And these days, in spite of the sorrow hovering over her charge, Martha never found wholly unhappy. They constantly reminded her of the good times at Oakdale when she used to bring in her young mistress's breakfast. She could recall the dainty, white egg-sh.e.l.l china, the squat silver service bearing the Carnavon arms, and the film of lace which she used to throw around her ladyship's shoulders, lifting her hair to give it room. The butler would bring the tray to the door, and Martha would carry it herself to the bedside, where she would be met with the cry, "Must I get up?" or the more soothing greeting of, "Oh, you good Martha--well, give me my wrapper!"

The delicate porcelain and heirloom silver were missing now, and so was the filmy lace, but the tired mistress, could sleep as long as she pleased, thank Heaven! and the same loving care be given her. And the meal could be as nicely served, even though the thick cup cost but a penny and the tea was poured from an earthen pot kept hot on the stove.

Martha's deft hands relieved her mistress, too, of many other little necessary duties, such as the repair of her clothes; having them carefully laid out for the morning so that the nap might be prolonged and time be given for the care of the beautiful hair and frail hands; helping her dress; serving her breakfast, and getting her ready for the day's work. These services over, Martha would move the small pine table close to the sill of the window, where the light was better, spread a clean white towel over its top, and sit beside her while she sewed.

This restful, almost happy, life had been rudely shaken, if not entirely wrecked, by Stephen's visit. Up to that time, Lady Barbara--who had been nearly three weeks with Martha--had not only delighted in her work, but had shown an enviable pride in keeping pace with her employer's engagements, often working rather late into the night to finish her allotment on time.

The particular work uppermost in her mind on the night Stephen had called was the repairing of a costly Spanish mantilla which had been picked up in Spain by one of Rosenthal's customers. Through the carelessness of a packer, it had been badly slashed near the centre--an ugly, ragged tear which only the most skilful of needles could restore.

Mangan, some days before, had given it to her to repair with special instructions to return it at a given time, when he had agreed to deliver it to its owner. It was with a sudden gripping of her heart, therefore, that Martha on her return from an errand at noon had found the mantilla, promised for that very afternoon at three o'clock, lying neglected on the table, Lady Barbara sitting by the window with listless hands and drooping head. She grew still more anxious when at the appointed hour Rosenthal's messenger rapped at the door and stood silently waiting, his presence voicing the purpose of his mission, and she heard her mistress say, without an attempt at explanation: "I am sorry, tell Mr. Mangan, but the Spanish mantilla is not finished. Some of the other pieces are ready, but you need not wait. I cannot stop now, even to do them up properly, but I will bring the mantilla myself to-morrow. Please say so to Mr. Mangan."

The extreme la.s.situde of her manner only added to Martha's anxiety and, as the afternoon wore on, she watched Lady Barbara's every move with ever-increasing alarm. Now and then her poor mistress would drop her needle, turn her face to the window, and look out into vacancy, her mouth quivering as if with some inward thought which she had neither the will nor the desire to voice aloud.

As the hours lengthened, this mental absorption and growing physical weariness were followed by a certain nervous tension, so p.r.o.nounced that the nurse, accustomed to various forms of feminine breakdowns, had already determined what remedies to use should the symptoms increase.

That Stephen's visit was responsible for this condition, she now no longer doubted. What she had intended as a relief had only complicated the situation. And yet in going over all that had happened and all that was likely to happen, she became more than ever convinced that either his visit must be repeated, or that she alone must make the announcement that had trembled on Stephen's lips. She had recognized, almost from the first, that despite the relief her mistress had enjoyed in the little apartment some strong, masculine hand and mind were needed to stem the tide of further disaster. Her own practical common sense also told her that their present way of living was far too precarious to be counted upon. Lady Barbara's position with Rosenthal was but temporary. At any moment it might be lost, and then would follow another dreary hunt for work, with all its rebuffs, and sooner or later the delicately nurtured woman would succ.u.mb and go under in a mental or physical collapse, the hospital her only alternative.

None of these forebodings, it must be said, had filled Lady Barbara's mind. As long as she continued under Martha's care she could rest in peace, free from the dread of the drunken step on the stair or the rude bursting in of her chamber door. Free, too, from other deadly terrors which had pursued her, and of which she could not even think without a shudder, for try as she could she never forgot Dalton's willingness to turn their home into a gamblers' resort.

That he would force her to return to him for any other purpose she did not believe. He had no legal hold upon her--such as an Englishman has upon his wife--and, as he had p.a.w.ned everything of value she possessed and most of her clothes, she could be of no further use to him, except by applying to her father or to her friends for pecuniary relief. This, as she had told him, she would rather die than do, and from the oaths he had muttered at the time she was convinced he believed her.

All she wanted now was to earn her bread, help Martha with her rent, and, when the day's work was over, creep into her arms and rest.

And yet, while it was true that Stephen's visit had been responsible for her nervous breakdown, it was not for the reason that Martha supposed.

His reference to her private affairs had of course offended her, and justly so, but there was something else which hurt her far more--a something in the old ship-chandler's manner when he spoke to her which forced to the front a question ever present in her mind, whatever her task and however tender the ministrations of the old nurse; one that during all her sojourn under this kindly roof had haunted her, like a nightmare.

And it was this. What did the look mean that she sometimes surprised in Martha's eyes--the same look she had detected in Stephen's? Were they looks of pity or were they--and she shuddered--looks of scorn? This was the nightmare which had haunted her, the problem she could not fathom.

And because she could not fathom it, she had pa.s.sed a wakeful night, and this long, unhappy day. This mystery must end, and that very night.

