% ■
 
 L 
 
 I ' 
 
 ^
 
 WINIFRED POWER 
 
 jv iiooci. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 
 
 iJublishcrs in (Drbinars io ^)n ^Uajests the O^uccit. 
 
 1883. 
 
 [Ali Rights Rese)'ved.\
 
 ^^'^^VN/ 
 
 ,\,''-^ 
 
 i ^M^^^M^Wk 
 
 
 
 .a^ 
 
 
 CONTENTS OF A^OL. T. 
 
 X 
 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I, THE HATHERLEYS 
 II. DISCOVERIES - 
 III. THE WILL 
 jy. MARTHA'S SHAME 
 V. ' DEAF AND DUMB ' 
 VI. CHANGES 
 VII. WINIFRED 
 VI IL THE DALIASES 
 IX. MADEMOISELLE MARTIIE 
 X. SIR JOHN 
 XL GERTRUDE DALLAS 
 XII. WINIFRED'S DISCOVERIES 
 
 rAOK 
 
 1 
 
 25 
 
 4o 
 
 74 
 
 99 
 
 123 
 
 144 
 
 167 
 
 189 
 
 218 
 
 241 
 
 263 

 
 
 WINIFRED POWER. 
 
 3j<«C 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE HATHERLEYS. 
 
 N^ that decade which began with the 
 bombardment of Acre, and closed 
 four years before the Crimean War, 
 the drawing-room of Hatherley House looked 
 very old-fashioned indeed. 
 
 For in those days, panelled walls, tiled fire- 
 places, carved oak furniture, and blue china 
 were indications of the owner's character. 
 Instead of meaning that he swam with the 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 Winifred Power, 
 
 tide, it meant that he fought against it. In- 
 stead of betraying him for a Avorshipper of 
 fashion, it stamped him for a devotee of the 
 past. And in Marleyford, where the Hather- 
 leys had Kved for generations, their furniture 
 was as much identified with them as their 
 hereditary nose (a handsome aquiUne), or 
 their grand ancestral manner. 
 
 Their neighbours, prosperous, cheery modern 
 folk, quitting their own plate-glass and gilding, 
 and arriving in that gloomy room, were 
 straightway possessed with a solemn sense of 
 the dignity of the Hatherley tradition. And 
 Mary, the only daughter of the house, sitting 
 in her statuesque beauty, her Quaker-like 
 dress, on a straight-backed chair to receive 
 them, seemed hardly nearer to their desires 
 or their habits than a graven samt in a niche, 
 or queen upon a tomb. John, too, the eldest 
 son and the only son at home, with his sober, 
 perfect attire, his faultless, marble face, and his 
 reputation for exotic tastes, had always, even 
 when youngest, struck people as a young man
 
 The Hatlierleys. 
 
 whose youth was a polite concession to the 
 course of nature, but in no sense a period of 
 immaturity. 
 
 While the other rich or aspirant inhabitants 
 of the town ransacked the Herald's office for 
 armorial bearings, and blazoned its inventions 
 on the panels of their barouches, Mary rumbled 
 along in a roomy chariot, with nothing but an 
 initial on its chocolate-coloured doors. And 
 while sons of tinkers and grandsons of tailors 
 quitted their native town to blossom into 
 esquires elsewhere, the Hatherleys with every 
 successive generation struck apparently deeper 
 roots into the soil there. They gave it to be 
 understood that it was their pride to remain 
 where the founder of the family had made his 
 fortune. That which he had become, that they 
 persisted in being ; and because his ambition 
 had been crowned the day he bought a flourish- 
 ing brewery, they professed to regard a brewery 
 as the highest earthly possession. 
 
 A very upright, but a very stern man was 
 the present head of the house. ' Old Mr. 
 
 1—2
 
 4 Winifred Power. 
 
 Hatherley' he had been called ever since the 
 stroke of paralysis which had laid him low, 
 and left the greater part of the business in the 
 hands of his son, John. He was everything 
 which his father and grandfather had been 
 before him, and more. A man of puritanic 
 simplicity of life, and of rigid uniformity of 
 conduct, he had never overlooked in his chil- 
 dren or dependents the lightest disregard of 
 his wishes. The Hatherleys had always been 
 proud, clear-headed, just. All the organic 
 qualities which had made his forefathers suc- 
 cessful were crystallized in him. A psycho- 
 logist might have wondered in what direction 
 his children would develope, and argue badly 
 from the fact that one of them, at least, had 
 outraged every tradition. William, the second 
 son, after a career of extravagance had enlisted 
 in a West India regiment and was never men- 
 tioned. But in Marleyford psychologists were 
 an unknown species. The good people of the 
 little town judged exclusively from appear- 
 ances, and were burdened with few theories.
 
 The Hatlierleys. 
 
 And appearances were so remarkably in favour 
 of John and Mary Hatlierley that it would 
 have been difficult to have any doubts as to 
 their future. The handsome, correct, un- 
 exceptionable brother and sister looked as 
 though no evil could sink deeper into them 
 than a fleck of dust into marble. 
 
 Mary, indeed, had had the faint beginnings 
 of a love affair which bore a disturbino; resem- 
 blance to the impetuosity and wrong-headed- 
 ness of vulgar folk. She had engaged herself 
 to her second cousin, Ralph Mercer, a worth- 
 less spendthrift. He had been a ward of 
 Mr. Hatherley's ; but, quickly exhausting 
 that gentleman's scanty store of patience, had 
 been dismissed from the brewery in which he 
 aspired to become a partner. ' What will 
 Miss Hatherley do?' was the source of some 
 curiosity when this happened. 
 
 But Miss Hatherley apparently did nothing, 
 only grew a little colder, a shade more re- 
 served; and was supposed to be duly resigned. 
 
 As for John, whom he would marry was a
 
 Winifred Power. 
 
 question to whicli the answer was so long in 
 coming that people had almost ceased to 
 expect it. The greater part of his neighbours 
 pronounced him a confirmed bachelor. He 
 was much over thirty, and precise to a fault ; 
 moreover, he j)i'ofessed a mysterious affection 
 for old editions of rare books. 
 
 John's acquaintances regarded his little 
 library somewhat askant, or at best with the 
 good-humoured contempt of people who are 
 virtuously conscious of no definite superiority 
 in themselves. And it was remarked that the 
 young man never aired his archaic scholarship 
 in presence of his father. Mr. Hatherley was 
 not a man to tolerate nonsense; that was well 
 known. The best thing John had to do was 
 to stick to the brewery, his skill in the 
 management of which had proved him a chip 
 of the old block. 
 
 One evening the Hatherleys were expecting 
 guests to dinner. They gave solemn enter- 
 tainments at regularly recurring intervals, and 
 continued the j)ractice even after Mr. Hatherley
 
 The Hatherleys. 
 
 became an invalid. The large, low drawing- 
 room was liofhted with wax candles in silver 
 sconces, while the gloom was further and still 
 more picturesquely dissipated by the ruddy 
 blaze of a glorious fire. Mary, seated by the 
 hearth, was staring in silence — a somewhat 
 moody silence, as it seemed — at the changing 
 shapes in the glowing depths of heat. Every 
 now and again her slender hands, clasped 
 lightly together on her lap, moved restlessly, 
 and her straiofht black brows met in a frown. 
 Clearly her meditations were not pleasing. 
 Opposite to her, blinking in a purblind, 
 adoring, speechless way, like a superannuated 
 King Charles, was Martha Freake. 
 
 Xot that she was old, poor Martha, only 
 her air was so humble and depressed, her face 
 so crumpled with anxiety and love, her attire 
 so dowdy, that she looked old. She was the 
 Hatherleys' poor relation and housekeeper, 
 and had lived with them since Mary had been 
 left a motherless baby. 
 
 ' Don't look so miserable, darling : it breaks
 
 8 Winifred Power. 
 
 my heart,' she ventured to say, after a pause 
 of sorrowful watching. 
 
 Mary shrugged her shoulders petulantly. 
 ' How can I help looking miserable, when I 
 remember the state in which I saw him?' she 
 retorted. Her tone was resentful, not to say 
 sullen, and Martha quivered under it with an 
 evident fear of having offended. 
 
 Before she could S23eak again, the door 
 opened to admit John. In evening-dress he 
 looked more majestic and unexceptionable 
 than ever. ' Good-evening,' he said, in mellow, 
 measured tones, as he walked forward and 
 established himself on the hearth-rug. 
 
 Both ladies responded, Mary almost in- 
 audibly and without raising her head; Martha 
 with a furtive, half-guilty glance. 
 
 ' You have been to London?' said the latter, 
 noticing that the young lady was not inclined 
 to speak. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered John. ' I heard of a Hague 
 edition of Moliere with original illustrations, 
 and hurried up to buy it.'
 
 The Hatherleys. 9 
 
 ' And it took you three days to complete 
 the purchase?' asked Mary suddenly; so sud- 
 denly that the question sounded like a chal- 
 lenge. 
 
 John pulled down his spotless cuffs, and 
 flicked a speck of dust from the sleeve of his 
 coat. 
 
 ' I had other business, but it was less im- 
 portant,' he calmly replied. 
 
 ' Business is an elastic term,' continued 
 Mary, while Martha turned pale and cast to 
 her a look of imploring deprecation. ' When- 
 ever men are bored at home, or have some- 
 thing to do which they do not care to talk 
 about, it is easy to discover the necessity for a 
 little trip " on business." ' 
 
 She did not speak the words angrily, for 
 the Hatherley manner w^as usually calm ; 
 nevertheless, in her tone there ran a 
 sound which might have been described as 
 spite. 
 
 John smiled, but not genially. 
 
 ' You speak with a certainty that would
 
 10 Winifred Power. 
 
 almost suggest some personal experience of 
 such little "business trips." But naturally 
 the idea is absurd — since you are not a man/ 
 
 Not another word was spoken, until the 
 butler threw open the door, announcing the 
 Eector and his wife, ' Mr. and Mrs. Stratton ;' 
 close upon the heels of whom followed ' Mr. 
 and Mrs. Ormerod,' and ' Mr. KusselL' 
 
 Mr. Ormerod was a banker, the banker of 
 Marleyford, and Walter Russell was his 
 nephew. The latter, a refined, intelligent- 
 looking young man, had, as was well known, 
 at one time proposed to Mary. Anyone 
 watching *him closely now as he wished her 
 ' Good-evening,' would have guessed that he 
 was still in love with her, but she showed not 
 the faintest sign of any feeling — unless it were 
 a little added weariness. 
 
 ' AYe were almost afraid this morning that 
 we should not be able to come, for Mrs. 
 Ormerod received news of the illness of her 
 brother,' said the banker's loud and cheerful 
 tones.
 
 The Hatherleys. 11 
 
 ' Sir Charles?' asked the Rector in a con- 
 cerned voice, for Mrs. Ormerod's brother was 
 a baronet. 
 
 ^ Sir Charles, yes, by Jove ! Serious thing 
 you know, especially now, when young Charles 
 is laid up ^vith scarlatina at school.' 
 
 During the significant little pause that fol- 
 lowed this speech, one or two people's eyes 
 travelled with a veiled curiosity towards 
 Walter; who, in the event of his boy-cousin's 
 death, would be next hen* to the title. 
 Martha looked meekly and regretfully at 
 Mary ; but Mary gave no sign of compre- 
 hension. 
 
 ' I hope you had better news later in the 
 day V said Mr. Stratton. 
 
 ' Somewhat better. I went by rail into 
 Canterbury to get the despatch. No necessity 
 in these days to wait twenty-four hours for 
 news. We shall soon have a wire here, I am 
 told ; and a good thing too.' 
 
 ' I have never used the telegraph yet,' 
 remarked John.
 
 12 Winifred Power, 
 
 ' Oh, jou are a Tory to tlie backbone, my 
 dear fellow. As much behind the age as — as' 
 — ('yom^ furnitm-e,' the laughing Mr. 
 Ormerod Avas just about to add, but checked 
 himself) — ' as if you were your own grand- 
 father, by Jove!' 
 
 John smiled gravely. To a Hatherley such 
 an accusation was a compliment, and the 
 banker knew it. 
 
 ' Mr. John lives at home, and has all his 
 dear ones near him,' observed Mrs. Ormerod, 
 w^ho had something of a languishing air. ' He 
 does not yet know the anxieties, any more 
 than the joys of a family.' 
 
 ' And you all think that he never will — 
 don't you?' asked Mary, speaking almost for 
 the first time, and with a sudden, slight 
 briskness. 
 
 John cleared his throat. His air seemed 
 to say that the conversation was growing 
 frivolous. 
 
 * Everybody almost appears to have been 
 to Canterbury to-day,' said the Rector. ' I
 
 Tlie Hatherleys. 13 
 
 ^vas there, and so were you, Miss Hatherley, 
 and Miss Freake.' 
 
 From John's cahn eyes there flashed the 
 faintest j)erceptible ray of interest. Miss Freake 
 turned rapidly of various lively hues. Only 
 Mary remained to all appearance unmoved. 
 
 ' We went on a shopping expedition,' she 
 replied. 
 
 ' The shopping expeditions of ladies are 
 like the business trips of men — of very 
 frequent occurrence,' quietly put in her 
 brother ; and the sentence had so little mean- 
 ing to most of the hearers that they took it 
 for a joke and laughed. 
 
 Other guests entered, and at last nine 
 couples filed off into the dining-room, which 
 had the same sombre and old-fashioned air 
 as the drawing-room. The dinner was 
 served on massive plate ; John carved, 
 and old port circulated. The portrait of the 
 founder of the family, clothed in municipal 
 robes and bearing the civic chain, looked 
 down upon the scene fi^om his huge gold
 
 14 Winifred Power. 
 
 frame above the chimney-piece. He had been 
 a handsome, striking-looking man, and it was 
 cunous to see how like John was to him — 
 like, but 'with a difference.' The original 
 brow was broader ; the lips were fuller ; the 
 lines of his face, though stern, were not so 
 rigid, and there was a fuller life behind them. 
 John's face was like a mask, impassible, and 
 miofht cover weakness as wxll as strength. 
 
 He was speaking of his recent purchase, 
 Mr. Ormerod listening with a polite, half- 
 amused smile. 
 
 ' Original engravings?' he reperted. 'Ah! 
 very interesting, I am sure. Don't know 
 much about such things myself. Where do 
 you pick up these books ?' 
 
 ' At various dealers. But often, also, from 
 private persons. The late possessor of the 
 Moliere lived in ' * 
 
 ' Linden-Grove Eoad,' suggested Mary, 
 from her end of the table. 
 
 ' By no means. At the opposite end of 
 London,' corrected John.
 
 The Hatherleys. 15 
 
 Martha, looking uneasy, quavered out in 
 lier odd, semi- senile way : 
 
 ' Linden-Grove Road, Mary dear? Why, 
 you are thinking of the neighbourhood where 
 Parsons lives.' 
 
 * Parsons ?' John asked, rather sharply. 
 
 ' Don't you remember her? She was 
 housekeeper here once, years ago. She is 
 bedridden now, and I go to see her some- 
 times,' said Martha timidly. 
 
 ' I am glad you go to see her,' replied John 
 serenely, and turned Avith some careless 
 remark to the lady on his right. 
 
 There was a little sleepy talk in the 
 drawing-room later ; a little mild music ; 
 Walter Russell said a few earnest words to 
 Mary, who was looking pale and fatigued, 
 and then at ten o'clock everybody went 
 home. 
 
 ' Mary !' began John, on returning to the 
 drawing-room, after seeing his guests off, 
 but Mary had already slipped away, and only 
 Martha was left. She was obviously uneasy.
 
 16 Winifred Power. 
 
 and looked more deprecating than ever. Her 
 cousin resumed : 
 
 ' You were in Canterbury to-day, I hear. 
 I need not ask the reason. Of course you 
 went to meet Ralph Mercer.' Some surprise 
 now succeeded to the fear on Martha's face ; 
 never had John spoken to her on that subject 
 in a tone so removed from irritation. 
 
 ' It was partly my fault that we went/ she 
 began, anxious still to shield her darling ; 
 but he interrupted her with a wave of his 
 hand. 
 
 ' I ask for no explanations and wish for 
 none. Mary knows my wishes, and those 
 of our father. If she chooses to run counter 
 to both, I cannot help it. But I would like 
 you, Martha, to try to convince her that my 
 desire — my most earnest desire — is that she 
 would treat me with frankness ; and abandon 
 once for all these clandestine meetings, and 
 these paltry subterfuges which are as un- 
 worthy of herself as insulting to me.' 
 
 Martha stared at him in the blankest
 
 The Hatherleys. 17 
 
 astonisliment. The one point on which she 
 had ever Ventured to think John less than 
 perfect had been his conduct in regard to his 
 sister's engagement. For it was he, quite as 
 much as his father, who had driven young 
 Mercer away. Could it be that he was 
 relenting ? 
 
 John resumed : 
 
 ' This Parsons ? It is strange I not 
 
 remember her.' 
 
 ' She was here for a very short time in your 
 school- days, and left to get married. Jacobs 
 is a cousin of hers. It was through him that 
 I first heard she was ill.' 
 
 * Jacobs ?' John took up the tongs, and 
 carefully arranged the fire. Jacobs was the 
 butler, and had been some years in the family. 
 The young master of Hatherley House was 
 certainly in a very genial mood to-night, for 
 while, as a rule, he troubled himself little 
 about the servants, on this occasion Jacobs 
 and Jacobs's cousin a|)peared to possess a 
 smgular interest for him. 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 Winifred Power. 
 
 ' And the poor thing is bedridden, Martha ? 
 I hope she is in good circumstances ?' 
 
 ' Yes/ Martha said, ' her husband is a 
 pawnbroker.' 
 
 'In the City?' 
 
 ' Xo. In a street not very far from that 
 Linden- Grove Road which they were speaking 
 of at dinner/ 
 
 ' Ah, yes. What a strange, absent-minded 
 question that was of Mary's ! What could 
 have made her think that dealers in old books 
 lived up there?' continued John, carelessly 
 enough, but directing, nevertheless, at his 
 companion a swift sidelong glance, which she 
 did not see. Her thoughts were absorbed in 
 considerino' how she could make John a 
 request that, if granted, would fill Mary Avith 
 joy, and earn for Martha that which she most 
 coveted, the expression of Mary's gratitude. 
 
 She sat gazing into the fire, her breath 
 coming quickly as the words of her petition 
 alternately trooped to her lips ; then retreated, 
 unuttered.
 
 The ITatherleys, 19 
 
 ' It is late,' said John at last, rousing him- 
 self from a gloomy reverie, and eyeing her dis- 
 contentedly. 
 
 Martha rose, lighted his candle, and handed 
 it to him ; paused, and then, with a valiant 
 rush, stammered out the words : 
 
 ' John, poor Ralph is really starving.' 
 
 ' Let him starve, the lazy, worthless scoun- 
 drel!' exclaimed John, with a sudden flash of 
 fire in his eyes, before which she shrank back 
 as scared as by the blaze of a line of guns. 
 
 Bowing her head meekly, she murmured, 
 ^ Good-night,' and crept upstairs, mortified, 
 crestfallen, and heavy-hearted. 
 
 John retired to his library. This was a 
 very handsome room where, installed in a high- 
 backed chair in front of a pretentious table, he 
 was accustomed to spend many hours, pre- 
 sumably in study. The people who found 
 him there were always impressed in spite of 
 themselves. And when the grave student, 
 with a wave of his hand towards a quaint - 
 looking volume in vellum, would remark that 
 
 2—2
 
 20 Winifred Power . 
 
 it was an Aldine, his hearer, profoundly igno- 
 norant of what an Aldine mis^ht be. looked at 
 him with an expression curiously compounded 
 of contempt and awe. With such a recondite 
 work ojDen before him, John was usually dis- 
 covered ; and such a work lay open upon his 
 table now. Shutting it up with a brusqueness 
 which certes no genuine lover of old books 
 had ever used before him, he thrust it 
 away, and sitting do^^ai upon his media3val 
 chair, abandoned himself to a reverie. 
 
 Martha meanwhile had gone to Mary's room, 
 and found her sitting, still undressed, before 
 the fire. 
 
 ' Did you notice ?' Mary cried exultingiy, 
 her eyes bright with some secret triumph. 
 
 '[N'otice ? What ?' asked Martha. 
 
 ' His amtation when I mentioned Linden- 
 Grove Road?' 
 
 Martha's hands fell to her side, and she stood 
 mute with surprise. 
 
 'You good old owl!' laughed Mary. 'I 
 believe you never saw it.'
 
 TJie Hatherleys. 21 
 
 She was quite right. Martha had not only 
 not seen, but was still a hundred miles from 
 comprehension. 
 
 ' What does it all mean ?' she asked. 
 
 ' Xever you mind, Patty. You are not clever 
 at keeping secrets. They always oppress you. 
 Suffice it to say that in future I shall know 
 how to manage my immaculate brother.' 
 
 Too humble- minded to be inquisitive, Martha 
 waited further information. But Mary con- 
 tinued to talk in riddles. 
 
 ' I wonder,' she said musingly, ' if I dare 
 pretend to know enough to extract money out 
 of him?' 
 
 ' He will not give it, I think', said Martha, 
 and related what had passed. Mary's face fell. 
 Either she did love this Ralph very much, or 
 a girlish fancy had been fanned by need of 
 excitement and the spirit of opposition into a 
 flame. 
 
 ' You could squeeze out some money for me 
 yourself, Patty, if you chose.' 
 
 'I?' Poor Martha had nothing of her own
 
 22 Winifred Power. 
 
 but a miserable £60 a-3^ear. As generous as 
 she was poor, she spent more than the half of 
 it in charity or in gifts, and never had a spare 
 sixpence by the time each quarter was a week 
 old. 
 
 ' I never knew anybody like you for being 
 without a penny,' said Mary crossly, seeing 
 the distress painted on her cousin's countenance. 
 ^ You have the housekeeping money. Why 
 cannot you give me £10 out of that?' 
 
 'Mary!' 
 
 'Mary? Well, Mary what?' mocked the 
 owner of that name with considerable peevish- 
 ness. 
 
 ' It would be dishonest.' 
 
 ' Dishonest ? N^onsense 1 I would give it 
 you back next week.' 
 
 ' Next week or next year, the wrong would 
 be the same,' answered Martha softly, while a 
 steadfast light came into her brown eyes. 
 
 ' I think you are very unkind.' Martha 
 winced but sat silent. ' Yery unkind and 
 obstinate, and puritanical and — and ridiculous,'
 
 The Hatherleys. 23 
 
 continued the baffled beauty, and thereupon 
 burst into tears. 
 
 A sound of angry sobbing alone broke the 
 silence for the next few minutes. Martha was 
 weeping also, but silently. Pale and sorrow- 
 ful, she sat brushing away the tears as they 
 coursed one by one down her cheeks, feeling 
 herself dreadfully cruel, and yet upheld by a 
 firm instinct of duty. 
 
 ' You have often been most tiresome, Martha; 
 but never, I think, deliberately unkind until now.' 
 
 ' The refusal is — is w — worse for me to 
 make than for y — you to hear,' wailed 
 Martha, and broke out sobbing in her turn. 
 
 Tears are generally supposed to be a sign of 
 weakness. Mary thought she had triumphed, 
 and passed from reproach to entreaty. But 
 although Martha grew damper, limper, more 
 wretched every moment, she persisted in her 
 resolution, and Mary ended by flying into a 
 violent rage. Then Martha, trembling all 
 over, crushed and mute, rose and bid her 
 humbly ' Good-night.' She got no answer,
 
 24 Winifred Power. 
 
 unless the peevish tattoo of an angry foot 
 could be called such. She stood for a moment 
 looking imploringly at the averted head of her 
 darling: then glided away and went down the 
 passage to her own room, feeling as if she 
 could never be happy in all her life again. Her 
 affections were so fresh, her heart was so pure, 
 her mind so simple, that harsh words and 
 angry looks affected her as they would a child. 
 For hours after she was in bed she tossed 
 from side to side, w^ondering what she could 
 do. At last she had an inspiration. She had 
 one possession of value; her mother's diamond 
 rmg. On the morrow she would pawn that 
 to Parsons' husband and say nothing of her 
 intention until she had the money in her 
 hand, when she would win her pardon from 
 Mary's glad surprise. Enchanted, she fell 
 asleep at last, a smile upon her lips. Dreams 
 were kinder to her than men. In the mas^ic 
 land of shadows the spell of fear fell from her 
 spirit; her faith forgot the chill of doubt, and 
 her own heart's music silenced discord.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 DISCOVERIES. 
 
 N reaching tlie station next morning 
 to catch the train, Martha was 
 rather surprised to find John on 
 the same errand. His journeys to London 
 had grown frequent of late. Formerly one a 
 month had, on an average, been enough for 
 him. Now, hardly a week passed without his 
 running up. Nevertheless, Martha had not 
 expected to see him start again on this par- 
 ticular morning, for it was only on the pre- 
 vious afternoon that he had returned after a 
 three days' absence. 
 
 Blind as a bat, as usual, she did not notice
 
 26 Winifred Power. 
 
 the slight shade of annoyance that crossed his 
 face on perceiving her. 
 
 ' Going shopping?' he inquired carelessly, 
 as he seated himself opposite to her. 
 
 She answered ' Yes,' rather quietly: for, as 
 we know, shopping was not the only object of 
 her journey. 
 
 ' I am bound for the City,' said he. ' I 
 suppose your destination is Oxford Street, 
 and you will return by the two o'clock train?' 
 
 Martha thought she was quite sure to re- 
 turn at two o'clock, and said so. 
 
 ' That will be too early for me,' he re- 
 marked, as if the idea of accompanying her 
 back had been the only reason of his question. 
 And although railway speed was a much 
 smaller thing in those days than it is in ours, 
 he did not once again unclose his lips until 
 the train steamed into the terminus. 
 
 Martha got through her shopping with the 
 utmost haste, being eager to settle her business 
 with Parsons. On descending at last from 
 the Red Cap omnibus, and knocking at the
 
 Discoveries. 27 
 
 door of the clingy house m the Httle street of 
 shops that turned out of Linden-Grove Road, 
 she was startled to find herself received by a 
 weeping maid -of- all -work. 
 
 ' What is the roatter?' she asked sympathe- 
 tically, agitated always at the sight of troul^le, 
 even thoucrh the sorroAvfal one was the oTimiest 
 of maidens that had ever scrubbed a door- 
 step. 
 
 ' It's the missis, ma'am. She's in a faint. 
 I thought you might have bin the doctor.' 
 
 ' Has a doctor not been?' 
 
 ^Xo, ma'am; but he has sent to say he is 
 coming. He's with a little boy in the Linden- 
 Grove Road, who has got convulsions.* 
 
 Martha, arriving upstairs, found the patient 
 surrounded by her husband and one or two 
 friendly female neighbours, who had resorted 
 to such remedies as their simple science sug- 
 gested. When the doctor presently made his 
 appearance, Mrs. Parsons was quite sensible 
 again, although so pale and exhausted that he 
 feared a second attack. He recommended
 
 28 Winifred Power. 
 
 absolute quiet ; and glanced analytically at 
 the bystanders, with a view of discovering 
 who among them was most likely to enforce 
 the execution of his orders. 
 
 ' You had better stay Avith her,' he said, ad- 
 dressing Miss Freake. ^ Can you?' 
 
 'For a few hours,' she replied, making up 
 her mind to the loss of her afternoon. 
 
 ' That's right. Then I will return in an 
 hour or two. Should there be a relapse, and 
 you want me in a hurry, you will most likely 
 find me close by in Linden -Grove Road, 
 No. 14. I have a bad case there, which re- 
 quires watching.' 
 
 As the illness of Mrs. Parsons has very 
 little to do with our story, we may merely 
 state that she had no second attack, and that 
 about four o'clock Martha was able to leave 
 her. Her husband, grateful to the little 
 woman for her attention to the invalid, very 
 quickly and liberally transacted the business 
 of the ring, and Martha found herself the 
 possessor of ten pounds and a pawn-ticket.
 
 Discoveries. 29 
 
 Greatly pleased with the success of her 
 enterprise, she bid the sick woman good-bye, 
 said a few kind words to everybody, and 
 started forth bravely through the fog and 
 drizzle for the Red Cap. 
 
 Her shortest way lay through Linden- Grove 
 Eoad, and passing down that street, her 
 tender heart reminded her of the little boy 
 who, as the doctor had said, was so very ill. 
 She began to wonder how he was, and peered 
 about for No. 14. Xot that she meant to go 
 there, but she felt an interest in the house, 
 knowing that a child's laughter had been 
 hushed within its walls, and that sickness had 
 stayed the busy tread of little feet and laid 
 low a tiny head. ' This must be No. 14,' 
 thouo^ht Martha, blinkino; throuo'h the mist. 
 Yes — and surely that was the doctor who had 
 just clinked open the garden-gate. He was 
 coming away from a visit to his patient. She 
 might give him news of Parsons, and ask him 
 if the little boy were better. 
 
 She stopped at the gate with this intention.
 
 80 Winifred Power. 
 
 But the doctor did not notice her in the un- 
 certain light, for he was speaking to a gentle- 
 man behind him. 
 
 ' And you really think I can leave him with 
 safety to-night ?' asked a voice, whose tones 
 rooted Martha to the ground with amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Indeed he is much better,' replied the 
 doctor. ' Not only can jou leave him, but I 
 have impressed upon Mrs. Howard the neces- 
 sity of seeking rest herself. She will break 
 down entirely, otherwise.' 
 
 ' My wife is unfortunately of an anxious 
 temperament,' answered John : for John 
 Hatherley it was who was leaning on the 
 gate and saying these inconceivable things. 
 
 His wife ? Martha with difficulty sup- 
 pressed an exclamation of surprise and dismay. 
 Surprise that John should be secretly married ; 
 dismay at the secrecy, and the consequent 
 danger of detection. She shrank back into 
 the shadow like a guilty thing, letting the 
 doctor go past her unchallenged ; and waited
 
 Discoveries. 31 
 
 in a kind of dream until John's receding steps 
 had died away upon the gravel walk. 
 
 Then she darted forward with but one idea, 
 that of escape ; nor did she breathe freely until 
 she was once more seated in the omnibus and 
 jolting back to the station, where she had to 
 wait. The stupor of her recent discovery 
 imprisoned her mind like a mould of lead, 
 affectinof her hardlv less than if she had found 
 John out in a crime. What kind of woman 
 could he have married ? And what would 
 his father, what would everybody say, when 
 discovery ensued ? To our simple-minded 
 Martha, steeped in the habits of the Hather- 
 levs and imbued with their traditions, a clan- 
 destine marriage in connection with one of 
 them seemed nothing less than highly im- 
 proper. And how was she to behave under 
 the weight of this astounding mystery? The 
 thought of betraying John never presented 
 itself to her. She was as loyal as she was 
 loving ; and in so far as silence could shield 
 him, she was just as ready to stand by him
 
 32 Winifred Power, 
 
 now as in the old days, when he got into 
 boyish scrapes, and her indulgent protection 
 alone averted the birch. But surreptitious 
 visits to the jam- closet are one thing ; a 
 family hidden away in a remote suburb of 
 London is another ; and Martha nearly 
 groaned aloud as she realized that all she 
 could do for John now, her dear cousin, was 
 to suffer for him in agonized silence and 
 suspense. 
 
 Lest such feelings should seem exaggerated, 
 it must be remembered that among the many 
 believers in the Hatherley ' legend,' the 
 staunchest, the most fervent, the most un- 
 questioning, was Martha. No single thing 
 ought to threaten the foundations of that rock 
 of respectability : yet a clandestine connec- 
 tion implies something disgraceful. 
 
 She felt quite worn out with perplexity 
 when she reached home at last, and was fairly 
 past deriving any delight even from bestowing 
 her £10 upon Mary. 
 
 ' Where did you get it V asked that young
 
 Discoveries. 33 
 
 lady, surprise predominating over every other 
 sentiment. 
 
 Martha, unable to fib, but blushing at the 
 confession, ramblingly recounted how she had 
 pawned her mother's ring. Mary was touched, 
 but not deeply, being accustomed to Martha's 
 devotion. 
 
 * John has been to London again to-day,' 
 said Mary, kneeling down in fi:'ont of her 
 cousin, all her stateliness banished by secret 
 exultation. ' You saw him, I know, Martha. 
 You came back in the same train with him.' 
 
 ' But not in the same carriage,' replied 
 Martha, who had indeed avoided John on her 
 return, as though he had been plague- stricken. 
 
 ' Was he alone at the London station — 
 quite alone ?' questioned Mary, with kindling 
 eyes. 'You say '"yes," Patty, but you 
 mumble the words in so odd a way that I vow 
 I hardly belie veyou.' 
 
 Martha cowered over the fire in silence. 
 Did Mary know anything? And if so, how 
 much ? 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 Winifred Power. 
 
 ' You are late,' said John to her presently, 
 when he joined them in the room ; and his 
 eyes rested coldly on the meek little figure, 
 almost as if he disapproved of her being still 
 in her cloak and bonnet. ' I thought you 
 meant to return by the two o'clock train?' 
 
 ' I — I was detained. It's — it's nearly 
 dinner-time,' stammered Martha, and hurried 
 away, fearful of further questioning. 
 
 ^ One would almost think you had an inter- 
 est in Martha's returning early,' remarked 
 Mary, looking straight into her brother's 
 face. 
 
 ' You are mistaken. Martha's movements 
 have but a limited interest for me. / have 
 never made her a confidante, nor employed 
 her on clandestine errands,' retorted John. 
 
 ' Which means that I have,' said Mary 
 tranquilly. ' Union is strength, John. AYhy 
 should you and I not make mutual con- 
 fidences, with a view to mutual advantage?' 
 
 'You must demonstrate to me first the 
 nature of the confidences wdiich I could have
 
 Discoveries. 35 
 
 to make,' replied lier brother, his marble face 
 more inscrutable than ever. 
 
 She kept her eyes fixed on him for a space, 
 then saying, ' It will be your own fault if I 
 am alienated,' relapsed into silence. 
 
 It was a few weeks later that Martha and 
 John found themselves alone at breakfast. 
 The circumstance was not an unusual one, for 
 Mr. Hatherley of course was never present, 
 and Mary just now had reached that stage of 
 a sentimental grievance which results in in- 
 capacity for all the minor tasks of life. 
 
 The post-bag had arrived, and John, after 
 sorting the letters, was engaged in reading his 
 own. He had handed the Times to his cousin, 
 not for her own perusal, but to cut and smooth 
 for his, and if he thought of her at all, he 
 probably suj)posed her to be taking the oppor- 
 tunity to glance at it. But Martha's mind, 
 not intellectually inclined at the best of times, 
 had no room in it at present for news of the 
 Spanish marriages or any subjects of a kindred 
 
 3—2
 
 36 Winifred Poicer. 
 
 nature. Her eyes were fixed on John. Ever 
 since the day of her exciting discovery, lie 
 had possessed a kind of fascination for her. 
 Lately also, certain circumstances had hap- 
 pened which had the effect of increasing Miss 
 Freake's interest in him. His double ex- 
 istence as a bachelor in Marleyford, and a 
 married man in London ; his unaltered 
 dignity and unruffled calm under the weight 
 of such a fact, lifted him in her simple mind 
 to an epic grandeur of audacity. She had 
 fallen into the habit of watching him, quite 
 unconscious of the annoyance it gave him and 
 the sullen dislike which she was thus creating 
 in his mind ao-ainst her. 
 . A thrill of absolute excitement ran throuo^h 
 her now on noticing that one of John's letters 
 seemed to cause him agitation. He chana^ed 
 colour visibly on reading the first lines, and 
 turned hastily to the signature. That appa- 
 rently did not aft^ord him any satisfaction 
 either, for he frowned angrily. Martha, her 
 loving inquisitiveness fully roused, strained
 
 Discoveries. 37 
 
 lier short-sighted eyes in a vam endeavour to 
 guess the nature of the communication. The 
 T\Titing Tras small and cramped — so much she 
 could make out, and something in its general 
 ah' had a queer, distorted kind of likeness to 
 ]\Iary's hand. This circumstance, which poor 
 Martha had good cause to remember later, 
 struck her now but for a passing moment, as 
 a mere imperfect coincidence. 
 
