she was beaten, but not prepared to take her beating gracefully, she said with a fraction more of iciness in her clear hard voice:"I suppose the pile of letters by your plate, is the outcome of the advertisement you sent to the Morning Post?""It is the outcome, and a fairly large one," Sir Brian answered cheerily, returning to his own place, and picking up the letters one by one."Well, once for all I utter a final protest against the absurdity of having a lady nurse for baby, and having protested, I wash my hands of the whole affair.""Very few of the writers of these letters commend themselves to me," Sir Brian said slowly, ignoring her last remark. "Most of them are what I venture to call 'ladies in name only.' But two or three seem possible, and this one"—he paused as his hand rested on an envelope of a thin, cheap make—"this one, is I think the most likely of all." He handed the letter to his mother, who took it with an air of evident distaste, and adjusted her pincenez with as near an approach to a disdainful sniff, as any one so well-born and well-bred could permit herself."Hum," she muttered after perusing the letter, "this Mrs. Roberts leaves a good deal to be taken for granted. Who and what is she, I wonder? And where are you to get her references? In this letter she makes no mention of them.""It was not necessary to mention them in a preliminary communication," Brian said rather shortly. "Her letter strikes me as being business-like and the letter of a lady. And she is a real child lover, too," he added with a wistful note in his voice, quite lost on his mother, who prided herself on being above the softer feelings of humanity."My dear Brian, any woman could write to sayshe was a child lover; and considering the way in which you worded your advertisement, a woman who in answering it did not tell you she loved children, would be a fool.""Mrs. Roberts' letter has a ring of sincerity about it which I like," Brian said, again ignoring his mother's asperity, "it sounds genuine.""I hope it may be so." Lady Dunbar pushed back her chair from the breakfast table and once more shrugged her shoulders. "You are throwing open your house to every sort of adventuress.""My dear mother, I hope not. In any case I do not intend to engage anyone by letter only. When I have made up my mind that one or two of these ladies may possibly suit my purpose, I shall arrange to see them in town.""They will wonder why the man of the house is engaging a nurse for a child of four; why one of his women folk doesn't do that essentially womanly duty for him.""I am afraid they will have to wonder," her son answered calmly, gathering up his correspondence, preparatory to leaving the dining-room. "I intend to choose Maisie's nurse myself. As you know, I have the most painful of reasons for making such a choice with extreme care. The older the child grows, the more necessary it will be to have only the best influences about her—to check every tendency that might otherwise be her ruin. My poor little girl!" he added under his breath, and without giving Lady Dunbar time to reply to his words, he opened the door, and crossed the hall into the library.Lady Dunbar, left alone, collected her own letters, and moving to the window, looked out across the garden and park, upon which the sunshine of March was pouring a flood of light. But though her eyes looked at the elm trees flushing red against their background of soft sky, at the crocus-sown grass of the lawn, at the great clumps of daffodils showing golden against the brown earth, her eyes saw none of these things. A frown puckered her forehead, her lips were drawn into the thin line that infallibly indicated bad temper, and she tapped irritably upon the window pane, as though in that way she could work off some of her vexation against her son."Brian is too tiresome, too absurd," she murmured, "why must he needs set his heart upon having a lady nurse to take charge of Maisie, and to counteract all those tendencies about which he is so fond of talking? Surely I, a mother and grandmother, ought to know more about a child of four than Brian can possibly do."Whilst she was thus apostrophising him, the master of the house himself, seated at the writing table in the library, was re-reading the budget of letters brought to him that morning, and after this careful perusal, three letters, and only three, out of the large bundle the post had brought him, were set aside for further consideration."My poor mother," he reflected with a smile and a sigh, "I am sorry when our wills clash, but the small girlie must be my first thought, and, my mother does not quite grasp the whole situation. Neither does she quite understand children," his thoughts ended, memory bringing back to him his own childhood, in which all the home tenderness had come from his father, all the correction and severity from his mother. "The lady who signs herself Margaret Roberts does seem to love and understand children," his train of thought continued, "her letter appeals to me most, and I shall ask her, and these two other ladies to call on me in Portman Square on Thursday. I hope my mother will not give Maisie's lady nurse a very unpleasant time here, but—a lady I will have Juliet, shall not ruin her daughter's life, as she ruined——" a tap at the door cut short his meditations, and a rosy-cheeked nursemaid ushered in a dainty morsel of babyhood."Daddy," the pretty baby cried, running forward to her father's chair, and holding up her arms, that he might lift her upon his knee, "Maisie's own daddy," and two soft hands stroked his face, whilst her dimpled arms went about his neck, and she laid her rosebud cheek against his. Her flower-like loveliness was almost startling, it was so fragile and exquisite. Big brown eyes, soft and deep, fringed with dark curling lashes, looked out from a face whose tints were as delicate as the colouring of apple blossoms in spring; and her hair, of the colour of ripe corn, rippled over her small head in a glory of golden waves. Brian put his hand gently under her chin, and looked lovingly into her bewitching face."Brown eyes—like hers," he whispered, "hair like a rain of sunshine as hers was, a face scarcely more innocent than her face. My baby Maisie, pray heaven I find someone who will save you from more than this surface likeness."Maisie drew back her face from her father's, and looked into his grey eyes with a puzzled expression in her own brown ones."Maisie don't understand," she said, "Dad's talking funny talk, what Maisie don't know about."Brian drew her closely into his arms, laying his head against her sunny curls, and letting his lips rest upon her forehead."Dad won't talk any more 'funny talk,' "he said gaily, "we'll fetch out the picture books, and tell a few fairy stories, until Jane comes to fetch you for your walk, my little maid. And surely," he whispered under his breath, "surely I shall be given wisdom and strength to save you—from—the worst."CHAPTER III"YOU WOULD STILL LIKE ME TO COME?"MARGARET Merivale surveyed herself in the cracked looking-glass above her chest of drawers, and, with fingers that trembled a little, pinned the veil about her hat, and fastened the golf cape, which was the only out-of-door garment she still possessed."How I should have liked to go to this interview in tidy and suitable clothes," she said, "I could have dressed the part perfectly," and she smiled at her own reflection. " I would have bought a neat straw bonnet trimmed with black velvet, a nice coat and skirt, and turn-down white collars, with nice white cuffs. Oh! I could have gone to see this Sir Brian Dunbar, in the most perfectly planned nurse's costume, if only I had had any money to buy anything. As it is——" she smiled ruefully at her own image again, seeing, with painful clearness, how worn and shabby was her hat, and what signs of wear and tear her cape was beginning to show. She was woman enough to know that a man would be less observant of her clothes, than a fellow-woman would have been, but her aesthetic taste, and a natural love of neatness and suitability, gave her a sudden sensation of revolt against her shabby old clothes, and she turned away from the glass with an impatient sigh. The letter which had reached her on the previous night lay on the table, and she read it through again, before setting forth for her interview with the writer. She liked the bold handwriting, she liked the terse sentences in which the letter was worded, and it impressed her with a sense that the man who wrote it, was a kindly and an upright gentleman."It sounds ideal," she thought, as she went slowly down the long flight of stairs to the front door, "one little girl of four, and in what must be a lovely country place. If only he will engage me! But will he, when I tell him I have no references, not one?"Mrs. Stubbs, the landlady, like a spider on the watch for an unwary fly, put her head round the door of her own sitting-room, as the lodger from the top floor reached the bottom."Look 'ere Mrs. Merivale, or Roberts, or whatever it is we've got to call you, for you seem to have a pretty fair lot o' names, I ain't goin' to keep nobody 'ere what goes under aliases. When you told me last night a letter might come addressed to Mrs. Roberts, I thought perhaps it was for a friend of yours. But if it's yourself, I ain't goin' to stand it, so I tell you, fair and plain.""I am sorry, Mrs. Stubbs," the landlady's insolence never failed to shake Margaret's nerves, "circumstances—made it seem better to—answer an advertisement under another name. I have done nothing wrong in having a letter addressed to me as Mrs, Roberts."The landlady gave vent to an indignant snort."Ho! well, how am I to be sure of that?" she said, "anyways and whatsoever, it don't suit me, keepin' a respectable house, and having always kep' meself respectable, and always meanin' so to do, it don't suit me to have people here with any number o' fancy names, so I tell you, fair and square.""I shall leave you in any case in a few days," Margaret's voice was very conciliatory, she felt incapable of battling with this woman, "you gave, me notice on Monday, but I hope that I may get the situation for which I am going to try, and then I should leave you at once.""I hope you may get the situation," Mrs. Stubbs answered significantly, "they don't seem easy to come by nowadays, not by all accounts, and not without first-class references. But I'm sure we must hope for the best," and with this very doubtful encouragement, Margaret passed out into the street. The March wind was blustering and keen, but the sun shone brightly, and the glowing flowers in the flower-sellers' baskets, gave Margaret a delicious sense of spring even in the grey streets of London. Hope had sprung up anew in her heart, where lately black despair had held undivided sway, and she found herself pausing now and again in crossing a square, to notice the green leaves unfolding upon the lilac bushes, the crocuses, purple and orange and white, turning their frail petals to the sun.By the time she reached Portman Square there was a tinge of colour in her white face, and her eyes were brighter than they had been for many a long day, but her heart beat fast with nervousness, and she was shaking from head to foot, when the elderly housekeeper who opened the door, ushered her into a small room on her right."Sir Brian will see you in a few minutes," the woman said, her small inquisitive eyes taking in with the quick observation of her class the undeniable beauty, and the equally undeniable shabbiness of this applicant for the nurse's situation."A lady, to her finger tips," remarked the house-keeper, Mrs. Doughty, to her niece who helped her take care of the Portman Square house, when Sir Brian was in the country, "a lady, as you might say, from the crown of her head to the sole of her feet, but shabbier than you or me would ever care to be. I'm sure I couldn't see myself in the street in a cape like that. But there, no doubt she's reduced, and I will say for her she is a real lady, and such a one as would be good to poor little Maisie, that needs mothering, if ever child did."Meanwhile the subject of the above remarks sat in the small morning-room waiting, with fast-beating heart, for the summons to Sir Brian's presence; trying to forget her nervous tremors by reading a magazine that lay on a table beside her. But in spite of all her endeavours, her heart was still going at racing speed, her limbs were still shaking, and all the colour and brightness had been driven from her face by nervousness, when Mrs. Doughty reappeared, and conducting her across the hall, showed her into a big and luxuriously appointed library. The master of the house, who was sitting at a writing table near one of the windows, rose upon her entrance, and as Margaret looked at him, all her tremors left her, driven away by the kindly glance of his grey eyes, by the smile that gave him such charm."Please come in and sit down, Mrs. Roberts," he said, a look of relief crossing his face, as he gave her his hand and indicated a chair near the writingtable, "I have just been enduring a very bad quarter of an hour.""I am sorry," she answered, a smile on her face responding to the comical dismay depicted on his, "I trust I shall not be guilty of making the bad quarter, into a bad half hour for you.""I have seen three—ladies—so called—this morning," Sir Brian went on, "and each in turn spent considerable time in enlarging on the length and importance of her family tree, and each one shamed me by her excessive gentility. Neither my little daughter nor I could ever live up to anything so profoundly genteel as those three ladies, but the last was the worst. I couldn't persuade her to go.""Perhaps she needed the work so much?""She was at great pains to assure me it was quite unnecessary that she should work at all, that all she required was a refined home, where the surroundings would be suitable to a lady of position."Margaret smiled."And you did not find 'the lady of position' suitable for your purpose?" she asked."She was nearer sixty than fifty, her H's were more than a trifle uncertain, and she shed tears at intervals of five minutes. I don't quite know why she shed those tears," Sir Brian added musingly, "she did not seem unhappy, in fact she told me several times that she was renowned for her cheer-fulness. I was afraid I should never get rid of her, but I could not have had such a being in my baby's nursery.""It is for your little girl that you want a nurse?""Yes, and she is the sweetest little maid that ever crowed for kisses," quoted her father, "and," he leant forward, the impetuous movement making him look very eager and boyish, "I want to ask you to come and take care of her.""But, you know nothing about me yet," Margaret exclaimed, taken aback by the impetuous words, "I might not be at all the sort of person you want, not any more suitable than the cheerful lady who has just gone.""I made up my mind about you directly you came into the room," was the quiet reply, "in fact, I think I made up my mind when your letter first reached me. I was sure you were what I have been trying to find for my little Maisie.""She—has no mother?" Margaret's voice was very gentle and sympathetic, but a strange expression of pain crossed Sir Brian's face, and he answered shortly."She has no mother."For a moment there was silence in the room, then Sir Brian spoke again, with singular abruptness."My mother keeps house for me, but she is no longer young, nor is she very fond of children. I—have set my heart upon finding someone who loves children for their own sakes—someone who—will stand to my little girl—in the place of a mother."For an instant his eyes rested on the beautiful face of the woman before him, the face that, as he looked at it, seemed to him the very picture of gracious motherhood, and the cloud slowly left his own face."Do you think you can undertake the sole charge of my Maisie?""I don't think I can quite make you understand what a haven of refuge you are offering me," Margaret answered, her voice quivering, "I love little children, just as you say, for their own sakes I—had a little child of my own—once. She—died just before she was four," her voice faltered and broke, the tears welled into her eyes, then, recovering herself, she went on more quietly, "I would most gladly undertake the care of your little Maisie, but—I ought to tell you that I have never done any work of the kind before. I have no qualifications, no certificates. I have only a mother's knowledge of a little child.""That is the only sort of knowledge I want," Brian answered quickly, "I want my little girl mothered, watched over, guarded from—from all that can hurt her," he ended quickly."I—could do all that for her, but I should like you to know that I have had no training. This—is the first time I—have had to work.""Work has not been necessary before?" Brian's tone was very gentle."Not very long ago—I was a rich woman," she said, "but—after—my husband's—death," she paused, and the little nervous look she cast round the room, made her listener think of some trapped animal, "I—had—I mean I found—I was penniless," Brian made a gesture of sympathy and she went on, breathlessly, "I had not been trained to any profession. In these days it is so hard to find work it you have learnt no profession. But I know I can take care of a little child!""I want you to come and take care of mine," he answered, all his kindliness of heart moved by the sight of her agitation."Yes—but—perhaps you will not want me, when I tell you that I have no references," she said, still speaking with hurried breathlessness, "I—lived in the north. After—my husband's—death—I came away. I have lost sight of all my friends. There is no one to whom I could apply for a reference. I cannot produce any evidence to show that I am not a mere adventuress."Back into Brian's mind swept his mother's scathing words of the morning before:"You are throwing your house open to every sort of adventuress," and for the fraction of a second a qualm smote him. Was he playing the part of a fool? he questioned himself. Was he allowing impulse to lead him into an action which he would afterwards regret? But looking into the face of the visitor, he felt the very word "adventuress," as applied to her, to be an insult; and a glance at her shabby clothes convinced him that no adventuress worthy of the name, would voluntarily dress herself in garments that had so obviously seen their best days.Being a man, it was naturally her face that made the most powerful appeal to him, and not even its worn whiteness, nor the deep shadows under her eyes, could detract from her great beauty."The word adventuress does not frighten me," he said with a smile, after a moment's hesitation, "but——""You are going to say it is useless for me to apply without a reference," she interrupted, rising and drawing her cape about her with shaking hands, "you are quite right, but, oh! my God how I had hoped." The last words were spoken under her breath, and with a spontaneous bitterness that made their genuineness unmistakable. Sir Brian was on his feet, too, in an instant."But I was not going to say your application is useless," he exclaimed, coming nearer to her, and noticing how pitifully she was shaking, "I was going to say, 'but though I would rather have had a reference, I should like you to come and take care of my little girl.'""You would still like me to come?"Her eyes looked quite dazed, as they stared up into his face, a flood of colour swept into her cheeks, she put out her hand, and grasped at the table to steady herself."Certainly, I still want you to come," he purposely made his voice cheerful and matter of fact, "and," he added, with a smile of embarrassment, "as my mother is a very great stickler for details of this kind, perhaps it might be as well not to mention to her that we have waived the question of references.""If this man's mother had interviewed me instead of this kind, good soul himself, I should never have been engaged for the place," was Margaret's shrewd reflection, but she only bent her head gravely and said:"Very well, I will remember. But just because you have been so very good to me, just because you are waiving the question of references, I shall ask you to let me go to you on trial first. Let me come for a month—and if—if I suit you, if you find I do my duties as you wish—then let me stay on as your little girl's nurse. Give me a month's trial."Brian's own common sense, and perhaps a lurking fear of Lady Dunbar's strictures upon his rashness, if the truth about that rashness ever came to her ears, showed him the wisdom of agreeing to her proposal; and, before Margaret left the library, it was agreed between them that she should go to Verrymore Court in the following week, to begin a month's trial as Maisie's nurse.Sir Brian entered into particulars as to the nurseries, the nursery maid, and a few domestic details, and wound up his remarks with the kindly words:"And now, Mrs. Roberts"—Margaret started a little at the sound of the unfamiliar name, but Sir Brian had turned back to his table, and did not see the start—"I hope you will allow me to advance your journey money to Darestown, our nearest station, where you will be met, and also part of your—salary. It may be a convenience to you."Margaret's eyes filled with tears. A look of almost passionate gratitude shone in them."It will be more than a convenience," she said, "I have been racking my brains to think how I should, in the first place, pay my rent, and in the second, get proper clothes in which to begin my new work." Her simplicity, and the entire lack of false pride or self-consciousness which characterised her words, pleased Sir Brian's somewhat fastidious taste. Straightforwardness and simplicity were two qualities which above all appealed to him in a woman, perhaps because he had so frequently found them lacking in women he had known.""If you will leave Waterloo by the 11.15 on Monday, a carriage shall meet you at Darestown," he said, when they parted "and I hope you will be very happy at Verrymore Court.""There is very little doubt about my happiness there," she answered, her eyes deep with feeling, "If only I can give you satisfaction," she added with a smile, "I shall be more than content."She walked quickly away from Portman Square, a glow of gratitude in her heart towards the tactful and considerate man she had just left, a new well of hope springing up within her at the thought that for the time, at least, her weary struggle with Fate was over, and a haven of rest within sight. Sir Brian's five pound note was clasped tightly in her hand, and her brain was busily planning the precise method in which she would lay out her little store, when a voice over her shoulder, said softly:"Why! what a delightful and unexpected surprise."At the sound of that voice, peculiarly soft and drawling in its tones, and with a cynical note in it that struck disagreeably on the ear, Margaret started as though she had been stabbed, every vestige of colour died from her face and lips, and the light left her eyes."You?" she stammered, "you?" And she stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, staring at the owner of the voice, with the expression of a terrified animal, caught, after a long chase, by an experienced hunter."Yes—I. Is the meeting as unexpected and delightful a surprise to you—as it is to me?" The soft voice drawled out the words slowly, and they were punctuated by a soft laugh that seemed to hold in it more of malice than of mirth."I thought that here—in this great city—I——"

she broke off and looked round helplessly."You would be safe from me?""I thought so—oh! I thought so," she wrung her hands together in a passion of pain, her eyes looking helplessly about her again, as though seeking a way of escape."You forget that I—do not easily give up anything upon which I have set my heart;" the soft voice suddenly seemed to have assumed a stern quality, as if its velvety tones had been all at once cased in iron. "I have been patiently looking for you, patiently tracking you, since the day you left the——""Oh! don't, don't," she broke in, cutting him short, "and why have you done it? why have you tried to find me? You know I only asked to be allowed to forget—to—begin again in peace."They were in a quiet, almost deserted street, and up to this moment had been standing upon the pavement, facing one another, but as Margaret spoke, she moved on again, walking at a rapid rate, and going blindly forward, heedless of what direction she was taking. The man who had accosted her kept pace with her hurried steps, but for a few seconds he made no answer to her words. He was a man of middle height, dressed in clothes which, though well cut, and fitting well, were exactly wrong as to colour and style. His tie was flashy, his hat was worn at precisely the angle at which a gentleman would not have worn it, and his overcoat, flung over his arm, was of a check pattern of aggressive loudness. Like his voice, his face showed a certain softness and even flabbiness of build, but there was a bull dog strength and determination in his mouth and jaw, and the small eyes, too closely set together, were bright with determination."No reason why you shouldn't forget and begin again in peace, even if I do know your whereabouts," he said presently; "you've made yourself morbid, worrying and fretting. If you had only listened to me——""But I didn't want to listen to you; I don't want to listen to you," Margaret exclaimed desperately, stopping again in her hurried walk, "I don't want—ever to see you again. Why have you come back into my life to add to its misery?""Its misery? Oh! come, come, you looked happy enough just now: when I first caught sight of you, you were smiling away to yourself as if you had just heard the most splendid news. You aren't going to be married again, are you?" he ended abruptly, looking at her keenly, as they once more resumed their rapid walk."Married again?" she laughed scornfully; "is that likely, do you think? Have you only tracked me down, to ask me such a senseless question?"His soft laugh, with its undertone of maliciousness, broke from him again."Your spirit is not yet broken—in spite of everything," he said. "You can still give as good as you get. And so you came to London—after——""I came to London to lose myself." she cried vehemently. "I thought in this great city of turmoil, one woman could pass unnoticed—would be unmolested. How could I guess you would find me here?""I think I should find you if you went to hell itself," he answered, in a low tone of such concentrated passion, that Margaret shivered, and drew away from his side. "You may think you have eluded me for a time, but you will never elude me altogether. Remember that. You will never escape me."They had emerged from the deserted street into a main artery of traffic, and as her companion uttered his last sinister and menacing words, Margaret turned on him a face of deadly fear. Then, without uttering a syllable in response, she sped from his side like an arrow from a bow, and before he had grasped her intention, she had swung herself upon a passing omnibus, and was being carried swiftly out of sight.The baffled man plunged headlong into the road-way to pursue the fast vanishing 'bus, but the sea of traffic closed in upon him, and in his endeavours to disentangle himself from the network of vehicles by which he was suddenly surrounded, he lost sight of the red omnibus which had carried Margaret eastwards, and was obliged to beat an ignominious retreat to the pavement, his face pale with anger."Curse her!" he muttered; "curse her—does she suppose that she can beat me? Does she fancy that it is an easy thing to get the better of Morley Stanburn? Is it likely I should have taken all this trouble to find her now, if I meant her eventually to escape me? No, my fine lady, I will be even with you yet. Make up your mind to that—I shall be even with you yet!"CHAPTER IV"AND THIS IS—JULIET?""AND she escaped me just when I was least thinking of such a thing. Some confounded people jostled against me, and I got mixed up in all the infernal traffic, and the 'bus had gone, before I could even take in which one it was.""Well, Morley, I have told you before, and I can only repeat it—I think you would be far wiser to give up the senseless pursuit. What do you gain by it? From your own showing, Margaret Merivale detests you. It is beyond me to understand what you see in her to begin with, and to go on with, what you hope to get out of a woman who doesn't hide her dislike for you.""It's a pity you don't learn not to be vulgar, my good girl, and to mind your own business. I don't tell you all my reasons for wishing to keep up with Mrs. Merivale, I don't profess to make you my confidante in everything."The last words were uttered with a sneer, and Mr. Morley Stanburn, spreading himself out in a bullying fashion before the fireplace, scowled down upon his sister, who merely laughed when he scowled at her, and took up a paper from the table, with a nonchalance that had an irritating effect upon her brother."You are so damnably cool and calm," he said, his closely-set eyes gleaming vindictively; "you haven't any more feeling than a fish or a frog.""Thanks, I am sure," Miss Stanburn laughed. "What you mean to say is that I don't care a brass button what you say, and that I'm not the least afraid of you. Well—I'm not. You are a bully, and I know it, and you know it. But I'm not in the least afraid of you, and I'm always ready to play your game, as long as the game has any sense in it.""I don't generally play games without sense," Stanburn answered shortly. "Some silly ass of a poet talked about method in madness. There's plenty of method in mine, don't you be afraid.""You mean to tell me," Nora Stanburn drew herself upright in her chair, and stared into her brother's sullen face. "Do you really mean to tell me that all this tracking down of Margaret Merivale, has had method in it?""Certainly I do. Did you suppose I was wasting time and money over it for a joke? My good Nora, I'm not such a fool as I appear to look. I have an object—and—a—definite object." He spoke slowly, emphasising his words. "But I don't go chattering like a jackanapes about all my plans—even to you.""I didn't suppose you did," snapped his sister. "With all your bluster and bullying, you know how to hold your tongue. I never met anybody more secretive. But if you've got an object in all this hunting down of Margaret Merivale, all right—I——""I wish to heaven you'd shut up calling her Margaret Merivale, as if she were your dearest friend." Stanburn's tones were more irritable than before. "Considering that you barely know her, it's deuced bad form talking of her by her Christian name."Nora lifted her eyebrows and smiled, an amused and exasperating smile."Dear me," she exclaimed, "I beg your, and Mrs. Merivale's, pardon. As she is really not much better than a——""Hold your tongue," her brother interrupted fiercely. "Don't you ever dare to say—to hint——""All right, my dear boy, all right, you needn't get purple in the face over that wonderful woman's wrongs—or supposed wrongs. Instead of detesting you, as she does, she ought to be thankful to have such a champion. I am glad anyhow that you purpose to make some use of her—when you find her again.""I shall find her again." Morley came nearer to his sister's chair, and laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. "When I set out to do a thing, I usually do it—as you ought to know by this time.""Yes—oh! yes—I knowߞwe are a pretty couple of adventurers, you and I, my dear Morley. I don't blink the truth. I don't pretend to be any better than I am. I live by my wits—so do you. You happen to be a trifle more unscrupulous, but upon my word, I don't know that there's really much to choose between us.""I may be more unscrupulous," the man answered after a reflective pause, in which his eyes ran over his sister's immaculately gowned form, "but I'll be hanged if I don't think you are more, of a devil.""Thank you again," Nora laughed, and stretched herself out lazily, with something of the gesture and movement of a graceful cat. "And now instead of continuing these pleasant recriminations, are you going to keep me in the dark about Mrs. Merivale, or am I to be admitted to your schemes?"Stanburn's keen eyes searched his sister's face closely."I have the greatest faith in your judgment and power of holding your tongue, my dear," he said, "but for the present I intend to go on doing as I have hitherto done, and keep my plans to myself. I mean to find Mrs. Merivale." Nora drew back with a shiver at the ferocity of his tone. "And when I have found her, there are one or two things I mean to do—things—which will be useful to me—and to you."As he ended his sentence, he laughed shortly, and when he laughed, Nora shivered again. She knew what that short, mirthless laugh of his portended, and though she was not in the least afraid of her brother, his brutality occasionally had the effect of startling even her."I don't wish to pry into your secrets," she answered, with an attempt at lightness, "if I can help any of your enterprises, let me know. I am prepared to sink or swim with you.""You're a good old girl, Nora, even if you are a bit of a devil," Morley answered roughly, but not unkindly, "and, by Jove, I'd trust you before I'd trust any other woman on the face of the earth, and we've worked together well enough all these years. But I've got something to do over this business, that I must do alone, and don't you cut up rough about it.""I'm not likely to do anything of the sort." Nora rose, and again she stretched herself gracefully. "You can carry out your machinations in the way you like best; come to me if you want me. I'm not a fool, and when you want my brains, they are at your disposal.""Good old Nora!" her brother said again, his eyes marking with approval her slim, upright figure, the exquisite cut and hang of the purple gown she wore, her handsome face, and well-dressed hair. "You certainly ought to succeed in whatever you undertake. You've got all the elements of success in your own person. By heaven! and when I think how we began—and where we are now——" He did not end his sentence, but looked round the well-furnished sitting-room, with a gesture that was full of significance."I suppose there is no doubt the girl will come?" ho went on after a moment. "The father doesn't mean to draw back now?""Draw back?" It was Nora's turn to laugh. "He is a rough diamond, Morley; quite a good sort, but just a rough Colonial, whose one idea is that his daughter should have all the advantages and refinements he has had to do without. Our advertisement caught him, but his interview with me clinched the thing.""You made eyes at him, I suppose? And played the motherly woman, yearning for a young girl to chaperone and watch over. I can see you at it," Stanburn grinned appreciatively, and his sister laughed outright."He was so ready to swallow everything, that I felt almost remorseful. He looked round this room with such a pleased expression, said he approved of the best hotels, like this one—hoped we were always very particular about going to the very first hotels in a place, and wound up by saying he was sure I would take care that his daughter only made acquaintances with really nice people.""And you agreed to it all? Oh, why wasn't I there to listen?""You had better not be here until the whole affair is settled," his sister said drily. "This Mr. Cartwright might object to those aggressive checks of yours. Though he is only a Colonial, he seems to have a very good idea of the difference between false metal and true. Take my advice, and be detained by business in the country, until I have definitely come to terms about this Juliet Cartwright.""Juliet! What a name.""She is the apple of her father's eye, that's quite evident. As he took pains to explain to me, he has brought her over here to get into good English and foreign society. He wishes us to travel with her——""Glory, Hallelujah! Monte Carlo!" Morley interpolated excitedly."He wishes her to see the best of Europe, and to be taught all that an English lady ought to know.""Oh, lor!" Stanburn ejaculated, with a burst of laughter. "My blessed Nora, are you promising and vowing to teach her 'all that an English lady ought to know'? How do you know it yourself?""Mr. Cartwright himself has to go on to America on business, for several months. I gather it is something to do with his marriage, which was apparently an unfortunate one; anyhow, he is going off for some time, and we shall have a fair field with the lovely Juliet.""Lovely, is she?""According to her father's description of her, she is the loveliest creature that ever walked the earth. I make allowances now for fatherly prejudice, but later on this afternoon I shall see for myself. Juliet is to be brought to see me, and then the decision will be finally made.""For heaven's sake see that it is made as we wish. This confounded hotel isn't cheap, and we are going the pace fairly fast. See that you attract the girl, as well as her father. Don't fail over the job now that it has gone so far as this.""I don't think you need be afraid, Morley. I am not in the habit of failing." Miss Stanburn's tones were tinged with faint scorn. "Surely you can trust me to fascinate a raw Colonial girl, as well as her raw Colonial father!"A little admiration shot into Morley's grey eyes, as his glance again swept over his sister's handsome face and form."You know how to be an infernally fascinating woman when you like, and by Jove, Nora, it passes my poor wits to understand why you haven't landed any of those eligible Johnnies you've dangled at the end of your hook.""Don't be so disgustingly vulgar. If you want to know the unvarnished truth, I fancy that some of those Johnnies you speak of so feelingly, have found you difficult to swallow. You would be more likely to achieve some of your many ends, if you wore quieter clothes, and adopted a less aggressively loud manner."Stanburn laughed, and yawned."I'll see what I can do to oblige you, my dear; you are getting mighty particular. Is that fellow Dacre a stickler for dowdy clothes?"Nora's eyes flashed ominously; a little colour climbed to her forehead."That fellow Dacre, as you call him, need not come into our conversation. You and he belong to different worlds." And with this superb declaration, Miss Stanburn seated herself at her writing-table, and drew towards her a sheet of writing paper."I'll make my aggressive personality scarce for this afternoon," her brother said with a laugh, opening the door that led from the sitting-room into his bedroom; "don't let me frighten away the shy Colonial birds, for, in plain brutal English, Nora, we want their money.""We want their money." The phrase echoed in his sister's brain, whilst her pen moved quickly over the writing paper, and her thoughts reviewed the events that had led up to her present pose as the wealthy sister of a wealthy brother, occupying a luxurious suite in one of the best hotels in London. When, a month ago, the tide of their fortune had ebbed very low, her brilliant inspiration had suggested advertising for a young girl, to be chaperoned and taken abroad, and the wealthy Australian, Mr. Cartwright, had come, as she piously felt, as an answer to her fervent prayer. Life in town in a magnificently-appointed hotel, was infinitely preferable to scraping along an existence in third-rate boarding-houses on the Continent, and in English provincial towns, and vistas of future delight opened before Nora's eyes; as she remembered the simple Australian's eagerly expressed wish, that no expense should be spared in giving his daughter every enjoyment and experience."We want their money—certainly we want their money," Nora murmured as she wrote:"BEACONSFIELD HOTEL, S.W.,"March 24th."DEAR MR. DACRE,"It was good of you to send us news
of your doings in the country. Darestown is a part of the country I do not know at all—it sounds quite charming. I have never met Lady Dunbar, though I have friends who know her. (Nora did not scruple to apply the title of friend, to the smart lady's maid in whose company she had once travelled from York to London, the maid whose sister had been in service with Lady Dunbar.) My brother and I propose staying here a little longer, and if you are free on Saturday evening; and would dine with us, and go to His Majesty's, we should be delighted. We have a stall going begging.—Yours sincerely,NORA STANBURN.""There!" she exclaimed, folding the letter. "Mr. Tom Dacre's letter is sufficiently empressé to justify my writing—and—though he is more of a man of the world than poor dear Mr. Cartwright—he—is—wonderfully simple."Whilst she addressed her letter to T. Dacre, Esq., c/o Sir Brian Dunbar, Verrymore Court, Darestown, a little sigh broke from her lips, a curiously softened look crept into her rather hard, dark eyes."Wonderfully simple," she repeated under her breath, " and I am not worthy—to——" She broke off her own train of thought abruptly, pushed back her chair and rang the bell."I should like this letter posted at once," she said to the servant who answered it; "and please bring tea at four o'clock—tea for three."The clock on the church tower opposite the hotel had barely finished chiming four, when an elderly man and a slight graceful girl drove up to the hotel in a cab, and walked slowly up the flight of stone steps."I am just as frightened as ever I can be, dad," the girl was saying in soft, hurried accents; "are you sure I shall like this Miss Stanburn? Will she be stiff and proud like some of those ladies on the steamer?""Stiff and proud? Not a bit of it. Don't you be afraid, dearie—not a bit of it. Don't you be afraid. She has the ways of a woman who will be good to my little girl—she's good to look at, and as kindhearted as she is handsome. Not that anybody could be anything but kind to my little Juliet," the father added tenderly, as they entered the hotel.The girl smiled, rather a tremulous smile, and whilst her father made enquiries at the bureau for the lady they had come to see, she looked anxiously round at the men and women sitting about, or moving up and down, the great lounge.The new surroundings were a revelation to her. The hotels patronised by her simple-hearted father, were of the solid, commercial type, and bore no resemblance to the luxuriously-upholstered and palatial place in which she stood. She was oppressed by a sense of bewilderment, as she looked at the marble walls, the velvet-covered sofas and chairs, the thick carpet into which her feet actually sank, the palms and flowering plants that were grouped in various corners of the lounge; and, above all, at the smartly-gowned women who sat and stood apart, laughing and chattering gaily."I shall have a most dreadful lot to learn," she whispered to her father, as they were being borne upwards in the lift. "I don't believe this Miss Stanburn will want to undertake the care of me, when she sees how ignorant I am.""When she looks at you she'll want you right enough," her father whispered back, squeezing, her arm affectionately."But—dad—must I come? Do you really think I must? I don't believe I shall ever learn to be like those beautiful, grandly-dressed people downstairs." She said this in rapid tones, as they walked along the passage, her hand clinging tightly to her father's arm."You'll beat them all to fits," was his proud reply, "and I've set my heart on your seeing something of life, and learning what an English lady, a richEnglish lady, ought to know," he added, and at that moment a door on their left was opened by their guide, and they were ushered into Miss Stanburn's charming sitting-room.Juliet's first impression was of the fragrance of hyacinths and white lilies from the many vases on tables and mantelpiece, her next of a handsome woman; who came forward with smiling graciousness, and took both her hands into a close clasp."And this is—Juliet?" The woman's voice pleased the girl's fastidious ears; it had a musical inflexion that seemed to harmonise with the charming smile, and the close hand clasp. "You will forgive me for making such free use of your Christian name," Miss Stanburn went on, "but your father did not speak of you as anything but Juliet, and I have been audacious enough to think of you only by that name.""I—like to hear you say it," the girl answered shyly; "please don't call me Miss Cartwright. I— like you to say Juliet."Nora smiled, the girl's shy tone and eager glance told her that her victory was more than half won, and drawing Juliet down to the sofa beside her, she continued the process of fascination. Her own heart was beating fast with most unusual elation. She had found it difficult to suppress an exclamation of surprise when the girl was ushered into her room, for, though Mr. Cartwright's praises of his daughter's beauty had prepared her for prettiness, she had not expected such loveliness as this. In her own mind she had scornfully reflected that Juliet Cartwright's looks would in all probability be of the "pretty milliner" kind, small and insignificant. But this—she caught her breath again as her glance fell once more on the girl beside her—this was quite different.Ill dressed though she was, wearing the colour least suited to her, and in clothes that were cut and hung badly, Juliet was, as Nora at once owned, the loveliest girl she had ever seen, in the course of her varied existence. The contour of the young face was a perfect oval, the well cut chin and lips, and the broad brow, showed character as well as beauty; the colouring was delicately dainty as that of a little child, clear pink and white as the apple blossoms she could remember in a certain orchard on a far away hill side. The eyes, of a deep soft brown, made Nora think of wallflowers—wallflowers in the sunshine, with the dew still glistening on their petals—and the hair that escaped from under the unshapely hat, shone golden as a cornfield on a golden August day.New vistas opened with lightning-like speed before Nora's mind: new possibilities flashed into her brain. Juliet suitably gowned, Juliet taught something of the ways of the world (something but not too much—because in her very innocence lay her chief charm) would be an asset—an invaluable asset. Such loveliness as hers, would attract precisely those people she and Morley most wished to attract, those who would come to admire and stay to—do all that Morley wanted of them.A golden future of prosperity and success dazzled her eyes, whilst she looked at Juliet, and talked amiable platitudes, in the voice of whose fascination she herself was well aware."And aren't we to see your brother to-day?" Mr. Cartwright said later, after Nora had dispensed tea to her guests, and chatted gaily of the foreign cities, and London Society; to which she would introduce Juliet. "I'd like to have seen Mr. Stanburn to talk over the business part of the arrangement with him. It doesn't seem right to me to discuss pounds, shillings, and pence with a lady like yourself.""My brother was most unexpectedly called into the country this morning," Nora answered, "he had quite hoped to see you to-day. He would have liked to make your acquaintance, and to have felt that you approved of him as a temporary guardian for Juliet. I should also have preferred that you should meet. I don't like the idea that you may feel you are buying a pig in a poke!""Set your mind at rest. I have no doubt or uneasiness in the matter," Mr. Cartwright spoke heartily. "I shall leave my Juliet with you in the fullest confidence that you will give her all the care her mother would have given her, and I hope you will do everything just as comfortably and as well as you please, with no stint in anything. To tell you the truth," he went on, with a chuckling happy laugh, leaning confidentially towards Nora, "to tell you the truth, I've got a lot more money than I know what to do with, and it's all for my little girl there, so do your utmost to make her happy, and never mind the expense."Nora's heart glowed within her. Money, unlimited money, at her disposal! She was afraid to look straight into Mr. Cartwright's honest old eyes, lest her own should show their hungry gleaming, for the sum the kindly Colonial mentioned, as the allowance he proposed putting into her hands for his daughter's expenses, almost took her breath away."My brother and I will do our utmost to give Juliet the best of times," she said brightly, "we shall remain in this hotel for a little while—if you approve—whilst we are seeing dressmakers and milliners," she smiled into the girl's face, and touched her shoulder caressingly, "after that we will travel for a time, until we come back for the Season. We must be here for some of the gaieties then."The conversation drifted into details of arrangement, until Mr. Cartwright reluctantly rose to depart—his daughter, no less reluctant, rising too. Nora's end was completely achieved. The girl had fallen a complete slave to her fascination, and the great brown eyes could scarcely tear themselves from the handsome, vivacious face of the elder woman."You will come to us this day week, and you shall have a hearty welcome," Nora was saying, when the door was opened, and the servant announced,"Mr. Dacre."A tall man entered, a man with a fair, boyish face, who was advancing eagerly towards Nora, when, seeing that she had visitors, he paused, saying with some confusion:"I hope I am not disturbing you. I am back in town earlier than I expected. My host was coming up on business, and I came with him— and——""I have just been writing to you"; Nora gave him her hand in cordial greeting, "and now you can answer my letter in person. But first let me introduce you to my friends, Mr. and Miss Cartwright—Mr. Dacre."The newcomer bowed to the old Australian, but when his glance rested fully on Juliet's face, he started, and his blue eyes looked deep into the girl's brown ones. She lifted her eyes to his with all the innocence of a lovely child, but something she read in those eager blue eyes that met hers, sent a swift tide of colour over her face, and she turned a little away, with a lovely shy gesture infinitely charming and sweet. The swift glances of the two pairs of eyes, the admiration on the man's face, the embarrassment on the girl's, all these did not pass unobserved by Nora Stanburn, and a student of human physiognomy would have noticed how her own eyes narrowed, and what a strange, cat-like expression stole into them, as she watched the two young people.And surely Mr. Cartwright—kindly soul that he was—would not have left the hotel that day with so light a heart, had he known the turmoil of jealous rage that seethed within Nora's soul, had he dimly guessed at the pitfalls which her busy brain was already digging, for his pretty Juliet's innocent and unwary feet.CHAPTER V"MAISIE CALLS HER 'DEAREST.""I THINK there is a carriage to meet me from Verrymore Court?"The clear, well-bred, tones struck the loutish porter at Darestown station with a dim surprise. That musical voice, the sort of voice he associated with ladies, dressed as such, did not seem as if it ought to belong to the woman whose plain black gown, close-fitting bonnet and turn-down collar, indicated that she was a member of the servant class."One of the Verrymore carriages is here, ma'am," the porter answered respectfully, adjusting his answer to the tones of the traveller's voice, and not to her clothes, "and the cart's at the station, too. It could take up your boxes, if you've too many for the carriage.""Thank you, no I have only one small box." Margaret Merivale smiled graciously at the man, who instantly became her abject slave. "I would rather take it with me, if the coachman has no objection."The coachman showed no signs of objecting to anything that the beautiful woman with the wonderful eyes, and the sweet smile, might suggest; and he even forgot to show the resentment he fully intended to demonstrate towards the "fine lady nurse"—as the servants at Verrymore Court designated the new arrival."New fangled, high falutin' ideas of Sir Brian, the so-called ladynurse," he had said only that morning, in scornful tones to Mrs. Brett the house-keeper; but now, looking down into the stranger's upturned face, Jenkinson, the coachman, fell under the spell of her sweet eyes and smile, and confided to Mrs. Brett on his return, that Sir Brian knew what was what, and had selected a real lady, who would do well by poor little Miss Maisie.The two miles from Darestown to Sir Brian's house, meant a time of nervous apprehension to the woman who was taking her first plunge into the world of work, and as the brougham bowled swiftly along the lanes, where primroses showed amongst the dead leaves, and the scent of growing things drifted in through the open window, her heart sank with a sick dread of what she might find before her. Her assumed name, her antecedents, the story that lay like a millstone about her neck, all these weighed heavily upon her; and perhaps heaviest of all, weighed the thought of the reception she might receive from her employer's mother, Lady Dunbar. Her sense of humour set her comparing this drive with her last drive in a brougham—her own brougham—in the northern town that had been her home. On that last occasion, between which and now stretched so wide a gulf, she had worn sables of almost fabulous costliness; she recalled the feeling of the soft fur against her neck, she remembered the filmy lace that had rested upon the sable, the sweeping ostrich feathers that had touched the bronze of her hair. That picture of herself presented a sharp contrast to the woman who sat a little back in the carriage, her hands folded on the neat black serge skirt, her close-fitting black bonnet with its velvet bow, making a severe but becoming frame for her face."Two years ago," she reflected, "I should have laughed at anyone who had predicted all that has happened since; who had told me that to-day I should be driving in somebody else's carriage, a servant in somebody else's employment. Sometimes I wonder whether I shall wake up, and find it has been a nightmare, just a ghastly nightmare." She shivered, and the fragrant air that blew in upon her face, so poignantly awakened old memories, that she drew up the window of the carriage with trembling fingers, and shut her eyes to try and shut out also the budding sweetness of the spring day.The opening of the lodge gates, and the turning of the brougham into a smooth drive across a wellkept park, roused her to a realisation that her destination was almost reached, and she looked out at the stately trees, the smooth sweep of grass, and the line of soft downs on the horizon, with a mingling of interest and apprehension. A little exclamation of delight broke from her as the house came into sight, an Elizabethan house whose mellow red tints pointed gables, and mullioned windows, must have appealed to anyone with an artistic sense.A momentary sting of resentment shot through her, when she discovered that she was being driven to the back entrance of the establishment, but she smiled at herself for resenting so trivial a thing; and she would have smiled yet more, could she have known how divided was the coachman's mind between carrying out his mistress's instructions, and bringing the new nurse to the servants' door, or following his own instincts, which would have deposited her on the front door step.In entering on her new duties, Margaret had resolved to make an especial point of being friendly and pleasant to the household staff, and just as her gracious smile and words had won Jenkinson's heart, so did they win the much less susceptible heart of Mrs. Brett, the housekeeper."I hardly like to offer it you," that worthy soul said with hesitation, "but if you would take a cup of tea in my room, before you go upstairs to my lady, I'm sure I should be pleased.""It is very kind of you to suggest it," Margaret answered, " I am rather tired and very thirsty, and your room looks so cosy. Does Lady—I—I mean —does her ladyship wish to see me directly?""Her ladyship wished you to be taken to her boudoir before you went to the nursery. But there's time for a cup of tea first, and you'll be feeling a little strange and nervous, ma'am."Mrs. Brett would have been hard put to it to explain why she suddenly called the new arrival "ma'am," instead of entitling her "Mrs. Roberts," as she had fully intended doing. Perhaps the stateliness of Margaret's appearance, and the quiet dignity of her manner, had their effect on the housekeeper, for her hospitality was tinged by a respectfulness she was far from being in the habit of showing to anyone but her master and mistress, and their friends."And I'm sure we're all glad the poor little girl upstairs should have a lady to take care of her," Mrs. Brett said, in the course of tea, "her ladyship, she's no more use with a baby, than I should be with a wild Indian, and our little Miss Maisie—well there, she needs a kind hand and a firm one."The housekeeper heaved so prodigious a sigh, and glanced so significantly at her guest, that Margaret's curiosity was aroused. But she had no intention of learning any of the family history from the lips of servants, and adroitly changing the conversation to the subject of Baby Maisie's charms, and the beauties of Verrymore, she kept the ball rolling, until the dread moment arrived when she must face Lady Dunbar.That frigid personage was seated at her bureau in the boudoir when Mrs. Brett ushered Margaret into her presence, and as her cold eyes fell upon the stately woman who entered in the wake of the rotund little housekeeper, she opened her lips, as if an exclamation of surprise were only just suppressed."Brian is a fool, a perfect fool," was her thought, "what is a woman like this doing in this position? I warned him against adventuresses, and this——" Her thoughts broke off, as Margaret advanced, and bowed courteously."I sent for you, Mrs. Roberts," the mistress of the house said, with no acknowledgement of that graceful bow, "to supplement whatever my son may have told you about my grandchild, and the nursery arrangements.""I shall be glad to hear any of your wishes," Margaret answered gently, her musical voice striking on Lady Dunbar's ears with fresh offence."I conclude from what Sir Brian told me, that you are accustomed to manage a child? Your references, no doubt, satisfied my son in that respect?" Sir Brian's own answers when she had mentioned the word references, had not seemed wholly satisfactory to his mother, and her eyes scanned Margaret's face closely, as she put the question. But the new nurse was on her guard."I think Sir Brian was—quite satisfied," she said, with a coolness that surprised herself," and I am quite accustomed to manage a child. I hope I shall be able to take care of Sir Brian's little girl as—you and he would wish.""I hope so." Lady Dunbar's tones were cold to the point of acidity, the more she looked at the tall, dignified woman before her, the greater grew her disapproval, and the more she resented her dignity. "I have an excellent nursery-maid, and I expect that the nurseries should be kept in perfect order." Margaret bowed her head in assent. " It is not my idea of suitable discipline that a child of my grand-daughter's age should be constantly downstairs, and I only wish Miss Maisie to come into the drawing-room at fixed hours.""I quite understand," Margaret's tone was no less frigid than that of her employer. "I shall hope to carry out all your instructions, and all Sir Brian's, as you and he would wish.""Sir Brian and I——" Lady Dunbar hesitated, and twisted her magnificent rings round her finger with a trace of embarrassment. "Sir Brian does not altogether agree with me as to his daughter's upbringing. He is inclined to spoil her. Very naturally he knows nothing of little children, and I shall look to you, Mrs. Roberts, to be firm with your charge, in fact, to help me in counteracting what I cannot but feel is over indulgence on her father's part.""I, will do my best," Margaret's heart sank, she wondered dismally whether she was to play the part of buffer, between a stern grandmother and a weakly, indulgent father. But a remembrance of Sir Brian's strong face, and of his own anxiety that his little child should receive both firm and gentle training, reassured her on this score, and the conviction forced itself upon her that Lady Dunbar had little or no affection for her grandchild. This conviction was borne out five minutes later. The lady of the house, having majestically preceded the new nurse to the big, sunny nurseries in the west wing, and called out in her clear hard voice, "Janet, where is Miss Maisie," there appeared from the night nursery a child, whose fairy-like loveliness made an instant appeal to Margaret's heart, but whose eyes showed a certain shrinking fear at the sound of her grandmother's voice, the sight of her grandmother's upright form."Come here, Maisie," Lady Dunbar said, still in those hard tones which had in them no undernote of motherliness or gentleness, "this is your nurse, Mrs. Roberts. You must be a very good little girl, and always do what she tells you, and I hope," she added, turning to Margaret, "that the discipline in the nursery will be as firm and unswerving as I make it in the drawing-room.""I am a great believer in firmness, tempered by love," Margaret answered quietly, her eyes twinkling a little, as the words danced in her brain."'Discipline must be maintained, discipline must be maintained!'" The word seemed so large a one to apply to the dimpled white-frocked baby, who stood looking up at her grandmother with big frightened eyes."Maisie and I will be great friends," the gentle voice went on, and the child turned towards her with a little appealing gesture, infinitely pathetic in such a young creature; "I think Maisie is going to be a very good little girl."The golden head nodded vehemently, the brown eyes glanced confidently up into the beautiful face looking down at it, Maisie crept closer to her new nurse, and slipped a tiny hand into hers."I will do my best for her, your ladyship," Margaret said. "I promise you I will do as much for her, as if she were my own child!"Lady Dunbar swept out of the room again, saying to herself irritably that she disliked that sort of sentimental rubbish, and that it was sheer nonsense for "the woman "to talk about caring for Maisie like her own child, sheer nonsense!In the nursery, meanwhile, now that Lady Dun-bar's presence was removed, Margaret was free to make friends with her new charge in her own way, and her way was the gracious and motherly one that belongs to every woman worthy of the name. She knelt upon the floor beside the golden-haired baby, and, gathering her closely into her arms, laid her lips against Maisie's soft face, and looked tenderly into the child's brown eyes. All the fear had left them now, they smiled happily back at her new nurse, and two dimpled arms clung round Margaret's neck."Maisie like you," she said, in her clear, childish voice; "Maisie does like pretty lady. Maisie will call you ' Dearest.'"Over this declaration the golden curls were shaken solemnly, then the baby chuckled contentedly, nestling against her new friend with a serene sense of wellbeing expressed in every line of her dainty features. Margaret fancied she recognised Sir Brian's taste in the appointments and decoration of the two big airy nurseries, whose southern aspect gave them sunshine from morning till night. The windows with their great view of hill and woodland, the white walls, on which hung magnificent photographs of the best Old Masters, the screen with its fairy story pictures, the delicate cretonnes with which the room was upholstered, all seemed to the observant woman to show a hand other than that of the stern grandmother.Janet, the rosy-cheeked nurserymaid from the village, was at first disposed to be insolent and recalcitrant towards the lady nurse, but Margaret's gentleness mollified, whilst her dignity somewhat overawed, the girl, and long before the evening; Janet was the newcomer's devoted slave.Six o'clock was chiming from the clock on the stables, when the door of the day nursery opened softly and Sir Brian entered the room, pausing for a moment on the threshold to look at the picture which met his eyes. Margaret sat in the low rocking-chair by the fire, the fading daylight falling upon her burnished crown of hair, and on her beautiful face bent down over the child in her arms. She wore a linen gown of soft dull blue, a simple white cap rested on her coils of hair, and the very simplicity of her attire seemed eminently suitable to her fair, stately loveliness. Maisie in her little white dressing-gown, her bare pink feet resting in Margaret's hand, her rumpled golden head against her nurse's breast, turned sleepy brown eyes to her father, and held out her hand to him."Maisie does like her nurse," she said, when he crossed the room to their side, "Maisie calls her 'Dearest.' "A very soft look shone in Brian's grey eyes, the smile that lighted his somewhat grave face, was full of tenderness."I am glad to see you completely installed, Mrs. Roberts," he said, stopping her with a quick gesture when she would have risen at his approach, "I was obliged to be out this afternoon, or I should have come to greet you earlier. I hope you and my little girl will be very happy together.""I think we are very happy already," Margaret answered, "this beautiful place is like a haven of refuge, after a long time of storm and stress. I— have not had a very easy life.""We will try and see to it that you have an easy life here with us," was the cheery reply; "Maisie and I will do our best.""And Maisie will call her 'Dearest,'" the child repeated drowsily, "Maisie loves her. Maisie will call her 'Dearest.'"CHAPTER VI"MY MARRIAGE WAS VERY UNHAPPY."THE April days had crept on to May, May had slowly drifted into June, and the coming of summer had found Margaret permanently installed at Verrymore Court. Her trial month ended, Sir Brian had formally begged her to remain in his service, and although she was conscious that Lady Dunbar neither seconded nor approved of her son's arrangements, she had grown so fond of Maisie, and found her work for the child so thoroughly congenial, that in spite of the frigid attitude adopted towards her by the lady of the house, she determined to keep her situation. With each peacefully passing day she felt an increasing sense of having discovered a haven of refuge, and as the days spread into weeks, her feeling of security grew. She no longer started nervously when she heard herself addressed as Mrs. Roberts; she ceased shrinking with nervous tremor from taking Baby Maisie into the drawing-room when visitors were there, her dread of seeing some familiar face, of hearing some voice out of the past, was gradually dying away. She felt safe, sheltered, wrapped round by a care and protection, to which she had long been a stranger. To Sir Brian's nightly visit to the nursery Margaret looked forward with an eagerness of which she was more than half ashamed, and she took pains to assure herself that his coming only gave her pleasure, because it was so delightful to talk for a few minutes to a cultured gentleman, after long hours spent solely in Baby Maisie's and Janet's society.Scrupulously considerate of the beautiful woman whose position in his nursery seemed such an anomalous one, Sir Brian never lingered there longer than he would have done if Margaret had been a nurse of more ordinary type; but a curiously softened look crept into his eyes when they rested on her face, and his voice softened when he spoke to her.He had not failed to mark his mother's cold disapproval of Maisie's new nurse, but grace had been vouchsafed him to refrain from expressing to Lady Dunbar any of his own admiration for the new ruler in the nursery, and as her ladyship had sufficient wisdom to refrain from giving voice to her opinion of Mrs. Roberts, Margaret was rarely if ever mentioned between them.It was on a radiantly lovely day in early June that the first tiny cloud, a cloud no bigger than a man's hand, began to show above Margaret's horizon, and looking back to that day across the sorrowful ones that came after, she wondered sometimes why on that summer morning no warning had been vouch-safed to her of all that was yet to come. During the two months of her residence at Verrymore Court, her little charge, beyond an occasional ebullition of childish temper and self-will, had been most amenable, and Margaret had frequently asked herself why both the child's father and grandmother had insisted so strongly on the necessity for dealing firmly with her."She seems to me one of the sweetest tempered, most easily managed children I ever came across," Margaret said one day to Sir Brian, when he questioned her about the child. The sound of Maisie's prattling voice reached them from the inner room, where Janet was undressing her for bed, and her father had seized the opportunity to speak of her to her nurse."All children are sometimes naughty," Margaret went on, when Sir Brian did not immediately answer; "I would not give twopence for any child who wasn't. Maisie's little tempers are babyish tempers—and—naturally she likes her own way."In ending her sentence, Margaret lifted her eyes smilingly to her employer's face, and was surprised to observe how gravely he was watching her, and how seriously he replied to her lightly spoken words."I am glad you have found my little one easy to manage," he said; "and you really think her temper is only an ordinary babyish self will." He spoke with such earnestness that Margaret looked at him in renewed surprise."Yes—certainly," she answered, "every child is apt to be self-willed, and to have little outbursts of temper. One cannot expect perfection in the poor mites. Why—Maisie is only four.""Yes—only four—but that is not too young to show—to find—I am sometimes afraid——"His incoherent sentence broke off suddenly, as the subject of their discussion danced into the room, her golden curls flying out behind her, her bare pink feet showing under her nightgown, her arms out-stretched to her father.All further possibility of serious conversation was at an end, and Margaret, absorbed in the small cares of everyday life, forgot to puzzle over Sir Brian's enigmatical phrases, until they were brought back to her mind on that radiant day in June, when the tiny cloud arose in her sky. She and Baby Maisie had spent their afternoon, as was their wont, in a secluded corner of the park, where, under a spreading oak tree, Maisie made herself happy collecting acorns, and playing baby games of her own devising, whilst Margaret sewed at a dainty garment for the child, talking to her, and joining in her games, when her help was urgently required. A large and battered doll, Maisie's favourite amongst a collection of waxen beauties, made one of the party, and a youthful terrier puppy, rejoicing in the name of Matthew, added to the hilarity of the occasion by his general frivolity, and limitless sense of humour. But there came a lull in the wild frolics of child and puppy, and Margaret was folding up her work, preparatory to starting back to the house, when an agonised yell from the puppy, and a shriek from Maisie, brought her to her feet, her heart almost standing still with fear. The sight that met her eyes as she rushed to the other side of the tree, where a moment before child and dog had been romping together, remained stamped upon her brain for months afterwards, and for a moment she felt as if a very paralysis of horror had stricken her dumb. Maisie stood in the flickering light and shadow of the great tree, grasping the miserable puppy in her chubby hands, and regardless of its piteous howling, shaking and squeezing it, as though her only desire on earth was to kill the hapless little beast. The child's face was transfigured, its angel loveliness had gone; to Margaret's shuddering dismay, it seemed as though the face of a fiend glared at her when she stepped quickly forward.A red light blazed in Maisie's brown eyes, her features were white and distorted with passion, all the daintiness and the sweetness that constituted her chief charms, had entirely gone."Maisie," Margaret said sternly, "drop Matthew directly. You are hurting the poor little doggie.""Maisie wants to kill him," the child answered, with so deliberate an accent of hatred, that Margaret shuddered; "he bit Maisie's doll. Maisie will kill him. Maisie hates him," and it was so evident, by the increasing faintness of the dog's cries, that the child would carry out her intention, that Margaret lost no time in snatching the trembling little beast from those clinging fingers, and putting him down gently on the ground behind her. In the flash of a second, Maisie had turned and flung herself upon her

