'No doubt you are right,' she replied, sighing, and then she turned her head away, and I could see the old tremulous movement of her hands. 'Ursula,' she said, in a very low voice, 'have you told Mr. Cunliffe about this?'

'Uncle Max!' I exclaimed, concealing my astonishment at hearing her mention his name of her own accord. 'No; indeed, he is away from home: we have not met for the last three weeks. Would you wish me to tell him, Gladys?'

She pondered over my question, and I could see the curves of her throat trembling. Her voice was not so clear when she answered me:

'He might have helped us. He is kind and wise, and I trusted him once. But perhaps it will be hardly safe to tell him: he might insist on Giles knowing, and then everything would be lost.'

'What do you mean?' I asked hastily. 'Surely Mr. Hamilton ought to know that his brother is alive.'

'Yes, but not now—not until I have seen him. Ursula, you are very good; you are my greatest comfort; but indeed you must be guided in this by me. You do not know Giles as I do. He is beginning to influence you in spite of yourself. If Giles knows, Etta will know, and then we are lost.'

Her tone troubled me: it was the old keynote of suppressed hopeless pain: it somehow recalled to me the image of some helpless innocent bird struggling in a fowler's net. Her eyes looked at me with almost agonised entreaty.

'If Etta knows, we should be lost,' she repeated drearily.

'She shall not know, then,' I returned, pretending cheerfulness, though I was inwardly dismayed. 'You and I will watch and wait, Gladys. Do not be so cast down, dear. Remember it is never so dark as just before the dawn.'

'No,' she replied, with a faint smile, 'you are right there; but it is growing dark in earnest, Ursula, and I must go home, or Leah will be coming in search of me.'

'Very well; I will walk with you,' I replied; and in five minutes more we had left the cottage.

We walked almost in silence, for who could tell if eaves-droppers might not lurk in the dark hedgerows? I know this feeling was strong in both our minds.

At the gate of Gladwyn we kissed each other and parted.

'I am happier, Ursula,' she whispered. 'You must not think I am ungrateful for the news you have given me, only it has made me restless.'

'Hush! there is some one coming down the shrubbery,' I returned, dropping her hand, and going quickly into the road. As I did so, I heard Leah's smooth voice address Gladys:

'You were so, late, ma'am, that I thought I had better step down to the cottage, for fear you might be waiting for me.'

'It is all right, Leah,' was Gladys's answer. 'Miss Garston walked back with me. Thank you for your thoughtfulness.' And then I heard their footsteps dying away in the distance.



CHAPTER XXXV

NIGHTINGALES AND ROSES

I was very busy the next morning. I went round to the Marshalls' cottage to see Peggy, and then I paid Phoebe a long visit, and afterwards I went to Robert Stokes.

They seemed all glad to welcome me back, especially Phoebe, who lay and looked at me as though she never wished to lose sight of me again.

When I had left her room I sat a little while with Susan. She still looked delicate, but at my first pitying word she stopped me.

'Please don't say that, Miss Garston. If you knew how I thank God for that illness! it has opened poor Phoebe's heart to me as nothing else could have opened it.'

'She does indeed seem a different creature,' I returned, full of thankfulness to hear this.

'Different,—nay, that is not the word: the heart of a little child has come back to her. It rests me now, if I am ever so tired, to go into her room. It is always "Sit down, Susan, my woman, and talk to me a bit," or she will beg me to do something for her, just as though she were asking a favour. I read the Bible to her now morning and evening, and Kitty sings her sweet hymns to us. It is more like home now, with Phoebe to smile a welcome whenever she sees me. I do not miss father and mother half so much now.'

'If you only knew how happy it makes me to hear you say all this, Miss Locke!'

'Nay, but I am thinking we owe much of our comfort to you,' she answered simply. 'You worked upon her feelings first, and then Providence sent that sharp message to her. And we have to be grateful to the doctor, too. What do you think, Miss Garston? He is our landlord now, and he won't take a farthing of rent from us. He says we are doing him a kindness by living in the house, and that he only wished his other tenants took as much care of his property; but of course I know what that means.' And here Susan's thin hands shook a little. 'The doctor is just a man whose right hand does not know what his left hand does; he is just heaping us with benefits, and making us ashamed with his kindness.'

'You are a great favourite of his,' I answered, smiling, as I took my leave; but Susan answered solemnly,—

'It won't be forgotten in his account, Miss Garston. The measure running over will surely be returned to him, and not only to him.' And here she looked at me meaningly, and pressed my hand. Poor Susan! she had grown very fond of her nurse.

As I walked up to Gladwyn that afternoon I felt a pleasant sense of excitement, a sort of holiday feeling, that was novel to me. Miss Darrell was away, and Gladys and Lady Betty would be at their ease. We might look and talk as we liked, no one would find fault with us.

I was pleased, too, at the thought of seeing Mr. Hamilton again. I was in the mood to be gay: perhaps the summer sunshine infected me, for who could be dull on such a day? There was not a cloud in the sky, the birds were singing, the rooks were cawing among the elms, the very sparrows had a jaunty look and cheeped busily in the ivy. As I approached Gladwyn, I saw Mr. Hamilton leaning on the gate: he looked as though he had been standing there some time.

'Were you watching for me?' I asked, rather thoughtlessly, as he threw the gate open with a smile and shook hands with me. I had asked the question quite innocently and casually; but the next moment I felt hot and ashamed. Why had I supposed such a thing? Why should Mr. Hamilton be watching for me?

He did not seem to notice my confusion: he looked very glad to see me. I think he was in a gay mood too.

'Yes, I was looking for you. You are a little late, do you know that? I was just meditating whether I should walk down the road to meet you. Come and take a turn with me on this shady little lawn. Gladys and Lady Betty are arranging the tea-table, and are not quite ready for us.'

He led the way to the little lawn in front of the house. Gladwyn was surrounded with charming lawns: the avenue of young oaks was at the back. We could catch glimpses of Lady Betty's white gown as she flitted backward and forward. The front window of Mr. Hamilton's study was before us.

'Well,' he said, looking at me brightly, 'we are all glad to welcome Nurse Ursula back: the three weeks have seemed very long somehow.'

'Have you any more cases ready for me?' I returned, trying to appear at my usual ease with him. It seemed ridiculous, but I was certainly rather shy with Mr. Hamilton this afternoon. He looked different somehow.

'If I have, you will not know them to-day. I am not going to talk business to you this afternoon. Tell me about your visit: have you enjoyed yourself? But I need not ask: your looks answer for you.'

'I have most certainly enjoyed myself. Aunt Philippa was so kind: indeed, they were all good to me. Did you hear of Jill's accident, Mr. Hamilton? No. I must tell you about it, and of Mr. Tudor's presence of mind.' And I narrated the whole circumstance.

'It was a marvellous escape,' he returned thoughtfully. 'Poor child! she might have fared badly. Well, Miss Garston, the green velvet gown was very becoming.'

I looked up quickly, but there was no mockery in Mr. Hamilton's smile. He was regarding me kindly, though his tone was a little teasing.

'I saw you in the church,' I returned quietly.

'Yes, I suppose there is a kind of magnetism in a fixed glance. I was looking at you, trying to identify Nurse Ursula with the elegantly-dressed woman before me, and somehow failing, when your eyes encountered mine. Their serious disapproval most certainly recalled Nurse Ursula with a vengeance.'

He was laughing at me now, but I determined to satisfy my curiosity.

'I was so surprised to see you there,' I replied seriously: 'you were so strong in your denunciations of gay weddings that your presence as a spectator at one quite startled me. Why were you there, Mr. Hamilton?'

'Do you want to know, really?' still in a teasing tone.

'Of course one always likes an answer to a question.'

'You shall have it, Miss Garston. I came to see that velvet gown.'

'Nonsense!'

'May I ask why?'

'Well, it is nonsense; as though you came for such an absurd purpose!' But, though I answered Mr. Hamilton in this brusque fashion, I was aware that my heart was beating rather more quickly than usual. Did he really mean that he had come to see me? Could such a thing be possible? I began to wish I had never put that question.

'I either came to see the gown or the wearer: upon my honour I hardly know which. Perhaps you can tell me?' But if he expected an answer to that he did not get it: I was only meditating how I could break off this tete-a-tete without too much awkwardness. No, I did not recognise Mr. Hamilton a bit this afternoon: he had never talked to me after this fashion before. I was not sure that I liked it.

'After all, I am not certain that I do not like you best in that gray one, especially after I have picked you some roses to wear with it: something sober and quiet seems to suit Nurse Ursula better.'

'Mr. Hamilton, if you please, I do not want to talk any more about my gown.'

'What shall we talk about, then? Shall I—' And then he looked at my face and checked himself. His teasing mood, or whatever it was, changed. Perhaps he saw my embarrassment, for his manner became all at once very gentle. He said we must go in search of the roses; and then he began to talk to me about Gladys,—how much brighter she looked, but still thin, oh, far too thin,—and was I not glad to have her back again? and all the time he talked he was looking at me, as though he wanted to find out the reason of something that perplexed him.

'He will think that I am not glad to be home again, that all this gaiety has spoiled me for my work,' I thought, with some vexation; but no effort of my part would overcome this sudden shyness, and I was much relieved when we turned the corner of the house and encountered Lady Betty coming in search of us.

'Of course we saw you on the little lawn,' she said eagerly, 'but we were too busy arranging the table. Tea is ready now. Where are you going, Giles? Oh, don't pick any more roses: we have plenty for Ursula.'