 Convinced that the writing was a woman's, 
 she was not slow in attributins^ it to the 
 mysterious lady in Linden-Grove Eoad ; and 
 her imao^ination, alwavs romantic, bep^an to 
 suofofest a thousand possibilities. When 
 
 ~o JL 
 
 John, rising at last, announced that he would 
 have to go that day to London, and that he 
 might not be back to dinner, Martha became 
 more and more persuaded that some crisis had 
 occurred in the clandestine establishment. 
 
 ' If he would only tell me — trust to me ! I 
 might be of some use !' she thought patheti- 
 cally, her glance following his tall figure, and 
 aiFectionately dwelling on his inscrutable face.
 
 38 Winifred Power. 
 
 ' Thank ye ! thank ye 1' said John brusquely, 
 as Martha, ridiculously too short, stood on 
 tip-toe in a futile endeavour to help him with 
 his great-coat. He was cross, and the atten- 
 tion bored him, while she lovingly excused 
 all things in him, including petulance to her- 
 self. 
 
 He started for the door ; then suddenly 
 paused, and turned to address her. 
 
 ' Martha, I hear Mr. Luscombe was here 
 one day last week in my absence. Do you 
 know why he came?' He asked the question 
 with an air of great carelessness, but his eyes 
 were watchful. 
 
 ' Mr. Luscombe ? He spoke with your 
 father,' murmured Martha, turning very red. 
 
 'Of course. But of what? Ah.1 I see you 
 do not intend to enlighten me.' And John, 
 with a disj)leased expression, walked away. 
 
 Mr. Luscombe was the family lawyer, and 
 he had of late paid one or two visits to 
 Hatherley House. And Martha, on her side, 
 had been rather oftener than usual to London.
 
 Discoveries. 39 
 
 These two facts had reached John's knowledge 
 and proved unwelcome. Her reserve did not 
 tend to put him in a better humour ; on the 
 contrary, it increased the vague feeling of 
 irritation asfainst her that he had been con- 
 scious of for weeks. 
 
 John had hardly left the house, when Mary 
 appeared. Her breakfast and letters were 
 always taken up to her, and she did not 
 generally come down until late. But on this 
 occasion she had seemingly been only waiting 
 for her brother's departure to descend. She 
 was looking pale yet exultant, and her eyes 
 were bright with excitement. 
 
 ' Patty,' she began, with the charming grace 
 that she displayed at times, and that her 
 cousin always found irresistible, ^ tell me, did 
 John seem annoyed by anything this morn- 
 ing?' 
 
 Martha was fain to admit that he did : and 
 by dint of further questioning, Mary elicited 
 the fact that it was a letter which had 
 caused it.
 
 40 Winifred Power. 
 
 ' Patty, I want you to do me a favour,' she 
 said, later in the day. 
 
 ' Anything you like, darling,' replied her 
 fervid and incautious slave. 
 
 ' I wonder if I can trust you,' continued 
 ]\Iary, contemplating her reflectively. ' You 
 make dreadful blunders sometimes, Patty.' 
 
 Martha, oppressed by the consciousness of 
 her stupidity, had nothing to say. 
 
 ' I must risk it,' said Mary, lowering her 
 voice confidentially. ' I want you to go to 
 the post-office the day after to-morrow, and 
 get a letter that will be lying there addressed 
 to "X. Y. Z." You must bring it direct 
 to me.' 
 
 Mary had expected eager compliance, and 
 was surprised to see no sign of it, but to be 
 met by silence. 'Well?' she exclaimed im- 
 patiently. 
 
 Martha's face presented a study of contend- 
 ing emotions. This was the second time that 
 Mary had made a request to her which she 
 found it difficult to grant. She feared, her
 
 Discoveries. 41 
 
 secret knowledge rendering her imaginative, 
 that some trap was being laid for John, and 
 to that she could not be a party. 
 
 ' This which you beg of me to do, is it 
 anything unworthy ?' she asked, shrinking 
 from the question, even while she uttered it, 
 because loth to hint at the shadow of evil in 
 connection with Mary Hatherley. 
 
 That young lady became rather red, but 
 / also rather angry. 
 
 ' You are so absurd of late,' she exclaimed. 
 ' Of course it is nothing unworthy. Only a 
 little piece of poetical justice ; fun, in fact. 
 I — that is — a friend of mine and myself, we 
 wish to give my saintly brother a fright.' 
 
 ]\lartha looked grave. 
 
 ' You must tell me more.' 
 
 ' To tell you would spoil the whole,' said 
 Mary petulantly. ' If you don't go I shall 
 send some one else, and then there is no 
 knowing what mischief may ensue. Any 
 stranger sent on such an errand would think 
 that some important secret is concerned, and
 
 42 Winifred Poicer. 
 
 miglit open the letter. He would talk : and 
 only imagine the effect of such talking in 
 Marleyford !^ 
 
 Martha made no immediate reply. Mary's 
 words had for her a greater force than the 
 speaker could guess. She had not, it is true, 
 an idea of the nature of the letter, or of the 
 measure to which it could affect John ; and on 
 the other hand, she dared not question. She 
 feared by interrogation to excite suspicion and 
 illuminate facts still wrapped up in dark- 
 ness. 
 
 * You cannot refuse me such a little favour, 
 Patty,' began Mary once more, caressingly. 
 The coaxing tone went to her cousin's heart. 
 Still she could not yield at once. Mary en- 
 treated, repeating again and again that the 
 letter must be withdrawn, ' if not by Martha, 
 then by somebody else.' 
 
 * If I bring you the letter, what will you do 
 with it ?' asked the yielding woman. 
 
 ^ Tear it up,' answered Mary with a light 
 laugh, that yet was a little forced.
 
 Discoveries. 43 
 
 ' You promise/ questioned Martha, looking 
 at her earnestly. 
 
 ' I promise/ replied the girl : though her 
 2:lance flickered. 
 
 Martha sighed. But love and anxiety for 
 those she loved combined to vanquish her ; 
 and Mary, triumphant, finally extracted from 
 her the promise that she would go. 
 
 The day came, and Miss Freake went ; but 
 no letter was forthcoming. Mary, much dis- 
 appointed, insisted on her promise to go again 
 at the end of another few days. 
 
 So one fine morninof, when the air was 
 balmy, although the trees were still leafless, 
 and when crocuses and snowdrops had sud- 
 denly revealed themselves in all the gardens, 
 Martha started off* once more, the post-office 
 her final destination. First she had many 
 small errands of business and of charity to per- 
 form ; some bills to pay, some bedridden 
 crones to visit. Blither than usual, the cloud 
 of humble depression which generally clung 
 around her gentle spirit a little lifted, she
 
 44 Winifred Power, 
 
 trotted from place to place. Perhaps it was 
 the soft, lovely weather that made her feel so 
 bright ; for Martha Freake was very sensitive 
 to external impressions. Far more sensitive, 
 indeed, than most people, looking carelessly 
 at her crumpled little face under her dowdy 
 bonnet, thought it worth while to guess. Poor 
 simple, loving Martha ! 
 
 At last she turned into the street where the 
 post-office was ; presented herself before the 
 clerk, and asked for a letter addressed ' X.Y.Z.' 
 It was handed out to her. With a spasm of 
 surprise, she recognised the handwriting of 
 the address for John's. Hastily thrusting the 
 mysterious missive into her pocket, she turned 
 and found herself face to face with a quiet - 
 looking stranger. What he had to say to her, 
 and what happened next, the curious reader 
 wall learn in the following chapter.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 PSTAIRS, in a warm, comfortable, 
 remote room, where the bustle and 
 l^G^^b<^ stir of the household could not 
 reach, Mr. Hatherley sj)ent his days. They 
 were monotonous drowsy days, saddened by 
 weakness and the sense of an imminent end. 
 
 The brewer had never possessed many 
 mental resources : never had been a reading: 
 man, or made his son's pretensions to culture. 
 Now, as the gloom of weakness and of age 
 gathered round his spirit, he had but one occu- 
 pation. That was, to go over and over again 
 in memory the details of long-past business
 
 46 Winifred Power. 
 
 operations. His mind was very clear, but his 
 vivid interest in present things as a rule had 
 vanished. Generally silent, and a little morose, 
 rather than patient and resigned, he would 
 flash out at intervals into energy or anger. 
 And his intelligence on these occasions was 
 still so keen, his views so decided, his will so 
 swift and strong, that the whole household 
 shrank from rousing the slumbering lion. His 
 restless irritability and proportional sharpness 
 of insight, kept his children and servants on 
 thorns, for the lightest word sufficed to annoy, 
 and the faintest indication to enlighten him. 
 
 Late one afternoon he sat at his usual place 
 by the fire, the landscape still dimly visible 
 through the unshuttered windows. The reflec- 
 tion of the blaze on walls and furniture became 
 ruddier by contrast with the shadows which 
 it could only partially chase. The servant on 
 bringing the lamp had been bidden to take it 
 away again. Silently, almost humbly, he 
 obeyed, for the day had been one of Mr. 
 Hatherley's worst ; and now he was supposed
 
 The Will 47 
 
 to have sunk into the semi- stupor which 
 generally followed his outbursts of excitement. 
 He had a rugged, stern, old face — the set face 
 of a man who had known few, although strong, 
 emotions, and responded to fewer ideas. But 
 now on the sunken, cold lips a softer expres- 
 sion than usual dwelt. Once or twice the 
 wrinkled hands trembled, and an open letter 
 which they held rustled as in answer to some 
 quiver of the aged frame. 
 
 ' All in the dark, father ?' exclaimed Mary, 
 entering suddenly. ' How careless of Jacobs !' 
 And she rang the bell. 
 
 The old man did not seek to justify Jacobs, 
 or to answer. He still seemed lost in thought. 
 !Mary glanced at him rather impatiently, and 
 no quick instinct of love warned her of the 
 subtle change in his air. Her mind was, as 
 always, full of her own affairs. Earlier in the 
 day she had almost decided to appeal to him 
 for money ] but his mood had been ungracious, 
 and her courage failed. 
 
 When the lights were brought in, he roused
 
 48 Winifred Power. 
 
 himself a little, and, lifting his eyes, fixed them 
 
 on his dauo^hter T^ith a sino-ular, wistful look 
 
 o 
 
 almost of tenderness. She was startled — even 
 shivered with a vague awe. ^ever before had 
 he so looked at her ; and recalling the mystic 
 change that sometimes precedes death, she 
 wondered whether it were some prescience of 
 his end which now filled her father's eyes 
 with that strano'e reo^retfulness. 
 
 She laid her hand on his wrinkled, trembling 
 fingers, generally so nerveless, and felt them 
 close kindly, although feebly, round her own. 
 
 ' You are like your mother to-night, my 
 dear, it seems to me,' he said. 'Or perhaps 
 it is only that I have been living all day in 
 the past.' 
 
 ' Can I do anything for you, father? Is 
 there anything you want?' asked Mary, op- 
 j^ressed by the silence and by her own un- 
 wonted emotion. Her shallow nature could 
 not long bear the strain of a painful feeling. 
 She wished he would take those wan, solemn', 
 regretful eyes from her face.
 
 The Will. 49 
 
 ' I have thought of you a great deal to-day,' 
 he resumed, the senile trembling of his lips 
 increasing as the slow words came through 
 them ; ' of you and Will. I have been read- 
 ino; his last letter ; that one in which he says 
 he is about to marry. You remember?^ 
 
 ^ Yes ; you said it was certain to be a 
 marriage to disgrace us,' said Mary jealously, 
 for there had been scant love between herself 
 and her younger brother, and she had no 
 desire to see him reinstated in her father's 
 favour. 
 
 * Ay,' answered Mr. Hatherley ; ' I said so, 
 I remember. But things seem different now. 
 I should like him to be happier than he has 
 been.' 
 
 ' He does not deserve much happiness that 
 I can see,' replied Mary, too angry now for 
 tenderness. 
 
 *I have been unjust to him, and not gene- 
 rous to you, my dear. I was over-persuaded.' 
 
 ' By John 7 cried Mary, a sudden light 
 breaking upon her. 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 Winifred Power. 
 
 ' Yes/ he answered musingly. ' John is 
 hard, but I thought him just, and I had faith 
 in him until now. Lately ' 
 
 He paused, and his head drooped again. 
 Mary was livid with excitement at the thought 
 of the danger she had barely escaped — nay, 
 which perhaps still hung over her head. 
 Should she tell that secret something she 
 knew of her brother, or would silence be 
 wiser? Resentment and self-interest alike 
 urged her to speak. 
 
 ' Father, I have a thing to tell you — a 
 secret of John's,' she said, grasping the old 
 man's arm in the intensity of her eager- 
 ness. 
 
 He lifted his eyes to hers, but they had a 
 wanderino' look which alarmed her. "Were 
 the shades of death already obscuring his 
 tardily- awakened conscience ? Was he drift- 
 ing away so fast that her touch could no 
 longer detain, her voice no longer reach him? 
 In a spasm of fear she fell on her knees be- 
 side him.
 
 The Will 51 
 
 ' I sliould like to reverse the will,' he 
 murmured. ' But perhaps I have no time.' 
 
 The whispered, mournful words sickened 
 Mary. What had he done ? Was she to be 
 left penniless ? Springing up, she hastily 
 collected i^ens, ink, and paper. ' Dictate I' 
 she exclaimed. ' I can write, and you can 
 sigfn it.' 
 
 Once again succeeded a moment of that 
 terrifying silence, during which, breathless, 
 she leant forward and peered into his face. 
 But it was the slow 2:atherino' to<2!:ether of his 
 enfeebled faculties that made the pause; for 
 suddenly he roused himself, and in clear tones, 
 with a steadfast look, began to dictate : 
 
 'February 10th, 18-1 — . Besides the minor 
 legacies mentioned in my latest will, I leave 
 to my daughter Mary, and to my son William, 
 £30,000 each for their own exclusive use and 
 benefit. The remainder of my real and 
 personal estate I leave iu the manner already 
 set forth.' 
 
 His voice ceased. Mary looked up. Be- 
 
 4—2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UWVE«SnV OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 Winifred Power. 
 
 fore she could speak, he stretched out his 
 hand towards the pen. 
 
 ' Call Jacobs and Gregory as witnesses. 
 Be quick, child ! I think the sands are slip- 
 ping fast.' 
 
 She flew to the bell, and its summons not 
 being answered rapidly enough for her im- 
 patience, sped down the staircase calling 
 ' Jacobs ! Jacobs !' at the top of her voice. 
 
 * Quick !' she cried, when half a dozen 
 startled servants came running. ' Jacobs, 
 come ! Somebody call Gregory. Your master 
 wants two witnesses to his signature to a 
 will.' 
 
 ^ A will? At the eleventh hour, as you 
 may say, poor gentleman — what a freak!' 
 commented Mrs. Hoare, the housekeeper, while 
 she despatched an underling for Gregory, the 
 gardener, and Jacobs followed his excited 
 young mistress upstairs. 
 
 Mary, of course, was the first to gain the 
 room, and then Jacobs heard her give a shrill 
 cry of astonishment and dismay. On putting
 
 The Will. 53 
 
 in his questioning countenance, Jacobs found 
 Mr. Hatherley in his usual attitude by the 
 fire, Mary standing speechless in the middle 
 of the floor, and upon the hearth-rug, quietly 
 warming himself, imperturbably irreproach- 
 able, was — John ! 
 
 The two servants, who had now come, 
 could not take in the full meaning of the 
 scene, for they felt that there was some 
 mystery, and remained staring, silent and 
 puzzled. 
 
 'What is the matter?' inquired John aifably. 
 
 Jacobs looked at Gregory, and Gregory at 
 him ; after which, both directed glances at 
 their young mistress. But she seemed dumb- 
 founded, and vouchsafed not a word. 
 
 ' Miss Mary said, sir, that we were wanted 
 to witness a will,' replied Jacobs respectfully. 
 
 'A will?' repeated John sharply. 'What 
 ^vill ? My father's ? I thmk you are all 
 mad.' 
 
 Then Mary, beside herself, burst out : ' I 
 tell you the codicil was there .... on that
 
 54 Winifred Power. 
 
 table .... a codicil destroying your frauds. 
 You have taken it. Grive it back !' 
 
 Her words came out in gasps. She was 
 half- suffocated with an emotion which, in all 
 her decorous life, she had never felt or shown 
 before. At last she positively rushed at her 
 brother, as if to wrest the truth from him ; 
 but he seized her by the wrists and held her 
 at arms' -length, his cold contemptuous eyes 
 scanning her face. 
 
 ' You are disgracing yourself, Mary. You 
 are dreamino^. Where is the codicil? Look 
 for it,' he concluded quietly. 
 
 Where was it indeed? 
 
 Mary turned imperiously to her father, but 
 even her anger shrank from questioning him; 
 for he was sitting back in his chair quite silent 
 and still, with a fascinated look of horror in 
 his eyes, and a trembling of his whole frame 
 inexpressibly painful to see. The scene was 
 evidently too much for his failing strength 
 and it was more than likely that whatever he 
 knew he would not tell. On the floor was a
 
 The Will. 55 
 
 crumjjled sheet of paper. Mary pounced upon 
 it, but threw it away again the next moment, 
 on finding that it was only William's letter. 
 Her hungry eyes turned to the fire, but no 
 trace of any consumed document was there ; so 
 again she faced her brother. He had never 
 taken his gaze off her, and now spoke as calmly 
 as before: 
 
 ' You are convinced of your folly, I hope ? 
 iSTo ? Then I am tired of it, and I think the 
 servants had better withdraw.' 
 
 Gregory and Jacobs took the hint, and 
 vanished. Mary cast herself upon a sofa, 
 sobbing. John stood by with a gloomy frown. 
 All at once, across the stormful silence, Mr. 
 Hatherley spoke. ' I wish,' he said, slowly 
 and distinctly, ' to be left alone.' 
 
 Both his children started with a momentary 
 sense of remorse. The quiet command so 
 feebly yet so authoritatively spoken, falling 
 into the midst of their sordid self- absorption, 
 was like a voice from the tomb. 
 
 ' Come to your room,' said John to his
 
 56 Winifred Power. 
 
 sister, who had stayed her sobs and risen. ' I 
 have to speak to you seriously, and we worry 
 my father. You will ring for Hoare if you 
 want her, sir ;' and John, after a keen, dis- 
 satisfied glance, crossed the room and bolted 
 the door communicating with the servants^ 
 staircase. 
 
 Signing to Mary to follow him, he led the 
 way to her bedroom, and closed the door. ' It 
 is nearly dinner-time,' he began. ' Has it 
 struck you as strange that Martha should 
 still be out?' 
 
 Martha ? The subject was so unexpected at 
 that moment, that Mary absolutely started. ' I 
 have had other things on my mind/ she replied 
 sullenly. 
 
 ' She did not return to lunch, and she will 
 not be here to dinner,' said John. * It seems 
 you have heard nothing ?' 
 
 * Nothing at all; nobody has called to-day,' 
 answered Mary slowly, looking at him with a 
 growing feeling of disaster. She did not 
 wish to ask what had happened; but he re-
 
 The Will, 57 
 
 mainecl silent, and she could not bear the 
 suspense. 
 
 ' Where is Martha ?' 
 
 ' In gaol.' 
 
 Mary shrieked. The ^vords were like a stab. 
 But even then it was the blow to herself of the 
 announcement which she felt most of all. 
 
 'Cruel! cruel!' she cried, and covered her 
 face with her hands. 
 
 ' The cruelty belongs to the j^erson who sent 
 her on a felonious errand,' retorted John. ' I 
 was amazed when I heard of it. Mr. Ormerod 
 called himself at the brewery about it, twice. 
 The first time I was out; and this and other 
 delays made it impossible to get her out on 
 bail to-day. But to-morrow, when she is 
 brought up for examination, I shall of course 
 do what I can for her, although I am myself 
 the prosecutor.' 
 
 Mary sat listening, half- stunned, to the cold, 
 commonplace words ; commonplace in their 
 meaning, and as John uttered them, but tragic 
 in their significance to her. Two questions
 
 58 Winifred Foicer. 
 
 kept recurring constantly to her, beating 
 airainst lier brain like hammers. ' What would 
 happen to herself? and what to Ralph?' 
 
 ' Do you wish Martha to remain under this 
 charge?' he asked. 
 
 'I?' she repeatedly faintly. 
 
 ' She has only been your tool : and, as I 
 believe, your innocent tool,' continued John. 
 ' If I state this conviction before the magis- 
 trates to-morrow, she will be discharged.' 
 
 Mary wrung her hands. All the consequences 
 to herself were beginning to dawn upon her. 
 
 ' I need not point out that disgrace will fall 
 on you, even though you are not arrested as 
 Ralph Mercer's accomplice,' he pursued unre- 
 lentingly. But if Mary had not brains she had 
 some courage, and his tone stung her to revolt. 
 
 ' You are trying to frighten me with your 
 talk of felony and punishment, John. But 
 after all, what the letter said was perfectly 
 true. You have a clandestine establishment? 
 and you wish to keep it a secret.' 
 
 ' That is quite true. But the mista you
 
 The Will. 59 
 
 and Ralph made was in menacing me, sup- 
 posing that I woukl pay a large price for the 
 secret to be kept.' Mary started. This was a 
 new aspect of the question. 
 
 ' To my wife, herself (for the lady in Linden- 
 Grove Road is my wife), nobody could make 
 any objection. But I will not conceal from 
 you that there are circumstances connected 
 with her Avhich might render my father angry 
 at the marriage ' 
 
 ' And leave you out of his will,' interrupted 
 Mary, with scorn. 
 
 ' Precisely.' 
 
 His coolness exasperated her. Her eyes 
 flashed, and she was about to make some 
 angry observation when he raised his hand to 
 impose silence. 
 
 * Let us talk frankly, Mary. If I am in your 
 power to a degree of which, observe, you are 
 ignorant, you are in rny power to an extent of 
 which I am fully aware. Martha, poor soul, 
 between bewilderment and loyalty, said very 
 little to-day, and nothing that could compro-
 
 60 Winifred Power. 
 
 mise 3'ou. But she evidently counts upon 
 you to release her from her j)resent position, 
 and it is impossible to say how long her 
 silence may last when she finds herself mis- 
 taken. Her story, to the prejudiced ears of 
 Marleyford — prejudiced in our favour,' said 
 John, with an air of sardonic satisfaction — 
 ' will probably at first strike everybody as 
 wildly improbable, but its ultimate acceptance 
 will largely depend upon me. If I state my 
 conviction that my cousin was my sister's 
 cat's-paw, I fancy our kind neighbours and 
 friends will, one and all, accept the succulent 
 morsel of scandal whole. Martha will be 
 pitied as a victim and exalted as a martyr ; 
 
 shall bring my wife, her existence no longer 
 a secret, in triumph home ; while you, my 
 dear — well ! I leave you to imagine the figure, 
 more novel than edifying, that you will cut.' 
 
 Mary was speechless with dismay and rage. 
 In the last few minutes she had lived through 
 a decade of mental experience. She saw her 
 respectability in men's eyes — that elaborate
 
 The Will 61 
 
 fabric built up of family tradition and personal 
 pride — threatened to its foundations ; she was 
 frightened for her lover, frightened for herself, 
 a little remorseful about Martha ; and ao^hast, 
 to the point of pain, at the unexpected reve- 
 lation of her brother's true character. 
 
 ' I — I declare I do not know you !' she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 ' You do not know me because this is the 
 first time in our lives that the clash of 
 antagonistic interests has brought out the 
 essential difference between us. If you will 
 have confidence in me — good. If not, Mary, 
 you will have nobody but yourself to blame 
 for anything unpleasant that may happen to 
 you.' 
 
 Her nerves irritated by his stern composure, 
 his calm superiority, Mary again sought refuge 
 in tears. He let her sob for a little while. 
 
 ' IN'ow, Mary, for the question of the money. 
 I have just detected you in the attempt to 
 obtain a codicil by undue influence.' 
 
 * My father volunteered to make it,' she
 
 62 Winifred Power. 
 
 flaslied out, restored to some momentary 
 energy. 
 
 ' The proof ? Let me tell you that a codicil 
 in your own favour and your own handwriting^ 
 would look very suspicious in the eyes of the 
 law. And why do jou object to the original 
 will ?' 
 
 ' For aught I know I am disinherited,' she 
 said, falling into the trap laid for her, and 
 betraying her real ignorance of her father's 
 intentions. 
 
 John indulged in a smile of quiet triumph ; 
 and as he had learnt all he needed to know, 
 he was gratified at this moment to hear the 
 clash of the gong. 
 
 ' Seven o'clock, I declare! Come, Mary, 
 dry your eyes, and be reasonable. You will 
 certainly make ducks and drakes of any money 
 which is left you ; but at the same time, if it 
 be any comfort to you to know that you will 
 not starve, of that I can assure yon. You are 
 in a hole, and so is Ral23h, for that affair of 
 the letter is criminal ; but if I am pleased
 
 Tlie Will. 63 
 
 with you, I will stand your friend. And we 
 will get Martha off also — call her insane, 
 perhaps.' 
 
 Cowed afresh by this reiteration of the 
 danger hanging over her, Mary rose, sulkily 
 but obediently, and accompanied her brother 
 downstairs. There the respectful Jacobs w^as 
 waiting for them, and the dinner began in its 
 usual form. 
 
 But it was not destined to be thus con- 
 cluded. All at once the silent brother and 
 sister were startled by the sound of a heavy 
 fall in the room above, which was Mr. Hather- 
 ley's sitting-room. They looked at one 
 another with questioning eyes, and John half 
 rose from his seat, listening. 
 
 At this moment in rushed Mrs. Hoare, pale 
 and scared. 
 
 ' Oh, sir ! the master ! ... he is lying 
 insensible ! . . . I think he is dead.' 
 
 When the son and daughter reached their 
 father's side, they found him lost to all con- 
 sciousness, but still breathing. The doctor,
 
 64 Winifred Power. 
 
 summoned in haste, pronounced the attack to 
 he a fresh seizure, and declared his conviction 
 that it was destined to he the last ; which 
 sent the whole house into a commotion. 
 
 In point of fact, the old man never rallied, 
 and, just when the dawn was breaking, he 
 went. John was calm, but grave and at- 
 tentive ; Mary, shattered with fatigue, and 
 worn out by a quick succession of emotions, 
 quite subdued. 
 
 ' ISTow, don't take on, my dear,' said Mrs. 
 Hoare, forgetting something of her acquired 
 respect in her native motherliness. ' What is 
 it you say? If he had only spoken again? 
 Well, Avell, the ways of Providence are 
 mysterious. And it is quite certain the poor 
 gentleman loved you ; and if he had been 
 unjust, his intention was likely to remedy it — 
 or I should not have found him standing 
 where I did,' concluded the good woman, 
 smoothing her apron with a casual air. 
 
 ^ What do you mean?' asked Mary, raising 
 her tear-stained face.
 
 The Will, 65 
 
 'You heard the fall? Yes. Well, I had 
 gone into the room that mstant. Poor 
 master, he was standing by his writing-table, 
 with his hand on the very drawer from which 
 Mr. John has just carried a bundle of docu- 
 ments into his own room. He turned as I 
 came in, and said, " Mrs. Hoare," he says, 
 
 '• later this evening, when Jacobs is free " 
 
 Then he stopped. " Yes, sir," says I, think- 
 ing he had^ only just stopped to reflect, may 
 be. But he stood like a statue — his hand just 
 raised. Miss, it was awful. It was as if he 
 was listening to a distant voice. Then all at 
 once his poor fa<;e was drawn, he gave a little 
 gasp, and before I could catch him he had 
 fallen in a heap upon the floor. And, Miss 
 Mary, he never spoke again.' 
 
 This story of Mrs. Hoare's preoccupied 
 Mary. She, as well as the housekeeper, had 
 seen John remove a bundle of papers from 
 a drawer of his father's writ in o'-t able and take 
 them to his own room. Was the codicil 
 among these? If so, John's first care w^ould 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 Winifred Power. 
 
 of course be to destroy it. Mary knew that 
 an unsigned codicil was not of much legal 
 value, but a thought, sharpened by resent- 
 ment, suggested to her that it might be of 
 some use in enabling her to dispute her 
 father's will, should that prove, as she feared, 
 too flagrantly unjust. What was her father 
 doing at the writing-table when Mrs. Hoare 
 found him there? In the state of inertness 
 and weakness in which he was, he must have 
 had some strong motive to imjDcl him to the 
 exertion of creeping across the room. Perhaps 
 he had had possession of the codicil all the 
 time, and had taken advantage of being alone 
 to conceal it, intending to get the servants to 
 witness it later. 
 
 All at once it flashed across Mary's mind 
 that this writing-table of her father's j)ossessed 
 a curious secret drawer. Ralph Mercer had 
 told her of it. He had heard of it from 
 William Hatherley, who, coming unexpectedly 
 once into his father's study, had caught sight 
 of it ere the old man had hastily and furtively
 
 The Will. 67 
 
 closed it. William confessed to having taken 
 an occasion to look for it, but in spite of 
 many shakings and rappings he had been com- 
 pletely baffled. And the one chance which 
 enabled him to make his search had never 
 repeated itself. William, wisely distrustful of 
 his brother, had carefully kept from him all 
 knowledge of his discovery, although to his 
 * chum,' Ealph, he had been frank. Mary, re- 
 calling all this, asked herself : ' Could the 
 codicil be there?' She longed to find it, un- 
 able to believe that it would not be of some 
 use. 
 
 John had gone out in the course of the 
 morning about the necessary arrangements, 
 and except for the servants she was alone in 
 the house. The opportunity was too good to 
 be lost, and she went to the rooms where her 
 father had spent his last sad and silent months. 
 A little shudder of awe came over her as she 
 glanced at the fireless hearth, the empty arm- 
 chair, at all the familiar unchanged objects 
 whose special use was gone. With a super- 
 
 5—2
 
 68 Winifred Power. 
 
 stitious shrinking she softly closed the door, 
 left ajar, of the darkened bedroom, where lay 
 the still presence so full of rebuke in its un- 
 conscious majesty ; and then she began her 
 search. 
 
 But it was as fruitless now for her, as it 
 had ever been for William : she could not hit 
 upon the secret of the drawer. Such papers 
 as she found she scanned eagerly, but there 
 were none of any importance : John had taken 
 care of that. Feeling herself foiled, Mary 
 leant her face upon her hands and began to 
 weep silently. She was thoroughly exhausted, 
 and felt dreadfully sorry for herself. She re- 
 called the touch of new kindness towards her 
 in her father's tone and manner the day be- 
 fore, and sobbed bitterly. ISTobody was ever 
 so lonely as she : even Martha was not there 
 to comfort her : she had been taken into 
 custody on suspicion of having written the 
 threatening letter. 
 
 Selfishly confiding in John's assurance that 
 Martha could be ' got off somehow,' Mary had
 
 The Will. 69 
 
 dismissed as much as possible from her mind 
 the thought of Miss Freake's present position. 
 Xow it recurred to her, and with it a sense of 
 her own baseness. She was just in one of 
 those moods when to think one's self vile seems 
 equal to a return to virtue. Crossness with 
 the world produced in Mary an inclina- 
 tion to defy it. It would be grand of her, 
 and it would startle Marleyford, if she were 
 publicly to proclaim Martha's innocence and 
 her own o-uilt. She beo^an to rehearse the 
 scene in her mind. She would appear before 
 the mao'istrates, lookino; verv interestino' in 
 her mournino\ and in clear tones she would 
 state the truth. She could not be punished 
 very severely after that ; John would be de- 
 frauded of his intention of putting her down ; 
 Mrs. Hoare's story would help her in threaten- 
 ing to dispute the will. John would have to 
 compound for a large sum of money ; and she 
 — well, she and Ralph would marry, and take 
 the grateful Martha home to live with them. 
 The picture was charming. It quite cheered
 
 70 Winifred Power. 
 
 her, and she rose to her feet with a sense of 
 heroism. 
 
 But a thought intervened. Had not John 
 said that Martha would be brought up again 
 before the magistrates this very morning ? In 
 that case the time for action was now. This 
 check, like a brigand with a cocked pistol on 
 a lonely road, brought Mary up rather sud- 
 denly. She still felt inspired, only inspired 
 for some less definite epoch — perhaps to- 
 morrow or next day. While she hesitated 
 and began to get rather ill-tempered, Jacobs 
 knocked at the door. The diversion was a 
 relief. ' Come in,' she said. 
 
 ' Mr. Eussell is in the library, Miss Mary. 
 He wishes to know if he can do anything for 
 you.' 
 
 ' I will see him,' said Mary : and, as well 
 as the lowered blinds would allow, she 
 scanned herself in the glass to see if her tears 
 had disfigured her. She did not care for 
 Walter Eussell ; but it was gratifying to 
 know that he was devoted to her, more espe-
 
 The Will. 71 
 
 cially as everybody admired him, and wondered 
 why she did not prefer him to Kalph Mercer. 
 As she went downstairs it occurred to her 
 that perhaps she might make her first confes- 
 sion about Martha to him. It would be a 
 pretty scene — she remorseful, more sinned 
 against than sinning; he touched and tender 
 and very indulgent. He would smooth her 
 after-path, and stand between her and blame. 
 
 Paler than usual, with a graver but a 
 gentler manner and an air of lovely languor, 
 she entered the library and responded to Mr. 
 Russell's moved and eager greeting. Her 
 stateliness always impressed him, and now 
 that it was informed with this new gracious- 
 ness he found it irresistible. 
 
 ' I fear you are very sad,' he said kindly, 
 and held her hand. Mary sighed. She had 
 a retrospective vision of herself as she had 
 been ten minutes previously in her father's 
 room, and felt that she was indeed very, very 
 sad. 
 
 ' I am glad you came. 1 was iipstairs,' she
 
 72 Winifred Power 
 
 murmured ; and Walter, who understood her, 
 pressed her hand sympathizingly. 
 
 ' You are well ?' said Mary, looking at him 
 with a keener appreciation than usual of his 
 refined and intelligent air. ' And your little 
 cousin, Sir Charles's son, how is he ?' 
 
 ' He is, I fear, dying,' replied Walter 
 gravely. 
 
 ' Dying ?' Mary was startled. If the boy 
 died, Walter would be heir-presumptive to a 
 baronetcy. Her opinion of him rose consider- 
 ably. 
 
 ' I am afraid there is very little chance for 
 the poor child ; but I did not come here to talk 
 of my own affairs,' he said. ' I Avant to know, 
 Miss Hatherley, if I can be of any service to 
 you. I have been so shocked to hear, not only 
 of your loss, but of this terrible business of 
 Miss Freake's. Surely there must be some 
 mistake ?' 
 