nurse with a fury and strength of which Margaret would never have believed so young a child capable. The small face was convulsed with an anger terrible to see, the small hands beat passionately against Margaret, whilst screams of sheer rage and defiance rang from the childish lips. She uttered no articulate word. With a shiver, Margaret realised that the sounds Maisie uttered, were like the confused sounds made by an enraged animal: they were sinister, horrible, unnatural. Margaret's quiet authoritative voice had no power to stem the flood of passion under which Maisie's whole form swayed and shook, and at last, fearful lest the child should suffer physically from the excess of her own emotions, her nurse seized the small hands that battered at her so furiously, and slapped them smartly, saying at the same time in short stern tones:"Be quiet this moment, Maisie!" The stinging slap acted upon the child like a cold douche, the angry sobs that shook her were suddenly arrested, and she stood perfectly still, panting violently, and eyeing her nurse with a half frightened, half defiant glance.Then, with a fresh paroxysm of rage, she snatched her battered doll from the ground, flung it from her into a sea of bracken, and threw herself upon the ground, with a renewal of those passionate sobs and inarticulate sounds which Margaret had already found so alarming, and it was many minutes before she was sufficiently quiet to be taken back to the house.Nor did she show the least sign of penitence. When Margaret tried to reason with her, and explain that Matthew was only a puppy, and had not meant to do any harm, she only repeated stubbornly:"Maisie hates Matthew. Maisie would like to kill him. He bit Maisie's doll.""Then Matthew shall never come into the nursery, or go out with us any more," Margaret said gravely, as she sat in the nursery rocking-chair, the recalcitrant baby standing in front of her, looking at her with brown defiant eyes, "no little girl that I take care of, must ever hurt a dumb animal. It makes me very unhappy when Maisie is so naughty.""But Maisie doesn't care," came the startling reply, "if ' Dearest' doesn't love Maisie, then Maisie won't love ' Dearest.' "This mood of defiance lasted till nearly bedtime, and then all at once, to Margaret's unfeigned surprise, it changed as suddenly as it had begun. One moment the child sat sullen, silent, angrily aloof, the next she was her usual gay-hearted self, the episode of the afternoon apparently quite forgotten; every cloud vanished from her face, she laughed and chatted in her usual light-hearted fashion, and, as though nothing unusual had taken place, she climbed on to Margaret's knee for the cuddle and story that always preceded bed time."No—no story to-night," Margaret said firmly, "I can't tell fairy stories to cruel little girls. Is Maisie sorry for being so naughty? "The golden head was vehemently nodded, Maisie smiled bewitchingly into the grave face above her. To the bottom of her baby soul, she loathed disapproval, to stand well in the sight of her own small world was essential to her.'Yes—Maisie's sorry," she said, "Maisie's awful, dreadful sorry. She won't do it again," and suiting her actions to her words, she clasped her arms round her nurse's neck, and pressed her soft face against Margaret's cheek.Was it genuine sorrow? or was it the facile desire of a shallow nature to be at peace with its surroundings? Whilst she sat at work that evening, Margaret pondered long and earnestly over the child's character, and the terrible scene of that afternoon, and when later on, Sir Brian, who had been away for the day, came into the nursery to look at the sleeping baby, she hesitatingly told him of what had taken place. It startled her to see how his face whitened, what a look that was almost one of fear came into his eyes, and, smitten with compunction, she exclaimed hastily"I ought not to have said anything to you about it, but it seemed to me so abnormal that I——""You are quite right to speak of it," he broke: in, "quite right. This—is not the first time. She—my God!—she has two natures—an angel's and a fiend's—and who knows which will get the upper hand? "''With God's help—the angel's," Margaret answered, the note of decision in her voice bringing a look of relief to Sir Brian's anxious face, "I think—if you—if I might know exactly what I have to fight against, I should be better able to help Maisie," she added gently.Sir Brian moved restlessly up and down the nursery, saying no word, but coming to a standstill at last beside the table at which Margaret sat working, he said abruptly:"It hardly bears talking about, but—you are different from other women. I can tell you. You will understand." Her eyes dropped before the expression they met in his eyes, and as she bent over her work again, her hands shook, and her heart beat quickly. But much suffering had taught her self-control, and she spoke quietly:"I have had so many troubles myself, that I think I can sympathise with other people's troubles. Please tell me——""It is not hard to tell you," he interrupted her almost vehemently. "I try to hide from the rest of the world what is my shame, but you——" his voice faltered, but he controlled it, and spoke again more calmly, and in short, jerky sentences."My marriage was very unhappy. I found out—too late—that my wife never cared for me. She married me—out of pique. Our life together was—hell—forgive me, there is no other word, and Maisie has inherited from her, her great beauty—and—the temper of a devil."To see a usually quiet man roused to a white heat of anger, is no very pleasant sight, and Margaret shrank back a little in her chair, as the low voice spoke in terse, forcible words."Did I frighten you by being so vehement," Sir Brian exclaimed, his voice growing suddenly gentle. "I cannot think of those days, and the thought of my little girl's dreadful inheritage almost drives me mad. My wife——" he paused and glanced over his shoulder, as a footstep in the passage outside stopped at the nursery door, and a moment later his mother's upright form entered the room."Brian—here?" Lady Dunbar's tones expressed surprise and disapproval, and although Margaret was conscious of having done nothing to merit the look of scathing scorn in the eyes that swept over her, a flame of colour shot into her face, and as she rose to her feet, she was annoyed to find her knees trembling under her."My dear mother, I come in to see Maisie every night, you surely know that," Sir Brian exclaimed impatiently, "and I am sorry to say Mrs. Roberts has been telling me that Maisie has had one of those terrible outbreaks of temper to-day."Lady Dunbar raised her eyebrows."My dear Brian, you surely did not suppose that a mere change of nurse would cure what is—as you very well know——""Hush! "he said sharply, a ring of such pain in his voice as made Margaret's heart ache for him, "this is the first time Mrs. Roberts has seen one of these outbreaks. In time, with careful