'But if I wish Miss Garston to wear some of my picking, what then, Elizabeth?' he asked, in a laughing tone, and Lady Betty tossed her head in reply and led me away; but a moment afterwards he followed us with the roses, and mollified the wilful little soul by asking Ladybird—his pet name for her—to fasten them in my dress. Both the sisters wore white gowns. I thought Gladys looked like a queen in hers, as she moved slowly under the oak-trees to meet us, the sun shining on her fair hair. As I looked at her lovely face and figure, I thought it was no wonder that she was poor Max's Lady of Delight. Who could help admiring her?

She met me quite naturally, although her brother was beside us.

'Have we kept you waiting too long? I thought you would not mind putting up with Giles's society for a little while. Oh, Thornton was so stupid; I suppose he did not approve of the trouble, for he would forget everything we asked him to bring.'

'This is quite a feast, Gladys,' observed Mr. Hamilton gaily. And indeed it was a pretty picture when we were all seated: a pleasant breeze stirred the leaves over our head, the rooks cawed and circled round us, Nap laid himself at his master's feet, and a little gray kitten came gingerly over the grass, followed by some tame pigeons.

There was a basket of roses on the table, and great piles of strawberries and cherries. Gladys poured out the tea in purple cups bordered with gold. Mr. Hamilton held out a beautiful china plate for my inspection. 'This belonged to Gladys's mother,' he said: 'we are only allowed to use it on high days and holidays. Etta was unfortunate enough to break a saucer once: we have never seen the tea-set since.'

I saw Gladys colour, but she said nothing: only naughty Lady Betty whispered in my ear, 'She did it on purpose. I saw her throw it down because she was angry with Gladys.' But, happily, Mr. Hamilton was deaf to this.

I hardly know what we talked about, but we were all very happy. Gladys, as usual, was rather quiet, but I noticed that she spoke freely to her brother, without any constraint of manner, and that he seemed pleased and interested in all she said; and Lady Betty chatted as merrily as possible.

When tea was over we all strolled about the garden, down the long asphalt walk that skirted the meadow, where a little brown cow was feeding, down to the gardener's cottage and the kitchen-garden, and to the poultry-yard, where Lady Betty reigned supreme. Then we sat down on the terrace by the conservatory, and Mr. Hamilton threw himself down on the grass and played with Nap, as he talked to us.

I could see Leah sewing at her mistress's window, but the sight did not disturb me in the least. Yes, I must be fey, I thought. I could find no reason for the sudden feeling of contentment and well-being that possessed me; in all my life I had never felt happier than I did that evening; and yet I was more silent than usual. Mr. Hamilton talked more to his sisters than to me, but his manner was strangely gentle when he addressed me. I was conscious all that evening that he was watching me, and that my reserve did not displease him. Once, when he had been called away on business, and Lady Betty had tripped after him, Gladys said, with a half-sigh,—

'How young and well Giles looks to-day! He seems so much happier. I wish we could always be like this. I am sure if it were not for Etta we should understand each other better.'

I assented to this, and Gladys went on:

'I wonder if you have ever heard Mrs. Carrick's name, Ursula?'

What a strange question! I flushed a little as I told her that her old friend Mrs. Maberley had put me in possession of all the family secrets. 'Quite against my will, I assure you,' I added; for I always had a lurking consciousness that I had no right to know Mr. Hamilton's affairs.

'Well, it does not matter. I daresay Giles will tell you all about it himself some day. You and he seem great friends, Ursula; and indeed—indeed I am glad to know it. Poor Giles! Why should you not be kind to him?'

What in the world could Gladys mean?

'I was only a child,' she went on; 'but of course I remember Ella. She was very beautiful and fascinating, and she bewitched us all. She had such lovely eyes, and such a sweet laugh; and she was so full of fun, and so high-spirited and charming altogether. Giles was very different in those days; but he reminds me of his old self this evening.'

I made no answer. I seemed to have no words ready, and I was glad when Gladys rather abruptly changed the subject. Leah was crossing the field towards the cottage with a basket of eggs on her arm. As we looked after her, Gladys said quickly—

'Your talk last night seems like a dream. This morning I asked myself, could it be true—really true—that you saw Eric? I have hardly slept, Ursula. Indeed, I do not mean to be impatient; but how am I to bear this restlessness?'

'It is certainly very hard.'

'Oh, so hard! But for Eric's sake I must be patient. I saw the advertisement this morning in the Standard. Lady Betty read it aloud to us at breakfast-time; but Giles took no notice. I wished that we dared to tell Mr. Cunliffe about it; he might employ a detective: but I am so afraid of Etta.'

'I think we may safely wait a little,' I returned. 'I have faith in Joe Muggins: a five-pound note may do our work without fear of publicity.'

'If you hear any news, if you can find out where he lives, remember that I must be the first to see him: Giles shall be told, but not until I have spoken to Eric.'

'Do you think that you will be able to persuade him to come home?'

'I shall not try to persuade him,' she returned proudly. 'I know Eric too well for that. Nothing will induce him to cross the threshold of Gladwyn until his innocence is established, until Giles has apologised for the slur he has thrown upon his character.'

'I am afraid Mr. Hamilton will never do that.'

'Then there will be no possibility of reconciliation with Eric, Ursula. If Eric does not come home, if things remain as they are, I have made up my mind to leave Giles's roof. I cannot any longer be separated from Eric: if he be poor I will be poor too: it will not hurt me to work; nothing will hurt me after the life I have been leading these three years.' And the old troubled look came back to Gladys's face. Lady Betty joined us, and our talk ceased, and soon afterwards we went up into the turret-room to prepare for dinner.

After dinner Lady Betty proposed that we should go down the road a little to hear the nightingales; but Mr. Hamilton informed her with a smile that he had a nightingale on the premises, and, turning to me, he asked me if I were in the mood to give them all pleasure, and if I would sing to them until they told me to stop.

I was rather dubious on this latter point, for how could I know, I asked him, laughing, that they might not keep me singing until midnight?

'You ought to have more faith in our humanity,' he returned, with much solemnity, as he opened the piano. Gladys crept into her old seat by me, but Mr. Hamilton placed himself in an easy-chair at some little distance. As the room grew dusk, and the moonlight threw strange silvery gleams here and there, I could see him leaning back with his arms crossed under his head, and wondered if he were asleep, he was so still and motionless.

How I thanked God in my heart for that gift of song, a more precious gift to me than even beauty would have been! As usual, I forgot everything, myself, Gladys, Mr. Hamilton; I seemed to sing with the joyousness of a bird that is only conscious of life and freedom and sunshine.

I would sing no melancholy songs that night,—no love-sick adieux, no effusions of lachrymose sentimentality,—only sweet old Scotch and English ballads, favourites of Charlie's; then grander melodies, 'Let the bright seraphim,' and 'Waft her, angels, through the air.' As I finished the last I was conscious that Mr. Hamilton was standing beside me; the next moment he laid his hand on mine.

'That will do. You must not tire yourself: even the nightingales must leave off singing sometimes; thank you so much. No! that sounds cold and conventional. I will not thank you. You were very happy singing, were you not?'

I could not see his face, but he was so close,—so close to me in the moonlight, and there was something in his voice that brought the old shyness back.

I was trying to answer, when we heard the front door open and some one speaking to Parker. Was that Miss Darrell's voice? Mr. Hamilton heard it, for he moved away, and Gladys gave a half-stifled exclamation as he opened the door and confronted his cousin.

'Where are you all?' she asked, in a laughing voice. 'You look like bats or ghosts in the moonlight. No lights, and past ten o'clock! that is Gladys's romantic idea, I suppose. What a dear fanciful child it is! Lady Betty, come and kiss me! Oh, I am so glad to be home again!'

'Good-evening, Miss Darrell.'

'Good gracious! is that you, Miss Garston? I never dreamt of seeing you here to-night; and you were hiding behind that great piano. Giles, do, for pity's sake, light those candles, and let me see some of your faces.'

But Mr. Hamilton seemed to take no notice of her request.

'What brought you back so soon, Etta?' he asked; and it struck me that he was not so pleased to see his cousin as usual. 'I thought you intended to remain another week.'

'Oh, but I wanted to see Gladys, after these months of absence. I thought it would be unkind to remain away any longer. Besides, I was not enjoying myself,—not a bit. Mrs. Cameron grows deafer every day, and it was very triste and miserable.'

'How did you know I was at home, Etta?' asked Gladys, in her clear voice.

Miss Darrell hesitated a moment: 'A little bird informed me of the fact. You did not wish me to remain in ignorance of your return, did you? It sounds rather like it, does it not, Giles? Well, if you must be inquisitive, Leah was writing to me about my dresses for the cleaner, and she mentioned casually that "master had gone to the station to meet Miss Gladys."'

'I see; but you need not have hurried home on my account.'

'Dear me! what a cousinly speech! That is the return one gets for being a little more affectionate than usual. Giles,'—with decided impatience,—'why don't you light those candles? You know how I hate darkness; and there is Miss Garston standing like a gray nun in the moonlight.'

'It is so late that I must put on my bonnet,' I replied quickly; for I was bent on making my escape before the candles were lighted. Never had I dreaded Miss Darrell's cold scrutiny as I did that night.

Gladys followed me rather wearily.

'Well it has been very pleasant, but our holiday has been brief,' she said, with a sigh; and then she laid her cheek against mine, and it felt very soft and cold. With a sudden rush of tenderness I drew it down and kissed it again and again.