 Mary's heart seemed to stand still. Now was 
 her opportunity ; now or never. She felt that 
 her next words would seal her fate, as a soul
 
 The Will 1^ 
 
 Avitli some possibility of redemption, or as the 
 basest of liars. 
 
 There are these unchronicled crises in life 
 that count for more than death or ruin. Mary 
 Hatherley felt herself in the grip of a grim 
 reality. The act of justice which, dressed in 
 fantastic guise, had seemed easy of accomplish- 
 ment an instant before, now stared at her with 
 a terrible earnestness out of Mr. Russell's 
 honest eyes. Xever until this moment had 
 she realized her folly, or felt that it was irre- 
 vocable. With a sob of impotent anger against 
 herself and everybody, that admirably simu- 
 lated pain, she bowed her head upon her arms 
 and gave up truth for ever.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MARTHAS SHAME. 
 
 HEN Jolin Hatherley rode into the 
 town, the morning after his father's 
 death, he was the object of general 
 and respectful sympathy. Two such events as 
 Martha Freake's arrest and Mr. Hatherley's 
 death, following immediately one upon the 
 other, had not happened in Marleyford for a 
 long time. The little town really felt as if i 
 had pressure on the brain. How Martha was 
 looking, what doing, saying, thinking behind 
 her prison walls — how the Hatherleys were 
 behaving inside their darkened house : such 
 were the two subjects full of delightful mys-
 
 Martha\s Shame. 75 
 
 tery. John, in his new character of master 
 and chief mourner, became most interesting ; 
 and wherever he stopped, on his way to the 
 magistrates' room, words of condolence greeted 
 him. 
 
 Fresh excitement was presently caused by 
 the rumble of a stately vehicle up the High 
 Street, and its instant recognition as the 
 Hatherley carriage, as it drew up at the court. 
 Who was inside it? Could it be Miss 
 Hatherley ? Then followed a thrill of commo- 
 tion as its occupant was recognised for Martha 
 Freake. John, looking sad but admirable, 
 hurried forward to help his cousin out, and 
 while the bystanders are struck dumb at his 
 goodness, Martha, thickly veiled and \dsibly 
 trembling, shuffles along and disappears. 
 
 When John looked at her, even he was 
 shocked at the change which twenty-four hours 
 had made. Not so much agitated, humiliated, 
 bewildered was she, as simply scared out of all 
 possibility of thought. She mechanically did 
 as she was told ; sat down in the chair pointed
 
 '^6 Winifred Power, 
 
 out to her ; answered all the questions ad- 
 dressed to her ; but not frankly and fearlessly 
 as the consciousness of her innocence should 
 have made her so do. Kather did she seem 
 held back from replying by some unseen terror. 
 And it would have been touchinof to mark, 
 had anybody been there capable of marking, or 
 in the secret, how little the thought of betray- 
 ing Mary Hatherley occurred to her. 
 
 Of course the magistrates, of Avhom Mr. 
 Ormerod was one, were very kind and consi- 
 derate to her. This they would have been in 
 any case, out of resj)ect for Martha's position 
 as well as for that of the Hatherleys. But the 
 poor little woman had been so familiar a figure 
 to them for years ; they had felt, quite uncon- 
 sciously, so much reverence for her simple 
 goodness, that the sight of her there, and the 
 necessity of investigating the charge against 
 her, were things exquisitely painful. 
 
 Have you nothing to say in your own de- 
 fence, Miss Freake ?' asked Mr. Ormerod, 
 "when the case had been fully gone into, and
 
 MarthcHs Shame. 77 
 
 John had related the circumstances attendant 
 upon his receipt of the threatening letter, and 
 the steps he had taken to trace the writer 
 of it. 
 
 She glanced round with a hunted look for a 
 moment, almost as if fearing that the question 
 might be a trap ; then hung her head and mur- 
 mured : 
 
 ^ I was told to go and fetch the letter.' 
 
 ' By whom ?' 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 ' Were you ignorant of its contents ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Were you positively not aware that the 
 letter, to which it was a reply, was written 
 with a view of extorting money ?' 
 
 ' I was not aware of that.' 
 
 ' Then you mean us to understand that the 
 threatening letter was not written by you ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Did you suspect its true author ?' 
 
 Martha made a nervous movement with her 
 hands.
 
 78 Winifred Power. 
 
 ' I knew nothing about it ; nothing,' she 
 said, her voice trembling with distress. 
 
 ' But, Miss Freake,' expostulated Mr. Orme- 
 rod, ' cannot you understand that by persisting 
 in this vague denial, not stating why you 
 should have gone to the post-office for the 
 letter, or who sent you, you place us in a most 
 perplexing and joainful position ? Either you 
 are guilty, or you are not guilty. If you will 
 not speak, and clearly, we have no choice but 
 to commit you for trial.' 
 
 She became violently agitated ; her whole 
 fragile frame shook. 
 
 *I will speak,' she cried wildly, 'but not 
 here, not now. It is all a mistake ; you must 
 see that. Let me go home, I pray you, to 
 Mary. I am not guilty ; I have never done 
 wrong, and I cannot bear this. I want to be 
 with Mary Hatherley.' 
 
 Her one thought was to escape from the 
 horrible publicity and the cruel strangeness of 
 her present position. Once back in the old 
 home, among the familiar faces of those who
 
 Martha! s Shame, 79 
 
 knew and, as she, poor soul, thought, loved her, 
 it seemed to her impossible but that this 
 appalling nightmare should pass away. The 
 very walls must bear testimony for her there, 
 where she had lived, from whence she had gone 
 forth on missions of charity, and whither she 
 had returned in joy and thankfulness when the 
 good day's work was done. 
 
 ' I must bind you over in two sureties to 
 appear for trial at the Assizes, Miss Freake/ 
 resumed Mr. Ormerod reluctantly. 
 
 ^ Then I need not go back to prison,' ex- 
 claimed Martha, seizing upon this idea. 
 ' Xot if you can find the sureties.' 
 ' I will be one,' interposed John Hatherley. 
 'And I the other,' added the Eector, Mr. 
 Stratton, who was present. 
 
 Martha was released. Her manner grew 
 more natural immediately, like that of a lost 
 child that has suddenly caught sight of its 
 mother amid a group of questioning, strange 
 faces. But she was not to be taken back to 
 Mary. John had arranged that, in a few rapid
 
 80 Winifred Poicer. 
 
 words Avith Mr. Stratton. He put her into the 
 carriage, and bid her wait. Then he returned 
 to the Justice-room, where the gentlemen were 
 talking. 
 
 ' One is always unwilling to believe such 
 charges against a person of position,' the Eector 
 was saying. ^ I do not know what to think of 
 her manner. Can she have been made a tool 
 of?' 
 
 ' That is precisely what I have been asking 
 myself,' interposed John, with his usual air of 
 grave candour. ' I am unwilling, except indeed 
 on the supposition of insanity, to believe my 
 poor cousin capable of such an act. But then 
 come the questions : Who has played upon her 
 credulous good-nature? and who can so influ- 
 ence her as to ensure her silence? It is pre- 
 posterous to think that she would willingly 
 sacrifice" lierself to the extent of taking upon 
 her own shoulders the guilt of another.' 
 
 ' Can there be a man in the matter ? You 
 understand me : a — an affaire de coeur T sug- 
 gested Mr. Ormerod profoundly.
 
 Martha\s Shame. 81 
 
 A little stir of amusement greeted the words ; 
 even John smiled. 
 
 ' I do not think Martha loves anybody but 
 Mary and myself,' he replied. 
 
 ' Then I give it up/ said Mr. Ormerod. As 
 did the others. For John, as the prosecutor, 
 could clearly not be the instigator ; and as for 
 his sister, like Caesar's wife, she was above 
 suspicion. 
 
 ' This is altogether so very distressing a 
 business, especially at this moment, that it is a 
 relief to think my cousin will be with you 
 and Mrs. Stratton,' said John as he walked 
 with the Rector back to the carriage. ' You 
 must let me know in confidence anything that 
 she may say. But I do fear her mind is un- 
 hinged.' 
 
 The Eector promised his best services, being 
 indeed only too gratified to think that he was 
 obliging John Hatherley. 
 
 ^ You must be overwhelmed with painful 
 business of one sort and another, Mr. John. 
 Your father's death ; and now this !' 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 Wmifred Power. 
 
 ' The worst times have an end/ said John. 
 
 Martha, on finding herself at the Rectory, 
 sank into a mournful silence. She gently 
 answered all observations made to her, but 
 only volunteered one request : which was to 
 beg that Mary might be sent for. The fussy, 
 ostentatious benevolence of Mr. Stratton to- 
 wards her, and the unconcealed curiosity of 
 his wife, repelled her confidence. They were 
 a thousand miles from suspecting this, of 
 course. They thought, indeed, worthy people, 
 that they were behaving with admirable kind- 
 ness and tact. 
 
 They could not know that, abruptly wrenched 
 from her old associations, she was divorced 
 fi:-om the greater part of herself. Of her real, 
 gentle personality nothing asserted itself with 
 any vividness in these days, but one intolerable 
 sense of tragic loss and shame. And this feel- 
 ing was itself so bound up with her old life 
 and all its afi'ections that she remained strangely 
 indifferent to the sympathy or possible blame 
 of those outside her house. It was of this she
 
 Martha^s Shame. 83 
 
 thought perpetually; of the work that she had 
 done in it; of her little room bright with 
 flowers and birds; of the servants who had 
 waited on her so willingly. Above all, she 
 thought of Mary. To see her was her one 
 great longing. With Mary's arm round her, 
 with Mary's eyes looking forgiveness for her 
 confession, she would speak. But in this harsh 
 world of strangers where she drew her breath 
 in pain, to lift up her voice in shrill self- 
 justification was to her impossible. She felt 
 too crushed, too bewildered. She was, in fact, 
 concentrated almost to the verge of insanity, 
 and they simply thought her sullen. 
 
 Mary Hatherley little guessed how well she 
 had been served by her determination not to 
 brinof her victim home. She had shrunk from 
 the thought of meeting her, in the selfishness of 
 her weak, unworthy nature. John had pointed 
 out to her the danger of Martha's sj^eaking, 
 but even this consideration was not strong 
 enough to overcome her reluctance. If Martha 
 did speak, she and John could deny; but of 
 
 6—2
 
 84 Winifred Power. 
 
 that they both knew there was little fear : 
 Martha Freake would never betray Mary. 
 
 Under the eyes of her victim she could not 
 keep up the farce of her own innocence. 
 Martha's presence and tears would distress herj 
 and she would be weak (she was within an ace 
 of thinking generous!) enough to blurt out 
 everything. And that would be very foolish ; 
 needless also, for John would be sure to arrange 
 matters and get Martha off scot-free. And 
 borne up by this persuasion, in her pallor, her 
 languor and her mourning, Mary presented a 
 very interesting and a genuinely sad appear- 
 ance to the few visitors admitted to Hather- 
 ley House on the days succeeding her father's 
 death. 
 
 To Martha she wrote, saying that as soon as 
 the funeral was over, she would visit her. 
 Buoyed up by this hope, the patient woman 
 waited. 
 
 Marlevford, now that Miss Freake was com- 
 mitted for trial, turned its interest from her to 
 Mr. Hatherley's will. How he would leave his
 
 Martha s Shame. 85 
 
 property; whether the distant reprobate, his 
 son William, would be well remembered by 
 him; Avhat Mary's share of the family wealth 
 might be; and what measure of responsibility 
 would devolve upon John. 
 
 After the funeral, when Mr. Luscombe, the 
 family lawyer, found only an old will was 
 produced, he looked greatly surprised. 
 
 * Your father made a second will, about a 
 month since,' he said curtly. Only Mary and 
 John and the servants were present ; for the 
 funeral guests had left, and of distant relatives, 
 beyond Ealph Mercer and Martha Freake, the 
 Hatherleys had none. 
 
 ' A second will ?' repeated John. ' I have 
 found none but this. Perhaps he deposited 
 the second will with you ?' 
 
 ' If he had, I should have brought it with 
 me,' retorted Mr. Luscombe, irritated at the 
 superfluous suggestion. ' As you must well 
 know, lie had a mania for keeping possession 
 of his own papers.' 
 
 ' Quite so,' assented John. ' And I found
 
 86 Winifred Power, 
 
 this will in the private bureau, with other 
 important documents. I am sure the second 
 will would have been there had he preserved 
 it ; but he probably destroyed it/ 
 
 Mr. Luscombe looked strangely unassen- 
 tient, even a little suspicious. ' Why should 
 he destroy it ?' 
 
 John slightly shrugged his shoulders. ' He 
 appears to have been in several minds about 
 his property, just before the end. The very 
 evening of his death, Mary found him draw- 
 ing up a third will — which he certainly 
 destroyed.' 
 
 * Certainly ?' 
 
 ' JSTo doubt. When we were summoned by 
 the noise of his fall, I noticed that the bureau, 
 near which he was standing, was open, and in 
 the grate were several half- consumed papers.' 
 
 ' Humph !' Mr. Luscombe glanced at 
 Mary, but she sat like a graven image in her 
 deep mourning, her face framed with its 
 golden hair. The colour had indeed flushed 
 once or twice into her cheeks at some of
 
 Martha! s Shame, 87 
 
 John's answers. But no other sign of protest 
 broke from her, for her brother^ s glacial glance 
 held her terror-stricken and mute. The 
 lawyer pondered for a few moments ; then, 
 with the gesture of a man who dismisses a 
 subject of perplexity from his mind, he turned 
 to the will lying before him on the table, and 
 began to read it aloud. It was brief, but 
 astounding, and may be summarily described 
 by saying that with the exce|)tion of a few 
 legacies to servants and others, John was left 
 sole legatee. Mary and William were dis- 
 inherited. 
 
 For one moment after the lawyer's tones 
 ceased, Mary sat quite silent. When she 
 found voice at last, it was only to utter a 
 half- stifled cry of rage. She was so deadly 
 pale that they thought her on the verge of 
 fainting, and hurried towards her in alarm. 
 John himself approached her and laid his 
 hand upon her arm. 
 
 At the touch she shrank away, and burst 
 into one of her storms of rage, her words
 
 88 Winifred Power. 
 
 coming so fast as almost to choke lier 
 voice. 
 
 She would dispute the Avill, she cried ; she 
 vrould write to Jamaica, and brinsf William 
 home. Tliese were never her father's inten- 
 tions. The servants could testify to so much. 
 And when she told all she knew, the world 
 would believe her. 
 
 ' Dear ! dear ! dear !' exclaimed Mr. Lus- 
 combe, shaking his head and looking very 
 much distressed. He had old - fashioned 
 notions of the conduct becoming in young 
 ladies, and was dreadfully shocked to see 
 the beautiful Miss Hatherley behave like a 
 Mfenad. 
 
 Mary's exclamations subsided at length 
 into angry sobs. John's smooth voice then 
 broke the silence. 
 
 ' I am not surprised that my sister should 
 be disappointed. I can only hope that when 
 her present excitement has calmed down, she 
 Vvill understand how little intention I have of 
 behaving otherwise than generously.' Mary
 
 Marthas Shame. 89 
 
 lifted her face from lier liandkerchief, met her 
 brother's eyes, and buried it again. ' I think,' 
 resumed John, again addressing the lawyer, 
 ' that my poor father probably did half repent 
 himself at odd moments of his harshness. 
 Perhaps the second will you mention was 
 more favourable to my brother and sister ?' 
 
 'Xot a whit,' answered Mr. Luscombe 
 briskly. 
 
 John raised his eyebrows. ^ My father must 
 have destroyed it.' 
 
 The lawyer advised its being looked for ; 
 and a thorough search was instigated. It 
 lasted all that day and the next, but ended 
 without success. Mary meanwhile had ample 
 time for reflection. John was careful to 
 remind her constantly in a thousand subtle 
 ways how completely she was in his power ; 
 and the dominion over her of his superior 
 calmness increased with every hour. Mr. 
 Luscombe — very suspicious at last about the 
 wills, although long unwilling to be so — tried 
 to elicit some liofht from her, but failed. She
 
 90 Winifred Power, 
 
 even disavowed the words which had fallen 
 from her in her rage. The servants, grateful 
 for their legacies and anxious to conciliate the 
 heir, were equally discreet ; Mr." Luscombe, al- 
 though his secret thoughts were many, and he 
 asked John a few questions which surprised 
 him, could but accept the facts as they stood. 
 
 Poor William Hatherley blustered a little 
 from Jamaica when the news reached him ; but 
 having no money and no credit, he could not 
 come over : and finally, on John's promising 
 to supply his wants in the present and to look 
 after his wife and children should he die, he 
 followed the general example and sank into 
 quiescence. 
 
 The only will found was, in consequence, 
 proved : and one or two of its clauses as well 
 as its general disposition gave Marleyford 
 something to talk about. To this subject we 
 will return later : suffice it to say for the 
 present that John covered himself with fresh 
 glory by the munificence of his conduct to- 
 wards his brother and sister ; and everybody
 
 Marthas Shame, 91 
 
 was enraptured at the sweetness of Miss 
 Hatherley in accepting her disinheritance and 
 showing no resentment. 
 
 We must now go back to Martha Freake, 
 who for the days before Mr. Hatherley's 
 funeral, and for some Aveary ones after it, sat 
 counting the hours for her meeting with Mary. 
 Twice had the visit been promised, then de- 
 ferred. But at last ]\Iary came. 
 
 They fell weeping into one another's arms. 
 All the pent-up anguish and bewildered, un- 
 answered questioning of days found vent in 
 the passionate outburst of sobs with which 
 Martha clung to her cousin. And there was 
 comfort for her in the responsive emotion 
 that shook Mary's frame. Ah! she was not 
 heartless ; she would speak, and this long 
 nightmare would dissolve for ever. 
 
 ' Oh Patty, I am so unhappy !' sobbed 
 Mary, finding words. 
 
 Martha's tender heart overflowed at this 
 annoimcement. She noted with loving com- 
 passion her darling's altered air; she stroked
 
 92 Wiiiifred Power. 
 
 her golden curls, and held her hands. Never 
 doubdno: but that Mary's sorrow was all for 
 her, she was filled with remorse and gratitude. 
 
 * You have heard?' said Miss Hatherley at 
 last, disengaging herself from these caresses, 
 and lifting her lovely eyes, full of the languor 
 of regret, to the poor, dej)recating face. 
 
 ' Heard ?' Martha had heard many new 
 things of late. The world seemed topsy- 
 turvy. 
 
 * How shamefully I have been treated : cut 
 off with a shilling,' added Mary, in indignant 
 explanation. 
 
 Martha stepped backwards. It was very 
 selfish of her, of course; but she had really 
 been thinking of herself, of her own trouble. 
 
 ' What enrages me the more is that I know 
 it is John's doing,' continued Mary, and went 
 off into a confused, fretful monologue. Martha 
 listened like one in a dream. She had not 
 expected this. Not all the experiences of the 
 past days had affected her like this discovery 
 f Mary's callousness.
 
 Martha s Shame. 9 
 
 <> 
 
 ^ And wliat are you going to do for me ?' 
 slie abruptly asked, cutting short the string of 
 lamentations. Mary looked up quite startled ; 
 the tone of the question was so new from 
 those lips. In Martha's eyes was a strange 
 sternness, and the other shrank before it. 
 
 ' You will not betray me?' she faltered. 
 
 ' Betray you ?' ]\Iartha echoed the words 
 bitterly. ' You seem to forget that it is I 
 who am betrayed.' 
 
 Mary broke out into protest. How could 
 she say such things, or think them ? Of 
 course everything would come right in the 
 end. John had promised all that : only 
 Martha must have patience. As for the 
 charge, it was preposterous ; as all the world 
 saw. But it must not transpire that she, 
 Mary, had any knowledge of the letter. That 
 would mxake too dreadful a sensation in 
 Marleyford. What would the Ormerods think 
 — and AYalter Eussell — and everybody? 
 Martha had always been good-natured ; surely 
 she was not going to change in the face of
 
 94 Winifred Power. 
 
 such a crisis? Mary's voice rose as she con- 
 cluded. But Martha sat very quiet, very pale, 
 but unshaken. 
 
 ' Justice must be done to me,' she said. ^ I 
 have been silent because I believed in your 
 honour. Now that it has failed me, I shall 
 speak.' 
 
 ^ You seem quite to overlook the fact that 
 nobody will believe you.' 
 
 The cruel words, wrung from Mary by the 
 sheer spitefulness of abject fear, had hardly 
 been uttered before she repented them. For 
 Martha rose trembling in every limb, dumb, 
 stricken to the heart, but mth a glance so full 
 of mournful majesty and of pitying scorn, that 
 it was like an avenging angel's : and Mary's 
 mean soul cowered beneath it. 
 
 With a convulsive sob she actually fell 
 on her knees and clutched her cousin's 
 hand. 
 
 ' Oh Patty, dear Patty ! have pity on me ! 
 Do not betray me. I shall be ruined. I 
 shall have to leave Marleyford, and John will
 
 Martha's Shame. 95 
 
 make my conduct an excuse not to give me a 
 penny. Everybody will shun me. Even 
 Ralph will not marry me then, perhaps. I 
 shall starve. I shall be driven to despair — 
 perhaps to suicide — I ' 
 
 ' And I ?' interrupted Martha. ' Have I no 
 right to happiness and consideration, and the 
 respect of my fellow-men? Is scorn less 
 cutting, ruin less ruinous, shame less shame- 
 ful, because the spirit stricken is mine, not 
 yours? Shall I not suiFer from outrage and 
 privation and want? May I not be driven to 
 suicide ? Will the path be easier to tread for 
 my feet than for your own ?' 
 
 Mary sat silent, startled at the tragic 
 ring of the words, but pettishly resentful 
 of their unexpected eloquence. Martha agam 
 sj)oke. 
 
 ' You have not answered me. Why am I 
 to sacrifice my fair fame to yours ?' 
 
 At the unconscious irony of the question, 
 Mary took refuge in tears. Life had become 
 an inextricable web of cross -purposes.
 
 96 Winifred Power. 
 
 ' You are so high-flown, and exaggerated ^ 
 and — and unkmd,' she sobbed sullenly. ' Who 
 w — wants you to sacrifice your fame? Such 
 a ridiculous expression! When I have told 
 you that — that John will get you oiF the 
 charge.' 
 
 * By some lie,' commented Martha, rendered 
 wonderfully clear-sighted of late. 
 
 ' You are so altered,' wailed Mary, wincing* 
 a little. ' I never thought you would object 
 to save me — only just to keep silent and let 
 matters take their coarse. You used to love 
 me. I think now you must only want to dis- 
 grace me.' 
 
 ' It is myself I want to save from disgrace, 
 child,' answered Martha, with a sudden change 
 of tone. Then to Mary's amazement — not 
 unmixed, sooth to say, with some secret terror 
 — she took her flushed, tearful face between 
 her hands and turned it towards the light. 
 Mary blanched under the glance that travelled 
 slowly over her features. 
 
 'Pretty, golden - haired thing! Pretty,
 
 MartlicHs Shame. 97 
 
 shallow, flimsy piece of human nature !' ex- 
 claimed Martha at last. ' Perhaps you are 
 right after all, and disgrace would be absurdly 
 heavy for you. Well, you can go. We have 
 seen the last of one another ; the last in any 
 real sense.' 
 
 ' And what are you going to do ?' inquired 
 :\lary. 
 
 ^ I shall defend myself.' 
 
 ' It will be too late.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so, for the world's verdict. But 
 that is a small matter. What is the world 
 now to me ?' 
 
 Martha sat down by the table as she 
 spoke, and laid her face upon her crossed 
 arms. The waters of bitterness w^ere closing 
 over her soul. Mary crept to the door, opened 
 it softly, and found herself with a sense of re- 
 lief in the passage. 
 
 Mrs. Stratton hurried forward obsequiously ; 
 the children came up with smiles and glances 
 of shy admiration for the beautiful Miss 
 Hatherley. In that atmosphere of flattery 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 Wmifred Power. 
 
 Mary regained her usual self-complacency ; 
 and the closed door between herself and Martha 
 shut out also the consciousness of her crime. 
 For moral sense with her meant only the 
 ajDproval of the world.
 
 CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 'deaf and dumb.' 
 
 S tlie time for Martha Freake's trial 
 drew near, public opinion became 
 on the whole unfavourable to her. 
 ' Guilty, no doubt/ said Marleyford, almost 
 ashamed of its first compassion. ' She never 
 was really anybody, poor thing, and the luxury 
 of her life at the Hatherleys' must have de- 
 moralized her.' 
 
 When the eventful day dawned at last, the 
 court Avas crowded to suffocation ; the interest 
 was intense, and had extended itself to the 
 county town. It was generally known that 
 
 7—2
 
 100 Winifred Power. 
 
 the defence was to be largely based on the plea 
 of insanity ; and John had talked so much 
 about his cousin's remarkable eccentricity, that 
 the more obliging or the more ingenuous 
 spirits among his acquaintances had recalled 
 several odd traits in Miss Freake's character, 
 and declared themselves to have been much 
 struck with them at the time. 
 
 With all this it may be imagined what 
 curiosity was felt to see how Martha would 
 look at her trial. And her appearance sur- 
 passed expectation. She was worn to a 
 shadow ; deadly pale, but for a settled flush on 
 each cheek; and her eyes, painfully bright, had 
 one fixed, startled stare. When asked to plead, 
 she said : 
 
 ' Not guilty.' 
 
 Inspector Roberts stated that on receipt of 
 information furnished him by Mr. John 
 Hatherley, he had gone to the Marleyford post- 
 office, and had there found the prisoner. She 
 was askino' for a letter addressed to ' X.Y.Z.' 
 She appeared more bewildered than frightened
 
 ' Deaf and Dumb! 101 
 
 when he arrested her, but had only said, ' You 
 will see it is all a mistake.' 
 
 John Hatherley next appeared. He looked 
 very handsome, very grave and dignified, with 
 an air of becoming concern ; and he gave his 
 evidence, as the papers all said, ' with evident 
 reluctance.' 
 
 One morning he had received by post a 
 communication in a disguised hand, threaten- 
 ing him vaguely with exposure of his private 
 affairs, his ' secrets,' as the letter put it, unless 
 by a certain day (named) an answer, contain- 
 ing £50, was sent to Marleyford post-ofiice 
 addressed to the initials ' X.Y.Z.' Scenting a 
 conspiracy, he had placed the matter in the 
 hands of the police. 
 
 The examination of the counsel for the 
 prosecution elicited from him three special 
 facts, of which the connection was not imme- 
 diately visible. These were, first, that he 
 suspected nobody in particular of the author- 
 ship of the threatening letter ; secondly, that 
 Martha Freake had superintended the establish-
 
 102 Wmifred Power. 
 
 ment at Hatherley House and dispensed the 
 liousekee]3ing moneys ; thirdly, that a certain 
 bill of £50 to a builder had never been 
 paid. 
 
 ]\Iartha's face showed some slight glimmer 
 of indefinable emotion; and her counsel, Mr. 
 AYharton, made a movement of surprise. It 
 was his turn now to cross-examine, and he 
 rose. After one or two apparently un- 
 important questions, he asked in a brisker 
 tone : 
 
 ' Then, do you positively assert, Mr. John 
 Hatherley, that you suspected no person at all 
 as the writer of the letter ?' 
 
 ' I positively assert it.' 
 
 ' You have no knowledge of any spiteful 
 persons, who may bear a grudge against you, 
 and ' 
 
 Of course the counsel for the prosecution in- 
 terfered at this point, and the Judge ruled that 
 the question was not a fair one. Whereupon 
 Mr. Wharton, with a shrug of his shoulders, 
 fell back upon those generalities which are
 
 Deaf and Dumh! 103 
 
 probably good as evidence to the legal mind, 
 but which to the uninitiated appear so hope- 
 lessly vague. 
 
 ' Then it absolutely never occurred to you 
 that the person to present herself at the post- 
 office would be the prisoner ?' 
 
 ' It never occurred to me.' 
 
 ' You have said that the prisoner had for 
 fifteen years lived in your father's family, and 
 superintended the household. Also that a 
 great deal of money passed through her hands. 
 Did she not always render an accurate account 
 of the sums expended ?' 
 
 ' Ye3,' replied John. Then, after a slight 
 pause, he added ' generally.' 
 
 He spoke the word quite quietly, apparently 
 without obvious intention. Perhaps it was 
 only that barely-perceptible previous jDause 
 which made it sound sinister; but as a matter 
 of fact it had a very bad effect. 
 
 The wiseacres among the audience shook 
 their heads, and the prisoner nervously clutched 
 the iron bar in front of her. She began to
 
 104 Winifred Power. 
 
 tremble all over with uncontrollable agitation, 
 looking, as many j)eople wliisperingly asserted 
 at that moment, ^ really guilty.' 
 
 'What do you mean by ''generally"?' asked 
 the counsel sharply. 
 
 ' I mean almost always,' replied John. 
 
 ' I must trouble you to be more explicit. 
 Did the prisoner at any time not render such 
 account to you ?' 
 
 ' You have just heard that on one occasion 
 she did not.' 
 
 ' I wish to hear it again.' 
 
 Whereupon John, under pressure of further 
 interrogation, related how he had owed £50 to 
 one Smithson, a builder ; how the man had 
 asked to be paid in money and not by cheque ; 
 how John, driving with his sister and Miss 
 Freake that day into town, had stopped at the 
 bank and drawn £100 in notes. He kept £50 
 himself, and had given the other £50 into Miss 
 Freake' s hands, requesting her, as he was him- 
 self just leaving by train for London, to call 
 round and pay Smithson his account. Hearing
 
 ' Deaf and Dumh.^ 105 
 
 no more from the builder, he concluded that 
 this had been done. 
 
 ' When was this 7 
 
 ' Shortly before my father's death. Not 
 many days, I think, before I received the 
 threatening letter.' 
 
 ' ^Yhen did you discover that the bill had 
 not been paid ?' 
 
 ' Only yesterday,' replied the witness. ' To 
 my surprise, Mr. Smithson stopped me in 
 the street with a renewed request for the 
 money.' 
 
 This story created great excitement. Its 
 significance was borne in gradually upon the 
 audience as each fresh answer to the keen 
 questions of the cross-examining counsel only 
 established John's testimony the more firmly. 
 Young Mr. Hatherley's manner was quite 
 that of a man who feels fully all his responsi- 
 bilities. 
 
 The missing £50, lost or otherwise disposed 
 of by Martha, supplied that motive for the 
 anonymous letter, which even the most eager
 
 106 Winifred Power. 
 
 of her non-partizans had hitherto felt to be 
 wantino^. 
 
 Mr. Wharton scribbled some notes, and 
 addressed himself once more to John. 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that you never asked 
 the prisoner if she had paid the money ?' 
 
 ' I took it for granted that she had.' 
 
 ' And did you, a man of business, not ask 
 for the receipt ?' 
 
 ' All receipted bills, by whomsoever paid, 
 were strung upon a hie in my father's study. 
 Had I thought about the receipt of the £50, 
 it would have been to conclude that it was 
 there with the others.' 
 
 ' Are you prepared to state that the notes, 
 making up this £50, passed through no hands 
 but your own and the prisoner's ?' 
 
 ' I have stated all I know,' answered John, 
 evidently getting tired, but too well-bred to 
 show it. 
 
 ' Please to be explicit, witness. Do you 
 positively state that the notes passed only 
 through your hands and Miss Freake's ?'
 
 'Deaf and Dumb' 107 
 
 ' I do positively state it,' said John icily. 
 
 ' You can go, sir,' said the counsel. ' I 
 have nothing more to ask.' Whereupon John 
 stepped out of the witness-box ; and, exchang- 
 ing grave salutes with his acquaintances, 
 passed from the respectful and admiring eyes 
 of the crowd. 
 
 Xext in order Mr. Smithson was called. His 
 evidence did not amount to much, but it was 
 chiefly confirmatory of John's. 
 
 Had asked to be j^aid in notes as more con- 
 venient ; had thou^iit it strano^e when the 
 money was not forthcoming, but had refrained 
 from pressing out of his great respect for the 
 Hatherley family. Then occurred the lamented 
 death of the head of the house, which made 
 him still more unwillino; to mention so triflinp^ 
 a matter as a forgotten bill. But yesterday, 
 chancing to meet young Mr. Hatherley in the 
 street, he had ventured upon a reminder, when 
 Mr. Hatherley said he had sent him the 
 money several weeks ago : Mr. Russell, who 
 was arm-in-arm with Mr. Hatherlev, had con-
 
 108 Winifred Power. 
 
 firmed this. Upon being asked liow Mr. 
 Eussell had confirmed this, the witness said 
 that Mr. Eussell had exclaimed in surprise : 
 
 ^ Why, I saw you give the money to Miss 
 Freake for Smithson two months ago. You 
 remember, I was standing by the carriage at 
 the moment ?' And Mr. Hatherley said that 
 he remembered it perfectly. 
 
 ' Did not the prisoner call at your house that 
 day, within an hour of her receiving the money 
 for you ?' questioned Mr. Wharton. 
 
 ' Yes. But I was out.' 
 
 John Hatherley was recalled, and asked if 
 he had no knowledge of the £50 having been 
 diverted to some other use than the one 
 originally intended. He denied it. 
 
 ' Did not Miss Freake mention to you that 
 same evening that she had not paid the bill, 
 Smithson being out : and did you not on the 
 following morning authorize your coachman 
 to ask the prisoner for the money?' 
 
 ' By no means.' 
 
 * Then if the £50 were aj^plied to some pur-
 
 ' Deaf and Dumb,'' 109 
 
 joose other than the payment of Mr. Smithson's 
 account, you did not know it ?' 
 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 
 Most of the hearers felt quite disposed to 
 echo John's quiet denial. It seemed so 
 ridiculous to suj)pose even for a moment that 
 he would order his cousin to do one thino; 
 with the money, and his coachman another. 
 Ridgeley, the coachman in question, was not 
 at hand, and Mary's evidence was next taken. 
 
 She had been sitting in the room reserved 
 for witnesses, agitated and sick at heart ; her 
 sympathizers attributed it to her distress for 
 her cousin, and to the natural shrinking of a 
 young girl from publicity. In truth, she was 
 dominated but by one thought : the terror of 
 betraying herself. The necessity of conceal- 
 ment now had closed upon her like an iron 
 band. She felt that there was no escape from 
 it, and shrank with all the craven doubt of in- 
 experience and stupidity from the thought of 
 the cross-examination and its hundred pitfalls. 
 Mary had at all times resented cleverness, and
 
 110 Winifred Power. 
 
 the cleverness of a lawyer was peculiarly to be 
 dreaded now. 
 
 The aspect of the court with all the array of 
 Justice congealed her blood Avith fear, so that 
 her voice was hardly audible as she took the 
 oath. But the respectful manner of the cross- 
 examining counsel soon restored her self- 
 possession. It seemed a kind of assurance to 
 her that she would not be found out. With 
 calm, returned cunning — the instinct of self- 
 preservation — she denied knowledge of every- 
 thing ; nobody had been more astonished than 
 herself when the prisoner was arrested. The 
 lie, once made concrete to her by the telling, 
 was easy to maintain, and the cross-examina- 
 tion of Mr. Wharton availed not to shake her 
 in it. The testimony of John gained ad- 
 ditional force when confirmed by the lips of 
 this beautiful and haughty-looking girl. 
 
 Evening had drawn on, and the court rose. 
 It was settled that the case should be re- 
 sumed the next morniug at ten o'clock, and 
 Marleyford went home to dinner in a con-
 
 ^ Deaf and Dumb.'' Ill 
 
 ditioii of pleased expectation. Xobody had 
 heard the low, anguished moan of the prisoner 
 when she was removed. 
 
