The
Daughter Pays

By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds

A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers —— New York

Published by Arrangements with George H. Doran Company

Copyright, 1915, 1916,
By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds

TO
ALICE PERRIN
PRE-EMINENT IN SYMPATHY FOR THE WORK OF HER SISTER WRITER
WITH AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION

Qui que tu sois, voici ton maître!
Il l'est, le fut, ou le doit être.
Inscription upon a statue of Love, in the Louvre.
Freely rendered—
Whoe'er thou art, thy lord is he.
He is, or was, or he must be.

CONTENTS

THE DAUGHTER PAYS

CHAPTER I

THE MAN IN THE GALLERY

"Yes, I have felt like some deserted world
That God hath done with, and had cast aside
Untilled, no use, no pleasure, not desired ...
Could such a world have hope that, some blest day,
God would remember her, and fashion her
Anew?"—Jean Ingelow.

The full sunshine of late June, tempered by the medium of London atmosphere, illumined the long extent of Gallery Number Sixteen at Hertford House.

It was a pay-day, and there were, in consequence, but few visitors. The expanse of polished floor glimmered with a suggestion of coolness, a hint of ice; and the summer light touched with brilliance the rich colour on the walls, the mellow harmonies of the bits of old furniture ranged below.

The space and solitude, the silence and sunlight, emphasised and threw into strong relief the figures of two girls, deep in contemplation before the portrait of Isabella, wife of Paul de Vos.

Though these were modern, even ultra-modern, Nattier and Boucher, great interpreters of an artificial age, might have hailed them as kindred spirits. They seemed eloquent of all that luxury could produce in the way of exotic perfection. But for the absence of rouge and powder, they were as far removed from the dingy, the commonplace, or the underbred, as any pre-Revolution marquise, smiling from the windows of her château upon a world dark with misery, convulsed with pain, and all unconscious of its very existence.

Far indeed from these hot-house blooms seemed the seamy side. They were of those who feed on the roses and lie in the lilies of life. They belonged to the class which a novelist of our own day has so happily described as expensive. They were the fine flower of our epoch, and unconscious of their own supreme selfishness.

One was of the petite type, gipsy brown and captivating, from the tip of her plumes to the shoes and stockings which matched her gown, and upon whose buckles the light winked. The other was taller and more willowy. She was not big, but formed with the lithe grace of the modern Atalanta. Something in the veiled loveliness of her soft eye suggested a dove. Her hair was fair, and her face, wide across the brows, and tapering at the chin, seemed designed to make an involuntary appeal to the heartstrings of any man who looked at her. Every movement of this girl was graceful. Yet one would have felt certain that her grace was unstudied; she was not self-conscious; her attentions seemed entirely absorbed by the beauty of the paintings at which she gazed.

Thus she stood, her chin uplifted; and a man who entered, with halting step, from Gallery Fifteen, shot a keen glance and stopped short.

He was not a young man, and his dress, for London, was negligent; whilst his long black moustache gave him a slightly out-of-date, or provincial, aspect. His black hair showed some grey at the temples, but he appeared to be in vigorous health.

For some long moments he stood in absorbed contemplation of the girlish figure isolated against the dim, dignified background of the gallery: and as he gazed there crept into his face an expression which made it almost devilish. Every feature hardened—the mouth took on a sneer, the eyes glowed with some concentration of feeling which altered his whole face for the worse.

As yet unconscious of his presence, the girl gazed on; and after a minute her smaller, darker friend strolled up and joined her. She said something that made the other laugh. The chime of their mirth sounded sweetly through the empty space, but brought to the lips of the watcher a curl of contempt. He began to move forward slowly, seemingly intent upon the pictures, but always coming nearer, until he stood where he could hear the girls' light, careless talk.

"My dear," said the smaller girl, "I am thinking all the time what a fancy dress this would make, for anybody that could wear it." They were standing before Mierevelt's lovely portrait of the young nameless lady in the ruff.

As her companion did not immediately reply, she added insistently: "Virginia! Did you hear?"

The lame man started, or, as it were, winced at the sound of the name; yet a certain satisfaction crept into his eyes, as of one who only reflects: "I thought so! I was not mistaken."

Virginia, thus appealed to, brought her dreamy gaze from the portrait of the burgomaster who sits with his small son. "What? A fancy dress? Oh, Mims, yes! That little bit of stiffened lace round the back of her hair is an inspiration. I could make it, too—I see just how it's done."

The two proceeded to examine the head-dress in detail, with girlish talk about the way to copy it. "Gold embroidery all down the front of her gown. How sweet!" sighed Virginia admiringly. "But that ruff—would it do?"

"For you? Of course! You could wear it, for you have a throat. But what did little people like me do, when they had all that between their chin and their chest?"

Virginia was much amused. "No, Mims, you were not made for a ruff! But then, en revanche, you can wear all those lovely Venetian reds and ambers that I can't touch!"

Childish talk, but with no suspicion of a critical listener! The lame man heard every word. As the eager girl turned to point across the gallery to a picture exemplifying the colours she meant, she slightly brushed against him, for he was standing within a few feet of her. He stepped back, raising his hat in acknowledgment of her gentle apology; and his eyes, full of something between hostility and contempt, met hers hardly, as if in a challenge, for a puzzling instant before he turned away and limped to another place.

Virginia's colour rose and her lips set, as if an unspoken insult had reached her. She was not used to read hostility in the eyes of men. She recovered, however, in a moment, and continued her study of the pictures, moving round for some minutes longer, until Miriam, leaning near her, murmured:

"Shall we go into the next room? There is a custodian there, and that man keeps on staring odiously."

"Yes; let us go and look at the Greuzes," replied Virginia.

It was not long before the unknown man followed them. He was now more careful, however, and kept his eyes for the beauties of the catalogue instead of allowing them to roam towards the beauties of his own day.

"I don't think he meant to be rude," presently said Virginia doubtfully. "He looked at me almost as though he thought he knew me—as if he expected me to speak to him."

"My dear, it is evident that you must never be allowed to go about London alone," laughed Mims. "As if he knew you, indeed! That's the commonest dodge of all. I am sure he is trying to be rude—he is edging round here now——"

"Oh, nonsense! Let us think about the pictures and take no notice. He could not be rude in a public place like this—he cannot think we are girls of that sort."

"There's the portrait of you," said Mims mischievously, pausing before Greuze's picture entitled "Innocence"—the picture with the lamb.

It was true, the likeness was striking. Virginia even coloured slightly as she gazed. "Chocolate box!" said she disdainfully. "Greuze is only pretty-pretty! I would far rather be like Isabella de Vos!"

As she spoke she moved away with her undulating grace, the lame man having again approached nearer than was quite consistent with good manners.

"That's the worst of you, Virginia—you can't go about without dragging backwards the heads of all the men that pass," said Mims in injured tones.

"Talk about glass-houses!" was her friend's sarcastic response, adding with a little sigh: "Well, you won't long be troubled. Cinderella's clock strikes to-morrow, and I go back to Wayhurst and my native obscurity."

Miriam's soft, dark eyes clouded.

"Native obscurity! No, my dear, that's the tragedy! You were not born to it, and you will never thrive in it! Oh, the pity! I could cry when I think of you, mewed up in that wee brick-box of a villa, and when I remember that it's not much more than two years ago since we were staying with you at Lissendean—riding, hunting, motoring!"

"Don't talk of it, Mimsie, for pity's sake! It can't be helped, you know; and, of course, it isn't half as bad for me as for poor mother."