'Don't let the hope go out of your voice, Gladys: it will all come right by and by. Only be strong and patient, my darling.'

'I am strong when I am near you, but not when I am alone,' she answered, with a slight shiver; and then we heard Lady Betty's voice calling her, and she left me reluctantly.

I thought she would come back, so I did not hurry myself; but presently I got tired of waiting, and walked to the head of the staircase.

As I looked down on the lighted hall I saw Mr. Hamilton standing with folded arms, as though he had been waiting there some time; at the sound of my footstep he looked up quickly and eagerly, and our eyes met, and then I knew,—I knew!

'Come, Ursula,' he said, with a sort of impatience, holding out his hand; and somehow, without delay or hesitation, just as though his strong will was drawing me, I went down slowly and put my hand in his, and it seemed as though there was nothing more to be said.

I saw his face light up; he was about to speak, when Miss Darrell swept up to us noiselessly with a hard metallic smile on her face.

'Do you know, Miss Garston, Lady Betty tells me that the nightingales are singing so charmingly; she and I are just going down the road to listen to them, if you can put up with our company for part of the way.'

Giles—I called him Giles in my heart that night, for something told me we belonged to each other—said nothing, but his face clouded, and we went out together.

No one heard the nightingales, but only Lady Betty commented on that fact. Miss Darrell was talking too volubly to hear her. She clung to my side pertinaciously, almost affectionately; she wanted to hear all about the wedding; she plied me with questions about Sara, and Jill, and Mr. Tudor. All the way up the hill she talked until we passed the church and the vicarage, until we were at the gate of the White Cottage, and then she stopped with an affected laugh.

'Dear me, I have actually walked the whole way; how tired I am!—and no wonder, for there is eleven chiming from the church tower. For shame, to keep us all up so late, Miss Garston!'

'I will not detain you,' I returned, with secret exasperation.

Mr. Hamilton had not spoken once the whole way, only walked silently beside me; but as he set open the gate and wished me good-night, his clasp of my hand gave me the assurance that I needed.

'Never mind: he will come to-morrow and tell me all about it,' I said to myself as I walked up the narrow garden-path between the rows of sleeping flowers. If I lingered in the porch to watch a certain tall figure disappear into the darkness, no one knew it, for the stars tell no tales.



CHAPTER XXXVI

BREAKERS AHEAD

It was well that the stars, those bright-eyed spectators of a sleeping world, tell no tales of us poor humans, or they might have whispered the fact that the reasonable sober-minded Ursula Garston was holding foolish vigil that night until the gray dawn drove her away to seek a brief rest.

But how could I sleep?—how could any woman sleep when such a revelation had been vouchsafed her?—when a certain look, and those two words, 'Come, Ursula,' still haunted me,—that strange brief wooing, that was hardly wooing, and yet meant unutterable things, that silent acceptance, that simple yielding, when I put my hand in his, Giles's, and saw the quick look of joy in his eyes?

Ah, the veil had fallen from my eyes at last: for the first time I realised how all these weeks he had been drawing me closer to himself, how his strong will had subjugated mine. My dislike of him had been brief; he had awakened my interest first, then attracted my sympathy, and finally won my respect and friendship, until I had grown to love him in spite of myself. Strange to say, I had lost all fear of him; as I sat holding communion with myself that night, I felt that I should never be afraid of him again. 'Perfect love casteth out fear': is not that what the apostle tells us? It was true, I thought, for now I did not seem to be afraid either of Mr. Hamilton's strange stern nature, of the sadness of his past life, or of the mysteries and misunderstandings of that troubled household. It seemed to me I feared nothing,—not even my own want of beauty, that had once been a trial to me; for if Giles loved me how could such minor evils affect me?

Yes, as I sat there under the solemn starlight, with the jasmine sprays cooling my hot cheek and the soft night breeze fanning me, I owned, and was not ashamed to own, in my woman's heart, and with all the truth of which I was capable, that this was the man whom my soul delighted to honour; not faultless, not free from blame, full of flaws and imperfections, but still a strong grand man, intensely human in his sympathies, one who loved his fellows, and who did his life's work in true knightly fashion, running full tilt against prejudices and the shams of conventionality.

Often during the night I thought of my mother, and how she had told me, laughing, that my father had never really asked her to marry him.

'I don't know how we were engaged, Ursula,' she once said, when we were talking about Charlie and Lesbia in the twilight; 'we were at a ball,—Lady Fitzherbert's,—and of course being a clergyman he did not dance, but he took me into the conservatory and gave me a flower: I think it was a rose. There were people all round us, and neither he nor I could tell how it was done, but when he put me into the carriage I knew we were somehow promised to each other, and when he came the next day he called me Amy, and kissed me in the most quite matter-of-fact way. I often laugh and tell him that he took it all, for granted.'

'Giles will come to-morrow,' I said to myself, as the first pale gleam came over the eastern sky, 'and then I shall know all about it.' And I fell asleep happily, and dreamt of Charlie, and I thought he was pelting me with roses in the old vicarage garden.

'"And the evening and the morning were the first day,"' were my waking words when I opened my eyes; for in the inward as well as the outward creation, in hearts as well as worlds, all things become new under the grace of such miracle. I was not the same woman that I had been yesterday, neither should I ever be the same again. I seemed as though I were in accord with all the harmonies of nature. 'And surely God saw that it was good,' ought to be written upon all true and faithful earthly attachments. I was expecting Mr. Hamilton, and yet it gave me a sort of shock when I saw him coming up the road: he was walking very fast, with his head bent, but his face was set in the direction of the cottage.

I sat down by the window and took out some work, but my hands trembled so that I was compelled to lay it aside. It was not that I was afraid of what he might say to me, for my heart had its welcome ready, but natural womanly timidity caused the slight fluttering of my pulses.

The moments seemed long before I heard the click of the gate, before the firm regular footsteps crunched the gravel walk; then came his knock at my door, and I rose to greet him. But the moment I saw his face a sudden anxiety seized me. What had happened? What made him look so pale and embarrassed, so strangely unlike himself? This was not the greeting I expected. This was not how we ought to meet on this morning of all mornings.

As he shook hands with me quickly and rather nervously, he seemed to avoid my eyes. He walked to the window, picked a spray of jasmine, and began pulling it to pieces, all the time he talked. As for me, I sat down again and took up my work: he should not see that I felt his coldness, that he had disappointed me.

'I have come very early, I am afraid,' he began, 'but I thought I ought to let you know. Mrs. Hanbury's little girl, the lame one, Jessie, has got badly burnt,—some carelessness or other; but they are an ignorant set, and the child will need your care.'

'I will go at once. Where do they live?' But somehow as I asked the question I felt as though my voice had lost all tone and sounded like Miss Darrell's.

He told me, and then gave me the necessary instructions. 'Janet Coombe, a servant at the Man and Plough, is ill too, and they sent up for me this morning; it seems a touch of low fever,—nothing really infectious, though; but the men from the soap-works are having their bean-feast, and all the folks are too busy to pay Janet much attention.'

'I will see about her,' I returned. 'Are those the only cases, Mr. Hamilton?' He looked round at me then, as though my quiet matter-of-fact answer had surprised him, and for a moment he surveyed me gravely and wistfully; then he seemed to rouse himself with an effort.

'Yes, those are the only cases at present. Thank you, I shall be much obliged if you will attend to them. Little Jessie is a very delicate child: things may go hardly with her.' Then he stopped, picked another spray of jasmine, and pulled off the little starry flowers remorselessly.

'Miss Garston, I want to say something: I feel I owe you some sort of explanation. I wish to tell you that I have only myself to blame. I have thought it all over, and I have come to the conclusion that it is no fault of yours that I misunderstood you. It is your nature to be kind. You did not wish to mislead me.'

'I am not aware that I ever mislead people,' I returned, rather proudly, for I could not help feeling a little indignant: Mr. Hamilton was certainly not treating me well.

'No, of course not,' looking excessively pained. 'I know you too well to accuse you of that. If I misunderstood you, if I imagined things, it was my own fault,—mine solely. I would not blame you for worlds.'

'I am glad of that, Mr. Hamilton,' in rather an icy tone.

'No, you could not have told me: I ought to have found it out for myself. Do you mind if I go away now? I do not feel quite myself, and I would rather talk of this again another time. Perhaps you will tell me all about it then.' And he actually took up his hat and shook hands with me again. Somehow his touch made me shiver when I remembered the long hand-clasp of the previous night,—only ten or eleven hours ago; and yet this strange change had been worked in him.

I let him go, though it nearly broke my heart to see him look so careworn and miserable. My woman's pride was up in arms, though for very pity and love I could have called him back and begged him to tell me in plain English and without reservation what he meant by his vague words. Once I rose and went to the door, the latch was in my hand, but I sat down again and watched him quietly until he was out of sight. I would wait, I said to myself; I would rather wait until he came to his senses; and then I laughed a little angrily, though the tears were in my eyes. It was vexatious, it was bitterly disappointing, it was laying on my shoulders a fresh burden of responsibility and anxiety. The happiness that a quarter of an hour ago seemed within my reach had vanished and left me worried and perplexed. And yet, in spite of the pain Mr. Hamilton had inflicted, I did not for one moment lose hope or courage.

Something had gone wrong, that was evident. The perfect understanding that had been between us last night seemed ruthlessly disturbed and perhaps broken. Could this be Miss Darrell's work? Had she made mischief between us? I wondered what part of my conduct or actions she had misrepresented to her cousin. It was this uncertainty that tormented me: how could I refute mere intangible shadows?