 Already the torturing hours had left alive 
 in Martha but one sentiment : a lonoino\ dis- 
 tilled to agony, to know the worst and have 
 rest. Anything — she felt, rather than thought 
 — even the solitude of the prison, Avould be 
 better than this procession of witnesses against 
 her. The familiar, unfamiliarlv cruel faces of 
 her accusers had come to have a kind of 
 spectral and altogether unendurable horror for 
 her, and she panted for any catastrophe which 
 should end it all. A kind of stupor fell upon 
 her, but it brought her no relief, for a dull 
 sense of betrayal beat in a surging, ceaseless 
 tide upon her confused brain. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mary returned home in the 
 carriage with her brother. Having dressed 
 for dinner and eaten it, and warmed herself 
 comfortably by the splendid fire in her lux- 
 urious but sombre drawing-room, she began 
 to feel a little perfunctory remorse.
 
 112 Winifred Power, 
 
 ' John, what about the insanity ?' she asked 
 when he joined her. ' When will they begin 
 to plead that?' 
 
 ' Perhaps not at all/ 
 
 His tone made her angry, for she dimly felt 
 that the only object of his answer was to 
 annoy her. 
 
 ' You know,' she exclaimed, ' it was only 
 on that understanding that I consented — I 
 mean that I ' 
 
 ^ That you determined to sacrifice Martha 
 and save yourself ?' 
 
 Mary sat speechless. 
 
 ^ There is still time for you to confess the 
 truth,' continued John coolly. 
 
 ' If you think it so easy to tell, why do you 
 not tell it yourself ?' flashed out his sister. 
 
 He shruo'Dfed his shoulders. 
 
 ' I suppose I have still a superstitious rever- 
 ence for the Hatherley name.' 
 
 She beat an impatient tattoo mth her foot, 
 feeling once again almost capable of rushing 
 off to Mr. Ormerod and confessing everything,
 
 'Deaf and Dumb.'' 113 
 
 just to spite John. What was that abstrac- 
 tion — the family name — to her ? Nothing. 
 She thought only of herself. But — what 
 would be the result to herself of her own tardy 
 confession? For the fiftieth time her coward 
 soul sank within her, at the vision of dis- 
 grace. 
 
 However, if she could not be courageous^ 
 she could be feebly vindictive and indignant. 
 
 ' I should like to know the real truth about 
 Eidgeley and that £50,' she said. 
 
 ' You will know soon enough. Ridgeley 
 will be the first witness called to-morrow.' 
 
 Mary sat looking at her brother — an angry 
 light in her eyes. 
 
 ' You are a fiend I' she burst out at last. 
 
 ' You are mistaken. I am simply a man 
 who pursues his own ends.' 
 
 John rose as he spoke, and Mary, with 
 a peevish sigh, renounced open revolt, and 
 gave up all thought of penetrating the 
 mystery of Ridgeley. 
 
 The trial was resumed on the followino- dav, 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 Winifred Power. 
 
 Eidgeley being first called. He stated that 
 lie bad been several years in Mr. Hatberley's 
 service as groom, bad left, and returned on 
 being promoted to the post of coachman. He 
 knew nothing about the bank-notes spoken of; 
 had never seen them, never handled them or 
 known of their existence, far less had he used 
 them. Xo denial could be more explicit or 
 complete ; nevertheless Mr. W^harton rose with 
 a curious air of suppressed, expectant triumph. 
 ' Did vou not come into Miss Freake's 
 sitting-room on the morning in question, and 
 tell her that Mr. John Hatherley had ordered 
 vou to ask for the money, to pay a certain 
 stable account?' 
 
 • I did not,' answered Eidgeley. 
 
 • You did not I Did not the prisoner tell 
 you that she had the exact sum, but that it was 
 destined to pay Smithson ; and did not you 
 reply that Mr. John wished the stable account 
 to be paid first?' 
 
 ' I can remember no such conversation,' 
 replied Eidgeley stonily.
 
 ^ Deaf and Diimh.^ 115 
 
 ' What ! Do you persist in declaring that 
 the prisoner was not induced by these repre- 
 sentations to hand over the £50 to you?' 
 
 ' I never received £50 from her, sir.' 
 
 ' But you frequently did receive as large, 
 and larger, a sum of money from Mr. John 
 Hatherley?' 
 
 For the first time a faint hesitation rippled 
 the surface of the witness's dogged icalm. 
 
 ' I used to pay bills for Mr. John,' he 
 answered. 
 
 ' What sort of bills ?' 
 
 ' Bills connected with the stables and the 
 horses.' 
 
 ' Did not Mr. John Hatherley about that 
 time give you £20 ? — and £10 a month or 
 two previously? Did he not give you small 
 sums varying from £3 to £5 on several 
 occasions ?' 
 
 Ridgeley, now obviously somewhat shaken, 
 was inclined towards doubt and forgetfulness 
 at first; but was brought at last to admit that 
 such had been the case. 
 
 8—2
 
 116 Winifred Power, 
 
 ' For what purpose were these sums given 
 you?' 
 
 Apparently Ridgeley had not asked his 
 young master. Mr. John Hatherley was very 
 open-handed. 
 
 'Indeed!' ejaculated Mr. Wharton drily, 
 ^ Did not his open-handedness in regard to 
 yourself begin six years ago last August, 
 when you accompanied him to a church in the 
 Strand ?' 
 
 At this there was a decided stir in the 
 audience. They detected a mystery, and for 
 the first time that monument, the Hatherley 
 ' legend,' slightly trembled on its base. 
 
 ' Were you not a witness to Mr. John 
 Hatherley' s secret marriage ?' continued Mr. 
 Wharton. 
 
 Eidgeley answered ' Yes.' But his answer 
 was a small matter ; lost, as it was, in the 
 tremendous commotion caused by the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 John Hatherley married ? Secretly ? Six 
 years ago ? In the Strand ? Never had there
 
 ^ Deaf and Dumb J 117 
 
 been such a buzz of comment, such a sea of 
 astonished faces. The ushers had some trouble 
 in restoring silence. 
 
 Mr. Wharton resumed his interrogations. 
 For the third time John was summoned, and 
 with what inquisitiveness may be easily 
 imagined ! But he was quite equal to the 
 occasion. His self-possession was unshaken, 
 only a sliimmer of suppressed but profound 
 emotion famtlv irradiatino; the surface of it. 
 
 ^ CD 
 
 Questioned as to his relations with Ridgeley, 
 he stated that he had known him for years : 
 as a little lad : he had respected the man : that 
 he had frequently made him presents, but that 
 he had never authorized him to obtain from 
 Miss Freake the £50 set aside for Smithson, 
 nor had he any reason to suppose that he had 
 done so. It was cjuite true that Ridgeley 
 (who was not then in his service) had been one 
 of the two witnesses to his private marriage. 
 Xeither would he attempt to deny that he had 
 rewarded the man handsomely for his services, 
 iind his silence.
 
 118 Winifred Power. 
 
 * Are we to conclude that your reasons for 
 keej)ing your marriage a secret were weighty T 
 
 ' They were rendered weighty simply by the 
 peculiar opinions of my father/ answered 
 John. ' He had an extraordinary shrinking 
 from all persons afflicted by ' 
 
 The young man for an instant paused. Only 
 an instant, yet time for a hundred crowding 
 recollections of old Mr. Hatherley's pecu- 
 liarities to leap into the minds of many peoj)le 
 who were present. 
 
 ' Afflicted by physical infirmity,' resumed 
 John, with pain. ' And my dear wife is un- 
 fortunately deaf and dumb.' 
 
 His voice rang with a mournful cadence. 
 The revelation was so unexpected and so 
 dramatic, that there was not one of its hearers 
 but felt filled with pity. The pathetic, yet 
 true and purely domestic fact had intrinsically 
 but slight bearing upon the trial ; but it 
 brought the general sympathy strongly towards 
 Jolin. Further questioning elicited fi:om him 
 that his wife was now very ill : that this cir-
 
 '' Deaf and Dumb.'' 119 
 
 cumstance alone had delayed his introduction 
 of her to his friends since his father's death ; 
 but that he had made arrano-ements for brino-- 
 ing her down to Marleyford the very next 
 week, and that he had not hitherto announced 
 her existence — he really hardly knew why he 
 had not done it. It might be from the habit 
 of concealment — it certainly was no longer from 
 the desire of it. This explanation, vague as it 
 was, gave the impression that John Hatherley 
 knew his owm affairs, and was capable of con- 
 ducting them. 
 
 The witnesses called in Martha's favour 
 were principally persons who spoke to her re- 
 spectability and her general good conduct, 
 with others who had known various members 
 of her family and testified to epilepsy in one, 
 eccentricity in another, and to her own re- 
 markable delicacy and abnormal shyness as a 
 young girl. A medical man said he considered 
 her very ' strange ' now. 
 
 Mr. Wharton's appeal for his client was so 
 earnest as to be almost impassioned. He
 
 120 Winifred Power. 
 
 dwelt on Martha's blameless life, on the in- 
 timacy in which she had lived with the 
 Hatherleys, and the extreme improbability of 
 her being afraid to confess the loss, even if it 
 had happened, of the sum of £50. Was it 
 not more likely that she in her trusting sim- 
 plicity had been induced, as she now declared, 
 to hand it over to Ridgeley, though the man, 
 for his own purposes, chose to deny the fact ? 
 In regard to the other and principal charge 
 against her, what was more intrinsically likely 
 than the story which she told ? Was it not in 
 accordance wath all that w^as known of her 
 that she should have been made the tool of 
 another — though she shrank from disclosing 
 who that was ? Mr. Wharton here made skilful 
 use of the supposed taint of insanity in Martha 
 lo explain her dumb, dog-like fidelity, her 
 silence before the magistrates, her concentrated 
 terror of demeanour, and imperfect defence. 
 
 But the deftly- woven web of justification 
 fell to shreds beneath the Judge's summing 
 up. For if Martha were indeed a tool, then
 
 '' Deaf and Dumh! 121 
 
 who had employed her ? John ? He was the 
 prosecutor. Mary ? The idea was absurd 
 in itself, even if Mary's own denial had not 
 disproved it. Had not Mr. Hatherley and his 
 sister and the coachman, one and all, told a 
 perfectly coherent and credible tale ? It was 
 for the jury to consider which of the two 
 stories was the most probable: a favourable 
 one which would represent the prisoner in the 
 light, first of the cat's-paw, and then the 
 victim of an anonymous, invisible friend ; or 
 another wdiich would show her as seeking to 
 repair a probable act of carelessness by an 
 offence whose serious consequences had j)re- 
 sumably failed to strike her. 
 
 The jury took some time to consider their 
 verdict, and on reassembling found the prisoner 
 guilty ; but in consideration of her hitherto 
 unblemished character, recommended her to 
 the mercy of the court. And the Judge, in 
 passing sentence, said that he wished to make 
 it as light as possible, and condemned her to 
 six months' imprisonment.
 
 122 Winifred Power. 
 
 Asked if she had anything to say, Martha 
 looked up. A nervous trembling that had 
 possessed her for hours suddenly ceased. Her 
 frail little figure straightened itself, and over 
 her pathetic face fell a light as from some 
 vision seen of her alone. She raised her 
 hand with a gesture so solemn that those 
 who watched her were awe -struck and listened 
 breathlessly for her words. Her lips parted : 
 she was about to speak, when suddenly a 
 convulsive shudder shook her frame. She 
 threw her head back despairingly, cast her 
 wasted arms towards the cruel immensity of 
 the heavens, and with a cry of exceeding sorrow 
 fell forward in a death -like swoon. 
 
 ' Do you know what she reminded me of T 
 said a young girl who had turned pale with 
 pity. ' One of those 23ictures of saints, who 
 in the moment of martyrdom see some sign in 
 the skies : and then, when her face altered in 
 that awful way, it was as if the sign had va- 
 nished, and nothing was left to her but the 
 reality of her torture.'
 
 CHAPTEK YL 
 
 CHANGES. 
 
 AKLEYFORD was moved to pity 
 on hearing that when she recovered 
 from the long syncope following 
 her condemnation, Martha Freake was mi- 
 deniably mad. ' A condition of strong cerebral 
 excitement,' the doctors called it, and she was 
 removed from prison to an asylum. 
 
 The next subject of interest that arose was 
 John Hatherley's wife. She arrived with little 
 Mark, her beautiful son of ^ye years old; was 
 introduced by her husband to her future home, 
 and gratified expectation to an unforeseen 
 degree. For she Avas exquisitely graceful.
 
 124 Winifred Power. 
 
 gentle, refined; and, alas, condemned to die ! 
 Consumption told its tale plainly in her wasted 
 form and sunken cheeks. Gliding about the 
 house in these cold spring days, wrapped 
 always in a white fleecy shawl, noiseless, mute, 
 uttering her thoughts but by signs, Mrs. 
 Hatherley was more like a phantom than a 
 living w^oman. 
 
 She had strangely-lovely, shining eyes, with 
 so intense a spirituality in their depths as to 
 awe, while it attracted, almost everybody who 
 came near her. John himself was truer in her 
 presence : and the one person whom she 
 seemed rather to fret than to elevate, was Mary. 
 The superiority of this pure nature, veiled by 
 infirmity and illness, irritated the girl's sullen 
 love of ease : in addition to this, she, herself 
 so faultlessly and coldly handsome, had in- 
 herited something of her father's dislike to 
 physical defects. Yet Mrs. Hatherley's afflic- 
 tion had nothing in it that should have raised 
 aversion even in the hardest nature, for it was 
 entirelv the result of an accident which had
 
 Changes. 125 
 
 happened to her as a child. But what helped 
 to increase Mary's dissatisfied feelings towards 
 her sister-in-law, was the haunting sense of a 
 likeness in her to some face of which she could 
 not distinctly recall the identity. This im- 
 pression came upon her so strongly at times, 
 that she seemed just on the brink of recollec- 
 tion. And strangely associated with this 
 vague memory was the idea, equally indefinite, 
 that the resemblance, if it existed, would have 
 some special importance. 
 
 One evening, ]\lrs. Hatherley being better 
 for the first burst of really warm weather, 
 John had invited some fi'iends to dinner. In 
 the course of the evening he took them all 
 into the library, to show some of his latest 
 book acquisitions. 
 
 One of the guests, Mr. Ashbury — a 
 stranger in Marleyford, and more interested 
 in pictures than in books — began looking* 
 about him, and paused at last before the por- 
 trait of an old lady, with grey hair covered 
 by a black coif.
 
 126 Winifred Power. 
 
 ' A fine portrait/ lie commented. ' One of 
 your family, Mr. Hatlierley?' 
 
 ' My grandmother.' 
 
 ' A fine portrait,' repeated the connoisseur, 
 'and a fine face. Your grandmother must 
 have been a beauty.' 
 
 ' Her daughter, your aunt, was the hand- 
 somest girl I ever saw,' suddenly remarked 
 Mr. Wilmot, one of the oldest inhabitants of 
 Marleyford, turning towards John. 
 
 A rather awkward silence followed. Every- 
 body knew that about the lady referred to there 
 had been a story : and a clause in Mr. Hather- 
 ley's will had lately brought all the circum- 
 stances vividly back to people's minds. His 
 sister, Rachel Hatherley, had been the first 
 black sheep of the family. She had eloped 
 with a distant cousin, who bore the same name 
 as herself, but had been a humble dependent 
 in his boyhood on her father's bounty. The 
 3^oung couple had been got off to America, 
 and then Rachel's name had become a dead 
 letter. Her father and brother never forgave
 
 Changes. 127 
 
 her, nor T^'ould consent to know anything 
 about her or her numerous children. But 
 John, when quite a young man, had gone to 
 Philadelphia after a defaulting clerk, and there 
 had come across his cousins. The details of 
 his acquaintance with them had never trans- 
 pired, but apparently he had been more inti- 
 mate with them than his father liked. For the 
 will, now just proved, under whichjhe inherited, 
 was dated almost immediately after his return 
 to England; and it distinctly provided against 
 his marrying his eldest cousin, Margaret Ha- 
 therley. Disobedience on that point was to 
 result in total disinheritance. This condition 
 had recently given the gossips something to 
 talk about, and had surprised even Mary. For 
 she had been a schoolgirl at the time of 
 Jolm's absence, and the very fact of his 
 acquaintance with his disgraced relatives 
 had been kept secret from her. She had 
 learnt it for the first time when the will was 
 read. 
 
 'You have no portrait of your aunt?' re-
 
 128 Winifred Power, 
 
 sumed old Mr. Wilmot, with the obtuse per- 
 sistence of age. 
 
 ' A miniature merely/ replied Mary. She 
 opened an old bureau and produced the minia- 
 ture, not without some secret triumphant 
 consciousness of its being like herself. 
 
 Mr. Ashbury took it, and gave a little start 
 of surprise. 
 
 'Where have I seen the original?' he ex- 
 claimed. 'Let me think! Yes. . . . No. 
 ... I have it. It was in America, twenty - 
 five years or more ago. A beautiful young 
 
 woman, the wife, I think ' he paused and 
 
 glanced hesitatingly, not liking to complete 
 his sentence. 
 
 ' The wife of a bookseller,' blundered old 
 Mr. Wilmot eagerly. ' To be sure ; that was 
 
 she.' 
 
 ' This is very like you. Miss Hatherley,' 
 continued Mr. Ashbury, his eyes still fixed upon 
 the miniature. ' It is remarkable how the 
 family type has clung to you all.' His eyes 
 reverted to the portrait of the grandmother :
 
 Changes. 129 
 
 then to ^Irs. John Hatherley seated in a high- 
 backed chair beneath it. She was unheeding', 
 because unhearing, of what was said around 
 her. Her lovely eyes were fixed in reverie, 
 her hands lay folded tightly on her lap. Over 
 her head, to protect herself from the draught 
 of an open window, she had drawn a black 
 lace scarf. ' There is a strong family likeness 
 between you and your brother and all these 
 portraits. I declare,' he added, laughing, ' even 
 Mrs. Hatherley has at this moment a likeness 
 to your grandmother.' 
 
 Mary gave a great start — a start so unmis- 
 takable that Mr. Ashbury almost dropped the 
 miniature in surprise. John, who had ap- 
 2)arently not been listening, crossed the room 
 at this moment and spelt out on his fingers a 
 Avarning to his wife that she was sitting too 
 long by the open window. ' We will go back 
 to the drawing-room,' he said, addressing his 
 guests, and drew his wife's hand within his 
 
 arm. 
 
 Tell me,' cried Mary suddenly, with extra- 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 Winifred Power, 
 
 ordinary eagerness, to Mr. Ashbury, ' Did 
 you know much of my aunt in America ? 
 Had she many children? Did you see them?' 
 
 John had drawn aside to let the party de- 
 file in front of him. ' Mr. Ashbury,' he said, 
 addressing that gentleman with a courteous 
 wave of his hand towards the door. 
 
 ' She had only one child when I knew her, 
 I tliiiik^ Mr. Ashbury was saying in answer 
 to Mary. ' Let me see ... . What did I 
 hear afterwards about the child ? a charming 
 little girl, I remember. It died, it seems to 
 me, in some odd, terrible way. Or was it 
 only ' He paused, musing. 
 
 ' Some strange accident ?' suggested Mary, 
 white to the lips. 
 
 But evidently Mr. Ashbury's memory for 
 faces was very superior to his recollection of 
 facts. ' I don't remember,' he replied, shaking 
 his head ; and aware of John's smiling sum- 
 mons, he at last obeyed it. 
 
 Mary tried to resume the subject later in 
 the evening, but he evidently did not like to
 
 Clianges. 131 
 
 be cross-questioned. He only became more 
 vague the more she interrogated him ; and the 
 wild possibility which had presented itself and 
 turned her faint with the rush of attendant 
 thoughts, receded every moment into a dimmer 
 and more distant background. 
 
 Nevertheless, she could not sleep all night, 
 but tossed restlessly from side to side. And 
 in the morning, when John had left the house, 
 she presented herself in her sister's dressing- 
 room. Mrs. Hatherley received her with her 
 usual gentle sweetness of look and manner. 
 
 With characteristic apathy and selfishness, 
 Mary had given herself very little trouble to 
 master any means of communication with the 
 dumb woman. She could speak a very little, 
 slowly and laboriously, on her fingers ; and 
 eagerness made the task easier for her now 
 than in general. Only she questioned in a 
 clumsy, blunt way, not as she would have 
 questioned a person who could speak. 
 
 ' Are you sure that your father's name was 
 Lyndon ?' 
 
 9—2
 
 132 Winifred Power. 
 
 ' Of course,' Mrs. Hatherley signified in 
 reply, with evident astonishment. 
 
 ' And you always lived in London?' 
 
 ' Always, after he came home.' 
 
 *Home? From what place?' Mary's heart 
 began beating again. 
 
 'From America.' 
 
 ' Were you there with him ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' And how old were you when you came 
 away?' 
 
 ' A little older than Mark here,' and Mrs. 
 Hatherley laid her hand tenderly on her little 
 son's curly head. 
 
 Mary gave a sigh of disappointment, as she 
 fixed her eyes, full of a fierce curiosity, on the 
 pure, lovely face before her. Was she pre- 
 varicating to her, this wife of John's? The 
 idea was too preposterously insulting even 
 for her to accept it. She had nothing more 
 to ask, yet would have begun to question 
 again. But Mrs. Hatherley Avas very unwell 
 that morning, and she lay back on her pil-
 
 Changes. 133 
 
 lowed chair so motionless from weakness as to 
 seem asleep. Mary had no choice but to 
 leave her. 
 
 She spoke about it to Ralph fiercer ; but 
 he condemned it as fantastic ; a foolish, 
 visionary idea. 
 
 ' You never heard that one of your aunt's 
 children was deaf and dumb?' he said : and 
 Mary was fain to confess that she had not. 
 
 ' One mio'ht set a detective to work, if one 
 had money/ mused Ralph. ' I^ot tliat it's 
 likely to be true. Without money, hang it ! 
 one cannot do anything — and you never have 
 a spare sixpence, Mary.' 
 
 ' That is not my fault,' answered Mary, 
 with rather resentful significance. 
 
 John made her a very large allowance for 
 pocket-money, but Ralph Mercer borrowed 
 the greater part of it. His engagement to 
 Mary was no longer opposed by John, and, 
 except when mysterious errands took Ralph 
 to London, he was for ever at Hatherley 
 House. People began to talk a little, to
 
 134 Winifred Tower. 
 
 shake their heads too, to wonder what the 
 beautiful Mary could see in him to love. 
 Truth to say, it was a question Avhich Mary 
 once or twice of late had asked herself. Her 
 obstinacy appeased by the withdrawal of op- 
 position, Ealph lost a great part of his charm 
 in her eyes. Moreover, his doubtful life in 
 London during the year of separation, had left 
 an ineffaceable trace. In air, manner, and 
 speech he was distinctly more dissipated than 
 of old. His good looks, once very marked, 
 were obscured, and with his free-and-easy 
 ways, and his eternal debts, he was about as 
 unattractive a wooer as could well be imaoined. 
 
 And in constant contrast with him was 
 Walter Russell: so refined, and gentle, and 
 clever: unswerving also in his affection, and 
 now the presumptive heir to his uncle's 
 baronetcy. 
 
 Given these two sets of opposing forces, 
 with nothing but Mary's fast-fading inclina- 
 tions to strike the balance in favour of Ralph, 
 and one can easily imagine the result. The
 
 Changes. 135 
 
 day arrived when his need of money became 
 insupportable ; vrhen not ruin alone threatened 
 him, but ruin accompanied by disgrace ; and 
 Mary engaged herseJf to Walter Eussell. 
 This took place within six months after Mr. 
 Hatherley's death; but Lady Russell, writing 
 from Carlsbad, while offering her warm, de- 
 lighted congratulations, urged that the mar- 
 riage should take place immediately. 
 
 ' Sir Charles was already so much better,' 
 she wrote, ' that the doctors really began to 
 entertain hopes of his ultimate recovery. And 
 it would give both him and herself so much 
 pleasure to welcome the young couple on their 
 return from the honevmoon, at Kussell Hall. 
 If your dear uncle continues to improve so 
 rapidly,' wound up her ladyshij), ^ I shall feel 
 as if I were returning with him from a honey- 
 moon myself, for he looks ten years younger, 
 and the change in him is altogether miraculous. 
 
 ' AVhat deliofhtful news !' exclaimed Walter 
 Russell. 
 
 ' Delightful,' echoed Mary slowly. ' I sup-
 
 136 Winifred Power. 
 
 pose, Walter, that your aunt will herself pre- 
 sent me in the spring.' 
 
 Walter Avas sure that she would do that, or 
 anything else that could bring pleasure to his 
 love. It was curious how devotedly he loved 
 Mary — he as clever as she was stupid ; as true 
 as she was false ; as brave as she was cowardly ! 
 Her stately beauty and composed manner, the 
 grace that resulted in her firm and perfect 
 physical harmony, to his enchanted eyes were 
 warrant sufficient for crediting her with a shin- 
 ing human soul. He was one of those men 
 who do not care for any superfluous endow- 
 ment of brains in a wife, but are content that 
 she should be ' womanly,' having no very de- 
 finite idea of what they mean by that elastic 
 term. The wedding-day Avas fixed ; and in 
 the preparation of her trousseau, the reception 
 of her jiresents, and the congratulations of her 
 friends, Mary w^as nearly happy. 
 
 ' Do you know,' said John one morning to 
 his sister, looking uj) from the perusal of a 
 letter, ' Martha is well again — is cured ?'
 
 Changes. 137 
 
 'Cured?' Mary stared blankly. What 
 would be the consequences to herself ? 
 
 ' So far cured/ continued John, ' that the 
 doctors at the asylum consider that they can 
 no longer keep her shut up. But they recom- 
 mend absolute quiet and freedom from 
 anxiety.' 
 
 * And the prison authorities — her sentence V 
 demanded Mary. 
 
 ' The time of her sentence has just ex- 
 j)ired.' 
 
 ' And what do you mean to do ? Is she to 
 be allowed to come out ?' 
 
 Mary asked the question in quite an indig- 
 nant tone. For after all Martha had been mad ; 
 she would probably become so again. 
 
 ' I am afraid I cannot persuade the asylum 
 to keep her/ replied John, with one of his quiet, 
 covert sneers. ' Don't alarm yourself, Mary. 
 Nobody would believe her story now. You 
 are quite safe.' 
 
 ' I suppose you have yourself to think of, 
 as well as me/ exclaimed his sister angrily.
 
 138 Winifred Power. 
 
 That was one of the things that most exas- 
 perated her about John — his cool assumption 
 always that the only peril of exposure was 
 hers. After all, he was as criminal as she ; he 
 had known it was she who was guilty, and not 
 Martha. If only John would be kinder to her ! 
 But nobody ever was kind, except Walter — 
 for whom, in her secret soul, she had some 
 slight contempt. There was, however, conso- 
 lation in the thought that she should reign as 
 a queen when she became Lady Russell. 
 
 The marriage -day dawned at last, a sj)lendid 
 morning. The parish church of Marleyford, 
 between guests and spectators, was full to suf- 
 focation. Rarely had so grand a wedding 
 been seen there. Between the number of the 
 bridesmaids, the splendour of the dresses, the 
 full choral service, and the three officiating 
 clergymen, it was enough to make the dead 
 generations of Hatherleys rise from their 
 graves, in protest at such oblivion of their 
 stately sobriety. 
 
 But Mary had willed it so, being one of
 
 Changes. 139 
 
 those women who would hardly think them- 
 selves married at all without the oransre- 
 flowers, Brussels lace, and wedding-cake, about 
 which they have dreamed for years. She had 
 gone about her prej)arations with an almost 
 religious solemnity, and carefully studied all 
 the most fashionable novelties. One of the 
 results had been to make little Mark her train- 
 bearer, and dress him up in a costume of the 
 time of Louis XY. 
 
 The service was over, and the bride and 
 bridegroom had paced down the aisle to the 
 spirit-stirring strains of the ' Wedding March.' 
 Mary stepped into the carriage, and proceeded 
 to release her train from the hands of little 
 j\Iark with all the reverential regard due to so 
 many yards of magnificent texture. Walter 
 stood smiling down at the child, and looking 
 happy and handsome in the sunlight. 
 
 The bridesmaids, one shimmering, fluffy, 
 airv, radiant confusion of lace and swansdown 
 and bouquets and pretty faces, were grouped in 
 the porch ; behind them were crowded ladies
 
 140 Winifred Power, 
 
 in satin and velvets, old gentlemen with bald 
 heads and rubicund faces, young men in glossy 
 coats and lavender ties, with favours in their 
 button-holes. 
 
 Suddenly, through the cloud of gaping 
 rustics, a shabby, trembling, tiny figure made 
 its way. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Mary,' it cried ; ' I wish you 
 
 And the bride fell back in her carriao:e with 
 a shriek of absolute terror, as she recoofnised 
 the face of Martha Freake. 
 
 The unexpected apparition caused no small 
 consternation. Several young ladies fairly 
 echoed Mary's scream ; and John, hastily drop- 
 ping from his arm the hand of the frightened 
 Mrs. Ormerod, hurried towards the intruder 
 Tvith an air of dignified determination. 
 
 * Pray do not look so alarmed ; I mean no 
 harm to anyone,' said Martha. 'I only came 
 down from London to fetch my things. I did 
 not know it was Mary's wedding-day.' 
 
 She stood, turning her head from side to
 
 Changes. 141 
 
 side as she spoke, with a kind of childish 
 curiosity. 
 
 ' How can this be permitted !' exclaimed 
 John, for once so taken aback that he hardly 
 knew what to say. 
 
 ' Oh, let me go!' wailed the bride from her 
 carriage. ' Walter, send her aw^ay. She is 
 mad. I am frightened. Why will people be 
 so unkind ?' Her voice broke into a sob, and 
 she burst out crying. 
 
 ' She is not mad, sir; only a little flighty- 
 like and queer,' said a respectable woman who 
 now addressed John. ' She has been staying 
 with Mrs. Parsons, in London, since she was 
 released; but she would come down to-day to 
 fetch her own things from your house. Some- 
 times she seems half to forget what has 
 happened.' 
 
 Still turning her head about in bird-like 
 fashion, and without appearing to notice what 
 was said, Martha scanned the groups around 
 her. All at once her face changed. A shadow 
 darkened it; her head fell. She put her hand
 
 142 Winifred Power, 
 
 up to her temple with a gesture of suffer- 
 
 ing. 
 
 ' Let me go,' she said. ^ There is too much 
 noise here.' 
 
 ' Lawks, ma'am ! nobody is speaking/ said 
 her companion pityingly. 
 
 ' Too much noise. Too much noise/ re- 
 peated Martha, and turned away. 
 
 ' She often says strange things, with no 
 sense in them, sir,' resumed the woman to 
 John. ' But she is quite quiet, and more 
 manageable than a babe.' 
 
 The crowd shrank away, and Martha passed 
 quickly out of sight. In the afternoon, when 
 the wedding-breakfast was quite over, the 
 same woman came to Hatherley Hall to fetch 
 her things. Miss Freake would not come 
 herself, she told John, although at first she 
 had been so keen to do it. On their getting 
 back to the inn, she had lain down at once 
 and gone to sleej). She often did that after 
 anything had seemed to trouble her, and was 
 always restored by it.
 
 Changes. 143 
 
 John, however, wrote to the lunatic asylum 
 protesting against his cousin's release, saying 
 that he had seen her, and that she seemed 
 anything bat cured. In answer, he was told 
 that Miss Freake on quitting the asylum was 
 as sane as himself. 
 
 John thereupon journeyed up to London 
 and saw Mr. and Mrs. Parsons, to whom 
 Martha had returned. But Martha had already 
 departed for Paris, and had insisted upon 
 going alone. She was a little odd in manner 
 at times, they added, and occasionally did 
 eccentric things. But she had no delusions, 
 and was never violent. 
 
 John Hatherley obtained Martha's address 
 in Paris, and wrote to her, offering her a sub- 
 stantial monthly allo^vance. He received in 
 reply a curt refusal, so little like the letter of 
 a lunatic that he felt disposed, after reading it, 
 to attribute Martha's appearance and behaviour 
 on Mary's wedding-day rather to a spirit of 
 revenge than to insanity.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 WENTY-riYE years. It is a large 
 span out of a lifetime ; an age, 
 seemingly, to look forward to or 
 to look back upon. That period of time has 
 nearly, elapsed since the scenes recorded in our 
 story, and the former chapters were but the 
 prologue to what has now to come. Its 
 thread is taken up in Paris ; to which gay 
 city we must carry the reader for a very brief 
 sojourn. 
 
 Everybody who saw her for the first time 
 was struck, not alone with Winifred Power's
 
 Winifred. 145 
 
 beauty, but also with her air of happiness. 
 Xot that she looked beamino- or facetious, or 
 vacantly amused : nor was she perpetually 
 laughing and talking. But she had an air of 
 bright, resolute energy, which one instinctively 
 felt could arise from no other source than 
 a perfectly contented spirit. Her cordiality of 
 manner, her fearless blue eyes, her quick 
 blithe ways said plainly that in all her life she 
 had given more of sympathy and help than 
 she had needed. 
 
 Judgments, of course, differed about her 
 as about everybody, but the majority of them 
 were favourable. Among the weak, the poor, 
 and the oppressed, indeed, Winifred counted 
 a legion of friends. Xot that people ever 
 really disliked Winifred. Only some found 
 her a little absolute, and others rather failed 
 to understand her; and very sensitive, shallow, 
 and vain persons thought occasionally that 
 she had meant to affront them. Winifred was 
 always dreadfully sorry when she discovered 
 (which she did not always) that she had hurt 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 Winifred Power, 
 
 anybody's feelings. But it is not certain that 
 her sorrow was altogether conciliatory, for 
 it had a slis^ht mixture in its kindness of 
 astonished, good-humoured, but faintly im- 
 jDcrious scorn. 
 
 As a rule, it must be confessed Winifred 
 had 'not very much time to trouble herself 
 about people's feelings — as such. If they 
 demanded consolation, sympathy, or active 
 help (especially the latter), her energy indeed 
 seemed as elastic as her leisure. But as long 
 as those around her were satisfied, what she 
 liked best of all was to have plenty of time for 
 her painting. 
 
 For Miss Power was an artist, and no un- 
 successful one for her years ; and the sums 
 produced by her painting counted for some- 
 thing in the not ahvays abundant family 
 finances. Winifred lived in Paris with her 
 uncle, Mr. Eussell, and his wife. Upon the 
 second marriage of his widowed sister in India, 
 Mrs. PoAver, to Captain Chandos-Fane, the 
 Russells had adopted the little girl, Winifred.
 
 Winifred, 147 
 
 Latterly Mrs. Chandos-Fane, now a widow 
 for the second time, had joined them in 
 Paris. 
 
 The Russells had gone gradually down in 
 the world. We last saw them at Marleyford 
 in all the grandeur of their wedding-day. Ill- 
 luck seemed to have tracked their footsteps. 
 An heir, born unexpectedly, had deprived 
 Walter Eussell of his expected baronetcy. 
 The failure of a bank had taken from him 
 much of his own fortune. Ill-health had been 
 his portion. And only a year or two ago, the 
 treachery of a friend for whom he had been re- 
 sponsible involved him in difficulties. Then 
 the fine apartment in the Eue Eivoli was 
 given up for one in the Rue des Beaux Arts, a 
 very different quarter. As compared with 
 many of those around it, it was fairly hand- 
 some and commodious : and relics of their 
 prosperity filled it : ormolu clocks, buhl cabi- 
 nets, and — Mrs. Russell's lamentations. She 
 liked magnificence — costly dress, and a hand- 
 some carriage to make her calls in : and, in 
 
 10—2
 
 148 Winifred Poicer, 
 
 a degree, she had this still. Intensely selfish 
 was she, as in the times gone by. 
 