When the shadows fell and the evening meal was ready, she put away her work, smoothed her hair and took her seat beside the nurse, eating little and answering Martha's anxious, but carefully worded questions in monosyllables. With the end of the meal, she pushed back her chair and sought her bedroom, saying that, if Martha did not mind, she would throw herself on her bed and rest awhile.

She lay there listening until the last clink of the plates and cups and the moving of the table told her that the evening's work was done and the things put away; then she called:

"Martha, won't you come and sit beside me, so that you can brush out my hair? I want to talk to you. You need not bring the lamp, I have light enough."

Martha hurried in and settled herself beside the narrow bed. Lady Barbara lifted her head so that the tresses were free for Martha's hands, and sinking back on the pillow said almost in a whisper: "I have been thinking of your brother, and want your help. What did he mean when he said that things could not go on as they were with me? And that he was going to put a stop to them if he could?"

Martha caught herself just in time. She was not ready yet to divulge her plans for her mistress's relief, and the question had taken her unawares. "He never forgets, my lady, what he owes your people," she answered at last. "And when he saw you, he was so sorry for you he was all shrivelled up."

She had the ma.s.s of blonde hair in her fingers now, the comb in hand prepared to straighten out the tangle.

For a moment Lady Barbara lay still, then turning her cheek, her eyes fixed on Martha's, she said in firmer tones: "You are to tell me the truth, you know; that is why I sent for you."

"I have told it, my lady."

"And you are keeping nothing back?"

"Nothing."

The thin hand crept out and grasped the nurse's wrist.

"Then you are sure your brother does not despise me, Martha?"

"MY LADY! How can you say such a thing!" exclaimed Martha, dropping the comb.

"Well, everybody else does--everybody I know--and a great many I never saw and who never saw me. And now about yourself--and you must tell me frankly--do you hate me, Martha?"

"Hate you, you poor Lamb"--tears were now choking her--"you, whom I held in my arms?--Oh, don't talk that way to me--I can't stand it, my lady!

Ever since you were a child, I--"

"Yes, Martha, that is one reason for my asking you. You did love me as a child--but do you love me as a woman? A child is forgiven because it knows no better; a woman DOES know. Tell me, straight from your heart; I want to know; it will not make any difference in the way I love you. You have been everything to me, father, mother--everything, Martha. Tell me, do you forgive me?"

"I have nothing to forgive, my lady," she answered, her voice clearing, her will a.s.serting itself. "You have always been my lady and you always will be. Maybe you'd better not talk any more--you are all tired out, and--"

"Oh, yes, I will talk and you must Listen. Don't pick up my comb. Never mind about my hair now. I know very well that there is not a single human being at home who would not shut the door in my face. Some of them do not understand, and never will, and I should never try to explain my life to them. I have suffered for my mistakes and made myself an outcast, and n.o.body has any compa.s.sion for an outcast. That is why I sit and wonder about Stephen, and why I have sat all day and wondered about you, and whether I ought to run away, for I could not stay here if you felt about me as I know those people feel at home. I want you to love me, Martha. Oh! yes, you prove it. You do everything for me, but way down deep in your heart, how do you feel? Do you love me as you always did?--LOVE, Martha, not just pity, or feeling sorry like Stephen, or blaming me like the others? Yes, yes, yes, I know it, but I have wanted you to tell me. I am so in the dark. There, there, don't cry! Just one thing more. What did your brother mean when he said there were others who would lift me out of my misery?"

Again the old servant, brushing away her tears, hesitated to reply. She had sent for Stephen to answer this very question, and her mistress had practically driven him from the room. How, then, was she to meet it?

"He meant Mr. Felix, and if you had only listened, my lady, he would have--"

"Yes, I knew he did--although he did not dare say it," she cried with sudden intensity, sinking deeper back in her pillow as if to protect herself even from Martha. "I did not listen, for I never want to hear his name again. He drove me to what I did. He let me leave his house without so much as a word of regret, and not one line did he write me the whole time I was at my father's. Two months, Martha!

TWO--WHOLE--MONTHS!" The words seemed to clog in her throat. "All that time he hid himself in his club, abusing me to every man he met.

Somebody told me so. What was I to do? He had turned over to his father every shilling he possessed and left me without a penny--or, worse still, dependent on my father, and you know what that means! And then, when I could stand it no longer and went home, he sailed for South Africa on a shooting expedition."

Martha listened patiently. The outburst was not what she had expected, but she knew the unburdening would help in the end. She slid one plump hand under the tired head, and with the other stroked back the ma.s.s of hair from the damp forehead--very gently, as she might have calmed some fevered patient.

"May I finish what Stephen tried to tell you, my lady?" she crooned, still stroking back the hair. "And may I first tell you that Mr. Felix never went to Africa?"

"Oh, but he did!" she cried out again. "I know the men he went with.

He was disgusted with the whole business--so he told one of his friends--and never wanted to see me or England again."

"You are sure?"

"Yes, I heard about it in Ostend when--" She did not finish the sentence.

The nurse's free hand now closed on Lady Barbara's thin fingers, with a quiet, compelling softness, as if preparing her for a shock.

"Mr. Felix--came here--to New York--my lady--and is here now--or was some weeks ago--doing nothing but walk the streets." The words had come one by one, Martha's clasp tightening as she spoke.

The wasted figure lifted itself from the pillow and sat bolt upright.

"MARTHA! What do you mean!"

"Yes, right here in New York, my lady."

"It isn't so!" Her hands were now clutching Martha's shoulders. "Tell me it isn't so! It can't be so!"

"It's the blessed G.o.d's truth, every word of it! He and Stephen have been looking for you day and night."