Strange to say, I never doubted his love for a moment. If such a doubt had entered my mind I should have been miserable indeed; but no such thought fretted me. I was only hurt that he could have brought himself to believe anything against me, that he should have listened to her false sophistry and not have asked for my explanation; but, as I remembered that love was prone to jealousy and not above suspicion, I soon forgave him in my heart.

Ah well, we must both suffer, I thought; for he certainly looked very unhappy, fagged, and weary, as though he had not slept. If he had told me what was wrong I would have found some comfort for him; but under such circumstances any woman must be dumb.

He had made me understand that he did not intend to ask me to marry him, at least just yet; that for some reason best known to himself he wished for no further explanation with me. Well, I could wait until he was ready to speak; he need not fear that I should embarrass him. 'Men are strange creatures,' I thought, as I rose, feeling tired in every limb, to put on my bonnet; but, cast down and perplexed as I was, I would not own for a minute that I was really miserable. My faith in Mr. Hamilton was too strong for that; one day things would be right between us; one day he would see the truth and know it, and there would be no cloud before his eyes. I went rather sadly about my duties that day, but I was determined that no one else should suffer for my unhappiness, so I exerted myself to be cheerful with my patients, and the hard work did me good.

I was tired when I reached home, and I spent rather a dreary evening: it was impossible to settle to my book. I could not help remembering how I had called this a new day. As I prayed for Mr. Hamilton that night, I could not help shedding a few tears; he was so strong, all the power was in his hands; he might have saved me from this trouble. Then I remembered that we were both unhappy together, and this thought calmed me; for the same cloud was covering us both, and I wondered which of us would see the sunshine first.

I do not wish to speak much of my feelings at this time: the old adage, that 'the course of true love never runs smooth,' was true, alas, in my case; but I was too proud to complain, and I tried not to fret overmuch. Most women have known troubled days, when the current seems against them and the waves run high; their strength fails and they seem to sink in deep waters. Many a poor soul has suffered shipwreck in the very sight of the haven where it would fain be, for man and woman too are 'born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.'

Sometimes my pain was very great; but I would not succumb to it. I worked harder than ever to combat my restlessness. My worst time was in the evening, when I came home weary and dispirited. We seemed so near, and yet so strangely apart, and it was hard at such times to keep to my old faith in Mr. Hamilton and acquit him of unkindness.

'Why does he not tell me what he means? Do I deserve this silence?' I would say to myself. Then I remembered his promise that he would speak to me again about these things, and I resolved to be brave and patient.

I was longing to see Gladys, but she did not come for more than ten days. And, alas! I could not go up to Gladwyn to seek her. This was the first bitter fruit of our estrangement,—that it separated me from Gladys.

Lady Betty had gone away the very next day to pay a two months' visit to an old school-fellow in Cornwall: so Gladys would be utterly alone. Uncle Max was still in Norwich, detained by most vexatious lawyer's business: so that I had not even the solace of his companionship. If it had not been for Mr. Tudor, I should have been quite desolate. But I was always meeting him in the village, and his cheery greeting was a cordial to me. He always walked back with me, talking in his eager, boyish way. And I had sometimes quite a trouble to get rid of him. He would stand for a quarter of an hour at a time leaning over the gate and chatting with me. By a sort of tacit consent, he never offered to come in, neither did I invite him. We were both too much afraid of Miss Darrell's comments.

In all those ten days I only saw Mr. Hamilton once, for on Sunday his seat in church had been vacant.

I was dressing little Jessie's burns one morning, and talking to her cheerfully all the time, for she was a nervous little creature, when I heard his footstep outside. And the next instant he was standing beside us.

His curt 'Good-morning; how is the patient, nurse?' braced my faltering nerves in a moment, and enabled me to answer him without embarrassment. He had his grave professional air, and looked hard and impenetrable. I had reason afterwards to think that this sternness of manner was assumed for my benefit, for once, when I was preparing some lint for him, I looked up inadvertently and saw that he was watching me with an expression that was at once sad and wistful.

He turned away at once, when he saw I noticed him, and I left the room as quickly as I could, for I felt the tears rising to my eyes. I had to sit down a moment in the porch to recover myself. That look, so sad and yearning, had quite upset me. If I had not known before, past all doubt, that Mr. Hamilton loved me, I must have known it then.

We met more frequently after this. Janet Coombe was dangerously ill, and Mr. Hamilton saw her two or three times a day. And, of course, I was often there when he came.

He dropped his sternness of manner after a time, but he was never otherwise than grave with me. The long, unrestrained talks, the friendly looks, the keen interest shown in my daily pursuits, were now things of the past. A few professional inquiries, directions about the treatment, now and then a brief order to me, too peremptory to be a compliment, not to over-tire myself, or to go home to rest,—this was all our intercourse. And yet, in spite of his guarded looks and words, I was often triumphant, even happy.

Outwardly, and to all appearance, I was left alone, but I knew that it was far otherwise in reality. I was most strictly watched. Nothing escaped his scrutiny. At the first sign of fatigue he was ready to take my place, or find help for me. Mrs. Saunders, the mistress of the Man and Plough, told me more than once that the doctor had been most particular in telling her to look after me. Nor was this all.

Once or twice, when I had been singing in the summer twilight, I had risen suddenly to lower a blind or admit Tinker, and had seen a tall, dark figure moving away behind the laurel bushes, and knew that it was Mr. Hamilton returning from some late visit and lingering in the dusky road to listen to me.

After I had discovered this for the third time, I began to think he came on purpose to hear me. My heart beat happily at the thought. In spite of his displeasure with me, he could not keep away from the cottage.

After this I sang every evening regularly for an hour, and always in the gloaming: it became my one pleasure, for I knew I was singing to him. Now and then I was rewarded by a sight of his shadow. More than once I saw him clearly in the moonlight. When I closed my piano, I used to whisper 'Good-night, Giles,' and go to bed almost happy. It was a little hard to meet him the next morning in Janet's room and answer his dry matter-of-fact questions. Sometimes I had to turn away to hide a smile.

Gladys's first visit was very disappointing. But everything was disappointing in those days. She had her old harassed look, and seemed worried and miserable, and for once I had no heart to cheer her, only I held her close, very close, feeling that she was dearer to me than ever.

She looked in my face rather inquiringly as she disengaged herself, and then smiled faintly.

'I could not come before, Ursula; and you have never been to see me,' a little reproachfully, 'though I looked for you every afternoon. I have no Lady Betty, you know, and things have been worse than ever. I cannot think what has come to Etta. She is always spiteful and sneering when Giles is not by. And as for Giles, I do not know what is the matter with him.'

'How do you mean?' I faltered, hunting in my work basket for some silk that was lying close to my hand.

'That is more than I can say,' she returned pointedly. 'Have you and Giles had a quarrel, Ursula? I thought that evening that you were the best of friends, and that—' But here she hesitated, and her lovely eyes seemed to ask for my confidence; but I could not speak even to Gladys of such things, so I only answered, in a business-like tone,—

'It is true that your brother does not seem as friendly with me just now; but I do not know how I have offended him. He has rather a peculiar temper, as you have often told me: most likely I have gone against some of his prejudices.' I felt I was answering Gladys in rather a reckless fashion, but I could not bear even the touch of her sympathy on such a wound. She looked much distressed at my reply.

'Oh no, you never offend Giles. He thinks far too much of you to let any difference of opinion come between you. I see you do not wish me to ask you, Ursula; but I must say one thing. If you want Giles to tell you why he is hurt or distant with you,—why his manner is different, I mean,—ask him plainly what Etta has been saying to him about you.'

I felt myself turning rather pale. 'Are you sure that Miss Darrell has been talking about me, Gladys?'

'I have not heard her do so,' was the somewhat disappointing reply, for I had hoped then that she had heard something. 'But I was quite as sure of the fact as though my ears convicted her. I have only circumstantial evidence again to offer you, but to my mind it is conclusive. You parted friends that evening with Giles. Correct me if I am wrong.'

'Oh no; you are quite right. Your brother and I had no word of disagreement.'

'No; he left the house radiant. When he returned, which was not for an hour,—for he and Etta were out all that time in the garden, and they sent Lady Betty in to finish her packing,—he was looking worried and miserable, and shut himself up in his study. Since then he has been in one of his taciturn, unsociable moods: nothing pleases him. He takes no notice of us. Even Etta is scolded, but she bears it good-humouredly and takes her revenge on me afterwards. A pleasant state of things, Ursula!'

'Very,' I returned, sighing, for I thought this piece of evidence conclusive enough.

'Now you will be good,' she went on, in a coaxing voice, 'and you will ask Giles, like a reasonable woman, what Etta has been saying to him?'

'Indeed, I shall do no such thing,' I answered. And my cheek began to flush. 'If your brother is ungenerous enough to condemn me unheard, I shall certainly not interfere with his notions of justice. Do not trouble yourself about it, Gladys. It will come right some day. And indeed it does not matter so much to me, except it keeps us apart.'

Now why, when I spoke so haughtily and disagreeably, and told this little fib, did Gladys suddenly take me in her arms and kiss me most sorrowfully and tenderly?

'One after another!' she sighed. 'Oh, it is hard, Ursula!' But I would not let her talk any more about it, for I was afraid I was breaking down and might make a goose of myself: so I spoke of Eric, and told her that I had written to Joe Muggins without success, and soon turned her thoughts into another channel.



