Mrs. Castillyon passed a sleepless, unquiet night, and looking at herself in the glass next morning, was shocked at her haggard countenance; but she was determined that Reggie during this final interview should discern no sign of her distress, and coming down to breakfast, was to all appearance in the highest spirits. She noticed the hang-dog air with which he avoided her glance, and with angry resolution began to rally him in the somewhat obvious fashion often mistaken by persons of her sort for wit. To conceal her poignant misery she kept up a flow of vapid conversation, intermingled with little shrieks of laughter and pointed by much gesticulation; but she exaggerated her spiritless vivacity so that the effect was somewhat hysterical, and Frank, whom this did not escape, wondering what thus affected her, mentally prescribed a sedative. The carriage drove round before breakfast was over, and Mrs. Bassett, fearful of missing her train, began to bid the company farewell. Mrs. Castillyon held out her hand frankly to Reggie.

“Good-bye. You must come and see us again when you have time. I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself.”

“A1,” he answered.

He could not understand the smiling carelessness of her look, wherein he saw no reproach nor anger, and asked himself uncomfortably what Grace could have in mind, He pondered slowly over the harm she could possibly do him. But he was glad of the decisive rupture, and heartily thankful the final meeting was over. He hated her the more because of the reminder that a good deal of money had passed from her hands to his.

“She knew I couldn’t afford to go about with her on my allowance, and I’ve spent it all on her,” he muttered to himself in extenuation.

They were in the train now, and he looked at his mother, who sat in the opposite corner of the carriage, reading the Morning Post. He would not have liked her to know the details of the affair. Again he repeated excuses to himself, at the end of which he settled to a sullen resentment against Grace because she had tempted him. Finally his thoughts went elsewhere and his heart began to beat more quickly.

But after the Bassetts and Frank were gone, Mrs. Castillyon was seized by a great dismay, and shuddered as though a cold wind blew, because she must spend two days more under the stern eyes of Paul’s mother, who seemed to watch with a vindictive triumph, as though she knew the abominable secret, and to reveal it only waited for an opportunity. Grace stood looking out of the window at the wide stretch of meadow-land and the splendid trees of the park. The sky was gray, covering the earth with a certain sad monotony which answered her mood, depressed after the forced excitement of the early morning. Paul came up behind her, and placed his arm round her waist.

“Are you very tired, darling?” he asked.

She shook her head, trying to smile, touched, as of late she had been often, by the gentleness of his voice.

“I’m afraid you exhaust yourself. You were the life and spirit of the whole party. Without you we should have been almost dull.”

From force of habit an ironic and obvious repartee came to her lips, but she did not say it. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I’m beginning to feel so dreadfully old, Paul.”

“Nonsense! You’ve scarcely reached your prime. You’re looking prettier than ever.”

“D’you think so really? I suppose it’s because you care for me a little still. This morning I thought I looked a hundred and two.”

He did not answer, being more accustomed to debate than to conversation, but pressed his arm a little more closely round her waist.

“Have you never regretted that you married me, Paul? I know I’m not the sort of wife you wanted, and I’ve never brought you any children.”

He was profoundly moved, for his wife had never spoken to him in such a way before. For once the pompousness fell away from his delivery, and he answered in trembling tones, almost whispering.

“My darling, each day I thank God for you. I feel I’m not worthy of the blessing I’ve received, and I’m grateful to my Maker, very grateful, because He has given me you to be my wife.”

Grace’s lips twitched, and she clenched her hands to prevent herself from bursting into tears. He looked at her with a fond smile,

“Grace, I bought a little present for your birthday next week. May I give it you now instead of waiting?”

“Yes, do,” she smiled, “I knew you had something, and I’m so impatient.”

Quite jauntily he went off, and in a minute, somewhat out of breath from his haste, returned with a diamond ornament. Mrs. Castillyon knew something of jewellery, and her eyes glistened at the magnificence of this.

“Paul, how could you!” she cried. “How perfectly gorgeous! But I didn’t want anything half so valuable. I have so much that you’ve given me. I only wanted a tiny present to show that you still cared for me.”

He beamed with satisfaction and rubbed his hands gleefully.

“As if anything was too good for my loving, faithful wife!”

“We mustn’t show it to your mother, Paul. She’d scold awfully,” answered Grace archly.

He burst into a shout of laughter.