management——""You had better do as I have often suggested before, let Maisie see Doctor Hardcastle," Lady Dunbar said coldly: "it must be quite evident to anyone less prejudiced than you are, that the child's nerves need attention. "She looked at her son with a curiously significant look, which did not escape Margaret, although she could not interpret it. "And though to a more robust generation it seems ridiculous to talk of nerves in a child of four, it is wiser to face facts.""I don't wish to evade them," Sir Brian spoke sharply, more sharply than Margaret had ever heard him speak, and she realised instinctively how sorely his mother tried him. "We mustn't keep Mrs. Roberts standing here while we discuss this question," he went on more gently, with a fleeting glance from Margaret's beautiful face to his mother's hard one, "I am coming down to the drawing-room now, and we can talk over your suggestion about—Doctor Hardcastle."Before the utterance of the name, he hesitated, as though, so Margaret fancied, it was in some way distasteful to him; but he said no more, beyond a cordial good-night to her, echoed by a frigid one from Lady Dunbar. A little later in the evening, standing by Maisie's bedside and looking down at the child by the light of the shaded candle, Margaret found her thoughts turning in a bewildering fashion to the events of the day, culminating in the strange conversation of the evening. Maisie's lovely little face, flushed with sleep, encircled by its frame of tumbled golden curls, was like the face of an angel, innocent, peaceful, almost ethereal, in its beauty. To the watching woman, it seemed as though the occurrence of the afternoon must have been a hideous nightmare, so impossible was it to believe that the sleeping innocent before her, could be the same child who had glared at her with the eyes of a fiend. She tried to persuade herself that she must have exaggerated what had happened, that the fit of temper she had witnessed had really been nothing more than childish self-will.But her own sane and balanced judgment refused to allow that she had in any way exaggerated the situation; on the contrary, she knew that to Maisie's father she had made the very least of it, and a fresh memory of the child's paroxysm of fury made her shudder, as she turned away from the bed."Poor little girl!" she whispered, "what heritage has come to her from the mother who made her father's life a hell? And what can one do to help her now—and to help him?"CHAPTER VII"I DON'T BELIEVE I SHALL LIKE THE DOCTOR.""THIS—is Maisie's mother."Margaret had come into the library to receive the money for her journey to town, whither she was to go for the night in charge of Maisie, and the above abrupt sentence fell from Sir Brian's lips as he handed her a miniature, in a finely-chased gold frame. Margaret took it silently, and for a moment looked steadily into the pictured face. Then the words broke from her, almost involuntarily."How lovely, how very, very lovely. Maisie is wonderfully like her.""Yes, she has set her mark upon the child." The strange sentence was spoken with a bitterness, that hurt Margaret as if it had been a blow. A stab of pity for the woman whose lovely face looked up at her, smote her heart."This woman has gone down into silence, poor soul, poor soul!" was her thought, "if she did wrong and hurt him—surely he can forgive her now—now that she has had to die, and leave him."Perhaps something of her softening thought looked out of her sweet eyes as they met Sir Brian's, the hard lines that had crept about his mouth softened too, his accents were less bitter."She was, as you say, lovely. I have never seen such colouring, such absolute physical perfection, but—ah! well," he broke off with a sigh, "your eyes tell me not to drag the past out of its grave. Let the dead bury its dead. But I wanted you to see that miniature."Margaret's eyes went back to it again, to the brown eyes that looked so velvety and soft, to the laughing lips, the delicate, exquisite colouring, the crown of bright hair."It does not seem quite fair to go on judging her, when she has lost so much," was the gentle answer to his words."Lost—so much?""Yes, her home, her child, all that makes life beautiful, she has had to leave. Oh! the pity of it!""Yes, the pity of it!" Brian echoed, taking the minature from her," sometimes, I dare to wonder why such things are allowed, why one life—like hers—should be allowed to spread a blight all round it, to ruin other lives, to——""Not ruin other lives surely?" Margaret interrupted quietly, wondering why the death of so eminently unsatisfactory a wife, should have produced such a lasting impression on this man. "I always feel that one can gather up the fragments of a life again, however much they may have been temporarily scattered.""Temporarily?" Brian looked at her strangely. "If one could feel that it was only temporarily—but I musn't keep you," he broke off to say more briskly, "the carriage will come round at ten, and it is almost that now. My mother has told you that Mrs. Doughty, the housekeeper at Portman Square, will make you and Maisie comfortable for to-night. You will see Doctor Hardcastle to-day, and will you kindly explain to him exactly what happened in the park? He has seen Maisie before. He knows her family history. His fee will be two guineas. If I give you five pounds for expenses, I think that will cover everything.""Everything," Margaret answered with a smile; "her ladyship came to the nursery this morning, and asked me to tell you she will not be down till lunch time, she has a cold. But for that, she said she would have come to town too, and herself have taken Maisie to Doctor Hardcastle.""Then I am afraid I am rather glad my mother has a cold," was the short rejoinder, " I do not wish the child to see Doctor Hardcastle with her. He and she have already—however we will not enter into that now. Thank you very much for all you are doing for my baby, Mrs. Roberts. If things go well with her, it will be entirely thanks to you."Margaret's heart beat fast as she hurried back to the nursery. The look in Sir Brian's grey eyes, the inflection of his voice, stirred her pulses as she had thought nothing would ever again have power to stir them, and she looked at her own reflection in her looking glass, with something of angry scorn in her eyes." You poor fool," she whispered, as she tied the strings of her simple bonnet, smoothing back her shining hair beneath the velvet rim, "surely men have brought sorrow enough into your life, to prevent your ever wishing to find favour in a man's eyes again. Your face has—not been your fortune—only your curse!"Maisie's childish voice calling her from the day nursery, broke into her train of thought, but during the whole journey to London the thread of those thoughts remained with her, even while she told Maisie fairy tales, and listened to the child's prattle. And woven in amongst the thoughts came a vision of Brian Dunbar's face, strong, quiet and steadfast, and of his grey eyes alight with a look which no woman of Margaret's experience could ever mistake.The appointment with Doctor Hardcastle necessitated their driving from Waterloo to the Doctor's house in Harley Street, and there a parlourmaid, whose rigid manner and hard-featured face at once repelled Margaret, showed them into a dining-room already filled with waiting patients.The room was so curiously unlike the orthodox waiting-room of the average doctor, that Margaret found herself looking about it with interest, speculating on what manner of man the specialist could be. The. walls were white from floor to ceiling, with a frieze above and below, blood-red in colour, and of a quaint, and, to Margaret's eyes, sinister design. Strangely grotesque animals, distorted creatures, weird reptiles and insects wriggled and twisted themselves amongst gnarled branches, that seemed to wave fantastic arms in every direction.Upon the white walls hung a variety of curious weapons and trophies, evidently brought from various parts of the globe, and over the mantelpiece was a picture, representing a gigantic snake, writhing its glistening coils through the undergrowth of the jungle.Upon the polished boards of the floor were some really magnificent skins of wild beasts, the most noticeable among them being that of a tiger of quite unusual size, whose glassy eyes seemed to Margaret to glare at her and her charge, with something uncanny in their fixed stare.All the waiting men and women looked subdued and uneasy, as if they were affected by their odd surroundings, and Margaret noticed, that as the door was opened, and the hard-featured parlourmaid ushered in another arrival, or beckoned out one of those already there, a nervous thrill appeared to pass through the room. She herself found it quite as impossible, as apparently did the others, to fix her attention on any newspaper, and the most entrancing magazine pictures failed to interest Maisie, or keep her from fidgetting restlessly."I don't like this room, I don't like the atmosphere of the house, and I don't believe I shall like the doctor," Margaret was reflecting, when the parlourmaid once more entered, and beckoned to her with a solemn gesture, that gave Margaret an odd sense of being summoned to execution."Mrs. Roberts, with Miss Dunbar," she heard herself announced at the door of the consulting-room in the rear of the house, and the next moment she was face to face with a tall thin man, who said in the very softest voice she had ever heard:"This is Sir Brian Dunbar's little girl, and you are her nurse?" Margaret bowed assent, wondering why that soft voice made her think of the purring of some feline animal, and why the remembrance of the glaring eves of the tiger in the other room, was so persistently with her. Doctor Hardcastle's manner was courteous in the extreme, and he smiled, as his hand touched Maisie's golden curls, but the child shrank a little under his touch, and the woman experienced an inward shrinking, for which she could find no explanation. Was it the doctor's thin-lined face which repelled her, she wondered? Or the straight lips that seemed to indicate a character of abnormal hardness? Or was it his eyes, which looked into her face with so piercing a glance, that she felt as though it were penetrating to her very soul. They were blue eyes, of a peculiar and vivid shade of blue, and as they met hers, Margaret was conscious of a question in them, a question that appeared to be answered as soon as asked, and she was assailed by an uncomfortable sensation, that this man with the keen eyes was either reading her inmost thoughts, or already knew something of her history. With the thought, she drew in her breath quickly, seized with a nervous desire to get her business done and to depart. But Doctor Hardcastle waved her to a seat, and with his eyes still fixed upon her, said slowly and thoughtfully:"Your face is curiously familiar to me; and I seldom forget a face. Forgive the question, but—have you been long a member of Sir Brian Dunbar's household?""I have been his child's nurse for two months," Margaret answered, a sick foreboding at her heart. "Sir Brian——""You, were chosen for the post by Sir Brian, not by Lady Dunbar?"A faint smile parted his thin lips; the words in the soft voice took on an insidious meaning, and Margaret, to her own intense annoyance, found herself flushing deeply."Sir Brian engaged me," she answered stiffly. "He wished to find a lady nurse for Maisie—and my qualifications suited him.""No doubt," again the faint smile parted the thin lips, whilst the glance of those strange, keen eyes looked at Margaret's beautiful face, almost as if they were setting a value upon it, "your qualifications—but we will go back to them presently," he broke off abruptly, "tell me first what I am to do for the little child, and then—we will speak again of your qualifications."CHAPTER VIII"WELL MET, INDEED!""You are acquainted with the child's history?" Doctor Hardcastle stood with his back to the fire-place in a small inner room opening from his consulting-room. Margaret stood facing him, and Baby Maisie had been left for a few minutes alone, and supremely happy, with a large picture book, unearthed from a cupboard for her by the great specialist. His keen eyes were fastened on the beautiful face, whose beauty only seemed enhanced by the simple, close-fitting bonnet, and as he spoke, he was observing with the critical glance of one who was no mean judge of women's looks, how finely cut were this woman's features, how exquisite the curves of chin and jaw, and how surprisingly lovely were the eyes that met his own."I know something of her history;" Margaret answered, "I know that her mother——""Yes, yes, that is what I mean. You know the important factor in the whole business?" Margaret, concluding that he referred to the violent temper of the late Lady Dunbar, of which Sir Brian himself had spoken, bent her head in assent, and the doctor went on, in the quick abrupt manner, which seemed to her to be one of his characteristics."Knowing what you know, you will understand the extreme importance of giving the child a quiet, regular life. No brain excitement, no undue fatigue, nothing that can over-stimulate her, or put any extra burden on nerves or tissues. She wants great care. With a mother like hers—well—we need not enter into that again, but—the heritage is a bad one.""Maisie is so young. Surely we may hope she will outgrow these—fits of passion—and these——"Margaret's pleading voice was interrupted by the doctor."Outgrow them? Possibly—or they may master her. With her history, no human being can foresee what the outcome of it all may be. Give her the medicine I prescribe; watch her carefully; make her submissive to discipline. Her mother's total lack of discipline and balance, was responsible for a great deal. Teach this child to control herself, and you may conquer heredity.""She must inherit a strong character from her father," Margaret answered."Ah! but she is the living image of her mother. Feature for feature she is like her; the same brown eyes, the same hair, the same expression—innocent as a little child, with the soul of a devil," the doctor muttered under his breath."Poor Sir Brian!" Margaret breathed, rather than spoke the words, and Doctor Hardcastle looked at her with a shrewd, enquiring glance."It has made havoc of that man's life," he said quickly, "but he had himself to blame, at least, partially; he fell in love with the loveliest face imaginable, and he forgot, poor devil, he forgot to make any investigations as to the quality of soul behind the face!""Poor man!" Margaret whispered again, then turned towards the door."I will do my best to carry out all your instructions," she said, "I can promise that everything you have ordered shall be done.""Wait a moment." The abrupt, almost harsh order, brought her to a standstill, and he said sharply, "Now, tell me why you are masquerading in this fashion at all? It is a masquerade, isn't it?""A masquerade? I don't think I understand you. I am Maisie Dunbar's nurse, because I have my living to make, and I had no qualifications for better posts. It is not play, but deadly earnest.""It is absurd," came surprising retort, "with all that you possess"—his glance ran over her beautiful face, and tall, stately figure—" it is sheer lunacy for you to be pottering about a baby's nursery—sheer lunacy," he repeated with emphasis."I am sorry." Margaret smiled faintly as she spoke. "But it is all for which I seem to be fit, and to take care of a little child, is the work I like best in the world.""An old-fashioned woman, eh? The sort of woman to whom the duties of wife and mother make the chief appeal?"Were the words a sneer, or were they spoken wistfully? Margaret could not quite determine, but she drew herself up, in a way that added a new dignity to her natural stateliness."To be a good wife and mother seem to me the greatest things in the world," she said simply."Ah! Yes, you're one of the born mothers of the earth—God bless you!" the strange man exclaimed, and then added after a pause, and with a touch of flippancy that gave his listener a shrinking sensation of distaste; "but with all that nature has given you, you ought to make your mark, before you settle down into the humdrum career of wife and mother. You ought to have a career, before that greatest things in the world come to you.""They will not come—again," she answered. " I am a widow—I am not likely to alter my condition—and I think I must take Maisie home now." Her voice was grave. Something in the specalist's voice and manner grated upon her, repelled her, whilst at the same time she felt and acknowledged a certain fascination in the thin face and keen eyes."Wait another moment," was his reply. "You think I am flippant. I agree with you—I am. If you spent your days as I do, in seeing one woman after another, each one more neurotic than the last, perhaps even you would become flippant. When I spoke to you just now about your qualifications, I was not talking at random. I—think"—he paused—"I am almost sure I could find you work, more worthy of your mettle than washing and dressing a pretty baby, and curbing her tantrums."Margaret drew nearer to the door; the words startled her."You have the qualifications I require," the doctor continued. "I am proposing to begin an important branch of work, and in it you could co-operate with me.""But I—do not wish to leave my present situation," Margaret faltered;" it is very kind of you to suggest work to me, but I am happy in the work I have, and Sir Brian is satisfied—and——""Satisfied for the moment." Dr. Hardcastle spoke with an odd significance of tone, that did not escape Margaret's ears, and set her heart beating heavily. "But—remember, Mrs. Roberts, if you ever want to come away from Verrymore, if circumstances should alter for you—if you should need a change of work—I can help you."Margaret experienced a shrinking sensation, and her eyes grew wide and puzzled."But you know nothing about me," she said. "You have seen me to-day for the first time. I am quite a stranger to you, and, besides that, I don't want to leave Verrymore" she added vehemently."Perhaps," Dr. Hardcastle spoke more slowly and in lowered tones, his eyes never leaving her face, "perhaps I know more about you than you think; I have seen you before to-day."The colour that had flashed into her face at the opening of his sentence died utterly away before he had finished speaking—the dumb appeal of a hurt animal was in the eyes she turned to him, and he came nearer to her with a quick movement, that had all the appearance of sheer impulse."Don't look like that," he said gently, more gently than he had yet spoken. "I shall not hurt you. You are safe in my hands. Only remember, if the day comes when you leave Verrymore Court, let me know and I will help you."Margaret was never afterwards sure what reply she had made to this speech. She only knew that her chief desire was to hurry away from those searching eyes, which seemed to probe her soul—those eyes that had seen her before, in that past over which she only longed to throw a veil.She did not breathe freely until she was outside the door, and walking quickly from Harley Street, Maisie's hand clasped in hers, her heart still beating in those dull, heavy throbs, that made her gasp for fresh air."Supposing we go to Regent's Park for a little bit," she said to the child. "London feels so hot and stuffy after the dear, lovely country.""Maisie would like the park," the child answered. "Didn't like that old doctor man, and he kept my Dearest talking such a drefful long time. Maisie was so tired."Yes, he had kept her talking "a drefful long time," Margaret reflected, and the upshot of it all was—what? That this man whom she had seen to-day for the first time, knew her story—held her probably in the hollow of his hand—could, at any time, shake her out of her peaceful security. In spite of the heat of the day, she shivered, and drew Maisie's hand closer against her, feeling for a moment a wave of that awful loneliness which had wrapped her round before she answered Sir Brian's advertisement.The doctor whose house she had just left stood silently in his consulting-room for many minutes after she and the child had departed, his brows drawn together in a frown, his thin lips tightly pinched, in the effort to recall an elusive memory."I bluffed her well," he mused, a sudden smile breaking up the gravity of his face. "She gave herself away, by changing colour, and looking so like a frightened animal. Poor woman, I'm sorry I gave her such an uncomfortable moment. But—I had an object. I don't generally do things without one, and the bluff paid. I learnt what I wanted to know. She—there is a shady past, and she might be available. And the absurdity of it is, that it is not entirely bluff either. I have seen that face before, though when and where I can't make my memory recall. I saw her under exceptional circumstances, I'll swear to that. But what were they? What in heaven's name were they? If I could only remember, my hold on her would be complete.""Maisie likes the ducks and the big brown geese, and all the funny pretty things," the child cried, as she and Margaret stood beside the water in Regent's Park. "Maisie thinks London a beautiful place, only she doesn't like horrid old doctors.""Never mind, sweetheart, we will forget the doctor now, and he is helping to make you a very strong, well little girl, and he is very kind," Margaret added, feeling bound to uphold Dr. Hardcastle's reputation, though the words came reluctantly from her lips. She did not like Dr. Hardcastle; that thought reiterated itself in her brain. Without being able to give herself a definite reason for her instinct, she nevertheless instinctively disliked the man, who, at his first meeting with her, had offered her work, and had so strangely alluded to her past. With her mind distracted by these reflections, she paid scant attention to the prattle of the child by her side, until a tug at her skirts and a persistent whisper in Maisie's most important tones, recalled the little maid's presence."But Maisie likes that pretty lady much better than the pretty ducks. That lady like daddy's picture. Maisie wants to go and talk to her." The words penetrated to Margaret's brain, and she looked in the direction towards which the child pointed—looked, and then clutched so tightly at the small hand holding her own, that Maisie cried out in dismay. But Margaret, although she loosened her grip of the little hand, did not speak. She only stared straight in front of her, at the two figures to which Maisie had pointed, the figures of a man and a girl, advancing slowly towards them. And her face was very white, when the man lifted his hat, and said with a little malicious smile:"Well met, indeed! I am very glad to see you. When we parted so hurriedly in Oxford Street a few months ago, I was sure it would not be very long before I saw you again."CHAPTER IX"IT IS NOT JUST A CHANCE RESEMBLANCE."MORLEY STANBURN'S dark eyes and mocking smile danced in a mist before Margaret's eyes, and to her disordered fancy it seemed as though the trees and water in the park were running together in a confusion of steel-grey and green, whilst the man's low voice with its malicious accents sounded like a knell in her ears. Involuntarily she found herself repeating "Hast thou found me, oh, mine enemy; hast thou found me, oh, my enemy!" though her lips framed no sound, and she only stood there on the pathway, her hand clasping Baby Maisie's, her eyes fixed helplessly on the man who blocked her way."I am delighted to have run across you like this," he was saying, his malicious accents suddenly changing to suave, smooth tones, that in some unaccountable way sounded more sinister than the others; " you are staying in town?"The mists rolled back from Margaret's eyes, she braced herself to look her tormentor full in the face, and to answer him quietly, soothing her own nervous tremors with the assurance that, as he was not alone, he could not say or do anything very terrible."You are staying in town?" the smooth voice repeated, and Margaret knew that the man's sharp eyes were not only scanning her face and form, but were looking also at the daintily-clad child, whose hand she held."I am in town only for a night," she answered quietly. "I—am living in the country."In the pause that followed her words, Maisie's clear voice struck into the silence."Dearest lives with Maisie now. Maisie does like that other pretty lady. Can Maisie kiss her?"Until this moment, Margaret's agitation and dismay had been too great to allow her to notice very observantly the girl walking with Morley Stanburn. Now, following the direction in which Maisie's hand pointed, her glance rested on a girl, slight, very graceful, and exquisitely gowned, a girl whose face struck her with a strange sense of familiarity. Where before had she seen that delicate loveliness of colouring, hair the colour of ripe corn, eyes brown and liquid as the eyes of a timid deer? And these eyes had in them the same look of haunting fear that lies in those of a hunted creature. They met Margaret's puzzled glance with so pitiful an appeal, that the elder woman's motherly heart leaped in response. But why was the face so familiar? What chord of memory had been struck by it, Margaret wondered again, whilst Maisie repeated insistently:"Maisie does like that pretty lady."The girl was dressed in white, in one of those gowns whose very simplicity is a guarantee of costliness, and a white hat rested on her bright hair. To Margaret's fancy she bore the appearance of a tall, fair lily, so innocent and sweet was her expression, so graceful her movements, and as she smiled at the child's eager words, Maisie drew herself away from her nurse, and stretched out both her hands to the girl." Maisie would like you to kiss her," she said with baby imperiousness, and the certainty born of home experience, that her kisses would be valued everywhere. The girl stooped, and her lips parted in a smile as she kissed the dimpled baby face, and spoke a few soft words to the child, whilst Stanburn seized the opportunity to draw closer to Margaret, a certain fierce exultation showing in his eyes when he saw how she shrank from him."So you are doing work in the country. Why?""That I may live," she answered, in tones as curt as his own."That you may live?" The emphasis he put upon the words seemed to bear some odious significance which she understood, for her eyes dilated with a new terror, and her lips trembled, but she steadied her voice to repeat quietly:"That I may live." And a look of admiration momentarily mingled with the malice in Stanburn's eyes."You don't mean to tell me that you have allowed the whole——" he was beginning, when she put up her hand with an imperious gesture and checked him."I don't want to talk to you about—anything," she said. "I"—her voice sank to a vehement whisper—"I don't want ever to see you again.""Oh, come, come," he exclaimed with a light laugh, and speaking in a voice lowered like her own, "why not let byegones be byegones? Why not let us begin again? After all—Anthony and I——""Don't speak to me of the past," she broke in more passionately, "don't dare to speak to me of him. You of all people"—she broke off her sentence, as though her feelings were too deep for spoken utterance, and turning away from the man towards Maisie, who still clung about the white skirts of the pretty girl, she took the child's hand into her own again."Come, darling," she said, deliberately ignoring the man behind her, and stooping over her small charge, "we must go home now, and you must stop teasing this kind lady.""But I like her," the girl cried quickly, in an eager youthful voice. "I—like little children—and"—she suddenly spoke in a hurried whisper, her eyes furtively watching Stanburn over Margaret's shoulder—"oh! please help me, if you can. I am so frightened and lonely."The hurried, whispered words startled Margaret, as did the look of fear in the lovely eyes, but no time was allowed her in which to reply to the girl's appeal, for Stanburn was already back at his companion's side."We must be getting on our way, too," he said, his tones once more soft and suave. "I am sorry you are only in town for a night—Mrs. Merivale—but we shall meet in the country before long." He lifted his hat, his eyes, as they met Margaret's, shone with a mocking smile, and as he and his companion moved slowly along the path he added gently:" Au revoir!"Margaret stood for a moment exactly where he left her, her eyes fixed on the shining sheet of water, in her mind a whirl of confusing thoughts—when a low voice in her car made her start and turn."I've run back; I've pretended I wanted to give the little girl my rose—but really—oh! I am afraid of him—and his sister—we are at the Great Central Hotel for to-night—please help me."The pretty girl in the white gown panted out the sentences breathlessly, and before Margaret had time to answer her, she had flown down the path again to rejoin Stanburn, who was waiting for her a few paces off. She had thrust a great red rose into Maisie's hand, a rose she had been wearing in her own belt, and the child smiled at it, well pleased at receiving so fragrant a gift. But Margaret's already confused thoughts were reduced to chaos by the episode. Who and what was the girl who had made so strange an appeal? And why was she afraid, not only of Morley Stanburn (fear of him would not be surprising), but also of his sister? And what could she herself do to help the poor pretty thing? What could she possibly do? She herself was a lonely—a worse than lonely woman, living under an assumed name—working for a bare subsistence—a gulf lying between her and the past she would fain forget—a gulf over which the very man who was frightening that pretty girl, was trying to force a way. What, then, could she do to help another? Yet the appeal in the girl's eyes had wrung Margaret's heart, to which no young creature had ever appealed in vain, and throughout the remainder of her day and night in London, she was haunted by the memory of those frightened brown eyes, that shaken voice, whispering:"I am afraid of him and of his sister. Please help me."But there were wheels within wheels in the complicated machinery of her existence, which made her feel it was impossible to pit herself once more against the man who was her worst enemy. The web of her life was already a sufficiently tangled one; the last few weeks of peace had taught her to hope that at last, after long tossing on the waves of tribulation, she had found a haven of rest—and now, the past with all its terrors, was about to invade her haven. Response to the appeal just made to her must necessarily involve coming into contact with Morley Stanburn, and at the bare thought of him she shivered. Her encounter with him had driven from her heart all her newly-found peace, old fears trooped back upon her, with a shuddering sense of how frail a screen stood between her and the world."Yet how can I let that girl's appeal to me go unheeded?" she said to herself, when late in the evening, Baby Maisie slept soundly in her big London nursery. "I can't bear not to help her—if it is possible for me to help anybody. But how can I do it? What can I do?"Sitting in the great room, whose quiet was only broken by the distant roar of London traffic, and by the child's peaceful breathing, Margaret pondered long on this difficult question, and upon all the events of the day, but when, her musings ended, she proceeded to take her desk from a drawer, and prepared to write a letter to the girl who had awakened her sympathies, she found herself confronted by an unexpected difficulty. The pretty girl with the brown, frightened eyes and the appealing voice, had not given her own name. To write to her was an impossibility. Margaret did not know to whom to write."I daren't try to see the girl," she reflected. "If that wretch and his sister are making a tool of her, they will be on the qui vive; besides which, if he knew that I was trying to help her, all I could do would be worse, far worse than useless. I can only wait and hope for some other opportunity of doing something for the poor child.During the journey to Darestown, Margaret's thoughts still clung round the episodes of the previous day, and the face of the girl with Stanburn, and its baffling familiarity, haunted her with almost irritating persistence. But no searching of her memory would give her a clue as to that bewildering likeness between the strange girl's face and some other face that was its exact counterpart, and the drive to Verrymore, diversified by Maisie's prattle, drove the problem from her mind. She found a message awaiting her requesting her to go to Sir Brian's study directly she returned, and leaving Maisie to regale Janet with a story of all the wonders of the metropolis, she went down to the room which was the exclusive domain of the master of the house. His prompt "come in" replied to her knock, and her heart-beats quickened a little at the sound of the deep voice, quickened yet more when, at her entrance he rose from his chair and came towards her with outstretched hand."You have come back?" he said, and the glance in his eyes lent significance to the simple words. "I asked you to come to me at once," he added, forcing himself to speak in matter-of-fact accents, "my mother is out, and I am anxious to know Dr. Hardcastle's report of the child.""He advises care and quiet for her, no over-excitement, no undue tax on the brain. He"—Margaret hesitated—"he warns us that we must always take into account—what she has inherited."Sir Brian sighed heavily."What a heritage it is!" he said. "If I had known it, if anyone had been honest enough to tell me beforehand, surely I should have had the strength and courage to resist what has been a deadly wrong. But—I did it in ignorance, when I married my wife I had no thought of future harm.""I gathered from the doctor that we can do a great deal for the child by control and discipline. We can help her to conquer her temper.""You can help her," Sir Brian answered, a sudden tenderness leaping into his eyes, as they watched Margaret's face. "It has sometimes seemed to me that she is afraid of her grandmother, and yet when those terrible accesses of passion seize upon her, her grandmother is the person who can least manage her.""I think—Lady Dunbar perhaps is not naturally fond of children, and a child is quick to realise that. Maisie is certainly afraid of her grandmother.""Perhaps the fear is inherited—with—all the rest. My wife was afraid of my mother; they were never friends—and—latterly—when my wife—before my wife—ah! Well—we had many painful scenes. However"—his tones changed—"we must let the dead past bury its dead. I am very much obliged to you for taking Maisie to Doctor Hardcastle, and I am quite sure that in your hands all his orders will be carried out as they should be. You—are happy with us?" He added the words abruptly, and as he spoke he opened a drawer in his table and drew out some papers."Indeed, yes." Margaret's voice shook. "I am more happy here than I can say. It is like a haven of refuge.""I am glad." Sir Brian's hand still fumbled amongst the papers in his drawer, and it was plain that he was turning them over at random. "I want to ask you, if you will, to accept a higher salary. What you do for Maisie—wait, don't answer me till I have explained myself. What you do for Maisie is far more than any ordinary nurse would do—far more than anyone would do. And—you are not receiving an adequate return for all that you are doing.""But indeed I am," she cried eagerly. "You are giving me a perfect home, and rest and happiness, and my salary is already absurdly high. I could not take anything more from you—indeed I could not. To care for Maisie is a labour of love, and I am being more than adequately rewarded.""But," Sir Brian was beginning, when a sharp exclamation from Margaret arrested his attention. Whilst turning over the papers in his drawer he had brought to the surface the miniature of his wife, which he had previously shown to her, and as her eyes fell upon it now, she realised in a lightning flash of revelation, why the face of the pretty frightened girl with Morley Stanburn had seemed so strangely familiar. That girl's features, and the miniatured portrait of Brian Dunbar's wife, were reproductions of one another. It was no faint, elusive resemblance—the miniature was an exact counterpart of the girl she had seen, unless perhaps the pictured face was the elder of the two. The girl who yesterday afternoon had appealed to her for help, looking at her with brown eyes in whose depths lurked some hidden fear, might have sat for the miniature that lay face upwards amongst Sir Brian's papers. There were the same liquid brown eyes, the same dainty colouring, the same bright crown of hair, only—the girl of the portrait had no fear in her eyes, and there was a smile on her lips. The living girl had not smiled, and her eyes were full of fear. Yet the likeness was so strange and startling, that Margaret, looking at the miniature, interrupted Sir Brian's words with that sharp exclamation, which made him look at her quickly and say:"What has happened? What is it?""That miniature," she faltered, pointing to where it lay, "did you tell me it was your wife?""Certainly it is—my wife," he answered gravely, his voice suddenly sounding lifeless. "It was done before I met her—when she was quite a girl. But—it was an excellent portrait of her—as I first knew her."It seemed to his listener that his voice grew stern over the last words; the expression in his eyes was one so bordering on hatred, that Margaret felt a swift stirring of pity for the wife who had earned for herself such dislike, who had gone down to her grave unloved and unmourned."Why do you look at the miniature as if it startled you?" he went on. "You saw it the other day. Why does it surprise you now?""Because yesterday I met a girl who was so extraordinarily like this picture, that she might have sat for it.""You met a girl like this? What girl?" Brian asked abruptly."I don't know her name." Margaret coloured a little under his searching glance. "I—met her—when I took Maisie into Regent's Park. She was walking with someone, and her face seemed to me familiar. I could not remember why I seemed to know it so well, but when I saw that miniature—I knew.""The girl was a stranger to you? You do not know her?"Margaret's first instinct was to pour out the whole story to Sir Brian, to speak to him of Morley Stanburn, to tell him of that nightmare horror which that man's presence and threats spread about her. But long habits of caution, the reserve that circum-stances had implanted upon a naturally open and unreserved nature, checked her instinct, and she answered quietly:"Yes, the girl was a stranger to me, but her face was not one to pass by or forget."How often in after time did Margaret wish that she had followed her first instinctive leaning towards frankness. How often, and how bitterly, did she regret that she had not taken Sir Brian into her confidence, and told him the whole truth, instead of weaving about herself a tangled tissue of deceit—a web of prevarication, more easily woven than broken through. Life had treated her so hardly—this was the flashing thought of the moment—she dared not run any risks. To mention Morley Stanburn's name to Sir Brian might mean, almost certainly would mean, the disclosure of so much more; she already felt that she was living on a volcano, which might at any time overwhelm her; she dared not take any risks, even though Sir Brian's eyes looked at her with something deeper than kindness in their depths, even though she longed to throw herself upon his mercy, and tell him everything.Caution prevailed. No vision was vouchsafed to her of the bitter tears, the unavailing regrets which the future would bring to her because of that decision—that momentous choice between truth and deceit. The blind impulse of fear drove her to continue in the course she had begun, and letting her opportunity for right choice go by, she deliberately chose the wrong."The girl was a stranger to me," she said. "I do not know her, but she was very like your miniature.""It must have been a chance likeness," Sir Brian answered, his own simple and straightforward nature incapable of suspecting a woman of Margaret's calibre. "My wife had no relations—at any rate no near relations—excepting an old aunt long since dead; she had no sisters, and, as far as I know, no consins. This likeness must have been purely a chance one.""Perhaps it was," Margaret answered. "One does see most wonderful chance likenesses sometimes. It—was not really of importance, but—when I saw the miniature I remembered it again." She was talking a little at random, consumed with anxiety to end the embarrassing conversation, and to leave the library before Sir Brian asked her any further questions; and vexed with herself for having manifested surprise at the sight of the miniature."I still want you to reconsider your refusal to accept a more adequate return for all you do for us," Sir Brian began again, replacing the miniature under the heap of papers, and apparently indifferent to the matter of that chance likeness. "I feel we are not doing enough for you here."A hot tide of shame swept over Margaret."You are doing far too much," she exclaimed impulsively. "You are too good to me. If you only knew——""I know what you are doing for my small daughter," Sir Brian answered lightly, seeing, but not understanding her emotion, and with a man's dread of anything approaching to sentimentality, anxious to fend off what he supposed to be thanks. "But we won't worry about the question just now. Later on I shall re-open the subject. Meanwhile—thank you—a thousand times."Again Margaret's impulse to confess all was checked, but as she left the library, and slowly mounted the stairs to the nursery, that tide of shame spread itself over her heart."I am deceiving him, and he is the soul of honour," she said to herself. "What will he say to me day ever comes when he finds out the truth—if he ever finds out the truth? But I must hide it from him—ah!—God forgive me, and help me to hide it from him, for I could not face his anger now; I could not bear to leave his home and his child—and—I think——"She did not allow her thoughts to run on to their conclusion. She would not let herself dwell upon the look that crept into Sir Brian's eyes when he watched her face—the softened tones of his voice when he addressed her. She thrust all such reflections into the background of her consciousness, trying not to remember how fast her own heart had learnt to beat at the sound of his voice and step, trying to shut out from her thoughts the image of his face, which seemed to have stamped itself upon them.Lady Dunbar's reception of Dr. Hardcastle's report was frigidly non-committal. She raised her eyebrows a little when Margaret's tones became somewhat emphatic, and her smile gave the nurse a sudden wild wish to strike her handsome, impassive face. But she only said coldly:"I am glad the doctor is so hopeful. Personally, I do not expect Maisie will ever be cured of these—attacks. It is scarcely likely that she should be."Margaret longed to retort sharply, but experience had taught her the uselessness of arguing with her ladyship, or even of venturing to differ in opinion from her, and she only replied gently:"She is so very young that I can't help hoping for the best." And indeed, as the days passed peacefully by, and Maisie showed no further symptoms of the terrible outburst of temper which had so alarmed her nurse, Margaret began to feel that her hopes might be fulfilled, and her loving care of the child was redoubled. In the monotony of the days that were kept quiet for Maisie's sake, Margaret herself found peace, a peace that was only disturbed by the remembrance of the girl she had met with Morley Stanburn, and of the appeal that girl had made to her. Sometimes she remorsefully accused herself of cowardice, in having allowed the appeal to go unanswered. She even questioned whether she ought not to have gone to the hotel, and have made some effort to help the stranger who was afraid of Stanburn; she told herself that if she also had not been afraid, she would have faced the man she feared, and dared him to do his worst. Night after night, when Baby Maisie's soft breathing beside her was the only sound that broke the stillness of the summer night, she would lie awake, haunted by the thought of the girl with the brown eyes, the girl who was the living image of Sir Brian Dunbar's dead wife!"I don't think I was always a coward." That thought would recur over and over again in the silent watches of the night. "I used to be sure that I was braver than other women—now I know I am nothing but a weak coward after all. So much has happened to make me afraid—so much is in that terrible man's hands—that is my only excuse, and even to myself—I know the excuse is a poor one. If the girl had given me her name it would have been easier, but now I have nothing to go upon, no means of identifying her—only—I should know her again anywhere, because of that likeness—that extraordinary likeness—to—Maisie's mother. I wish I knew how to account for it; it is not just a chance resemblance—no chance resemblance could be so remarkable—and, if it is not just a chance, what does it mean? What can it mean?"CHAPTER X"IF I HAD THE RIGHT!""AND SO the prince came stepping across the meadows, where the daisies lifted pink and white faces to the sun, and the buttercups wagged their golden heads—and when he saw the princess, he ran to her quickly, and took her two white hands in his.""White hands like Dearest's hands," Maisie interrupted, drawing one of Margaret's hands into her own dimpled ones."Much whiter than Dearest's," laughed her nurse, looking down at the hand whose only ornament was a wedding ring, and smiling a little, as she saw what a tint of brown the sun had brought upon its whiteness."And the prince was tall and very strong," her voice continued, taking up the story where Maisie had broken its thread."Like Dad," the child whispered, but Margaret, colouring brightly, ignored the whisper, and went on without a pause, "and he had to stoop to look into the eyes of the princess.""What colour were her eyes?" demanded the practical baby."Blue—bright blue like forget-me-nots, or like a patch of summer sky," came the quick answer, "and her hair was like spun gold, and the prince——""What colour was the prince's eyes?" Maisie broke in once more."Oh, they were grey," Margaret replied dreamily, without waiting to think. "Very grey and very steadfast, and when the princess looked into his face, she knew that he was like a rock of strength, and that she might lean on him when she was tired, and rest all her weakness against his strong arm. And she knew she could never feel lonely any more if she looked into his eyes—and——""Daddy wants to listen too," Maisie exclaimed, springing from her place amongst the meadow flowers by her nurse's side, and flinging herself upon Sir Brian, who, to Margaret's no small dismay, she suddenly saw close behind her. His footsteps had been inaudible in the long grass, and a wave of embarrassment swept over Margaret, as she wondered how much he had heard of her conversation with the child. His eyes as they met hers were very bright, and a little smile hovered about his mouth, but he only said:"Is it a fairy story? I thought I caught the words 'prince' and 'princess,' and I have a babyish love of fairy stories. Go on with yours, Mrs. Roberts, and let me enjoy it with Maisie."The June day was very sweet. In this corner of the park, the grassy slope was carpeted with buttercups and daisies and good red sorrel, and in the hedgerows briar roses and honeysuckle sent out great whiffs of fragrance on the breeze. At the foot of the slope the trees had been cleared, and a wide blue distance was visible—woodlands and meadows, and uplands merging into a misty line of hills upon the far horizon. This particular spot was a favourite one with Margaret—the restfulness of great spaces soothed her—looking at the expanse of rolling country, and the wide arch of sky, all the minor miseries, and even the larger troubles of life, seemed to slip from her, and in their place came a sense of all that lies beyond the petty round of earthly things, a realisation of the infinite. As she looked into Sir Brian's smiling face, an answering smile awoke on hers, but she flushed more deeply."I am afraid my fairy tale is not worth listening to," she answered; "it was a very desultory, incoherent kind of tale, and my thoughts were busier with the beautiful landscape than with the adventures of my prince and princess.""But—he loved her?" Brian had seated himself amongst the daisies beside Maisie, and though his hand passed caressingly over the child's curly head, his eyes sought Margaret's, and their expression quickened her pulses."Oh, princes in fairy tales always love the princesses," she answered lightly, ruthlessly picking a daisy flower, and pulling off its petals one by one. ''Fairy tales are not in the least like real life—their total unreality is their chief charm.""Does the unreal please you? Do you prefer the fairy tales of this life?""I have had so much reality in my own existence," Margaret answered, still with an effort to speak lightly, "and so much painful reality, that there is a fascination for me about the irresponsible princes and princesses, who have very little storm and a great deal of sunshine.""And the prince was tall—like Dad, and he had grey eyes—like Dad," Maisie exclaimed in a soft sing-song voice, her elders' conversation having merged into language that was both uninteresting and incomprehensible, "and the princess was like—like——""If Maisie makes a beautiful daisy chain," Margaret broke in hurriedly, "we will put it round Araminta's neck at tea time. Araminta is the very best doll of all," she went on, speaking rather at random, and avoiding Sir Brian's eyes. "A daisy chain would suit her rather florid style of beauty.""But about the princess?" Sir Brian persisted; "mayn't I hear what she was like, and can't we have the end of the story now? I sat down here on purpose to hear it.""Oh, not now. The thread is broken. I could not pick it up again. I cannot think out what the end should be.""Perhaps I could think it out for you," the man answered dreamily, his eyes turning from her face, and looking out across the wide landscape. "The princess is tall and very stately, like a queen in all her movements, and—if I—I mean if the prince—had his way, she should always wear white, soft, trailing garments." He glanced for a second at the silent figure beside him, and at the face, upon

which the colour was coming and going in swift lovely flushes. "And she ought to wear diamonds in her hair, shining diamonds against the bronze gold of her hair—and——""No, not diamonds," The words came in a low rapid whisper. "Diamonds are hateful—she must never—oh! I beg your pardon." A troubled laugh broke from her. "I ought not to have interrupted your—fairy tale, and of course the princess was a fairy princess—the diamonds will only be dewdrops after all!"Brian had looked at her curiously during her oddly hurried speech, but his mind was too full of its own absorbing thoughts to allow him to wonder what could be the signification of her words."Her eyes were deep soft green—green as the depths of a mountain stream, deep and dark, and in the prince's sight she seemed the personification of motherhood and goodness.""Not goodness," Margaret exclaimed vehemently, "not goodness—I mean——" she went on haltingly, "you and I are telling the story of very different kinds of princesses. Your princess is a far grander, more wonderful person, than mine—the kind of person that no one ever met. My princess is quite an ordinary, every-day kind of woman.""The kind of woman who would bring peace to a man's household, and happiness to his children," came the low retort, and Margaret felt him reach out for her hand, stoop over it, and kiss it gently.The child, wearied by their unintelligible remarks, had wandered away, and was playing one of her own fantastic games at a little, distance, with the flowers for playmates, and the man and woman were to all intents and purposes alone. For a moment surprise, and something more than surprise, almost paralysed Margaret, setting her pulses leaping wildly; then she recovered her equanimity, and drew her hand away from Brian's, preparing to lift herself from her lowly position amongst the meadow grasses and flowers. Her companion was on his feet in an instant, and helped her to rise, realising as he did so that her hand was shaking, and that she either could not, or would not meet his glance, though she took her hand quickly from his clasp."I beg your pardon," he said with a rueful boyishness, which made Margaret's heart yearn towards him. "I ought not to have done that. I ought not to have talked to you in this insane way. I think the summer day has got into my head, and when I saw you sitting there amongst the daisies with my little Maisie in your arms, I felt—well—I won't do again, what I ought never to have done at all. You know I have no right—if I had the right——" He broke off his incoherent speech with a jerk, and looked into Margaret's face with pleading eyes, that reminded her oddly of a dog she had once owned, a dog who had gazed at her with just such a wistful expression if he had done anything he knew to be wrong."You will—go on exactly as before?" he asked boyishly; "you won't let anything I said, make any difference?"Margaret perceptibly hesitated for a moment, but when she spoke at last it was with a gay little laugh."I shall only remember that your fairy tales are much more romantic and unreal than mine," she said. "This June weather makes one almost feel as if the fairies might actually spring out of the flowers, and show themselves to us. Maisie has never stopped hoping that some day she will come across a little green man or woman from fairyland."Only she herself knew what an effort it meant to her to speak so brightly, to show no outward or visible sign of the inward effect of his words upon her. She called Maisie, and took her slowly back across the meadow, leaving Sir Brian to make his way to the Home Farm, whither he was bound; but during the whole time that she and the child made their way back to the house, those incoherent words that had so deeply stirred her, haunted her incessantly, repeating themselves in her brain in the musical voice, which seemed to lend them such deep significance.'You know I have no right. If I had the right——"Why had he spoken in that way? Why had he "no right " to let her see what indeed was sufficiently plain to a woman of any ordinary discernment, that he was greatly attracted by her?"If I had the right," he had said; but, what was the meaning of the broken phrase? Had he not the right to care for her if he chose? Surely it was she, not he, who had no right to allow this wonderful thing to come into her life? It was she who must draw back, and refuse his good gift; and yet—he spoke as though he had need to ask for her forgiveness, as though, in showing her something of what he felt, he was wronging her."If I had the right." The look by which these words were accompanied told her more eloquently than the words themselves, all that he would fain have said—if he might. But why might he not say it? This was the bewildering thought that haunted her. Not that she was fit to take the great gift of his love, even if it were offered to her: with deepest humiliation, she acknowledged her own unworthiness; but her want of fitness was not his stumbling block, and she knew him well enough to be sure that no prejudice of the Dowager Lady Dunbar would hinder Sir Brian from loving where he would, and from taking what woman he chose to be his second wife."If—I had—the right." The words pursued her even in her dreams, where she fancied she stood on the brink of a great gulf, on whose further side Brian was leaning towards her, with outstretched hands, and eager love-lit face. But between them, far down in the dark depths that kept the two precipices apart, she seemed to cry:"He is mine! he cannot be yours! He is mine—mine—mine!" and a wild and anguished face seemed to rise up out of the darkness, and glare at her with fierce eyes—eyes that were first Maisie's clear brown ones, and then, by some odd transition, the eyes of the pretty girl in white, who had been walking in Regent's Park with Morley Stanburn And as the wild face drew nearer and nearer to hers, that same wailing voice cried again, and yet again, till she awoke with a cry of fear:"He is mine!—you shall not come between Brian and me. He is mine!"CHAPTER XI"NOW I CAN SOON KILL YOU—THAT'S GOOD!"THE day following that strange telling of fairy tales in the meadow, was Sunday, and between four and five o'clock, Margaret, who shared with Jane the nursery-maid the privilege of going to church on alternate mornings and afternoons, was wending her way home from a small church on the far side of the park, to which she had gone for the first time. The need of solitude had seemed imperative. She wanted to hide herself in a little, quiet church, where no prying eyes could watch her, or heed her every movement. In the village church she knew herself to be under the close observation of the housekeeper and the rest of the household at Verrymore Court, and she was haunted further by an unpleasant consciousness, that Lady Dunbar's glance fell upon her with great frequency when she occupied a place in the great servants' seat. She knew she could feel herself alone and unrecognised in the tiny church, built to serve an isolated hamlet, and standing just within the park, at its furthest corner; and as she emerged from the tiny building, a sense of peace stole over her, such peace as had not been hers for many nights and days. The quiet service, the simple chants and hymns, and the short practical sermon, suited to the needs of a purely rustic congregation, had all fitted in with her mood, and she lingered for a moment or two outside the porch, to watch the swallows skimming across the grass, and the rooks wheeling about the little tower, cawing softly as they flapped their black wings against a background of golden sky. The curate-in-charge also paused a moment, but his glance fell, neither on the rooks nor the swallows, but upon the tall woman's figure, and on the uplifted face that to his reverent young mind seemed like the face of the Madonna, in its peace and purity.As he hurried back to his lodgings in the village, he wondered, not for the first time, what uncommon chain of circumstances could have brought so strikingly beautiful a woman, and one who was so obviously a lady, into the position of children's nurse; but being a practical man, and no probable answer to his speculations being forthcoming, he sat down to his supper, with a book propped against the water-bottle, and promptly buried himself in his favourite Stevenson.Margaret went slowly on her homeward way, her thoughts at first drifting idly from the sound advice in the practical curate's sermon, to other sermons she had heard long ago, then drifting back again to her present surroundings, and the loveliness of the June evening, until finally they turned to the events of the day before, and to Sir Brian's enigmatical and broken sentence:"If—I—had—the right——"The words had certainly seemed to signify that something held him from her, that in some way he was bound by honour not to speak as his heart prompted him to do. But what could bind him? What could hinder him from doing precisely as he chose, in such a matter as this? A man of his strong character would not suffer his mother's influence to affect so momentous a decision as this, and Margaret was convinced that if he intended to marry again he would choose his wife for himself, without Lady Dunbar's assistance. He must have referred to some other and more serious obstacle than that lady's disapproval, when, with such pain in his eyes, he had said, "If—I had—the right"; and Margaret paused, and leant over the fence skirting the park, trying to put the words from her mind, and to bring back the peace which had come to her amongst the simple folk in the little church.The evening was very still, a Sabbath stillness brooded over the countryside, and nothing stirred but the leaves overhead, touched by the summer breeze, and now and again a fluttering bird in the copse beyond the fence."Round our restlessness—His rest," Margaret said under her breath, her eyes wandering over the woodlands, to the landscape, that lay flooded with gold in the light of the setting sun. "We fret and fret, and wear ourselves out with fretting, and all the while, if we only remembered" God's in His heaven,All's right with the world."The troubled lines that had appeared upon her face with the remembrance of Sir Brian's words, smoothed themselves out again, the look of peace which had shone in her eyes when she first emerged from the church door, shone in them once more, and though she sighed, her sigh was not a sad one."One must not think of the might be's, or the might have been's," she said aloud to a thrush, who watched her with bright inquisitive eyes, "you know nothing about them, you dear brown bird, you just live for the moment, and forget the past and the future. And—I—mean to live each day as if it stood alone, with nothing before, and nothing after, and to live it—with my might!"A smile of peace still lingered on her lips as she turned away from the smiling landscape, and struck into a path, which, shadowed by overhanging trees, made a gloomy contrast to the sunny world beyond. This side of the park was quite unknown to her; it lay two miles and more from the Court, and was wilder, and in consequence far more beautiful in Margaret's eyes, than the more elaborately laid out grounds round the house itself; and leaving the church she had diverged from the road that traversed the park from lodge to lodge, and was now guiding herself by instinct, and trusting to an inborn sense of locality, rather than to any actual knowledge of her whereabouts. The path wound tortuously around beeches and elms, and through a thick undergrowth of bushes and long grass, and it was evident that few feet ever passed that way, but Margaret was not by nature nervous, and the loneliness did not arouse in her any fear. Nevertheless, as she penetrated further and further into the gloom of the trees, which had now thickened into a wood, she began to realise that the sun was very near its setting, that twilight would soon be upon her, and that she had no very definite idea of her whereabouts."However, the park can't be so very enormous," she reflected, "if I follow this path, it must end somewhere, and I shall probably find that it leads me back into the main drive again."With this comforting thought she pushed on, only to find that the trees seemed to grow closer, and the undergrowth to thicken, until it began to spread itself over the path, and impede her progress." I really can't turn back now," she exclaimed, her own voice sounding uncannily loud in the prevailing silence, "this path can't have been made merely to end in nothing. I shall push on to the end of it," and suiting her action to her words, she brushed back the undergrowth as well as she was able, and forced her way onwards. The light was fading fast out of the sky, the tree trunks looked like so many black giants, only waiting for the darkness, to bear down upon the unwary traveller, and strange movements and rustlings were audible from the depths of the wood, as its small furred and feathered denizens roused themselves after the heat of the day, to fare forth upon their foraging expeditions. Those faint rustling sounds gave Margaret the first sense of nervousness she had experienced during her evening's walk, and there awoke within her an uneasy feeling of being surrounded by creatures she could not see, and at whose identity she could only guess. Still she plunged on through the gloom, a dogged dislike to turning back mingling with the certainty that to return upon her tracks, would only involve much loss of time.And in a few minutes she congratulated herself on having persevered, when the path all at once widened, the undergrowth showed signs of having been cut back, the wood grew thinner, and she found herself emerging upon an open space of ground, in the nature of a common. The space had apparently been cleared in the heart of the wood, for on three sides trees hemmed it in, whilst on the fourth was a very high and very strong fence, its top bristling with most formidable nails.From somewhere within the fence a dog barked, and Margaret, relieved to see signs of human habitation, quickened her steps, determining to trust no longer to her sense of locality, but to ask her way. In this open space the light was still comparatively good, and she saw that the line of fence was broken at one corner by what at a distance seemed to be a gate, and towards this gate she hurried as fast as was possible, over the rough grass of the little common. On reaching her goal, she discovered, to her surprise, that though there was certainly a gateway in the fence, it made the interior no more accessible, for the gate was heavily barred, there was no trace of bell or knocker, and the little wicket, set rather high in the bars, was tightly shut."What an extraordinary place!" Margaret exclaimed inwardly, "why do they fence themselves off, as if the wood was peopled with brigands? And how am I to get out of this clearing?" The position did not look hopeful. The woods closed up to the high fence with an uncompromising air of closing in every outlet. Indeed, no outlet seemed to be available in any direction, save in that by which she had come, and glancing back at that, Margaret saw that it was now a mere tunnel of pitch blackness."What an absurd place, only to open on to this common by a gate at which no one can ring," she said, looking up at the barred gate again with growing irritation, "and an unclimbable fence," she added, glancing up at the spike-like nails above her head, " there surely must be some way——" the words had scarcely left her lips, when a blood-curdling cry broke upon her ears, and her sentence remained unfinished, whilst she listened in a paralysis of terror to the sounds that broke upon the peaceful evening air.Scream after scream rang out across the woods, the screams of a woman in deadly fear or deadly peril, and Margaret, sick with horror, flung herself against the barred gate, as though her strength could break its bars, and she could go to the rescue of the unfortunate creature beyond the fence."What is it?" she called out, at the full pitch of her voice, "can I help you? There is help outside."But powerful as her voice was, it did not appear to reach the ears of the woman, whose terrible cries still rent the air, and Margaret drew back from the gate with a feeling of despair. That someone was being foully done to death was her only interpretation of the sounds she heard, and she ran breathlessly from one end of the fence to the other, hoping to find some means of entrance into the place. But at each end a quickset hedge barred her way, and beyond the hedge the trees stood in serried rows amongst a tangled mass of scrub and undergrowth, that made the wood to all intents and purposes inaccessible."But I can't leave that poor miserable woman to be murdered, and not do a single thing to help her!" Margaret exclaimed, wringing her hands together, and going quickly back to the barred gate; "this must be one of Sir Brian's farms, and I must get in to help that poor thing—I must, I must." She battered with her hands upon the wooden wicket set between the bars, and again called out loudly:"I am here—I will help you!" but her words again fell unheeded, the screams and pitiful cries continuing, until they died away into low moans of anguish.Once more Margaret beat upon the wicket with her ungloved hands, and this time not in vain. The attention of someone on the other side of the fence was obviously attracted by the sound, for there was a scuffling of footsteps, a noise of hurried breathing, the rustle of a woman's gown, and then the wicket shot back with startling suddenness, and a face glared out at Margaret, a face so distorted, so dreadful, that she shrank back with an exclamation of dismay.A woman's fierce eyes that glowered like those of a wild animal, peered at her through the bars; a smile that seemed made up of hatred and malice, parted the lips over sharp teeth which made Margaret think shudderingly of a beast of prey, and a tangle of grey hair fell over the forehead in wild confusion. The woman was tall, her eyes were almost on a level with Margaret's own; with almost gigantic strength, she seized one of the bars of the gate, and shook it violently."I shall kill you!" she shrieked, her face crimson with rage, "I cannot bear your face—I shall kill