CHAPTER XXXVII

'I CLAIM THAT PROMISE, URSULA'

It was soon after this that Uncle Max came home.

I met Mr. Tudor in the village one morning, and he told me with great glee that they had just received a telegram telling them that he was on his way, and an hour after his arrival he came down to the cottage.

Directly I heard his 'Well, little woman, how has the world treated you in my absence?' I felt quite cheered, and told my little fib without effort:

'Very well indeed, thank you, Max.'

It is really a psychological puzzle to me why women who are otherwise strictly true and honourable in their dealings and abhor the very name of falsehood are much addicted to this sort of fibbing under certain circumstances; for instance, the number of white lies that I actually told at that time was something fabulous, yet the sin of hypocrisy did not lie very heavily on my soul.

When I assured Uncle Max with a smiling face that things were well with me, his only answer was to take my chin in his hand and turn my face quietly to the light.

'Are you quite sure you are speaking the truth? You look rather thin; and why are your eyes so serious, little she bear?'

'It is such hot weather,' I returned, wincing under his kindly scrutiny. 'And we—that is, I have had anxious work lately. I wrote to you about poor Janet Coombe. It is a miracle that she has pulled through this illness.'

'Yes, indeed: I met Hamilton just now on his way to her, and he declared her recovery was owing to your nursing; but we will take that with a grain of salt, Ursula: we both know how devoted Hamilton is to his patients.'

'He has saved her life,' was my reply, and for a moment my eyes grew dim at the remembrance of the untiring patience with which he had watched beside the poor girl. It was in the sick-room that I first learned to know him,—when metaphorically I sat at his feet, and he taught me lessons of patience and tenderness that I should never forget until my life's end.

When we had talked about this a little while, Max asked me rather abruptly when Captain Hamilton was expected. The question startled me, for I had almost forgotten his existence.

'I do not know,' I returned uneasily, for I was afraid Max would think I had been remiss. 'Lady Betty is away, and I have only seen Gladys twice since my return, and each time I forgot to ask her.'

'Only twice, and you have been at home more than three weeks,' observed Max, in a dissatisfied voice.

'I have been so engaged,' I replied quickly, 'and you know how seldom Gladys comes to the cottage. Max, do you know you have been here a quarter of an hour, and I have never congratulated you on your good fortune! I was so glad to hear Mrs. Trevor left you that money.'

'I did not need it,' he returned, rather gloomily. 'I had quite sufficient for my own wants. I do not think that I am particularly mercenary, Ursula: the books and antiquities were more to my taste.'

Max was certainly not in the best of spirits, but I did all I could to cheer him. I told him of Gladys's improved looks, and how much her change had benefited her, but he listened rather silently. I saw he was bent on learning Captain Hamilton's movements, and reproached myself that I had not questioned Gladys. I was determined that I would speak to her about her cousin the next time we met.

Max went away soon after this; he was rather tired with his journey, he said; but the next morning I received a note from him asking me to dine with him the following evening, as he had seen so little of me lately, and he wanted to hear all about the wedding.

Of course I was too glad to accept this invitation,—I always liked to go to the vicarage,—and this evening proved especially pleasant.

Max roused himself for my benefit, and Mr. Tudor seemed in excellent spirits, and we joked Uncle Max a great deal about his fortune, and after dinner we made a pilgrimage through the house, to see what new furniture was needed.

Max accompanied us, looking very bored, and entered a mild protest to most of our remarks. He certainly agreed to a new carpet for the study and a more comfortable chair, but he turned a perfectly deaf ear when Mr. Tudor proposed that the drawing-room should be refurnished.

'It is such a pretty room, Mr. Cunliffe,' he remonstrated; 'and it will be ready by the time you want to get married. Mother Drabble's arrangement of chairs and tables is simply hideous. I was quite ashamed when Mrs. Maberley and her daughter called the other day.'

'Nonsense, Lawrence!' returned Max, rather sharply. 'What do two bachelors want with a drawing-room at all? You and Ursula may talk as much as you like, but I do not mean to throw away good money on such nonsense. We will have a new book-case and writing-table, and fit up the little gray room as your study—and, well, perhaps I may buy a new carpet, but nothing more.' And we were obliged to be content with this.

Max brought out a couple of wicker chairs on the terrace presently, and proposed that we should have our coffee out of doors. Mr. Tudor grumbled a little, because he had a letter to write; but I was not sorry when he left me alone with Max. I really liked Mr. Tudor, but we were neither of us in the mood for his good-natured chatter.

'I think old Lawrence is very much improved,' observed Max, as we watched his retreating figure. 'His sermons have more ballast, and he is altogether grown. I begin to have hopes of him now.'

'He is older, of course,' I remarked oracularly, wondering what Max would say if he knew the truth. 'Well, Max, did you go up to Gladwyn last night?'

'Yes,' he returned, with a quick sigh, 'and Hamilton made me stay to dinner. I have found out about Captain Hamilton. He cannot get leave just yet, and they do not expect him until the end of November.'

'I am sorry to hear that. Do you not wish that you had taken my advice now, and gone down to Bournemouth?' But a most emphatic 'No' on Max's part was my answer to this.

'I am very thankful I did nothing of the kind,' he returned, a little irritably. 'You meant well, Ursula, but it would have been a mistake.'

'Hamilton told me about his cousin,' he went on; 'but his sister was in the room. She coloured very much and looked embarrassed directly Claude's name was mentioned.'

'That was because Miss Darrell was there.' But I should have been wiser and, held my tongue.

'You are wrong again,' he returned calmly. 'Miss Darrell was dining at the Maberleys', and never came in until I was going.'

'How very strange!' was my comment to this.

'Not stranger than Miss Hamilton's manner the whole evening, I never felt more puzzled. When I came in she was alone. Hamilton did not follow me for five minutes. She came across the room to meet me, with one of her old smiles, and I thought she really seemed glad to see me; but afterwards she was quite different. Her manner changed and grew listless. She did not try to entertain me; she left me to talk to her brother. I don't think she looks well, Ursula. Hamilton asked her once if her head ached, and if she felt tired, and she answered that her head was rather bad. I thought she looked extremely delicate.'

'Oh, Gladys is never a robust woman. She is almost always pale.'

'It is not that,' he returned decidedly. 'I consider she looked very ill. I don't believe the change has done her the least good. There is something on her mind: no doubt she is longing for her cousin.'

I thought it well to remain silent, though Max's account made me anxious. If only I could have spoken to him about Eric! Most likely Gladys was fretting because there was no news from Joe Muggins. She was certainly not fit for any fresh anxiety. I felt my banishment from Gladwyn acutely. If Gladys were ill or dispirited, she would need me more than any one.

I think both Max and I were sorry when Mr. Tudor came back and interrupted our conversation. He carried me off presently to show me some improvements in the kitchen-garden; but Max was too lazy to join us, and we had quite a confidential talk, walking up and down between the apple-trees. Mr. Tudor told me that, after all, he was becoming fond of his profession, and that the old women did not bore him quite so much. When we returned, Max was not on the lawn, but a few minutes afterwards he appeared at the study window.

'I was just speaking to Hamilton,' he said. 'He came while you were in the kitchen-garden, but he was in a hurry and could not wait. By the bye, he told me that I was not to let you sit out there any longer, as the dews are so heavy. So come in, my dear.'

I obeyed Max without a word. He had been here, and I had missed him! Everything was flat after that.

I took my leave early, feeling as though all my merriment had suddenly dried up. How would he have met me? I wondered. Would Max have noticed anything different? 'How long will this state of things go on?' I thought, as I bade Max good-bye in the porch.

I waited for some days for Gladys to come to me, and then I wrote to her just a few lines, begging her to have tea with me the following afternoon; but two or three hours afterwards Chatty brought me a note.

'Do not think me unkind, Ursula,' she wrote, 'if I say that it is better for us not to meet just now. I have twice been on my way to you, and Etta has prevented my coming each time. My life just now is unendurable. Giles notices nothing. I sometimes think Etta must be possessed, to treat me as she does: I can see no reason for it. I hope I am not getting ill, but I do not seem as though I could rouse myself to contend with her. I do not sleep well, and my head pains me. If I get worse, I must speak to Giles: I cannot be ill in this place.'

Gladys's letter made me very anxious. There was a tone about it that seemed as though her nerves were giving way. The heat was intense, and most likely anxiety about Eric was disturbing her night's rest. Want of sleep would be serious to Gladys's highly-strung organisation. I was determined to speak to Mr. Hamilton, or go myself to Gladwyn.

My fears were still further aroused when Sunday came and Gladys was not in her usual place. After service Miss Darrell was speaking to some friends in the porch. As I passed Mr. Hamilton I paused for a moment, to question him: 'Why was Gladys not at church? Why did she never come to see me now?'

'We might ask you that same question, I think,' he returned, rather pointedly. 'Gladys is not well: she spoke to me yesterday about herself, and I was obliged to give her a sleeping-draught. She was not awake when we left the house.'

'I will come and see her,' I replied quickly, for Miss Darrell was bearing down upon us, and I am sure she heard my last words; and as I walked home I determined to go up to Gladwyn that very evening while the family were at church.

I thought I had timed my visit well, and was much exasperated when Miss Darrell opened the door to me.

'I saw you coming,' she said, in her smooth voice, 'and so I thought I would save Leah the trouble. She is the only servant at home, and I sent her upstairs to see if Gladys wanted anything. I hope you do not expect to see Gladys to-night, Miss Garston?'

