"John Ashford, Grocer," was the inscription over the shop door; and these were John Ashford and his wife Lucy. They had two children, now playing by the river side; and were, as the bargemen's wives expressed it, "doing comfortable."

The man's face was a good-humoured one, round, honest in expression, and commonplace. His wife was not so ordinary; a fair-haired, small-figured little woman, she showed traces of having been a "village beauty" in her young days, of the pink-and-white, shallow type. But in her eyes, and along the corners of her somewhat weak-looking mouth, there were signs of an ever-present fear.

Even now, as she sat pouring out her husband's tea, her habitual nervousness showed itself in the restless movements of her unoccupied hand, and the sudden start with which she would greet the slightest unexpected sound, or the knocking of a customer on the little counter.

From where she sat she could see her children, and once or twice she smiled gently as she waved her hand to them, where they were playing with an elder girl who was in charge of them.

"I say, Lucy," said John, as he drank his tea noisily, "how's the girl going on? Getting over her shyness a bit, ain't she?"

His wife started; but he was evidently too accustomed to this to notice her.

"Yes," she said, reaching out for his cup. "Poor girl, she's seen some trouble, I'll be bound; and for one so young, too, and innocent. The world's a hard place!"

"Yes, indeed," agreed John Ashford, with a glance through the window, where the little group of three were playing. "Let me see, she's been here a matter of four weeks, hasn't she--since I went over to Walton.

Rum thing me finding her at all. If I hadn't come across the moor instead of along the road, she'd 'ave been in that furze bush still."

Mrs. Ashford shuddered at the suggestions of his words.

"She hasn't given us no account of herself now," he continued in his hearty, good-tempered voice. "Not even her name, 'cept--what d'ye call it?"

"Jessica," put in his wife. "I call her Jessie, sounds more homelike."

"And hasn't she told you anything more as to why she tramped out of London?"

"No, nothing more," said his wife, "except that she couldn't bear the crowds. I haven't asked her either, John. She's a good girl, you can see that; and penniless as well as homeless. I should hate to send her to the workhouse, or perhaps worse," she half whispered. "If she's got a secret in her heart, we'll let her keep it, dear. Perhaps we all have a little corner in our hearts marked 'Private,'" she added in a low voice.

"Excepting you and me, my dear!" said John, wiping his mouth as he rose from the table, and coming round to kiss her.

She started again and paled a little.

"Of course, dear," she said; "I wasn't thinking of us."

"We've no secrets," said the good-natured grocer, as he took down his hat and coat from behind the door. "Our hearts are open like them clocks, with all the works outside, eh, Lucy, my dear?" Laughing at his own simile, he kissed her again.

"If you'll take care of the shop," he went on, as he opened the door, "I'll just run over to Richmond for those jams and things. Old Tucker's cart is going over, and he'll lend me a hand."

"Get along, then," replied his wife, "and don't forget we want some more spices."

"Right you are," said the husband, and with a wave of his hand to her he went down the path, the two children running to meet him.

Lucy Ashford stood at the door and looked after him wistfully.

"Poor John," she murmured, as she went back to clear away the tea-things. "What would he do to me, if he knew?"

Her thoughts went back to the great secret of her life. It was that which caused her strange nervousness. She had repented of the past truly enough, and no better wife could have been found throughout the kingdom; but the secret had eaten into her life. She strove now to put it away from her; for she knew she was in reality safe enough. Only her father and Mr. Vermont knew--and the latter she had not seen for years.

Now, therefore, she put away her cups and saucers and called gaily to the children, as they came running back. The girl who had been playing with them came too; and as she approached the cottage she raised her head and smiled. Lucy Ashford stooped to kiss the children, then said kindly to Jessica--for it was indeed she:

"I expect you are tired with them now, my dear. Come and sit down with me for a little while."

Jessica raised her dark eyes gratefully.

"No, ma'am, thank you. I'm not tired. I love the children; they are so good to me."

Lucy's eyes shone. What mother does not believe that her children are the best in the world? She had been like an angel of mercy to the tired girl when her husband had brought her into the little home. She had put her to bed, fed her, and clothed her in old things of her own; and she had neither questioned nor worried her since.

Jessica, only too thankful to find a home for the present, and realising the hopelessness of her strange pa.s.sion for Adrien Leroy, had done what she could to repay her benefactress by helping her in the little shop, and playing with and taking care of the children. Now, at their request, she took them back to the river side again, while Lucy sat down at the table before a pile of sewing.

CHAPTER XX

Meanwhile, Adrien's skiff was moored at the landing-place of an old inn, some distance further up the river. Under a rustic porch Lady Merivale was finishing her tea, while her companion enjoyed a cigarette.

Alas! for the irony of fate! This day, during which he had strenuously endeavoured to forget Constance, had only shown him more plainly the utter impossibility of doing so. If he had but known the opportunity he had missed with that letter, his mortification and despair would have been even greater.

Constance had regretted her policy in sending Adrien from her almost before the day was over, and had purposely planned this way of seeing him. Deeming his outing--thanks to Jasper's clever insinuations--to have been undertaken on purpose to avoid her, the girl's heart was heavy within her, and filled with something very like resentment too.

Adrien, on the other hand, all unwitting of the harm this excursion had done his cause, had talked long and quietly with Lady Merivale. He had made up his mind to break away even from these silken strings.

"So you have determined to leave me?" she said sadly.

He nodded.

"You know I must," he replied. "For your sake, as well as mine, it is best."

"Perhaps you are right," she said in a low voice. "So this is the last happy day we shall spend together?"

"Yes," he answered with a sigh. "Now, standing here, I see only too well that we ought never to have spent any at all. I dread lest I have spoilt your happiness, Eveline, lest a breath of slander should touch your name. I will not deny that I had of late hoped to marry and settle down as my father wishes, but it is not to be. Don't laugh at me when I tell you I am going to turn over a new leaf. After this ball at Barminster, I shall go abroad for awhile. That will give the world time to forget we have ever had more than a pa.s.sing acquaintance."

Tears rolled down Eveline's face as she listened to his words. She had played her last card, and she knew the game was lost; though it was her vanity that suffered more than her heart. She was too clever and too proud to resist any further, however, or sue for his favour. Presently she rose, and said, as steadily as usual:

"Come, Adrien, let us turn down stream and retrace our way while we can see. It is dusk already--I had no idea it had grown so late."

He helped her into the little skiff in silence; and as the Sea Foam glided over the rippling waters a profound stillness seemed to descend over the darkening landscape.

Presently Lady Merivale peered forward.

"This half-light is so deceptive," she said, in a rather nervous voice; "I nearly steered you into the bank then."

"Can you see?" he asked. "Put down the lines and let me guide the boat."

"No, no," she replied. "I can see well enough."

"Just as you like," he said gently. "I will row quicker. It's time we were in Hampton. For what hour did you order the car?"

"I came by train," she answered.