"I thought you would write to me," Mrs. Hartley said, in her note. "I should hardly have forgiven you if you had not. There is some of your letter which I cannot understand, and some which I do not quite agree with. But come and explain it to me. I am an old woman, and have no time to be angry with those I love. Come on Thursday afternoon--alone--and we will have a good talk."

So Lettice went, and made her peace with her old friend, and was admitted to her favor again. But Alan was on probation still. The last thing which he would have expected, or indeed desired, was that he should be received and treated by his former acquaintance as though nothing had happened since he was a welcome guest in their houses.

Especially as he and Lettice had not yet settled the question which all their friends were asking: "How would it end?"

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

MISTRESS AND MAID.

Poor Milly Harrington had faithfully kept her promise of amendment. She was as loyal and serviceable to her mistress as any one could be, and evidently did her utmost to show her grat.i.tude to Lettice, studying her tastes, and, as far possible, antic.i.p.ating her wishes. But it was plain that she was not happy. When not making an effort to be cheerful as part of her daily duty, she would sit brooding over the past and trembling for the future; and, though she tried to conceal her hopeless moods, they had not altogether escaped notice.

Lettice was troubled by Milly's unhappiness. She had taken deep pity on the girl, and wanted, for more reasons than one, to save her from the worst consequences of her mistakes. To see her, in common parlance, "going to the bad"--ruined in body and in soul--would have been to Lettice, for Sydney's sake, a burden almost heavier than she could bear.

For this reason had she brought the girl up to London and taken her into her own service again; and from day to day she watched her with kindly interest and concern.

Milly's good looks could scarcely be said to have come back to her, for she was still thin and haggard, with the weary look of one to whom life has brought crushing sorrow and sickness of heart. But her eyes were pretty, and her face, in spite of its worn expression, was interesting and attractive. Lettice was hardly surprised, although a little startled, to find her talking one day in a somewhat confidential manner to a man of highly respectable appearance who was walking across the Common by her side as she came home one day from a shopping expedition.

It was, perhaps, natural that Milly should have acquaintances. But Lettice felt a sudden pang of anxiety on the girl's account. She did not know whether she had been seen, and whether it was her duty to speak to her maid about it; but her hesitation was ended by Milly herself, who came to her room that night, and asked to speak with her.

"Well, Milly?"

"I saw you to-day, Miss Lettice, when I was out," said Milly, coloring with the effort of speech.

"Did you? Yes? You were with a friend--I suppose?"

"I wanted to tell you about him," said Milly, nervously. "It's not a friend of mine, it was a messenger--a messenger from _him_."

Lettice sat speechless.

"He does not know what has become of me; and he set this man--his clerk--to find out. He wants to send me some money--not to see me again.

He was afraid that I might be--in want."

"And what have you done, Milly?"

"I said I would not take a penny. And I asked the clerk--Mr. Johnson, they call him--not to say that he had seen me. I didn't tell him where I lived."

"Did he say that he would not tell his master?"

"Yes, he promised. I think he will keep his word. He seemed--kind--sorry for me, or something."

"You were quite right, Milly. And I would not speak to the man again if I were you. He may not be so kind and friendly as he seems. I am glad you have told me."

"I couldn't rest till I had spoken. I was afraid you might think harm of me," said the girl, flushing scarlet again, and twisting the corner of her ap.r.o.n.

"I will not think harm of you if you always tell me about your acquaintances as you have done to-day," said Lettice with a smile.

"Don't be afraid, Milly. And--if you will trust to me--you need not be anxious about the future, or about the child. I would rather that you did not take money from anyone but myself for your needs and hers. I have plenty for you both."

Milly could not speak for tears. She went away sobbing, and Lettice was left to think over this new turn of affairs. Was Sydney's conscience troubling him, she wondered, after all?

This was early in November, soon after she came to Bute Lodge, and as the time went on, she could not but notice that the signs of trouble in Milly's face increased rather than diminished. Lettice had a suspicion also that she had not managed to get rid of the man with whom she had been walking on the Common. She was sure that she saw him in the neighborhood more than once, and although he never, to her knowledge, spoke to Milly or came to the house, she saw that Milly sometimes looked unusually agitated and distressed. It was gradually borne in upon Lettice's mind that she had better learn a little more of the girl's story, for her own sake; and coming upon her one day with the signs of trouble plainly written on her face, Lettice could not forbear to speak.