'I most certainly expect it,' was my reply. 'I have given up the evening service, hearing that she was ill.'

'It is too kind of you; but I am sorry that I could not allow it for a moment. Giles was telling me an hour ago that he could not think what ailed Gladys: he was afraid of some nervous illness for her unless she were kept quiet. I could not take the responsibility of disobeying Giles.'

'I will take the responsibility on myself,' I returned coolly. 'You forget that I am a nurse, Miss Darrell. I shall do Gladys no harm.'

'Excuse me if I must be the judge of that,' she returned, and her thin lips closed in an inflexible curve: 'in my cousin's absence I could not allow any one to go near Gladys. Leah is with her now trying to induce her to take her sleeping-draught.'

I looked at Miss Darrell, and wondered if I could defy her to her face, or whether I had better wait until I could speak to Mr. Hamilton. If Gladys were really taking her sleeping-draught, my presence in her room might excite her. If I could only know if she were telling me the truth!

My doubts were answered by Leah's entrance. Miss Darrell addressed her eagerly:

'Have you given Miss Gladys the draught, Leah?'

'Yes, ma'am, and she seems nicely inclined to sleep. She heard Miss Garston's voice, and sent me down with her love, and she is sorry not to be able to see her to-night.'

I thought it better to take my leave after this, hoping for better success next time. I watched anxiously for Mr. Hamilton the next day, but unfortunately I missed him. When I arrived at Janet's he had just left the house, and I did not meet him in the village. I was growing desperate at hearing no news of Gladys, and had determined to go up boldly to Gladwyn that very evening, when I saw Chatty coming in the direction of the cottage. She looked very nicely dressed, and her round face broke into dimples as she told me that Miss Darrell had sent her to the station, and that she meant to call in and have a chat with Mrs. Hathaway on her way, as she need not hurry back.

Jem Hathaway was pretty Chatty's sweetheart. I knew him well. He was a blacksmith, and lived with his mother in the little stone-coloured cottage that faced the green. He was an honest, steady young fellow, a great friend of Nathaniel, and Mrs. Barton often told me that she considered Chatty a lucky girl to have Jem for a sweetheart.

'And if you please, ma'am,' went on Chatty, looking round-eyed and serious, 'my mistress said that I was to give you this.' And she produced a slip of paper with a pencilled message. I knew Chatty always called Gladys her mistress: so I opened the paper eagerly:

'Why did you go away on Sunday evening without seeing me? I implored Leah to bring you up when I heard your voice talking to Etta, and when the door closed I turned quite sick with disappointment. Ursula, I must see you; they shall not keep you from me. Come up this evening at half-past seven, while they are at dinner. Chatty will let you in.'

'Very well: tell your mistress I will come,' I observed; and Chatty dropped a rustic courtesy, and said, 'Thank you, ma'am; that will do my mistress good,' and tripped on her way.

I went back into my parlour, feeling worried and excited. Gladys had sent for me, and I must go; but the idea of slipping into the house in this surreptitious way was singularly repugnant to me. I would rather have chosen a time when I knew Mr. Hamilton would be absent; but in that case I might find it impossible to obtain admittance to Gladys's room. No, I must put my own feelings aside, and follow her directions. But, in spite of this resolve, I found it impossible to settle to anything until the time came for keeping my appointment.

I arrived at Gladwyn just as the half-hour was chiming from the church clock. As I walked quickly through the shrubbery I glanced nervously up at the windows. Happily, the dining-room was at the back of the house, but Leah might be sewing in her mistress's room and see me. As this alarming thought occurred to my mind, I walked still more rapidly, but before I could raise my hand to the bell the door opened noiselessly, and Chatty's smiling face welcomed me.

'I was watching for you,' she whispered. 'Leah is in the housekeeper's room, and master and Miss Darrell are at dinner. You can go up to my mistress at once.'

I needed no further invitation. As I passed the dining-room door I could hear Miss Darrell's little tinkling laugh and Mr. Hamilton's deep voice answering her. The next moment Thornton came out of the room, and I had only time to whisk round the corner. I confess this narrow escape very much alarmed me, and my heart beat a little quickly as I tapped at Gladys's door; then, as I heard her weak 'Come in,' I entered.

The room was full of some pungent scent, hot and unrefreshing. Some one had moved the dressing-table, and Gladys lay on a couch in the circular window, within the curtained enclosure. I always thought it the prettiest window in the house. It looked full on the oak avenue, and on the elms, where the rooks had built their nests. There was a glimpse of the white road, too, and the blue smoke from the chimneys of Maplehurst was plainly visible.

The evening sunshine was streaming full on Gladys's pale face, and my first action after kissing her was to lower the blind. I was glad of the excuse for turning away a moment, for her appearance gave me quite a shock.

She looked as though she had been ill for weeks. Her face looked dark and sunken, and the blue lines were painfully visible round her temples. Her forehead was contracted, as though with severe pain, and her eyes were heavy and feverish. When she raised her languid eyelids and looked at me, a sudden fear contracted my heart.

'Ursula, thank God you have come!'

'We must always thank Him, dearest, whatever happens,' I returned, as I knelt down by her and took her burning hand in mine. 'And now you must tell me what is wrong with you, and why I find you like this.'

'I do not know,' she whispered, almost clinging to me. And it struck me then that she was frightened about herself. 'As I told Giles, I feel very ill. The heat tries me, and my head always aches,—such a dull, miserable pain; and, most of all, I cannot sleep, and all sorts of horrid thoughts come to me. Sometimes in the night, when I am quite alone, I feel as though I were light-headed and should lose my senses. Oh, Ursula, if this goes on, what will become of me?'

'We will talk about that presently. Tell me, have you ever been ill in this way before?'

'Yes, last summer, only not so bad. But I had the pain and the sleeplessness then. Giles was so good to me. He said I wanted change, and he took a little cottage at Westgate-on-Sea and sent me down with Lady Betty and Chatty, and I soon got all right.'

'So I thought. And now—'

'Oh, it is different this time,' she replied nervously. 'I did not have dreadful thoughts then, or feel frightened, as I do now. Ursula, I know I am very ill. If you leave me to Etta and Leah, I shall get worse. I have sent for you to-night to remind you of your promise.'

'What promise?' I faltered. But of course I knew what she meant. A sense of wretchedness had been slowly growing on me as she talked. If it should come to that,—that I must remain under his roof! I felt a tingling sense of shame and humiliation at the bare idea.

'Of your solemn promise, most solemnly uttered,' she repeated, 'that if I were ill you would come and nurse me. I claim that promise, Ursula.'

'Is it absolutely necessary that I should come?' I asked, in a distressed voice, for all at once life seemed too difficult to me. How had I deserved this fresh pain!

In a moment her manner grew more excited.

'Necessary! If you leave me to Etta's tender mercies I shall die. But no—no! you could not be so cruel. They are making me take those horrid draughts now, and I know she gives me too much. I get so confused, but it is not sleep. My one terror is that I shall say things I do not mean, about—well, never mind that. And then she will say that my brain is queer. She has hinted it already, when I was excited at your going away. There is nothing too cruel for her to say to me. She hates me, and I do not know why.'

'Hush! I cannot have you talk so much,' for her excitement alarmed me. 'Remember, I am your nurse now,—a very strict one, too, as you will find. Yes, I will keep my promise. I will not leave you, darling.'

'You promise that? You will not go away to-night?'

'I shall not leave you until you are well again,' I returned, with forced cheerfulness. But if she knew how keenly I felt my cruel position, how sick and trembling I was at heart! What would he think of me? No, I must not go into that. Gladys had asked this sacrifice of me. She had thrown herself on my compassion. I would not forsake her. 'God knows my integrity and innocence of intention. I will not be afraid to do my duty to this suffering human creature,' I said to myself. And with this my courage revived, and I felt that strength would be given me for all that I had to do.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

IN THE TURRET-ROOM

My promise to stay with Gladys soothed her at once, and she lay back on her pillows and closed her aching eyes contentedly, while I sat down and wrote a hasty note to Mrs. Barton.

When I had finished it, I said quietly that I was going downstairs in search of her brother; and when she looked a little frightened at this, I made her understand, in as few words as possible, that it was necessary for me to obtain his sanction, both as doctor and master of the house, and then we should have nothing to fear from Miss Darrell. And when I had said this she let me go more willingly.

My errand was not a pleasant one, and I felt very sorry for myself as I walked slowly downstairs hoping that I should find Mr. Hamilton alone in his study; but they must have lingered longer than usual over dessert, for before I reached the hall the dining-room door opened, and they came out together; and Miss Darrell paused for a moment under the hall lamp.

She was very much overdressed, as usual, in an eau de Nile gown, trimmed with costly lace: her gold bangles jangled as she fanned herself.

'Come out into the garden, Giles,' she said, with a ladylike yawn; 'it is so hot indoors. I thought you said that you expected Mr. Cunliffe.'

'Perhaps he will be here by and by,' returned Mr. Hamilton; and then he looked up and saw me.

'Miss Garston!' he ejaculated, as though he could scarcely believe his eyes, and Miss Darrell broke into an angry little laugh; but I took no notice of her. I determined to speak out boldly what I had to say.

'Mr. Hamilton,' I said quickly, 'I have seen Gladys. I am quite shocked at her appearance: she certainly looks very ill. If you will allow me, I should like to remain and nurse her.'