Mims made a grumpy sound. She was depressed, not only by her friend's impending departure, but by the thought of that friend's destiny.

Virginia Mynors, in the days when she and Miriam Rosenberg were at school together, had been queen of everything. She was the elder daughter of a county gentleman, her clothes came from the best places, she took all the extras, rode, swam, hunted—with no more thought of ways and means than her present appearance led one to suppose.

During the weary days of her father's long illness—a kind of creeping paralysis which lasted for two years—Virginia had known that he had money troubles. But though she had been his devoted nurse and trusted secretary, she was no more prepared than was her butterfly mother for the state of financial catastrophe revealed at his death. The solid ground had failed beneath her feet. Everything was gone. Even Lissendean, the home in which she had been born, was mortgaged. They all moved out, the house was let, and upon the few hundreds a year received as rent her mother, herself, her brother Antony, and her little sister Pansy, were to live.

Virginia had to be the moving spirit in it all. She elected to settle at Wayhurst, because there is an excellent public school there, and, as a day boy, Antony, who was nearly fourteen, might obtain the education of a gentleman. For nearly two years now such had been the girl's life. Yet even Miriam did not guess the truth—did not guess the drudgery and devotion of Virginia's daily round.

Mr. Rosenberg was what is described as rolling in money. He had social ambitions, and was very well pleased when his daughter made friends at school with the daughter of Bernard Mynors. The Rosenbergs, brother and sister, had more than once accepted the whole-hearted hospitality of Lissendean. Their father could not, therefore, with any good grace, make objections to Miriam's pleading when she begged to have Virginia to stay with her.

Miriam had a great deal too much pocket-money. She sent a substantial cheque to Virginia, that she might provide herself with an outfit and railway fares for the projected visit. Virginia was able to devote part of this cheque to the providing of what was locally known as a "supply" to do the housework while she herself was away. She belonged, indeed, to that wonderful type of woman who can make a pound, expended upon clothes, go as far as another woman makes five, or even ten. She arrived in Bryanston Square for her visit with exactly the right frocks, with her spirits high, and her bloom unimpaired, in spite of the hard life she led. Youth and high spirit will carry all before them. Mr. Rosenberg, when his astute eye rested upon the charming creature, became suddenly aware of her as an incarnate temptation to his son Gerald, upon whom all his hopes were concentrated.

Mr. Rosenberg was not without good impulses. He desired to befriend this beautiful girl to whom Fate had shown herself so cruel. It was, however, more than could be demanded of human nature that he should be ready to console her for her misfortunes with the gift of all his wealth and all his social ambition. As a man of business, he divined her mother to have been the ruin of the family. He knew Mrs. Mynors as a lovely, vain, shallow and selfish person, who all her life had lived for her own amusement. Such a mother-in-law would be a burden that Gerald could never carry. Moreover, there were two younger children, of whom one, the little girl, was badly crippled—a permanent invalid.

Had Virginia, being her father's daughter, stood alone, it is just possible that her extreme beauty would have brought Mr. Rosenberg to the point of allowing the match. With her encumbrances he felt it to be impossible. He did not know that it was at Gerald's instigation that Mims had gone to the length of actually financing the scheme of the visit. Yet his shrewdness rather suspected something of the sort. During the whole fortnight of Virginia's sojourn he had been on tenter-hooks—manœuvring to keep his son out of the way without seeming to do so.

They had—thanks, he felt sure, to his policy—arrived safely at the last day of Miss Mynors' stay. Last moments, however, are fraught with particular danger. Mr. Rosenberg could not feel that he was as yet "out of the wood," and would probably have undergone even worse apprehensions had he known of Gerald's appointment to meet the two girls at Hertford House and give them tea.

"If we hadn't arranged to meet Gerald here, I would just walk right away, out of the place," muttered Mims presently. "I wish that man would not dog us like this."

"Let us leave off looking at the pictures," suggested Virginia, "and go and sit at the top of the staircase, in that recess. Then we shall see Mr. Rosenberg as he comes up—and the man could hardly pursue us there without being openly offensive."

"Good!" replied Mims with satisfaction. They left the Boucher room, in which the stranger seemed to be absorbed in contemplation, and seated themselves in the alcove, behind the statue of "Triumphant Love."

They made a dainty picture in the fuller light which fell upon them there; and they sat on undisturbed until they saw the head of their escort appearing above the edge of the staircase.

Mims stood up and called to him, and in a moment he had joined them.

"Tired of the pictures already?" he asked, glancing at his watch. "I am not late, am I?"

"Oh, no, not a bit. We have only been here a very few minutes," replied his sister, noting that the lame man was now standing in the doorway, and that his eyes were fixed on Gerald.

"Read what is written round the pedestal of this statue, boy," she went on mischievously. "Is it true, or is it not?"

Gerald stooped over the words cut upon the circular base of the figure. He was not actually a handsome man, but he was, without doubt, distinguished-looking. Mr. Rosenberg senior prided himself upon the fact that his son's face showed no racial characteristics. His features were clean-cut, he was well-shaved and well-groomed, carried himself with dignity, and was usually self-possessed. He stood before the marble cupid, conscious in every nerve of the close proximity of his sister's beautiful friend, and read aloud the couplet:

Qui que tu sois, voici ton maître!
Il l'est, le fut, ou le doit être.

"Is it true, Gerald?" asked Mims naughtily. He looked at Virginia.

"Is it true, Miss Mynors?"

Virginia hesitated. "Well, I think it is, but not in the sense in which this inscription means it," she ventured timidly. "I mean—there is a love which is stronger than anything or anybody—but not that love—not that silly winged boy." She blushed a little as she spoke, and looked so divinely pretty, her small teeth just showing between the parted lips, her shadowy, Greuze eyes uplifted, that Gerald felt his head swim.

"I think you are right," he said, speaking with extra gravity to hide his emotion.

"Virgie is simply ridiculous about love," grumbled Mims. "She would give away her head, her heart, her hand, anything she had, for those she loves—her mother and her little sister——"

"And Tony," reprovingly put in Virginia.

"And Tony," teased her friend. "Isn't she a baby, Gerald?"

The young man considered her. "Or an angel?" he suggested. There was, to him, something awe-inspiring in the simplicity of this girl. With a face that might have brought the world to her feet, she was absorbed in the domestic affections, untouched, as it would seem, by the admiration she excited.

"Well, as the car is down there waiting, we had better be off," remarked Mims, after a short interval in which she had left the two to talk together. "Are you going to take us to Fuller's, Gerald? If so, we ought to move on. You know we must dine early; we are going to the theatre for Virgie's last night."

The eyes of the man and the girl met, upon that, with mutual regret. Her last night! Cinderella must put off her dainty raiment and return to her saucepan-scouring, bed-making, account-keeping, making-ends-meet existence. The pang that shot through Gerald's heart was so like physical pain that he had a fanciful idea of the marble boy—the "Triumphant Love" who looked smiling down upon them—having shot his dart and reached the mark of his innermost feeling.

Could he let her go?

Like his father, he was a man of the world. Like his father, he had planned the alliance with birth and money which was to establish his position among English gentry. There was a sharp struggle in his mind. Had Virginia had one ounce of the coquette in her, she could have clinched the matter in five minutes.

The lame man, who had watched the whole colloquy, descended the stairs behind them in time to see the perfectly appointed motor in waiting, with its two men in livery. As he turned about and reascended to enter the galleries once more, there was a bitter sneer on his mouth, a look of active malevolence, as of one who deliberately turns his back upon his better feelings.