“No, no, hide it from her.”

Mrs. Castillyon raised her lips to his, and with ardent passion, unexpected in that stout, complacent man, he kissed her. At that moment the dogcart came to the door, and Paul, in some surprise, asked his wife if she needed it.

“Oh, I forgot,” she cried. “I’m going up to town for the day. I ought to have told you. Miss Ley is much worse than she pretends, and I think I should go and see if I can do anything.”

The night’s dreary meditation had left her with a sensible resolve to consult Miss Ley, and when the maid came to draw the blinds she had ordered the trap to take her to the station for the train after that by which her guests were going. Now glibly she invented an excuse for her journey, and refused to hear Paul’s remonstrance, who feared she would make herself ill; nor would she allow him to accompany her.

“I feel I mustn’t prevent you when you’re bent on an errand of mercy,” he said at length. “But come back as early as you can.”


Miss Ley was finishing luncheon when Mrs. Castillyon was announced.

“I thought you were entertaining at Jeyston,” she exclaimed, much surprised to see her.

“I felt I must see you or I should go mad. Oh, why didn’t you come down? I wanted you so badly.”

Miss Ley, evidently in robust health, could not repeat her plea of indisposition, and therefore, instead of explaining, offered her guest food.

“I couldn’t eat anything,” cried Grace, with a shiver of distaste. “I’m simply distracted.”

“I surmised that you were in some trouble,” murmured Miss Ley, “for I think you’ve rather overdone the—slap. Isn’t that the technical expression?”

Mrs. Castillyon put both hands to her cheeks.

“It burns me. Let me go and wash it off. I had to put it on this morning, I looked such an absolute wreck. May I go and bathe my face? It’ll cool me.”

“By all means,” answered Miss Ley, smiling, “and while Mrs. Castillyon was absent asked herself what could be the cause of this sudden excursion.

Presently Grace returned and looked in the glass. Her skin, bare of rouge and powder, was yellow and lined, and the cosmetic on her eyebrows and lashes, which water did remove, threw into more violent contrast the ghastly pallor. Instinctively she took a puff from her pocket, and quickly powdered her face; then she turned to Miss Ley.

“Did you never make up?” she asked.

“Never. I was always afraid of making myself absurd.”

“Oh, one gets over that—but I know it’s silly; I’m going to give it up.”

“You say that as tragically as though you announced your intention of going into a nunnery.”

Mrs. Castillyon glanced at the door suspiciously.

“Will no one come in?” she asked.

“No one; but for all that I recommend you to keep calm,” retorted the other, who suspected that Grace wished to make a scene, and somewhat resented the infliction.

“It’s all finished between Reggie and me. He’s thrown me over like a worn-out tie; he’s got somebody else.”

“You’re well rid of him, my dear.”

Miss Ley’s sharp eyes were intent on Mrs. Castillyon’s face, seeking therein to read the inner secret of her heart.

“You don’t care for him any more, do you?”

“No, thank God, I don’t. Oh, Miss Ley, I know you won’t believe me, but I am going to try to turn over a new leaf. During these last months I’ve seen Paul so differently. Of course, he’s absurd and pompous and dull—I know that better than anyone—but he is so kind; even now he loves me with all his heart. And he’s honest. You don’t know what it means to be with a man who’s straight to the very bottom of his soul. It’s such a relief and such a comfort!”

“My dear, it surely requires no excuses to find good qualities in one’s husband. You show a state of mind which is not only laudable, but highly original and ingenious.”

“It makes it so much harder for me,” answered Mrs. Castillyon, woebegone and tragic; “I feel such an awful cad. I can’t bear that he should trust me implicitly when I’ve behaved in such a disgusting way; I can’t bear his kindness. You guessed before that I was tortured by the desire to make a clean breast of it, and now I can’t resist any longer. This morning, when he was so sweet and gentle I could hardly restrain myself. I can’t go on; I must tell him and get it over. I would rather be divorced than continue with this perpetual lie between us.”

Miss Ley observed her for some while calmly.

“How selfish you are!” she murmured at length in an even, frigid voice. “I had an idea you were beginning to care for your husband.”

“But I do care for him,” answered Mrs. Castillyon, with astonishment.

“Surely not, or you wouldn’t wish to cause him such great unhappiness. You know very well that he dotes upon you; you are the only light and brightness in his life; if he loses his faith in you, he loses everything.”