'But you must allow no such thing, Giles,' interfered his cousin sharply. 'I have always nursed poor dear Gladys myself, and no one understands her as I do.'

'Gladys sent for me just now,' I went on firmly, without taking any notice of this speech, 'to beg me to remain with her. She has set her heart on my nursing her, and she reminded me of my promise.'

'What promise?' he asked, rather harshly; but I noticed that he looked disturbed and ill at ease.

'Some months ago, just before Gladys went to Bournemouth, she asked me to make her a promise, that if she were ever ill in this house I would give up my work and come and nurse her. She was perfectly well then,—at least, in her ordinary health,—and I saw no harm in giving her the promise. She claims from me now the fulfilment.'

'Very extraordinary,' observed Miss Darrell, in a sneering voice. 'But then dear Gladys was always a little odd and romantic. You remember I warned you some time ago, Giles, that if we were not careful and firm—'

'Pshaw!' was the impatient answer, and I continued pleadingly,—

'Gladys seems to me in a weak, nervous state, and I do not think it would be wise to thwart her in this. Sick people must be humoured sometimes. I think you could trust me to watch over her most carefully.'

'Giles, I will not answer for the consequences if Miss Garston nurses Gladys,' interposed Miss Darrell eagerly. 'You have no idea how she excites her. They talk, and have mysteries together, and Gladys is always more low-spirited when she has seen Miss Garston. You know I have only dear Gladys's interest at heart, and in a serious nervous illness like this—' But he interrupted her.

'Etta, this is no affair of yours: you can leave me, if you please, to make arrangements for my sister. I am very much obliged to you, Miss Garston, for offering to nurse Gladys, but there was no need of all this explanation; you might have known, I think, that I was not likely to refuse.'

He spoke coldly, and his face looked dark and inflexible, but I could see he was watching me. I am sure I perplexed and baffled him that night: as I thanked him warmly for his consent, he checked me almost irritably:

'Nonsense! the thanks are on our side, as we shall reap the benefit of your services. What shall you do about your other patients, may I ask?'

'I will tell you,' I returned, not a bit daunted either by his irritability or sternness. In my heart I knew that he was glad that I had asked this favour of him. Oh, I understood him too well to be afraid of his moods now!

'I must ask you to help me,' I went on. 'Will you kindly send that note to Mrs. Barton. It is to beg her to furnish me with all I need.'

'Thornton shall take it at once,' he returned promptly.

'Thank you. Now about my poor people. Little Jessie still needs care, and Janet will be an invalid for some time. I do not wish them to miss me.'

His face softened; a half-smile came to his lips. 'There is only one village nurse,' he said dubiously.

'True, but I think I can find an excellent substitute. Do you remember my speaking to you of a young nurse at St. Thomas's who was obliged to leave from ill health? She is better now, only not fit for hospital work. I am thinking of writing to her, and asking her to occupy my rooms at the cottage for a week or two until Gladys is better. Change of air will do Miss Watson good, and it will not hurt her to look after Janet and little Jessie.'

Mr. Hamilton looked pleased at this suggestion,—'an excellent idea,' and, as though by an afterthought, 'a very kind one. I did not wish to add to your burdens, but Janet Coombe is hardly out of the wood yet.'

Miss Darrell tittered scornfully. As I glanced at her, I saw she was dragging her gold bangles over her arm until there was a red line on the flesh. Her eyes looked dark and glittering, but she was obliged to suppress her anger.

'Janet Coombe is only a poor servant. The work is not so attractive to Miss Garston, I should think,' she said, in a tone so suggestive that the blood rushed to my face. Women know how to stab sometimes. Happily, Mr. Hamilton's common sense came to my aid. I quieted down directly at the first sound of his voice.

'What makes you so uncharitable, Etta? We all know our village nurse too well to believe that insinuation. If Gladys be only nursed with half the tenderness that was shown to Janet, I shall be quite content to leave her under Miss Garston's care.' Then, turning to me, with something of his old cordial manner, 'Well, it is all settled, is it not, that you remain here to-night? Is there anything else you wish to say to me?'

'Only one thing,' I replied quietly. 'Will you kindly give orders that Gladys's little maid, Chatty, waits upon the sick-room? Leah seems to have taken that office upon herself lately, and Gladys has a great dislike to her.'

'Really, this passes everything!' exclaimed Miss Darrell angrily. 'What has my poor Leah done, to be set aside in this way?'

'She is your maid, is she not, Etta?'

'Yes; but, Giles—'

'And Chatty always waits on my sisters. It is certainly not Leah's business to wait on the turret-room.'

'Leah,' raising his voice a little, as Leah came downstairs with a tray of linen, 'I want to speak to you a moment. Miss Garston has undertaken to nurse my sister, and all her orders are to be carried out. Chatty is to attend to the sick-room for the future; there is no need for you to neglect your mistress.'

'Very well, sir,' replied the woman civilly; but he did not see the look she gave me. I had made an enemy of Leah from that moment: neither she nor her mistress would ever forgive me that slight.

'If Miss Garston has no more orders to give me,' observed Miss Darrell, with ill-concealed temper, 'I may as well go, for I am rather tired of this, Giles.' And she followed Leah, and we could hear them whispering in the little passage leading to the housekeeper's room.

'You must not mind Etta's little show of temper,' remarked Mr. Hamilton apologetically. 'She is rather put out because Gladys prefers your nursing. Between ourselves, she is a little too fussy to suit a nervous invalid; but she is kind-hearted and means well. I was rather sorry for her just now, but I know how to bring her round.'

'I am no favourite with Miss Darrell,' I returned, wondering secretly at his blind infatuation for his cousin.

'No; it is easy to see that you do not understand each other. Etta was not quite fair to you just now. That is why I spoke so decidedly. I will have no interference with the sick-room: you will have to account to me, but to no one else.'

I did not venture to raise my eyes. I was so afraid they might betray me. How could I repent my trust in such a man? I felt I could wait cheerfully for years, until he chose to break down the barrier between us.

I bade him good-night, after this, and hurried back to Gladys. I had no idea that he was following me. As I closed the door, I said, in quite a gay tone,—

'Well, darling, I always told you your brother was your best friend, and he has proved the truth of my words. I knew we could trust him—' But a knock at the door interrupted me. I felt rather confused when he entered, for I knew I must have been overheard; but he took no notice, and went straight up to Gladys.

'You see, it is to be as you wished,' he said pleasantly, 'and Miss Garston has installed herself here as your nurse. Is your mind easier now, you foolish child?'

'Oh yes, Giles, and I am so much obliged to you; it is so good of you to allow it.'

'Humph! I don't see the goodness much; but never mind that now: you must promise me to do all Miss Garston tells you, and get well as soon as you can. Make up your mind, my dear, that you will try and overcome all these nervous fancies.'

'Yes, Giles,' very faintly.

'You have let yourself get rather too low, and so it will be hard work to pull you up again; but we mean to do it between us, eh, Miss Garston?'

I told him that I hoped Gladys would soon be better.

'Oh yes; but Rome was not built in a day,' patting her hand: 'we want a little time and patience, that is all.' And he was leaving the room, when her languid voice recalled him:

'I mean to be good, and give as little trouble as possible,—and—and—I should like you to kiss me, Giles.'

I saw a dusky flush come to his face as he stooped and kissed her. I knew it was the first time that she had ever voluntarily kissed him since Eric's loss.

'Good-night, my dear,' he said, very gently; but he did not look at me as he left the room.

I put Gladys to bed after this, with Chatty's help. She was very faint and exhausted, and I sat down in the moonlight to watch her. My thoughts were busy enough. There would be little sleep for me that night, I knew. It was so strange for me to be under that roof,—so strange and so sweet that I should be serving him and his; and then I thought of Uncle Max, and how troubled he would be to hear of Gladys's illness, and I determined to write to him the next day.

I was rather startled later on, when most of the household had retired to rest, to hear a gentle tap at the door.

Of course it was Mr. Hamilton, and I went into the passage, half closing the door behind me.

'Is she asleep?' he asked anxiously, as he noticed this action.

'No, not asleep, but quite drowsy. I have given her the draught as you wished, but it is singular how she objects to it. She says it only confuses her head, and gives her nightmare.'

'We must quiet her by some means,' he returned; and I saw by the light of the lamp he carried that his face looked rather grave. 'Perhaps you did not know that Etta and I were up with her last night. She was in a condition that bordered on delirium.'

'No; I certainly did not know that.'

'She may be better to-night,' he returned quickly: 'her mind is more at rest. Poor child! I cannot understand what has brought on this state of disordered nerves.'

'Nor I.'

'It is very sad altogether. It is a great relief to me to know you are with her. I must have had a professional nurse, for Etta's fussiness was driving her crazy. Now, Miss Garston,' in a business-like tone, 'I want to know how they have provided for your comfort. Where do you sleep to-night?'

I could not suppress a smile, for I knew that there had been no provision made for my accommodation: the whole household had metaphorically washed their hands of me.

'I shall rest very well on the couch,' I returned, unwilling to disturb him.

'Good heavens!' he exclaimed, looking excessively displeased. 'Do you mean that Lady Betty's room has not been got ready for you? I told Leah myself, as Chatty was in the sick-room; and she certainly understood me. This shall be looked into to-morrow. Leah will find I am not to be disobeyed with impunity. I thought Lady Betty's room would do so well for you, as there is a door of communication, and if you left it open you could hear Gladys in a moment.'

'Never mind to-night,' I returned cheerfully. 'I am quite fresh, and shall not need much sleep. No doubt the room will be ready for me to-morrow.'