CHAPTER II

FATHER AND SON

"The wise sometimes from wisdom's ways depart:
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul."—Byron.

The three young people, after partaking at Fuller's of an excellent tea, returned to Bryanston Square in good time to dress for dinner.

As they entered the house, Mr. Rosenberg emerged from his library on the ground floor, and called to Gerald, who, thus summoned, hung up his hat and walked into the dark, cool room where his father was seated at his roll-top desk, with a letter lying before him.

The elder man looked up at his only son with a kindly, half-rueful expression. "Gerald," he said, "I'm not as a rule tyrannical, and I think you will admit that I don't pry unduly into your affairs."

"I do admit it, father——"

"Well, if I put a question which may seem to you unwarranted, I want you to understand that there is grave reason for it. The question is this. Is there any understanding between yourself and Miss Mynors?"

Gerald flushed, a slow, dark flush, as he seated himself near his father, his eyes on the ground. "No," he said quietly, "not as yet."

"Ha!" The shrewd, kindly eyes above the rims of the reading-glasses were fixed upon him. "That means that you might—eh, Gerald?"

The younger man did not at once reply. He seemed to be weighing carefully the thing he wished to say. At last:

"I am not a fool, father," he began, "and I have ambition, or I should be no son of yours. I should prefer to make a marriage which would establish me socially." Embarrassment made his phrasing somewhat stilted. "You will remember that when I first saw Miss Mynors, she was the daughter of a man with a county position. One assumed the adequate rent-roll that went with it."

"Yes, yes, my boy—I quite understand."

There was a pause. "She is far the most beautiful girl I ever saw," said Gerald at length.

"I grant it."

"She has also a beautiful disposition."

"H'mph!"

"Yes, it is so. Her birth being undeniable, and her beauty so great, I have been wondering whether—whether anything else that is within my reach could ever be as well worth having—could ever compensate me for her loss."

"In short, my able, intellectual son is preparing to consider the world well lost for love—eh?"

"I think, father, you will admit the temptation to do so in this case."

"I do," was the answer, in tones abrupt but heartfelt. "I don't mind owning that, during the past fortnight, while seeing whither you were drifting, I have been half-inclined to drift also in that direction. But, my boy, it won't do." He laid his clenched hand heavily on the desk before him. "I tell you plainly that it won't do. The girl is beautiful, I don't deny it. But she comes of a bad stock. Her mother is a woman whom I should describe as having no moral sense. They are beggars. You would have bound upon your back, for the term of your natural life, a ready-made family of three, none of whom, I dare swear, will ever earn a farthing as long as they live. Just run your eye over that."

With a sudden twisting gesture he pushed a note, on lavender paper with a tiny, narrow black border, and scented with orris root, towards where his son sat. Gerald read:

Laburnum Villa, Wayhurst.

My dear, generous friend,

With your kindness to my Virginia already placing me under a burden of obligation to you, it must indeed seem to you that I stretch friendship to its utmost in writing to weary you with my troubles and to beseech advice. My excuses are, briefly, these: I know you to be an excellent man of business; and I know that you love my girl.

I will try not to be tiresome, and, indeed, the story of my misfortune, though dire, will not take long to tell. My poor husband—who, alas! had not your gift for finance—mortgaged our dear home during his lifetime. At his death, the debts on the estate swallowed up almost all other available money. We were obliged to let Lissendean, and to live upon the rent paid. I am quite unused to business, having lived, till my sad widowhood, so sheltered a life, and I forgot that if the payments were not kept up—the interest on the mortgage—I should lose the house altogether. Believe me, in our straitened circumstances, it was impossible to keep up the payments. Only yesterday have I heard from my solicitor that the mortgagee has foreclosed, and that we are left as destitute as though my husband had been a crossing-sweeper.

Can you suggest to me any means by which this trouble could be met? Is there any way of raising money by which I can stave off the utter ruin that threatens my helpless children? I turn to you as a last resort, and you will never know what it costs my pride to let you into the secret of our misery. Do not tell my darling child until her visit is over—let her have her happy, happy moments with you undimmed. I can break the bad news to her to-morrow, upon her return—or later, should you by any chance wish her to extend her visit.—I am, dear Mr. Rosenberg, your sorely tried friend,

Virginia Mynors.

The dark colour deepened upon Gerald's face as he read this letter. He laid it down with a gesture of distaste, and made no audible comment.

His father, looking sympathetically at him, tapped the paper with his broad finger-tips. "Gerald," he said, "that woman is a humbug, through and through. It is the letter of a cadger. Look at it—written on paper that cost exactly ten times what her note-paper ought to cost. Little things like that tell one a lot. No doubt everything else is on the same scale. I expect they are up to their necks in debt. What can I do with that letter, except send the writer ten pounds and regret my inability to help her further? Nobody could help her. But I tell you plainly, my son—if I can prevent it, as God's above us, that woman shall never be your mother-in-law."

He did not speak violently, but judicially, as one summing up a case.

"I went down there once, you may remember, for a week-end, while they were still at Lissendean," he continued. "I took her measure then. She is a woman who would fleece any man who could be got to admire her. She is that type. You think the girl is different. I tell you that what is bred in the bone will come out in the flesh. The girl isn't to be trusted any more than the mother. You see the position—absolutely destitute! Three of them! What is to happen? Say you marry—say you allow her two or three hundred a year—that's going to cripple you, and it isn't going to keep her." He spoke with ever-increasing urgency. "If you give her three, she'll spend five. If you give her five, she'll spend eight. Can't you see that for yourself, Gerald? It's all in that letter—every word of it—if you read between the lines."

"It's a contemptible letter," said Gerald, pushing back his chair abruptly; "but I can't believe that the girl——"

"Gerald, put it to yourself a moment. Even if the girl is the best girl in the world, are you prepared to keep the lot? Virginia's very qualities—her love for her family, her generosity where they are concerned—would be your ruin. You couldn't say no to her; she couldn't say no to them. There you would all be."

Gerald's face hardened. His likeness to his father came out clearly—breaking, as it were, through the polish of his public school and university training. He saw the case with the Rosenberg eye, and he flinched.

"But how," he stammered, and cleared his throat, "how am I to draw back with honour, father?"

"I've done that for you. That is, the way out is open if you will take it. The Liverpool house wrote me this morning, asking to have you sent down for a week—some bother about that inspector, Routledge; you know the man. I wired to the hotel that you might come on by the night train. It may fairly be called urgent. My counsel to you is that you just bolt—bolt and get clear away before you have committed yourself to a thing which must be hopeless."

Gerald leaned forward, covering his face with his hands. It was a very rare sign of feeling with him.

"You haven't committed yourself—you haven't said or done anything that makes it impossible to draw back?" asked the elder man in deep anxiety. "You said you hadn't."

"That is true. I have said nothing. I am not even certain what her answer would be. I could not say that she had given me any reason to hope. She is so serene, so impartially sweet, one cannot tell—like my 'Last Duchess,' you know—'who passed without much the same smile'?"

Mr. Rosenberg did not read Browning. The allusion passed him by.

"Then take your courage in your two hands, boy, and do as I tell you. In a month or two you'll be thanking me on your knees. Bolt, I tell you, bolt. Don't see her again. Leave a message by me—catch the restaurant-train. I told Brown to pack your valise, and the car is waiting."

Gerald was pale now. "She'll think me a cur."

"No such thing. I shall make good your case. Urgency. She will think you could not help yourself. She will look upon the affair as hung up, not ended. After a while she will forget it."