you—why have you come—to usurp my place—to take my rights—to——" she broke off her incoherent words, to burst into a peal of maniacal laughter, whilst her finger pointed at Margaret's shrinking form."She's afraid—she's afraid of me!" shrieked the frenzied creature. "I can always make people afraid; only one person—makes—me—afraid," her voice all at once dropped to a frightened whisper, "his eyes—you know—they look through me—and—he knows—he knows—things"—the last word was uttered in tones, that froze Margaret's blood, and made her glance involuntarily over her shoulder into the twilight, a glance marked by the mad woman, and greeted by her with a shout of derisive laughter."Oh ho! so you're afraid too?" she cried, "afraid of me, and afraid of him. That's good—that's good—now I can soon kill you—that's good—very good," and her sentence slipped into a droning chant, which beat upon Margaret's brain in a horrible, fantastic, measure.Had this dreadful creature with the frenzied eyes just killed some hapless being, Margaret wondered, noticing the dishevelment of her dress and hair? Were the cries and moans she had heard, the cries and moans of a dying victim? What lay in the garden which she could dimly discern over the woman's shoulder?"Do you want to come in?" the voice was mocking now; "'will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly'—I used to sing that to somebody, years and years and years ago, when I was quite a little young thing myself. She was my baby, and I sang to her. Her name—ah!—wouldn't you like to hear her name? No, no—you would tell what I don't mean—somebody—ever to find out. He never knew—about—the other—he never knew," and she laughed again, but this time a low mocking laugh, that ended in a choking sob which roused all Margaret's pity."Can I do anything for you?" she asked very gently, drawing nearer to the gate; "can I——"But her soothing voice only seemed to rouse a fresh paroxysm of anger in the mad woman. Her face became suffused, her eyes, in their vindictive rage, were scarcely human, she tore at the bars with wildly clawing hands, pouring out a torrent of such fierce and dreadful language, that Margaret involuntarily covered her ears, and shivered with horror.The paroxysm ended as abruptly as it had begun, the rattling of the iron bars suddenly ceased, there was a sound of rustling garments and scuffling feet on the other side of the gate, and the next moment Margaret heard the wooden wicket shut with a clang. When she looked up again, the gate was as it had been when she first came up to it, the terrible face no longer glared out, stillness, and the creeping summer darkness, wrapped her round. Trying to rally her courage, and make up her mind to retrace her steps along the path through the wood, she was turning from the door, when screams more dreadful than any she had yet heard, rang out upon the silence; at the same moment a heavy body fell, or was flung, against the door with a sickening thump, and Margaret, totally unnerved by this fresh shock, and trembling with fear, dropped upon the grass beside the fence, and fainting away, slipped into a merciful oblivion.CHAPTER XII"IF I CAN PUT HIM ON HER TRACK.""I MUST frankly say it is as a rule against my principles to go out to tea on Sunday; and coming such a distance as this, involves my missing evening service.""Ah, yes, and you always go to evening service?" The speaker's voice was very soft and very deferential."Invariably—when possible. I consider, Miss Stanburn, that it is the duty of those in our position to set an example to the classes below us. I owe it to my son's servants and tenants to do myself what I expect them to do.""How very right of you. And how I wish we all had your high conception of duty, and your splendid way of carrying it out." Nora Stanburn's voice was silkier and smoother than before; in her dark eyes was an expression of deferential admiration, which both pleased and flattered Lady Dunbar, who was mentally telling herself that she had seldom met a more pleasant and sympathetic person, than Mrs. Hickson's new friend."Still, I am very glad to-day you made an exception to your own rule," Nora went on, smiling her most captivating smile. "I had heard so much about you from Mrs. Hickson, that I should have been dreadfully disappointed if you had not come over to-day. We are so busy doing a bit of the Season, that we could only manage a week-end in this delicious place.""You are chaperoning a young girl, Mrs. Hickson tells me?" Lady Dunbar's smile was very gracious, she had unbent quite remarkably to this handsome sympathetic woman, and wondered why she had never before met her at the house of their new neighbour, Mrs. Hickson."I am in charge of a most charming Australian girl," was the answer; "her father seems to be made of money, and is a dear, homely person, without an ounce of worldly knowledge, but most anxious to give his daughter every advantage. She is living with my brother and me, and we are doing our best to give her a good time.""She is here to-day?" Lady Dunbar looked enquiringly round the drawing-room, an apartment overcrowded with tables and chairs, heavily scented with flowers, and at this moment somewhat overflowing with guests, who jostled against the chairs, the tables, and each other."Poor child, she is upstairs with a very bad headache; she enjoyed a long country walk yesterday, but I think it was a little too much for her. To-day she is quite hors de combat. I am so sorry you won't see her, she is as lovely as she is charming. Mrs. Hickson is delighted with her.""You are an old friend of Mrs. Hickson?" Lady Dunbar never shied at a direct question if her curiosity was aroused, and as Mrs. Hickson had been in the county only for the past six months, Lady Dunbar's enquiring mind had not yet learnt all that it liked to learn about its new neighbour."Not an old friend, if one counts by years," Nora answered, with another of her ingratiating smiles; "we met abroad, and we seem to have known each other for a much longer time than is actually the case. Some people become one's friends so quickly, and Mrs. Hickson and I found we had an infinite variety of tastes in common. She fell in love, too, with my pretty Juliet, and that is a very safe road to my heart.""Juliet?" Lady Dunbar's voice stiffened. "Is your ward's name Juliet? It is a name that has very unfortunate associations for me""Oh! I am so sorry" (Nora, when she chose, could adopt an attractively impulsive manner), "names make associations round themselves just in the way scents do. But I think, I hope, that if you saw my Juliet, she would be able to obliterate your unpleasant association with her name. She is such a dear girl.""I instinctively distrust anybody bearing that name," Lady Dunbar said, still speaking a little stiffly, "but no doubt that is mere prejudice. I am sorry you are only staying for the week-end. I should like to have asked you to come and see us at Verrymore Court."As she spoke, her ladyship's eyes were thought-fully scanning the woman by her side, marking with approval the taste and simplicity of the maize-coloured gown, that hung in such graceful folds and contrasted so well with Nora's dark eyes and hair; marking, too, how excellent was the coiffure of that hair, and admiring the general air of a woman of the world, and a very capable one, which distinguished Miss Stanburn."Not quite one of us," Lady Dunbar mused, "not quite county, but—still, enough accustomed to move in the right circles, to pass muster anywhere. Infinitely better than that siren of an adventuress Brian has brought into his house." The last reflection was so vindictive that it brought a vindictive gleam also into her eyes, and Nora, watching her with as close an attention as Lady Dunbar was bestowing upon the younger woman, wondered why that sparkle shone so suddenly in those hard grey eyes."If this woman could make Brian think a little less of that detestable nurse," Lady Dunbar's reflections ran on, "it would be well worth while cultivating her," and aloud she continued her sentence, without a break:"We are rather proud of our park, and if you are at all interested in pictures, my son would like to show you our few treasures, and——""And you have a fascinating little grandchild, Mrs. Hickson tells me," Nora broke in. "I should like so much to make her acquaintance, too. I am devoted to children." Nora Stanburn was one of those clever women who have the capacity for being devoted to whatever at the moment seems to demand devotion, and she had never in her upward career failed to show that devotion to any object likely to be pleasing to elderly mothers with bachelor or widower sons. Lady Dunbar was no exception to the regular rule. She was regarded by Nora simply in the light of an extra large, and particularly choice, fish over whom she must dangle bait of an exceptional kind.But the "children" bait was not the one to dangle before Lady Dunbar—she was not herself a child lover, and she had a certain contemptuous pity for those who were; she only smiled a little pityingly, in response to Nora's enthusiasm, and answered coldly:"My grandchild is really very like other little children of her age, in no way a remarkable child, and sometimes a very naughty one. Her father spoils her shamelessly, and her nurse is not at all the sort of person I should have chosen. She has far too little idea of the value of discipline."Nora's observant ears caught the acidity of the accents, and with the astuteness of one well trained in the art of feeling others' mental pulses, and inserting a skilful ringer into others' pies, she replied with interest:"A really suitable nurse is so hard to find. I daresay you had endless trouble to get even this one who is not quite satisfactory.""It was no special trouble to me." Lady Dunbar, in the delight of finding so sympathetic a listener (one, moreover, who did not belong to the neigh-bourhood, and could, therefore, be confided in with more impunity), set discretion a little on one side, and drew nearer to Nora, on the big couch where they were both seated."The fact of the matter is, Miss Stanburn," she said, "that my son, like many other men, is obstinate, and quite certain that he knows best about children, and everything else. I daresay you will find it difficult to believe that I, his mother, and the child's grandmother, had no voice in the choosing of a nurse.""No voice in it?" Nora almost gasped, her dark eyes full of sympathy, "oh! but how extraordinary! You with all your experience must surely be a better judge of what a child needs, than any man, however good and wise he may be.""Exactly what I should have thought," Lady Dunbar raised her eyebrows and spread out her hands, "and naturally, I offered to make all the nursery arrangements. In fact, I actually heard of a most excellent nurse, a good disciplinarian, and a woman in every way suitable. My son would not hear of engaging her. He must needs advertise, and then interview a number of the people who answered his advertisement, with a foregone conclusion.""Of course," Miss Stanburn laughed pleasantly, "he chose the best looking of the women who presented themselves, or the one who could talk most glibly about her own qualifications. The saintliest would do the same.""He did not even choose 'just a woman'," Lady Dunbar said drily, " he insisted upon having a lady nurse; and, my dear Miss Stanburn, instead of selecting a quiet, retiring body who would not thrust herself forward, or be too conspicuous, he has selected a creature—I can call her nothing else—who is striking enough to make every man stare at her, wherever she goes.""A—a sort of adventuress?" Nora whispered, as if the species were a totally unknown breed to her, to be mentioned only with bated breath, "and you have had to submit to live in the same house with her. Oh! it is too hard."An uneasy consciousness that she had gone too far, and confided too much, smote the elder lady, but Miss Stanburn's voice was so charmingly soothing, that she could not resist the temptation to say a little more."It is not altogether a pleasant position for me," she said; "this nurse's opinion is considered before mine. She is supreme in the nurseries—and I—am nowhere. I am bound to confess that she is a most remarkable looking woman," she added grudgingly, "I daresay, in the eyes of a man, she might even be called very beautiful.""Dear me!" Nora ejaculated softly; "but you hardly need beauty in a nurse.""Need it?" Lady Dunbar exclaimed sharply, "on the contrary, I consider it a curse—a positive curse. That woman is to my mind a typical adventuress, one of those born to lead men astray and make fools of them. Why, my son even sent her to a London specialist with Maisie the other day, when it would certainly have been more fitting that I should take the child.""Certainly more fitting," Nora answered absently, her busy brain trying to piece together something her brother had said only a few weeks ago, with Lady Dunbar's remarks. What were Morley's words?"She had a child with her, she seemed to be in charge of it—and said she was only up for a night. But even if she is living in the country, I shall find her out!""Certainly more fitting," Nora repeated, her eyes fixed with apparently engrossing interest upon Lady Dunbar's face, whilst her mind continued to revolve round her brother's words. Yes, there were undoubtedly points of resemblance, marked resemblance, between this woman of whom Lady Dunbar spoke with such bitterness, and the woman for whom Morley declared he would continue to search unceasingly. What if her instinctive surmises were correct? What if she should find that this lady nurse under discussion, and the object of Morley's search, were one and the same person? Supposing she were fortunate enough to put her brother on the right track? In the gratitude of his satisfied malice he would surely set her free to——. A softened look crept over her face, she sighed, and for the ghost of a second there looked out of her eyes a real woman—not a mere artificial one, dressed in the smartest fashion to simulate reality.Lady Dunbar did not see that glimpse of the real woman; being an egoist by nature and long habit, she was far too engrossed in her own grievances to take note of any passing changes in another's face, and she took up her parable again without a pause."Yes, it is what I always say, and always shall say. If would be more fitting if I were altogether responsible for my granddaughter's upbringing. She is a difficult child; a person not understanding her peculiar temperament is sure to make mistakes, as—this Mrs. Roberts has already done.""Mrs.—Roberts? That is the nurse's name?" Nora said thoughtfully. "I wonder if she is related to some Roberts I once knew?" This was drawing a bow very much at a venture, for, excepting a washerwoman she had once employed, Nora had never in her life had an acquaintance of the name of Roberts, but she was putting out feelers with a definite object, and she intended to attain that object."I think I can assure you my grandchild's nurse is not connected with any family of social standing," Lady Dunbar replied; "my original impression of her has never altered. On the first evening I saw her, I thought she was an adventuress—I still think she is one. I daresay Roberts is not even her real name; it is a very non-committal sort of thing to call oneself.""You have never made enquiries about her antecedents?" Nora's voice was very soft."I have tried to discover something about her by indirect questioning, but she is very clever, she makes no admissions. I should not have scrupled to look at the postmarks on her letters, but she never seems to have any letters, and that in itself is suspicious. Of course, I would not stoop to try to find out anything about the woman, but that I feel that for my little grandchild's sake I ought to take every precaution." Her ladyship had the grace to look a trifle ashamed of herself, as she said these words, and the doubtfulness of her own wisdom in having confided so much to a total stranger, gave her fresh qualms of uneasiness. All this was plainly visible to the astute Miss Stanburn, who bent towards the elder lady, and touched her hand with a sympathetic touch."You are so perfectly right," she said," and your position must be such a difficult one. You could not stoop to any meanness, no one with your face could"—Nora's face again expressed deferential admiration—"but to protect your little grandchild is so vitally important, and to find out the truth about such an adventuress as you describe, involves meeting her with her own weapons. No doubt she is as clever as she is beautiful?""I don't know that she is particularly clever," Lady Dunbar rose, with a vindictive shake of her skirts, "but she is much too good-looking to be masquerading as a nurse. One of those creatures with bronze hair, and green eyes, the very type of the true adventuress, and a skin like a white rose." The last words shot out as though forced from her under protest, and as she moved away to speak to an acquaintance, Nora rose too, and left the couch, a little smile of triumph on her lips."If this is not the same woman that Morley is so set on finding, my name isn't Nora Stanburn," she reflected, "and if I can put him on her track—so much the better for me. Surely then he will see reason, and I shall be free to do as I choose."CHAPTER XIII"SURELY YOU KNOW THAT——"THE deadly feeling of faintness was slowly passing from her, and Margaret raised herself on her elbow and looked round, with a sense of waking from a dreadful nightmare. For the first few moments she could not recall where she was, or what had taken place; she only remembered that some great fear or horror had driven her into unconsciousness, and she dimly wondered why she was lying on the grass, pressed close against a wooden fence, her face upturned to the clear evening sky, in which faint stars were already beginning to glimmer. Dark masses of trees loomed up against the clearness of the sky, and it seemed to her that she was completely shut in by heavy woods and by the fence against which she leaned. Far away in the woodlands a nightingale poured out a torrent of song, no other sound disturbed the evening peace, and the stillness helped to restore Margaret's shattered nerves, whilst the cool air blowing on her face, brought her back to consciousness. She dragged herself into a sitting position, and her eyes lighted on the gate close at hand. And seeing its iron bars, and its little closed wicket, everything came back to her with a rush, and an inarticulate cry escaped her. The dreadful woman, the screams that had made the summer night hideous, the words that had frozen her blood with dismay, all these she remembered in a torrent of remembrance, and for an instant she sank back against the fence, feeling that her only safety lay in waiting quietly where she was till dawn."For I can't go back through the wood now," she whispered, "I couldn't face that dark path, even if I could find it. And—I daren't do anything to rouse that awful fury inside the gate—unless——"Her faculties becoming wider awake, she recalled more vividly the screams which had rung in her ears before she lost consciousness, and the thought that a fellow creature within that gate might have received some deadly injury from the mad woman, roused her to action. She pulled herself into an erect position, and although still faint and trembling, beat with her fists upon the wooden wicket, determined to make herself heard inside the fenced-in garden, if indeed there were anyone to hear her, excepting the terrible frenzied creature."Perhaps she has murdered her keeper, and is there alone, and at any moment she may spring out on me," was Margaret's paralysing thought, when as the slow moments passed, no response to her knocking came from within. "Well, and even if she does come out, I must face the worst," came the more humane thought. I can't leave somebody unhelped, perhaps dying alone in there  with that dreadful woman," and, rallying her courage, she began again to hammer on the wicket, and again for several minutes the prevailing stillness remained unbroken; then a sound of soft footsteps and the crunching of gravel was audible; next, to Margaret's unspeakable relief, she became aware of the delicate fragrance of a cigarette, and at the same instant the wicket was shot back, and a man's voice said sharply:"Who is there? What do you want?""To get out of this place," Margaret answered tremulously, lifting a pale face to the speaker, who visibly started as his eyes lighted on the loveliness that seemed almost ethereal, iii the soft half-light."But who are you? And hoer did you get there?" asked the voice, whilst the noise of bolts being unfastened and a key being turned in the lock, told Margaret that the speaker was coming outside the gate. She had only been able to see the dim outline of his face through the Wicket; when he stepped out on to the grass before her, she found that he was a short, strongly-built man, whose square dark face looked down at her gravely and sternly."How did you get here?" he said again, "and who are you?""I came here quite by mistake, and I never want to come again," Margaret answered with a shudder. "I am nurse to Sir Brian Dunbar's little girl.""Nurse at the Court?" the stranger asked brusquely, "then how comes it that——" he broke off as brusquely its he had begun, but Margaret knew that through the gloom his eyes watched her with curious intentness, as she told the story of her walk from church, and how she had lost her way in the wood."I never even knew there was a house here, or a farm, or whatever it is," she faltered. "I have not been on this side of the park before, and I only want to get away from it as fast as I can."You have been frightened?" "the tones, though still abrupt, had a kindly ring. "Did you hear screams?""Screams," Margaret shivered afresh, " I heard—and saw—was anyone hurt? I was afraid that dreadful, dreadful woman was killing somebody.""She opened the wicket, did she?" the man answered grimly, "oh! no, she hasn't killed any-body. We take care of that. And as no one has ever before come to this side of the garden, we haven't prevented her opening the wicket. I am very sorry she gave you such a fright—very sorry," lie repeated, peering again into the whiteness of Margaret's face."But the screams," Margaret said, "surely that person who screamed was badly hurt?""Oh! it is she herself who screams. I fancy it is a sort of safety valve for her, poor soul. She was not hurting anybody else. If I had had the least idea she was really talking to somebody through the wicket, I would have come or sent to see and reassure you. But she has a habit of talking to imaginary people, and I never dreamt there was living human being on this side of the gate."And a very frightened human being, too, "Margaret said, trying to speak lightly, but still with a shake in her voice, "I—was silly enough to faint. Those screams made me feel that I could bear no more, and I thought she had killed somebody. I—oh! it was horrible, horrible. But now will you tell me whether I can get back to Verrymore Court, without going through the wood again."" I can take you across our garden," was the answer; and when he saw how Margaret shrank back at the bare suggestion of entering the garden, which to her was a place of horror, he laid a hand upon her arm."You need not be afraid," lie said, and she noticed how kindly his eyes looked down at her, and what quiet strength there was in his face, "the poor creature who so alarmed you, is safe in the house now with her nurse. I am her medical attendant, and I come over every day or so to see her. Fortunately I was in the garden Just now, or your knocking might have gone unheeded. Now let me show you the way," and he preceded her through the door.In spite of the dimness of light, Margaret could dimly perceive that the garden into which she entered, chiefly consisted of a large grass plot surrounded by flower beds, and that in front of her loomed a small white house."You will come in and let me give you some wine before you go on," the doctor said, as they walked side by side across the lawn, " you have had a great nervous shock, and you have a walk of nearly two miles before you.""No—no thank you," Margaret said, glancing nervously towards the house, "I would rather go straight home. As it is I must be very late. They will wonder what has become of me. I must not wait.""It is barely nine," her companion began, "you must——""Barely nine,'" she echoed, "but I should have been in soon after eight. When I did not get back in time for supper what will they have thought?""Look here," the doctor said slowly, when they had reached a garden door at the back of the house, "I think you had better put yourself into my care, and do what I tell you. I have to start almost at once for Darestown in my dog cart. I can drive you up to the house far quicker than you can walk—and, meanwhile, you must come in and have some wine."Deaf to Margaret's remonstrances, he led her into a daintily furnished drawing-room whose softly tinted walls, bright chintzes, and the masses of flowers on every side, gave it a delightful air of home."Sit down and rest a minute," the kind voice said firmly, " and don't make yourself so unhappy about being late. It was not your fault. And, by the way, I ought to introduce myself formally—I am Doctor Scott—but no doubt you know my name.""No," Margaret answered, looking at him in some surprise, a surprise which met a look of equal astonishment in his eyes, "no, I don't think I ever heard of you before, but then," she added, with her disarming smile, "I really know very little of the neighbourhood. I am only a nurse, you know, just a little girl's nurse.""Yes," his eyes ran over her stately figure and the beautiful face, whose beauty he could see clearly in the soft lamplight, "but I should have thought—that—about the inmates of this house,—however, it's no concern of mine," he finished hastily, "I'll just get your wine, and then we will start."Mystified by his words, and still feeling shaky and unnerved by all she had undergone, Margaret leant back in one of the armchairs, and shut her eyes, too dazed to try and disentangle the sense of what she had just heard. A feeling of drowsiness was stealing over her, induced by her own great fatigue, and the fragrance of the many flowers, when a faint sound close beside her roused her into full wakefulness, to see standing a pace or two away, the woman, who two hours earlier, had glared at her through the wicket of the gate. The evil face was bent a little forward, there was a smile upon the parted lips, but it was a smile that turned Margaret's blood to water; the eyes glowed fiercely."Hast thou found me, oh mine enemy?" the woman whispered in hoarse, breathless tones, "why have you come here? To try and pretend you are my friend, and not my enemy—but I know better—I know better," she chuckled softly, "you have the sort of face enemies have—and—I tell you—he is mine—mine—mine."Margaret had risen. It seemed only possible to face this dreadful apparition standing, and, as the very words she had dreamt in her strange dream, fell upon her ear, she almost cried aloud with fear."I hate you," the hoarse whisper went on, "I have seen you—when you have not seen me—and I—know—what I know." In her words, and in her glance there was a sinister significance, and as her eyes glowed more fiercely, it seemed to Margaret that she was gathering herself together to spring, as a wild animal springs upon its prey. But before Margaret could speak, or try calm the poor woman's rising passion, a voice in the doorway said briskly:"Come, come, we musn't treat our guest badly. This lady is very tired, she is only resting here for a moment," and, to Margaret's boundless relief, Doctor Scott and a nurse entered the room together. The patient, after one backward look of malignant hatred, moved away docilely enough with her nurse, and the doctor put a glass of wine into Margaret's hand."There, there," he said soothingly, "I'm sorry she happened to come in here. I thought she was going to bed upstairs, but she always has a nurse close on her heels. Now, that's right, drink it all up, and then come right away with me. The cart's at the door, and you shall soon be in safe quarters."Margaret could say nothing; speech was beyond her. She allowed him to help her into the dogcart, and they drove swiftly away out of another barred gate in the high fence, and along a rough track, that led them, at the end of a quarter of a mile or so, into the main road across the park. Doctor Scott did not press her to talk, perhaps he understood that the quiet night was the best remedy for over-wrought nerves, and it was not until they were within sight of the Court, that he said:"I am very sorry all this should have happened. You will explain to Sir Brian that no one was in fault? The nurses are absolutely trustworthy, and the whole thing has arisen out of a chapter of accidents. You will let him understand this? I should not like the nurses blamed." They were driving round the sweep before the front door as he spoke, and Margaret looked at him blankly."Explain—to Sir Brian?" she said, "but will he?—I mean—need I worry him?""Just as you like," was the rather curt retort, "I only thought he might blame the nurses for carelessness, and I don't wish them to get into trouble with him.""With—him? But why should they get into trouble with him? What has he,"—Margaret was beginning, when the dog cart pulled up at the door, a flood of light poured out upon the drive, and Sir Brian himself ran down the steps."Is that you Mrs. Roberts?" he said, "we were afraid something had happened to you. Ah! is it you, Scott? Did you find Mrs. Roberts benighted?" The great relief in his voice bubbled over into a sudden briskness of tone, and as he handed Margaret down he added, "we thought that she had lost her way.""You were quite right. She had lost her way. Fortunately I found her, and was able to help her. I hope you won't be too tired, Mrs. Roberts. Good night—good night, Sir Brian," and flicking his mare with the whip, he drove on towards the western lodge, leaving Brian and Margaret on the steps in the starlight."You are really all right?" Sir Brian's voice was very low. "When Jane came down to tell my mother you had not come back, I—was terribly anxious about you.""I had rather a fright," Margaret made all the greater effort to speak lightly, because of the dangerous tenderness in his voice, a tenderness which he was evidently trying, and trying in vain, to control."A fright," he stooped to look at her more closely, "what has happened?""I found myself at the far end of the park, in a part of it I did not know, and I came to a place—where I saw—a—a woman—oh! such a poor dreadful woman. I think she would have killed me, if——""Good God!" Sir Brian broke in, his face turning the colour of ashes, "good God! she did not touch you, she did not hurt you."His voice shook with anxiety, his hand rested involuntarily on her shoulder, and she felt that it trembled, " she did not hurt you?" he repeated huskily."No—no, only I was foolish and frightened, I had lost my way, and I came to the gate, and the wicket, and she looked through it—and her face—oh! why does she have to be there?"Sir Brian's hand dropped from her shoulder, his voice sounded lifeless and weary, as he said:" I felt I could not bear to let her go into an asylum, I try to give her every possible comfort and luxury. She is safe there; under supervision and quite hidden away from all prying inquisitive eyes. I—meant to act for the best.""You?—But why—but what?" Margaret exclaimed incoherently, her eyes scanning his face, that looked so white and anguished in the strong light from the hall, "why should you——""Don't you know?" he broke in quickly, "surely you understand why I keep her there, within the shelter of the park itself? Surely you know that she is my wife!"CHAPTER XIV"TIED AND BOUND.""YOUR—wife?"Margaret put out her hand and grasped at the doorpost, with a sudden sensation of faintness. Sir Brian's anxious face and tall form grew misty before her eyes, his voice seemed to come from an immense distance away, and the solid stone step beneath her feet appeared to rock unsteadily."Your—wife?"she repeated in mechanical tones.She was conscious that Sir Brian's hand touched her arm, that she was gently drawn into the hall, and the front door shut behind her, but the mists did not clear away from her brain until she beard her employer's voice say slowly:"Did you not know about my poor wife?" With a great effort Margaret snatched at her failing senses and pulled herself together."I—thought your wife—was—dead," she heard herself saying, and she felt like an automaton repeating the words without her own volition. "I—thought she was dead."For a moment Sir Brian looked at her silently, then he said quietly:"Come into the library, and rest before you go upstairs. You still look quite dazed. My God! To think this should have happened—to you," he murmured under his breath, as he pushed open the library door, and led her into the comfortable, well-lighted room. Margaret looked round it, with eyes that still held a bewildered expression."It looks so peaceful, so safe, after that dreadful wood, and the lonely house, and everything," she exclaimed with a shudder, "perhaps—the other was all a nightmare, was it?""I am afraid not," Brian's voice was as soothing as if he had been speaking to a frightened child, "that house is so shut away in the woods, so entirely out of everyone's beat, that I thought I could safely use it for my unfortunate wife. I did not want to send her right away.""I can't understand it all, even now," Margaret looked at him wistfully, " do you mean that your wife is—is——""She is out of her mind," he put in shortly, "she has been out of her mind, ever since Maisie was a little baby, and—it is a perfectly hopeless case!"There was such a note of hopelessness in his voice, that Margaret shook off her own dazed sensations, with an instinctive wish to help him."Oh! I am so sorry," she exclaimed, "I am so very sorry.""It hardly bears speaking about, it was all such a ghastly tragedy, but I should like to tell you the whole story, I should like you to understand.""I should like to understand," Margaret had sufficiently commanded her voice to answer quietly, "but," she glanced at the lock on the mantelpiece, "perhaps I ought to go upstairs to Maisie now. Lady Dunbar must be wondering where I have been, and why I am so late."She did not fail to see a look of embarrassment that flitted over Brian's face, and, in spite of the complicated emotions through which she had just passed, her natural sense of humour gave her a ready comprehension of Lady Dunbar's probable state of mind."When she hears what has happened, my mother will be as horrified as I am," Sir Brian said hurriedly, "I am bound to confess she was always opposed to my keeping poor Juliet at the White Lodge, she thought me quixotic and absurd. She will tell me that I have only myself to thank for what has happened. And indeed, after this, I begin to think she is right. Perhaps I ought to send my wife away.""I don't think you need do it because of what happened to me to-day," Margaret exclaimed, "it is very unlikely that people generally, will find their way through the wood to the house, and—I like your wish to keep that poor lady near her own home.""You do like it?" Brian's voice was eager, "you don't think it is a foolish whim.""No indeed," there was a touch of indignation in her tones, "it is surely better to have her under your own eye, and within reach, as long as she is safely guarded, and well cared for. I suppose," Margaret hesitated, her thoughts reverting to some of the strange words that had fallen from the mad woman's tips, "I suppose it is quite impossible that she should ever evade her attendants, and—go alone into the park.""I should say it was quite impossible," Brian looked puzzled, "but why do you ask?""Because—she said one or two things that seemed to imply she had seen me before, and that she looked on me as her enemy," Margaret flushed as she remembered how the poor creature had said, "you have the face enemies have—I tell you he is mine—why have you come to usurp my place—to take my right." "I wondered whether she could have seen me with Maisie?"It had dimly crossed her mind to wonder, too, whether those angry eyes had at any time seen her with Sir Brian himself, for the words, incoherent and wild as they were, had sounded like the utterance of a jealous woman, "could Maisie and I ever have been near her?""Good heavens, no," Sir Brian's face expressed something little short of horror, "she is most closely watched, she is never outside the grounds of the White Lodge itself. She is far too dangerous. Her madness took the form of homicidal mania.""Oh!" Margaret gasped out, shuddering as she recalled the look of baffled fury on the face of the distraught woman, and the words uttered by her, "now I can soon kill you, that's good, very good.""It has all been dreadful," Sir Brian moved restlessly up and down the library, " from beginning to end, my married life was a nightmare, nothing but a hideous nightmare," he exclaimed vehemently, "I should like to tell you everything—everything—that—#x2014;"A rustle of silken skirts was audible outside the door, the door itself opened, and Lady Dunbar entered the room, her frigid face almost animated by surprise."Mrs. Roberts—here?" she exclaimed, looking keenly from her son to Margaret, "when did you come in? And, may I venture to enquire why you are so extraordinarily late?" she added with sarcasm. Before Margaret could reply, Sir Brian was at his mother's side." I am sorry to say Mrs. Roberts has had a very unpleasant experience, and a bad fright," he said gravely, " and—ߞ""Oh! indeed?" Lady Dunbar's accents became colder."On her way home from church, she found herself near the White Lodge, and she saw poor Juliet, who gave her a terrible fright.""Saw Juliet?—on her way back from church?" Lady Dunbar's glance swept Margaret from head to foot, "the White Lodge is scarcely on the way from church, is it?"At the superb insolence of voice and manner, Margaret drew herself up a little, and there was a quiet pride in her tones, as she answered:"The evening was so beautiful, that I thought I would make a round. I lost myself in a wood on the other side of the park, and came out close to the White Lodge, then——" she broke off with a shiver, the colour fading from her face, as a recollection of the mad woman, and of all she had gone through swept over her."Surely it was scarcely necessary to come in and trouble Sir Brian with all this?" Lady Dunbar replied, " it would have been——""I was on the drive when Mrs. Roberts came back," Sir Brian interrupted. "Doctor Scott had the good sense to drive her over from the White Lodge, and I was outside when they drove up. I brought Mrs. Roberts in here myself. I wished to hear all that had happened.""I have been wondering very much what could have happened," Lady Dunbar said, turning to Margaret, and ignoring her son's words, "after all you tell us you have been through, you will no doubt be glad to go upstairs and rest."To this pointed remark, only one response was possible, and Margaret, without a glance in Sir Brian's direction, but merely saying quietly, "Yes, I shall be glad to go up to bed," left the library, closing the door softly behind her."My dear mother, was it necessary to treat Mrs. Roberts as if she had committed a crime, when, as a matter of fact, she has just been nearly frightened to death by—my poor wife?" Brian said in tones as icy as Lady Dunbar's own. " Maisie's nurse is a lady, and—I prefer that she should not be insulted whilst she is under my roof.""You and I are never likely to think alike about Mrs. Roberts," his mother answered, "and you use very exaggerated language when you speak of my insulting her. She has come in extremely late. She has alarmed us all; and because I suggest that she had better go up to the nursery, instead of staying chattering to you in the library, you talk of insults. Like the rest of your sex you are blinded by a pretty face."Long and, it may be added, bitter experience, had taught Brian that to argue with his mother was worse than useless, and he turned away to his writing table, without replying to her speech. But his silence and his self restraint only had an irritating effect upon her. She laughed, a little contemptuous laugh."I don't imagine you will pay the faintest attention to what I say, but, as a woman of the world, let me tell you, Brian, that you will have to pay for the pleasure of introducing an adventuress into your house. I am not blinded by Mrs. Roberts' beauty. I can see what every rational being could see too, that the woman is simply an adventuress, nothing more nothing less."She did not allow Brian time or opportunity to answer her. She was quick to see that his eyes flashed with indignation, that his face wore an expression of genuine anger, and, opening the door, she rustled away across the hall and up the stairs, at a pace which did credit to her years. Sir Brian did not attempt to follow her. The innate vulgarity of her insinuations sickened him, and he wondered, not for the first time, how it came about that a woman of his mother's undeniable birth and breeding, could stoop to utter such a speech as the one that still tingled in his ears.An adventuress? That beautiful, stately woman who had just left the room—an adventuress. It would be as rational to call him an unscrupulous ruffian, as to call Mrs. Roberts—an adventuress. And that she should have been forced to run the gauntlet, first of his demented wife's frenzy, then of his mother's insults, seemed to him nothing short of an outrage.Margaret herself passed a restless, wakeful night, haunted in her fitful moments of sleep, by dreams of the mad woman's face and words, whilst in her long hours of wakefulness, she went through all that had occurred, with that deliberation and detail which make a disturbed night so wearisome. Morning found her, not only unrefreshed, but tired out, and it was a very white and heavy-eyed nurse, who moved languidly down the steps into the garden with Maisie, as Sir Brian came back from his morning ride."You haven't slept a wink," he said to her abruptly, stopping to take his little daughter into his arms, and looking searchingly at Margaret, "now, have you?""Not very much," she confessed, "but, then, I was overtired, and perhaps a little overwrought. It was silly of me to mind so much.""Where are you going now?""To the lower lawn. Maisie and I play wonderful games there.""And—tell wonderful stories." For an instant their eyes met, and Margaret flushed."Oh! sometimes we tell each other ridiculous fairy tales," she answered lightly, "but—there will be none to-day. It is going to be a dolls' tea party.""Oh! a dolls' tea party? And I am invited, eh! girlie?" Maisie's arms were round her father's neck, her soft face pressed against his."Yes, come; Dad must come, Dearest, and we'll play prince and princesses too, and you shall be princess, ' Dearest,' and Dad shall be prince."Margaret's face was no longer white. The colour flamed out over it, her eyes fell beneath Sir Brian's glance."We had better go and begin our game, darling," she said hurriedly to the child, " it is too hot to stay here on the drive, the lawn is shady, and the roses are so sweet." She knew she was talking at random. Her words sounded incoherent in her own ears, but no rational speech would come into her mind, whilst Sir Brian stood watching her with that intent glance."Yes, go down to the shade of the roses," he said, putting Maisie on the ground, "presently 1 shall come to you there. I—want to tell you a story," he added in a low voice, "I shall not be happy till I have told you—everything."Margaret's heart beat heavily, as she led the child across the garden to the lawn at the furthest side, a lawn entirely surrounded by rustic fences, against which grew every variety of rose. A great lime tree at one end of the lawn threw a delicious shade upon the grass, but the roses were in sunshine, and the air was full of their warm fragrance."And Dad and 'Dearest' can play with Maisie, even if you do your work too?" the little one said wistfully, as Margaret seated herself on a sloping bank, put down her work basket, and drew from it a dainty frock she was making for her small charge."Yes, my duck, I'll play at tea parties with you, and we must prop all the dollies in a row against the bank, and then, Maisie shall go and buy all the cakes and things from the shops down there!" Margaret pointed to the fence at the far end of the lawn, where Maisie's fertile imagination could picture shops, and, as Sir Brian's step crunched the gravel of the path behind them, the child, with all the importance of the prospective buyer, hurried away across the lawn, a little basket on her arm."I must hear what he has to tell me," Margaret said to herself; "I don't think I can bear it, if I don't know all the story. After that—I must see as little of him as ever I can. It will be the only way."As her thoughts arrived at this conclusion, Sir Brian himself rounded the corner of the path and stepped down on to the sunken lawn, his eyes noticing quickly the tired lines of her face, her figure's weary droop."You are worn out," he said seating himself on the bank beside her. "Did all that dreadful business give you a bad night?""I didn't sleep very well: it was silly of me to let myself be haunted by what happened. But I couldn't forget it; it came into my dreams.""I can't begin to say how sorry I am," he exclaimed. "That it should have happened to you of all people—you have been so good to my little Maisie. Do you wonder now, that the child's paroxysms of temper made me afraid?" he added under his breath, his eyes watching the small figure flitting to and fro among the roses at the far end of the lawn."No—I don't wonder "—Margaret's voice was grave—"but—perhaps—there was something that definitely caused your wife's condition? Possibly it was not hereditary with her?""Oh no! I have no reason to suppose it was hereditary, and there is no doubt about the cause." Sir Brian spoke bitterly. "My wife—drank herself into insanity. There is no other way of putting it; she drank herself into—what you saw yesterday."Margaret shuddered."How ghastly!" she whispered.It was—ghastly. The whole story is ghastly, but I want you to know it. I told you before that my wife married me out of pique. She never cared for me. She told me so—a month after our wedding. She seemed to glory in having deceived me.""And you cared for her?" Margaret asked the question when he paused."I was a fool about her," came the short response. "When I met her—she was as lovely as a dream. The miniature you have seen of her was exactly like her, and her beauty was quite remarkable. I met her abroad: we were staying in the same hotel; she was travelling with an old lady she called Aunt Bertha. I believe there was no real relationship between them, but I only discovered that long afterwards. Every man in the hotel was mad about her—she could have done what she liked with any of us—but from the first she seemed to have a preference for me. I—was rich—I had a title." He broke off with a laugh, a bitter little laugh, and Margaret instinctively put out her hand, with a gesture of sympathy."It is true," he said quietly. "I was left with no illusions—afterwards—when I found out the truth. She tore down all my illusions with her own hands, in one of her fits of passion. She told me herself that she had only married me for what I had got, and because another man had thrown her over.""It was cruel of her!" Margaret cried."I thought her a young and innocent girl," Sir Brian continued; "she seemed so child-like, so guileless and unworldly. I never saw more innocent eyes. She seemed to love me, too. I could have sworn she was as devoted to me as I was to her, making allowance for the different ways in which men and women care.""And—she didn't—love you?""A month after our wedding-day she told me she loathed me. She showed me plainly that she spoke the truth. And then—I found out, first, that she was not an innocent young girl, but a woman of thirty-three; and, secondly, I discovered that she had acquired the drink habit. Even then she was—a hopeless drunkard—an incurable drunkard." His eyes met Margaret's, their misery made her heart ache for him, and her own eyes grew deep with sympathy. "I left no stone unturned to try and save her" he said. "God knows I did my best—my very best for her; but because she hated me, I had no personal influence over her, nor had anything else the slightest effect. Dr. Hardcastle, and other specialists, gave advice, but nothing they advised was the least good. They hoped—we all hoped—that perhaps the birth of her child might help her to start afresh. But, after Maisie's birth, things only went from bad to worse.""Was she fond of the child?""At first she was wrapped up in her. She seemed to have a sort of fierce, animal love for her. She was jealous of everyone who went near the baby—jealous of me, of the nurses, of everyone. But after a few weeks, her love changed to hatred; she maltreated the poor mite so cruelly that we were obliged to separate them entirely; and a few weeks later, she became—what you saw—a raving lunatic. Twice she tried to kill Maisie; more than once she made an attempt on my life. The doctors all declare that they have seldom seen a more violent and persistent case of homicidal mania."" And there is no hope of her recovery?""None; she may live for years in this condition; that is the horror of it. Her body is so strong that she may linger on until she is an old woman—in this life of misery and horror. Poor Juliet—poor, poor, Juliet! It is not a pretty story, Mrs. Roberts, but—I wanted you to know the whole truth—to know—how—I am tied and bound."Their eyes met, and what was written in his, brought the colour to her face."Tied and bound," he repeated vehemently. "Do you wonder that sometimes I feel as if I should go mad myself?""No, I don't wonder," she answered;" but—such things do not bear over-much thinking about. Surely it is best—just to go forward, a day at a time—not brooding over the past, and letting the future take care of itself.""A woman like you at a man's side——" he began, when Maisie broke into the conversation by running towards them, and flinging her small person on the bank between them."Maisie's bought all the buns and things for tea, and now we'll have the party—Dad and 'Dearest' and me, and all the dolls."'Yes—now we'll have the party," Margaret answered hurriedly, thankful for the interruption that had come at so opportune a moment, whilst her quickened heart-beats warned her how much that moment had meant to her. "We must have a beautiful party, and each doll shall pour out tea in turn.""But I wonder," her thoughts ran on, all the time that she talked to Maisie, and played the baby game, "I wonder why that poor mad creature spoke so decidedly of having seen me before? And why she seemed so sure that I was taking her rightful place with her husband and her child!"CHAPTER XV"WHAT A PICTURE THE TWO MAKE!"LADY DUNBAR was giving what she was pleased to call "a little impromptu garden party," which, as everyone knew, meant all her neighbours of the more exclusive, and strictly "county" description. The "little impromptu" parties never included those lesser lights, who were invited to Lady Dunbar's big entertainments, what she described as her " hodge-podge" functions. To these latter were asked the doctor, the clergy of the surrounding parishes, the solicitors of the nearest town, and a variety of other perfectly respectable and everyday folk, who were never admitted to dinner at Verrymore Court, although they were allowed to join the omnium gatherum of a large garden party. None of the above ladies and gentlemen graced the small party on the present occasion; and Nora Stanburn, as she walked along the terrace in the wake of her friend Mrs. Hickson, noted with satisfaction that the "county," all county and nothing but county, moved about the lawns, and revolved round the hostess.Lady Dunbar's invitation to her garden party, reached Mrs. Hickson on the day after her visit there, and Nora felt that her cards had not been played in vain, and that all her efforts to ingratiate herself with the mistress of Verrymore Court were being amply paid for.The special and very gracious message to her in Lady Dunbar's note to Mrs. Hickson, had been conveyed to her by that lady with the words."And so, of course, Miss Stanburn, you must stay till Friday. These informal parties are the ones to which all the neighbourhood clamours to go. We may consider ourselves greatly honoured by the invitation."No mention had been made of Nora's charge, Miss Juliet Cartwright, and she was, therefore, not of the party. But for this Nora was not altogether sorry. Her brother's whim, as she was fond of calling the girl, had so attractive a personality, that her chaperone began to regard her somewhat in the light of a rival, and this afternoon at Verrymore Court it was pleasant to feel that there was no youthful loveliness at her side, to detract from her own charms. And she had taken great pains to make herself especially charming. Mrs. Hickson, being so new a comer to the neighbourhood, was quite unaware of the tragedy that hung over Verrymore Court, and both she and Nora looked upon their host of the afternoon as a delightful and eligible widower. Nora's dark beauty was admirably enhanced by the gown she wore, a soft clinging silk of a delicious flame colour. Her eyes sparkled, the very attractive smile she had been at considerable pains to acquire, showed her pretty teeth to perfec-tion, the flame-coloured feather that rested against her hair, was eminently becoming to its dusky softness; she had learned to move well, with a slow grace well adapted to her tall form, and she was quite a noticeable figure as she moved amongst the other guests."What a good-looking woman!" Brian said to his mother, when he first caught sight of her upon the lawn. He had not been on the terrace when she arrived, but his quick eyes at once caught sight of her, silhouetted against a background of shrubs. "Who is she? I have surely never seen her before?""She is a Miss Stanburn, a friend of Mrs. Hickson, I met her on Sunday, and we took a mutual fancy to one another. She is a very charming person, Brian, a thorough woman of the world, and in every way delightful. Mrs. Hickson tells me she has an equally charming brother.""She's certainly good-looking, and she knows how to dress," Brian commented carelessly, " but——""Take her in to have some tea," his mother interrupted, determined not to allow him to make any derogatory remarks about the newcomer, and hoping, in her not over scrupulous soul, that this handsome, vivacious woman might obliterate from her son's mind, the beautiful face of Maisie's nurse."Of course, he thinks I don't know," she reflected bitterly. "Like every other man, he is an ostrich, and imagines I don't see what an attraction that dreadful Mrs. Roberts has for him. Now if only Miss Stanburn could make him see how much smarter and more attractive she is, than the other creature, how thankful I should be."These thoughts passed through her brain whilst she swept across the lawn, Brian in her wake, and introduced him to Nora."I am in love with your lovely country, and with this delicious garden," the guest exclaimed, her smile flashing out upon her host. "It is my first visit to this part of the world, and I am enchanted with it""We are rather proud of our county. Like all country bumpkins, we are sure no other county in England can compare with it. You don't belong to this part of the world?""We are north country," she answered, smiling again. "Our tiny family place is on the Cumberland Fells; but, alas! we have not lived there for a long time. The place is let. My brother and I are wanderers."Nora Stanburn was not deficient in humour, and there was a twinkle of amusement in her eyes, as she spoke thus feelingly, and a vision of "the tiny family place" leapt into her mind. She saw the mean little four-roomed house at the end of the village, the house whose dust she had so thankfully shaken from her feet when she left the village for ever to follow the shifting fortunes of her brother."We have nothing in the north so peaceful and home-like as this," she went on, pausing to look across the park. "We are more rugged and stern; your county is so restful.""We each have our own good points," Brian answered gaily, "and I am a great lover of our southern peacefulness. Can you tear yourself from the outside world for a little while, and come and have some tea?"He ushered her through the garden door and was taking her across the hall to the cool dining-room beyond, when she stopped short with an exclamation of pleasure."Oh! how lovely! May I wait a moment to speak to your little girl? It must surely be your little girl, coming down the stairs with her nurse."Brian lifted his eyes, and a light sprang into them as he saw what Nora had seen: the two figures slowly descending the staircase, Margaret in the white linen dress and the white cap that had the effect of heightening her beauty, and Maisie in all her baby loveliness. The child was prattling gaily to her nurse, as they came down together hand in hand, and there was something so tender, so motherly in the way that Margaret bent over the little one, that Nora felt no surprise at the depth of admiration apparent in Sir Brian's glance."Exactly the sort of woman to appeal to this sort of man," she reflected rapidly, for her experience of life had taught her to gauge with accuracy the characters of her fellow creatures; "exactly the sort of woman to appeal to Morley," was the further thought, "and, unless I am more of a fool than I take myself to be, this is the very Mrs. Merivale for whom Morley is looking."The thoughts passed through her brain, while she and Brian stood side by side watching the nurse and child come slowly down the oak staircase, through whose great window the sunlight fell on Margaret's crown of bright hair, and on the child's dainty colouring, but she did not allow the train of her thought to interrupt the flow of her conversation with her host."What a picture the two make!" she said in an undertone; "you are fortunate in having somebody so beautiful and refined to take care of your little girl. I don't think I ever saw a more lovely child; both the nurse and the baby are unique," she added in a low whisper, as, having reached the foot of the stairs, Margaret and her charge came towards them across the hall.As the eyes of the two women met, Margaret experienced a sensation of antagonism which puzzled her, for the visitor's face and manner expressed nothing but cordiality, and she was graciousness itself without showing a trace of patronage."Mrs. Roberts is good enough to take care of my little girl for me," Brian had said, and Nora, instantly taking her cue from the words, held out her hand to Margaret as to a fellow guest."What a delightful charge," she said with that flashing smile that she seldom found ineffectual, "I am a child-lover to the finger-tips; I can't imagine anything happier than being always with a little child." The sentence was well turned, it was spoken feelingly, but to Margaret's ears it did not ring true, and Baby Maisie showed no signs of appreciating the blandishments of the "child-lover." A mutinous look came into her brown eyes when Nora stooped to kiss her, and she drew herself away sharply, clinging to Margaret's hand, and hiding her face in her nurse's skirts, in a way most foreign to her usual friendliness."Won't you come in the garden with me, darling?" Nora asked beseechingly, only to be met by a very decided negative, in muffled tones from Maisie."Perhaps, presently, if we talk of something else," Margaret said with a smile, but secretly wondering why Maisie (who would usually go anywhere with anyone) should take so emphatic a dislike to this ingratiating stranger. "We are going into the garden, and later on, perhaps I might bring Maisie to you." Her eyes again met Nora's, and again she felt that unaccountable sense of antagonism."Ah! do." Nora's voice was eager. "It quite hurts me when a child gives me a rebuff.""Will you bring Maisie to look for Miss Stanburn again, later, Mrs. Roberts?" Sir Brian said. "I am going to take Miss Stanburn to have some tea now," and he led Nora on in the direction of the dining-room, quite unaware of the effect of his words upon Margaret."Miss—Stanburn?" The name struck chill upon Margaret's heart, and for a moment she stood still watching the tall figure in its flame-coloured draperies, walking by Sir Brian's side.Miss Stanburn! Could this be the sister of the man she counted as her worst enemy? And if it were she, would she suspect the identity of the Mrs. Roberts who was Maisie Dunbar's nurse? And, if she suspected anything herself, would she perhaps share her suspicions with her brother?"And, if once he knows or guesses where I am, I shall not have another moment's peace," was her bitter reflection as, clasping Maisie's hand more closely in her own, she drew the child into the garden. She was walking along the terrace towards the place where Lady Dunbar was receiving her guests, when an elderly man coming from the opposite direction, met her face to face. His face was quite unfamiliar to her, but as his eyes fell upon her, he started violently, and stared as if he had seen a ghost.CHAPTER XVI"YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO INSULT ME.""MY dear Lady Dunbar, forgive what may seem a very impertinent question, but how do you come to have that woman here?"