 On this day, when we first make Winifred's 
 acquaintance, the late March afternoon, draw- 
 ing to its close, found her, as usual, busy at 
 her easel. Sitting by the bright wood-fire in 
 a lounging- chair was a lady, whom few would 
 liave guessed to be the young artist's mother. 
 Mother and daughter, indeed, were both fair ; 
 but there the resemblance ceased. The girl 
 was tall and bright and active-looking ; the 
 elder woman was petite and languishing. 
 
 The difference between them was the differ- 
 ence between a pure white statue and a 
 Dresden china shepherdess. Winifred, severely 
 simple in attire, fair, flaxen -haired and beauti- 
 ful, owed nothing to art. Mrs. Chandos-Fane, 
 elegantly dressed, and elaborately coiffee, was 
 a manufactured article of remarkable prettiness. 
 She was nursino^ a white Ans^ora kitten and 
 reading Baudelaire's poems. For she was 
 esthetic, and declared that her daughter's 
 pictures were not always ' interesting.'
 
 Winifred, 149 
 
 ' That is tlie third time you have sighed, my 
 love. You are overworking, I am sure,' she 
 presently remarked, in a cool, refined voice, 
 laying down her book with a delicate 
 yawn. 
 
 ' I am not easily overworked, mother; and 
 the picture must be finished by next week.' 
 
 ' Must r echoed Mrs. Fane. 'There you 
 have the fatal destiny of pot-boilers, my child. 
 I have always told you, and 1 repeat, that you 
 will never be a good artist until you have 
 ceased to work for money.' 
 
 ' We must first cease to need money,' an- 
 swered Winifred rather brusquely. 
 
 'Ah, well I' exclaimed Mrs. Fane: and it 
 was wonderful how the indefinite ejaculation 
 conveyed by its tone that no problems were in- 
 soluble to persons of superior nature. 
 
 Winifred set her lips a little tightly, and an 
 expression less of grave annoyance than of de- 
 liberate self-control for a moment clouded her 
 bright young face. 
 
 ' I am not sighing because I am fatigued/
 
 150 Winifred Power, 
 
 resumed she, after a pause ] ' but because my 
 uncle is of late so manifestly worse.' 
 
 ' We must call up strength of mind to re- 
 sign ourselves to the inevitable,' replied Mrs. 
 Fane, stroking the kitten's tail. ' We cannot 
 expect him to grow better, Winifred.' 
 
 The door at this moment oj^ened to admit 
 a stout, cross -looking, yet elegant woman, 
 who entered, dragging her fur mantle after 
 her. It was Mrs. Russell. Handsome she 
 undoubtedly was still : but few would have 
 recognised her for the once beautiful Mary 
 Hatherley. 
 
 ' I am so tired !' she said fretfully, sub- 
 siding into the nearest chair. ' The weather 
 is quite mild. to-day. What afire ! The room 
 is suffocating,' and she looked towards the 
 closed windows. 
 
 ' I find it cold indoors,' remarked Mrs. Fane 
 placidly ; and she did not ofi'er to let in any air. 
 
 ' Is there no tea ?' asked the new arrival, 
 peevishly. 
 
 ' I think there is a cup left,' answered Wini-
 
 Winifred. 151 
 
 frecl's motlier, glancing carelessly at the 
 little Japanese tea-service on a low table at her 
 elbow. 
 
 ' I am too tired to pour it out for myself/ 
 said Mrs. Russell. 
 
 Mrs. Fane put the kitten's paws round her 
 neck and began talking to it softly. Winifred 
 laid down her palette and brush and poured 
 out the tea in silence. 
 
 ' I have a piece of news for you,' said 
 her aunt to her as she took the cup. 
 ' Richard Dallas is dismissed from his em- 
 ployment.' 
 
 ' No /' Winifred stood in consternation. 
 
 ' I always thought that would be the end oi 
 it,' observed Mrs. Fane, who had never 
 thought on the subject in any way. 
 
 ' I drove there this afternoon,' resum.ed Mrs. 
 Russell, * and found them in great distress. I 
 believe that the cause of his dismissal is some 
 disgraceful discovery.' 
 
 ' Disgraceful to Dick ? I don't believe it,' 
 exclaimed Winifred.
 
 152 Wiriifred Poicer, 
 
 ' Don't you, my love ?' reDiarked her 
 mother. 
 
 Winifred asked a string of eager questions, 
 but Mrs. Russell was hopelessly vague. 
 Naturally indolent now, her intelligence at 
 this moment was additionally obscured by 
 fatigue. She leaned back in a condition of 
 irritable somnolency, from which Mrs. Fane 
 roused her at intervals by stirring up the fire. 
 
 Meanwhile, Winifred, as soon as her paint- 
 ing was brought to an end by the failing 
 light, scraped her palette and thrust her 
 brushes into water with unusual haste. The 
 Dallases — an improvident, unfortunate family 
 — were her great friends ; and her affec- 
 tionate imagination conjuring up vividly all 
 that they must be at present enduring, she 
 prepared to rush off to them with characteristic 
 impetuosity. 
 
 All at once came a violent rinof at the outer 
 door, followed by the equally violent entrance 
 of a young and very pretty girl, but by no 
 means a good-tempered-looking one. The
 
 Winifred. 153 
 
 puckered brow and angry eyes of this saucv, 
 piquante brunette betrayed a disj^osition the 
 reverse of mild, and, at this moment, appar- 
 ently heated to explosion-point. 
 
 ' Oh, Gerty ! 1 have heard the news,' said 
 Winifred sorrowfully. 
 
 ' Good-evening, Miss Dallas,' said Mrs. 
 Chandos-Fane, icily reproving. 
 
 ' What a noise I' exclaimed Mrs. Russell. 
 
 Undisturbed by these manifestations of 
 various feeling, Miss Gertrude Dallas cast her- 
 self into an armchair, mutely irate, and began 
 beating the floor with her pretty foot. 
 
 ' I am so distressed,' whispered Winifred. 
 
 Gertrude shruofored her shoulders cynicallv. 
 
 ' It is just our luck,' she answered. 
 
 ' Can nothing be done ?' 
 
 ' A great deal. But we, my dear Winifred, 
 are not the people to do it.' 
 
 Havino' delivered this remark, in a tone of 
 bitter sarcasm. Miss Dallas folded her hands, 
 fixed her eyes on a corner of the ceiling, and 
 resumed her tattoo.
 
 154 Winifred Poicer. 
 
 * Would you kindly explain what has hap- 
 pened ?' asked Mrs. Fane. 
 
 That was soon done. Eichard Dallas, 
 Gertrude's half-brother, older than herself, 
 and born of a French mother, had, through 
 the interest of his maternal relatives, obtained 
 a post as sub-curator to a provmcial museum 
 in France. The appointment, as conferred on 
 a half-foreigner, had always excited some 
 jealousy, and Eichard had never hit it off 
 with his immediate superior. Lately, some 
 valuable Syracusan coins were discovered to 
 be missing. The loss was probably of old 
 date, the museum being very carelessly man- 
 aged. But it had only been now found out : 
 a scapegoat was needed, and personal spite 
 found a vent in the choice of Eichard Dallas. 
 
 ' That is just the whole story,' said Ger- 
 trude, brino'ino; her curt narrative to a con- 
 elusion. 
 
 * How disgraceful !' breathed Winifred. 
 
 ' Very unfortunate^^ observed Mrs. Fane 
 politely, with a slight stress on the adjec-
 
 Winifred. 155 
 
 tive, that brought an embarrassed blush to her 
 daughter's cheeks and an angry stare to Ger- 
 trude's eyes. 
 
 'Dick is only the victim,' affirmed the 
 latter, as if in answer to an unspoken accusa- 
 tion. • It is the head -curator who is to blame. 
 The Municipality should be written to ; the 
 Government memorialized ; the ' 
 
 'Who says all this should be done?' inter- 
 posed AVinifred quietly. 
 
 ' / say so,' flashed out the other angrily. 
 
 ' Was it a sweet, white, soft, beautiful, 
 beautiful kitten sy, and did it never have to 
 memorialize anybody, except its mistress, for a 
 wee-w^ee saucer of milk?' lightly chaunted 
 Mrs. Fane, tilting the Angora up on its hind- 
 legs, and lookmg at it with a fascinating smile. 
 
 Gertrude sprang up; the indifference irri- 
 tated her beyond control. 'I am going, 
 Winifred.' 
 
 * No, you are not,' returned Winifred with 
 gentle authority, taking her two hands and 
 forcino: her back into her chair again. * You
 
 156 Winifred Power, 
 
 are to stay with me and be in some sort com- 
 forted, you poor child. Only you are to try 
 and talk a little practical sense, for our behoof 
 as well as for your own.' 
 
 ' What practical sense can I talk ?' flamed 
 out Gertrude. ' Of what use can I be ? Am 
 I not a cipher, a nonentity ; in other words, a 
 young lady? Lady, forsooth! Much good 
 there is in being that, when one must toil and 
 grind from mornino^ to nio^ht like— like a 
 crossing- SAveeper. And everybody the while 
 to cry ''Peace" where there is no peace, and 
 to preach patience when patience is only a 
 cloak for incapacity.' 
 
 ' How very magnificent ! Where did you 
 learn all that ?' lauo-hinoiy retorted Winifred, 
 her sense of fun getting momentarily the upper 
 hand of her compassion. But Gertrude Avas 
 tragic : in the presence of that eloquent kitten 
 she had no resource but to be earnest. To be 
 anything less was to be ridiculous : and ridi- 
 cule was the one thing that Gertrude Dallas 
 most feared on earth.
 
 Winifred. 157 
 
 ' It is very well for you to talk,' she ansAvered 
 sulkily. ' Who ever interferes with you ?' 
 
 ' A difficult question to answer,' remarked 
 Mrs. Russell. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed. Our dear AYinny rules us 
 all,' spoke the mother. 
 
 Winifred looked down, l3ut said nothino^. 
 She was as little given to self-pity as to self- 
 praise; nevertheless at this moment a vague 
 revolt against injustice stirred faintly within 
 her. The thousand small sacrifices of herself 
 to which she owed her ascendency — who was 
 there to appreciate them ? 
 
 ' There it is,' pursued Gertrude triumph- 
 antly. • Winifred can do as she pleases. You 
 can make use of vour talents; work un- 
 hampered ' 
 
 ' But surely you could work also, if you 
 liked ?' interposed Mrs. Fane, with an innocent 
 air of seekins: for information. 
 
 ' Yes, as a governess,' replied Miss Dallas 
 scornfully, turning a dusky red in her exas- 
 perat on.
 
 158 Winifred Poicer. 
 
 This governess question was a very sore 
 23oint, as she had tried the career and igno- 
 ip.iniously failed. Of course, through no fault 
 of her own : when were the Gertrude Dallases 
 of this world anything but the victims of 
 adverse circumstances ? 
 
 ' I could spend my youth shut up in a stuffy 
 schoolroom with detestable children of wooden 
 intelligence — I could do that, of course,' pur- 
 sued the young lady, with magnificent con- 
 tempt. ' Or I could sweep a crossing, or go 
 about with a basket selling pins and staylaces, 
 or — in fact there is no end to the occupations 
 which I might find if I chose.' The accent on 
 the last word was withering. 
 
 ' Some governesses get a hundred a year,' 
 put in Mrs. Eussell. 
 
 ' Yery probably. In some eyes, doubtless, 
 a human machine is priceless,' retorted Ger- 
 trude, with defiance. 
 
 ' Are not you priceless ?' exclaimed Mrs. 
 Fane to the kitten, which put out one velvet 
 paw and tapped her on the cheek.
 
 Winifred. 159 
 
 ' Good-evening,' said Gertrude abruptly; 
 and she rose, pale with annoyance, and left the 
 room. Winifred went with her to the stairs 
 and took leave of her sorrowfully, promising 
 to come as soon as dinner was over. 
 
 ' We shall be glad to see you, of course,' 
 replied her fi-iend, not very graciously. ^ But 
 I am afraid you will not find us very lively 
 company,' she added, and ran lightly down 
 the stairs. 
 
 ' What you can see to like in that ill-tem- 
 pered girl passes my comprehension, Winifred,' 
 remarked Mrs. Fane. 
 
 ' All Winifred's friends are eccentric,' said 
 Mrs. Eussell plaintively. 
 
 'Wait until you have seen Mademoiselle 
 Marthe !' laughed W^inifred. 'Then indeed 
 vou mav talk of eccentricity.' 
 
 ' You are always threatening us with that 
 person,' exclaimed Mrs. Fane. ' Who is 
 she? — and when is she definitely to ap- 
 pear t 
 
 ' When I have succeeded in vanquishing her
 
 160 Winifred Power. 
 
 shyness/ replied Winifred, 'and I can't do 
 that yet.' 
 
 ' I am sure you had much better leave her 
 alone,' observed Mrs. Eussell. It is too 
 Quixotic to consider yourself bound by ties of 
 eternal gratitude to a queer, probably vulgar 
 old woman, just because she happened to show 
 you a little attention when you were ill.' 
 
 ' She nursed me with the greatest devotion, 
 and she is not vulgar,' retorted the girl. 
 
 After dinner Winifred prepared to start, her 
 maid Sophie in attendance, for the Eue Ste. 
 Catherine, where the Dallases dwelt. But 
 before leaving, she tapped at a door at the end 
 of the corridor. ' Come in,' said a voice, and 
 Winifred entered her uncle's bedroom. A 
 pleasant room, although it was the home of an 
 invalid, and although its denizen knew no 
 chano-e but the slow advance of a mortal 
 malady, and no variety but such as consists in 
 spending one's bad days in bed and one's 
 better ones on a sofa. 
 
 ' Ah, my Brunhilda ! Whither away ?' said
 
 Winifred. 161 
 
 Walter Russell, looking up from the review 
 he was reading by the light of a shaded lamp. 
 The name — given her playfully in allusion to 
 her fair, tall beauty — and the tone in which it 
 was pronounced spoke volumes for the cordial 
 friendship, deeper than mere relationship, 
 which reigned between the sick man and 
 the girl. 
 
 ' I am sorry I shall not be here to read to 
 you this evening,' said Winifred, seating her- 
 self beside her uncle's couch; ' but I must go 
 to the poor Dallases. You have heard of their 
 fresh misfortune?' 
 
 ' Yes, poor things ! Fate has a spite 
 against them, as it always has against the 
 feckless : if, indeed, one should not rather say 
 that the feckless have a spite against fate,' 
 added Mr. Russell, with the half- wistful smile 
 of a man whom evil fortune has made a 
 philosopher. 
 
 ' Now, what is the meaning of that? Some- 
 thing cynical, I am sure.' And Winifred 
 shook her golden head reprovingly. 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 162 Winifred Poiver. 
 
 ' Only as Nature is cynical, my cMld. The 
 feckless are clearly intended by natural laws to 
 sink ; yet the Winifreds of this world, with a 
 great expenditure of energy and pity, persist 
 in helping to keep them afloat.' 
 
 ' You know those are the things I don't 
 like you to say. Uncle Walter. And I believe 
 that one day the Dallases will find out how to 
 help themselves.' 
 
 ' You believe that ? Then you have a great 
 deal of faith.' 
 
 ' Are you better to-night ?' 
 
 She took his wasted hand tenderly as 
 she asked the question, and bent down to 
 look into his face with anxious, loving 
 eves. 
 
 ' I am better,' he said, ' for I am nearer the 
 goal. Nay, do not look so sad, child. You 
 are very good to grieve for me; but glance 
 beyond your loving regrets, and ask yourself 
 -what I have to live for.' 
 
 ' For your friends,' murmured Winifred. 
 
 Yet even as she said the words, even as she
 
 Winifred. 163 
 
 drew the noble, grey head to her and laid her 
 soft young cheek upon the massive forehead, 
 regret for a moment died down in her, 
 quenched by self- forgetful pity. Her uncle had 
 been all in all to her. The books that she 
 had read with him o-ained an added simiifi- 
 cance from his comments ; and his intellectual 
 companionship had educated her as no books 
 alone could have done. Yet, above the 
 passionate longing of her love and her youth 
 and her strength to keep him with her always, 
 rose the sym])athetic comprehension of his 
 sorrows. Of how little books and the love of 
 friends, the voice of pity and the touch of 
 tender hands, can be to a man who, stricken 
 now with physical helplessness, and embittered 
 with the sense of failure, looks back along the 
 traversed track of life, and sees his baffled 
 efforts standing pliantom-like with regretful 
 eyes of pain ! Keeping back resolutely an 
 unwonted rush of tears, Winifred pressed her 
 lips upon the sick man's brow, and in that 
 kiss, for that moment, resigned him almost 
 
 11—2
 
 164 Winifred Power, 
 
 ^ — ^ 
 
 gladly — almost I^to the peace and silence of 
 the tomb. 
 
 ' Go — and come back quickly/ he said. 
 ' And perhaps there may still be time for you 
 to read me a page or two of our book. Your 
 touch must be magnetic, Winifred. Some- 
 thing that you meant that kiss to say to me 
 seems to have done me good.' 
 
 She did not find much to say in answer to 
 that, but left him, promising to make haste. 
 On her way downstairs she met Claire, the 
 young flower-maker, who lived two stories 
 above her, and who was helping her blind 
 grandfather to climb the steep flights. 
 
 ' Bon soir, mam'zelle,' simultaneously said 
 the girl's fresh tones and the old man's quaver- 
 ing treble, as they became aware of Winifred's 
 presence. They were . neighbours, these two 
 girls, and had come to like one another much, 
 although their intercourse was principally 
 limited to nods from their respective windows, 
 and the one was a young gentlewoman, and the 
 other but a poor flower-maker. Claire, sitting
 
 Winifred. 165 
 
 at her work in her humble room, could look 
 down into AYinifred's studio. Sometimes the 
 young artist, brush in hand, would appear at 
 the window, just for the sake of throwing 
 a bright smile of greeting upwards. And 
 often, in the early morning, for both rose with 
 the lark, Winifred would be hanging out her 
 canaries just as Claire appeared at her own 
 casement with her blackbird. And Winifred 
 declared that this same blackbird had been the 
 source of much inspiration to her. For its 
 first liquid notes echoing through the court 
 seemed to be the herald of the spring. Then 
 many an aching head and a flushed, weary face 
 was lifted from its occupation of needlework, 
 or watchmaking, or copying. Windows were 
 thrown open, just through the infection of 
 gladness, and those condemned to stifling 
 rooms and imperfect light through the dreary 
 winter days, knew that soon the first tender 
 shoots of green would brighten the town 
 gardens, and the Mar die aux Fleurs be fragrant 
 with violets — not forced in hothouses, but
 
 1G6 Winifred Power, 
 
 gathered in the woods ! It was these homely 
 touches, reminders of the poetry of poverty 
 and the holiness of work, which made her life 
 in Paris dear to Winifred.
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 THE DALLASES. 
 
 ^^^^ E . DALLAS, the unfortunate 
 RicliarcVs father, was one of those 
 charmmg j)eople who make every- 
 body uncomfortable, and are universally adored. 
 He was a perplexing unknown quantity in the 
 lives even of his nearest and dearest: a fan- 
 tastic element, with which they coald never 
 cope, and constantly disappointing expecta- 
 tion. 
 
 There was never any telling what Mr. 
 Dallas might do next — except fail. For fail 
 he invariably did, in whatever he undertook. 
 It was a brilliant kind of failure often, for he
 
 168 Winifred Power. 
 
 had plenty of talent. But the results, when 
 they came to be inspected, were none the less 
 dismal for having had a sort of phosphorescent 
 splendour. He was a painter, a musician, 
 a poet, and had produced creditable, albeit 
 unfinished work in all lines. Only, through 
 some queer perversity of nature, he never pro- 
 duced it when wanted. If a picture were 
 ordered of him, he set about composing a 
 poem. If an editor (by some unheard-of 
 stroke of good luck) were found to consent to 
 read a poem, Mr. Dallas would discover that 
 he had nothing good enough to show him : 
 he would promise something better, and mean- 
 while set to work on a song. Such industry 
 as he had, and, to do him justice, he was 
 rarely idle, seemed to recoil from the task 
 appointed to it. 
 
 For the rest, Mr. Dallas had all the facile 
 grace of his temperament, and fascinated every- 
 one. If nobody on a closer acquaintance 
 entirely believed in him, on the other hand 
 nobody ever entirely disbelieved in him. The
 
 The Dallase.'^. 169 
 
 most sober-minded and the most hardworking 
 of his acquaintance had an mfinite patience 
 with him; and, perpetually helped by their 
 efforts above the immediate consequences of 
 his own imprudence, he looked down with the 
 smiling serenity of an all- unconscious self- 
 complacency upon the toilers who supplied his 
 wants. 
 
 ' I am so glad to see you, dear,' said kind- 
 hearted, short-sighted Mrs. Dallas, receiving 
 Winifred with open arms., ' You have heard 
 of our sad trouble. Take off your hat and 
 have some tea.' 
 
 The good little woman's fetish (for all 
 divinity had long vanished from the idol) bore 
 the sweet name of 'home.' Only, 'home' 
 with her meant really dining at one o'clock 
 and having raspberry jam at tea. That was a 
 delicacy which had soothed her children's angry 
 tempers w^hen they were little : she could not 
 conceive that it should fail in a similar effect 
 now that they were big. Their aberrations 
 perplexed her, as all aberrations did equally,
 
 170 Winifred Power. 
 
 from house-breakino' to undarnecl socks : but 
 when she beheld them gathered round the 
 hissmg urn, the evidence of their discontented 
 countenances never availed to convince her 
 that peace did not reign in their hearts. 
 
 ' I have just dined, but I will take a cup,' 
 replied Winifred, knowing that to refuse was 
 to break her hostess's heart. 'Where is Dick?' 
 
 ' Gone out for a little stroll, poor boy ; but 
 he will be home to tea/ said Mrs. Dallas cheer- 
 fully. ' Mr. Dallas is in his studio, hard at 
 work. He has had an order to paint Monsieur 
 and Madame Dubreuil's portraits; they are to 
 be finished in a month, for their daughter's 
 birthday.' 
 
 'And is he painting them by lamplight ?' 
 asked Winifred, in great astonishment, yet 
 pleased at the ncAvs. 
 
 ' He is preparing some etching-plates, and 
 starts on an etching tour to-morrow,' explained 
 Gertrude, with a kind of sulky irony. 
 
 ' Poor papa ! He is always so busy,' re- 
 marked simple Mrs. Dallas.
 
 The D aliases. 171 
 
 ' He might be busy to better purpose, just 
 now, mamma.' 
 
 ' Your papa knows his own affairs best, you 
 may be sure, my dear.' The little air of 
 matronly dignity with which this reproof was 
 administered, and its own intrinsic, affectionate 
 imbecility, secretly exasperated Gertrude. But 
 for once she subsided into silence, after no 
 stronger protest than an expressive toss. 
 
 ' Well, what are you all about? Is tea not 
 ready? Ah I Good-eyening, Miss Winifred!' 
 said Mr. Dallas, rubbing his hands with the 
 bearino^ of a man who has achieved a task and 
 is pleased with it. 
 
 ' We are waiting for poor Dick,' said Mrs. 
 Dallas. 
 
 ' Wait for no one. Punctuality is the 
 essence of success. There is no defect for 
 which I have so profound a contempt as un- 
 punctuality,' observed he, turning towards 
 Winifi'ed. 
 
 This in the presence of a domestic calamity 
 woulr] have astonished Winifred, could any-
 
 172 Winifred Power. 
 
 thing in Mr. Dallas have astonished her. As 
 it was, she only said gravely, ' I came to con- 
 dole with you about Eichard.' 
 
 'Ah, Richard! poor lad!' Regret clouded 
 the father's open, handsome countenance. ' He 
 has been infamously treated. Miss Power. In- 
 famously. I have written out a petition. 
 Perhaps a better plan would be to horsewhip 
 the curator? I think I will go to Blois to do 
 it. By Jove ! I will start to-morrow,' wound 
 up Mr. Dallas, struck with the sudden idea. 
 
 ' And your etching?' suggested Gertrude. 
 
 ' The etching be hanged ! it can wait,' replied 
 her father, with serenity. ' Here's Richard. 
 We were going to begin tea without you, my 
 boy; you are ^yq minutes late.' 
 
 Richard, a dark, slender, and attractive young 
 man, came forward and shook hands with 
 Winifred in silence. He was looking sad and 
 pale. 
 
 'I am so sorry for you,' she murmured. 
 
 ' I am sorry for myself, but there is little 
 helj) in that,' he said, glancing at her grate-
 
 The D aliases. 173 
 
 fully. • I suppose I am fated to go to the 
 wall; 
 
 Gertrude, curled up in an armcliair, here 
 gave a derisive laugh. ' We are always going 
 to the wall, all of us. In fact, we live in an 
 impasse ^^ she observed amiably. 
 
 ' In the absence of more effectual effort, my 
 child, you can continue to console yourself by 
 making epigrammatic remarks,' said Mr. 
 Dallas, not well pleased. 
 
 Gertrude looked furious; she hated reproof. 
 But in any war of words with her father, she 
 knew that she was always beaten, though she 
 had inherited much of his caustic wit. 
 
 ' Where is the cosy ?' inquired of the world 
 at large Mrs. Dallas, peering about painfully. 
 
 ' It was left in the drawinsf-room. Georcrie, 
 go and fetch it,' commanded Gertrude of her 
 younger sister, a lanky maiden of fifteen. 
 
 ^ Go yourself!' retorted Georgie, who was 
 nursing a splendid cat, the mother of Mrs. 
 Chandos-Fane's kitten. 
 
 Enraged to activity, Gertrude sprang up
 
 174 Winifred Power. 
 
 and made a dart at the rebel. Georo'ie ducked: 
 the cat bounded; Mrs. DaUas's key-basket was 
 upset, and its contents were scattered upon 
 the floor. She stooped to collect them, caught 
 a corner of the table-cover, and some of the 
 cups fell with a crash to the ground. 
 
 ^Gertrude!' cried Mr. Dallas, turnino: his 
 anger upon her. ' Go to your room, and stay 
 there.' 
 
 ^ ir Gertrude exclaimed. ^ I ?' 
 
 ' Yoii,^ rejDlied her father. ' When you are 
 by, there is neither peace nor quiet of late ; 
 neither decent behaviour nor civil s]3eech.' 
 
 The girl stood for one moment transfixed 
 with amazement and a bewilderino^ sense of 
 wrong. Then, as an ill-timed and triumphant 
 giggle from the appeased Georgie met her ear, 
 she turned and rushed away, banging the door 
 behind her. 
 
 Winifred made a movement to follow her, 
 but Mr. Dallas interposed. ' Let her be, for 
 Heaven's sake,' he said. ' But that insanity 
 is unknown in our family, I should really
 
 The Dallases. 175 
 
 tremble sometimes for that child's future 
 reason. Her storms of passion are unbear- 
 able.' 
 
 Poor Mrs. Dallas, with trembling hands, 
 and murmuring that tJiis time it was not 
 Gertrude who was in fault, restored something: 
 like order to the tea-table, rang the hand-bell 
 for fresh cups, and in^dted everybody to sit 
 down. She crept away presently with Ger- 
 trude's tea to the culprit's room, but returned 
 in a grieved way, shaking her head. The 
 door was locked, and she had been denied 
 admittance. 
 
 Except by herself and Winifred, Gertrude 
 Avas not missed. Mr. Dallas himself was in 
 delightful spirits. He always was thus in the 
 presence of family misfortune ; that was one 
 of his peculiarities. He even rallied Richard, 
 who sat abstracted and silent, and launched 
 out into brilliant disquisitions on things in 
 general, and all that he intended to do with 
 them. 
 
 Tea over, Winifred rose to go. * I will call
 
 176 Winifred Power, 
 
 Gerty. She would be so sorry not to say 
 good-bye to you,' said Mrs. Dallas eagerly. 
 
 Winifred knew that the goings and comings 
 of the entire world were at this moment 
 matters of supreme indifference to the indig- 
 nant Gertrude. But too good-natured to con- 
 tradict, she waited. 
 
 Mrs. Dallas returned, looking disturbed. 
 ' Gertrude's room is empty,' she cried. ' She 
 must have gone out.' 
 
 ^ Alone? and at this hour!' exclaimed Mr. 
 Dallas. 
 
 ' Well, I cannot find her.^ 
 
 Gertrude had slipped out unobserved. Hor- 
 tense, the servant, and Winifred's own maid, 
 in high converse in the kitchen, had heard 
 the outer door close softly, but did not know 
 who had gone out : had thought it was one of 
 the gentlemen. 
 
 ' I expect she has only gone to the Bon- 
 nards',' suggested the mother, the Bonnards 
 being great friends of Gertrude's. 
 
 'But she ought not to go at this hour,^
 
 Tlie D aliases. 177 
 
 said Mr. Dallas. Presently the bell tinkled, 
 and ' Here she is I' they exclaimed. However, 
 it was not Gertrude, but a note from her to 
 her mother, brought by a commissionaire, who 
 said there was no answer. 
 
 Mrs. Dallas opened the note ; then stood up 
 scared and speechless. Kichard took it from 
 her. 
 
 ' Read it out,' said Mr. Dallas to his son : 
 and he obeyed. 
 
 ' " I relieve of my presence a home where, 
 by your own confession, my part is that of 
 a firebrand. Domestic life being, so far as I 
 am concerned, a failure, I intend in future to 
 live away from you. Before this reaches you 
 I shall have left Paris. Do not try to find 
 me. It will be useless, — Gertrude." ' 
 
 Horror-stricken, they looked at one another. 
 Then Richard rushed away to overtake, if 
 possible, the commissionaire, and Mrs. Dallas 
 and Georo'ie be^'an to cry. Winifi^ed sat 
 dumb ; Mr. Dallas walked up and down the 
 room. He was less fi'ightened than angry : 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 Winifred Poiver. 
 
 such a proceeding as this of his daughter's 
 grated, he would have told you, on his fine 
 sense of order. 
 
 When Kichard returned, breathless, he had 
 failed to find the messenger. Mrs. Dallas felt 
 quite sure that the only people to apply to 
 were the Bonnards, that Gertrude had gone to 
 them ; and Richard again departed. He came 
 back, again unsuccessful, but bringing with 
 him the astonished and dismayed Monsieur 
 Bonnard. He, bald-headed and decorated^ a 
 respectable and kind-hearted Frenchman, was 
 quite overcome at Richard's news, and had 
 arrived to ofi'er his services. 
 
 ' They had not seen Mademoiselle Gertrude 
 for some days,' he said. ' He was quite sure 
 she had not been even for a moment at their 
 house that evening. Their only visitor had 
 been Lieutenant Yalery, who had called to 
 take leave.' 
 
 ' Lieutenant Valery !' exclaimed Hortense, 
 who, French servant-like, had come in to 
 listen. 'Was he an infantry officer, monsieur?
 
 The B aliases. 179 
 
 A little young man with a reddish moustache, 
 and black bright eyes ?' 
 
 * Mais oui ; mais oui !' that described him 
 exactly. 
 
 ^ Then Mam'zelle Gertrude has run away 
 with him,' Hortense boldly declared. 
 
 Mr. Dallas uttered an exclamation of in- 
 credulous anger ; Monsieur Bonnard one of 
 hon^or ; ]\Irs. Dallas breathed a sigh of relief. 
 Her simple mind immediately conjured up a 
 romantic love-story, tears, forgiveness, bless- 
 ings, a trousseau and general happiness. The 
 men, more alive to practical difficulties, took a 
 different view. 
 
 ' Run away with him I' indignantly repeated 
 Mr. Dallas. * How dare you say so, woman ! 
 Who is the fellow, Bonnard ? I never heard 
 of him before.' 
 
 ' He visits at our house. I am afraid your 
 daus'hter has met him on occasions there,' 
 groaned Monsieur Bonnard. 
 
 'All I know is, they meet in the street 
 sometimes ; the 'other day, when I was out 
 
 12—2
 
 180 Winifred Power. 
 
 with Mam'zelle Gertrude, they had a long 
 conversation,' affirmed Hortense. 
 
 ' We must go after them,' exclaimed Mr. 
 Dallas, starting up. 'Dick, you come with 
 me. Where is this Yalery to be heard of, 
 Bonnard ?' 
 
 ' He starts to-night for Lyons, on leave, 
 mon ami ' — and the kind-hearted old French- 
 man, looking deeply concerned, took the 
 aofitated father aside. ' A French officer of 
 that rank cannot marry unless he deposits 
 25,000 francs at the Ministry of War. Yalery 
 has not a sou.' 
 
 Mr. Dallas looked at him with scared eyes, 
 hardly understanding. The vivid colour, 
 which excitement had brought to his face, 
 slowly receded. 
 
 ' The chief point is to pursue them as quickly 
 as possible,' urged Monsieur Bonnard, pressing 
 his hand. 
 
 Ten minutes later Mr. Dallas and Eichard 
 had left the house, taking with them all the 
 money they could scrape together. They
 
 The D aliases. 181 
 
 ^vere accompanied to the station by Monsieur 
 Bonnard. 
 
 But on arriving there they found they had 
 just missed the Lyons night express by five 
 minutes ; and they had, in consequence, no 
 choice but to wait with such patience as they 
 coukl until morning. Part of the night 
 was spent in makmg inquiries ; and they were 
 able to establish with tolerable certainty that 
 a young couple answering to the description 
 of the fugitives had indeed started by the 
 express. 
 
 AYinifred meanwhile had lingered a few 
 minutes with the idea of comforting Mrs. 
 Dallas. But to her surprise the little woman 
 needed but slight consolation. 
 
 ' Poor dear Gerty, she has been rather head- 
 strong at times of late. Perhaps you may 
 have noticed it ?' 
 
 Winifred, who had never noticed anything 
 else in all the years of her acquaintance with 
 her friend, murmured a vague assent. 
 
 ' It often puzzled me,' pursued Mrs.
 
 182 Winifred Poicer. 
 
 Dallas placidlv, ' puzzled and pained me. 
 But now it is quite explained. The poor 
 cMld had this love-affaii' in her head. If 
 she only had placed confidence in me, I 
 niicrht have made it all smooth with her dear 
 papa.' 
 
 This new view of Mrs. Dallas, as a person of 
 influence in her own family, severely tried 
 TVinifred's gravity. But the unconscious 
 pathos of it touched her also. 
 
 She went home with a heavy heart. Even 
 while hoping for the best, she had ten times 
 Mrs. Dallas's knowledge and experience, and 
 was proportionately removed from the possi- 
 bility of taking the same sanguine view. 
 And quick of sympathy always, she was more 
 than ever disposed to grieve where Gertrude 
 was concerned. The two girls had been 
 friends fr'om childhood, and Winifred loved 
 the wayward nature that was so far beneath 
 her own. She made excuses for Gertrude's 
 violent temper, and exalted the fitful gener- 
 ositv which at times redeemed it. For, of all
 
 The Dallases. ]83 
 
 tlie many illusions of life, what S23ell is more 
 potent wliile it lasts, more irrecoverable 
 when it has vanished, than the tender glamour 
 of early friendship ? Half-way down the 
 hill of life we look backwards along sunny 
 meads, and onwards into gloom. Above us, 
 there on the flowery slope, appears a radiant 
 form : is it our youth ? Is it our early 
 friend ? Before we know, the gracious 
 phantom had vanished ; and, beckoning down 
 the rugged path, stands the austere, veiled 
 maiden called Duty. 
 