Milly was sitting in a little dressing-room, with some needlework in her hand. The baby was sleeping in a cradle at her side. She sprang up when Lettice entered; but Lettice made her sit down again, and then sat down as well.

"What is it, Milly? Is there anything wrong that I don't know of? Come, don't give way. I want to help you, but how can I do that unless you tell me everything?"

"There is nothing to tell except what you know," said Milly, making an effort to command herself. "But, sometimes, when I think of it all, I can't help giving way. I did not mean you to see it though, miss."

"I have never asked you any questions, Milly, about all that happened after you left me, and I do not want to know more than you wish to tell me. But don't you think I might do something to place matters on a better footing, if I knew your circ.u.mstances a little better?"

"Oh, I could never--never tell you all!" said Milly hiding her face.

"Don't tell me all then. You have called yourself Mrs. Beadon so far.

You have heard nothing of Mr. Beadon lately except what you told me the other day?"

"Only what Mr. Johnson said." Milly averted her head and looked at her child. "The name," she went on in a low voice, "the name--is not--not Beadon."

"Never mind the name. Perhaps it is as well that you should not tell me.

When did you see him last?"

"In May."

"Never since May?"

"Not once." Milly hung her head and played with the ring on her finger.

"He does not want to see me again!" she broke out almost bitterly.

"Perhaps it is better for you both that he should not. But I will not ask any more," said Lettice. "I can understand that it must be very painful, either to tell me your story or to conceal it."

"I hate to conceal it from you!" Milly said pa.s.sionately. "Oh, I wish I had never seen him, and never listened to him! Yet it was my fault--I have n.o.body to blame but myself. I have never forgiven myself for deceiving you so!"

"Ah, if that were the worst, there would not be much to grieve about!"

"I almost think it is the worst. Miss Lettice, may I really tell you my story--all, at least, that it would be right for you to hear?"

"If you would like to tell me, do! Perhaps I can help you in some way when I know more."

"There are some things I should like you to understand," said Milly, hesitatingly, "though not because it will take away the blame from me--nothing can do that. When I first knew Mr. Beadon (I'll call him so, please), I was very giddy and foolish. I longed to see the world, and thought that all would go well with me then. I don't know where I picked up the idea, but I had read stories about beautiful women who had had wonderful good fortune, through nothing at all but their looks--and people had told me I was beautiful--and I was silly enough to think that I could do great things, as well as those I had read about. I suppose they must have been very clever and witty--or, perhaps, they had more luck. I wanted to be free and independent; and I am afraid I was ready to listen to any one who would flatter my vanity, as--as Mr. Beadon did."

"When did he first begin to say these things to you? Was it after you came to London?"

"Yes--not long after. He was above me in station, and very handsome, and proud; and when he began to speak to me, though I was all the time afraid of him, and uneasy when I spoke to him, my head was fairly turned. It shows I was not meant to shine in the world, or I should not have been so uneasy when I spoke to him. For some time he said nothing out of the way--only kind words and flattery; but when he found what I had set my heart on, he was always telling me that I was fit to be a great lady, and to make a noise in the world. That set me all on-fire, and I could not rest for thinking of what I might do if I could only find my way into society. It makes me mad to remember what a fool I was!

"But I was not quite bad, Miss Lettice. When he said that he would give me what I wanted--make me a lady, and all the rest of it--I shrank from doing what I knew to be wrong; or perhaps I was only afraid. At any rate, I would not listen to him. Then he declared that he loved me too well to let me go--and he asked me to be his wife."

"Oh!" said Lettice. It was an involuntary sound, and Milly scarcely heard it.

"If you knew," she said, "what a proud and dignified gentleman he was, you would laugh at me thinking that he really meant what he said, and believing that he would keep his word. But I did believe it, and I agreed at length to leave you and go away with him."