"That woman? What woman?" Lady Dunbar turned puzzled eyes upon the speaker, a tail, military-looking man of middle age, whose eyes, if they were too close together, showed signs of much shrewdness."Why,I've just met her on the terrace, with your little grandchild. She is masquerading in clothes that, whilst extremely becoming, are certainly not the sort to which she is accustomed. She was not dressed like that when I last saw her.""When you last saw her? I can't imagine to whom you are referring, Colonel Dyke. All my friends here to-day, belong to the county and the neighbourhood.""Judging by appearances, this good lady seems to form part of your household. It positively gave me a shock, to meet her there at the bend of the terrace, holding your grandchild's hand.""Can you be alluding to my grandchild's nurse Mrs. Roberts?""Good heavens! I should hope not," Colonel Dyke held up his hands in horrified dismay, " you, can't mean to tell me that Sir Brian has allowed that notorious woman to take charge of his child. As I say, I could hardly believe my eyes, when I met her two hours ago. In fact, for a minute, I simply stared, wondering where I had seen her before. Then the whole thing came back to me, and I made up my mind to ask you about it, as soon as your guests had gone.""You know you are still talking in riddles, and I cannot in the least understand what you mean." Lady Dunbar looked over the now deserted garden, and then at this her last remaining guest, with a frown of bewilderment. "Is there something against Mrs. Roberts? Do you know her?""I know her by sight" the Colonel answered with grim emphasis; "I don't know that I wish to know her in any other way. These Circes are best kept at a distance. So she calls herself Roberts, does she?" and Colonel Dyke laughed softly.The garden party guests had departed, but he had lingered behind the rest with the express intention of unburdening his mind to Lady Dunbar, who now stood staring at him in an uneasy bewilderment, with which was mingled a sort of triumph."I always told Brian the woman was an adventuress," she exclaimed, speaking in a low voice, and glancing over her shoulder to the open library window; "he engaged her for Maisie, and he made up his mind that she was perfection, because she expressed great devotion to children, and all that kind of thing. The moment I saw her I was positive she was neither more nor less than an adventuress and I told Brian so. But he——" she shrugged her shoulders, "he is as obstinate as a mule, and the woman has infatuated him.""Adventuress is a kind way of putting it," Colonel Dyke answered, lowering his voice as his hostess had done; " I should be the last person to try and damage a woman, or say things against her, but to find this particular woman here, and in such a capacity, is a little too strong.""Then I was right about her?" Triumph was now the predominant note in Lady Dunbar's voice. She edged a trifle nearer to her visitor, who was now thoroughly enjoying himself. For, although he would have declared, and declared with vehemence, that gossip was abhorrent to him, and that he would not for the world say an unkind thing about a living creature, Colonel Dyke had the unenviable reputation of knowing more to his neighbours' discredit, than any other man in town. And he was incapable of keeping that knowledge to himself."You were certainly right in thinking this—person—most unfit to have the care of a child," he said with a gravity that added weight to his words, " and I am not the least surprised to hear that Sir Brian was infatuated by her. I used the right word when I called her Circe. She is diabolically fascinating.""I have never found her so," Lady Dunbar responded, with something as closely resembling a sniff as she would allow herself, "I consider her bad style, and in every way objectionable.""Quite so, quite so, you would," there was the faintest twinkle in Colonel Dyke's eyes, and he looked away from her ladyship, and across the park; "no lady of your refinement and with your views of what is right, could possibly countenance this woman, who now calls herself Roberts. No doubt she found it absolutely necessary to change her name. Nobody would have employed her if her, identity had been known""But who is she? You haven't told me that yet," Lady Dunbar cried impatiently. "Who is she?"The Colonel came nearer to his hostess, and said in a whisper:"Why, her name is no more Roberts than mine is. She is, Mrs. Merivale—Margaret Merivale."

"Margaret—Merivale," Lady Dunbar stared up into his face, with horror-stricken eyes. "Margaret Merivale, here, in my son's house, taking care of his child? Oh! impossible.""I wish I could endorse that word 'impossible.' But I have no doubt on the subject, no doubt whatever. I was in court at the trial. I was sitting within a few paces of her, and I could swear to her identity."For a few seconds Lady Dunbar could only remain looking speechlessly into Colonel Dyke's sharp eyes, unable to utter a syllable in response to his startling information."Would you like me to speak to Sir Brian for you?" he said after a pause; "perhaps, as a man of the world, I could put the matter to him more forcibly than you could, and open his eyes to the egregiousness of the whole business?"The mere fact of playing so active and important a part in such a scandal, gave the Colonel acute pleasure; he waited with real anxiety for Lady Dun-bar's answer, and when it came, he experienced a pang of genuine disappointment."It is very kind of you to offer your help," was the slow reply, "but, knowing my son as well as I do, I am sure he would resent your speaking to him about this wretched woman. She has completely taken him in." Lady Dunbar's tones, though still low, vibrated with passion. "I may say she has completely taken us all in, for although I have never liked or believed in her, it did not enter my mind to imagine anything so bad as the truth.""It is hardly likely you would have imagined it," Colonel Dyke said with sympathy, " but women of that calibre have no conscience, none whatever, and she is probably laughing in her sleeve, over the ease with which she has got herself into your house. Are you sure you would not like me to have a word with Sir Brian about it?"The Colonel spoke insinuatingly; in his small soul he yearned to be the carrier of evil tidings to Sir Brian, but Lady Dunbar was firm. Already her active brain had devised the course she intended to take."No, no thank you," she said very decidedly, "I know my son so well, and I am quite sure your speaking to him would only rouse a spirit of opposition in him, and he would probably feel more kindly disposed than ever to this miserable woman, who has foisted herself upon us. I think——" she paused, "I think my best plan will be to speak to the creature myself. She is not likely to stay here long, after I have said what I intend to say."Looking at her grim set face, Colonel Dyke was inclined to echo her words; as he walked quickly down the drive and across the park towards his own house, he smiled to himself complacently."Her ladyship will deal with that handsome devil as she deserves," he muttered, swishing at the grass with his cane;" a woman like Lady Dunbar knows how to take it out of a fellow woman, and, by Jove, I'm almost sorry for Margaret Merivale—clever devil too, to have got herself here, very clever—too clever by half!"Lady Dunbar, left alone, spent the half-hour or so before dinner was announced, in walking up and down the terrace, deep in thought, and by the time she and Brian sat down to their evening meal her plans were fully matured. And because of what she had planned to do she was more gracious and charming to her son than he remembered to have found her for a very long time.It was his custom to retire to the library after dinner, and Lady Dunbar having reflected that she could reckon on his remaining there absorbed in his reading and writing for the rest of the evening, rang her boudoir bell at about nine o'clock, and ordered Mrs. Roberts to be sent in to her."If I am any judge of character," she thought, "my scheme will take immediate effect. If not, well——" she shrugged her shoulders, "I shall be obliged to try another tack." She was still musing on these lines, when a tap on the door heralded the entrance of the woman for whom she waited, and she glanced up from the bureau at which she had seated herself, to say coldly:"I have something very important, and extremely unpleasant to say to you." Margaret's face whitened, a startled look leapt into her eyes, and both these signs of alarm were noted by the elder woman, who smiled a little cynically at this confirmation of her suspicions. " I may as well warn you at once," she went on, " that to beat about the bush will be quite useless. I find, what I have always suspected, that you are simply masquerading here—that you are not the person you pretend to be."The hunted look deepened in Margaret's eyes, her lips quivered."It is true that my name——" she faltered out, but Lady Dunbar interrupted her with a wave of the hand."Yes, your name is not Roberts, so I am told. I have always been sure you were merely playing a part, but I confess that even I am staggered to find that the notorious Mrs. Merivale has dared to plant herself under my son's roof.""But I——" Margaret began again, only again to be interrupted."But you assumed the non-committal name of Roberts, in order to get yourself into a house which would have been barred against you if your own name had been known. Yes, I quite understand the position," Lady Dunbar's tones were icily sarcastic; "it is very easy to deceive my son. It has been very easy to fascinate him. He is so simple and straightforward, that his infatuation for you must have been a foregone conclusion. The discovery that his wife is living, was no doubt a great shock to you."Even in this moment of acute humiliation, Margaret caught herself reflecting that vulgarity is not bounded by limits of birth or breeding. This woman with the cold face and colder voice, had as vulgar a soul as the most vulgar of plebeians, yet her blood was blue, and her lineage irreproachable."Whatever your schemes and hopes may have been," Lady Dunbar continued, her eyes pitilessly fixed upon the flushing face before her, "the revelation of to-day must upset them all. This is no place for Margaret Merivale.""Does Sir Brian wish me to leave?" Margaret asked, "I have not the least wish to deny that—I am—the notorious Margaret Merivale. I took another name for the simple reason that I was obliged to work, and I found my own name was an insuperable bar to my getting work.""So I should suppose.""And Sir Brian wishes me to leave?" Margaret repeated, a dull pain settling down at her heart, her eyes fixed wistfully on her questioner's hard face."I have not consulted my son. It seemed to me better to speak to you myself. To be quite plain, I have seen the hold you have already obtained over him, and your efforts to attract him have been quite visible to me——" Margaret moved forward with a sharp exclamation of dissent, but Lady Dunbar waved her aside, and continued speaking:"The discovery that his wife is still living must have surprised and shocked you, but, from all I have heard, the trifling fact of his wife's existence will not necessarily debar you from drawing him to yourself. The Margaret Merivales of this

world are——""You have no right to insult me, because I am unfortunate enough to bear that name," Margaret exclaimed with shaking voice; "I will not stoop to justify myself, but I have done nothing to deserve such insults." She drew herself up with a superb gesture, and her voice rang with warm indignation; "I am ashamed of nothing in my life—excepting," again her voice shook, "excepting—the name I bear; I—am ashamed of that.""Presumably. And—of all that goes with the name," Lady Dunbar said significantly. "I conclude that you will appeal to my son, and he, with his usual weak good nature, and because you are a fascinating woman, will take your part. But—let me say that if you have the slightest feeling for him, you will leave the house without making a scene. His infatuation for you, if allowed to continue, will simply ruin his life, and to have his name coupled with yours—would be——""It will never be coupled with mine," Margaret answered, steadying her voice with difficulty. "You may set your mind at rest about Sir Brian, my lady. It was not necessary to insult me in order to secure his safety. I have no intention of making a scene, or—of seeing Sir Brian again. You will forgive me if I do not care to prolong this interview. I shall have left Verrymore, before you or Sir Brian are down tomorrow morning!"And without allowing Lady Dunbar an opportunity for reply, Margaret turned slowly and swept from the room, with the bearing and gesture of an out-raged empress, leaving the occupant of the boudoir to stare blankly after her in amazement and consternation.CHAPTER XVII"I'LL KILL YOU FIRST, AND THEN BRIAN."WAS it Miss Stanburn who had done this thing? This was the insistent question in Margaret's mind, whilst her trembling hands emptied the clothes from her drawers, and packed them into her box. Had Nora Stanburn's nimble wits leapt to the suspicion of her identity? And had she forthwith communicated her suspicions to Lady Dunbar? But no, that could not be the explanation of the matter, for Lady Dunbar had spoken with complete certainty, complete conviction, and Miss Stanburn at the best, could only have dealt in surmises, not certainties. Whilst she hurriedly packed her box, Margaret's cheeks were again and again scorched with shamed blushes, and Lady Dunbar's scathing words seemed to sear her very soul. Their vulgarity, their complete lack of reticence, their coarseness, revolted the woman to whom refinement and purity were the very breath of life. She shivered as some of the other woman's phrases recurred to her mind. And their hideous, half truth sickened her. She could not deny that Sir Brian was attracted by her, though with every fibre of her being she repudiated the insinuation that had been levelled against her. Her own conscience exonerated her completely, and yet—she could not deny Sir Brian's infatuation for her, nor could she deny that her own heart was playing the traitor. The man who had invariably treated her with a chivalrous respect to which she had long been a stranger, the man who had looked at her with eyes full of worshipping tenderness, far removed from the passion that had looked at her out of other men's eyes, had awakened within her something which had never been stirred before. And all the woman in her had risen up to bow down before the chivalrous man, whose love for her was a higher thing than any she had ever known."There is no question whatever about what I must do," she whispered, as she moved softly to and fro between her drawers and the box, "I must go directly—go early in the morning, before—he knows anything of what has happened. What—Lady Dunbar said was perfectly true, though she put it so horribly—it will ruin his life to care for me—I must go."She was standing before the looking glass when these words rose to her lips, her eyes for a moment lingered on her own reflection, and she smiled bitterly at the lovely face looking back at her."You poor thing," she whispered, "your face has been a curse to you, always a curse, and now—you have got to begin all over again."The sleeping child behind her stirred slightly, and flung one dimpled arm out upon the coverlet, and Margaret, turning swiftly, knelt down beside the cot, and laid her lips against the soft small hand."God keep her safe," she murmured, "God grant her beauty may never bring her all the misery that has come to me, because I was made beautiful."For many seconds she knelt there, looking at the flushed loveliness of the child's face, the bright glory of her hair, thinking of the tragedy that had woven itself about the baby's life, recalling with a shudder, the woman she had seen in the house in the wood. And then, her thoughts travelled inconsequently to the girl who had been walking with Morley Stanburn in Regent's Park, on that day when she and Maisie had visited Doctor Hardcastle. That girl's colouring was so exactly the colouring of the baby face on the pillow; her hair was of the same tint as Maisie's tumbled curls, and her eyes, those wide, frightened eyes, were brown and deep as the eyes shut away behind these darkly fringed eyelids."I wonder who that poor girl is, and what those Stanburns are doing with her," Margaret mused, as once again she returned to her packing, "Miss Stanburn doesn't look unkind, and yet that girl was so frightened as to appeal to a stranger for help. If only I could have helped her without putting myself in Morley Stanburn's way, how glad I should have been."Her preparations for the next day's journey were soon completed, and before the chiming clock in the hall had struck one, her box was packed, strapped and ready. With wistful eyes she looked round the peaceful night-nursery which on her first coming, had seemed to her like a haven of refuge, which seemed to her now even more like a safe haven, from which she was to be thrust out amongst the rocks and shoals of an adverse world.From the night-nursery she went softly into the room next door, the big bright room which Sir Brian's loving care had made so sweet a place for his little one, and a sob broke from Margaret, as she thought of the quietly happy days she had spent there."Almost the only happy days I have ever had," she thought, drawing back the blind, and looking out across the park flooded with moonlight, "and when I leave here to-morrow morning, what am I going to do? I have the last money Sir Brian gave me, and when that is gone—the old ghastly round will begin again, looking for work that I can never find, and trying to hide a name which shuts every door against me." With a sigh that was more than half a sob, she turned from the window and from the fair moonlit world without, and going back into the night-nursery, took off her dress, and drew on a pale blue dressing-gown, preparatory to brushing her hair. More as a matter of habit, than because it gave her any pleasure to view her own reflection, she sat down before the glass, and shook down the wonderful burnished coils that fell about her shoulders in a mass of colour, and whilst she mechanically drew the brush through the waving brightness, her thoughts wandered sadly over the past, still more sadly over the future. A movement from Maisie's cot roused her from her reverie, and she tossed back the veil of hair from her face, with a sudden uneasy feeling that the stillness about her was almost uncanny, and that it was very late.After that restless movement of the child not a sound disturbed the all-prevailing silence, and Margaret felt an absurd longing to hear the clock strike the next hour, or to hear even a rustle of wind amongst the trees in the garden. But no faintest whisper of wind was audible, stillness had settled down heavily over the whole house, and Margaret sat upright, holding herself rigid, with a feeling of panic terror, for which she was totally unable to account.Hush! What was that? She half turned in her chair, with the certainty that she had heard something outside the room. A piece of furniture creaked in the day-nursery, and she calmed her fears by telling herself that all old furniture creaked, and that the sound she fancied she heard, was merely the furniture, nothing more. Indeed, what else could it be, in this quiet wing of the great house that was so securely guarded? And if burglars entered the house itself, the nursery wing was the last portion of it to which they would be likely to make their way.Margaret tried to laugh at herself for her own fears, and telling herself that it was ridiculous to fancy she heard a stealthy step in the passage, she began to brush her hair with renewed vigour, when the unmistakable opening of the day-nursery door sent a thrill of terror through her veins. Her hand, still holding the brush, was arrested in mid air, she held her breath to listen more intently, and her heart beat with such sickening thuds, that they nearly suffocated her.Yes, there could be no doubt about it. The door of the other room was being opened, very softly; very stealthily opened inch by inch, as though the person who did it was advancing with extreme care, and peering cautiously into the room before entering. Margaret's first instinct, after that moment of paralysed horror, was to call out, "Who is there?" but the fear of disturbing Maisie, and allowing the child to awake in a fright, held her silent; but she rose quietly, and was preparing to tiptoe to the door between the rooms, when she caught sight of something that froze her blood with fear. Gliding from the outer room with the silent, rapid motion of some beast of prey, came a woman's form, a tall woman whose grey hair hung loose and dishevelled about her head, whose glittering eyes shone with a malicious triumph, that made Margaret feel sick with dismay. She at once recognised the nocturnal visitor. This woman with the gleaming eyes, and disordered hair, who glided into the room in such strangely stealthy fashion, was the woman she had seen at the White Lodge, the mad woman who was Sir Brian's wife, and looking now at her eyes and her smile, Margaret knew that some wild scheme of revenge was stirring in the unfortunate creature's brain.And—Maisie and she were alone here in the nursery wing, alone in this dreadful mad woman's hands. Thoughts are swift at such moments, and Margaret, standing erect in the middle of the room, facing her unwelcome visitor, found herself trying to remember all the ways in which she had ever read or heard that a mad person should be treated. To be calm and collected herself, was, she knew, the first essential, and though her heart beat fast, she looked at the intruder with unflinching gaze.To hinder her from touching Maisie, or from dis-turbing the child, was Margaret's chief desire, and, putting herself suddenly into the path of the advancing woman, she whispered under her breath, and in the most soothing accents she could command:"Come into the other room. We mustn't wake Maisie."The other woman's eyes wavered under Margaret's steady gaze, then she laid a hand upon the nurse's arm, and gripped it with a grip of iron."But I must see her," she answered, also in a whisper, and in thick, hurrying tones, "she is mine—not yours—I must see her. I came to see her—and to kill you. You have stolen them both from me."In that iron grasp, Margaret felt like a child; she was powerless to stir, and she knew that against the strength of madness, her own strength would be worse than useless. The bell was far out of her reach. To tear herself from her assailant's grip and rush for help, even if to do such a thing were possible, would be to leave Maisie exposed to her mother's fury. Her mother! Margaret shivered at the thought, and her eyes involuntarily glanced from the evil face beside her, to the dainty child-lace upon the pillow."It's no use trying to get away," the mad woman said softly, "you can't go and call anybody, because I shan't let you. And if I did let you, I would kill Maisie whilst you wore gone"; she laughed a dreadful silent laugh, "I've come, you see. I've come on purpose to—what was it I meant to do?" she asked vacantly, her eyes losing their glitter, and looking at Margaret with a dull stare."You mean to come into the other room with me just for a few minutes, don't you?" Margaret whispered back, in a brisk, business-like way; "you are tired, come and rest, and then we will talk over what you want to do next. There is plenty of time.""Oh! yes, plenty of time, plenty of time," the other answered, nodding her head in monotonous, uncanny fashion, "I shall do what I came to do, if I wait here all night. But there's plenty of time." Whilst she spoke, Margaret drew her towards the door, and had almost contrived to push her gently through it, when she shook herself free, and muttered sullenly:"But I must kiss Maisie first. I always say good-night to her, and she's mine, you see. I must kiss her."Sick with fear, shaking with a horror she could not wholly subdue, Margaret followed the other woman as she sped back across the room towards the sleeping child, moving so silently that not a sound was audible in the peaceful nursery.By the dim light of the shaded lamp, Margaret saw the demented creature stoop over the cot, saw with horror that slowly turned to profound pity, how the mother's hands lifted the child's silken curls, and gently stroked the soft cheeks; watched, with her heart in her mouth, how the mad woman bent over Maisie, and printed a kiss on her forehead. It was a pitiful sight, and Margaret's eyes grew dim with tears, though she never relaxed her anxious watching. It seemed to her as if years had gone over her head, before the figure by the cot drew itself upright again, and turned away, a strangely softened expression on the evil face; and more years seemed to pass over Margaret's head, before the other said dreamily:"She was always so very pretty, there was never any little girl so pretty as my Juliet, never any."Juliet? The name startled Margaret, and even in that moment of fear, she wondered why this woman who, a few moments before had been comparatively sane, should all at once have forgotten her own child's name. But this was not the time for such speculation or surmise. Once more gently drawing her visitor towards the door, she said quietly:"And now we will go and talk this over in the day-nursery. We mustn't wake baby.""Oh! no, we mustn't wake baby," the mad woman chuckled, "that's just what Donald was always saying, we mustn't wake baby. It made me angry at last—that was why I wouldn't bear it any more, you know," her voice sank to confidential tones, as Margaret drew her into the day-nursery shutting and locking the door behind them; "I got dreadfully tired of Donald, too," she went on under her breath, "and Juliet cried when she was awake—when she; was asleep—she—but—I'm going to kill her now—you know—at least—it isn't Juliet I'm going to kill. Who is it I want to kill? Who is that child in there? I believe she's a changeling—not my child at all—and you have stolen my child—you have stolen Brian; I was tired of Donald, and I hate Brian—but I won't have him stolen, and I'll tell you what—I'll kill you first, and then Brian—and then Brian—see here, what I've got," she spoke the last words in a blood-curdling whisper, at the same time drawing out from under the cloak she wore, a long table knife.A rush of thankfulness that the door between the two nurseries was safely locked, and the key in her pocket, flooded Margaret's heart, the child was safe—anyhow the child was safe—and if only she could parley long enough with the mad woman before her, she might save her own life too. So clearly and concisely did her thoughts run, even in that supreme moment, that she found herself inwardly saying:"The mad must always be humoured—if she thinks I shall enjoy being killed, she won't want to do it."Her own voice, when she spoke, sounded perfectly calm and unalarmed."You have got a splendid weapon, nothing could be better, but you must let me do up my hair before you go and kill Sir Brian. I shouldn't like him to see me with my hair like this.""No, he certainly mustn't," came the giggling reply, whilst the mad woman waved her knife up and down, and hummed a discordant little tune, "only, you needn't think you'll escape, because of doing up your hair, you know—I came here to do it—and I mean to do it.""Why, of course," Margaret answered gaily, though her hands, as they twisted up her coils of hair, shook pitifully, "of course you must come and do what you mean to do, only——""Only—there is no only," the other's voice suddenly grew harsh and angry, " no only—no only," she continued in an awful rhythm, "and

I won't wait—I won't wait—I won't——"As she uttered the last words, she hurled herself towards Margaret, who, with a muffled shriek, evaded; her clawing hands, and flinging open the door, flew headlong down the passage, the mad woman close upon her heels.CHAPTER XVIII"I WILL STAKE MY HONOUR ON HERS"BRIAN DUNBAR went upstairs late on the evening following his mother's informal garden party, and, being engrossed in a particularly enthralling novel, he did not immediately go to bed, even after he had gone upstairs. Indeed, the clock in the hall had more than once chimed the hour, before he somewhat unwillingly dragged himself from the armchair in his dressing-room, and proceeded leisurely to divest himself of his evening coat, and to stroll towards his bedroom. The night was very still, curiously still, he reflected, as he drew back the curtains, and looked down upon the moonlit garden. Not a leaf stirred, not a sound broke the all-pervading silence of the July night, and the Master of Verrymore Court idly wondered whether this heavy, brooding silence presaged a storm. Letting the curtain drop once more across the window, he turned to the dressing-table, and was on the point of winding up his watch, when a faint noise in the distance arrested his attention. Lifting his head, and listening intently, he fancied he heard soft footsteps somewhere in the house, and with the instant thought that his mother or Maisie must be ill, he hastily drew on a smoking coat, and was hurrying to the door, when another sound fell on his ears; the sound was a cry for help.The voice that called was weak, either with fear or fatigue, but its accents were, those of such deadly terror, that Brian's heart stood still. Flinging open his door he rushed out into the corridor, to see emerging from the darkness at its further end, two dimly-outlined figures. He could hear the hurried, panting of the first, from whose lips came the breathless cry."Oh!—help," his horror-stricken eyes caught the gleam of the knife in the hand of the pursuer, as she rushed past the corridor window, and dashing forward he flung his arms round the foremost figure, and thrust her behind him, whilst he faced the mad woman who was so close behind.In the stream of light that poured from his open doorway, she bore the appearance of some beast of prey, rather than that of a human being, and as she brandished a large table knife above her head, she laughed—a discordant laugh of triumph."We have come together to kill you," she said, "that other and I—she told me we must come to kill you. I went upstairs first—to find her—and Maisie—she has taken my place, and I won't have it, I tell you, I won't have it—I——"