 Two or three days of suspense ensued, 
 during which the story of the flight oozed out, 
 and raised a great hubbub round poor Ger- 
 trude's name. Then Mr. Dallas wrote briefly 
 to say that he had found his daughter, and 
 would soon be returning. 
 
 * With her, of course,' said Mrs. Dallas 
 ' Dear papa I I wonder if we shall like the 
 poor young man.' 
 
 She pitied Lieutenant Yalery without 
 exactly knowing why. Probably she pic-
 
 184 Winifred Power. 
 
 tured him to herself as tremendously in 
 love. 
 
 When Mr. Dallas and his son aj^peared, 
 however, they had a very unexpected story 
 to tell. 
 
 Gertrude had run away with the young 
 man, not out of love, but from sheer reckless- 
 ness. Smarting under her father's reproaches 
 and under the fancied wrongs of years, so 
 exaggerated in her imagination just then, she 
 had quitted her home with the intention of 
 taking refuge in the first instance with the 
 Bonnards. Further than this she did not 
 know what she should do, and perhaps in 
 her excitement did not care. The Bonnards 
 might want to force her back to her home. 
 Such a prospect filled her with fury and 
 despair. 
 
 In front of the Bonnards house she had ran 
 up against Yalery, who was leaving it. She 
 had met him several times, and her haughty 
 vanity had been gratified by his evident ad- 
 miration. In a world which did not appre-
 
 The D aliases. 185 
 
 ciate her, even the homaore of a French lieu- 
 tenant of foot was a drop of comfort. 
 
 He stopped in much amazement at seeincr 
 lier alone at such an hour, not putting the best 
 construction on it. 
 
 Her confused, passionate answers to his 
 cjuestions only increased his doubts ; but lie 
 listened to her with that curious mixture of 
 incredulity and pity which a man of his 
 stamp accords to a woman's narrative of her 
 wrongs. 
 
 To make a long story short, he presently 
 proposed to her, perhaps three parts in jest, 
 to accompany him to Lyons. Impelled by 
 some demon of crazy recklessness, she accepted 
 the invitation. 
 
 She took a savage pleasure in compromis- 
 ing herself in the eyes of her family, and of 
 consequences she had at the moment but a 
 very confused impression. In her inexperi- 
 ence and her arroii^ance she believed she could 
 keep herself perfectly straight and defy the 
 world.
 
 186 Winifred Power. 
 
 The alarm, the angry disappointment of 
 her awakening, constituted the bitterest, 
 because the first real^ lesson of her life. A 
 very few hours of Lieutenant Yalery's society 
 sufficed to fill her with detestation for 
 him ; and she no sooner found herself in Lyons 
 than she ran away for the second time, leav- 
 ing her companion extremely astonished and 
 aggrieved — feelings later considerably aggra- 
 vated by the horse -whipping inflicted on him 
 by Mr. Dallas, and for which that gentleman 
 refused him satisfaction. 
 
 As for Gertrude herself, the state of repen- 
 tant excitement in Nvhich her father found her 
 was j^itiable. She would not hear of marrying 
 Valery : even before the horse-whipping, and 
 supjDosing that he had desired it. She would 
 not hear of returning home. She supposed 
 her character was damaged, she informed 
 them, folks w^ere so ill-natured ; but her people 
 themselves were to blame. She reproached 
 her father, her brother, everybody ; and poor 
 Dick had ever been a good brother to her.
 
 The D aliases, 187 
 
 She wept, she stormed, she was tragic and 
 pathetic, simply by force of her mental per- 
 versity. The strength of her conviction, that 
 she was a victim, was a rock on which all 
 argument broke. 
 
 ' I must make shipwreck of my life now in 
 any case. Yes, I choose to do it. Let me 
 take my own way,' she reiterated: and Mr. 
 Dallas, worn out by anxiety and anger, fairly 
 succumbed at last to her violence. Her plan 
 was to D'o to Turin as teacher in a school. She 
 knew of such an opening, as it chanced, and 
 mio'ht as well besrin her series of failures there 
 as anywhere else. So Richard was sent to 
 escort her to Turin, and Mr. Dallas returned 
 to Paris alone. 
 
 The exact truth about Gertrude's flight, her 
 family naturally never told. ISTeither the 
 Bonnards nor Winifred learnt whether Hor- 
 tense's suggestion of an elof)ement had turned 
 out to be correct. Nobody ever asked now 
 for Gertrude; and her name ceased to be men- 
 tioned.
 
 188 Winifred Power. 
 
 Only Mrs. Dallas, when alone with Wmi- 
 fred, sometimes would drop her head u2)on 
 the girl's shoulder and weep silent tears of 
 disappointment and despair.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MARTHE. 
 
 ^^)>^5r^ES. RUSSELL, as we know, com- 
 plained that Winifred's friends were 
 generally eccentric. And certainly 
 tlie one about whose eccentricity there could 
 be no doubt was Mademoiselle Marthe. 
 
 She was not French, but very English. 
 Nevertheless, the very few friends she had, 
 belonged to the country of her adoption, and 
 none of them called her by her surname, or 
 thought of asking what it might be. She was 
 the Mademoiselle Marthe iJcir excellence of the 
 quartier. Xo one, before or since, had ever 
 been seen like her. She had a tinv, wizened
 
 190 Wmifred Poicer. 
 
 body, a small, puckered face, and a still, half- 
 scared manner which contrasted strangely with 
 her wistful eyes. Something there was so 
 very human about her, that, looking well at 
 her, you felt inexplicably compassionate and 
 attracted. But any advance was chilled by 
 her unconquerable and painful reserve. ' She 
 is like a caged and frightened fawn ; ' she looks 
 as if she had once been told a ghastly secret, 
 and never forgotten it,' were the various phrases 
 by which people strove to explain the odd im- 
 pression which she made upon them. 
 
 And because she was incomprehensible, she 
 w^as, on the whole, more feared than thoroughly 
 pitied. Her pride, combined with her deadly 
 poverty, made the weak-minded a little resent- 
 ful of her; and she sometimes excited the evil 
 fear of the malignant by sudden flashes of clear 
 perception and brief assertions of principle. 
 Her usual manner, half-frightened and very 
 depressed, gave place at moments to a pathetic 
 excitability. Something in her, long repressed, 
 seemed at times to rise in revolt a^-ainst her
 
 Mademoiselle Marthe, 191 
 
 8acl and anguished life, and sting her into a 
 feverish and short-lived activity. By profes- 
 sion she was a copyist of pictures : very humbly 
 and devotedly she trod in the track of great 
 departed artists, and seemed, for the most part, 
 quite devoid of any personal ambition. But 
 every now and again she appeared possessed 
 by an evanescent desire to achieve something 
 greater; and while this fit lasted she was wont 
 to make sketches of original paintings, and 
 exhibit them for approval to her fellow-workers 
 in the gallery. 
 
 It was the favourite amusement of some 
 mocking, ill-natured spirits extravagantly to 
 praise these attempts, and nothing could be 
 more touching than the expression with which 
 Mademoiselle Marthe would listen to their 
 words. Gratitude, unwilling doubt, the long- 
 ino' to believe, the desire to love, the sad, sad 
 secret sense of artistic incapacity struggled for 
 mastery in her half- childlike, ever-questioning, 
 and wholly mournful eyes. One day in the 
 gallery, Winifred being present, IMademoisellc
 
 192 Winifred Power. 
 
 Martlie had been made, as iisunl, the butt of 
 the rest. Marie Duchene, the terror of every- 
 body for her cruel tongue, Clara Smythe, an 
 underbred English girl, and half a dozen 
 others, had gathered in front of the sketch, 
 and were exalting it in their usual style. 
 
 * C'est epatant !' declared Marie, in mock 
 rapture. 
 
 ' Too lovelv!' added Clara. 
 
 ' Look at the grouping !' ' The expression !' 
 ' Ce coloris !' ' The feeling !' 
 
 Thus ran the chorus, accompanied by motions 
 and gestures. Winifred, her back turned to 
 them all, went on painting in silent indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 Presently, when the victim had gone away, 
 Marie mockingly began upon her. ^ Xotre 
 chere Winifred ! Does such genius render her 
 jealous, or simply strike her dumb ?' A general 
 laugh greeted this. 
 
 Winifred turned. ^ I think you should all 
 be ashamed of yourselves,' she said quietly, 
 but her blue eyes flashed like a sword in the 
 sun.
 
 Mademoiselle Marthe. 193 
 
 There was a pause of amazement. ' Well, 
 to be sure !' exclaimed Clara, with a toss of 
 her head. 
 
 ' Tiens ! tiens !' murmured Marie, and made 
 a grimace. 
 
 ' I am quite in earnest,' continued Winifred, 
 unmoved. ' I think you all behave disgrace- 
 fully to that poor old woman. She is not very- 
 wise, but she is a o-entle, unoffendinir little 
 soul, who would not hurt a fly, and she does not 
 perceive your ridicule, because ridicule finds 
 no place in her own simple and kindly heart. 
 She is full of reverence for the art which we 
 all profess to follow, and although she never 
 can succeed, because ungifted, her failure is a 
 nobler thing than the facile degradation of 
 talent which we pretend to honour as success/ 
 
 ' Is that intended for me ?' flashed out ^larie 
 Duchene. 
 
 ' For anybody whom the cap may fit, 
 answered Winifred coldly. 
 
 Then there was a sudden cry of ^ Hush !' and 
 the angry group turned to find Mademoiselle 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 Winifred Power. 
 
 Martlie standing behind Winifred, within hear- 
 ing. She was very pale, and her aged baby- 
 face had the pamed look of her darker hours. 
 
 ' I went out to bu}^ galettes for you. Marie 
 said she was hungry.' 
 
 She held out her offering mechanically, as 
 mechanically as she had spoken the words. 
 One or two of the girls had the grace to look 
 ashamed. Marie, with an exaggerated air of 
 gratitude, sprang forward to embrace the little 
 artist ; but Mademoiselle Marthe drew back. 
 
 ' I do not want your kisses, my dear,' she 
 said gently. ' Somehow, they have a flavour 
 of your praise.' 
 
 She never showed anybody her sketches 
 again ; and, indeed, by degrees she ceased to 
 make them. The lesson had been too cruel, 
 and the memory of its pain, abiding with her, 
 gradually quenched the faint, flickering flame 
 of her belief in her own powers. 
 
 She did not overwhelm her champion with 
 any exjDressions of gratitude, but showed her 
 affection by a hundred small signs. If they
 
 Mademoiselle Mm^tlie. 10.5 
 
 Avere together in the gallery, she was never so 
 happy as when allowed to scrape Winifred's 
 palette, or wash her brushes, or run down to 
 buy her luncheon. The snow had hardlv 
 melted from the ground before a bunch of 
 sweet-smelling violets was left in the early 
 morning, with the concierge, at Winifred's 
 house ; and one Christmas Day appeared a 
 piping bullfinch, which ^lademoiselle Marthe 
 had trained and taught through many patient 
 weeks. 
 
 In vain the girl sought to return these 
 kindnesses. Mademoiselle Marthe would accept 
 nothing from her, and contrived moreover to 
 give to her rejection a gentle dignity, in touch- 
 infi- contrast with her usual humble wavs. 
 Winifred herself was long before she ventured 
 to penetrate to the tiny room which the little 
 old maid called her home. When she did at 
 last see it, she was agreeably surprised by it, 
 for, although modest to the verge of bareness, 
 it had nothing sordid. The plain, scanty 
 furniture was scrupulously clean, and the 
 
 13—2
 
 196 Winifred Poicer. 
 
 windows were bright with flowers and 
 birds. 
 
 ^ And you have lived here all alone for more 
 than twenty years !' exclaimed Winifred, won- 
 dering what the unspoken chronicle of the long, 
 lonely life had been. ^ You have friends — 
 visitors ?' 
 
 ' I have friends — yes. Everybody is very 
 kind to me. But I have no gentlemen or lady 
 visitors, if that is what you mean. At least 
 not until you came,' added Mademoiselle 
 Marthe, with her faint but patient and pleased 
 little smile. 
 
 Winifred, almost unconsciously, took her 
 hand. 
 
 ' But now vou will make friends amono- 
 your own people. You will come to see us ?' 
 she exclaimed, impetuously. 
 
 ' My own people ? I have none,' replied 
 Mademoiselle Marthe. * My kindred are the 
 poor and suffering.' 
 
 The words had a sudden ring of pain, and 
 a new expression swept over the S23eaker's
 
 Mademoiselle Marthe. 197 
 
 fact;. It Avas not anger, still less resentment ; 
 it could hardly even be called bitterness. But 
 it was full of a fathomless and blasting woe. 
 Two burning spots had come into the wrinkled 
 cheeks, the lips quivered with an agitation 
 made all the more painful by the strained look 
 of the tearless eyes. She drew a little away 
 from her visitor, with a movement that un- 
 wittingly said how she shrank from common- 
 place compassion. Winifred began to talk 
 about herself, her aims, her friends, her 
 pictures, and thus drew to the surface that 
 unselfish sympathy which was the key-note 
 to the other's reticent nature. In time, Wini- 
 fred thought, she would vanquish the little 
 woman's reserved timidity, and end by bring- 
 inor about a meetino; between her and Mr. 
 Kussell. She ardently desired this : for, 
 dimly yet strongly feeling that Mademoiselle 
 ]^Iarthe had been in some way wronged, she 
 believed that her kind and clever uncle might 
 be able to learn the secret. But in this aim 
 she failed.
 
 198 Winifred Power. 
 
 One day, indeed, Mademoiselle Marthe caught 
 quickly at the name ' Russell,' which Winifred 
 had for the first time mentioned. 
 
 ' Is that your uncle's name? And Walter, 
 did you say ?' She turned rather pale, and 
 seemed struggling to hide some emotion. 
 
 ' Yes. Did you ever know him?' was the 
 surprised question. 
 
 ' Nay, there are many Rus sells in the 
 world. And Walter Russells too.' 
 
 But even while thus answering, Made- 
 moiselle Marthe looked strangely troubled. 
 Winifred sat silent, expecting, hoping to be 
 farther questioned ; but no interrogation came, 
 and Mademoiselle Marthe began to talk of 
 something else. Nevertheless her manner 
 remained wistful : and as Winifred, on leaving, 
 stooped to kiss her, she spoke in a trembling 
 way. 
 
 ' Does injustice make you angry, child ? 
 Could you be pitiful and loving even if the 
 world reproached you for it ?' 
 
 ' Of course,' replied Winifred.
 
 Mademoiselle Martlie. 199 
 
 To her surprise and consternation this 
 answer provoked a burst of tears, the very 
 first that she had seen in her friend. Tears 
 are akin to speech: was the veil of this an- 
 guished past, whatever it might be, to be 
 finally Hfted? 
 
 No : Mademoiselle Marthe checked her emo- 
 tion, almost as if ashamed of it, and drooped 
 her head humblv. 
 
 * It is so long since I have cried,' she said, 
 in her simple, patient way; and Winifred felt 
 that the moment for questioning had not come. 
 
 AVith characteristic loyalty, she abstained 
 from following up the clue, if such it could be 
 called, which the a^fitation at the name of 
 Kussell might have seemed to ofi:er. That is, 
 she did not describe Mademoiselle Martlie's 
 sinofularities to her uncle, or ask him if he had 
 ever known anybody answering to such a 
 description. 
 
 The friendship thus begun batween the 
 strangely- contrasted pair was destined, on 
 Winifred's side, to be intensified later by grati-
 
 200 Winifred Power. 
 
 tude. The previous summer to this when we 
 first make her acquaintance, her uncle and 
 aunt having gone to England, she joined 
 several other artists at Fontainebleau. Made- 
 moiselle Marthe was there also, although she 
 could not be said to belong to the party. 
 Presently small -pox broke out. Winifred fell 
 ill. Fortunately her attack proved of the 
 mildest ; but it sufficed to scare away all her 
 companions save one. The exception was 
 Mademoiselle Marthe, who suddenly proved 
 herself of rare efficiency. Feeling seemed to 
 stand her in lieu of special intelligence ; where 
 suffering of any sort had to be alleviated, she 
 always knew the right thing to do. And 
 Winifred, tended by her with a limitless de- 
 votion, came to feel the moral superiority that 
 was veiled by her j)ersistent reserve. Formerly 
 she had merely jDitied Mademoiselle Marthe; 
 now she respected and loved her. And when 
 she got well, she thought she never could do 
 enough to mark and proclaim her grati- 
 tude. The sight of such friendship stirred
 
 Mademoiselle Mcirthe, 201 
 
 to malice the small souls of her fellow- 
 students. 
 
 During' one of Winifred's rare visits to the 
 gallery, when they were all back in Paris 
 again, Clara Smythe began another battle. 
 
 ' It is a pity you were not here yesterday, 
 Miss Power. You might have heard " some- 
 thing to your advantage," as the advertise- 
 ments say.' 
 
 ' To my advantage ?' Winifred repeated, in 
 surprise. 
 
 * Yes. That is, of course, if you consider it 
 an advantao^e to be enli^'htened as to the true 
 history of your friends.' 
 
 There was a general little giggle at this, tlie 
 rest of the gMs being prepared for what was 
 to come. 
 
 ' I must trouble you to explain yourself,' 
 returned AYinifred. 
 
 ' Among the many kind of failures which 
 you consider interesting, do you include the 
 failure to keep out of prison ?' 
 
 The colour rose in Winifred's cheeks.
 
 202 Winifred Power. 
 
 ' I am a bad hand at guessing riddles,' she 
 said. 
 
 ' Yesterday, my aunt, who Avas passing 
 through Paris, came with me here,' resumed the 
 spiteful girl. ' As we entered, your j^'^^otegee, 
 Mademoiselle Marthe, passed out. My aunt 
 gave a great start of amazement on seeing her, 
 for she recognised her as a person she had 
 known once in England.' 
 
 ' Yes?' repeated Winifred, wondering what 
 was coming. 
 
 ' And who was condemned to a term of 
 imprisonment for writing threatening letters.' 
 
 There was a dead pause, then Winifred said 
 coldly : 
 
 ' I presume your aunt gave you some par- 
 ticulars as to names and dates and places?' 
 
 ' Keally, Miss Power, to be frank, I was 
 too shocked to ask for particulars,' replied 
 Clara. 
 
 ' Then you must permit me to believe that 
 your aunt made a mistake of identity. It 
 could not have been Mademoiselle Marthe.'
 
 Mademoiselle Marthe, 203 
 
 And with these words, Winifred, who had 
 already packed up her painting materials and 
 made ready for her departure, turned her back 
 and walked away. 
 
 ' The Christian name was the same, at any 
 rate ; and you can ask your friend if she has 
 ever been in Kent,' called out Clara : but 
 Winifred was already out of hearing. 
 
 For several weeks Winifred saw nothing of 
 Mademoiselle Marthe, for Mr. Russell became 
 very ill, and claimed all her attention. By the 
 time he again partially recovered, great things 
 had happened. The King of Prussia had 
 turned on his heel and left M. Benedetti 
 standing in the sunlight on the promenade at 
 Ems : war had been declared, and the first 
 shots fired ; and although France did not yet 
 fully foresee the catastrophe in store for her, 
 matters began to look serious. 
 
 The Bonnards were leaving Paris in some 
 haste for their country house in Provence, and 
 they invited Mr. and Mrs. Eussell to ac-
 
 204 Winifred Power. 
 
 company them. Winifred could not leave, 
 for she had a picture to finish, and Mrs. 
 Chandos-Fane had no fancy for French country- 
 life. So she betook herself to Boulogne- sur- 
 Mer, on the understanding that her daughter 
 should join her there. 
 
 Winifred, thus left to her own devices, 
 bethought herself one fine Sunday morning of 
 Mademoiselle Marthe, and went off to see her. 
 
 ' It is my birthday, dear,' said the girl, 
 giving her little friend a hug. ' You cannot 
 be so barbarous as to expect me to spend it all 
 by myself. So you are just to come home 
 and help me to eat the feast that Sophie has 
 prepared for me. And afterwards we will go 
 to the Bois and see the brides.' 
 
 Mademoiselle Marthe was nothing loth. 
 She made herself ready with her wonted care ; 
 one of the most characteristic and touching 
 things about her being the exquisite neatness 
 of her poor attire. Winifi^ed, watching her 
 affectionately, thought she seemed brighter 
 than usual, and was struck anew with the
 
 Mademoiselle Marthe. 205 
 
 childlike goodness underlying the age and 
 sorrow of her face. 
 
 They sallied forth, and the girl's gleesome 
 prattle, combined with the loveliness of tlie 
 day, kept up the pleased look in her com- 
 panion's eyes. For many long and weary 
 years, indeed, Mademoiselle Marthe's dimmed 
 s^lance had not dwelt with such untrouljled 
 peace on the serenity of the heavens. Such 
 moments are the ambuscades of fate : another 
 instant, and the blow falls. 
 
 All at once, the two friends came upon Clara 
 Smythe and a party of girl-artists. AVinifred 
 would have passed on with a bow, but Made- 
 moiselle ]\Iarthe, partly from innate courtesy, 
 partly from habit, stopped and held out her 
 hand. Miss Smythe, however, was erpial to 
 the occasion. Drawing herself up Avitli stony 
 dignity, she looked the little woman over from 
 head to foot. Then she dropped a courtesy. 
 
 ' I think, madam, you must have mistaken 
 me for some old acquaintance from Marleyford,' 
 she said, and walked away.
 
 206 Winifred Power. 
 
 Her victim stood rooted on the sunlit path, 
 still as a graven image, an image of Pain. She 
 uttered no word, no sigh even; but her face 
 turned so ashen grey that Winifred involun- 
 tarily cried aloud in alarm. 
 
 ' Come home, dear!' exclaimed the generous 
 girl, quivering with indignation. * Never mind 
 what they say; just come home with me.' 
 
 The simple, ardent words fell upon unheed- 
 ing ears. Mademoiselle Marthe mechanically 
 allowed herself to be led away, but her awful 
 silence remained unbroken. Only by a sign 
 did she testify her wish to be taken to her own 
 home instead of to Winifred's. 
 
 The latter, frightened at the unnatural cahn, 
 called a coach and put her into it. She went 
 home with her; took off her dress; made her 
 lie down; and petted her in womanly fashion. 
 Then, not knowing what more to do, in a very 
 passion of sympathy, she drew the trembling 
 frame into her strong young arms, and kissed 
 her friend in speechless pity. At the touch. 
 Mademoiselle Marthe burst into a convulsion
 
 Mademoiselle Mcivthe. 207 
 
 of tearless sobs, vrhicli seemed as if thev would 
 last for ever. Scared and poAverless, Winifred 
 sent in haste for a doctor. He administered a 
 calming dose, and after a while the patient 
 dropped asleep. But she awoke at the end of 
 an hour or two, feverish and delirious. She 
 began to rave incoherently about her own trial 
 and the presence of ]\Iary in tlie witness-box. 
 
 This one vision returned ao'ain and asrain 
 with singular vividness; it was plain that of 
 the many circumstances connected with her 
 betrayal, the treachery of her cousin had burnt 
 most deeply into ^lartha Freake's memory. 
 The piteous prayer for truth, only the truth, 
 reiterated every moment, seemed to tell its own 
 tale : and Winifred, listenino- throuijh the lorn? 
 watches of the night, registered a mental vow 
 that if redress could be had she would obtain 
 it. Her uncle and aunt came from Marleyford: 
 from them it would be easy to learn the whole 
 storv. 
 
 Mademoiselle ]\Iarthe recovered. That is to 
 sav. consciousness returned to her, and with it
 
 208 Winifred Poiver. 
 
 somethiDg of her usual manner. But her face 
 wore a constant look of torture, and instinct- 
 ively Winifred felt that to question her would 
 be like probing a quivering wound. 
 
 She consequently had no choice but to pos- 
 sess her soul in patience, and wait for some 
 future chance of enlightenment. From her 
 uncle and aunt she had failed to obtain infor- 
 mation. Mr. Russell was too unwell to write, 
 and his wife was one of those unsatisfactory 
 correspondents who never answer questions. 
 Finding that Mrs. Russell passed over the sub- 
 ject of Mademoiselle Marthe in silence, Wini- 
 fred could but conclude that she had nothing 
 of real interest reo^ardino; it to relate. 
 
 All this time events in the great world had 
 been proceeding with startling rapidity. Sedan 
 had been fought, the Empire had fallen, and the 
 Prussians were marching upon Paris. There 
 was a sauve-qui-peut among the foreigners, 
 and Mrs. Chandos-Fane wrote to her daughter 
 in hot haste to join her at Boulogne. 
 
 Winifred in her heart would rather have
 
 Mademoiselle Marthe. 209 
 
 remained where she Avas. To her, not fore- 
 seeing what was to happen, the prospect of the 
 siege hekl forth no terrors. Moreover, she 
 loved Paris, and felt all the inexplicable flxsci- 
 nation which France, in lier darkest as in her 
 brightest days, can cast upon the minds of 
 men. It was pain to lier to quit, in such an 
 hour, the great city where she had dwelt so 
 lonij;. 
 
 But Mrs. Fane's letter was imperative. That 
 lady possessed one of those indefinite natures 
 with which it is impossible to deal. On the 
 surface as airy as gossamer, as light as the froth 
 of the sea, she had a clinging tenacity of pur- 
 pose which was not to be repressed. 
 
 Her present letter to Winifred was that of a 
 lonelv and lovin"' mother. ' I have but vou 
 in the world, my child,' she wrote, in a delicate, 
 flowing hand. ' Since the death of your dear step- 
 father, since my dear little children, one after 
 another (your half-l)rothers and sisters, love), 
 were taken from me, my life has been desolate. 
 T say' this in no reproachful spirit. You have 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 Winifred Power. 
 
 your art (as you call it) ; and you make some 
 money by it; naturally you have slipped into 
 the habit of being absorbed by it. But you 
 must sometimes think of your poor mamma, 
 I am sure I am not exacting. You generally 
 have your own way, darling; and I think I 
 am always indulgent. But France is no place 
 at present for a young girl. No, not even for 
 my wise Winifred . . ." who thinks herself so 
 wise ! I am going to England, and I should 
 like you to come with me. Some mothers 
 might say they required it : but I only say I 
 should like it. My Winifred, after a little re- 
 flection, will perhaps see that the day may 
 come when she will not be sorry she has some- 
 times done something to please her loving 
 
 ' Mamsie. 
 
 ^P.S. I have met Sir John Hatherley here, 
 and with him the three ladies whom he has 
 so generously received into his home. He is 
 very nice. Much nicer than his sister, / think. 
 But of course that is only my opinion. He
 
 Mademoiselle Mart fie. 211 
 
 tells me of a charming cottage to let, close by 
 his own place. I should like to take it. But 
 mothers have to consult their daughters now- 
 adays/ 
 
 Winifred read this epistle with some per- 
 plexity and a dim sense of pain. Her sensitive 
 conscience made her very quick to blame her- 
 self and very much alive to reproach. She 
 quite seriously asked herself if she had ever 
 been wanting in love or respect to her mother? 
 Yet if she had not, what did Mrs. Fane's in- 
 sinuations mean? 
 
 There came a time of riper experience, when 
 she learnt that the gist of her mother's letters 
 had to be sought in their postscripts. But she 
 was too young and too generous to understand 
 this yet ; and she felt vaguely dissatisfied with 
 herself the whole day. 
 
 The notion of disreo^ardino^ her mother's 
 wishes, when so plainly expressed, never even 
 occurred to her. She packed her boxes with 
 all speed; took a sorrowful farewell of Made- 
 
 14—2
 
 212 Winifred Power. 
 
 moiselle Marthe (whom no entreaties could 
 persuade to leave Paris) ; a regretful one of 
 the poor seamstress, Clause, and a mute one 
 of all the familiar faces, all the well-known 
 sierhts and sounds which had woven them- 
 selves into the many-coloured web of her 
 student-life. 
 
 On reaching Boulogne-sur-Mer, she found 
 Mrs. Chandos-Fane the centre of an admiring 
 circle of devotees, who were disposed to regard 
 Winifred herself with a lively interest slightly 
 dashed with hostilitv. For while talkino; of 
 
 t/ CD 
 
 her daughter, praising her daughter, longing 
 (as she said) for her daughter's arrival, the 
 widow had managed in some subtle, probably 
 unconscious way, to convey that her daughter 
 did not appreciate her. ' My beautiful Wini- 
 fred ' — ' my clever Winifred ' — ' my terribly 
 strong-minded Winifred,' were words never off 
 her lips. And as a rule peoj^le do not like the 
 ' clever or the strong-minded.' 
 
 She had a great deal to tell about Sir John 
 Hatherley, and to this Winifred listened with
 
 Mademoiselle Marthe. 213 
 
 unfailing interest. Sir John, :\Irs. Russell's 
 brother, was, people said, her benefactor. This 
 was never admitted by ]\[rs. Russell; she, 
 besides being of a generally aggrieved turn of 
 mind, considered herself particularly iiijure<l in 
 being left by her father's will dependent upon 
 her brother. Xothins,' that he ccuild do seemed 
 sufficient compensation for this original in- 
 justice. But others, looking at things from a 
 diiFerent point of view, were disposed to think 
 that the millionaire did a good deal; for ^Ir. 
 and Mrs. Russell owed their principal means of 
 existence to his liberality. 
 
 Whenever additional money had been needed 
 by her^ he was written to, and, as far as Wini- 
 fred knew, he had never foiled to respond to 
 the call. Personally Winifred felt grateful to 
 him, for much of her education must have in 
 directly been paid for out of his purse. 
 
 Winifred had never seen Sir John; but 
 she thouo'ht much of him, and ahvavs as a 
 good and great man. She had lived abroa<l ; 
 in Italy, Germany, of late in France ; he de-
 
 214 Wmifred Power. 
 
 tested the Continent, and it was a mere chance 
 which had recently brought him to spend, for 
 the first time in his life, a few weeks at Bou- 
 loofne-sur-Mer. The bathino; there had been 
 recommended for his widowed sister-in-law, 
 Mrs. William Hatherlej ; who, with her two 
 daughters, dwelt under Sir John's roof, further 
 recij)ients of his bounty, being themselves 
 penniless. 
 
 ' When I saw those three women,' said Mrs. 
 Fane to her daughter, ' I must say that the 
 admiration I had always felt for that bene- 
 volent man was increased a thousandfold. Such 
 a woman, she! and the young ones, oh so 
 frivolous !' 
 
 ' Perhaps they suit him very well,' replied 
 Winifred, not always disposed to accept her 
 mother's judgments. 
 
 ' No doubt you know best, love,' answered 
 Mrs. Fane ; ^ but I believe you have not seen 
 them ? No. So I thought. Then, subject to 
 your future correction, I may be allowed to 
 give my opinion. / think they are quite un-
 
 Mademoiselle Martlie, 215 
 
 worthy to be the companions of such a man as 
 Sir John.' 
 
 * Is he so very cultivated, then ? asked 
 Winifred, a little subdued. 
 
 '/ think so. I believe that a love of old 
 books is generally supposed to show a culti- 
 vated mind.' 
 
 ' That depends upon whether the collector 
 reads them or not,' answered Winifred brightly. 
 ' Sir John has always been something of a 
 Sphinx to me. From his letters to Aunt Mary 
 I never could make out what manner of man 
 he was intellectually.' 
 
 ' You will soon know, my almost too-clever 
 daughter,' rejoined Mrs. Fane, with a smile 
 and a little pat on Winifred's cheek. I have 
 authorized Sir John to take for us the pretty 
 cottao*e I told you about. We shall find him 
 a delio'htful neio'hbour.' 
 
 In a very short while ]\Irs. Fane crossed the 
 Channel Avith her daughter and maid, to take 
 possession of this^ desirable cottage, which had 
 been made ready for them. It was in the
 
 216 Winifred Poicer. 
 
 neiglibourliood of Sir John Hatherley's resi- 
 dence of later years, and not too far from 
 London. Bnt on their arrival they heard that 
 Sir John and his family were still away ; and 
 it struck Winifred that this piece of news 
 curiously dashed her mother. 
 
 Mrs. Fane could console herself, if necessary, 
 by contemplating Sir John's handsome residence, 
 The Limes, its velvet lawns and its beautiful 
 grounds. For the grand stuccoed mansion, 
 placed on a slight rise, looked down upon the 
 neighbourhood both metaphorically and ma- 
 terially. It was the largest and the finest 
 house in the place, and the centre of much local 
 social ambition: to be invited to it was an 
 honour ; to be shut out from it a reproach. 
 
 To Winifred, fresh from the roar of Paris, 
 there was something very soothing in this 
 suburban neighbourhood, with its pretty red- 
 brick dwellings, with creepers climbing up 
 them, and the flowers blooming in the beds 
 behind the iron wickets. The neighbourhood 
 was already a tolerably large one, and grew,
 
 Mademoiselle Marthe. 217 
 
 alas I daily. But there was still a common ; 
 still a rustic-looking ale-house ; still a genuine 
 English lane or two, which echoed to the cry 
 of the cuckoo in sprino- and the sonars of nio-ht- 
 ingales in summer. And on each side of the 
 lanes were buttercuj)- strewn meadows, where 
 kine crouched beneath the shade, and rooks 
 cawed in the branches of the noble elms. 
 
 Mrs. Chandos-Fane had time to unpack all 
 her dresses, and Winifred to settle down to her 
 work, before the shutters of The Limes were 
 opened, and the butcher's boy and the baker's 
 drove their carts with greater importance for 
 the knowledge that ' Sir John' had returned.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SIR JOHN. 
 
 ^^I^^HE church Dells of the little village 
 of Elmsleigh, sheltered in its quiet 
 Surrey nook, were calling people 
 to service on Sunday morning. Mrs. Chandos- 
 Fane, while dressing herself with extraordinary 
 care, cast glances of unusual scrutiny at her 
 daughter's own attire. She suggested various 
 youthful and airy additions, which the girl 
 would not make. 
 
 ' Never mind, mother,' said Winifi-ed good- 
 humouredly. ' It really does not matter how 
 I look when you are by. You are elegant 
 enough and pretty enough for both of us.'
 
 Sir John. 219 
 
 ' I hope I always look like a lady, my love,' 
 said Mrs. Fane, contemplating herself virtu- 
 ously in the glass. ISTobody ever accused me 
 of vanity, even when I was your age, althougli 
 / did not aifect to l)e indifferent to my appear- 
 ance. But I confess I should like Sir John 
 not to feel ashamed of his connections.' 
 
 ' I dare say poor old Sir John will hardly 
 look at us, mamma.' 
 
 Mrs. Chandos-Fane bridled. 
 
 ' Old ! He is not old, my love. But since 
 any allusion to your benefactor displeases you 
 — yes, I call him so — I will not make it. 
 I have no doubt Mark will suit you better.' 
 
 With this, Mrs. Fane swam out of the room 
 and the house, and Winifred silently followed. 
 
