"Thursday.
"Dear Mrs. Meadowsweet,—Will you and Miss Beatrice join the girls and me at dinner this afternoon? Your daughter has already kindly promised to come here to play tennis to-day—at least I understand from Kate that such is the arrangement. Will you come with her? We old people can sit quietly under the shade of the trees and enjoy our tea, while the young folks exert themselves. Hoping to see you both,
"Believe me,
"Yours sincerely,
"Catherine de Clifford Bertram."
Mrs. Bertram put this letter into an envelope, directed it in her dashing and lady-like hand, and then in a slow and stately fashion proceeded to walk down the avenue to the lodge. She was always rather slow in her movements, and she was slower than usual to-day. She scarcely owned to herself that she was tired, worried—in short, that the strong vitality within her was sapped at its foundation.
A man or a woman can often live for a long time after this operation takes place, but they are never the same again. They go slowly, with the gait of those who are halt, through life.
Mrs. Bertram reached the lodge, and after the imperious fashion of her class did not even knock at the closed door before she lifted the latch and went in.
It was a shabby, little, tumble-down lodge. It needed papering, and white-washing, and cleaning; in winter the roof let in rain, and the rickety, ill-fitting windows admitted the cold and wind. Now, however, it was the middle of summer. Virginia creeper and ivy, honeysuckle and jasmine, nearly covered the walls. The little place looked picturesque without; and within, honest, hard-working Mrs. Tester contrived with plentiful scouring and washing to give a clean and cosy effect.
Mrs. Bertram, as she stepped into the kitchen, noticed the nice little fire in the bright grate (the lodge boasted of no range); she also saw a pile of buttered toast on the hob, and the tiny kitchen was fragrant with the smell of fresh coffee.