"Juliet," the sternly quiet voice seemed to penetrate to the demented creature's understanding, her flow of words suddenly ceased, her eyes, that had been looking everywhere except at her husband's face, all at once met his eyes, as though they were impelled to do so against her will. The laughter on her lips dropped into silence, she shivered from head to foot, a look of fear crossed her features, and she shrank back against the wall."Don't look at me like that," she wailed, "you—have got seeing eyes—you see everything. You see—into—my soul—I am afraid."This shrinking, cowering creature, so unlike the raging demon of a moment earlier, moved all Margaret's pity."Oh! poor soul, poor soul, don't frighten her," she whispered, and Brian turned to look round at her with a reassuring smile.That second's removal of his glance from the mad woman's face, gave her renewed courage; she sprang forward towards Margaret with a triumphant cry, making a wild lunge with the knife in the direction of the other woman. But Brian was beforehand with her. His hands grasped her arms, and held them as in a steel vice, his eyes once more compelled her wandering glance to meet his, his voice, sterner than before, but very still, checked the new torrent of words on her lips."Juliet," he said, "be quiet at once. Give me that knife." The shrinking, terrified expression again came into her face; she almost whimpered, as she tried, and tried in vain, to avoid his eyes."I am afraid," she said, "I am afraid. You—look—into my soul."Without answering her, still keeping her arms fast clutched in his strong grasp, Brian led his unfortunate wife along the corridor, and, opening the door of an empty bedroom, put her into it, and locked the door upon her, after taking the knife from her unresisting fingers."She will be safe there for a few minutes," he muttered, as he sped back along the corridor, to the place where he had left Margaret. She was leaning against the wall outside the door of his room, the light from which fell full upon her, showing the pallor of her face, the fear in her eyes. Her hair fell about her shoulders in tangled profusion, and even in that moment of terror, Brian could not but be conscious of her extreme loveliness."You need not be afraid any more," he said, when he saw how violently she started at the sound of his footsteps, "she is shut safely away, and——""She came," Margaret gasped out in short, terrified gasps, "she came—into—the nursery. She—wanted to kill—Maisie—oh!" and uttering the last word shudderingly, she swayed a little where she stood.In a moment Brian's arm was round her, and half supporting, half carrying her, he moved along the corridor towards the stairs leading to the nursery wing. She clung to him with the desperate, clinging touch of a frightened child, and although he realised that the action was not a conscious one, the touch of those clinging hands quickened his heart beats."Oh!" she exclaimed, when at the foot of the stairs he paused, "what am I letting you do?" and flushing faintly, she draw herself away from his encircling arms. "I think I was faint, just for a minute. I—am better now. I—can—go—alone—I——""Come," he interrupted gently, "I am going to see you up to the nursery. Take my arm, and go slowly up the stairs. You have had a great shock.""A—great shock," she repeated, with a shiver, "will—she come back? Are you sure she is safe?""She won't come back," he answered soothingly, as they reached the nursery door; "now go in and sit down, and I will bring someone to you.""No—oh! no," she pleaded, "don't send anybody, I shall be all right, quite all right. I am better now," and lifting her face to his, she smiled a wan little smile.And in that moment, Sir Brian lost his head, because of the lovely face so near his own, the frightened eyes, the tremulous smile, and gathering her into his arms, he bent his head and kissed her, whispering passionately:"My dear, my dear."Margaret was seized with a great longing to let herself rest in his arms, to lay her head upon his shoulder, to sob out all the pent-up emotion that stirred within her, but by a supreme effort she drew herself away from him, though she was beyond the power of speech. When he saw her white, exhausted face, Sir Brian's self-control came back to him, a dark flush mounted to his forehead."I—beg your pardon," he said huskily, "for God's sake—forgive me—and don't let this make any difference between us.""Let us—forget it," she said, putting out her hands to him impetuously, " it—shall make no difference—only—please—go—now—I can't—bear any more—Good night—good-bye."The last word was uttered under her breath, and Brian, in his agitation, did not hear it. He caught and wrung her hands in his, and after one long look at her beautiful face, turned away and left her.For many minutes after he had gone, Margaret stood in the centre of the nursery, feeling as though all sensation had left her, as though she were turned to stone. Then, with a little sob, she fell on her knees beside the armchair in which she was wont to sit with Maisie in her arms, and burying her face in its cushions, broke into pitiful, heart-broken weeping."The nursery maid desired me to say, sir, that Mrs. Roberts had left this note with her, to be given you at ten o'clock this morning."Sir Brian's butler expressed in every line of his form, in every tone of his voice, his fixed conviction that a nursery maid was to him as a black beetle is to an emperor, and as he handed the salver to his master, there was protest in his every movement. But Sir Brian was far too interested in the matter of his words, to pay any heed to the manner in which they were spoken, and taking the note from the salver, he opened it quickly. Breakfast was just over. He had entered the library, with letters and papers in his hand to begin the business of the clay, and when Batchelor came in with the note on the salver, his thoughts had been absorbed with Margaret. How was she after her terrible experience of the night? Would she meet him as usual, or would his miserable lack of self control have alienated her from him for ever? That his mother had not appeared at the breakfast table, had fretted him sorely, and her message excusing herself on the score of fatigue, only added to his irritation. That she should not have appeared on this morning of all mornings, seemed to him almost like an intentional bit of malice. Reason told him that she could not, by any possibility, know of the occurrences of the night, but he was not quite reasonable this morning, and he wished to see her, and to explain to her what a dreadful shock Mrs. Roberts had received, and what gross negligence had been shown by those at the White Lodge, who had allowed Juliet to escape.He took Margaret's note from the butler, with a feeling of thankfulness that, at any rate, she was sufficently recovered from the terror of the night to be able to write at all, but as he read the few brief lines, bewilderment and dismay chased one another across his features. He read the note twice through, feeling too stunned fully to grasp its meaning; then, with a sharp oath, he turned on his heel and left the library, going quickly upstairs to his mother's boudoir.He found Lady Dunbar seated by the window, dressed in a soft morning wrapper, her breakfast tray before her, the morning paper in her hand. She glanced up as her son, in response to her "Come in" entered hurriedly, and her eyebrows were lifted with a certain frigid surprise, when she saw the marks of agitation on his face."My dear Brian," she began, but he interrupted her with a brusqueness most unlike his usual courtesy."What does this mean? "he asked, "it is Greek to me, but I gather that you have the key to its meaning." Lady Dunbar put out her hand languidly, and took Margaret's note from him, and only a very close observer indeed would have noticed that her hand shook a little, and that a certain shrinking look crept into her eyes."A note?" she said coldly, "from whom?" She adjusted her pince-nez, and read slowly, and aloud:"DEAR SIR BRIAN,"I hope you will forgive me for what may seem ungrateful and inconsiderate. But, after deep thought, I have decided that it will be best if I leave your service to-day. By the time you receive this, I shall have gone. Please do not think that my going has any connection with what happened last night. My box was ready packed before—that poor lady came into the nursery. Directly after my interview with Lady Dunbar, I made up my mind to go at once. I prefer to leave no address, but will sign my real name,'' Yours truly,"MARGARET MERIVALE""She has done the only possible thing she could do," Lady Dunbar said calmly, laying down the letter, and looking into her son's angry face, " you must see——""I see nothing," he broke in wrathfully, "be good enough to explain what passed at your interview with her, and tell me why I was not informed about this interview. You must understand, my dear mother, that you had not the smallest right to send Maisie's nurse away.""Maisie's nurse, as you call her, had the good sense to see that when once her identity was discovered, she could not in common decency remain here.""In—common—decency? What in the world do you mean? What do I care whether her name is Roberts or Merivale, as long as she is precisely the kind of woman I wish to have about my little girl, as long as she gives Maisie the mother's care the child needs.""Do stop ramping up and down the room, Brian, and listen to reason. You have not apparently grasped, that thismotherly woman you have put in charge of your only child, is the notorious Mrs. Merivale, the woman with whose name all England was ringing a few years ago."Brian stood suddenly still."The—notorious—Mrs. Merivale," he said slowly, the—woman—who——""Precisely." Lady Dunbar's voice rang with cold triumph, " perhaps now you will believe that your mother is not so ignorant and foolish as you thought her. If you had allowed me to engage the nurse, this fiasco would never have occurred. I saw at a glance that the woman you had introduced into your house, was a mere adventuress, though even I never guessed the worst."Sir Brian allowed his mother to finish the sentence, then he answered quietly, with the quiet of intense anger:"The woman who has been Maisie's nurse for four months may be the notorious Mrs. Merivale. If you have her own word for it, no doubt she is. But—she is not an adventuress; that she never could have been. And—she is a good woman—the best woman I have ever known. No—wait"—he lifted his hand, as Lady Dunbar tried to speak, "I wish to hear no more slanders about her. I wish to hear nothing more about her at all from you. When I find her, I shall hear her whole story from her own lips.""When you find her?" Lady Dunbar half rose from her chair, a startled look on her face."When I find her," he repeated emphatically. "You have let a fellow-woman go out to face the world alone; you have driven her out, instead of raising a finger to help her. But I shall find her, and——""And as you are infatuated about her, and she is perfectly shameless, you will, I daresay, find it quite easy to persuade her to come back here in her former position. If you don't mind having a woman with such a record as nurse to your child, I strongly object to being in the same house with her. When she returns, I shall go to the Dower House.""I think—perhaps it would be as well—that you should do that in any case," was the cool, and surprising rejoinder. "After what has happened, I am inclined to feel that you would be happier if you did not remain under my roof."Lady Dunbar looked speechlessly into his stern face; her words, spoken angrily and at random, were recoiling on her in unexpectedly disagreeable fashion, but she would not allow herself to be easily beaten."You know your own business best," she said; "and if—longer wish for me as mistress of your house, so be it. I shall be perfectly content at the Dower House. Perhaps some day you will realise that your infatuation for this wretched woman was entirely misplaced."Brian ignored her last words, and coming a trifle nearer to her, said shortly:"Do you know what happened last night? Did you understand the allusion in that letter? Juliet—got away from the White Lodge, stole into the nursery, and threatened to kill Maisie and her nurse. If Mrs. Roberts had not had the presence of mind to come to me for help——""To you?" Lady Dunbar's eyebrows again went up."Yes, to me; quite rightly to me. Juliet had managed to get hold of a great knife, and she was like a demon. Mrs. Roberts saved Maisie's life last night, and—for reward—she is turned adrift upon the world.""I think Mrs. Merivale is quite capable of facing the world," Lady Dunbar answered with a little laugh; "don't worry yourself needlessly about——""I shall worry till I find her,'' came the firm response; " and if—she were accused of every crime in the calendar, I should not believe the accusation. That woman is a true woman, and a good woman, and whether her name is Merivale or Roberts, I will stake my own honour on hers."CHAPTER XIX"SO THE HUSSY HAS ESCAPED ME AGAIN!""I SAY, Nora, you are developing a genius for which I never gave you credit." Morley Stanburn looked down at his sister with a lazy smile. "What on earth set you on the track of Margaret Merivale? What made you suppose that she and the nurse at Verrymore Court, were one and the same person?""Woman's instinct, my dear. You don't over give women their due. That is just the mistake always made by men of your sort. You divide your world of women into the fools, and the sheer devils, and leave out the everyday kind who have brains and common sense. Now I am neither devil nor fool. Lady Dunbar's description of her grandchild's nurse, Mrs. Roberts (whom, by the way, she detests) made me think at once of your wonderful Margaret; and directly I set eyes on the nurse herself, I was as sure of her identity, as if her name had been written across her gown.""So she calls herself Roberts, does she. Sly puss! Well, I'm very grateful to you, old girl, and if you've turned up trumps for me over this business, I swear I'll help you over your little hash."The colour mounted to Nora's face, her eyes shone."Of course, I think you're a silly goat to have set your affections on a chap like Tom Dacre, who won't give you a further hoist up in life. But, if your mind's made up about it, I'll help you, now that you've helped me."A curiously softened look crept into his sister's dark eyes."I daresay you do think me a silly goat, but, in spite of everything, there's a decent side to me still; and sometimes I get sick of all the scheming and low-down tricks, and wish——""Wish you were back at the old job again, eh? " Morley enquired with a malicious smile."Don't!" Nora stamped her foot on the floor, and glanced round the sitting-room nervously; "Dear knows, I don't want to go back, though—now and then—I think I should have been happier if I had never left the village—never tried to be—what nature didn't mean me to be.""You're a deuced clever woman, old girl, don't you forget that"—her brother patted her shoulder approvingly—"you'd pass muster anywhere. Why, see how comfortably you've been hobnobbing with Lady Dunbar, and all the rest of these country swells, and not one of them has ever guessed that you were once——""Do be quiet," Nora exclaimed sharply as he punctuated his sentence with a laugh. "Let bygones be bygones. Can't you forget the past? Good heavens! I don't want to be perpetually reminded of it. I want to forget it, and—I want " —her voice dropped—"I want to start fair now, and—be—different.''"A reformed character? If you start turning over leaves and beginning again, there's hope for all of us. I should have thought ambition would have made you want to captivate Sir Brian Dunbar.''Nora lifted her eyes to her brother's mocking face."Perhaps it did," she said slowly, "but, for once in a way, I have let ambition go.""Tom Dacre versus money and a title? Ah, well, there's no accounting for tastes. But, as you've helped me over the Merivale affair, I'll do all I can for you, old girl.""Why are you so determined to hound that woman down? What are you going to do when you have found her?"Stanburn laughed, and the quality of his laugh made his sister shudder."I have old scores to settle with Mrs. Merivale," he answered. "She knows where certain property is hidden, property to which I am entitled. I want her for that in the first place, and in the second, she happens to appeal to me more than any other woman I even came across. I intend to marry her.""You intend to marry her? My dear Morley, I only saw her for five minutes, but I shouldn't say she was the sort of person to be coerced into doing anything she didn't choose to do. And as she has so far taken great pains to avoid you, I hardly think she will jump at the prospect of marrying you.""Whether she jumps at it or no, she'll have to do it," was the grim retort. "I hold her in the hollow of my hand. She's got to do what I want, or I can make the place too hot to hold her.""How?""Never mind how—that's her affair and mine. There are old scores to pay off, and I mean that they shall be paid. I'm not a nice enemy.""You certainly are not," the sister answered drily, "and I'm almost sorry I've put that unlucky woman into your power.""Oh, I'll make her happy enough, if she does what I wish. I'm not going to beat her, or maltreat her, but I mean to get my way."His mouth set in a line his sister knew well, and she caught her breath sharply."You mayn't actually maltreat her but—you—will be a devil to her, and—I should be sorrier still that I'd given her away, if it weren't that I——""Have your own fish to fry," her brother ended her sentence for her. "We're a pretty pair, you and I, and no mistake, Nora, and I sometimes think the pretty Juliet is beginning to smell a rat.""How absurd! She is scarcely more than a child, a ridiculously innocent child, too. She is afraid of you because you are sarcastic, and she can't always understand your cynical remarks, but—she has no suspicion.""She's confoundedly pretty, but she's too milk and watery for me. Even her money can't make her attractive, excepting to a certain type of man. Your belovéd Tom Dacre, for instance. Aren't you afraid she may cut you out with him? It has struck me more than once that he rather fancies her very striking style of beauty."Nora's face grew white, then flushed vividly again; a stormy look rose in her eyes, her hands suddenly clenched themselves together."She had better not come between me and Tom." The words were spoken with strange force. "I—I couldn't stand that.""No, my dear, you couldn't. You are the sort of woman who would tear another woman's hair, and scratch out her eyes, if she interfered between you and the man you happened to affect. By Jove, I should be sorry for Juliet, if the tiger in you was once roused!""She would be sorry too," Nora said huskily, her eyes gleaming."Well, make what's possible to be made out of her, and let her go back to that old jackass, her father. She's kept us going for some weeks now, and if I'm on Margaret Merivale's track, we oughtn't to need much more support from outside sources. I shall have enough and to spare, when I make her pay the piper.""You know perfectly well I haven't the vaguest idea what you are talking about," Nora exclaimed irritably. "I have never understood your connection with the Merivales. I don't know what you expect to get from this woman. You talk in riddles, when you talk about paying the piper and so on.""Very possibly: And you must be satisfied not to understand just yet. My connection with the Merivales is of too delicate a nature to be discussed, even with you. You must possess your soul in patience. Meanwhile, I'm off to Verrymore to hunt up the lady. Wish me luck.""Of course, I wish you luck." Nora's voice still showed irritation. "My good fortune hangs on yours. Naturally I want you to succeed in whatever you are doing.""Oh, I haven't much doubt of succeeding, now I'm once more on the track," Morley said airily, and with another of his mocking laughs he left the room and the hotel."Mrs. Roberts is no longer here, sir. She left two days ago.""Left two days ago? Why did she go? Was it a sudden thing?"Batchelor, Sir Brian's orthodox butler, looked the visitor up and down, and as he would have himself expressed it, "sized up what he was made of.""No gentleman, but trying to pass himself off as such," was the man's reflection, and his manner perceptibly stiffened."I could not say why Mrs. Roberts left, sir," he said coldly. "She went away on Friday.""Oh, on Friday, did she? Well, look here." Stanburn drew closer to the butler, and winked at him, with a familiarity which Batchelor deeply resented. "I'm an old friend of hers, and I came to see her on particular business. I daresay you can give me her address, and tell me what really took her away?""I am sorry I don't know Mrs. Roberts' address, sir." Batchelor's manner became stiffer and stiffer. "I could ask Sir Brian if you wish."Morley glanced along the drive, as it for inspira-tion, looked again into the impassive face above him, shrugged his shoulders, and said quickly:"Yes, please. Tell Sir Brian that I am an old friend of Mrs. Roberts, and that I should be much obliged if he could give me her address."Following his instincts, rather than the tenets of his training, Batchelor allowed the unwelcome stranger to remain upon the doorstep, instead of inviting him to enter the hall, but in a few seconds the butler had returned with a message from his master."Sir Brian would be glad to see you, sir, if you can spare a few minutes," he said, still speaking with distant stiffness, and secretly wishing that his master would not condescend to interview persons of "no class," as he put it to himself.But Brian, on hearing his butler's statement that a gentleman was enquiring for Mrs. Roberts, and would be glad to have her address, was devoured by a great curiosity to see the visitor; and to say that his curiosity was tinged with jealousy, is only to say that he was human. He was not favourably impressed by his first glance at the man ushered into the library by Batchelor as Mr. Stanburn.The stranger's manner was over-elaborate, his clothes were just a shade too smart, his voice too carefully modulated."A bounder who is trying to bound upwards," was Brian's grim reflection; "trying to pass as a gentleman, and falling short of success.""I must apologise for my intrusion," Morley said in response to Sir Brian's bow, his eyes taking careful note the while of the luxurious room, its book-lined walls, its velvety carpet, its fine pictures, "but I am very anxious to discover the whereabouts of my old friend, who has been living here for a time—Mrs. Roberts.""What does the bounder want with her?" Brian inwardly questioned, whilst he answered quietly:"Mrs. Roberts has left us, and——""So your man tells me," Stanburn interrupted, with a certain jaunty familiarity, that made Brian long to kick him, "and I confess I was surprised to hear that she had actually gone. I—"he smiled significantly, "I thought she would have let me know when she intended leaving.""Oh, indeed!" was the non-committal reply."Yes. I am certainly surprised that she has not told me of her change of plans." Morley Stanburn, if he could do nothing else, could at least lie glibly. "I came to see her to-day upon important business, and it was quite a shock to me to hear she had left.""Indeed?" again came the frigid response, but Stanburn ignored the frigidity, and went on briskly:"However, there's not much harm done. I've only had my run down here for nothing, and that won't hurt me. If you will kindly give me Mrs. Roberts' address, I need not trouble you further.""I am sorry I cannot help you. I do not know Mrs. Roberts' address.""Not—know it! " Stanburn looked, as he felt, genuinely astonished. "But, surely she has left some address for—well, for letters to be forwarded.""She has left no address with me," Sir Brian answered, trying to keep out of his voice and eyes the pain he felt. "As—you are so old a friend of hers, no doubt she will let you know her whereabouts," he added maliciously, noting the look of baffled anger that sprang into Stanburn's dark eyes."I can't understand it," Morley exclaimed, ignoring his host's last words. "Why on earth did she go off without leaving an address? There was no—unpleasantness, I hope?""Mrs. Roberts left us of her own accord," Sir Brian answered. "I most deeply regret her departure; she was invaluable to me.""Ah! she would be," Stanburn said airily, with an assumption of knowledge that stirred Sir Brian's indignation afresh. "You see—she and I were—on pretty intimate terms—in fact"—again came that significant smile—"to tell you the truth—she is to be my wife some day, but——""Your—wife!" Brian could not keep from his voice an accent of amazed incredulity; his eyes looked into the flabby face with the bull-dog chin, and it filled him with sick repulsion."Yes—my wife," Stanburn repeated firmly. "She and I had a little misunderstanding a few months ago, and it was because of our—small quarrel, that she insisted on taking some work, and leaving town. I came here to-day to sue for peace, to apologise for my share in the quarrel—to ask for forgiveness. You see I am being frank with you, but—I believe in frankness—and—if you can help me to find Margaret, I shall be eternally grateful.""I do not know Mrs. Roberts' address," Sir Brian once more repeated, feeling that to hear Margaret's name thus familiarly spoken by this man, was almost more than he could endure; "I am afraid I cannot help you.""It is a dreadful disappointment not to find her here to-day," Stanburn's soft voice began to get upon the other man's nerves; "and you cannot account for this sudden step of hers?""I do not know that I am called upon to account for it," was the chilling reply. "Mrs. Roberts is a free agent. She elected to leave my service. She has left it, and I do not know at all where she has gone. I can give you no further information."With evident reluctance, Stanburn took what was plainly intended for dismissal, but his suavity of manner did not desert him, until he was out of sight of the house, and well on his way down the drive. Then he drove his heel into the ground with a vicious scrunch, his face darkened, and he swore aloud."So the hussy has escaped me again," he exclaimed, "but she won't go on doing it for ever. She's got what I mean to have, and when Morley Stanburn means to have a thing, he usually sees that he gets it."CHAPTER XX" IS HE SIMPLY A TIGER, GREEDY FOR PREY?""I COULD find you work more worth your mettle than washing and dressing a pretty baby. If you should need a change of work, I can help you."The words flashed into Margaret's mind, as she sat in the back bedroom of a London lodging-house. She had not ventured to take anything better than this small, ill-furnished room. Bitter memories of her past struggles, and unavailing search for work, had given her a sick dread of facing the world again, and as she sat alone, looking out at the grey houses opposite, her heart sank within her.The dainty nurseries at Verrymore, persistently obtruded themselves into her thoughts; vistas of green park and far hills, made the close London atmosphere seem closer and more suffocating than usual; and the remembrance of Sir Brian's face, and of the protecting care that had wrapped her round whilst she was Maisie's nurse, served to remind her anew of her own intolerable loneliness."But to come right away was the only thing I could do," she said to herself, "his mother was right. To have stayed there, would have ruined his life, and what does my own life and happiness matter, if I am not hurting him?"A second day of fruitless visits to agencies, had sent her back to her lodgings worn out in body and mind, and on the verge of desperation, when some words sprang to her recollection. Why had she not remembered them before? Why had she not recalled the doctor with the keen blue eyes, and uncannily penetrating glance, who had told her to come to him if ever she wanted work?She was back again in Doctor Hardcastle's strange waiting room, with the horrors on its walls, back again in the small room opening from his consulting room, and his clear, decisive voice seemed to be repeating in her ears:"If ever you should need a change of work, I can help you."She had instinctively disliked the speaker; she still disliked him instinctively, but, she must live, and if Doctor Hardcastle was as good as his word, it he could really help her to make a living, she must perforce crush down her dislike, and ask for the work he could give. After all, her feeling of shrinking distaste was probably mere prejudice, for the doctor was a man of considerable reputation, well known, and highly thought of in his profession; it was ridiculous that she should set herself up as a judge of his character.Besides which—she must live. Bread had to earned, irrespective of butter and any other luxuries; at the thought she smiled a little whimsically, and to set aside any offer of help, however unpalatable it might be, was simply suicidal."If the man is a reptile," she said to herself (using the expression which, in her own mind, she always bestowed upon a certain type of man), "that need not prevent him from giving me work, and, work I must have. That is the long and the short of it."Work she must have indeed, she reflected, for more reasons than one. Besides the actual necessity for making a living, there was the scarcely less important need of finding some way in which to drown thought, some way to school herself into forgetfulness of all the restful peace she had enjoyed at Verrymore. Only work, real hard work, would help her to banish the memory of Sir Brian, to blot out of her brain his kindly eyes, his steadfast face. She would be thankful to Doctor Hardcastle, to anybody, who would save her from herself, and her own sad thoughts.All her life, Margaret had been a woman of prompt action, and, having once recalled Doctor Hardcastle and his promise to her, she lost no time in translating thoughts into deeds. Dressing herself carefully in the only black dress she possessed, and the neat bonnet she had always worn as Maisie's nurse, she left her lodgings within half an hour of recalling Doctor Hardcastle's words, and went direct to his house. As the parlour-maid opened the front door, a clock in the hall chimed seven, and Margaret hesitated on the threshold, afraid of intruding upon the busy man at so unseemly an hour."Perhaps I have come too late," she said doubtfully, "I can quite well call to-morrow instead." But the maid held the door open, and answered in a soft voice, curiously reminiscent of Doctor Hardcastle's own smooth tones:"The doctor is at home, madam. Will you walk in, please?"Once again Margaret found herself sitting in the strangely decorated waiting room, but this time she sat there alone, and as her eyes wandered round the walls, she wondered what freakish fancy had led the doctor to adorn them with such uncanny objects. The great snake coiling itself through the jungle, was so realistic, as to make her shudder, the pictured tiger seemed to glare at her with glowing eyes that were alive."Not a soothing place for nervous patients to wait in," she was reflecting, when the soft voiced maid bade her go into her master's consulting room. The doctor stood upon the hearth-rug, his back to the mantelpiece, and, as Margaret entered, a significant smile flickered over his face, but he said no more until the door had closed behind the servant, Then, coming forward and holding out his hand, he said brusquely:"So you've come. I've been expecting you.""Expecting me?""Certainly. I knew the position at Verrymore must soon be impossible."His blue eyes looked at her keenly. She felt, as she had felt on her first visit to this man, that his glance could penetrate to her very soul, and she could only look silently back at him, saying nothing."They found out your real name, I suppose?" he questioned abruptly.A torrent of colour swept over her face, she gazed at him in speechless surprise."Yes, yes," he said impatiently, "your real name. We needn't pretend to one another. We can afford to be frank from the outset.""Then you know——""Of course I know. Didn't I tell you last time you came that I knew you. I was in court all the time that——""Oh!" she gasped, putting out her hands impetously, "don't talk of it, don't bring it all back. If you would rather have nothing more to do with me.because—of it—then—let me go. I won't trouble you any further.But—don't remind me of——"She broke off, growing so white, that the doctor drew forward a chair, and pushed her gently into it."You shan't be reminded of anything," he said not unkindly, "and what I happen to know about you, will make no difference in what I mean to ask you to do for me.""Why do you think that I am capable of doing anything for you?" Margaret asked, "I have no training, no knowledge of any special subject. I could take care of a little child—because, "her voice shook," because I once had a child of my own, but there is nothing else I can do.""I think there is," Doctor Hardcastle smiled at her, "I am sometimes given credit for abnormal powers of intuition. They are not really anything more than normal powers of observation. You possess a peculiarly soothing power over nervous, or even mad people.""Oh! but indeed I don't think I do," Margaret exclaimed, her thoughts travelling back to the two dreadful occasions on which she had been confronted by Sir Brian's lunatic wife, "I seem to have the effect of making mad people into raging demons.""Why do you say that?" Doctor Hardcastle left his place on the hearthrug, and sat down beside his writing table, looked searchingly into her white face, noting the fear in her eyes, "has something frightened you?"Margaret looked at him questioningly for an instant, but before she could speak, he bent towards her, saying:"You have come in contact with young Lady Dunbar?""Yes—oh! yes," Margaret shivered, "when I brought Maisie to you, I did not know her mother's history. I did not even know that poor thing was alive. I came across her by chance—and—she wanted to kill me.""To kill you?" The doctor still sat looking at her, with earnest scrutiny, "then, you had somehow roused her jealousy."A flame of colour again shot over Margaret's face, the mad woman's words rushed back to her mind, their full significance struck her for the first time."That woman has been the bane of Sir Brian's existence," Doctor Hardcastle went on, "she is a devil incarnate, if ever there was one. She never loved him. She only pretended to care for him for a month or so, then she openly showed her hatred She simply married him out of pique, and my own impression is, that her past history would not bear too close an inspection. But though she herself loathed her own husband, she was insanely jealous of every other woman who came near him, and if she saw you, and took it into her head that Sir Brian liked you, your life would not be worth a moment's purchase.""She did nearly kill me," Margaret answered, with another shiver, giving her listener an account of that terrible night which had been her last in Verrymore Court. He heard the story with a sympathetic interest, of which she had not believed him capable, but he did not pursue the subject, saying only:"That was a peculiar case, and it in no way detracts from my previous certainty, that you are one of the people naturally gifted to deal with nervous cases. I don't propose to ask you to take charge of homicidal maniacs, but I want you to look after a home in the country, which I have opened for special and exceptional cases.""I still feel that I have no gifts for the care of such cases," she answered with hesitation, "but—I—don't know how to refuse an offer of any work.""There is no reason to refuse it. I am satisfied that you can do all that I require, you need have no fears. And surely," he looked at her closely, "surely the fact that I engage you, with a full knowledge of your past circumstances, should make it easier for you to accept my suggestion.""You know the worst of me," she answered, with a dreary attempt at a smile."And the best," he replied brusquely, "it was not for nothing that I sat and watched you through all those days of the April of——""Oh! don't—don't recall them," Margaret cried, putting out her hands with a pleading gesture, which gave her a sudden look of youth, "I can't in the least understand why you think I shall be able to do the work you want, but if you feel that I shall not disappoint you, I most thankfully accept your offer. It is very good of you to—""No goodness in the matter," he answered, silencing her with a wave of his hand, "the thing is merely a matter of business. You happen to be the kind of person I wish to employ, therefore I employ you. It is a business transaction."He forthwith plunged into details of the work he should expect from her, of the salary he proposed to give her, of the locality in which his Home was situated."It is an extraordinarily lonely place, you won't mind that?""I shall like it," she said eagerly, "in a lonely place there is less chance of my being recognised, less chance of being found by—by anybody.""By anybody who might be looking for you," Doctor Hardcastle looked at her sharply. It was on the tip of his tongue to say:"You think Sir Brian will wish to find out your whereabouts," but he refrained from making the remark, and, having given her full directions as to her journey, and the duties she was to take up on arriving at her destination, he let her go.As she passed along the busy thoroughfares back to her lodgings, she found herself saying over and over again:"Have I been wise or foolish? Have I been wise or foolish to put myself into this man's hands. Is he really helping me out of kindness—or—is he simply a tiger greedy for prey?"CHAPTER XXI"MR. DACRE BELONGS TO ME!""YOU don't mean to say that you are alone? What luck! What glorious luck!"The man who had been ushered into the Stanburn's private sitting-room at the great Central Hotel, walked quickly across to the sofa, amongst whose cushions Juliet Cartwright sat curled up, a book in her hand. At the eager words she flushed brightly, and springing to her feet, held out her hand to the visitor with marked nervousness."Oh! Mr. Dacre, I am afraid Miss Stanburn is out," she said hurriedly, "she said she would not be back till nearly six—and—now—""Now it is just past five," Tom Dacre cut in triumphantly, "so I shall have you to myself for the best part of an hour.""Oh! but indeed," Juliet stammered, when again her companion interrupted her."You don't mean to say Stanburn is out too?" Why I've never found them both off guard before. I began to look on you as a sort of enchanted princess, always watched by two dragons."Juliet laughed, but the laugh was a nervous one, and she glanced nervously towards the door."I think Mr. Stanburn is out," she faltered, "and they wouldn't like me to see anybody when I was alone. I am afraid I oughtn't to let you stay."The words were very innocently spoken. There was no hint of coquetry in the brown eyes that looked straight into Tom's blue ones, but the tremulousness of her smile, and the little falter in her voice, made him exclaim impulsively:"Why shouldn't you let me stay? I'm not an ogre, and I've never been able before to speak more than a few consecutive words to you alone. Hang it all! Why shouldn't I talk to you? I'm not a dangerous reptile.""I don't think that you're a reptile at all," the girl answered, looking with a more confident air into his frank face, "only, Mr. and Miss Stanburn don't like me to get to know anybody very well. I don't know why. Miss Stanburn says my father was very anxious that I should be careful what friends I make. I—don't think he would mind my making friends with you."At her innocent speech, a smile crossed Dacre's face, a tender look leapt into his eyes. This was not a girl for flirtation or easy camaraderie, she would not understand either. There was something sweet and old fashioned about her, which made him think all at once of sweet old-fashioned lilies in a country garden. She looked something like a lily, too, he thought, in her white gown, with her crown of shining hair, and he congratulated himself again on having found her alone, instead of "dragoned," as he put it, "by that inevitable Miss Stanburn.""I don't honestly think your father would mind your making friends with me," he said simply, "he is perfectly right to be particular, and there are some people who—I wonder why your father put you into Miss Stanburn's charge? " he ended abruptly."He wanted me to see something of London and London people, because I had always lived in Australia, and he advertised for a lady to chaperone me, and Miss Stanburn answered the advertisement. Dad liked Miss Stanburn," she added, with a certain significance not lost on her listener."And you—don't like her?" he questioned.Her eyes met his with the same straightforward glance as before."No—I don't like her—much," the girl answered; "I never knew anybody like her before.""I should think not," Dacre muttered under his breath."And I—don't quite understand her," Juliet went on a little breathlessly, "sometimes," she lowered her own voice, "sometimes—I am afraid of doing things she wouldn't like. I don't know whether I ought to talk to you now—whether Miss Stanburn would like——""Why need we consider overmuch, whether Miss Stanburn likes it or no?" Dacre retorted, "ever since she first introduced me to you, I've wondered why you are with her at all. She isn't the sort——" he pulled himself up suddenly, and a dusky colour swept over his face."Your father liked her?" he asked.The young man's honest blue eyes looked into the girl's brown ones, he found himself thinking how innocent her eyes were, how unsuspecting of evil."Oh! yes, he liked her. I think——" she hesitated, then spoke quickly, "I think really Dad liked her better than I did, at least, quite at first, I thought her, delightful and kind and handsome and charming, but afterwards——" she broke off abruptly, a flood of colour rushing over her face. "I oughtn't to say those things to you," she exclaimed, "she is your friend; I oughtn't to have said anything about her. Please don't remember that I did.""Miss Stanburn is no special friend of mine," Dacre exclaimed impetuously, "I met her at a friend's house—and she—she has always been very civil to me, and her brother—too. They have asked me to dinner—and all that—but she isn't a special friend." He glanced away from the girl in some embarrassment. The honest young fellow was a gentleman to the backbone, and he would not imply, much less say, that Nora Stanburn had pursued him with a vigour worthy of a better cause."I thought you were a great friend of hers," Juliet said simply, "and I shouldn't like to say anything against your friend—but—sometimes—she frightens me.""Frightens you?" the young man leaned forward, and his voice was stern, " what do you mean? How can she frighten you—a little, innocent thing like you?""I don't know," Juliet glanced round her with a shiver; "at first she was very kind, she seemed to like to have me. But lately—she has not been the same—and I—wish Dad would come back."The last words burst from her as if though they would not be controlled, and Dacre's hand clenched itself upon the arm of his chair."Where is your father? " he said huskily."He went to America on business. He was to be away some months, and he is travelling about, so that letters can't reach him.""Silly old fool! " was Dacre's inward reflection; aloud he said, "But Miss Stanburn can't hurt you. You need not be afraid of her. And her brother would not—he always treats you properly, doesn't he?" he added with a sudden heat."Oh! yes," the brown eyes looked puzzled, "only, I can't bear him. He makes me think of one of those dreadful snakes one sees at the Zoo. I don't like him to come near me, and when he looks at me—I feel—I don't know how I feel," she ended helplessly, with a little shudder.Dacre, who understood her better than she understood herself, looked at her with a great tenderness in his eyes. Her entire trust in him touched him, not for the world would he have said anything to startle her, or to shake her confidence in his friendship."Look here, Miss Cartwright," he said after a pause, "I want you to feel that I—well! that I am a great friend of yours—almost——""I do feel that," she broke in eagerly, "every time you come, I feel safe. I know nothing can happen to me when you are here, even though you don't speak to me, but only to Miss Stanburn.""She gives me no chance to speak to you," he answered quickly, "until to-day, I have never exchanged more than three words with you, and yet, I knew, too, that we were real friends." He dropped his voice a little, perhaps his eyes said more than he had intended them to say, for beneath his glance her eyes dropped, and the colour flamed again over her face."I want you to understand," he went on quietly, "that I am a real friend. I want you to feel that I am like a——"Like a sort of brother?" she asked shyly, "I haven't ever had a brother, and I should always have liked one.""No—no—not a brother," he began hastily, when, catching her startled look, he pulled himself up and said, "Yes, if you like, we will put it in that way. You shall look on me—as—a kind of brother—and if you ever want anybody to help you—promise me you will send for me—and——""If—I can," she faltered, with another of those nervous glances round her, which he had before noticed, "once before, when I was frightened, I asked someone to help me—but—she never came, or wrote.""Who was she?""I—don't know. She was the most beautiful person I ever saw, and she had such kind eyes, the sort of eyes I like to think my mother had.""You—don't remember your mother?"Oh! no. I can't remember anybody but dad. He has taken care of me ever since I was a baby. My mother, died long before I can remember her. Dad says she was lovely, and I think perhaps the beautiful lady I saw, the one with the gentle eyes, was like my mother.""Where did you see her?""In the park, in Regent's Park. She had a little child with her, and she was so sweet to the child, it made me want her to be kind to me too. And—they frightened me—Mr. Stanburn and his sister. I couldn't understand them. I felt afraid, and I asked the lady to help me, and she looked at me as if she would be so glad to do what she could, but I have never seen her again.""You know her name?"Juliet shook her head."No—I never knew her name; I think Mr. Stanburn knows it. He was very pleased to meet her. I think——" she hesitated, "I—believe she had been hiding from him and wanted to get away from him. She looked at him as if she hated him—and so do I," came the whispered conclusion.'You never heard him mention the name of this lady you saw in the park?" Dacre's brows drew together, it fretted him to think that this girl, whose innocent sweetness was her greatest charm, should be in the company of people like the Stanburns, people who, in his own mind, he stigmatised as needy adventurers."And what sort of woman I wonder was the one she met in the park," he mused inwardly, and with rising indignation, "the sort of woman with whom that beast Stanburn consorts, is not the kind for this white-souled girl to know.""I didn't know her name then," Juliet replied to his question, whilst these thoughts went through his mind, "but afterwards, I heard Mr. Stanburn tell his sister that he had seen—Mrs. Merivale—and she had escaped him again.""Mrs.—Merivale?" Dacre stared at her, "what Mrs. Merivale? You don't surely mean the notorious Mrs. Merivale, the woman whose name was in everyone's mouth a few years ago, the woman who murdered her husband?"Juliet sat bolt upright, her eyes wide with horror."Murdered her husband? Oh! no, the woman I saw could never have done anything like that. She was a good woman, with mother eyes. She could not hurt anybody.""We won't think about her now," Dacre's voice took on a masterful ring, he stood up suddenly, and moved nearer to the sofa, "listen to me a minute. There is something about these Stanburns, which doesn't seem to me to be all right. And, as your father is away, and you are very young and very lonely, I am going to do what may seem an impertinent thing. I'm going to take care of you.""Oh! thank you," she exclaimed fervently, her eyes that were lifted to his face, filling with tears, "I've often wanted to ask you to help me—because I knew—I should be safe with you."Dacre put out his hand towards her, then drew it back."Yes, you will be safe with me," he said, controlling his voice with difficulty, "if—anything happens that you—can't understand, or that—frightens you, send to this address," he drew a card from his pocket, and handed it to her," and remember,I will come to you whenever you want me. We—are real friends—aren't we?""Yes—real friends," she answered, putting her hand into his that was outstretched to her, "and I shan't be afraid now—because you——"The door opened softly, and as a step crossed the floor, their hands fell apart."Mr. Dacre?" Nora's most dulcet accents broke the silence, "I am so sorry I was out, but I hope Miss Cartwright has been entertaining you nicely?"Her eyes, that seemed to be glancing from one to the other with the merest friendliness, took in the girl's embarrassment and the man's attempt to adopt a nonchalant manner. She gave no sign, however, of having observed either, and ringing for tea, played the part of hostess with all her customary charm, and only Juliet detected that beneath her outward calmness of demeanour, a volcano smouldered. Dacre's firm handclasp when he went away gave her a reassuring sense of comfort, but no sooner had his retreating footsteps ceased to sound in the corridor, than the storm broke.All the suavity vanished from the elder woman's face; her eyes blazed, her cheeks were crimson with anger, she seized Juliet's arm roughly, and shook the girl as a terrier shakes a rat."You think you can do these low, underhand things," she said vehemently, "how dare you receive Mr. Dacre when you are alone here, and unchaperoned.And what was he saying when I came in? Why was he holding your hand?"Juliet cowered back upon the sofa, speechless with fear, looking with fascinated gaze into the other's angry eyes, shaking from head to foot, and quite unable to answer the torrent of words poured out upon her."You will be good enough to understand once for all, that Mr. Dacre belongs to me," Nora continued, all attempt at reticence thrown to the winds, her natural coarseness overriding the veneer of civilisation she had acquired, "I can stand a good deal, but I'll have no interference with my friends, and so I tell you." The very inflection of her voice grew coarse, as her tones rose shrilly, and to Juliet's distorted fancy she seemed to lose all the characteristics of a smart, refined woman of the world, and to become suddenly a daughter of the people, and a virago into the bargain."I thought you were a decent, innocent girl," the harsh voice went on, "I'm sure I never dreamt of finding you out in this sort of thing, just behaving like a regular little minx—a hussey, a——"A word of whose meaning Juliet had only the vaguest comprehension, broke from the other's lips, followed by a fresh outburst of such language as the shrinking girl had never heard, and at the end of the outburst, Nora sprang at her, and seized her arm in a vice-like clutch. But Juliet, now almost wild with terror, wrenched herself away from that compelling clutch, and with a low cry of dismay, fled from the room."Little beast," Nora exclaimed vindictively, "I'll be even with her yet. Does she think she's going to take Tom from me by making eyes at him? She'll find she's got a bit of a tiger to deal with, if she crosses swords with me over the man I happen to want. I'll leave her to cool her heels for a bit in her own bedroom, and then I'll talk to her straight and plain."But when, after an interval of half an hour, Nora knocked upon Juliet's door she received no response from within, and on entering, she found the room empty, the girl vanished; nor was anybody in the hotel able to give her the slightest information as to when her charge had departed, or whither she had gone.CHAPTER XXII"MARGARET MERIVALE IS A GOOD WOMAN.""You have frightened the girl away. Nora, are a fool, worse than a fool, and there will be the devil to pay.""Then there will have to be the devil to pay. I am sick to death of the girl, and she was beginning to smell a rat.""Added to which, she was beginning to attract that precious young idiot, Tom Dacre, eh?" sneered Morley, "and why you can't let her have Dacre, and have done with it, I can't conceive. He's a poor sort of chap at best.""He happens to be the sort of chap I like," Nora answered coldly, "and I'm not the woman to let another woman come between me and the man who belongs to me.""Belongs to you," Morley laughed brutally, "my good Nora, Dacre no more belongs to you than he does to me, and you know it. You've run the poor chap hard, I will say that for you. But what's the good of deceiving yourself? You know as well as I do that you're nothing to Dacre."Nora's face had grown very white during her brother's speech, a hunted look came into her eyes, and seeing that look, a certain compunction made him touch her shoulder kindly."Buck up old girl," he said, "there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, and a jolly sight better fish than Tom Dacre, any day. What made you set your heart on that saintly chap? He isn't our kind.""It's because he isn't our kind that I like him," she cried passionately; "I'm tired of all the shifty adventurers who are our chief friends. This man is the first decent man I've ever known well, and you promised to help me with him. Now you taunt me, because that miserable girl has taken him away from me.""Look at things reasonably. 'That miserable girl,' as you call her, has not taken Dacre away from you. He was never yours to be taken," Morley sneered; "but I suppose you got into one of your devil's own tantrums with her, and frightened her into fits, and she has gone off. May I ask what story you propose to tell her father? There will be a pretty to do when he hears she has vanished."His sarcastic tone acted as a cold water douche upon his sister, and the truth of his words struck her like a blow."We must find her long before her father knows anything about it," was the faltering reply; "if any harm happened to that precious daughter of his, he would never forgive us. Of course, we shall find her. She can't have gone far—or——""Perhaps she has taken refuge with your dear friend, Tom Dacre," her brother sneered again, and his small, malicious eyes twinkled when he saw how she winced at his words, and how her lips quivered.But she braced herself sufficiently to sharply:"Rubbish! She has too much sense to do that. Besides which, until to-day she hasn't exchanged ten words with Mr. Dacre. Anyhow, it's no use making fancy speculations about her movements. We had better set to work to find her. Tiresome fool of a girl, I wish to goodness she had never come near us.""Her money has given us pleasant quarters for a time, and—I don't quite know how—or where you suggest living, now that we shall no longer be able to afford this suite of rooms in this hotel," Stanburn answered cynically," unless you can find another girl as gullible as the fair Juliet, or unless I can find Mrs. Merivale," his brow darkened, "you and I, my dear, will be in Queer Street.""And pray how would your finding Mrs. Merivale help us out of it?" Nora said scornfully."Because Mrs. Merivale can lay her hands on—property in which I am entitled to a share, a large share," was the slow response, "she knows that as well as I do, and, by Jove! she's deuced clever to elude me as she does. But I shall find her right enough, and I shall find the elusive Juliet, too. I'm not afraid about the ultimate results, it's only the present that worries me,""We can bluff the hotel people for a week or two," Nora said thoughtfully, "after that, well! after that the deluge. But, mind you, Morley, if Juliet Cartwright takes Tom Dacre, altogether away from me, I give you fair warning, I won't be answerable for anything I say or do to her. I can be a tiger, when anything rouses me.""You needn't tell your adoring brother that little fact," Morley said with a short laugh, "you have a pleasant way of making one feel your teeth and claws, and I pity the man upon whom you finally decide to bestow yourself. He'll be a brave chap who starts out to tackle you.""Instead of taunting each other, we had better take steps to find Juliet," Nora answered bitterly. "I don't want to rouse suspicions in the hotel, and I shall make out that she has been detained at the house of friends. Meanwhile, you had better put Scotland Yard on her scent. Much as I hate her, I must own she is pretty and striking. She ought to be easy enough to find.""We shall find her all right," was Morley's confident reply, as he swung out of the room, but as the days passed and drifted into weeks, and no sign or trace of the missing girl came to light, his confidence slowly abated, and both he and his sister found themselves face to face with the difficult problem of how to find golden eggs, now that the goose which had laid them so prodigally had disappeared from their ken.And whilst Morley Stanburn and his sister searched in vain for any tidings of their ward, Sir Brian Dunbar spared neither money nor pains in his equally vain search for Maisie's nurse. Advertisements were inserted in every available paper; the police were consulted; everything was done that the cleverest brains could suggest. But Margaret Merivale, like Juliet Cartwright, had totally disappeared, and if the earth had opened and swallowed them both, the two women could not have vanished more completely.Margaret had been replaced in the nursery by a kindly motherly body, of the servant class, for Brian, miserably sick at heart, could not endure the thought of engaging another lady for the post. He secretly cherished the hope, that in some blissful future Margaret would return, and to Maisie's plaintive enquiries for "Dearest," he never failed to give the same reply:"Some day she will come back."Nevertheless, as the slow weeks passed, his hopes sank lower and lower, the suspense began to tell upon him, his face grew haggard and lined, and into his eyes there came a wistful look, which it hurt his friends to see.Martin Somers, the vicar of the parish, and one of his closest friends, was horrified at the sight of his face, as he looked down upon it from the pulpit, on the very Sunday after his return from a lengthy tour abroad. Morning service over, he followed Brian across the park, and took his arm with a kindly gesture."Why old man," he exclaimed, "it's not like you to dash off in this way, without greeting me on my home-coming. What has happened to you? You look hipped. Come and share my bachelor lunch""I'm not much company for anybody," Dunbar answered, turning nevertheless under the gentle pressure of his friend's arm, and going with him towards the vicarage, "I'm not in particularly festive spirits just now."Somers looked keenly into the worn face, then looked away again, saying gently:"Tell me all about it.""Gossip has probably been beforehand with me," Dunbar answered, laughing shortly, "I daresay you have heard the main details. My mother has moved to the Dower House; I have sent my wife away. She escaped from the White Lodge and we very nearly had a terrible disaster in the house. She tried to kill Maisie and the nurse, and——""That very beautiful nurse who was so charming to the child?" the vicar put in quickly."Yes, Mrs. Roberts," his friend did not fail to notice an embarrassed note in Brian's voice. "she was everything that was most desirable for Maisie, but unfortunately, she has gone, she—what's the good of trying to deceive you, Somers? she's gone away, vanished utterly—and—it's driving me mad!"The passionate exclamation, coming from so self-controlled a man, startled his listener, and during the remainder of the walk to the vicarage, he questioned Dunbar with much tact and wisdom, until he had made himself master of the whole story."I am sorry you have quarrelled with your mother over the business," he said, as they walked leisurely across his own smooth lawn, "Lady Dunbar did not approve of the lady you brought into your house?""I believe she hated her from the very first," Dunbar said with unusual vehemence, "she was never more than barely civil to her; she insisted upon it that Mrs. Roberts was an adventuress, and she finally insulted her to such an extent, that she drove her away; no self-respecting woman could have stayed.""And—forgive me—Dunbar," the vicar's hand pressed his friend's arm, "you are sure—absolutely sure—that you were not misled by a beautiful face, and a beguiling manner? You are quite certain that there was no foundation of truth in your mother's accusation?""Quite sure," Dunbar said firmly, "I am not a silly boy to be taken in by a woman's mere beauty; surely you, who know my whole wretched story, can understand that I am not to be taken in by a beautiful face a second time. Behind this woman's beautiful face there is a no less beautiful soul.""Yet, you tell me, she was here under an assumed name, and that her real name was one which—she was afraid to use." Sir Brian drew himself away from his friend, and looked almost sternly into the grave, bearded face."She was afraid to use it, because the world takes things at their surface value, not their true worth. I don't wish to deny that the dear and beautiful lady who was Maisie's nurse—whom I honour above every woman in the world—is the notorious Mrs. Merivale. It is her great misfortune to bear that name, but I would stake my own soul upon her goodness and innocence. I am ready to swear, by everything that you and I hold sacred, that Margaret Merivale is, in the highest sense of the word, a good woman."CHAPTER XXIII"YOU ARE ALL HELENS OF TROY."THE house stood back from the road across the fields, and on its furthest side it was approached by a rough lane, that meandered with apparent aimlessness from the high road many feet below. The house itself was of grey stone, so like the grey rocks of which the countryside was composed, that it was difficult to see where the rocks ended and the house began, for on all sides of the building great boulders of rock gradually piled themselves upon the hillside, against one side of which the house was set. The prospect from the windows, though a wide one, was not especially inviting. The rocky hillside formed a protection from the north, but to the south, east and west the hills broke away, and a valley cut up into irregular fields divided by stone walls, stretched into a limitless distance. The landscape was singularly treeless, and this treelessness, added to the general desolation of a country where stone walls take the place of hedges, and where roads, walls, hillsides and houses are all coloured the same monotonous grey.Margaret, standing at the window of her small sitting-room in the house across the fields, looked out with a sigh at the world of greyness about her, a world that was being slowly blotted out by driving mist and rain. From a room beyond, came the sound of voices, chattering women's voices and laughter; and as one voice rose above the others, shrill, vacant and rasping, Margaret suddenly covered her ears with her hands, and shivered."I want the money, and I am thankful to have a roof over my head, and to be hidden away safely in these wilds, but I am paying a big price for it all. Those dreadful women!" Again she shivered, as a fresh outburst of vacant laughter broke on her ears, and again her thoughts found vent in speech."Dr. Hardcastle seems to think that if people are not homicidal maniacs, there is nothing objectionable about them—nothing to mind. Perhaps he is so used to every grade of insanity, that he cannot see how horrible these poor mindless creatures are. They may be harmless, but—they are dreadful And—I hate Dr. Hardcastle himself."The last words were spoken under her breath, almost as if she feared that the man of whom she spoke them, might be lurking in a corner of the small, exquisitely appointed room, and she started violently when a maid entered, bearing a telegram upon a salver. Although some weeks had passed since her arrival at Draeside, she had not yet grown accustomed to Dr. Hardcastle's method of communicating with her almost exclusively by telegram, and the sight of the orange envelopes never failed to quicken her pulses. She unfolded the pink paper now with a little sense of foreboding, and as she read the message, her heart sank."Meet five-fifty. Am bringing new case; important; must see you. Be at station yourself.—HARDCASTLE."Almost viciously she tore the telegram across and across, flinging the fragments into the paper-basket, and turning to tell the waiting servant that there was no reply, but that the carriage must be round by five o'clock."And tell Susan to get the green room ready," she added. "Dr. Hardcastle is bringing a lady with him.""That makes our number complete, at any rate," she reflected, with a sigh of relief. "No fresh horrors can be sprung on me for the present," and, moving from the room which was her special sanctum, she went into the drawing-room, from which the babel of voices proceeded. It was a large and luxuriantly furnished apartment, lacking nothing of comfort and charm. There were flowers everywhere; books, magazines and newspapers strewed the tables. Sofa and armchairs were upholstered in the daintiest cretonnes, the carpet was of softest pile. No expense had been spared to make the room bright and inviting, and the only discordant note was struck by the inmates, each one of whom in greater or less degree, showed signs of defective intellect. All were plainly ladies of birth and breeding, none could be described as lunatics, but all bore pitiful traces of lacking that something which distinguishes the sane from the insane. One elderly, and beautifully dressed lady, seized Margaret as she entered."My dear Mrs. Roberts," she said, "I do not wish to be tiresome, but Miss Landor has taken my chair again. I consider that the chair by the further window is mine, and Miss Landor——""And I consider that any appropriation of chairs in an establishment like this is absurd, and unnecessary," piped a small woman with a freckled face, and a great abundance of red hair. "Mrs. Roberts must agree with me that we must all give and take—bear and forbear, and be a happy family," and her sentence ended with a cackling laugh, that never failed to jar on Margaret's nerves.The above colloquy was merely a repetition of what took place morning, noon, and night in the house, and more than half Margaret's time was spent in adjusting petty squabbles, and adjudicating between rival claimants as to chairs, sofas, books, etc.Tact and gentleness were prominent parts of her character, and both her gentleness and tact were sorely tried a hundred times a day."You are exactly the person I want," Dr. Hardcastle had said to her, when defining her duties." You are the person for whom I have looked in vain. I want a lady who will manage a houseful of well-born ladies, whose mental balance has been disturbed. I have never yet found the right head for the house, but you are what I want."The pathos of the work, the pity of it all, appealed to Margaret's tender heart, whilst the horror of it fretted her nerves, and Dr. Hardcastle's visits—his growing admiration for herself, the something uncanny and unusual about him, which she had seen from the first—repelled her strangely."If it were not suicidal to cut myself adrift again, I—should not stay here," was her thought, as she dressed herself to go to the station in response to her employer's telegram. "If I did not feel so tired of fighting the world, I would go—because—I am afraid of—the doctor, almost as afraid of him, in a different way, as I am of Morley Stanburn."The same thought recurred to her as she paced the wind-swept platform, waiting for the incoming train, and it flashed through her mind once more, when she saw Dr. Hardcastle's tall figure emerge from a carriage, and met the piercing glance of his blue eyes. Those eyes of his always made her feel that their owner could see into her very soul, and under their glance she shrank back a little, whilst he pressed her hand in a close clasp, that filled her with repulsion."I have brought you a new guest—a Miss Cart-wright," he said. "She," he lowered his voice, "is not in any sense a patient, but I want her looked after—and—come, let me help you"—he turned away to hand from the carriage a slight graceful girl, at sight of whom Margaret uttered a startled exclamation, and sprang forward."Why," she cried, "it is the same——"But her words were cut short by the girl herself, who, with an impulsive gesture very charming to see, flung her arms round the elder woman's neck, saying with a little sob:"Oh! I never dreamt I was coming to you. All these months I've longed to see you again—and now I have come to you.""What a bewildering coincidence!" Margaret found breath to say at last, as they moved out of the station in Dr. Hardcastle's wake to the carriage, and she looked with motherly tenderness into the lovely face of the girl she had last seen on that summer day in Regent's Park, with Morley Stanburn. "I can't in the least understand how you manage to be here, or why you are with Dr. Hardcastle. I thought—but the Stanburns don't know where you are, or that you were coming to me?" she added hurriedly, as a great fear sprang up within her."No—oh no!" Juliet shrank closer to her. "I don't want ever to see them again. I have run away from them, and Dr. Hardcastle said you would take care of me." Though puzzled to account for the part the doctor had taken in bringing to her a girl who had been in Morley Stanburn's charge, she refrained from asking further questions, until the carriage deposited them all at Draeside, and Susan had taken Juliet to her room. Then she turned to Dr. Hardcastle, who stood by the fire in her sitting-room."What does it all mean?" she asked. "Why have you brought Miss Cartwright here? And why has she left the Stanburns? I am glad she has, for I know something of them—but——" she hesitated."You know a great deal about them, don't you?"The doctor's keen eyes searched her face. "At least, if I remember rightly, Stanburn himself was mixed up with——""Yes—yes!" she interrupted. "But oh! for pity's sake let the dead past bury its dead. Why must we drag it to light again? I hate the very name of Stanburn! Only tell me—has this girl any connection with them, or has she left them entirely?""Entirely; she ran away. They frightened her; how or why I don't quite make out. But—well, it's a queer story, one of those stories that are stranger than the strangest fiction. I met her by chance yesterday morning—in fact, she ran into me, as she came headlong round a corner. She looked scared to death, but it was not that which made such an impression upon me. It was the girl herself. For one wild moment I was fool enough to mistake her for—someone else." Some new note in his voice brought Margaret's eyes to his face, and the expression she saw there, surprised her. It was softer and more human than anything she had yet seen in him, and his voice had an odd ring of—what was it?—compunction, pity, sadness?"Someone else?" she repeated after him."Yes; why, surely you must see the likeness? It is bewildering; it is almost more than a resemblance. It is like an actual reproduction. Can't you see—ah! perhaps not; you did not know—the original—when she looked—as this girl looks."Margaret stared at him. His broken sentences were quite incomprehensible to her, until he added suddenly:"Have you never seen anybody—woman—or child," he paused, "of whom this girl reminds you?"Then remembrance came to her. She was back in Sir Brian Dunbar's study; he was laying a miniature in her hands, and the pictured face that looked back at her out of the jewelled frame, was feature for feature the face of the girl who had just left her. The deep brown eyes, the dainty colouring, the bright masses of hair—all these were identical in the living girl, and the woman who was—no, not dead—the woman who was Brian Dunbar's wife."I see you are beginning to trace a likeness to some one you know," Dr. Hardcastle said eagerly."Not exactly to some one I know," Margaret spoke slowly; "Miss Cartwright is like a picture I once saw, the picture of Sir Brian Dunbar's wife; but—she is not in the least like the poor wife herself," and with a shudder, she remembered the distorted face with its crown of dishevelled grey hair, the face that had leered at her through the gate in the park, and hung over her in the nursery of Verrymore Court."Oh! she is not like that poor mad creature, but—her likeness to the picture is extraordinary, and—she—is exactly like Maisie, too.""Precisely; she is exactly like Maisie. I have been noticing that all day. Meeting her suddenly as I did it gave me a shock. She so startlingly reproduces Lady Dunbar as I first knew her, when she became Sir Brian's wife. It is impossible not to conclude that there must be some connection between the two women. Such a likeness as that cannot merely be coincidence. I—was always sure that Lady Dunbar played a double game with Sir Brian. She never cared two straws about him; she married him for some end of her own, and she deceived him, though in what way I did not discover. I flatter myself I could see through her to a certain extent," he added grimly.Into Margaret's mind flashed the mad woman's words, about the man whose eyes could see everything about her. Had her poor disordered brain, perhaps, recollected the doctor's piercing eyes? And had she realised that his knowledge of her went deeper than that of the ordinary observer? Margaret's speculations were interrupted by her companion's voice."She was a bad woman, rotten through and through. To begin with, she was years older than she pretended to be; and though she gulled Sir Brian into thinking her a young and innocent girl, she must even then have been a mature woman. And my impression is"—he paused, looking straight into Margaret's face—" my impression is—that this girl—Juliet Cartwright—is her daughter.""Her—daughter? But—had she been married, before she married Sir Brian?""She posed as an unmarried woman, but that, goes for nothing. Remember—the type of human being to which she belongs, is wholly unscrupulous and shrinks from nothing, as long as it gains its own ends. She may have been a widow, when Sir Brian married her. She may have despatched her husband to the antipodes, and changed her name. With a woman such as Juliet Dunbar, you can calculate with certainty on nothing.""Juliet! The name is the same," Margaret exclaimed."That struck me at once, too. When I stopped the poor frightened girl in the street yesterday, and asked her name, and where she was going, it nearly took my breath away to hear her say her name was Juliet.""It was kind of you to take care of her," Margaret felt reluctantly obliged to own that, greatly as he repelled her, this man had at least shown kindliness of feeling now."She was in a state of panic terror, and to tell you the truth, her likeness to Lady Dunbar, and her name, stirred my curiosity. I gave her into my housekeeper's charge last night, and have brought her into hiding here, until we can find out more about her. She will be safe with you.""Yes—she will be safe with me—unless the Stanburns find her out. He—Mr. Stanburn—is not a man who will be easily eluded, or beaten.""I gather that Juliet Cartwright ran away from them two or three weeks ago. She has been living in wretched lodging houses since, living on the money she happened to have with her.""Oh! poor child!" Margaret murmured."And yesterday she came to the end of her resources. A landlady seems to have insulted and frightened her, and in a state of unspeakable terror she was running—where, she did not know—when I met her.""God bless you for helping her," Margaret cried impulsively, and at her words the doctor came closer to her, and laid his hand upon her shoulder."Does it please you that I have helped the girl?" he asked; "you know you are a difficult person to please." His voice had suddenly taken on the caressing tones which Margaret had learnt to know and to dread, she shrank away from his touch with quick-beating heart. Why it was so, she could not explain, even to herself, but she feared the man who stood towering over her, his eyes blazing down into hers, feared him as she all at once realised, more than she had ever feared Morley Stanburn."I don't want you to please me," she said, almost brusquely, "why should you consider whether I am pleased or not? I am only in your employ. You said you could promise me a career, but—I do not know that my work here will lead to anything that can be called by so grand a name."She was talking fast, and at random. His lived gaze disconcerted her, as did the touch of his hand, which still rested on her shoulder. She had an odd feeling of being like an animal caught in a trap, and powerless to escape."A career?" he smiled, "you must be content to follow the career which is meant for such women as you, the only career fit for a beautiful woman. Did you think I meant to find some profession for you? Pas si bête, my dear lady. I intended you to marry me."