"But—but what are they to do?" stammered Gerald. "The mother may deserve this, but she doesn't. It is she who will have to suffer."

"She shall not suffer. I will send them enough to carry on, and I will recommend that wax doll of a mother to take a situation—to go as companion to some heiress or something—to put her shoulder to the wheel and help to keep her children. She has had a good run for her money, now let her taste the rough side of things for a while. Do her no harm. Do her good."

Gerald rose and went to the window, gazing out with unseeing eyes at the busy welter of society traffic—the swift cars, laden with well-dressed occupants, which flashed by in the summer evening.

His father watched him anxiously.

"Gerald," he said at last, "listen to me. If you go now—if you do as I tell you—there need be nothing final about it. The girl will be at Wayhurst—you will know where to find her. Suitors are not likely to be as common as blackberries, even with her looks. Take this chance to think things over more coolly than is possible when she is in the same house with you. I don't want to demand too great a sacrifice, boy——"

The last words were husky and wistful. He loved his son sincerely.

Gerald swung round. "You have me beat, as the Irish say," he muttered abruptly. "I know I'm not master of myself. If I speak to her, it might be against my better judgment; I might regret it. You are right—it is better to temporise, to postpone a decision. Yes, it is better—I am almost sure."

He spoke absently, jerkily. In his mind was one of those pictures which rise unbidden—and apparently without reason—to the memory. It was the picture of the face of a man he had remarked that afternoon at the Wallace collection, standing in the doorway of the Boucher room, as the Rosenberg party went downstairs. The man had a noticeable face—dark, with an expression in the eyes which brought to mind the word "smouldering."

He had watched the gay little party of three with an air that was like Mephistopheles sneering at Faust. "So! You are snared—snared like other men, by a pretty face and luminous eyes——"

That was what the silent watcher had conveyed to the prosperous young suitor.

Oddly, the recollection of his face, swimming all unaware into the field of memory, turned the scale.

"Yes, father, I shall go," said Gerald.

*****

"Why, where's Jerry?" demanded Mims, as she and Virginia entered the drawing-room, and proceeded to greet a couple of young men, who stood there with the before-I-have-dined expression upon their clean faces. "How do you do, Lawrence? How do you do, Mr. Bent? I expect our box will hold five."

"I telephoned Bent an hour ago, Mims," said Mr. Rosenberg. "Poor old Gerald has had a stroke of bad luck. I have been obliged to send him away."

Mims paused in consternation, and, as though she could not help it, her glance flew to Virginia. "To send him away? Why, where?" she cried blankly.

Virginia, more in reply to the glance than as a result of the news, coloured divinely. She had put on her very sweetest gown. It was a survival of Lissendean days, carefully altered by the finger of genius, so that it looked to be the very latest. It was pale blue, with touches of faint periwinkle mauve: and young Bent, as he gazed, was trying to decide which colour matched her eyes more nearly.

She was hurt. The news wounded. She had spent this fairy fortnight in luxury and also in a dream of happiness. She had not singled out Gerald as anything more than one factor in her bliss. He was just a part of a scheme of things which must be injured by any interference.

So unconscious was she of any deeper significance, that she turned at once to Mr. Rosenberg, lifting to him the eyes that even he found a difficulty in resisting, and cried impulsively:

"Do you mean that Gerald is gone—that I shall not see him again before I leave?"

"Why, if you are leaving in course of the next few days, I fear not," said the hypocrite. "He was not pleased, as you may imagine. But business is sometimes urgent, you know. Had he not gone, I must have done so myself: and he thought a night journey to Liverpool rather much to expect from a man of my age who had a son to send. Eh?"

"Of course," murmured Virginia. "But it is a pity! Spoils our last evening!"

"Oh, now, now, Miss Virginia! That is a little rough upon poor Bent, who has rallied up at a moment's notice to make your party complete. Confess now—in the lamentable circumstances, could I have done better? Eh? I think not. There is dinner announced. Come, take my arm. Mims must divide herself between the two young men."

CHAPTER III

VIRGINIA AT HOME

"Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend,
Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end,
That self might be annulled—her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to Love!"
—Wordsworth.

The six-forty-six express from London swept majestically into the station at Wayhurst.

It was one of the events of the day in the sleepy place—the arrival of the 6.46; the evening papers came down on that train. Many residents were on the platform—the retired Army men to fetch their Pall Mall Gazette, others to meet friends. There was nobody to meet Virginia Mynors, but evidently she did not expect it. She stood among the throng, in her simplest linen suit, and searched with her eyes for the outside porter. It was some time before she could secure his services—he was busy with more important clients—and when at last he had shouldered her trunk and hat-box, it was with the remark that he couldn't "promise to be out at the villas, not much afore nine o'clock, at any rate."

Virginia intimated that nine o'clock would suit, and turned, travelling-bag and umbrella-case in hand, to brave her hot walk. It was a sultry evening. The country town was bathed in dust; the roads, though it was almost seven o'clock, seemed shadeless. After a while the girl stopped to withdraw her sunshade from the case, and proceeded on her way, holding it up with one hand, the weight of her hand-luggage in the other.

She looked pale and dispirited. Somehow, the end of her glorious London visit had tailed off in dissatisfaction. The Rosenbergs had been kind—most kind—to the last. They had insisted upon keeping her one day longer, that Mr. Bent might take them to Hendon to see some flying. But longer than that she would not stay, for Pansy, her little lame sister, had written her a letter containing the following disquieting news:

Mama is in an awfull stayt. I think she has had bad news. She says we are rewend.

This last word Virginia interpreted "ruined," and as she plodded along the High Street, and up the Balchurch Road, past Sycamore Terrace and its handsome houses, to the region of tiny villas, these words were haunting her. She had supposed their ruin already accomplished. What could have happened afresh? What had mamma been doing? Incurring debts which she could not pay? This she was constantly doing upon a small scale, in spite of the fact that her daughter rigorously supervised her cheque-book and controlled the household expenditure.

Virginia took it for granted that her mother would always spend more than she ought, and was quite used to depriving herself of necessaries in order to provide mamma with such small luxuries as expensive soap, note-paper, perfume, a library subscription, and so on. Graver expenditure than this she had not anticipated; but she was blaming herself for having yielded to the imploring desire of Mims that she should go to London, and her mother's eager advocacy of the plan. She ought not to have left mamma to the management of anything; she knew it. She was prepared to find the weekly expenses doubled, but she had still a couple of sovereigns in her purse with which she hoped to meet this deficiency.

As she moved along in the heat, laden and depressed, her face assumed an aspect of anxiety which altered it surprisingly. Seen thus, it was obvious that she was not merely slender, but sadly thin: hollows were discernible in the cheeks, shadows lurked around the smiling mouth when it was grave.

At last Laburnum Villa was reached.

With a sigh of relief Virginia trod the tiny garden approach, pushed open the narrow door, and deposited her burdens within the passage.

The passage was extremely small. It was distempered in pale green (Virginia had distempered it), and the paint was white (Virginia had enamelled it). The floor was stained (Virginia had stained it), and on the ground there lay a very valuable old Persian corridor-rug, relic of Lissendean. From Lissendean, too, came the marble fountain-head which was used for umbrellas, and the little carved oak table.

Cinderella's expression changed as she entered her home—changed to an eager, glowing delight of anticipation. Light-footed she ran up the tiny staircase, and, pushing open the door of the back room on the landing, flew to the side of a child who lay almost flat upon an invalid-couch at the open window.