'Well, I suppose it is too late to disturb them now; but I feel very much ashamed of our inhospitality.' Then, in rather an embarrassed voice, 'I am afraid I must have seemed rather ungracious in my manner downstairs, but I am really very grateful to you.'

This was too much for me. 'Please don't talk of being grateful to me, Mr. Hamilton,' I returned, rather too impulsively. 'You do not know how glad I am to do anything for you—all.' The word 'all' was added as though by an afterthought, and came in a little awkwardly.

There was a sudden gleam in Mr. Hamilton's eyes; he seemed about to speak; impetuous words were on his tongue, then he checked himself.

'Thank you. Good-night, Nurse Ursula,' he said, very kindly, and I went back to Gladys, feeling happier than I had felt since that afternoon when he had given me the roses.

Gladys was quieter that night; she slept fitfully and uneasily, and moaned a little as though she were conscious of pain, but there was no alarming excitement.

Early the next morning I heard them preparing Lady Betty's room, and once when I went into the passage in search of Chatty I met Leah coming out with a dusting-brush: she looked very sullen, and took no notice of my greeting. Chatty helped me arrange my goods and chattels: as we worked together she told me confidentially that master had been scolding Leah, and had told her she ought to be ashamed of herself, and when Miss Darrell had taken her part he had been angry with her too. 'Thornton says Miss Darrell has been crying, and has not eaten a mouthful of breakfast,' went on Chatty; but I silenced these imprudent communications. It was quite evident that I was a bone of contention in the household, and that Mr. Hamilton would have some difficulty in subduing Leah's contumacy.

I wrote to Ellen Watson that morning, and soon received a rapturous acceptance of my invitation. She would be delighted to come to the cottage and to look after my poor people.

'I am very much stronger,' she wrote, 'but I must not go back to the hospital for two months: a breath of country air will be delicious, and it is so good of you, my dear Miss Garston, to think of me. I am sure Mrs. Barton will make me comfortable, and I will do all I can for poor Janet Coombe and that dear little burnt child.'

I showed Mr. Hamilton the letter, and while he was reading it Chatty brought me word that Uncle Max was waiting to speak to me.

'If you like to go down to him I will wait here until you come back,' he said; and I was too glad to avail myself of this offer, for Gladys seemed more suffering and restless than usual. I found Max walking up and down the drawing-room. As he came forward to meet me his face looked quite old and haggard.

'I am glad you have not kept me waiting, Ursula. I sent up that message in spite of Leah's telling me that you never left the sick-room.'

'Leah is wrong,' I replied coolly. 'Mr. Hamilton insists on my going in the garden for at least half an hour daily, while Chatty takes my place. I cannot stay long, Max, but all the same I am glad you sent for me.'

'I felt I must see you,' he returned, rather huskily. 'Letters are so unsatisfactory; but it was good of you to write, always so kind and thoughtful, my dear.' He paused for a moment as though to recover himself. 'She is very ill, Ursula?'

'Very ill.'

'How gravely you speak! Are things worse than you told me? You do not mean to tell me there is absolute danger?'

'Oh no; certainly not; but it is very sad to see her in such a state. Her nerves have quite broken down; all these three years have told on her, and there seems some fresh trouble on her mind!'

'God forbid!' he returned quickly.

'Ay, God forbid, for He alone knows what is burdening the mind of this young creature: she is too weak to throw off her nervous fancies. She blames herself for harbouring such gloomy thoughts, and it distresses her not to be able to control them. The night is her worst time. If we could only conquer this sleeplessness! I have sad work with her sometimes.'

I spared Max further particulars: he was harassed and anxious enough. I would not harrow up his feelings by telling him how often that feeble, piteous voice roused me from my light slumbers; how, hurrying to her bedside, I would find Gladys bathed in tears, and cold and trembling in every limb, and how she would cling to me, pouring out an incoherent account of some vague shadowy terror that was on her.

There were other things I could have told him: how in that semi-delirium his name, as well as Etta's, was perpetually on her lips, uttered in a tone sometimes tender, but more often reproachful, sometimes in a very anguish of regret. Now I understood why she dreaded Etta's presence in her room: she feared betraying herself to those keen ears. Often after one of these outbursts she would strive to collect her scattered faculties.

'Have I been talking nonsense, Ursula?' she would ask, in a tremulous voice. 'I have been dreaming, I think, and the pain in my head confuses me so: do not let me talk so much.' But I always succeeded in soothing her.

If I read her secret, it was safe with me. I must know more before I could help either her or him. If she would only get well enough for me to talk to her, I knew what to say; and I did all I could to console Max. But I could not easily allay his anxiety or my own; it was impossible to conceal from him that she was in a precarious state, and that unless the power of sleep returned to her there was danger of actual brain-fever; in her morbid condition one knew not what to fear. Perfect quiet, patience, and tenderness were the only means to be employed. As I moved about the cool, dark room, where no uneasy lights and shadows fretted her weakened eyes, I could not help remembering the comfortless glare and the hot, pungent scents that Miss Darrell had left behind her. Most likely she had rustled over the matting in her silk gown, and her hard, metallic voice had rasped the invalid's nerves. Doubtless there was hope for her now in her brother's skilful treatment, and when I told Max so he went away a little comforted.



CHAPTER XXXIX

WHITEFOOT IS SADDLED

After the first day or so the strangeness and novelty of my position wore off, and I settled down to my work in the sick-room.

Chatty waited upon us very nicely; but Miss Darrell never came near us. Once a day a formal message was brought by Chatty asking after the invalid. I used to think this somewhat unnecessary, as Mr. Hamilton could report his sister's progress at breakfast-time.

When I encountered Miss Darrell on my way to the garden I always accosted her with marked civility; her manner would be a little repelling in return, and she would answer me very coldly. In spite of her outward politeness, I think she was a little afraid of me at that time. I always felt that a concealed sneer lay under her words. She made it clearly understood that she considered that I had forced myself into the house for my own purposes. Under these conditions I thought it better to avoid these encounters as much as possible.

I saw Uncle Max two or three times. He had timed his visits purposely that he might join me in my stroll in the garden. We had made the arrangement to meet in this way daily. Max's society and sympathy would have been a refreshment to me, but we were obliged to discontinue the practice. Max never appeared without Miss Darrell following a few minutes afterwards. She would come out of the house, brisk and smiling, in grande toilette,—to take a turn in the shrubberies, as she said. Max would look at me and very soon take his leave. At last he told me dejectedly that we might as well give it up, as Miss Darrell was determined that he should not speak to me alone: so after that I contrived to send him daily notes by Chatty, who was always delighted to do an errand in the village.

'I can't think what makes Miss Darrell so curious, ma'am,' the girl once said to me. 'She asks me every day if I have been down to the vicarage. She did it while master was by the other afternoon, and he told her quite sharply that it was no affair of hers.'

'Never mind that, Chatty.'

'Oh, but I am afraid she means mischief, ma'am,' persisted Chatty, who had a great dislike to Miss Darrell, which she showed by being somewhat pert to her, 'for she said in such a queer tone to master, "There, I told you so: now you will believe me," and master looked as though he were not pleased.'

As I strolled round the garden in Nap's company I often saw Leah sitting sewing at her mistress's window: she would put down her work and watch me until I was out of sight. I felt the woman hated me, and this surveillance was very unpleasant to me. I never felt quite free until I reached the kitchen-garden.

Mr. Hamilton visited his sister's room regularly three times a day. He never stayed long: he would satisfy himself about her condition, say a few cheerful words to her, and that was all.

His manner to me was grave and professional. Now and then, when he had given his directions, he would ask me if there were anything he could do for me, and if I were comfortable: and yet, in spite of his reserve and guarded looks and words, I felt an atmosphere of protection and comfort surrounding me that I had not known since Charlie's death.

Every day I had proofs of his thought for me. The flowers and fruits that were sent into the sick-room were for me as well as Gladys. I was often touched to see how some taste of mine had been remembered and gratified: sometimes Chatty would tell me that master had given orders that such a thing should be provided for Miss Garston; and in many other ways he made me feel that I was not forgotten.

For some days Gladys continued very ill; she slept fitfully and uneasily, waking in terror from some dream that escaped her memory. I used to hear her moaning, and be beside her before she opened her eyes. 'It is only a nightmare,' I would say to her as she clung to me like a frightened child; but it was not always easy to banish the grisly phantoms of a diseased and overwrought imagination. The morbid condition of her mind was aggravated and increased by physical weakness; at the least exertion she had fainting-fits that alarmed us.

She told me more than once that a sense of sin oppressed her; she must be more wicked than other people, or she thought Providence would not permit her to be so unhappy. Sometimes she blamed herself with influencing Eric wrongly: she ought not to have taken his part against his brother. '"He that hateth his brother is a murderer." Ursula, there were times, I am sure, when I hated Giles.' And with this thought upon her she would beg him to forgive her when he next came into the room.

He never seemed surprised at these exaggerated expressions of penitence: he treated it all as part of her malady.

'Very well, I will forgive you, my dear,' he would say, feeling her pulse. 'Have you taken your medicine, Gladys?'

'Oh, but, Giles, I do feel so wretched about it all! Are you sure that you really and truly forgive me?'

'Quite sure,' he returned, smiling at her. 'Now you must shut your eyes, like a good child, and go to sleep.' But, though she tried to obey him, I could see she was not satisfied: tears rolled down her cheeks from under her closed eyelids.