“But it’s only honest to confess my sin.”

“Don’t you remember the proverb that open confession is good for the soul? There’s a lot of truth in it—it is very good indeed for the soul of the person who confesses; but are you sure it’s good for the listener? When you wish to tell Paul what you have done, you think only of your own peace of mind, and you disregard entirely your husband’s. It may be only an illusion that you are a beautiful woman of virtuous temper, but all things are illusion, and why on earth should you insist on destroying that of all others which Paul holds dearest? Haven’t you done him harm enough already? When I see a madman wearing a paper crown under the impression that it is fine gold, I haven’t the brutality to undeceive him; let no one shake our belief in the fancies which are the very breath of our nostrils. There are three good maxims in the conduct of life: Never sin; but if you sin, never repent; and above all, if you repent, never, never confess. Can’t you sacrifice yourself a little for the sake of the man you’ve treated so badly?”

“But I don’t understand,” cried Grace. “It’s not self-sacrifice to hold my tongue—it’s just cowardly. I want to take my punishment; I want to start fair again, so that I can look Paul in the face.”

“My dear, you have an incurable passion for rodomontade. You’re really not thinking of Paul in the least; you have merely an ardent desire to make a scene; you wish to be a martyr and abase yourself in due form. Above all, you want to rid yourself of the burden of a somewhat guilty conscience, and to do that you are perfectly indifferent how much you make others suffer. May I suggest that if you’re really sorry for what you’ve done, you can show it best by acting differently in the future; and if you hanker after punishment, you can get as much as ever you want by taking care that no word or deed of yours lets your husband into this rather odious secret.”

Mrs. Castillyon looked down, following with her eyes the pattern of the carpet; she thought over all that Miss Ley said.

“I came to you for advice,” she moaned helplessly, “and you’ve only made me more undecided than ever.”

“Pardon me,” answered the other, with considerable asperity: “you came with your mind perfectly made up, for me to approve your disinterestedness; but as I think you uncommonly stupid and selfish, I reserve my applause.”

The result of this conversation was that Mrs. Castillyon promised to hold her tongue; but on leaving Old Queen Street to catch the train back to Jeyston, she would have been puzzled to tell whether there was in her mood more of relief or of disappointment.


Mrs. Castillyon arrived at Jeyston just in time to dress for dinner, and somewhat tired by her journey, did not notice the gravity which affected the family party; she was accustomed to their dulness, and ate her food silently, wishing the meal were over. When Paul and Bainbridge came into the drawing-room afterwards, with an effort she gave her husband a smile of welcome, and made room for him on the sofa whereon she sat.

“Tell me what it is you wanted to speak about last night,” she said; “you asked for my advice, and I was too cross to give it you.”

He smiled, but his face quickly regained its serious look.

“It’s too late now; I had to decide at once. But I’d better tell you about it.”

“Fetch me my cloak, then, and we’ll stroll up and down the terrace; the light tires my eyes, and I hate talking to you always in the presence of other people.”

Paul was only too pleased to do as she suggested, and found it very delightful to wander in the pleasant starlit night; the clouds which had darkened the morning were vanished with the setting sun, and there was a delicate softness in the air. Grace took her husband’s arm, and her need for support made him feel very strong and masculine.

“A dreadful thing has happened,” he said, “and I’ve been very much upset. You remember Fanny Bridger, who went up to London last year in service? Well, she’s come back. It appears that she got into trouble. . . .” He hesitated a moment in the discomfort of telling his wife the brutal fact. “The man deserted her, and she’s returned with a baby.”

He felt a tremor pass through his wife, and wished that he had kept his second resolution, to say nothing to her.

“I know you hate to speak of such things, but I must do something. She can’t go on living here.” Fanny Bridger’s father was an under-gamekeeper on the estate, and his two sons were likewise employed. “I saw Bridger to-day, and told him his daughter must be sent away; I can’t in my position connive at immorality.”

“But where is she to go?” asked Mrs. Castillyon in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper.

“That is no business of mine. The Bridgers have been good servants for many years, and I don’t wish to be hard on them. I’ve told the old man that I’ll give him a week to find somewhere for his daughter to go.”

“And if he can’t?”