There were ecstatic cries: "Virgie, Virgie!" and "Pansy, my Pansy blossom!" and the two sisters were clinging together in a rapture of affection.

"Let's look at you, Virgie, darling! Oh, yes, you are better! It has done you good, hasn't it, dear? Plenty to eat—you never have enough at home."

"Pansy, Pansy, what nonsense you talk, you silly baby! Of course I always have plenty to eat! The point is, how have you been getting on? Has old Mrs. Brown fed you properly?"

Pansy was able to reassure her. The "supply" had been quite satisfactory. "Only she said she thought the missus didn't ought to expect no general to do up her boots for her, and mend her stockings," remarked the child. "I told her to give mamma's stockings to me—you know her darning was abominable. Mamma would never have worn them afterwards if she had done them. She grumbles enough as it is at having to wear darned stockings at all. Mrs. Brown is quite a kind old thing. She is staying to-night until eight o'clock to get supper, so that you should not have to set to work the moment you come home."

"That's a relief," owned Virginia, fetching a deck-chair and seating herself with her arms behind her head. "Where is mamma now?"

"She's still out, I think. I haven't heard her come in. She went this afternoon to call upon Major and Mrs. Simpson, and to buy some things to trim up a hat."

"Oh, but she doesn't want another hat——" began Virgie in vexation, and checked herself. "I only trimmed her a new one the day I left home."

"Well, somebody sent her some money yesterday, I think," replied Pansy. "She went this morning and bought herself a winter coat at Baxter's sale. She said it was an economy."

"And when the winter comes, she'll say it's out of date," replied Virgie with a little groan. "Oh dear, I do wish she wouldn't do things like that—with poor Tony's suit almost in rags."

"Well, you know it is no use for me to say anything, don't you, dear?" remarked Pansy, with the quaintest assumption of wisdom.

She would have been a pretty child but for her look of transparent, egg-shell frailness. Her hair, with bronze lights in it, clustered charmingly about her small face, and her eyes were as lovely as Virginia's own, but with the haggard, hungry expression of a child who has no health.

She was very small for her age, which was twelve. Her lameness was the result of a bad accident in babyhood. Mr. and Mrs. Mynors spent a winter on the Riviera, leaving their children in charge of a nurse who was not trustworthy. Mrs. Mynors had been warned that the nurse was flighty, but had taken no notice of the caution. She wished to set out on a certain date, and said she had no time to make other arrangements. The woman went out for what is now known as a "joy-ride" with the chauffeur and other chosen companions. She took with her Pansy, who was the baby, and Bernard, the elder boy, who was her favourite, leaving Tony at home in charge of Virginia. The party refreshed itself at many taverns on the way, and it was hardly surprising that the affair ended in a serious accident. Bernard was killed, and the baby's spine was injured.

The shock of his eldest son's loss was thought to have been the source of Mr. Mynors' own lingering illness. He had forgiven his wife many a flirtation, much consistent neglect of himself. He never forgave her for Bernard's death.

Nine-year-old Virginia waited, all that terrible day, and part of the night, for the return of the motoring party. Old Brand, the butler, who had been with the Mynors from the time of her father's boyhood, and who had begged his mistress not to leave this nurse in charge of the children, sat hour after hour with Virginia on his lap, until, at ten o'clock, he carried her up to bed, left her in charge of the under-nurse, and himself went out with one or two gardeners to see if he could hear news of the motor-party.

Virginia, though in bed, could not sleep. She lay listening, listening for a sound in the silent house, until the dawn began to break. Then she heard wheels—wheels and voices on the gravel of the drive; and, slipping from her bed, without arousing the fast-sleeping nursemaid or Tony, she ran downstairs in her white nightie.

All her life she would remember Brand's face as he strode into the hall and laid down upon a settle the burden that he carried—Bernard, with his head all shrouded in white linen. Then came a doctor, stern and tight-lipped, with the moaning baby in his arms. Virginia could still recall the carbolic smell of the doctor's clothes as he went upstairs, the blueness of the baby's face in its waxen stillness, and the silence punctuated by faint moans.

The grim realities of life came then to the girl's consciousness for the first time, never to leave her more. For some years—until she went to the school at which she met Miriam Rosenberg—she was grave and silent with a gravity unbefitting her years, her fine health, her promising future. After that she yielded to the spell of youth and friendship and adventure, and the world had seemed ever more alluring, until the final shock of her father's loss.

This hot afternoon, gazing down upon Pansy's pathetic fragility, she thought what sorrows had been hers in the twenty years of her short life. The future looked sadder than usual, and her customary good cheer was temporarily absent; she felt a curious depression, or sense of coming trouble.

"You look so grave, Virgie darling!"

"Pansy, I'm a perfect pig. I believe I am suffering from that horrible feeling we used to call 'after-the-party' feeling."

"I don't wonder," replied Pansy sagely. "It must be pretty rotten to come back from all that fun and luxury and money to start being maid of all work again. Oh, Virgie, what are we to do?"

"Do? Why, get on, of course—do our work and enjoy it!" cried Virginia, springing up and going to the window. "Oh, Pansy, the delphiniums! How this hot weather has brought them out! There was not one in bloom when I left."

"I thought you'd be pleased with that!" cried the child in eager delight. "And look at the roses too, Virgie—the Hiawatha that you thought was dead!"

"Darling Hiawatha! He came from home," whispered Virginia. She knelt by the window, her elbows on the sill and her curved chin resting on her hands, while her Greuze eyes rested on the row of little garden plots, on the farther row that abutted upon them, and on the backs of the houses beyond those. She was young, it was summer-time, and yet, and yet——

"Well," said Pansy, "did Gerald send me his love or anything?"

Virginia started. Gerald at the moment filled her thoughts. She had missed him when he went away—went away without a word! She had not expected to miss him so much. Yet, with the lack of perception of her youth, she failed to connect her present formless dejection with the thought of his departure.

Pulling herself together with a determined effort, she turned from the window, explained to Pansy the fact that Gerald had been obliged to rush off to Liverpool for his father, and thus had naturally not had time for any special message or present. "But I have got something for you, sweetums," she murmured caressingly. "You wait until the outside porter condescends to deliver my boxes! You only wait!"

The colour flooded the cripple's transparent skin. "Oh, Virgie, Virgie, what is it? Tell me what it is!"

"We'll make it a guessing game," replied Virgie. "I will just go and get on some old things, and we will play it properly. Where's Tony, by the way?"

"Gone with the eleven to play Balchurch. Did you know they have made him twelfth man? He's awfully bucked," said Pansy, with satisfaction. "I don't expect he'll be back yet."

"Oh! Pansy! but how splendid! He's very young, isn't he?"

"Two years younger than the youngest man in the eleven," announced Pansy, with satisfaction. "I'm making him a tie in the school colours." She took up her knitting with pride.

A sound in the hall below struck Virginia's ear. "There's mamma," she said; "I must go and greet her."

Slipping out of the room, she descended the stairs, and entering the tiny drawing-room on the right of the entrance passage, stood face to face with Mrs. Mynors.

It was hard to believe that these were mother and daughter; they looked more like sisters. The elder woman, in coquettish slight mourning, had the same face, broad at the brow, tapering at the chin, the same long lovely eyes, deep-lashed, the same poise of the head and wavy golden-brown hair. A close observer alone would mark differences. The elder woman's eyes were blue, like forget-me-nots—the hard blue that looks so soft, that never varies. Her daughter's were less easy to describe. They were changeful as the sea, responsive to varying skies; and just now, in the waning light, they seemed dark grey.