 On reaching the church and sitting down, 
 she guessed by the frequent turns of her 
 mother's head in what direction she was to 
 look for the Hatherley party. But the service 
 was on the very point of beginning before they 
 appeared, and then Sir John was not vdt\\ 
 them. Only Mrs. Hatherley and her daugh-
 
 220 Winifred Power. 
 
 ters, with Mark, Sir John's son. Winifred, 
 woman-like, looked at the latter first. He 
 was a grave, handsome vomig man, who evi- 
 dently did not wear his heart upon his sleeve, 
 but looked, nevertheless, as though he had 
 heart and brains too. He recognised Mrs. 
 Chandos-Fane, and raised his eyes quickly 
 towards Winifi^ed. For a moment their 
 glances met, seriously, quietly, without a trace 
 of consciousness. Then Mark turned his head 
 away, and Winifred transferred her observa- 
 tion to the ladies. The mother, William 
 Hatherley's widow, was an octoroon born in 
 Jamaica, and looked like it. She was heavily 
 dressed, even on this bright September morn- 
 ino^, and had a trick of drawino; her shoulders 
 forward and shivering slightly, presumably 
 under a visitation of draug^hts that afflicted 
 nobody else. Between these trembling move- 
 ments, her small, wizened face, and her bright, 
 glancing eyes, she reminded one of a captive 
 marmoset. 
 
 Her daughters were two rather pretty little
 
 Sir John. 2t>l 
 
 things, extremely alike, and very daintily 
 attired. Winifred wondered whether it was 
 only the proximity of Mark's massive brow 
 that made their delicate faces look so mind- 
 less. They glanced at her with ill-concealed 
 curiosity, and took evident stock of her cos- 
 tume from her bonnet to her boots. 
 
 At the church-door the Avhole party met, 
 Mrs. Chandos-Fane going forward with a 
 marked cordiality. The girls responded to it 
 with some shrinking, Mark with a calm polite- 
 ness, and Mrs. Hatherley — not at all. 
 
 ' ]\Iy daughter : she has been dying to make 
 your dear children's accpiaintance,' said ^Irs. 
 Fane to her. Winifred lono'ed to contradict 
 her flatly, but feeling that to be impossible, 
 she gave her hand to them with grace. 
 
 ' You have just arrived?' said one of them 
 to her, Dorothy, regarding her delicate gloves. 
 
 ' Yes, just — haven't you?' echoed the other, 
 Florence, scrutinizing the severity of her 
 dress. 
 
 'I trust Ave shall have the pleasure of seeing
 
 222 Winifixd Poioer. 
 
 you often at The Limes,' said Mark, who had 
 been looking at Winifred with a composed 
 directness that half-amused and half-provoked 
 her. She conceived of him that he was a 
 young man who always did his duty, and 
 invited her and her mother now as a part 
 of it. 
 
 ' We will call on Sir John this afternoon,' 
 said Mrs. Fane. Whereupon Mark shook 
 hands, raised his hat, and said, ' Good-bye, 
 then, until later;' his cousins nodded con- 
 descendingly, and Mrs. Hatherley murmured 
 something that was presumably a fare- 
 well. 
 
 ' A more ill-mannered quartette I never 
 wish to see!' exclaimed Mrs. Fane, with an 
 acrid vigour of denunciation strikingly in 
 contrast with her usual suavity. 
 
 ' Mark was polite and pleasant enough,' 
 answered Winifred. 
 
 Sir John Hatherley was the great man of 
 this small neighbourhood. People regarded 
 him with awe, and talked of his good fortune
 
 Sir John. 223 
 
 with almost superstitious veneration. Origin- 
 ally he had been a brewer, but no ordinary 
 one. For the brewery was an old-established, 
 almost aristocratic affair : and he had been left 
 by his father sole possessor of it, and a rich 
 man besides. In a short time he sold the 
 business and also his handsome house near 
 ]\Iarleyford, and bought this place, ' The 
 Limes,' at Elmsleigh. Then he engaged in 
 railway speculations to a large degree; gained 
 money upon money, applause, and the honour 
 of knighthood. ' He is like a king,' said the 
 admiring world; ' everything he touches turns 
 to gold.' But he had his peculiarities. 
 
 Mrs. Fane and Winifred went to The Limes 
 through the afternoon sunshine. Dolly met 
 them in the hall. 
 
 ' Hush, hush I' cried she. 
 
 ' Hush I' added Flossie, coming forward. 
 
 'What is the matter?' inquired AVinifred, 
 very much astonished. 
 
 ' You are passing the library,' whispered 
 Dolly. ' L'ncle John is resting. His heart.
 
 224 Winifred Power. 
 
 jou know,' she explained, as she led the way 
 to the drawing-room. 
 
 Winifred then remembered that Sir John 
 suffered from disease of the heart, and 
 was supposed to be living in a critical 
 state. 
 
 On entering the room they found Mrs. 
 Hatherley smothered in shawls in the depths 
 of an armchair. She rose languidly, ex- 
 tended a tiny listless hand, and got as far as 
 the first word of ' How do you do?' after 
 which she sank back again. 
 
 'And your cousin Mark?' said Mrs. Fane, 
 with sweet inquiry. 
 
 ' He is out,' answered Dolly. 
 
 ' Gone to town, I think,' said her sister. 
 
 A faint shadow of annoyance crossed Mrs. 
 Fane's pretty face, but she said with un- 
 diminished feeling : 
 
 ' And dear Sir John is unwell?' 
 
 ' His heart, you know,' began the sisters 
 together, when suddenly Mrs. Hatherley in- 
 terrupted them.
 
 Sir John. 225 
 
 'He ate too much pheasant-salmi yester- 
 day,' she remarked in a drawling monotone. 
 
 At this unexpected observation, AVinifred 
 absolutely started, and glanced at the si)caker 
 with a new curiosity. But the pale little face 
 nbove the bundle of shawls was totally impas- 
 sive. Mrs. Fane looked unmistakably in- 
 dignant, at the remark, and said tliat invalids 
 were greatly to be pitied. 
 
 ' Dear Uncle Hatherley suffers terribly. 
 And, as he alwa3^s tells us, any agitation 
 might kill him,' said the elder of the sisters. 
 
 ' The least agitation,' repeated Florence. 
 
 And both spoke in such evident good faith 
 that AVinifred smiled on them witli lier bright 
 sympathy, saying kindly : 
 
 ' I dare say he owes much of his ease to 
 your nursing.' 
 
 ^ Who would not willini^dv nurse such a 
 sufferer?' cliimed in ]\Irs. Fane. 'lam sure 
 I would sit up night after night : although, 
 with my anxious temperament, I am aware 
 that I should pay dearly for it.' 
 
 VOL. I. 1'^
 
 226 Winifred Poirer. 
 
 At this amiable outburst it must be con- 
 fessed that Winifred rather stared. Mrs. Fane 
 had had plenty of opportunities of nursing her 
 brother Walter, but she had certainly never 
 availed herself of them. 
 
 ' And are you very fond of nursing also T 
 suddenly said Mrs. Hatherley to Winifred, 
 lifting her head from her wraps. 
 
 ' Mr. Russell, as you probably know, has 
 been a helpless invalid for years,' answered 
 Winifred gravely. 
 
 ' And I will say of my darling child that 
 she is always most devoted to him. She has 
 but one fault — if fault it can be called — that of 
 being unwilling to let anyone, even me^ share 
 her task.' 
 
 Mrs. Chandos-^Fane turned a glance of 
 enchanting maternal sweetness on her exas- 
 perated daughter, but the expression sud- 
 denly changed on meeting Mrs. Hatherley's 
 brilliant, monkey-like eyes. What did the 
 woman mean by her impudent stare ? she 
 mentally asked — and Mrs. Fane repaid it with
 
 Sir John. 227 
 
 interest, her blue eyes meeting the bhick ones 
 intrepidly : but she did not succeed in staring 
 Mrs. Hatherley down. 
 
 At this moment the door opened to admit a 
 tall, stately, and still very handsome man. 
 AVith his black velvet dressinof-fjown, his 
 l)lack velvet cap, and flowing white beard, Sir 
 John Hatherley — for he it was — might have 
 sat for a picture of Prospero. 
 
 AVinifred rose ; Mrs. Fane hurried forward ; 
 Dolly rushed for a footstool; Flossie to shut 
 the window. Mrs. Hatherley alone remained 
 motionless and unmoved. 
 
 With a wave of his hand in acknowledgment 
 to his nieces, a bend of his head in greeting to 
 ]\Irs. Chandos-Fane, the master of The Limes 
 walked straight up to our heroine. 
 
 'And who is this?' he asked in slow, 
 melodious tones, looking down upon her vrith 
 his magician-like air. 
 
 * My daughter, dear Sir John.' 
 ' Mater pulchra, filia pulchrior.' 
 This compliment, accompanied by a stately 
 
 15—2
 
 228 Winifred Power, 
 
 bow, would probably have afforded Mrs. Fane 
 but a moderate amount of gratification had 
 she understood it. As it was, she blushed 
 with enchanting sweetness ; wdiile Winifi-ed, 
 standino- there with her hand clasped in Sir 
 John's long and wax -like fingers, was regard- 
 ing him with steady eyes of the frankest 
 astonishment. She was completely taken 
 aback by his appearance and manner; she 
 had expected a genial benevolence, a bluff 
 kind of genuine cordiality, but nothing like 
 this majesty, or this matchless ' get-up in 
 velvet.' Sooth to say, she w\as but slightly 
 impressed. Possessing the touchstone of a 
 royal sincerity, she did not take long to 
 detect the dross of a nature that was not 
 sincere. And with the sudden rush of an 
 overpowering conviction, she was fain, albeit 
 reluctantlv, to confess to herself that she 
 considered Sir John Hatherley was no better 
 than Mrs. Russell. 
 
 Quite unconscious of the impression he had 
 produced, the benefactor of so many people
 
 Sir John, 229 
 
 responded to the general inquiries concerning 
 his health Avith urbane resio-nation. 
 
 Probably he admired Winifred, for he ad- 
 dressed his conversation principally to her. 
 He asked her, she noted, next to nothing about 
 the Russells, but a great deal about herself. 
 AVith a suave, fatherly manner he talked to 
 her of her art, her success, and of art in 
 general. She did not think he knew much 
 about it, but listened respectfully. Every- 
 body else listened also, and Winifred was 
 quick to see that Sir John liked a hushed 
 circle of auditors. Even when Alark came 
 in, as he did presently, he took a seat in the 
 background and remained silently attentive. 
 It was quite like a lecture : and the resem- 
 blance was farther increased by Mrs. Ilather- 
 ley's going to sleep and Mrs. Fane's smother- 
 ing a yawn or two, the girls meanwhile sitting 
 both upright, Avith their eyes very Avide open 
 indeed. 
 
 Sir John was not long in getting off art to 
 his bibliomania — that mysterious quality which
 
 230 Winifred Power, 
 
 the neighbourhood adored in him without com- 
 prehending it. 
 
 Mrs. Fane eagerly professing interest in 
 Elzevirs and Aldines, he asked rather sharply 
 if she understood them: and on finding she 
 did not, graciously offered to exhibit his col- 
 lection. Upon this, the whole party adjourned 
 to the library, even Mrs. Hatherley gathering 
 together her shawls and shuffling tardily after 
 the rest. 
 
 One after the other the treasures were pro- 
 duced. A 'Theocritus,' printed by Zacharias 
 Calliergi ; a ' Romaunt de la Rose,' bound in 
 morocco, and stamjDed with the bees of De 
 Thou ; an Elzevir ' Patissier Erangais ' (worth 
 a fantastic price); an original quarto of 'Mac- 
 beth ;' some plays in the rose-coloured bindings 
 of the graceless Du Barry; a ' Manon Lescant/ 
 illustrated by Boucher. 
 
 ' Eor this,' said Sir John, unlocking a glass- 
 case and j)roducing an illuminated Psalter 
 written in gold on a purple ground, ' for this I 
 paid £800.'
 
 Sir John. 231 
 
 There was a universal exclamation. Even 
 Mrs. Hatherley craned her neck towards tlie 
 object with an air of unusual interest. 
 
 ' It is very old,' continued its possessor, ' as 
 you may see, or might if you understood, by 
 the clearness of the writing and the grotesque- 
 ness of the figures.' 
 
 ' I have heard that it is difficult to tell 
 whether these Psalters are genuine or not,' 
 said Winifred. ' What are the signs ?' 
 
 A certain peevishness, if any term so fiippant 
 were admissible in regard to him, was visible 
 in Sir John at this question. Contrary to the 
 wont of most collectors, he did not seem to 
 care to exhibit his erudition. 
 
 ^ The signs? They have to do with tlie 
 catchwords. You would be a long Avliile un- 
 derstanding them, my dear young lady,' he 
 added, while locking up and restoring the case. 
 
 ' Where is your illustrated ' Gerusalemme 
 Liberata ?' asked Mark. ' I want to show it to 
 Miss Power. As an artist she will appreciate 
 it more than any of u?.'
 
 232 Winifred Power. 
 
 ' AVhj, Mark, I am sure I think it beautiful/ 
 exclaimed Dolly, very naively aggrieved. 
 
 'Where is it, sir?' persisted grave Mark^ 
 with a slight glance at his young cousin. 
 
 ' I have sent it to the binder.' 
 
 ' To the binder ?' echoed the young man in 
 surprise. ' The binding was perfect, and of 
 the early eighteenth century, I believe.' 
 
 ' It was out of repair,' responded Sir John, 
 still more briefly than before. Then lying back 
 in his chair, he gently closed his eyes, raised 
 his beard to a picturesque angle, and put his 
 white hand feebly to his heart. 
 
 ' Oh, he is ill!' cried Florence, and flew to 
 his side. 
 
 'Eau-de-Cologne!' exclaimed Dolly, and 
 vanished in search of it. 
 
 Mark, with an air of concern which yet had 
 something perplexed about it, quietly opened 
 a window, and then approached the invalid. 
 He knew that these attacks might mean mis- 
 chief 
 
 Sir John waved his disengaged hand slightly.
 
 Sir John. 233 
 
 * Xo fuss, I beg,' he murmured. ' The par- 
 oxysm is not severe; it will pass.' 
 
 Apparently in a few moments it did pass, 
 for Sir John's fingers quitted his heart, and he 
 motioned to them to take seats ; which they 
 did. 
 
 And although he still sat with closed eyes, 
 his flmiily's feelini»-s were sufficienth' relieved 
 to enable them to converse, in subdued tones, 
 on indifferent subjects. 
 
 Mrs. Fane condescended to talk to Dolly 
 and Florence, in this way leaving Winifred 
 practically tete-a-tcte with Mark. Tlie girl, 
 secretlv a little attracted l)v his crave but 
 gentle manner, began describing in a very 
 animated and charming way a certain eccentric 
 bibliophile whom she had known in Paris. 
 This old man had talked to her by the hour 
 on his beloved subject, enlarging on his fre- 
 (juent visits to the Quais, his baffled longings, 
 his deluded hopes, his rare trouvailles of pre- 
 cious books which had escaped the lynx eyes 
 of dealers. He told her how he ha^l journeyed
 
 234 Winifred Poicer. 
 
 to Toulouse to see the collection of Count 
 McCarthy, and to Padua, there silently to 
 adore a ' Catullus' on vellum. He abounded 
 in anecdotes of book- collectors, past and pre- 
 sent, from Bussy-Rabutin to Charles Nodier, 
 and revelled in recounting how many tens of 
 pounds, more or less, depended upon an infi- 
 nitesimal difference in the margins of an 
 Elzevir. 
 
 * What a delightful old monomaniac !' said 
 Mark, looking with pleased interest at his com- 
 panion's sparkling face. ' My father has not 
 nearly so much enthusiasm. That is, I sup- 
 pose he has it, but he does not show it.' As 
 he pronounced these words, it did not escape 
 his hearer's quick observation that there was a 
 subtle change in his voice, and a curious un- 
 willing doubt in the glance that he directed 
 towards the venerable head in the velvet cap. 
 
 ' Has Sir John a catalogue of his books ?' 
 Winifred presently asked, her eyes rangino 
 along the well-filled shelves. 
 
 ' No, indeed. It is a great want. He h
 
 Sir John. 235 
 
 always saying he must invite some capable 
 person down to make one.' 
 
 ' Then I know the very person for him/ ex- 
 claimed Winifred impulsively. ' Poor Dick 
 Dallas.' 
 
 ' And who is Dick Dallas ?' asked Mark. 
 ^ And why is he " poor " ? ' 
 
 * Because he is so unfortunate,' said Wini- 
 fred : and she poured forth the story of 
 Richard's wrongs. 
 
 * I do not think he would be at all the 
 proper person for my father to employ/ ob- 
 served Mark, when she had finished. 
 
 ' Why not ?' 
 
 ' A man wlio has been accused of culpable 
 negligence, to call it by no harsher term ' 
 
 ' But I tell you he is innocent,' flashed out 
 Winifred. 
 
 ' So you say, Miss Power, and you have 
 possibly good personal grounds for believing 
 it. But the rest of the world would un- 
 fortunately require proof,' continued Mark, 
 with a touch of indulgent, smiling irony.
 
 236 Winifred Poicer. 
 
 ' Surely it is tea-time/ interrupted Sir John, 
 rising. ' I shall be glad of a cup. Did I hear 
 you say something. Miss Power, about a 
 person capable of making a catalogue of my 
 books V he inquired, as they went into the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 Enchanted at the question, Winifred a 
 second time recounted her tale. 
 
 ' Try to persuade her that there are a few un- 
 fortunate people in the world who are not worth 
 helping,' said Mark, Avith a smile, to his father. 
 
 But Sir John, on the contrary, looked 
 tender, and took Winifred's hand in his. 
 
 ' Your enthusiasm does you honour, my 
 child. Even supposing the young man to be 
 guilty, he should be given a second chance for 
 his own sake. You can write to Mr. Dallas, 
 if you like,' he resumed, after a pause of 
 thought ; ' tell him what the work would be, 
 and ask him to come here. He shall have his 
 board and lodging until it is completed.' 
 
 'And — and a salary ?' faltered Winifred. 
 She was almost speechless with joy and grati-
 
 Sir Jo Jin. 237 
 
 tude, but a vivid vision of the sorely-pinclied 
 Dallas household urged her to the question. 
 
 ' Bless me, no !' exclaimed Sir John, with 
 unusual briskness. ' We have imperative 
 duties towards society, my dear young lady. 
 One of these duties is the observance of disci- 
 pline towards the erring. Until your friend 
 has reconquered his j^osition, he should be 
 encouraged, but not indulged.' 
 
 Shghtly crestfallen but still grateful, the 
 girl expressed her thanks ; she felt too ex- 
 ultant to mind even Mark's answering glance 
 to her mother's low -toned remark : 
 
 ' My dear daughter is almost Quixotically 
 soft-hearted. Sometimes even I venture 
 humbly to remonstrate with her.' 
 
 Later in the evening, when the guests were 
 s^one, and Sir John was ao;ain alone in his 
 library, he was disturbed by the entrance of 
 Mrs. Hatherley. He looked np at her quickly 
 and not amiably, while she paused beside his 
 chair. E^'idently she had something to say, 
 in the saying of which he would not help her.
 
 238 Winifred Power. 
 
 '" John,' she began at last, tremulously, ' you 
 are kind to so many ; so kind. Have you no 
 compassion for ]iir}iV 
 
 ' Again, Laura ! How many more times 
 must I beg of you not to speak to me on that 
 subject ?' 
 
 * But he is starving,' whispered Mrs. Hather- 
 ley, and clasped her hands imploringly. 
 
 * He deserves to starve,' retorted Sir John. 
 ' I tell you, for the fiftieth time, that I will 
 not give you a penny for him. I do not wish 
 to appear to cast what I do for you in your 
 teeth, Laura; but you might, I think, some- 
 times count up the number of years you have 
 been here, and w^hat I have done for you and 
 your daughters. How can you expect me to 
 supply the extravagance of a spendthrift and 
 a an inebriate ?' 
 
 ' He is your brother's son,' urged the 
 mother, trembling with agitation. 
 
 ' My disinherited brother's son,' was the 
 cruel answer. 
 
 Could that be quiet Mrs. Hatherley who,
 
 Sir John. 239 
 
 raising her brown, slender head from among 
 her shawls, like a snake emero^inof from the 
 grass, shot out at her benefactor a glance so 
 full of venom ? 
 
 ' Why have you supported us all these 
 years?' she asked 
 
 Sir John stared. 
 
 ^ I like that question, Laura ! Out of kind- 
 ness, of course.' 
 
 ' Not because Mary bid you ?' 
 
 ' Mary ! Xow, understand me, Laura. I 
 will submit to neither insolence nor insinua- 
 tion. As long as you behave becomingly, the 
 shelter of The Limes is yours ; but it would 
 cost me nothing to part from you to-morrow. 
 How much it would cost you and your two 
 empty-headed girls is another question.' 
 
 Mrs. Hatherley cowered as beneath an icy 
 blast. To her poltroon Creole soul, the bare 
 idea of poverty and exertion was like death. 
 She turned and crept away, humbled, silenced 
 — but unforgiving. 
 
 Sir John followed her with his eyes as she
 
 240 Winifred Power. 
 
 left, his attitude very liglcl the while, his 
 expression very hard. There was so little of 
 the gentle student or the benevolent invalid 
 in him at that moment that Winifred, had she 
 seen him, would have been much strengthened 
 in her distrust of the bland and gracious 
 master of The Limes.
 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 GERTRUDE DALLAS. 
 
 RS. CHAXDOS-FANE cultivated 
 Sir John Hatherley's goodwill 
 with an industry that was in no- 
 wise lessened by his obvious insensibility to 
 her charms. In point of fact, she was thinking 
 that she should like to be Lady Hatherley, 
 and that ^perseverance might eventually wdn 
 the day. Perhaps she also thought that if 
 she failed with the father, there was no reason 
 why Winifred should fail with the son. Mark 
 indeed, seemed much the more likely ]3rize. 
 He evidently admired Winifred, and as evi- 
 dentl}' liked her. The great obstacle arose 
 VOL. T. 16
 
 242 Winifred Power 
 
 from the girl herself. She was so absolutely 
 frank and uncompromising ; so devoid of 
 coquetry ; so bent upon convincing rather 
 than conciliatino- that her mother was secretly 
 in despair. 
 
 For the rest, she had her hands full : for if 
 Sir John would not fall a captive to her bow 
 and spear, there w^as another who would, and 
 did. And that was Mr. Burton, the Rector. 
 
 He was a rich and childless widower, and 
 one of those slow, heavy, honest men who 
 think that no man can be expected to com- 
 prehend women. Their airs and graces, their 
 nerves and fancies were to him just as re- 
 condite as their articles of costume. Tliey 
 recooiiised the wrono; side of a mantle from 
 the rio'ht, and nronounced the front of a 
 bonnet to be its apparent back. It was to be 
 presumed, consequently, that they knew also 
 what they meant when weeping or blushing 
 unaccountably, or saying one thing while 
 thinkino' another. All a man had to do was 
 to take things quietly as long as he was pro-
 
 Gertrude Dallas. 24.S 
 
 vided with his dinner. These beinof his ideas, 
 
 it may be imagined that he was wax in the 
 
 hands of a charming woman like Mrs. Fane. 
 
 It was a perfect comedy to watch his face 
 
 when she was talking to him, 2:)0uring out, 
 
 with her enchantino- smiles and various waves 
 
 and nods of her pretty head, the clap-trap 
 
 second-hand ideas in which she deliodited. 
 
 She talked to him of Baudelaire (of whom, 
 
 fortunately, he had never heard) ; of early 
 
 Italian art ; of stained-glass windows and the 
 
 deo'eneration of modern morals. Xow he 
 
 thouofht he had understood her, now he was 
 
 afraid he hadn't ; now he had the dawn of a 
 
 suspicion that if he did, he would not approve 
 
 of her. But as she invariably wound up with 
 
 some sentiment of extreme propriety, he 
 
 would smile upon her, reassured that her 
 
 nimble intelligence had outstripped his stolid 
 
 one. 
 
 Still, the Eector of Elmsleigh could not 
 approach Sir John Hatherley in a worldly 
 point of view, and Mrs. Fane spent many an 
 
 16—2
 
 244 Winifred Power. 
 
 evening in the drawing-room at The Limes ; 
 walking thither after dinner. Sir John, by 
 the light of a shaded lamp, sometimes dropped 
 majestically to sleep over some huge folio 
 while talking with her ; Dolly and Florence 
 played backgammon ; and Mrs. Hatherley 
 kept a stealthy and not too well-contented 
 watch upon Winifred and Mark. 
 
 They had drifted into the habit of talking 
 almost exclusively to one another. Mark, at- 
 tracted by her frank friendliness, spoke more 
 freely to her than to most people. She learnt 
 with surprise that while Sir John was still 
 supposed to have a share in business opera- 
 tions of some mamitude, Mark was entirelv 
 excluded from all knowledge of them. Unable 
 to remain idle, he had invested the little 
 fortune inherited from his mother in certain 
 mines, and occasionally made journeys to the 
 North in consequence. With her quick per- 
 ception, Winifred divined that Mark felt the 
 distance at which his father kept him. There 
 was indeed a slight constraint between the
 
 Gertrude Dallas. 245 
 
 younger and the elder man. Mark, Winifred 
 o:iiessed, would have loved his father could he 
 have fully understood him ; and he was 
 studiously respectful and attentive to him 
 always. But Sir John, while indulgent to his 
 son in all respects but one, treated him with 
 indifference. The one point on which he was 
 not indulgent was money. Winifred was fain 
 to confess that his generosity towards his 
 relatives must repose on other (and, of course, 
 higher) grounds than mere laidshness. 
 
 Indeed, for the master of such a house, and 
 the reputed owner of such wealth, Sir John 
 was careful to the verge of avarice. Mark 
 was reduced to live strictly on his own in- 
 come, and was too proud, as well as too 
 experienced, ever to ask for more. Every art 
 and subterfuge had to be resorted to by Mrs. 
 Hatherley and her daughters before they 
 could obtain money for their personal wants ; 
 and of late it had even become a kind of joke 
 among the tradespeople that Sir John would 
 never pay a bill until the last possible moment.
 
 246 Winifred Power. 
 
 Many ii man besides Sir John lias become 
 miserly from immense wealth. 
 
 ' He is beginning to get a little cranky/ 
 people said, with an indulgent smile ; al- 
 though^ considering his heart-disease, he 
 looked wonderfully handsome and vigorous. 
 
 Richard Dallas had accepted Sir John's 
 offer with great promptitude, and a week or 
 two later j^resented himself at The Limes. 
 Winifred noticed with some |)ain that adver- 
 sity had not imj^roved him. He had grown 
 cold and cvnical, and without lookino^ at all 
 shabby as to coats, bore about him the signs 
 of recent ill-fortune and privation. But he set 
 to work at the catalogue with steadiness and 
 intelligence, and Sir John was much pleased 
 with him. Winifred was delighted : it was 
 giving Richard the chance he needed. 
 
 So the days passed pleasantly. Richard 
 hard at work by day, joining the drawing- 
 room circle in the evening ; and sometimes 
 Avalking out with the two young girls? 
 generally by the side of Dolly.
 
 Gertrude Dallas, 247 
 
 ' I hope tliey are not falling in love with 
 one another,' thouo-ht Winifred. ' Sir John 
 would not like that.' 
 
 When the catalogue was nearing comple- 
 tion, Sir John began to wonder how he should 
 employ him next. 
 
 * I think I must send him to the Hao-ue to 
 purchase several very rare editions which I 
 hear will shortly be for sale there,' he said one 
 evening when Richard was not present. ' It 
 is a question of spending some thousands, 
 and therefore I must have an agent of intel- 
 ligence as well as honesty on whom I can 
 rely.' 
 
 ' Mr. Dallas is certamly intelligent,' mur- 
 mured Mrs. Fane, in a tone which implied that 
 there was more doubt about the honesty. 
 
 Winifred flushed ; and Mark, noting it, said 
 chivalrously, ' My father seems to me to 
 have made an excellent choice in employing 
 him.' 
 
 ' I flatter myself I understand character,' 
 resumed Sir John. ' The young man tells me
 
 248 Winifred Poioer. 
 
 he has a sister who is at j^i'esent in London 
 seeking employment. She has been teaching 
 in a school at Turin.' 
 
 Turin ? Then it was Gertrude ! Winifred 
 and her mother exchanged glances. 
 
 ' She would be willing, he thinks, to enter 
 any family for nothing at present. I am 
 thinking of engaging her to teach the girls 
 French. They are still deplorably ignorant of 
 the language — as I found when we were at 
 Boulogne.' 
 
 The faces of the sisters fell considerably at 
 this announcement. Winifred received it in 
 silence ; Mrs. Fane with an ironical smile. 
 Gertrude ! But they said nothing. 
 
 The next afternoon, when Winifred was busy 
 painting in her studio, and her mother, seated 
 at a little distance, was alternately pointing 
 out faults in the picture and perusing a novel 
 of De Goncourt, Richard Dallas arrived to j^ay 
 a visit. Winifred received him warmly, as 
 usual, but was quick to notice that he seemed 
 ill at ease.
 
 Gertrude Dallas. 249 
 
 After a little desultory conversation, he said 
 abrujDtly : 
 
 ^ Do you know that Gertrude is in 
 London ?' 
 
 ' So Sir John said,' answered Winifred 
 gently. 
 
 ' He is kind enough to wish her to be 
 governess to his nieces. Winifred — Mrs. Fane, 
 you will do nothing to prevent it ?' 
 
 He spoke entreatingly, with an earnestness 
 and a feeling unusual to him. Touched, our 
 impetuous Winifred had almost opened her 
 lips to give the required assurance, when Mrs. 
 Fane spoke drily. 
 
 ' The responsibility of recommending your 
 sister as a governess is yours, Mr. Dallas ; 
 what right have we to interfere ?' 
 
 Richard turned red. He was in the uncom- 
 fortable position of wishing them to be silent 
 on the subject of Gertrude's escapade in 
 Paris ; and desirous at the same time not to 
 seem to attach much importance to the 
 escapade itself. A perfectly scrupulous man
 
 250 Winifred Power. 
 
 might have hesitated, under the circumstances, 
 before introducing his sister at The Limes. 
 Eut perhaps Richard could not afford to be 
 very scruj^ulous, and Gertrude's position 
 touched and troubled him. 
 
 ' She is all alone in London,' he said, 
 pleadingly. 
 
 ' Why did she leave Turin ?' inquired Mrs. 
 Fane. 
 
 ' She did not like the cHmate.' 
 
 Mrs. Fane pursed up her lips : most 
 climates, in her opinion, would disagree with 
 Miss Dallas. 
 
 Winifred meanwhile had been reflecting. 
 After all, she and her mother knew nothing 
 positive against Gertrude, for the suggestion 
 thrown out by Hortense had never, so far as 
 they were aware, been verified. Suspicions 
 they might have, but susj)icions were no 
 ground for action. Moreover, all her warm 
 young heart went out to the friend of her 
 youth, and turning towards her mother she 
 said :
 
 Gertrude Dallas, 251 
 
 ' AVe must let her come.' 
 
 ' You always do as you like, my love. And 
 you know that I never say anything,' replied 
 Mrs. Fane. 
 
 ' You may depend upon our silence,' said 
 AVinifred to Richard. * When will Gerty 
 come ?' 
 
 ' Sir John has mentioned next week.' And 
 with a few words of gratitude, Richard went. 
 
 Mrs. Fane went on reading for a little space 
 in silence. 
 
 ' AYhen is Mark to be back ?' she suddenly 
 asked. 
 
 ' Xot for a fortnio^ht, mamma.' Winifred 
 was extremely surprised and angry with her- 
 self to feel how the unexpected question had 
 brought a rush of blood to her face. She hoped 
 her mother did not see it, and continued her 
 painting in an agony of puzzled embarrass- 
 ment. Mark had started for Scotland that 
 mornino' on his usual business, and Winifred 
 was missing him much more than she would 
 have owned to herself.
 
 252 Winifred Power, 
 
 * Then ^vlien he returns, Miss Dallas will 
 already be installed at The Limes,' after 
 another pause remarked Mrs. Fane. 
 
 ' Well ? said AYinifred. 
 
 ' I dare say he will admire her very much.' 
 
 Winifred mixed her colours with great 
 accuracy ; changed one brush for another ; and 
 began to work on another part of her picture 
 before she replied. And then it Avas with an 
 appeal. 
 
 ' You will be kind to Gertrude, mother, will 
 you not ?' 
 
 ' I am not aware, my love, that I am ever 
 deliberately unkind to anybody. I may be 
 mistaken, of course, but I have never been 
 accused of it, and I have had many tried and 
 valued friends : although perhaps you would 
 not have cared for them, darling.' 
 
 * I did not mean to offend you,' said 
 the girl humbly. ' But I am anxious, 
 very anxious' (with strong emphasis) 'that 
 Gertrude should have a fair chance at The 
 Limes.'
 
 Gertrude Dallas. 253 
 
 ' I shall not interfere with her ; and you 
 may be as Quixotic as you please. That's all, 
 AVinifrecl.' 
 
 So matters were arranged by Sir John with 
 Miss Dallas, and she came to Elmsleigh to 
 enter upon her engagement. With a shrinking 
 which she did not care to analyze, Winifred 
 allowed one clear day to elapse after her arrival 
 before she went to see her. 
 
 She found her already installed in the 
 schoolroom, with Dolly and Florence. Con- 
 demned to study again after their long period 
 of liberty, they were both looking very doleful 
 indeed. 
 
 Winifred entered with a beat in 2^ heart, 
 but was frozen on the very threshold by the 
 coolness with which Gertrude rose to receive 
 her. 
 
 * I will take you into the conservatory for a 
 little chat when I have set my pupils their 
 tasks,' she said composedly. 
 
 Winifred's sense of humour was greatly 
 roused by the sight of the poor pupils. They
 
 254 Winifred Poirer. 
 
 had been vanquished, but a certain sulkiness 
 betrayed their inward rebellion. When they 
 presently brought their copybooks for correc- 
 tion, Gertrude, seated — a picture of elegance 
 and beauty — in a luxurious armchair, took 
 occasion to harangue them on the advantages 
 of self-help, and to inform them that if they 
 wished to learn anything thoroughly they must 
 learn it unaided. 
 
 ^ My system is that you should do all that 
 is possible without any assistance from me. 
 Xaturally you wdll make mistakes, but these 
 mistakes, in course of time, will correct 
 themselves. Here are your tasks for to- 
 
 ft/ 
 
 morrow,' indicating an appalling number of 
 pages. ' I shall limit myself to explaining, 
 when necessary, the principles to which you 
 must find the particular applications.' 
 
 There was a pause; Florence began to cry. 
 Then Dolly, a thought more spirited, said: 
 
 ' I am sure my uncle will want us long before 
 we have finished,' 
 
 ' If Sir John really requires you, I shall give
 
 Gertrude Dallas. 255 
 
 you leave to go. But I shall tell him that I 
 object to frivolous interruptions,' answered 
 Gertrude calmly. Her pupils gasped. 
 
 ' Tell Mm!' Dolly's exclamation died away 
 helplessly; and, leaving them to their amaze- 
 ment. Miss Dallas swept out of the room and 
 into the conservatory. 
 
 ' I think it is rather a shame of you to put 
 upon those two foolish little things,' exclaimed 
 Winifred, with some heat. 
 
 ' My dear,' said Gertrude, examining some 
 japonicas with a critical air, ' I know Y»^hat I 
 am about. The experience of the last six 
 months has not been thrown away upon me. 
 I intend to play second fiddle in the world's 
 orchestra no longer.' 
 