"Never," Margaret exclaimed breathlessly, but he went on, as though he had not heard her:"I still intend it; but when I first saw you, when you brought Maisie Dunbar to me, I saw you were not ready to have the suggestion made to you. But I always meant to marry you. Your life here, is only marking time.""I shall never marry you," Margaret cried, goaded to anger by the assurance of his manner, stung by what she instinctively felt to be intolerable insol-ence, "I do not mean to marry again at all—and—if I did, I would not marry you."The doctor's thin lips parted in a thin smile, into his blue eyes came a gleam as of polished steel."When I saw you—in court—ten years ago, I made up my mind that you were the woman I wanted for my wife," he spoke with a slow deliberation, that chilled his listener's blood, "and I am not easily baffled. I knew then what I wanted. I was sure of it again when you came to me with the child, even though at first your identity baffled me. But when I remembered it, I remembered all your feelings, and—I have a will of my own." He said the last words almost viciously, the smile left his face, his eyes were stern and hard."But—I cannot marry you," Margaret faltered, "I do not even like you—much less care for you, as a wife ought to care. Why should you want me for your wife?""Because you are the most beautiful woman I ever saw," he answered roughly, "more beautiful even than that unfortunate creature Juliet Dunbar. She and I—well, never mind that now. Don't you understand that you have got the sort of beauty that maddens men. Helen of Troy was a type of all the rest. You are all Helens of Troy. And we shall make ourselves fools over you to the end of time!""Poor Helen of Troy—I pity her," Margaret exclaimed bitterly, "what good is beauty to any woman? My face has been my bane. I wish to God I had been given an ugly, homely face—my own has brought me nothing but misery.""It shall bring you triumph after triumph when you are my wife," the doctor answered, "you will forget all the old misery, when you find what is meant by the career of a successful man's wife. You and I will go far."He would have pulled her towards him, but she resisted fiercely, and with a short laugh he turned away."You are fighting uselessly against fate," he said with a shrug of the shoulders, "I don't know whether you have set your heart on Brian Dunbar, but let me tell you his wife is likely to live till a ripe old age, and, in any case——""In any case it is unnecessary to insult me," Margaret cried, facing him like a creature brought to bay. "I repeat—I have no intention of marrying again at all. My experience of marriage was not so happy, that I want to try the experiment a second time. And, I would not marry you—if——""If I were the last man left on earth?" Hardcastle said mockingly, "we shall see. People do not often cross me; when they do—it is seldom pleasant for them," and with this parting thrust, he left the room to visit his patients in the house, leaving Margaret shivering from head to foot, her heart gripped by a fear so deadly, that one course only seemed open to her, and it was this course she determined to take, in a desperation born of terror and of something akin to despair.CHAPTER XXIV"I DAREN'T MEET HIM, I MUST GO.""BUT you will not leave me here without you? I don't think I could bear this place, and these poor dreadful women, if you weren't here.""I—wish I could see just what is best for you. I have never thought myself a woman of weak decision, but—now—I feel confused. I—don't know what to do for the best," Margaret, sitting beside the writing table in her sitting-room, put her hand wearily to her forehead, and looked at the girl beside her, with a wistful appeal that went to Juliet's heart."You dear, beautiful lady," the girl exclaimed impulsively, "I believe that you have had so much trouble, that you ought not to have any more. It isn't fair.""One musn't say, or even think that," Margaret interrupted gently. "I like to believe that everything which happens is for the best. Even if one can't quite see why the pain comes, there is a healing purpose in it all." Her voice grew dreamy. For a moment, her thoughts wandered away from the Present and its perplexities. She was back in the safe shelter of Verrymore Court, Brian Dunbar's quiet eyes were looking into hers, his deep voice was telling her of his own certainty that all things work together for good."I should like you to be happy," Juliet answered shyly, her eyes shining with admiration, "it seems as if you deserved happiness, you look as if you had borne so much sorrow.""So I have—so I have," Margaret cried passionately, moved all at once out of her usual calm, "I feel as if I had been fighting, fighting, fighting for years, just one woman against the world. I have come nearly to the end of my fighting power now, and yet—I cannot stay here—to face Dr. Hardcastle again."Juliet slipped to her knees beside the elder woman's side."I don't like the doctor either," she said, "I am sure he isn't a good man. He makes me feel—just what Mr. Stanburn made me feel, as if he was a loathsome reptile. He—was kind to me when I was so frightened and unhappy two days ago, but—I don't like him, and I don't trust him.""My dear," Margaret suddenly put her hands on the girl's shoulder and looked long and fixedly into the lovely face, "will you tell me what you know about the Stanburns, and why you were living with them?""Only because they answered Dad's advertisement for someone to chaperone me, and take me into Society," Juliet's brown eyes opened widely, "they were not old friends, or anything of that sort. And Miss Stanburn was very nice to Dad. When he saw her, he thought her charming. So did I—at first—just at first," the girl added reluctantly."And then—she was different. I——" Juliet hesitated, "I began to be afraid of her, afraid of them both. And Miss Stanburn sometimes said things I didn't like—coarse things that—made me ashamed," she Hushed crimson, "and I think she did not like Mr. Dacre to be kind to me," was the naive conclusion to her sentence."Mr. Dacre did not make you feel afraid, as the Stanburns did?""Oh! no," her innocent eyes met Margaret's squarely, "he is quite different. He did not like the Stanburns. He made me promise to ask for his help if ever I needed it. He is not like them, he is good.""But you didn't ask for his help?""Because I had lost his address," Juliet answered simply, "I should have written to tell him what had happened, only I must have dropped his card after he had left, on that day Miss Stanburn was so dreadful to me. And so I just went as far as I could from the hotel, and took a lodging. It was all horrible!"Margaret's arm went round the girl, and drew her close."Never do that again," she said earnestly, "never go and take lodgings at any strange place. There are so many—thieves—and—wicked people in the world. You must not ever trust yourself to strange landladies. When is your father coming back?" she ended abruptly."He meant to come back early next month, but—I cabled to him that I had left the Stanburns. Perhaps he will be back earlier, and I shall send my address to his bank. But—you won't leave me here?" Juliet pleaded."And you don't remember your mother?" Margaret asked, with apparent irrelevance, and ignoring the end of the girl's speech."Sometimes I think—I can just remember seeing her lean over my cot, and kiss me. But I was only two when she died, so that I can't really remember.""And you have a picture of her?""No—none. Dad can't bear to talk of her—even now. He won't ever let me ask questions about her. I—think it must have broken his heart, when she left him.""And are you like her?" Margaret's eyes searched the girlish face, recalling once more the pictured face she had seen in Sir Brian's library, comparing this living loveliness with the charm of the portrait."Once I asked Dad that," Juliet answered with curious hesitation, "and he looked at me, as if—almost as if I had said something dreadful. And he answered, more sharply than he has ever spoken to me before or since, 'You are her living image.'""Did you ever hear of anyone called Sir Brian Dunbar?" Margaret continued, and Juliet looked at her in surprise at the irrelevant question."No—never. Why do you ask?""I wondered whether he could be any relation of yours," Margaret watched the other narrowly, "in his house I have seen a portrait that is so very like you.""Could it be a relation of my mother?" Juliet cried excitedly, "I have so often longed to meet some of her relations, and I don't even know her maiden name. I have never dared speak to Dad about her, because he could not bear to hear her mentioned.""I—don't know whether Sir Brian was—any relation to your mother," Margaret said slowly, "but—I think—perhaps he knew her. And if—listen to me attentively dear,—if anything should happen to take you from my care, or if you should lose sight of me, write to Sir Brian, and ask him to befriend you. He is the best man I ever knew, and—he will help you. Tell him you were my friend.""But you won't let me go away from you?" Juliet's hand clung to hers, "if you really mean it, when you say you must leave this place—then—take me too. I could not bear to be left here without you.''"But it would not be fair to join your fortunes to mine," Margaret's hand touched Juliet's bright hair, "I have no right to drag you into the whirl-pool that is pulling me down.""Are you going away because Dr. Hardcastle is horrid to you?" Juliet whispered."I am going away because—he has asked me to marry him," Margaret answered, "because my face, my hateful face, attracts him, and he thinks he loves me. My God!" she suddenly stretched out her hands in passionate protest, "why was I ever given a face like this? It has been my bane, always my bane. It has spoilt my life.""But you are so beautiful," Juliet stammered timidly, frightened by the vehement outburst.

"Beautiful!" Margaret's hands went down to the girl's shoulders again, and pressed them hard, "beauty can be a curse—instead of a blessing. Mine

has been a curse to me. I was married—for my face, and I found out—too late, that I was married—to be a decoy. Think of that. I was an innocent girl like you then, and all my life since has been one long misery—until——""Until——?" Juliet put in gently."Until I went to Verrymore Court. There for the first time since my marriage, I met a good man—a man who honoured and respected a woman—a man who made me feel safe. But even there my past followed me—and I was obliged to come away. And now—I must begin all over again!""Then I shall begin with you," the girl said setting her lips firmly, "I shall say to you, as Ruth said to Naomi:"'Where thou goest—I will go.' Let us go away together, and hide until Dad comes home, and then he will take care of us both.""But where are we to go?" Margaret's hands dropped to her side, with a gesture of despair, "I have no money beyond a few shillings. I do not know how to get any work, I feel—as if I had come to the end of everything—of everything," she repeated in a lifeless voice, "yet I must leave this place before Dr. Hardcastle comes back.""If I knew Mr. Dacre's address, he would help us," Juliet said thoughtfully, "and——""But he is the Stanburns' friend. How could we trust him?" Margaret broke in impetuously, "how do I know he is fit to touch the hem of your gown? He is probably bad like the rest. All men—no, not all men," she checked herself suddenly, "I have only known one man who would not hurt a woman, and if there is one, there may be others—but—Mr. Dacre? Can we trust any friend of the Stanburns?""You can trust him," Juliet's head went up proudly, "though I have only once talked a long talk with him, I know I can trust him. His eyes are honest.""And you are sure——" Margaret was beginning, when Susan the parlourmaid entered the room, to hand her one of the perennial telegrams she so dreaded. Her face paled as she took the orange envelope—paled yet more when she read the message it contained."No answer," she said to the waiting servant, and, when they were once more alone, she turned to Juliet, with a look of almost frantic fear in her eyes."Dr. Hardcastle wires that he is coming early to-morrow morning. He says 'be ready to come away with me—am bringing substitute.' But I can't stay here to face him. He has—such a strange power, he might make me do what he wishes, against my will. I daren't meet him—I must go, I must," and Juliet saw to her great consternation, that she was shaking from head to foot with uncontrollable terror.CHAPTER XXV"WHAT KNOWLEDGE HAVE YOU OF MY WIFE?""I ENTIRELY fail to understand the drift of your questions," Brian Dunbar's manner and words were at their stiffest, he stood erect in front of his own fireplace, his bearing every inch that of the proud Englishman, in whose veins runs the blood of a hundred equally proud ancestors, "I do not yet fathom the reason for your visit here to-day."His clear eyes looked full into Dr. Hardcastle's face, he was in no wise disconcerted by the searching glance bestowed on him in return by his visitor, the penetrating gleam of the doctor's blue eyes had no such effect upon him, as upon poor Margaret."I thought I had explained my errand," Hardcastle answered smoothly, "some weeks ago—in fact is it now some months back—you had in your service a certain Mrs. Roberts—Mrs. Merivale—to give her her right name. She left you suddenly?""Quite so," Sir Brian's clear glance never left his visitor's face, "but what then?""She came to me for work," at this Sir Brian could not supress a slight start, and the doctor smiled."Yes," he repeated, "she came to me for work. I put her in charge of a Home of mine in the country. Two days ago she left it—suddenly—as she left you.""You know where she is?" For the life of him Brian could not keep his great eagerness out of his voice—could not hide the hunger in his eyes—and Hardcastle saw and understood both."I do not know where she is," he replied, "that is what I tried to explain to you, when I first arrived. She has vanished—exactly as she vanished from here—and she has taken with her a girl, who—if I mistake not—is a relation of your wife.""Arelation of my wife?" Sir Brian stared blankly at his visitor, "my wife had no relations.""Can you be sure of that? When you brought her to me—four years ago—I told you she had deceived you as to her age. Is it not possible that she may have deceived you about other things as well? This girl—who has gone away with Mrs.—Merivale—is the living image of your wife.""What are you trying to imply?" Sir Brian answered hotly, "my wife—poor soul—is unable to defend herself from slander. You yourself certified her as insane, four years ago. She is far worse now, than when you first saw her. She can say nothing in her own defence, and—I am disinclined to believe any trumped-up story against her."The contempt of the tone stung his listener to a sharp retort.There is no question of any trumped-up tale. I came to you to-day, to ask you if you could give me any news of your late nurse—Mrs. Roberts, and my reason for coming to you, was because she, as well as I, saw the singular likeness between the girl I have mentioned, and your wife. She herself saw how extraordinarily Juliet Cartwright resembled a miniature you have of Lady Dunbar.""Juliet? The girl's name is Juliet?" Sir Brian looked stupefied."Her name is Juliet. She came to England with her father——"

"Her father?"

"So she says. She has been in the charge of some people called Stanburn——""Stanburn?" Sir Brian again interrupted. "A few weeks ago, a most objectionable bounder named Stanburn came to ask me where Mrs. Roberts had gone. He assured me that she was his fiancée—a statement which I took leave to doubt.Hardcastle laughed."I am glad you did not believe such an absurdity," he said, "I have reason to know that Mrs.—Roberts detests this man Stanburn. I fancy he has been a bugbear to her for years.""But I still fail to see why you have come to me for information about her," Sir Brian said coldly, ignoring the remainder of the speech, though the other man's apparently intimate knowledge of her affairs, made him writhe with jealousy."Firstly, because I knew you had been a good friend to her," the keen blue eyes scanned Dunbar's face closely, but not a muscle of the impassive features moved, "secondly, because, as I say, both Mrs. Roberts and I noticed the remarkable likeness between Juliet Cartwright and your wife, and I fancied Mrs. Roberts might have been sufficiently interested to investigate the matter.""The likeness is probably a chance coincidence," Sir Brian said irritably, "if—it is not—then my wife—oh! it is impossible," he exclaimed, "I can't believe it—even of her.""I should like," Hardcastle spoke slowly, watching every movement of the other's face, "I should like—to see Lady Dunbar. Perhaps if I saw her—I might—arrive at the truth.""And what is gained if you do arrive at it?" the other asked brusquely, "you say this girl has disappeared with Mrs. Roberts. What object is there in raking up a past, which, for all our sakes, had better remain buried. Unless," a dark colour flushed his face, "unless—my wife—was already married when she married me. Then my little Maisie—my God!" he broke off, staring at the doctor, a great horror in his eyes."Sir Brian," Hardcastle leaned forward, and spoke in low, confidential tones, "your wife was in my hands as—a patient—four years ago, and—no good end will be served by mincing matters—I felt then that she had deceived you more than you ever guessed. Now—I am sure that she did so."Sir Brian sprang from his seat, and before the astonished doctor could move, had gripped his shoulders with a grasp of steel, and was shaking him as a terrier shakes a rat.What knowledge have you of my wife, besides your knowledge as a doctor of a patient?" he said between his teeth, his eyes blazing down into the other's startled face, "why do you speak of her with such contempt? How dare——""Pshaw, Dunbar, leave me alone." The doctor made ineffectual efforts to shake himself free from Brian's iron grasp, "there is no reason to be melodramatic, "your wife was not the woman to allow any man who had crossed her path to go scot free." The sneer that accompanied the words, went to show that the speaker was no coward, for Sir Brian's hands tightened their clutch, and for a second there was a murderous gleam in his eyes. His wife had made his life hideous, but he would allow no other man to speak slightingly of her. But years of self-control bore their fruit now. Suddenly conscious that in another moment his hands would be at Hardcastle's throat, he drew back from him, saying huskily:"You had better go—at once—before—I do you some injury."The doctor rose slowly, a malevolent look in his blue eyes."What have you gained by making an enemy of me?" he said coldly, "all these years I have kept silent about your wife. Am I likely to keep silent any longer? She was the worst woman I ever came across," Sir Brian made an impetuous movement, but Hardcastle continued speaking frigidly, "she made love to me—until I—overawed her," he smiled grimly, "I have no doubt I still have power enough over her, to make her tell the truth about Juliet Cartwright.""You devil," Dunbar cried passionately, "you utter devil. What miserable power did you get over her? She was afraid of you—I remember that.

I thought it was merely the fear of a patient for the doctor who was controlling her weakening mind. What did you do, that——""I used my power in self defence." Hardcastle was close to the door now, courageous though he was, the look in Sir Brian's eyes might have daunted a yet braver man. "Remember she was a very lovely, very fascinating woman. She knew to a nicety how to use every inch of her loveliness and fascination, and—I—was forced to retaliate. My power was quite a simple one, and when she was once afraid of me, the day was won.""You hound—you miserable hound," Dunbar sprang towards him, "instead of helping her back to health and sanity, I believe you undermined her weakening reason. I believe——"Hardcastle turned the handle of the door, the smile on his face, as he turned to look once more at his host, was diabolical."It was an interesting experiment," he said slowly, pleasantly conscious that the butler was crossing the hall, and that in his servant's presence, Sir Brian would do him no mischief. "I am a scientist before everything, and that experiment with a mind, was one of the most instructive and enthralling I have ever attempted. Good morning!"To the butler's unfeigned surprise the visitor shut the library door in the face of the master of the house, and himself crossed the hall with a smiling countenance, which, as Batchelor said later to the housekeeper, for all the world reminded him of a beastly great snake in the Zoo.Brian, left to his own meditations, found them by no means pleasant ones, nor were they improved by a letter he received next morning."DEAR SIR BRIAN," it ran,"Should you ever wish to enquire further into the identity of Juliet Cartwright, I should advise you to allow me to question Lady Dunbar for you. I think I can promise a revelation of the truth."Yours,"R.HARDCASTLE."CHAPTER XXVI"ONE WOMEN'S PAIN—""I SHOULD like a straight answer to a straight question. Where is Miss Cartwright?""She—has gone away for a time. She——""Yes—yes, I know the old story off by heart," Tom Dacre's voice was sarcastic and impatient, "she has gone away for a time, she was not very well, and you thought country air would do her good. You have told me that before, Miss Stanburn, and—I am sorry to have to say it of anything a lady tells me—but—that story won't wash. Miss Cartwright's father left her in your charge. Then why is she not with you?"The light of battle was in the young man's blue eyes, his lips set themselves into a very straight line; Nora for the first time became aware of a certain bull dog obstinacy about Dacre's chin and jaw. He was obviously not a person to be easily cajoled or lightly thrust aside. In looking upon him as a charming, loveable boy, as malleable as he was loveable, she had reckoned without her host. But Nora had no intention of being beaten without a further struggle for mastery. She smiled her most bewitching smile, and, when its owner chose, the handsome dark face could look very bewitching."You are quite right in saying that Miss Cartwright was put into my charge, but—that does not hinder my sending her into the country for a little while.""A little while?" Dacre laughed shortly, "it is the best part of eight weeks, since I saw her here. I have called fairly often since, and every time you have said the same thing to me about her.""Because there was nothing else to say," Nora exclaimed lightly, "she is not back yet—she is still away—when she returns——""But she will not return to you," Dacre interrupted, his eyes fixed with keen scrutiny upon the handsome face; "it is no use mincing matters, you are deceiving me, and I know it. I believe Miss Cartwright has left you, and—" a brilliant flash of illumination struck him, "I—I don't believe you have the slightest idea where she is."Nora, who had been leaning back in an armchair, looking smilingly across at her questioner, suddenly drew herself upright. The smile left her lips, her eyes hardened."You have no right to say these things to me," she said. "Juliet Cartwright did not behave altogether well to me, but I did my best for her, my very best, and if you will forgive me for saying so, your suspicions are most unjust, and most unjustifiable.""Are they?" Dacre's tone was significant, "if my suspicions are unjust, you can give me some clue to Miss Cartwright's whereabouts.''"I am not at liberty to do so," was the cold reply. "Miss Cartwright is safe in the country, and the change is doing her good. Beyond telling you that, I can say no more. And," her eyes gleamed, "your acquaintance with her is so slight, that I think her father would consider the information I have given you, quite sufficient. He is very particular about her friends."Dacre threw back his head, and laughed."An excellent piece of bluff. By Jove, Miss Stanburn, your histrionic gifts are worth cultivating. But—I am afraid the bluff has failed with me." He looked steadily into her eyes, "you do not know where Miss Cartwright is. You frightened her, and she ran away from you. And you are wrong in saying that my acquaintance with her is a slight one. For some ends of your own, you have prevented me from seeing as much of her as I wished. But as I intend to ask her to be my wife, I think her father will have no objection to our learning to know each other better."