"Well, my chick, how are you? I was having tea with the Simpsons and forgot the time, or I should have been back before this. You are looking better for your change! I'm glad I persuaded you to go, though we get on pretty badly without you." Passing keen eyes over her daughter's face she seated herself, slightly drawing up her skirt with a motion which intimated that she expected to have her shoes untied.

Unhesitatingly Virginia knelt upon the ground and performed this service. The little room in which they were was a bower of luxury. In it were collected all the relics of their vanished past which Mrs. Mynors had thought herself unable to do without. Silver, miniatures, cushions, foot-stools, a soft couch, an empire writing-table. It was like the tiny boudoir of a rich woman. Its owner cast a disgusted glance about her, as she remarked: "Charwomen never will dust, will they?"

"Oh, I hoped you would have dusted this room yourself, just while I was away," replied Virginia, with a sigh, casting her housewifely eye upon the tarnished silver. It was a room which would take a good hour a day to keep in proper order.

"Well, Virgie, have you any news for me?" asked Mrs. Mynors presently, in her voice of tantalising sweetness.

Virginia raised her eyes, puzzled by something in the voice. "News?" she answered wonderingly. "Nothing very special. I told you most of it in my letters. The flying yesterday was most interesting—quite worth staying for."

Mrs. Mynors sat meditatively, while her daughter left the room, went upstairs, found indoor shoes and brought them down. She then carefully pulled the pins from the becoming hat and removed it, her mother sitting in calm acquiescence the while. Mrs. Mynors was uneasy. Her reading between the lines in Virginia's innocent letters had certainly led her to conclude that Gerald Rosenberg meant to marry the girl. Had she herself made a fatal mistake in sending that letter to Gerald's father before the matter had been clinched? She had felt doubts, but her dire need had driven her on. Now she was wondering how to find words in which to convey to Virginia the blow which had descended.

Virginia always divided the money. Each quarter she had apportioned to her mother the sum for the interest on the mortgage. There had always been something else on which that money must be spent.

What would Virgie say when she knew that Lissendean had gone, vanished; that they would never revisit it; that Tony could never come into his inheritance?

Far though she was from any feeling of self-blame, she yet was conscious of discomfort as she looked at her daughter's unsuspecting face.

It was easy to decide not to spoil Virgie's first evening at home by bad news. Leaving her daughter to carry her hat, gloves and sunshade to the room above, she settled herself luxuriously by the open window, with her feet up, and plunged into temporary forgetfulness in the pages of a very exciting novel.

Meanwhile—the outside porter proving better than his word—the trunk arrived and was unpacked. The enraptured Pansy found herself mistress of a doll of almost inconceivable beauty, with jointed limbs, and a body that could be washed in real water. Mims had added a chest of drawers, and various articles of costume. The dressing and undressing of dolls had always been the little cripple's one joy. And never had she hoped to possess such a doll as this.

Then Tony came home, hot and exultant, looking such a fine boy in his flannels and blazer. His team had beaten the other after a hard fight, during which, of course, the umpire had given an l.b.w., grossly unfair and in favour of the rival eleven.

He received his own present very graciously—a curious collection of oddments it seemed to the unlearned; but he had marked what he wanted in a catalogue, and his sister had obediently bought as directed. Contrite wheels, eccentrics, female screws, and so on, were darkness to her mind, but pure joy to the recipient.

Her gift to her mother—a pair of really nice gloves—was also accepted graciously, though with an absence of enthusiasm which led Virginia to suspect that other things, besides the winter coat, had been purchased that morning at Baxter's sale. Who could have sent money to her mother? She could think of nobody; for the men friends who had hovered continually about Lissendean had never penetrated to Laburnum Villa. Mamma, however, made no confidence, and could not, of course, be questioned.

It came to be time for Mrs. Brown to depart. Mamma had no silver, and asked Virgie to pay her off. The young housekeeper then felt at liberty to go and survey her kitchen premises, and to heave deep sighs at the sight of so many dirty pots and pans, and the inevitable brown patch burnt upon the enamel of her favourite milk-saucepan.

CHAPTER IV

THE TWO VIRGINIAS

"But hadst thou—Oh, with that same perfect face,
And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,
And that same voice my soul hears, as a bird
The fowler's note, and follows to the snare!—
Hadst thou, with these the same, but brought a mind!"
—R. Browning.

Nobody who saw Virginia next morning, in her blue linen overall, bringing up her mother's early morning tea, would have recognised the dainty flower of luxury who had moved over the polished floors of the galleries of Hertford House. She put the tray beside the bed, drew back the curtains, and brought in the hot water, just as a housemaid might have done. Mrs. Mynors, rosy and beautiful among her pillows, rubbed her sleepy eyes, and murmured "Thank you, dear one!" in a perfunctory manner, stretching her white arms luxuriously, and adding fretfully: "Another grilling day!"

Virginia returned no answer to this comment, but withdrew to the kitchen, where Tony sat munching his fried bread and bacon and drinking his coffee with a schoolboy's appetite. When he had been despatched, clean and ready for his day's work, there was Pansy's breakfast to be thought of. Dainty toast, fresh tea, a spoonful of jam, were arranged on a pretty tray and carried upstairs. Then Virginia was at leisure to sit down for a few minutes, drink what was left of the coffee in Tony's pot, and eat some bread-and-butter. In truth she had little appetite. The heat sapped her strength, and she reflected sadly that it was a mistake to go away.

A holiday made it harder to begin again.

From the moment of finishing her breakfast till the moment of laying lunch, she never ceased from her labours. The kitchen had to be thoroughly scrubbed before its dainty mistress could be friends with it again. Then there were beds to make, a room to sweep, three rooms to dust. Then her mother came down, drank a cup of Bovril, and settled herself in the garden with some embroidery, while Virginia went up to make her bed and do her room.

When lunch had been cleared and washed up, the drudge had an hour's breathing space. She spent it lying upon the bed in Pansy's room, the little cripple having been moved as usual to her invalid couch by the window. Virginia was so tired that she herself felt alarmed. What was to become of them all if her health were to give way? The thought was too horrible to be dwelt upon.

Her mother, remarking the depression of her spirits, was vexed. She could not help wishing that Virginia were not quite such a simpleton. If she had had an ounce of the coquette in her, she could have secured Gerald Rosenberg, and all would have been well. Mrs. Mynors had refrained from any kind of hint when the girl went to London in response to Miriam's urgent invitation. She thought her hint might defeat itself. Now she was wondering whether, in view of her daughter's obtuseness, she would not have done well to let her know what was expected of her. She could see that the girl was out of heart, and she shrank, partly from cowardice, partly from affection, from dealing the final blow. Yes, her utter selfishness notwithstanding, Mrs. Mynors had some affection for Virginia. She misunderstood the girl, and undervalued her; she accepted all her burnt offerings and sacrifices as manifestly her own due; yet she trusted and leaned upon her with all the weight of her own empty egotism.

Next morning, when the little figure in its blue overall brought in the tea, there was a business-like letter lying upon the tray.

Mrs. Mynors did not open it until she had enjoyed her tea, for it was from the solicitors who had foreclosed the mortgage, and well she knew that it was not likely to contain anything that would please her.

She lay for some time—after she had eaten and drunk—glancing at the morning paper, and trying to determine to face the necessary unpleasantness. At last, heaving a sigh of boundless self-pity, she took the envelope in her pretty white hands and opened it.