 Winifred was silent. She had expected some 
 humility. 
 
 ' I am young, and I think I may flatter 
 myself neither stupid nor ugly,' continued 
 Gertrude, turnino; her rino\s round her white 
 fingers. ' Fate has been against me hitherto, 
 but I shall try to rise superior to it in future.'
 
 256 Winifred Poicer. 
 
 ' Do you intend to work?' asked Winifred 
 curtly. 
 
 ' If necessary,' answered her friend. ' I have 
 come here (and, by-the-bye, I ought to thank 
 you, Winifred, for having been the means, 
 through Dick, of securing me the place) to 
 keep my eyes and ears open. In Paris, where, 
 as you know, my life was one long toil, I was 
 a failure. But all that is past. In future I 
 hope to be successful.' 
 
 Winifred turned, thoroughly chilled and 
 disappointed. Gertrude's vague boasts jarred 
 upon her common-sense and her honesty. 
 Almost she began to ask herself if she had 
 been right in introducing her to The Limes. 
 * Good-bye,' she said, rather listlessly, as she 
 held out her hand. 
 
 For a moment Gertrude's face wore a softer 
 
 expression. ' You were always kind to me ' 
 
 she began, when Winifred eagerly interrupted 
 her. ' If you would only be true, dear!' she 
 exclaimed, her cheeks flushing and her eyes 
 kindling^, as Gertrude yielded her hands to
 
 Gertrude Dallas. 257 
 
 the clasp that had so warmly seized 
 them. 
 
 Once more Gertrude's mood chanofed. ' Don't 
 try to recall me to the sylvan glades of senti- 
 ment ' she said, with a lioiit lauo-li and a slii'uo* 
 of her graceful shoulders. ' Those were all very 
 well in our buttercup-days, but now our paths 
 have diverged. You are a good soul, Wini- 
 fred, but you must leave me to go my own 
 road. I promise you not to do anything very 
 base or mean. Cease to distress yourself, dear; 
 I shall not be the less honest for not being 
 *' goody." Good-bye.' 
 
 It was quite wonderful to see with what 
 rapidity Gertrude obtained the upper hand of 
 most people at The Limes as time went on. 
 Her insolent beauty, her grace, her wit and 
 self-possession compelled in Sir John a de- 
 lighted, in the others a reluctant, homage. 
 When Richard had departed for the Hague, 
 she was installed the greater part of the day in 
 the library, and set to write the notes and 
 transcribe the memoranda that had formerly 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 Winifred Power. 
 
 been the sisters' joy and pride. They, in the 
 schoolroom now, inking their fingers and crying 
 their eyes out over their verbs, relieved their 
 feelings by private grumbling, but dared make 
 no open protest. 
 
 Mrs. Hatherley grew daily yellower, thinner, 
 more silent; Mrs. Fane daily more exasperated. 
 The latter lady had indeed tried a passage-at- 
 arms with the beautiful governess, but she 
 came off second-best. She was no match for 
 Gertrude. Next she tried what a little private 
 aspersion would do mth Sir John; but was 
 quick enough to see that there was not much 
 to be gained in that way. So she solaced her- 
 self by telling a great deal to Mrs. Hatherley, 
 who listened eagerly and promised secrecy. 
 
 ^ Sir John is being completely hoodwinked,' 
 she said to Winifred. ' I suppose Mark will 
 be the next victim. Perhaps he will marry 
 her. Then, I hope you will be satisfied, darling. 
 She ouD'ht never to have come here.' Winifred 
 listened in silence and pain. 
 
 When Mark returned, he did admire Ger-
 
 Gertrude Dallas. 259 
 
 trude very much; and, lounging away an hour 
 in Winifred's studio one morning, he told her 
 as much with infinite frankness of enthusiasm. 
 
 ' You have got on famously with your work,' 
 he said presently, changing the subject. ' That 
 is a nice little head. Quite Southern too, in 
 type. Was your model an Italian ?' 
 
 * Only half Italian,' Winifred answered : and 
 beofan to relate the circumstances. She was a 
 young girl who had presented herself of her 
 own accord to her one day, as a model, saying 
 she came from London. While painting from 
 her, the girl let out that her father, who was 
 an Engiislnnan, had formerly been a coachman 
 in Sir John's service, that he was now bed- 
 ridden, and he had sent her down to The 
 Limes on a begging errand. She had been 
 roughly received by Sir John, and apparently 
 sent away empty-handed. And being of a 
 timid disposition, she had hit upon the ingeni- 
 ous device of offering herself as a model to 
 Winifred, and getting her to intercede for the 
 money. 
 
 17—2
 
 260 Winifred Power. 
 
 ' What a strange thing !' exclaimed Mark. 
 ' How did she hear of you ?' 
 
 * I don't know. At your house, I suppose; 
 some of the servants may have gossiped with 
 her. Her mother, an Italian, is dead : her 
 father had married late in life, she said, after 
 quitting Sir John's service.' 
 
 ' What is the man's name ?' 
 
 ' Ridgeley.' 
 
 ' Ridgeley ?' mused Mark. ' I do not re- 
 member him. Perhaps he belongs to the 
 Marleyford days, when I was a boy. They 
 have faded from my memory in a great degree.' 
 
 ' Then I am afraid that you also will be 
 unable to tell me who Mademoiselle Marthe 
 can have been,' said the girl, disappointed. 
 ' I asked Sir John one day, but he apparently 
 remembered nothing.' 
 
 Sir John, indeed, had seemed very much out 
 of humour that day, and Winifred almost 
 fancied — only of course it could only be fancy ! 
 — had been a little changed in his manner ever 
 since.
 
 Gertrude Dallas. 261 
 
 ' AVho is she?' inquired Mark. 
 
 Winifred told him Mademoiselle Marthe's 
 story, as much as she knew or guessed of it. 
 He Hstened, interested in her warmth and 
 evident conviction — interested, too, in her 
 vivid description of the little old woman : but 
 he could not throw much light on the 
 matter. 
 
 ' Your story recalls an incident which took, 
 great hold of my childish imagination,' he 
 said. ' I remember just such a little woman 
 as you describe, coming, like the malignant 
 fauy to the princess's christening, an uninvited 
 guest to Aunt Mary's wedding, and spreading 
 dismay among us. I, a child, was dressed in 
 some absurd costume as a page, and was hold- 
 ing up the bride's train. All at once this 
 poor madwoman, who was, I fancy, a kind of 
 a relative of ours, pressed her way through 
 the crowd and stood looking about her wildly. 
 And, now 1 come to think of it, her name was 
 Martha also.' 
 
 ' Martha T Winifred dropped her brush
 
 262 Winifred Power. 
 
 and turned to Mark with a startled face. For 
 she remembered that in her ravings Made- 
 moiselle Marthe had called incessantly on 
 ' Mary.'
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 winiered's discoveries. 
 
 '^^'^^.HE idea which Mark had so uncon- 
 sciously awakened took possession 
 of AVmifred's mind. A hundred 
 times a day she cast it from her with horror, 
 but still it returned, strengthened contmually 
 by her knowledge of Mrs. Russell's character. 
 Her devotion to her uncle had never availed 
 to blind her to the essential selfishness and 
 heartlessness of his wife. Winifred, with a 
 clearness of insight that came from her own 
 crystal candour, knew her for what she was — 
 shallow, self-indulgent, apathetic habitually, 
 and occasionally violent. Some faint sugges-
 
 264 Winifred Power. 
 
 tions in Mademoiselle Marthe's ravings, dis- 
 regarded at the time, came back to Winifred 
 now with all the vividness of proof. Some 
 certainty she felt she must have ; she could 
 not live with such a suspicion and not seek to 
 dispel or to confirm it. Mark, she naturally 
 shrank from questioning, a vague instinct 
 warning her that the mystery whose veil she 
 was about to lift, probably involved Sir John 
 as well as his sister. The very notion of 
 some great committed wrong seemed more 
 probable to Winifred since she had known the 
 courtly owner of The Limes. Every day that 
 handsome face — so impassible and so pallid, 
 so rigid without real strength — had struck her 
 more and more as a mask. Every day she felt 
 more strongly the hollowness of the man ; his 
 vain theatricality, his thin pretensions to be a 
 student and a sage. And even stronger than 
 all this in her was the feeling that he was 
 fundamentally bad. By the very recoil of her 
 expectations regarding him, she had been 
 suddenly illuminated ; and coming fresh to
 
 WinifrecTi^ Discoveries, 265 
 
 the scene, observant and penetrating as she 
 was, she had felt the presence of a secret that 
 fell like an invisible blight upon every member 
 of the family. 
 
 That Sir John alone had the key to it, that 
 it concerned him and nobody else, Winifred 
 was sure. Even Mark only betrayed at times 
 a vague perplexity; while as for Dolly and her 
 sister, they simply remarked once or twice 
 that of late ' Uncle John was somehow chano-ed. 
 Perhaps his heart was worse.' 
 
 He certainly complained very much oftener 
 of that organ than of old ; made more frequent 
 visits to London to consult the specialists on 
 the subject ; and was more difficult to approach 
 with any request for help or sympathy. On 
 the other hand, his bibliomania greatly increased ; 
 and he was intensely interested in the results of 
 Richard's trip to the Hague. The young man 
 and he were in constant correspondence ; and 
 Sir John made frequent allusion to the number 
 and value of the editions that he was buying. 
 
 * Does Dick like Holland ?' asked Winifred
 
 266 Winifred Power, 
 
 one evening of Gertrude, moved by a desire 
 to say something amiable to her former friend, 
 with whom she now rarely exchanged a re- 
 mark. 
 
 * I believe so,' was the answer. ' But he 
 does not write to me.' 
 
 ' But then you see his letters to Sir John,' 
 said Mrs. Fane. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. I conduct a great deal 
 of Sir John's correspondence, but not that 
 with Kichard : I fancy he thinks I don't know 
 how to spell " Elzevir," ' retorted Gertrude 
 coolly, 
 
 ' Nevertheless,' thought she to herself, ' it is 
 odd, now I come to think of it, that he never 
 shows me those letters. And he is rather 
 mysterious about a good deal of his correspon- 
 dence, though I would not admit it before 
 these women for the world.' 
 
 * The member for Walford is dead, sir,' said 
 Mark, a little later, to his father. 
 
 ' So I see. Do you still intend to stand ?' 
 
 * I think so. I shall go to London to-
 
 WinifrecTs Discoveries. 267 
 
 morrow, and then run down to the place itself 
 and set thino^s en train. Of course I shall be 
 heaten, but even that is a beginning,' continued 
 the young man. 
 
 Winifred looked up quickly. So that was 
 why Mark had adopted no profession. He 
 intended himself for political life. She looked 
 at his broad brow, and his grave, resolute face, 
 almost as handsome as, and yet so different 
 from, Sir John's ; and already her imagination 
 saw him in the arena victorious. He met her 
 glance, and while his own brightened at her 
 manifest sympathy, she dropped her eyes with 
 a sudden blush, and a sudden thrill that was 
 half shy and half delightful. She was rather 
 angry with herself for this emotion ; and she 
 had never been in love. In her student days 
 she had regarded the ardent youths who adored 
 her with a scornful indulgence, half motherly, 
 half schoolboyish, that had sent them nearly 
 out of their minds. 
 
 Shortly after Mark's departure, Winifred 
 went to spend a week or two in London with
 
 268 Winifred Power, 
 
 a young lady-artist whom she had known in 
 Paris. There, in the studio, she again met the 
 young model. She had reached that stage of 
 her picture when she required more models 
 than it was convenient to bring down to 
 Elmsleigh. 
 
 Among the most frequent of these was that 
 Mariuccia Ridgeley, the daughter of Sir John's 
 former coachman. She was a pretty little 
 thing, full of wilful ways and a fitful Southern 
 grace, and talked a great deat about herself and 
 her sick father. 
 
 ' He is much worse,' she said one day, shak- 
 ing her head mournfully. ' And the doctor 
 orders so many things that I cannot aiFord to 
 get him. He has written again to Sir John : 
 would the signorina mind asking if the letter 
 had been received ?' 
 
 Winifred had a great objection to asking 
 anything of the kind ; and preferred helping 
 Mr. Ridgeley as much as she could out of her 
 own slender purse. She even tried to point 
 out to Mariuccia that the mere fact of having
 
 WinifrecTs Discoveries. 269 
 
 been a coachman once in Sir John's service 
 did not entitle her father to be su^Dported by 
 that gentleman for the term of his natural life. 
 
 * Ah ! but Sir John has helped my father 
 often,' said Mariuccia. ' He used to send him 
 money whenever he asked for it, big sums — 
 ten pounds — twenty pounds ' 
 
 Winifred was greatly surprised. Of all the 
 perj^lexing people she had ever known, Sir 
 John was the most inscrutable. Just as she 
 had made up her mind that he was avari- 
 cious, some act of generosity on his part would 
 reach her. But one day the girl came with a 
 different request — that Miss Power would 
 kindly visit him. 
 
 ' I really think he is dying,' she added. 
 
 It was a foggy afternoon when Winifred 
 turned her steps towards the man's lodgings. 
 They were in a street not very far from the 
 British Museum. Mariuccia gave her a glad 
 welcome, and ushered her into the little kitchen 
 where Ridgeley was sitting. She found him a 
 man of big, burly frame, that contrasted
 
 270 Winifred Power. 
 
 mournfully with his evident weakness. He 
 was propped up by pillows in an armchair, 
 and it was e^ddent that every breath he drew 
 was torture to him. 
 
 ' I have to thank you, ma'am, for your kind- 
 ness,' he began slowly, when Winifred was 
 seated, ' but I cannot afford much breath.' 
 
 She began some words of comfort, when he 
 stopped her with a gesture. 
 
 ' There isn't much comfort for me now in the 
 world, miss. The best thing I can do is to 
 leave it. What I wanted to say was, will you 
 ask Sir John Hatherley for fifty pounds? I 
 don't want it for myself ; but for her,^ and he 
 nodded towards Mariuccia. 
 
 Winifi'ed stared at liim in speechless amaze- 
 ment. Was he mad, to ask for such a sum 
 and in such a tone ? He was watchino- her 
 face quite coolly, and seemed fully to expect 
 an answer. 
 
 ' I could not think of makmg any such re- 
 quest,' she said at last. ' And moreover it 
 would be useless.'
 
 WinifrecCs Discoveries. 271 
 
 ' I Avould not trouble you/ pursued Ridgelev, 
 quite undisturbed by her refusal, ' but you see 
 my bands,' and sbe noticed tbat they lay 
 motionless and paralyzed. ' I cannot write 
 myself, and I don't like to trust anybody else 
 to write ^ (he laid a stress on the word) Svhat I 
 now have to say.' 
 
 ' You must find some other messenger,' said 
 Winifred. But she spoke gently, for speech 
 had so increased his asthma that it was pain to 
 sit and watch him. 
 
 ^ Nay, ma'am, you must speak,' he gasped, 
 using the words not imperiously, but because 
 he obviously was too weak to try persuasion. 
 
 * Tell him, please, that I say in the old days 
 he was readier with his money; and that he 
 knows the cost of refusal^ 
 
 ' That sounds like a threat,' said Winifred 
 haughtily. 
 
 ' It is one,' Ridgeley answered. 
 More reluctant than ever now to undertake 
 any such mission, she rose and turned to the 
 door. The man, past all speech, looked at her
 
 272 Winifred Power. 
 
 imploringly, while his face turned of an ashen- 
 grey, and his breathing filled the room with 
 a grating sound, like the creaking of some 
 €ruel machine. All at once Winifred turned 
 mid again approached him, impelled by a new 
 idea. 
 
 ' Tell me,' she said, almost vehemently, as 
 though conjuring his answer to find voice. 
 * When you lived with Sir John Hatherley, was 
 there any member of his family called 
 Martha ?' 
 
 He bent his head in assent. 
 
 ' And,' continued Winifred, beginning to 
 tremble with excitement, ' did they do her 
 any wrong ?' 
 
 He made the same sign. 
 
 She stood looking at him, uncertain what to 
 ask next, and possessed with a sudden scruple 
 at what she had asked already. 
 
 He raised himself with an effort, and labori- 
 ously bringing out each word, as though it 
 were wrung from the grasp of a vice, he whis- 
 pered :
 
 Winifred's Discoveries. 273 
 
 ' Bring — me — the — money — and — before — 
 I — die — I — will — clear — Miss — Freake.' 
 
 Freake — Martha Freake ! So that was the 
 name. With scarcely so much as the ceremony 
 of a nod to ^lariuccia, Winifred hurried away, 
 feelino^ now that thouo;h the knowledo;e she had 
 wanted was hers, she had gained it by un- 
 worthy means. What right had she to spy 
 into Sir John's past ? The question presented 
 itself to her for the first time, and she realized 
 at the same moment how^ completely possessed 
 she had been by the suspicion that had filled 
 her mind for days. She wished she had never 
 gone near Eidgeley; she almost washed that 
 she had never known Martha Freake. 
 
 In much turmoil of feeling, AYinifred re- 
 turned to Elmsleigh, her \dsit being over. 
 
 One of Mrs. Chandos-Fane's peculiarities 
 was that she always opened her daughter's 
 letters. Winifred had entered one or two 
 protests, but as she did not really prize her 
 correspondence very highly, the only letters 
 tliat she ever insisted on keeping to herself 
 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 274 Winifred Power. 
 
 were her uncle Walter's. And fortunately, 
 tliese Mrs. Chanclos-Fane did not care to read : 
 they were too clever for her. She opened one 
 (in a strange handwriting) the morning after 
 AYinift^ed's return. 
 
 That same evening at The Limes, Mr. Bur- 
 ton not being there to absorb her attention, 
 Mrs. Fane lost herself in contemplation of Sir 
 John, who had not pleased her of late. Sir 
 John had sat for some time in deep reflection, 
 rubbing his white hands softly one over the 
 other, when he broke silence by addressing 
 Miss Dallas. 
 
 ' Did I tell you your brother had returned 
 to Paris ?' 
 
 ' Indeed ?' 
 
 ' Yes. He has transacted my business 
 really admirably at the Hague. I was greatly 
 pleased with his letter this morning.' 
 
 Mrs. Hatherley here audibly sighed. The 
 last letter she had received had been a demand 
 (the third) for immediate j^ayment from her 
 di^essmaker; but although she had left the
 
 Winifred's Discoveries, ^lo 
 
 open bill on Sir John's table, lie had taken no 
 notice of it, and draw his attention to it more 
 openly she dared not. 
 
 Unfortunately the word ' letter ' had 
 awakened an association also in the mind 
 of Mrs. Fane. 
 
 ' Winifred had a strange letter this morn- 
 ing/ she remarked. ' Did you tell Sir John 
 about it, my dear ?' 
 
 Winifred's blood froze in her veins. The 
 letter had been from Mariuccia, asking, on her 
 father's part, if the message concerning the 
 money had been given. What, in the name 
 of all that was tactless, did her mother mean 
 by speaking of it ? 
 
 * What was there to tell me ?' asked Sir 
 John sharply. 
 
 Winifred plucked up heart of grace. Some- 
 thing she would tell him, and perhaps his 
 answer would disperse her doubts. ' My 
 letter was from a girl — a model. Sir John. 
 Her father, Ridgeley, was once in your service. 
 He wishes you to help him.' 
 
 18—2
 
 276 Winifred Power. 
 
 In a pause that ensued Mrs. Hatherley 
 turned pale with annoyance. Another appli- 
 cant, while every request of hers was refused ! 
 
 ^ How much does Ridgeley want ?' asked 
 Sir John raspingly. ' Of course money is the 
 object of his message. I know what this kind 
 of application means.' 
 
 ' He is ill,' said Winifred. ' Very ill in- 
 deed.' 
 
 ' Well ? — how much ?' 
 
 ' Fifty pounds.' Winifred wondered if her 
 heart-beats could be heard throuofh the silence. 
 
 Sir John gave a short, sarcastic laugh. 
 ^ This Eidgeley was an honest fellow enough, 
 but he has been unfortunate,' was his obser- 
 vation. ' I may give you a cheque for him 
 to-morrow. Miss Power ; but I trust I shall 
 have no other ajjplication of the kind from 
 you.' 
 
 The cheque, enclosed in an envelope 
 directed to herself, was duly delivered into 
 her hands next morning by one of the footmen 
 of The Limes. It was for fifty pounds.
 
 WinifrecVs Discoverie.'^. ^11 
 
 Winifred, astounded at the generosity, re- 
 solved to carry the money herself : it would 
 not take her long to run up to London and 
 back: and she started without loss of time. 
 On reaching her destination and climbing to 
 the top of the house, she was struck with the 
 stillness within. Generally Mariuccia's voice 
 ^vas to be heard blithely singing ; but now 
 there was not a sound. She knocked, and the 
 girl came herself to open the door. She was 
 weeping violently, and on recognising Wini- 
 fred, exclaimed, ' Oh ! signorina, you are too 
 late. He is dead.' 
 
 ' Dead !' 
 
 Softly following the grief- stricken girl, 
 AYinifred entered the bedroom. A little 
 stunned, she sat down, and holding Mariuc- 
 cia's hand, stroked it softly in silent 
 S3niipathy. 
 
 * It happened late last night,' sobbed 
 Mariuccia. * He was sorry to go, but sorry 
 only for me. He said I was to tell you some- 
 thing which he never told while he was alive,
 
 278 Winifred Power. 
 
 for fear of punishment — but now it does not 
 matter who knows/ 
 
 Involuntarily Winifred's grasp tightened 
 round the hand she held. ' Yes. Go on, 
 child.' 
 
 ' I was to say that Sir John and his sister 
 and my father once perjured themselves to 
 spare Miss Hatherley disgrace, and they got 
 Miss Freake sentenced to imprisonment, and 
 all because she knew too much about Sir 
 John's marriage.' 
 
 The words, interrupted by tears, but 
 repeated with a quiet indifference like a lesson 
 learnt by rote, for a moment made Winifred 
 feel dizzy. Kecovering, she poured forth a 
 string of rapid questions, but Mariuccia could 
 not answer them. ' That was all he said/ 
 she repeated mournfully, then laid her head 
 down, and let her sobs break out afresh. 
 
 ' Are you alone ?' asked Winifred, when she 
 rose to go. 
 
 ' Some of the neighbours look in,' Mariuccia 
 replied listlessly. Winifred took a sovereign
 
 WinifrecCs Discoveries, 279 
 
 out of her own purse and laid it upon the 
 table. She had the cheque in her pocket, but 
 without Sir John's consent, she did not feel 
 justified in giving so large a sum to the girl 
 so promising future help, if needed, she went. 
 
 She had plenty to think of as she Avalked 
 through the streets. The possibility of doubt 
 no lono'er remained to her, and she was in a 
 white heat of indignation at Sir John. She 
 would not stop amid such dishonest people, 
 she said impulsively; she would go away 
 from Elmsleigh. 
 
 She remembered the quiver of passionate 
 resentment ^\i\h which she had listened to 
 ^lartha's ravings in the fever, and condemned 
 in her heart the unknown wrong-doer who 
 had wrecked that innocent life. Was she to 
 be less severe now that she knew who the 
 wrong-doer was ? Then, with a quick catch- 
 ing of her breath, a sudden sharp pang, she 
 thought of ]\Iark, and unconsciously quickened 
 her step. 
 
 In the high-strung mood produced by these
 
 280 Winifred Power, 
 
 meditations, Winifred reached home. On 
 entering the little drawing-room, she found 
 Mrs. Fane sitting alone in the blaze of the fire- 
 light, apparently lost in thought. Another 
 time Winifred might have noticed the quick, 
 rather excited way in w^hich she looked up on 
 her daughter's entrance ; but the girl was too 
 much absorbed in her own feelings. She 
 suddenly leant her head down against her 
 mother's knee, while her eyes filled with 
 an unexpected rush of tears. The tears 
 Mrs. Chandos-Fane did not see, but she 
 gently moved her daughter's head awa}^, 
 saying : 
 
 ' Take care, my love. I have on my new 
 dress.' 
 
 ' Have you been out ?' Winifred asked, 
 sitting upright, her eyes quite dry again. 
 
 ' Yes. Mr. Burton has had a really delight- 
 ful afternoon tea.' 
 
 ' Delightful ?' 
 
 Winifred had a vivid, rapid vision of the 
 old maids principally composing the party ; of
 
 WinifrecVs Discoveries. 281 
 
 Mr. Burton, rubicund and complacent in the 
 midst of them; and of all the gossip, from mild 
 to malignant, talked. 
 
 ' / thought so. Of course, it was all very 
 conventional ; so, perhaps, you would not 
 have enjoyed it. I do not complain of you, 
 my love. Of course, there are things that I 
 should like to change in you, but — ah, well ! 
 it's no matter.' 
 
 ' Dear mother!' exclaimed Winifred, feeling 
 rather disconcerted. 
 
 ' I never grudged you to my suffering 
 brother — never,' resumed Mrs. Fane, as if 
 struck with the recollection of her own mag- 
 nanimity. ' I resigned you cheerfully ; for 
 those who know me best have never thought 
 me selfish. But I am not strong-minded — 
 and pushing — and masculine ; and it is not to 
 be wondered at, I think, if I sometimes feel 
 lonely/ 
 
 At this point of her self-analysis, she pro- 
 duced her pocket-handkerchief ; Winifred was 
 fairly melted.
 
 282 Winifred Poicer. 
 
 ' Dearest mother ! I am so sorry — I never 
 thought — I never dreamed ' 
 
 ' I don't complain, my love. I have said 
 so before. You are rather wilful and head- 
 strong ; you have a harder nature than mine. 
 How should you understand what I was 
 feeling ?' 
 
 ' But in future I will try to understand. 
 We will be more to one another,' faltered 
 Winifred, honestly wondering where her fault 
 had been. 
 
 ' Too late !' said Mrs. Fane, shaking her 
 head impressively. ' You should try to bear in 
 mind, dear, that " there is a tide in the affairs 
 of men." Who says that ? Some charming 
 poet, I am sure. If we let that tide ebb, we 
 are stranded. Your poor little mother is 
 called to a higher duty. I am going to be 
 married.' 
 
 Winifred gave a gasp. 
 
 ' Mamma ! To Mr. Burton ?' 
 
 ' Yes, dear. I feel how unworthy I am of 
 him. But I cannot resist the temptation of a
 
 WinifrecVs Discoveries. 283 
 
 little happiness, and I have promised to be his 
 wife. The wedding, for reasons of Mr. Bur- 
 ton's, is to be immediate. You must sacrifice 
 your painting for once to mamma, and assist 
 me with the trousseau.' 
 
 And AVinifred was too much astonished to 
 say more. 
 
 After dinner she went round with her 
 mother to The Limes, making up her mind 
 that it should be her last visit. She would 
 return Sir John his cheque, and just tell 
 Mark how sorry she was that he had lost 
 his election. He had returned that day, de- 
 feated. It was only natural that she should 
 assure him of her sympathy with his disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 Mark came forward to meet her with a plea- 
 sure very quietly displayed, but of which she 
 had learnt to read the signs. He cut short 
 her condolence by saying, with a smile, that 
 he never expected to be victorious, and added : 
 * I am so glad to be back, that the election 
 seems like a tiresome dream.'
 
 284 Winifred Power, 
 
 He spoke with a grave, significant tender- 
 ness, but she did not respond by so much as a 
 glance. 
 
 On the contrary, she turned away abruptly, 
 determined not to unclose her heart to a hope 
 that, once admitted, might choke all her valiant 
 resolutions. She had done with the Hather- 
 leys, and could make no excej)tions : that was 
 what she told herself. 
 
 Sir John was sitting, as usual, a little apart, 
 and crossing the room with a swift step, 
 Wmifred paused beside his chair. He looked 
 up at her with some surprise, struck, perhaps, 
 by her pallor and the light of suppressed 
 excitement in her shining eyes. She took 
 the cheque from her pocket, and handed it to 
 him. 
 
 ' Ridgeley is dead,' she whispered in low 
 tones ; and if her suspicions had needed any 
 further confirmation, she would have found it 
 in the brief but unmistakable flash of relief 
 that illumined her hearer's face. 
 
 He took the cheque from her in silence, still
 
 WinifrecVs Discoveries. 285 
 
 keeping his eyes fixed on her, but more, she 
 fancied, in defiance than in inquir3^ 
 
 * He has left his daughter in great poverty,* 
 continued Winifred. 
 
 ^ I have nothing to do with his daughter,* 
 was the fi'igid reply. 
 
 ' If he did not prosper, it was perhaps 
 because of his wickedness,' said Winifred. 
 
 She began to tremble as she spoke, all the 
 smouldering indignation within her again 
 catching flame. 
 
 ' AYas he wicked ?' Sir John carelessly 
 asked. 
 
 ^ If you consider wickedness that which you 
 all did to poor Martha Freake.' 
 
 Winifred had hardly spoken the words, 
 when Sir John rose fi^om his chair and con- 
 fronted her with a glance of scathing con- 
 tempt. She recoiled from it as from a blow. 
 
 ' You have come to my own house to insult 
 me. Miss Power !' 
 
 The reproach was not unmerited, and Wini- 
 fred felt it. She had spoken in the impulse of
 
 286 Winifred Power. 
 
 temper, and would have given worlds now to 
 recall her words. Sn- John had spoken dis- 
 tinctly ; it was heard by the others in dismay ; 
 they gathered round. 
 
 ' What is all this T exclaimed Mark. 
 
 Sir John spoke up. ' It is this,' he said 
 haughtily. ^ Many years ago, a member of 
 our family, Martha Freake, disgraced herself 
 by writing anonymous threatening letters for 
 the purpose of extorting from me a sum of 
 money to cover an act of culpable negligence, 
 if nothing worse, on her own part. She was 
 brought to trial for it — it could not be avoided — 
 and sentenced to a short term of imprison- 
 ment. But ere she entered on it, reason failed 
 her, and she was transferred from prison to 
 an asylum. I paid for her there, and would 
 have continued to maintam her after her re- 
 covery and dismissal, but she rejected my 
 offers and went to live abroad. I had never 
 expected to be reminded of her, in the manner 
 of to-night. But Miss Power, who appears to 
 have a liking for the society of models and of
 
 WinifrecVs Discoveries. 287 
 
 servants, has been exercising their lively, if 
 not exalted, imaginations at my expense : 
 armed with the startling information acquired 
 in this underhand way, she seeks by delibe- 
 rately insulting me to vindicate the character of 
 a maniac and do the bidding of a coachman.' 
 
 Everybody turned to look at the object of 
 this denunciation. She stood perfectly still, 
 very pale and grieved, but not subdued. 
 
 ' I do not understand,' exclaimed Mark, 
 angry and perplexed. 
 
 ' Nor I,' added Mrs. Fane's dulcet tones. 
 ' But if my poor dear child has been so unfor- 
 tunate as to offend Sir John ' 
 
 ' Please, mother, do not try to set things 
 right,' Winifred interrupted steadily. ' For 
 the manner of my offence I ask Sir John's 
 l^ardon. The feelings which impelled me to 
 my unfortunate speech are not so superficial 
 that a word can dispel them. Bat I can at 
 least promise, and I do^ never to obtrude them 
 on anybody here again, for this is my last visit 
 to The Limes.'
 
 288 Winifred Power. 
 
 She turned in her impetuosity and walked 
 straight away from the room and the 
 house. 
 
 They had all been too much astonished to 
 stop her. Gertrude was the first to speak — 
 good-naturedly. 
 
 ' That is Winifred all over. She is a fine 
 creature, but often in heroics.' 
 
 ' Do pray excuse her, Sir John,' added Mrs. 
 Fane. ' Dear Mrs. Hatherley, you don't know 
 my impulsive, good-hearted girl.' 
 
 Mrs. Hatherley did not answer. Her eyes 
 had a strange glitter, and she looked uncom- 
 monly wide awake. 
 
 Nobody else spoke, and the silence became 
 at last so oppressive, that Mrs. Fane was fain 
 to break it with a lady-like outburst of sobs. 
 
 At the first sound of these Sir John vanished 
 to the library, Mark followed him, and Flo- 
 rence was made happy by being asked to bring 
 her smelling-bottle to the rescue. 
 
 Winifred meanwhile, in the darkness and 
 solitude of her own sitting-room, was sitting
 
 WmifrecTs Discoveries. 289 
 
 by the spent fire, and weeping lier heart out in 
 the mere physical reaction, of her late excite- 
 ment. She felt angry with herself, yet not 
 altogether sorry. At the somirl of the cloor- 
 \yA\ she roused herself, thinking that it must 
 be her mother, and nerved herself for a scene. 
 But to her great surprise, who should walk in 
 but Dolly, panting, and in a remarkable state 
 of excitement. 
 
 ' Oh, dear Miss Power,' she exclaimed, sink- 
 ing breathlessly on to a stool at Winifred's 
 side, ^ I hope }'ou will excuse me, but I came 
 because I really felt I must. Everybody is so 
 angry at The Limes — Uncle John shut up in 
 the library — Mark looking dreadful — your 
 mother in tears. She says perhaps you will 
 be <^oino; back to Paris.' 
 
 ' Did she say that?' 
 
 ' Yes. And I want you — if vou do o'o — to 
 take me with you.' 
 
 'And what in the world would you- do in 
 Paris ?' asked Winifred. 
 
 ' Paint plates and fans and things,' replied 
 
 VOL. I. 11)
 
 290 Winifred Power, 
 
 Dolly promptly. ' Painting in water-colours 
 is my one small talent.' 
 
 Winifred smiled with melancholy amuse- 
 ment. She had often suspected that Doll}^ 
 was not quite such a nonentity as her sister, 
 but she had not been prepared for an outburst 
 like this, and wondered what had inspired it. 
 
 ' Do 3^ou want to get away from your 
 governess, Dorothy?' 
 
 ' Xo — that's not it ; not altogether. I 
 should like to be independent, to earn money.' 
 
 Winifred shook her head as she looked 
 down at the small daintily-dressed figure, 
 and the pink- and -white, pretty, Dresden- china 
 face. 
 
 ' Oh, don't discourage me, dear, dear Miss 
 Power I' exclaimed the girl, clasping her hands, 
 with tears in her eyes. ' When Uncle John 
 dies I am convinced that we shall be paupers ; 
 he will be sure not to leave us anything. I 
 will be no burden to you. I will live on 
 bread and water, I will sweep your rooms, I 
 will '
 
 WinifrecTs Discoveries. 291 
 
 ' Hush ! If there be anv way of maiiairinir 
 your enterprise, I will not discourag'e it, you 
 may be sure. But indeed I do not know 
 what I am o-oino- to do. Dollv, ansAver me 
 frankly — have you no other motive for wishino- 
 to c^o than this, and the o-eneral weariness of 
 life at The Limes ?' 
 
 Dolly was very honest. She hung her head 
 in silence. 
 
 ' Am I to flatter myself that 3'ou are in- 
 spired by affection for me T continued Winifred 
 playfully. 
 
 ' I like you very much.' 
 
 ' But somebody else better ?' 
 
 Again Dolly was mute. 
 
 ' Well, well,' said Winifred, laying her hand 
 on the prett}' little liead, ' I will bear you in 
 mind. And meanwhile (jast to amuse yon, you 
 understand), I Avill read you a letter from 
 Richard Dallas.' 
 
 END OF VOL. r. 
 
 blLLJM. AND .-^uXri, PRINTERS, <.;L ILDFOSD AND LONDON. 
 
 <i., C. tC- Co.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUNOI9-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 045822704