“If he can’t, it’ll be because he’s a stupid and obstinate dolt. He began to make excuses this afternoon; he talked a deal of nonsense about keeping her in his care, and that it would break his heart to send her away, and he couldn’t afford to. I thought it was no good mincing matters, so I told him if Fanny wasn’t gone for good by Tuesday next I should dismiss him and his two sons.”

Abruptly Mrs. Castillyon snatched her arm from his, and a coldness seized her; she was indignant and horrified.

“We’d better go in to your mother, Paul,” she said, knowing to whom this determination of her husband was due. “We must talk this out at once.”

Surprised at the change in her tone, Castillyon followed his wife, who walked quickly to the drawing-room and flung aside her cloak. She went up to Mrs. Castillyon the elder.

“Did you advise Paul that Fanny Bridger should be sent away?” she asked, her eyes flaming with anger.

“Of course I did. She can’t stay here, and I’m happy to see that Paul has behaved with spirit. People in our position have to take great care; we must allow no contamination to enter the parish.”

“What d’you think will happen to the wretched girl if we turn her out? The only chance for her is to remain in her family.”

Paul’s mother, by no means a patient woman, vastly resented the scornful indignation apparent on Grace’s face; she drew herself up, and spoke with tight lips, acidly.

“Perhaps you’re not very capable of judging matters of this sort, my dear. You’ve lived so much in London that I dare say your notions of right and wrong are not quite clear. But, you see, I’m only a country bumpkin. I’m happy to say I think differently from you. I’ve always been under the impression that there is something to be said for morality. To my mind, Paul has been absurdly lenient in giving them a week. My father would have turned them out bag and baggage in twenty-four hours.”

Grace shuddered at the cruel self-righteousness of that narrow, bigoted face, and then slowly examined Paul, whose eyes were upon her, dreadfully pained because she was angry, but none the less assured of his own rectitude. She pursed her lips, and saying not a word more, went to her room. She felt that nothing could be done then, and made up her mind next morning to visit for herself the unlucky girl. Paul, disturbed because she did not speak to him, was about to follow further to expostulate; but his mother, sharply rapping the table with her fan, prevented him.

“Now, don’t run after her, Paul,” she cried peremptorily. “You behave like a perfect fool, and she just turns you round her little finger. If your wife has no sense of morality, other people have, and you must do your duty, however much Grace dislikes it.”

“I dare say we might manage to find Fanny Bridger some place.”

“I dare say you’ll do nothing of the sort, Paul,” she answered. “The girl’s a little wanton. I’ve known her since she was a child, and she always was. I wonder she had the impudence to come back here, but if you have any sense of decency you won’t help her. How d’you suppose you’re going to keep people moral if you pamper those who fall? Remember that I have some claims upon you, Paul, and I don’t expect my wishes to be entirely disregarded.”

In her domineering way she looked round the room, and it was obvious in every repellent feature—in her narrow lips, in her thin nose and little sharp eyes—that she remembered how absolute was her power over the finances of that house. Paul indeed was the Squire, but the money was hers, if she chose, to leave every penny to Bainbridge. Next day she came in to luncheon in a towering passion.

“I think you should know, Paul, that Grace has been to Bridger’s cottage. I don’t know how you expect the tenants to have any regard for modesty and decorum if your wife openly favours the most scandalous indecency.”

Grace turned on her mother-in-law with flashing eyes.

“I felt sorry for the girl, and I went to see her. Poor thing! she’s in great distress.”

She saw again that little cottage at one of the park gates—a pretty rural place overgrown with ivy, the tiny garden vivid with carefully-tended flowers. Here Bridger was working, a man of middle age, hard-featured and sullen, his face tanned by exposure. He turned his back on her approach, and when she bade good-morning answered unwillingly.

“I’ve come to see Fanny,” said Mrs. Castillyon. “May I go in?”

He faced her with a dark scowl, and for a moment did not answer.

“Can’t you leave the girl alone?” he muttered at last huskily.

Mrs. Castillyon looked at him doubtfully, but only for a moment. She passed by quickly, and without another word entered the house. Fanny was seated at the table, sewing, and close to her was a cradle. Seeing Grace, she rose nervously, and a painful blush darkened her white cheeks. Once a pretty girl with fresh colours, active and joyful, deep lines of anxiety now gave a haggard look to her eyes. Her cheeks were sunken, and the former trimness of her person had given way to slovenly disorder. She stood before Grace like a culprit, conscience-stricken, and for a moment the visitor, abashed, knew not what to say. Her eyes went to the baby, and Fanny, seeing it, anxiously stepped forward to get between them.