As she read a sudden flush mounted to her very brow. A smothered exclamation broke from her. She was seized with trembling, her heart beat suffocatingly, and with a bound she sprang from bed, rushed to her mirror, and stood there, surveying with sparkling eyes the image of Virginia Mynors at the age of forty-one.

Oh, did the mirror lie, or was it true that she was very nearly as pretty as ever? Hardly a silver thread in the beautiful ripe gold hair that had no slightest hint of red in it! The teeth still perfect within the pretty lips, barely discernible crows' feet at the corners of the brilliant, expressive eyes! Plumper she was no doubt, but to be plump prevents wrinkles. As she stood there, even in her disarray, she knew that she did not deceive herself. She was still a most attractive woman.

... And fate had sent her a chance like this! With pulses racing she crept back to her bed and curled up there, trying to decide how best to take advantage of this marvellous coincidence, this strange turn of fortune's wheel. What a good thing that she was a woman of experience, no longer a shy girl. She must not lose this chance, as silly Virginia had lost hers! No, no! She was too clever for that. How well the French wit had said: "Si la jeunesse savait! Si la vieillesse pouvait!"

In herself, the two states of youth and age were met felicitously. She was old enough to know, young enough to enjoy! If she could not now take hold on circumstance, and wrest her defeat into pure victory, then she was no better than a fool—and she had never thought herself that.

All the time she was dressing her lips would part in a smile that revealed those pretty teeth, and a dimple which still lurked in a fold of her smooth cheek. She passed her own plans in review before her mind, pondering—pondering as to how much she would have to tell Virgie. Her excitement was so great that she felt sure she would have to tell most of it. Thrills of anticipation coursed most agreeably through her being. How had she been able to bear it so far—this crushing, stifling existence in an odious little box in a horrid third-rate town? How patient she had been! What a martyrdom she had borne! For the children it was of course different. For her it had been a living burial. Now that it was over—now that she saw a shining gateway admitting her back to the world she loved so well, it seemed incredible that she could have stood it so long.

... What would Virgie say now—Virgie, who was always so mean and stingy, reproving her for gratifying even the simplest taste, expecting her to live as though she had been brought up in one of the cottages on her husband's estate? She pictured the rapture of gratitude and devotion with which the girl would realise that her mother's charm, her mother's ability to hold a man's affection for twenty years and more, was to mend the family fortunes. She faced—only to disregard it—the fact that Virginia would have some ridiculous scruples about her father's memory. She recollected very soon that, for Pansy's sake, the girl would welcome any way out—Pansy, whose lameness might be cured, if she could only have the required advice and treatment.

She sat before her glass in a dream of reminiscence.

There was a tap at the door, and her daughter entered, soft-footed, carrying a cup on a tray. "I've brought your cold beef-tea jelly, dearest, as it is such a hot day," said she, putting it down. "Would you like me to do your hair for you?"

"Oh, my chick, if you only would! I feel quite over-strained! I have had such extraordinary—such heart-searching news! I very nearly fainted when I was having my bath."

Virginia turned pale. The remembrance of Pansy's revelation concerning their "rewend" condition leapt to her mind. She had now been home three days, and her mother had said nothing of it, but seemed flush of cash. Virginia had consulted the cheque-book—nothing out of the way there. The money spent on house-keeping had been, as she expected, too large, but not out of all bounds.

Something had stolen Virginia's buoyancy. She felt an inward flinching, as though she could not bear a fresh blow. It must be the heat. She took up a silver brush, and said, as stoutly as she could:

"Well, Mums, tell me all about it. I can bear it."

Mrs. Mynors pushed aside her golden tresses, opened a small drawer, searched it, and drew out the solicitor's letter.

"Virgie, I could not tell you the very day you came home," she faltered. "It would have been brutal, but I suppose you must know."

Her daughter, taking the legal-looking documents in her suddenly cold hands, sank rather than seated herself upon a chair, for the humiliating reason that she felt unable to stand.

There was stillness for a while in the tiny room, which, like the drawing-room downstairs, was a bower of luxury. Carpet, curtains, furniture, plenishings—all were costly relics of bygone days, something to make a pillow between the dainty head of its mistress and the hard cold boards of poverty. Even as she cleaned the silver toilet articles yesterday, Virgie had noted a fresh bottle of a particularly expensive perfume affected by her mother.

Now she read the letters—read the family doom.

All gone! Everything! Lissendean!...

She put her hands to her head. She must think.

What was left?

Nothing! They were paupers. Tony must leave school and begin to be an errand boy. She, Virginia, must go into service. Pansy must be got into a home for cripples! Her mother?...

... And she had gone without the necessities of life to keep up those payments, while Mrs. Mynors was squandering the money on petty luxuries!

For the moment passion surged up so strongly in Virginia that she had to clench her hands and grind her teeth, while she shook with the effort to refrain from telling the pretty, golden-haired doll once for all what she thought of her. This mother, whom she had loved, whom dad had loved! Almost his last words had been a plea to his daughter not to let her mother suffer if she could help it.

Had she not done her best? What more could have been required of her that she had not given? She had sacrificed her whole life to the service of her loved ones, had drudged and toiled that her mother might have ease, had listened to her grumbling complaints, had humoured her wilfulness. Yet all had been in vain. In vain!

To her mother's consternation, and even annoyance, Virginia slipped off her chair in a dead faint.

With a sense of acute injury at being called upon to render such service, the plump, useless hands succeeded in lowering the girl to the floor. Then, still resentful, Mrs. Mynors actually got a wet sponge and laid it on her daughter's forehead. This not succeeding, she found eau-de-Cologne and applied that. After a time Virginia slowly returned to life, and to a knowledge of the enormity of her behaviour. She dragged herself to her mother's bed, and lay down there until her swimming senses should readjust themselves.

They were ruined; and her mother was buying winter coats and bottles of perfume! It was really laughable.

"You cannot reproach me, really, Virgie," said her mother presently, speaking with sad submissiveness from out her cloud of hair. "You must see that I could not help spending that money, and also that I never dreamed what would be the result of getting behindhand with my payments. Our own lawyer ought to have warned me. I consider him much to blame in the matter."

Virginia had nothing at all to say.

"I can see that you do blame me!" sharply cried Mrs. Mynors. "You lie there without a word of comfort—as if I had ruined you and not myself too! I suppose it is as hard for me as for you."

Virgie turned her face over and hid it on the pillow.

After gazing at her for some time, in a mood which accusing conscience made bitter, Mrs. Mynors decided to play her trump card.

"You need not put on all these airs of tragic despair, Virgie. I have told you the bad news first. This morning I have had other news—the most extraordinary thing—the most unlikely coincidence—that you ever heard! Do you want me to tell you about it, or are you too ill to pay any attention?"

Virgie made an effort and sat up. "I'm so sorry, mother. It was very sudden, you know, and it is all so horrible—like falling over a precipice. I felt as if I could not grasp it. I am better now."

She slipped off the bed and tottered to the window, leaning out into the air. "Please tell me—everything," she begged.

Mrs. Mynors leaned forward, and a little, mischievous smile showed her dimple, as she said, playing nervously with the articles in her manicure set: "Did you ever hear me speak of the man I was once engaged to—the man I jilted to marry your father—Mr. Gaunt?"

"I believe I have," replied Virginia, knitting her brows.

"It was a tiresome affair," went on the lady, with a sigh. "He was very young and impetuous; perhaps that is putting it too mildly; he had a shocking temper, and he didn't take his jilting at all peaceably. I know I was in fault, but what is a girl to do? He was a mere boy. When I promised to marry him I had never seen your father; and you know, Virgie darling, how irresistible he was."