"Your—wife." Nora's face turned white, her hand, that lay on the arm of the chair, shook visibly."My wife," he repeated firmly, "when I have found Miss Cartwright—and I shall move heaven and earth to find her—I shall ask her to marry me. And now that I have convinced myself you know no more of her present whereabouts than I do myself, I will not inflict myself any longer upon you.""Wait," Nora exclaimed hoarsely, rising, as he rose, and looking at him with blazing eyes, "wait, Perhaps I shall have something to say about your marrying this girl—this minx—who has supplanted me—who has——""Please, Miss Stanburn," Dacre began, speaking very gently, though his face flushed, "don't say what can only hurt us both. Let me go now, without further words which we may both be sorry for.""Sorry!" Nora laughed shrilly, "I am not the least afraid of being sorry for my words. Juliet Cartwright has treated me abominably, and I am in the habit of calling a spade a spade, and when I called that girl a minx, I spoke nothing but the truth. What else would a girl be called, who deliberately stole a man from another woman, as she has stolen you from me?"A hot wave of shame and indignation passed over Dacre, shame for the woman who was humiliating herself before him, indignation at her accusation against Juliet; but shame was his predominating sensation. In all his clean young life, he had never before been confronted by a woman who could so far forget her womanly dignity; perhaps he had never before come into close contact with a woman of the class to which Nora belonged, the class to which, when its elementary passions are aroused, restraint and control are meaningless words.He looked at her helplessly, all his fine instincts as a gentleman urging him to keep silence, and to cover her humiliation by a hasty retreat, whilst the rising temper of the natural man gave him a wicked desire to answer her with scathing scarcasm."Until she came, you were mine," Nora went on vehemently, "she has stolen you from me, and do you think I am the sort of woman to stand that?""You will forgive me if I speak bluntly," Dacre curbed his temper by an almost superhuman effort, "but Miss Cartwright could not steal from you, what—never was yours. Please don't think me brutal, but the unvarnished truth is sometimes the truest kindness. I have never been anything more to you than an acquaintance—and—I think you know it."His honest, indignant eyes looked at her with a slow scorn, beneath which she blushed, but it was not in her nature to take defeat quietly, and her surface veneer of good manners was of no use to her now that true restraint was needed. She relapsed into the angry primitive woman, flinging reticence and modesty to the winds."You have led me to think you cared for me," she cried loudly, her very speech losing its painfully acquired refinement, "you must have seen that you were a lot to me, and I'm sure you've made Morley think that I was a lot to you—Just as you've made me think so. Men like you have no business to be in the world at all—making love to women, and breaking their hearts. I——"Her utterances were cut short by an hysterical sob, and Dacre, stepping forward, seized her wrists and said sternly:"Stop talking like this at once. You know perfectly well that I have never made love to you. Such an idea never for a moment entered my head. And as for breaking your heart——" His voice rang with scorn, but something in the expression of the miserable woman's face all at once softened him, for he said very gently:"Miss Stanburn, I have never wished to hurt you. I have not tried in any way to win your affections. If—you have been hurt, it is because——""Oh! yes, you are going to say it is my own fault, that I've only myself to thank, that if I chuck my heart about, I must blame myself if it breaks," she tore her hands from his, "you men are all alike,—a woman can be flung aside like so much dirt when you are tired of her, and if she is hurt by the flinging—well—one woman's pain is a matter of very small importance.""Please don't talk like that," real distress was in Dacre's voice, his chivalrous respect for women made this scene peculiarly distasteful to him, and his pity for the woman who was stripping herself of all restraint, was fast overcoming his first nausea of disgust. "I am only intensely sorry if I have said or done anything that could mislead you. Believe me—it was unintentional—quite unintentional." He spoke fast, and almost at random, desiring only to help his companion regain her self control, and to soften for her the bitterness which had been of her own making. But Nora had reached that pitch of excitement, when an angry woman is beyond all soothing."Don't waste your sorrow on me," she said with a harsh laugh, "I am not catering for pity from you. You have got what amusement you could out of me—I hope you will find your lovely Juliet equally entertaining—when you discover her hiding place," she added bitingly. "I wonder she did not fling herself upon you for help, if, as you say, she was so afraid of me. No doubt she was too prudent, and too proper for that. She is a mass of dull respectability," and with this parting thrust, and without waiting for a reply, Nora swept from the room, slamming the door behind her. Tom Dacre stood in petrified silence where she had left him, sick in soul, horror-stricken at the revelation of unbalanced womanhood just vouchsafed to him. It was with an effort that he gathered himself together to leave the room, and as he reached the door, it was opened by one of the hotel servants, who ushered in an elderly gentleman, saying:"Mr. Cartwright—to see Miss Stanburn."CHAPTER XXVII"THIS IS MY LITTLE JULIET'S MOTHER.""PERHAPS you can throw light on this letter, Brian, it is incomprehensible to me." Lady Dunbar, glancing up at her son from her seat by the writing table, handed him a letter, shrugging her shoulders, with an air of skaking off all responsibility for the letter and its contents. "Why should Miss Stanburn write to me—a mere acquaintance, about some girl she seems to have lost?"Brian read the letter through, his brows drawing together as he did so."DEAR LADY DUNBAR,"I must apologise for troubling you, but you were so kind when I met you in the summer, that I venture to ask for your help. My brother and I are in great distress, owing to the shameful way in which we have been treated by the girl of whom I told you—Juliet Cartwright. She was put into our charge by her father, and in a fit of temper a few weeks ago, she ran away, leaving us no address, and giving both my brother and me endless worry and anxiety. Her father has just returned from America, and instead of sympathising with our troubles, he blames us severely for his daughter's escapade. He appears to have had a vague letter from her, saying she is with a Mrs. Roberts, but giving no address. Mrs. Roberts is, as far as I can gather, the same person who was in your service, and I write now, on Mr. Cartwright's behalf, as well as my own, to ask whether you have any idea where Mrs. Roberts is living? As you are well

aware, she is a notorious woman, living under a false name, quite unfit to have the care of a young girl."Yours truly,NORA STANBURN.""The gratuitous insult to Mrs. Roberts was surely quite unnecessary," Brian said sternly, as ho refolded the letter and gave it back to his mother, "and—I don't know why you should be surprised that Miss Stanburn has written to you. You made great friends with her, when she was staying with the Hicksons in the summer.""I thought her a pleasant woman of the world, my dear Brian. It is not my habit to make great friends with anybody. And Miss Stanburn must be well aware that Mrs. Roberts—like this girl of hers—ran away. Disappearing seems to have become epidemic," she added, with a sneer."Perhaps we had better not refer to the subject of Mrs. Roberts leaving us," Brian answered, with a severity that even his mother dreaded, "you will remember that you, to all intents and purposes, drove her away, and—remember too, that I shall never be content until I have found her.""And if you do find her, what then?—Juliet is still alive.""That taunt was not needed, my dear mother, nor is it in very good taste," her son said gravely, "when I find Mrs. Roberts, I hope to be able to help her. She has had a hard fight. I am afraid that she may be having a hard fight now. To a woman alone, the world can be a very terrible place.""Apparently she is not alone." Lady Dunbar spoke coldly; "this girl of whom Miss Stanburn writes, is with her—a basely ungrateful girl evidently, for Miss Stanburn spoke so warmly of her to me. I sympathise with Miss Stanburn from the bottom of my heart.""Nevertheless, a girl does not run away from her guardians for nothing," Brian answered, remembering Dr. Hardcastle's visit, and all that the doctor had told him. "I wish we could do anything to help find this Miss Cartwright. It is a terrible home-coming for her poor father. Mother," he added, with an abrupt change of subject, "I don't want to dig up past troubles, but—will you tell me now why you always disliked—my poor wife?The apparently irrelevant introduction of her daughter-in-law's name, made Lady Dunbar stare at her son, and she paused perceptibly before answering."I should have thought byegones might be byegones now, Brian. But—I never got on with Juliet, because I instinctively felt she was deceiving us. I can't explain to you why I felt that, but I was always sure of it. There was something in the life behind her of which you knew nothing.""Somebody else said precisely the same thing to me the other day." Brian turned to the mantelpiece, and allowed his hands to stray restlessly amongst the delicate china ornaments, with which Lady Dunbar made the Dower House beautiful, "Dr. Hardcastle came to see me, and—in course of conversation he touched upon poor Juliet, and he was as sure as you seem to be—that she—deceived us."Lady Dunbar glanced uneasily at her son's hall averted face."I sometimes thought," she said with hesitation," that Dr. Hardcastle and Juliet—were on more friendly terms—than you or I ever guessed. She—was a very fascinating woman.""You need not tell me that," he answered abruptly. "She was so fascinating, that she drove all the common sense out of a man, and—by Jove, if I thought it was really true that there had been any philandering between her and that man Hardcastle, I would act on his suggestion, and take him to the Asylum to see her.""Take him to the Asylum? Why?""Because I should like to know the truth about—a great many things," was the somewhat cryptic reply; "however, never mind about that now. For the moment, we only have to think of Miss Stanburn's letter. You will tell her, of course, that We know nothing of Mrs. Roberts' whereabouts?""Certainly I shall tell her that, and express my deepest sympathy with her about the shocking way in which this girl, this Juliet Cartwright, has treated her. Juliet seems an unfortunate name.""We have no right to judge Miss Cartwright, without hearing her side of the story," Brian answered, "and—it is extremely unlikely that Mrs. Roberts would have connived at keeping the girl hidden, unless there was excellent reason for hiding her. Mrs. Roberts is a woman of very high principle."Lady Dunbar pushed back her chair impatiently."Will nothing cure your infatuation for that woman?" she exclaimed."Nothing," he answered shortly, turning and leaving the room without another word. During his walk across the park from the Dower House to the Court, his thoughts were running, first upon the conversation with his mother, and then upon the strange story of Juliet Cartwright, and her remarkable likeness to his wife. He shrank from the thought, he shrank from any further revelations, and though he felt that such shrinking was cowardice, he dreaded unspeakably all that a true knowledge of the facts might involve. It was therefore with very mingled feelings that he heard his butler say, as he entered his own front door:"Two gentlemen are waiting to see you, sir. They are in the library—Mr. Cartwright, and Mr. Dacre."Mechanically Dunbar handed his coat and hat to his servant, mechanically he repeated those names, Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Dacre, wondering vaguely who Mr. Dacre might be, and then he turned the handle of the library door, and entered.His quick eyes at once took in the fact that the two men who awaited him, were not, as he inwardly expressed it, bounders, like Stanburn, but gentlemen; and the elderly man who stepped forward to introduce himself, made an instant appeal to Sir Brian's kindly heart. His face was so haggard, his eyes so anxious and sunken, that the younger man instinctively held out his hand in greeting, saying:"Mr. Cartwright? I am sorry you have been kept waiting; please tell me what I can do for you.""I have no business to intrude upon you," was the answer," and I feel I have come on a wild goose chase. And yet, when Miss Stanburn mentioned your name, when she said you had known the person with whom my poor little girl——" His voice suddenly faltered and failed, and his companion, whose honest face and clear eyes had impressed Brian most favourably, laid a hand on his arm."Let me tell Sir Brian the story, sir," he said gently, "it is a very painful business for you, and I am sure Sir Brian will excuse me, if I am your spokesman.""It has been a great blow to me," the old man said shakily, "a greater blow than I can perhaps make you understand. My Juliet—my little Juliet was my whole world—and now——"Sir Brian set chairs for his two visitors, and said gently, as Mr. Cartwright paused again:"I think I have already heard of your trouble. My mother had a letter this morning, from Miss Stanburn."Mr.Cartwright's face darkened, his hands clenched."That woman is a fiend," he exclaimed, "I trusted my little one to her, and she has abused my trust. Tell me," he leaned forward and looked wistfully at Sir Brian, "tell me of this Mrs. Roberts. Is she—the bad woman Miss Stanburn represents her to be? Will she hurt my darling?""My God! No!" Brian almost shouted, "she took care of my baby daughter, as only a mother could have done. She is a good woman through and through. Her heart and soul are as lovely as her face. If your daughter is with her, she is safe.""But I cannot find her," the faltering voice began again, "Mr. Dacre and I have hunted in vain. We have followed every imaginable clue, we have advertised, we have done everything that human mind could devise, but it has all been useless.""You have not seen Dr. Hardcastle?""Dr. Hardcastle? No—who is he? What has he to do with the matter?"Brian briefly told the story of the doctor's visit to him, and the darkness deepened on the faces of both his listeners."I felt sure Miss Stanburn was lying to me," Mr. Cartwright said slowly: "both she and her brother assured me so emphatically that they had never said or done anything to frighten my Juliet. But I felt they were lying. And you cannot help us to Mrs. Roberts' address.""Alas, no. I have been searching for her in vain.""We seem to have come to a blank wall." Mr. Cartwright dropped his head into his hands, with a sigh, so weary and heartbroken that Dunbar's heart ached for him."It is evident that both Mrs. Roberts and Miss Cartwright were, for a short time at least, under Dr. Hardcastle's care," Dacre here put in; "can you understand why they left his house?""I have no real knowledge of why they left it," Brian answered slowly, "but—I cannot help suspecting that the doctor may in some way have made Mrs. Roberts' position untenable. He—is a strange man."It was not Dunbar's habit to express his opinion of others thus decidedly, but the frankness of Dacre's manner, the straightforward honesty of his eyes, appealed to Sir Brian, and he felt that this stalwart young fellow could be relied upon, as a help and support."He is a great mental specialist, is he not?" Mr. Cartwright lifted his head to ask, but he plainly asked the question out of politeness, and not from any deep interest in the reply. His words awakened a train of thoughts in Dunbar's mind. All his own conversation with Dr. Hardcastle returned to him, and he bent forward suddenly."Have you ever come across Dr. Hardcastle," he asked."No—never. Until this year I have been very little in England, my life has been spent in Australia,—and———""Your wife was never a patient of this particular doctor?""My—wife?""Yes," Brian's tones seemed almost impatient, "was Mrs. Cartwright ever a patient of Dr. Hardcastle?""No—never—never, at least—not that I am aware of," a sudden curious look of embarrassment flitted across the speaker's face, "my—my Juliet's mother was chiefly in Australia—until—at least——" he broke off, and the embarrassed expression on his face deepened."I think I had better tell you the whole truth," he exclaimed, after a pregnant silence. "I don't know why you asked me about Mrs. Cartwright and Dr. Hardcastle, but I have an impression that the question is one of importance.""It may be—of great importance," Sir Brian answered a little hurriedly; "it was not idly asked. The answer may mean a great deal to me.""I have always looked upon Juliet as my daughter," Cartwright said slowly, "I—think I have always felt as if she was actually my daughter. But—in reality she is no relation to me at all—she——""No relation to you?" Dunbar and Dacre cried simultaneously."No. It seems, even to myself, almost impossible to believe that she is not my own child. I have had the care of her since, she was a toddling baby, since—her mother—left her to the tender mercies of anybody who would be kind enough to look after her.""Her mother—deserted her, do you mean?" Brian exclaimed, and the elder man nodded."She was the wife of a friend of mine, the dearest friend man ever had, and she broke his heart, ruined his life, and—I shall always maintain it, caused his death. She was a fiend—that woman. My friend, Donald Templer was his name, died just before Juliet's birth. They were near neighbours of mine in Australia, and Donald and I were more than brothers to each other, and although his wife always hated me, she made a slave of me after poor Donald's death, and after Juliet was born. I was a convenience to her—someone to lean on, someone from whom to get help, and she used me, until—she got sick of the child, and then——"Then—she bolted, leaving her child on my hands, and I adopted the little Juliet as my own at once. But from that day to this the child's mother has given no sign or token of her existence. She may be dead. I hope she is. Such women have no business to live. But I know no more than the babe unborn, what became of her after she left Australia.""She left Australia?" Brian's voice was hoarse with emotion."Yes, she went to England—so much I discovered. But I know no more. I can only trust and hope that she wrecked no other man's happiness, as she wrecked my poor Donald's."Without a word, Brian rose from his chair, and unlocking a drawer in his writing table, took from it a miniature, which he handed to the old man."Have you ever seen that face before?" he said, his eyes watching the varying expressions that swept across the other's features. Surprise, dismay, horror, succeeded one another rapidly, as Cartwright glanced from the lovely pictured face, into Sir Brian's eyes with a startled look in his own."Why—of course—I have seen this face before," he answered. "This—is Juliet Templer, Donald Templer's wife. This—is my little Juliet's mother.""My God!" The words dropped involuntarily from Dunbar's lips, his eyes reflected some of the startled horror in the other's eyes."How did you come by this portrait?" the old man questioned. "It is the most speaking likeness of the woman. Did you—know her?""She—was my wife." Brian spoke with an odd breathlessness. She—is still my wife—but——""And—she has made your life a hell, as she made Donald's life?""Yes—I think I may say that she made my life intolerable—until—at last—she—went out of her mind. She has been—under restraint now, for nearly four years.""Poor soul! poor unquiet soul!" Cartwright said gently. "All her life she has been her own greatest enemy, and the enemy of all who loved her. Poor soul!""But at least her first husband was dead before she married me," Brian exclaimed, an accent of thankfulness in his voice. "Hardcastle told me of the extraordinary likeness between—your Juliet and my wife. It was because of what he told me, that I questioned you to-day. She was in his hands as a patient. He seems to have suspected that her past was not all that she made it out to be, and—he made me feel it was possible that your Juliet might be my wife's child. Thank God! no harm has been done to my little Maisie.""Then your wife—did not let you know of her first marriage?""I married her, thinking she was a young and innocent girl. She must then, by your showing, have been a woman of over thirty. For the daughter she deserted could not have been less than fourteen or fifteen, when my daughter was born. She deceived me to the top of her bent."Dunbar laughed harshly, and again rose from his seat."Hardcastle had a fancy for confronting her in the private asylum, where 1 have now placed her. When he suggested it, I refused to sanction the idea. But now—I should like to take both you and Hardcastle to see her at Mentley. It may be possible to find out more of the truth from her, and I must know the whole truth now—and nothing but the truth!"CHAPTER XXVIII"I SHALL GO MAD TOO—LIKE HER.""SHE has been very quiet and depressed the last few days; at times she has even seemed quite rational, but, of course, we never know how long these periods of quietness may last."The matron of the private asylum at Mentley looked at Sir Brian with sympathetic eyes, and inwardly wondered what could have been the attraction which originally drew him to his wife, who was one of the most difficult and troublesome patients she had ever come across, in a long career of mental nursing."I am anxious to see my wife to-day, if you think it will not do her harm," Sir Brian answered; "and—I have brought with me Dr. Hardcastle and another gentleman, who will see her too, unless it would seem unwise.""Dr. Hardcastle? You mean the brain specialist. I know him by reputation, though I have never met him. It is quite improbable that he could do Lady Dunbar any harm; he is naturally accustomed to dealing with just such cases as hers. And if—your other friend is not likely to excite her in any way, there should be no risk in her seeing him.""I am afraid I cannot be sure that both gentlemen may not have an exciting effect upon her—I do not know how she will take their visit. But "—he paused—" it is vitally important that they should see her, if it is only for five minutes.""They are in the waiting-room?""Yes.""Then if you will stay here one minute, I will go and see how Lady Dunbar seems now; and if it does not seem very unwise, I would then suggest that you and your friends should come into her sitting-room."For a few moments Brian was left alone in the matron's pretty sitting-room, and looking out at the wintry garden behind the house, his thoughts wandered over the past years, and all the joy and misery they had brought him. How far the misery had outweighed the joy! And yet—through all the pain, all the torturing wretchedness of his life with his wife, and of the years that had followed her departure from the house—he had always been so sure that in the midst of all the suffering, was a soul of goodness. There had been compensations, too, wonderful compensations. His little daughter had brought sunshine into the shadow of his life. And—over the summer of the year just gone—a new brightness had risen, when Maisie's beautiful nurse had brought into his house a new sense of joy and peace."If I might never touch her hand in more than friendship," so his thoughts ran on, whilst he gazed out at the wintry trees, "I should still be thankful to claim her as my friend. The friendship of a good woman is a man's greatest blessing."A stab of pain went through his heart, when he remembered that he was totally ignorant of Margaret's present whereabouts, and whether she was even alive at all, and he turned away from the window with a sick hatred of the bright sunshine, and blue sky, against which the leafless trees made so delicate a lacework of brown boughs."Lady Dunbar seems so quiet and reasonable to-day, that I think it is quite safe for you and your friend to see her," the Matron's voice broke in on his thoughts; "I will fetch them, and we will go straight up to your wife's sitting-room. I have told her you have come with friends, and I think she is pleased.""Pleased!" The word sounded ironical in the ears of the man, whose wife at the end of three months of married life had told him that she loathed him, the wife who had made his existence one long burden of pain.When he and his two companions followed Mrs. Browne into the dainty room which was Lady Dun-bar's special sanctum, they found the patient seated on a low sofa by the fire, huddled up amongst the cushions, her hands held out to the blaze, and she scarcely stirred when Brian went to her side, and gently touched her shoulder."Why have you come?" she said, her face averted, her voice low and sullen. "I should have thought you would have rather have stayed with that tine new nurse?""The nurse left us some time ago," Brian's tone was as gentle as his touch, "and I wanted to come and see how you were, Juliet. I have brought an old friend to see you.""I have no friends," she said, her face still turned away; "I have only enemies, no friends—never any friends."The dreariness of words and voice touched Brian's tender heart; he almost repented of the mission on which he had come, and yet—he knew that for his own sake, for Maisie's, and for the sake of the girl who had been adopted by Mr. Cartwright—the truth must be discovered. Mr. Cartwright had entered the room last, in the wake of Dr. Hardcastle, and at the sight of that huddled up pitiful figure, with the scanty grey hair and lined face, he drew in his breath sharply."This the Juliet Templer he remembered. Oh! impossible—impossible—even though her voice—her voice carried him back to the far-off days when she had driven his old friend Donald to his grave. But this broken, middle-aged woman could not surely be the same one, who as a very siren of enthralling loveliness had caught and held men's hearts, only to fling them from her when she wearied of her conquests?" As his thoughts reached this point, she turned a little, and glancing beyond her husband's form, became aware of the two men behind him. It was on Cartwright that her glance first fell, and an extraordinary change swept over her face when she saw him. Some of its youth seemed suddenly to return to it, a smile flickered over her lips, a smile that held an unspeakable fascination, and her very voice grew soft and seductive. It was as though she were putting forth all her powers, all her charms—to soften an anger which she was conscious of deserving, and she half rose from the couch and stretched out her hands to him with a deprecating gesture."Have you come to reproach me? "she said, "I—went away—I know I went away. I forget so much," she passed her hand over her eyes with an air of confusion, "but—I remember—I went away. I knew she would be safe with you. I—ah! "Her low seductive tones suddenly changed to a sharp horror-stricken cry, she almost flung herself back against the wall behind her, whilst her eyes fixed themselves upon Doctor Hardcastle with a glance of ungovernable terror."You," she faltered, her voice shaken and frightened, "you? Don't look into my heart—don't let your eyes see my soul—they saw it before—all bare—all before them—they dragged it out into the bare light of day—ah!—I am afraid."Dr. Hardcastle stepped towards her, and laid his hand on hers."You need not be afraid Lady Dunbar," he said, his soft voice making Brian think of the purring of some huge feline animal, "I am not here to hurt you—only to ask you——""Not to hurt me, as you hurt me before?" Her brown eyes still fixed themselves affrightedly on his face, "you—took my mind away you know. Why did you take it? Where have you hidden it? Can't I ever have it back?" A piteous whimpering ended her sentence, she put out her hands as though to ward off his nearer approach, and Brian said gravely:"I don't wish her to be frightened or hurt. What ever questions have to be asked, must be asked quickly. Juliet—will you tell——""Leave me to manage it," the doctor interrupted suavely, "I am accustomed to a case of this sort.""A case of this sort," a spasmodic laugh broke from the woman, who still leant against the wall, "a—case—he made me that," she pointed an accusing ringer at Hardcastle, "I know—I know," her head nodded sagely, "you made a case, of me—just for experiment—and now I—must do what you wish—I can't help doing what you tell me. What is it you tell me to do now? "Her eyes all at once grew vacant and dumb, staring into Dr. Hardcastle's blue eyes, which seemed to hold them by some strange power, and when Sir Brian would have intervened, the doctor held up his hand, with a gesture of authority."I want to ask you some questions, Lady Dunbar," he said slowly, in monotonous accents, "when you married Sir Brian, were you the unmarried girl you professed to be?""No," the answer came in equally monotonous tones, "I was a widow.""You had a child?""I had a child—Juliet. Her father was Donald Templer, Joe Cartwright's friend. Joe Cartwright hated me. I could not win his love; I went away—I—went—away—and left Juliet to him. Juliet was my baby you know—my little baby—that I didn't care for. I didn't want a baby—I didn't want either Juliet or Maisie—but they are both mine—both mine—and I hate them—but I hate you most." Her whole voice and manner changed, with startling abruptness. A tigerish gleam leapt into her eyes, her cheeks flushed, her voice lost its fascinating sweetness; in the tick of a second, she had become a raging lunatic."I hate you," she cried again. "You have stolen my mind—my mind—my mind." And she flung herself upon the doctor, with all the force of reawakened madness. With the utmost difficulty the other two men loosened her clutching hands from Hardcastle's arm, and forced her back upon the couch, whilst attendants from the ante-room, rushed in to their assistance."You had better come away at once," the Matron whispered to Brian, looking pitifully at the raging, shrieking woman, "she will not be better until this paroxysm has had its way. They come upon her more often now, and they are wearing her out."The three men silently left the room, pursued by the unfortunate woman's voice, crying after them:"He has stolen my mind—for his experiments—he has stolen my mind."When the three men were back in the waitingroom, and the Matron had gone to summon their carriage, the doctor looked so white and shaken, there was such a restlessness in his eyes, and so curious a twitching about his lips, that Sir Brian said kindly:"Better have something to pull you together, Hardcastle. I am afraid my poor wife startled you.""Startled me?" The doctor laughed a strange mirthless laugh, that made his two companions shudder. "She is mad, you know—she hasn't got a mind. But I haven't got it either." He shot a suspicious look from Dunbar to Cartwright. "She—she talked as if I had taken her mind, but, of course, I haven't got it. What should I do with a mind—unless—" he laughed more mirthlessly than before, "unless one could make mental injections, and one can't do that, you know. If I could get the best out of all the minds I have dealt with," he spoke dreamily, "there would be no risk of my going mad. I should always be safe. As it is—as it is"—he looked fearfully round him and whispered in low, horror-stricken tones—"don't let her say—what she said—or I shall go mad, too—like her—like her!"CHAPTER XXIX"I THINK THIS TIME I HOLD THE TRUMP CARD.""I HAVE come to the end. I cannot fight any more!" The whispered words rang with the bitterness of defeat, and, in uttering them, Margaret leaned her face against the window pane, and looked out at the dreary February world, with an aching dreariness at her heart. She had come to the end of her tether. The outlook was hopeless; she no longer knew which way to turn, or what to do. The room in which she stood, was small, square, and so meagrely furnished as to be almost bare. On a bed opposite the window lay Juliet, her eyes bright with fever, her face worn and wasted, her hands that strayed out upon the coverlet, pitifully, thin and claw-like. As Margaret looked at her, fresh anguish gripped her heart. The girl had become as precious to her as if she were her own child, and it was terrible to see her lying unconscious day after day, and each day seeming to drift further away from health and life, into the valley of the shadow.The girl had written to her father as soon as she and Margaret reached London, a letter addressed to his bank—that vaguely worded letter which Nora Stanburn had mentioned to Lady Dunbar. In it she had promised to write again as soon as she and Mrs. Roberts had found lodgings, but, alas! before she was able to fulfil her promise, the illness which was dragging her to her grave had seized upon her, and she had never been conscious enough even to tell Margaret the name of her father's bank. At first the two had lived upon the money which both had had in their possession, but when that was exhausted, Margaret had begun a desperate struggle for existence, all the more desperate, because she was handicapped by the care of the sick girl. Answering an advertisement for an artist's model, she had for a time earned a certain amount by sitting to him, but her position as model to a man who was seldom sober, and who at no times had any respect for women, became untenable, and from that time onwards, she could hardly have told how from day to day she had earned enough to keep herself and Juliet alive. No work had come amiss to her, so long as it was work that would bring in something, however small. She had cooked, she had scrubbed, she had taken care of children—she had worked her fingers to the bone, and nearly blinded her eyes, by sitting over slop needlework until the small hours of the morning—and now, as she said to herself, the end had come."I shall have to go to the relieving officer," she said, still apostrophising the desolate world outside the window. "I cannot find Mr. Cartwright—neither he nor Mr. Dacre answered my advertisements when I could afford to insert them, and now I can't even buy bread. I—could—apply to Sir Brian—but that is impossible—especially—if—my poor Juliet—is his wife's daughter. I—must forget I was ever a proud woman—and appeal for help

as any other pauper would appeal. God help me. God help as both!" And with a swift step, she crossed the room, and softly stroked back the bright hair that fell across the pillow, stooping to lay her lips against Juliet's cheek."My poor little girl," she whispered. "I have been able to do everything for you, just as the doctor ordered it—until now, and I would have gone on starving myself for your sake. But—I can't even do that now—the end has come."Mrs. Smith, the landlady, a rough but kindly woman of the working class, was always willing to take her place by Juliet's bedside, when Margaret was absent; and the district nurse—a good soul who pondered much over these two ladies who wore so unlike her usual patients—came morning and evening to attend to the girl's wants, so that Margaret could leave her with a fairly easy mind. The day was raw and chilly, and when she stepped out into the street, she shivered, being very lightly clad. Perhaps the pawnbroker in a neighbouring street could have accounted for a good many of her garments, and certainly she was not clothed to meet the exigencies of a cold February day, nor was her ill-nourished frame capable of withstanding the icy blast that blew along the streets. The glowing flowers in the flower-sellers' baskets, seemed to her, as she hurried past, an ironical reminder that somewhere in the world there was warmth and brightness, sunshine and blue sky. Crimson anemones, golden daffodils, feathery mimosa with its penetrating fragrance—only made the gloom of the grey sky more gloomy, to the woman who had fought her hard fight, and come to the end of her courage."I think I would rather have starved than ask for charity, if I had only myself to care for," she thought, as she hurried along. "But for Juliet's sake I must forget my pride, and appeal for help."She walked quickly at first in order to put some warmth into her frozen limbs, but the fatigue due to long and anxious nursing, and to insufficient food, compelled her to slacken her steps, and as she turned into a narrow street leading from a main thoroughfare, she began to move more and more slowly, feeling faint with exhaustion. So worn and weary was she indeed, that for a moment she leant against the wall of a house, and closed her eyes, and in that moment the occupan of a passing hansom caught a glimpse of her white face, and peremptorily stopped his cab."Caught at last, by Jove," was his mental exclamation, as he hurriedly alighted, and crossed the pavement. "She has given me a good run for my money, and now, by heaven, I've got her by chance, and I shan't let her go again!" With the thought, Morley Stanburn set his lips grimly, and advancing upon the woman who still leant against the wall, said softly:"I am afraid you are ill, Mrs. Merivale; can I help you?"At the sound of his voice, she started into an upright position, her white face flushed hotly, a great fear shone in her eyes. She shrank away from the hand he stretched out to her."I'm not going to hurt you," he said shortly. "You are not well, and I want to help you.""You cannot help me," she faltered, looking up and down the deserted street, in panic terror. "There is nothing you can do for me, excepting to let me go, to leave me in peace.""Ah, but that is exactly what I can't do," he answered, smiling ingratiatingly. "Now, look here, Mrs. Merivale, you had better make a friend of me—not an enemy. I'm a bad enemy.""You are a bad friend, too," she flashed round on him regardless of the little glance of surprise shot down upon her by the cab-driver, "were you a good friend to Anthony? "She lowered her voice, but still spoke vehemently. "Were you ever anything but our enemy—our worst enemy?""Oh, come now, we needn't go in for recriminations. You know perfectly well I worship the ground you walk on, and I want you to understand that all your troubles would be at

an end, if you would marry me—and let us share——"

"Marry you?" The horror in her eyes made him wince. "I think you must be mad. Let me go, please. There is nothing more for us to say to each other—and I have business—urgent business to——""I will drive you to the urgent business," Morley interrupted, glancing uneasily towards a stray pedestrian, approaching from the end of the street; "let me help you into my cab. and I will take you wherever you want to go."His hand held her arm with a masterful grip, she was too weak and spent to resist him, and she dreaded unspeakably the publicity which any such resistance might entail. She looked at him hopelessly, with the fearful glance of a creature caught in a trap, whilst he drew her across the pavement to the cab.The iron grip on her arm never relaxed its hold, she knew that a struggle would be useless, and with a feeling of despair, she allowed him to lift her into the cab. She was too dazed and overwhelmed to heed the directions he gave to the driver, and an increasing sensation of faintness made her put her head back against the cushions, and shut her eyes, conscious only of an intense wish not to let her senses go for a single second. Still feeling dazed and shaken, she allowed her companion to help her out of the cab, at the door of a quiet restaurant in a back street—his voice coming dimly to her as if from a long way off."I think you had better have some food before you see about your business." And she realised that he was helping her upstairs into a small room, where he put her into an armchair, whilst he gave orders to a waiter. The soft shutting of the door behind the latter, roused her fast failing senses. She dragged herself to a sitting position, and looked up into Stanburn's smiling, triumphant face."I cannot—stay here," she gasped; "why have you brought me to this place?""'This place' is a most respectable restaurant," was the cool answer, "and I propose to give you some lunch, before we continue either our talk or our drive.""But I must go," Margaret panted, struggling to rise to her feet, "I cannot stay here with you—we have nothing to talk about—I must go—must go—Juliet——"At the last word, breath and strength seemed to fail her, and putting out her hands in a pitiful appeal, she sank back upon the chair, in complete unconsciousness."Juliet," Stanburn muttered," so the fair Cart-wright is with her. It's a nuisance she has fainted, but I may as well improve the shining hour, she is sure to have her address on her somewhere." And with a sangfroid worthy of a better cause, he proceeded to search the unconscious woman's pocket, until he extracted from it a slip of paper at which he looked with a smile."Here we are," he exclaimed, reading the address which, for Juliet's sake, Margaret always carried about with her."If anything happened to me," she reflected, on a day when faintness had nearly overwhelmed her in the street, "it would be dreadful that no news of me should ever go to Juliet. And from that day she had carried in her pocket the slip of paper, that now lay in Morley Stanburn's hand.His smile deepened whilst he moistened her lips with brandy, and saw her slowly return to consciousness; and he was all kindness and consideration to her,  

when she recovered sufficiently to eat some of the food he forced on her. He felt triumphantly certain that the day was his, and he could afford to wait for the final fruits of victory. The meal ended, he look her downstairs, and again helped her into a cab, paying no heed to her remonstrances, and giving the cabman an order which was inaudible to her.She was still too weak and shaken to be wholly mistress of herself; in a vague way she remembered that she had set forth to do some business, and in the same vague way she fancied that Stanburn was taking her to the place where her business would be transacted. But when the cab drew up at the door of a house, with which the past few weeks had made her painfully familiar, her faculties awoke to full life, and she uttered a cry of dismay."I think this time I hold the trump card," Stanburn said, looking into her face with an evil smile, "come—and let us talk things over inside the house, I gather that Miss Cartwright is with you."Cowering away from him as he set her on the pavement, the look of a trapped animal deepening in her eyes, Margaret could only stare at him in dumb terror."Come!" he said again, drawing her up the steps to the door, which stood open, "the trumps are mine, and you are in my power at last.""Not entirely," said a voice from the passage within, "this lady is in no one's power. I am here to take care of her, and anyone who harms her will be answerable to me."At the sound of the deep, musical voice, Margaret's heart gave a leap of unutterale joy, and then stood still."Sir Brian," she faltered breathlessly, "oh! thank God—thank God!"CHAPTER XXX"MY QUEEN WITH THE BEAUTIFUL SOUL.""MY coming is quite simply explained." Brian stood with his back to the fire in Mrs. Smith's own sitting-room, hastily put at the disposal of Margaret's distinguished visitor. "This morning I received a pencil note, from your landlady, begging me to come here. It appears that in a lucid moment yesterday Miss Cartwright told her to send for me. The poor girl had remembered my address, which, as far as I could gather, you had once given her.""Yes," Margaret answered, looking up at him from the depths of a big armchair, "I thought that if she was alone, and in a difficulty, you would help her. I never dreamt of—this.""Nor did I," Stanburn broke in blusteringly; he was pacing the room with nervous steps, his face wearing an expression of baffled malice that was ill to see; "what has Sir Brian Dunbar got to do with you or Miss Cartwright? You and I——""You and I have nothing to do with one another," Margaret exclaimed hotly, Sir Brian's presence giving her renewed courage. "I only pray that I may never see your face again.""Not so fast, my lady," Stanburn sneered, "you seem to have overlooked the fact that you owe me a debt. I waited to remind you of it till you had finished your time—now—I intend to be paid.""A—debt?""Yes, a—debt," he answered mockingly, "after Anthony's—lamented death—what became of—our joint property?"The colour flamed over her face."Are you speaking of the things you and he stole, in your infamous career?" she cried, springing to her feet, and facing him, her voice shaking with anger; "immediately after Anthony's—death, I sent away all that he and you had taken from innocent people."

"Sent the things away," Stanburn would have sprung at her, but for the look on Dunbar's face; "were you raving mad? To whom did you send them?""Anthony boasted to me—the day before he died—he told me the dreadful truth for the first time, he boasted about the people he had robbed—and—as far us could be—I returned the stolen goods. Where I could not return them, I sold everything I possessed, to send money as an equivalent. My hands are clean." An oath broke from Stanburn; he turned fiercely to Sir Brian."You seem to be greatly interested in—this lady," he said; "perhaps you are unaware of her identity. No, you needn't interrupt. You may as well hear the whole truth now. She is Margaret Merivale, wife of a certain Anthony Merivale. He and I—did business together—profitable business. His wife—as she has just told us—took exception to the business, and—incidentally murdered her husband. She came out of prison——""Another syllable and I throttle you," Brian said, with a deadly quietness more terrible than any raving could have been; "you can leave the room, and the house, at once. If you attempt to come near this lady again, you will be handed over to the police. She is no longer a lonely woman to be persecuted by vermin like you. Before the week is out, I pray God she will be my wife." At the simple, chivalrous words, Margaret turned impulsively to the speaker, her soft eyes misty with tears."I," she faltered, "I"—and then she put her hands into his without another word, whilst Stanburn with a venemous glance at Sir Brian's stern face and stalwart form, slunk out of the room silently, like the coward he had always been."What he said—was true," Margaret murmured, after a silence, drawing her hands from Brian's close grasp. "I was the wife of Anthony Merivale. I—married him"—she shuddered, "because my father was in his power, and my marriage was the only way to save the dear old Dad. And—just before Anthony—died," again she shuddered, "I found he was one of a gang of thieves—common thieves, who robbed their fellow creatures. It—was not true that I murdered Anthony," Brian caught her hands again and held them closely, "I—was accused of the crime, I was in prison for ten years—but—I did not kill him. Though—I hated him—I would not have hurt him.""You need not have told me that, dear love," Brian's voice rang with a great tenderness; "even if the truth is never known, I shall always be sure of your innocence. Your soul is as beautiful as your face.""But—your wife!" Margaret cried suddenly, trying, but in vain, to withdraw her hands once more."My poor wife is dead," he said very gently, "one bitter night in the winter she managed to get into the garden, and she never rallied from the attack of pneumonia that followed. At the end she was very quiet, very penitent, but she made it clear that Hardcastle, that fiend Hardcastle, hyptonised her, drugged her, and encouraged her to drink, in order to experiment upon her mind. She was always unbalanced and uncontrolled, and finally her mind became completely unhinged. She said he had stolen her mind. Poor soul! she spoke the truth.""Then perhaps—there is no dreadful inheritance for little Maisie?""Thank God—no. I believe that I need not be afraid of what has been a nightmare to me for years. There is no reason to think that my wife's madness will be inherited by either of her children—by the girl you have cared for, or by Maisie""My Juliet is your wife's child?"Brian briefly told her the story that he had heard from Mr. Cartwright, ending with the words:"And I propose to take Juliet Cartwright to Verrymore to live there as my eldest daughter, until that good young fellow Tom Dacre claims her. Her foster-father is obliged to go back to Australia, but he sees what Dacre is made of, and Juliet, if she so wishes it, will stay in England with me—with us—dear heart, if you will come to take care of us all.""But my name?—my past? I could not let you—""My name will be your name, if you do as I ask you, dear," he said very gently; "let the dead past bury its dead. And—could you not let me make you my wife, if you knew—that all my happiness, all my life, lies in your hands, my sweet?""All your happiness? All your life?" she answered, looking into his face with dreamy, love-lit eyes, "ah! if you want me like that, if you really want me, I will—come to you—and give you the best I have to give. You—are—all my world.""My queen," Brian answered with a tender triumph in his voice, as his lips touched hers, "my queen—with the beautiful soul."LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.