“Was you looking for father, mum?” she asked.

“No; I came to see you. I thought I might be of some use. I want to help you if you’ll let me.”

The girl looked down stubbornly, white again to her very lips.

“No, mum, there’s nothing I want.”

Facing her, Grace understood that there was something common to them both, for each had loved with her whole soul and each had been very unhappy. Her heart went out strangely to the wretched girl, and it was torture that she could not pierce that barrier of cold hostility. She knew not how to show that she came with no thought of triumphing over her distress, but rather as one poor weak creature to another. She could have cried out that before her Fanny need fear no shame, for herself had fallen lower even than she. The girl stood motionless, waiting for her to go, and Mrs. Castillyon’s lips quivered in helpless pity.

“Mayn’t I look at your baby?” she asked.

Without a word the girl stepped aside, and Mrs. Castillyon went to the cradle. The little child opened two large blue eyes and lazily yawned.

“Let me take it in my arms,” she said.

Again the fleeting colour came to Fanny’s cheeks as with a softer look she took the baby and gave it to Grace. With curious motherly instinct Grace rocked it, crooning gently, and then she kissed it. Against her will a cry was forced from her.

“Oh, I wish it were mine!”

She looked at Fanny with pitiful longing in her eyes all bright with tears; and her own emotion thawed at length the girl’s cold despair, for she buried her face in her hands and burst into passionate weeping. Grace placed the child again in the cradle, and gently leaned over Fanny.

“Don’t cry. I dare say we can do something. Do talk to me, and let me see how I can help.”

“No one can help,” she moaned. “We’ve got to go in a week; the Squire says so.”

“But I’ll try and make him change his mind, and if I can’t I’ll see that you and the baby are well provided for.”

Fanny shook her head hopelessly.

“Father says if I go he goes, too. Oh, the Squire can’t turn us out! What are we to do? We shall starve, all of us. Father’s not so young as he was, and he won’t get another job so easy, and Jim and Harry have got to go, too.”

“Won’t you trust me? I’ll do whatever I can. I’m sure he’ll let you stay.”

“The Squire’s a hard man,” muttered Fanny. “When he sets his mind to anything he does it.”

And now at luncheon, looking at Paul and his mother, Bainbridge and Miss Johnston, she felt a bitter enmity against them all because of their narrow cruelty. What did they know of the horrible difficulties of life, when their self-complacency made the way so easy to their feet?

“Fanny Bridger is no worse than anyone else, and she’s very unhappy. I’m glad I went to see her, and I’ve promised to do all I can to help her.”

“Then I wash my hands of you,” cried the elder Mrs. Castillyon violently. “But I can tell you this, that I’m shocked and scandalized that you should be quite dead to all sense of decency, Grace. I think that you should have some regard for your husband’s name, and not degrade yourself by pampering an immoral woman.”

“I think it was unwise of you to go to Bridger’s cottage,” said Paul gently.

“You’re all of you so dreadfully hard. Have you none you pity or mercy? Have you never done anything in your lives that you regret?”

Mrs. Castillyon turned to Grace severely.

“Pray remember that Miss Johnston is a single woman, and unaccustomed to hearing matters of this sort discussed. Paul has been very lenient. If he were more so, it would seem as if he connived at impropriety. It’s the duty of people in our position to look after those whom Providence has placed in our care. It’s our duty to punish as well as to reward. If Paul has any sense remaining of is responsibilities, he will turn out neck and crop the whole Bridger family.”

“If he does that,” cried Grace, “I shall go too.”

“Grace!” cried Mr. Castillyon, “what do you mean?”

She looked at him with shining eyes, but did not answer. They were too many against her, and she knew it useless to attempt anything more till next day, when Paul’s mother departed. Yet it was almost impossible to hold her tongue, and she was desperately tempted to cry out before them all the story of her own shameful misery.

“Oh, these virtuous people!” she muttered to herself. “They’re never content unless they see us actually roasting in hell! As if hell were needed when every sin brings along with it its own bitter punishment. And they never make excuses for us. They don’t know how many temptations we resist for the one we fall to.”