"Yes. I know," said Virginia, telling herself that, after all, her mother must have loved the dead man better than had appeared. Yet why, if she loved him so much, had there always been so many others? Virginia recalled the familiar figures—Colonel Duke, and Major Gibson, the M.F.H., and Sir Edmund Hobbs. Certainly, for the last two years of his life Bernard Mynors had been unable to escort his wife himself. If she hunted, it must be with others. It had, in fact, been with others.

The dainty lips curved into a yet broader smile. "Poor Gaunt! It seems that he has never married," went on the musical voice. "He was too madly in love, I suppose, for any transfer of his affections to be possible. But the point of it all is this. I have this morning heard that it is he who holds the mortgage on our property. Lissendean belongs to him!"

Virginia's big, woful eyes opened very wide.

"I heard this morning from the lawyers that he is in London for a week or two, and wants to get the business finished off. I have made my little plan. I mean to go up to town and see him, Virgie."

The words brought Virginia to her feet. "To go and see him?"

"Yes. I must, for my children's sake, make an appeal to his kindness of heart. The pain I caused him must long ago have been forgotten, and if I can only procure an interview with him, I feel very little doubt of being able to persuade him to allow us more time."

Virginia considered. "Do you think he will see you? It might be very painful for him. Have you heard nothing of him since your marriage?"

"Nothing. He lives in the country now, it seems. He must have inherited the place that belonged to his old great-aunts. He always used to tell me that there was not much chance of his coming into it. He was a fine fellow in his way, only difficult—so jealous, for one thing. However, it would be most interesting to meet him. I wonder"—coquettishly—"if he will know me again. I don't fancy that I have changed much."

"Very little, I should think," said Virgie; "the miniature that father had done of you the first year you were married is still just like you."

Mrs. Mynors smiled brightly. She was beginning to recover her good humour. "Unless he has altered strangely, he will not be cruel to the widow and the fatherless," she murmured pensively. "Cheer up, Virgie, all is not yet lost. Try to be a little hopeful, dear child."

Virginia sat, twisting her hands together, turning the matter over in her mind. Her mother's creditor was her mother's old lover. Her mother was going to seize this fact, and make the most of it. Something in Virginia revolted from the idea; but she could not urge her objections. She fixed her purple-grey eyes upon the gay face in the mirror. It might have been that of a woman without a care. Every instinct in her mother was kindled at the idea of once more encountering, and most probably conquering, what had been hers once, and would turn to her again.

A step-father! That was an idea to make one wince. With all the ingrained fidelity of her simple nature, the girl hated the thought. Yet, after all, what was the alternative?

She felt that the family fortunes had passed beyond her own power to adjust or alter. As long as a foothold of dry ground remained she had, as it were, protected these dear ones from the raging flood. Now that the tide had swept them away, and they were all tossing on the waters, could she object to her mother's seizing a rope—any rope—that might be flung to them?

"I suppose he knows," she said, after a long pause, "he knows that it is you?"

"I suppose so. These coincidences are very curious. I have never seen him, never even heard of him, since our rupture." She reflected, her chin on her hand. "Strange that he should have inherited money," she observed. "He was not at all well off when I knew him, though he was very ambitious. He wrote—essays and so on for the Press. He was certainly clever. Twenty-two years since I last saw him! How strange it seems! I used to be afraid at first that he might try to kill me or your father. He was so violent. At our wedding we had special police arrangements. But nothing happened. Nothing at all." She spoke as if the fact were slightly disappointing.

"It is a chance," sighed out Virginia at length. "If you can bear it, mother—if it is not asking too much of you to go and beg a favour from a man you once treated badly, then I think you had better try."

Mrs. Mynors' mouth drooped at the corners, and her face took on the sweetest look of resignation. "Virgie, dearest, you can fancy—you can understand something of what it will cost me. But for my children's sakes I must put my own feelings aside. I must go and see what I can do. Let me see! Where—how could I meet him? A solicitor's office does not lend itself. Oh, Virgie, I have it! What a comfort, what a piece of good luck, that I became a life-member of the 'Sportswoman' three years ago! I will ask him to meet me there! I will write a note, to be given to him direct; and I don't think he will refuse. If he does, I will just go to London and take him by storm. I vow I'll see him somehow! Leave it to me, Virgie! You shall see what I can do. When my children's bread is at stake, no effort shall be too great, no sacrifice too difficult."

*****

Later on, when Virginia had done her hair to perfection, and gone away to do the house-work, Mrs. Mynors took a chair, mounted it, and unlocked a small drawer at the top of her tall-boy. There were several bundles of letters and papers in the drawer, and a small jewel-case containing a ring. She searched among the papers for one loose envelope, addressed in a forcible, small but not cramped handwriting.

She sat down, with this letter and the ring-box upon her knee, and read:

You make a mistake. It is not the transfer of your affections from myself to Mynors of which I complain, for this has not taken place. What has happened is simply that you have bartered yourself for his money and position. If I had been cursed with a few hundreds a year more than he has, you would not have forsaken me. You never loved me; but for a whole year you have succeeded in deceiving me—in making me believe that you did. This is the thing I find unpardonable. Men have killed women for such treachery as yours. Were I to kill you, it would save poor Mynors a good many years of misery. But the code of civilised morals forbids so satisfactory a solution. You must live, and destroy his illusions one by one. I ought to thank you for my freedom, but that I cannot do, being human. As a man in worse plight than mine once said: "My love hath wrought into my life so far that my doom is, I love thee still." There lies the humiliation and the sting.

The woman's lips curved into a smile of foreseen triumph. The insult of the first part of the letter was nothing to her. There was his written confession. In spite of her betrayal, he loved her still.

After the lapse of all these years the lava-torrent of his boyish fury had no doubt cooled. The love might well remain.

CHAPTER V

THE OLD LOVE

"Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains
Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
He ponders in frenzy o'er love's last adieu."—Byron.

A week later Mrs. Mynors stood before her mirror at a much earlier hour than was her wont. She was arranging her veil with a hand that shook, and eyes full of a curious mixture of anxiety and triumph. The anxiety was because she was bound upon an errand of enormous strategic importance; the triumph because her imagination ran on ahead and pictured things that she would have blushed to own.

Her old lover had assented to her proposal for a meeting. He was to be this morning at twelve o'clock at the Sportswoman—that smartest and most go-ahead of county ladies' clubs in London.

Virginia stood near. She held in her hand a dainty handbag, embroidered in steel beads and lined with pale violet. Into this she was putting a purse, a powder-puff, a wisp of old lace that was supposed to be a handkerchief, and so on. The aroma of the expensive perfume was over everything.

Mrs. Mynors' costume was a subtle scheme of faint half-mourning. It was most becoming.

"What time do you think you shall be back?" asked Virginia.

"My child, how can I say? You must expect me when you see me. It depends so much upon what I accomplish. If Osbert Gaunt proves disagreeable, I must just get a bit of lunch at the club and come straight home. If he is hospitably inclined, why, you see, it might be later."

"I only wanted to know how much money you are likely to spend."

"Don't trouble about that, dear one. I have plenty of money for my modest needs."

She stepped back, surveyed the general effect of her appearance, and sighed a little. Then, opening one of the small jewel drawers in her toilet table, she took out a ring-case, extracted the ring it contained, and slipped it upon her finger. It was a large tourmalin, set in small brilliants—a lovely blue, like the eyes of its wearer.