But that was a task of no slight difficulty. James Graham had always believed Walcott guilty of a barbarous attack on his wife; he thought that he had been lightly punished, and would not admit that he was to be received when he came out of prison as though he had never been sent there. When Clara told him of Lettice's audacity he was terribly shocked—as indeed were all who heard the story—and his resentment against Alan increased. The news that they were happy together did not produce the good effect upon his temper which Clara thought it might have done.
It was Lettice herself who tackled Mrs. Hartley. She wrote her a long and candid letter, very apologetic as regarded her conduct in Italy, but quite the opposite when she spoke of what she had done since she came back to London. The answer was short, but much to the point.
"I thought you would write to me," Mrs. Hartley said, in her note. "I should hardly have forgiven you if you had not. There is some of your letter which I cannot understand, and some which I do not quite agree with. But come and explain it to me. I am an old woman, and have no time to be angry with those I love. Come on Thursday afternoon—alone—and we will have a good talk."
So Lettice went, and made her peace with her old friend, and was admitted to her favor again. But Alan was on probation still. The last thing which he would have expected, or indeed desired, was that he should be received and treated by his former acquaintance as though nothing had happened since he was a welcome guest in their houses. Especially as he and Lettice had not yet settled the question which all their friends were asking: "How would it end?"
CHAPTER XXXVI.
MISTRESS AND MAID.
Poor Milly Harrington had faithfully kept her promise of amendment. She was as loyal and serviceable to her mistress as any one could be, and evidently did her utmost to show her gratitude to Lettice, studying her tastes, and, as far possible, anticipating her wishes. But it was plain that she was not happy. When not making an effort to be cheerful as part of her daily duty, she would sit brooding over the past and trembling for the future; and, though she tried to conceal her hopeless moods, they had not altogether escaped notice.
Lettice was troubled by Milly's unhappiness. She had taken deep pity on the girl, and wanted, for more reasons than one, to save her from the worst consequences of her mistakes. To see her, in common parlance, "going to the bad"—ruined in body and in soul—would have been to Lettice, for Sydney's sake, a burden almost heavier than she could bear. For this reason had she brought the girl up to London and taken her into her own service again; and from day to day she watched her with kindly interest and concern.
Milly's good looks could scarcely be said to have come back to her, for she was still thin and haggard, with the weary look of one to whom life has brought crushing sorrow and sickness of heart. But her eyes were pretty, and her face, in spite of its worn expression, was interesting and attractive. Lettice was hardly surprised, although a little startled, to find her talking one day in a somewhat confidential manner to a man of highly respectable appearance who was walking across the Common by her side as she came home one day from a shopping expedition. It was, perhaps, natural that Milly should have acquaintances. But Lettice felt a sudden pang of anxiety on the girl's account. She did not know whether she had been seen, and whether it was her duty to speak to her maid about it; but her hesitation was ended by Milly herself, who came to her room that night, and asked to speak with her.