"My dear," said the Secretary, as he shook hands with Madame Darcy over the little wicket gate entwined with roses, which gave admittance to her rustic abode, "I want to thank you for those letters."

"To thank me?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"Why not? Why, I was almost ashamed to meet you face to face."

"But why should you be?"

"That I should have spoken of them at all, and to you."

"But surely you cannot blame yourself for that. You thought they related to quite a different person."

"Now who would have supposed a man would have given me credit. But why do I stand talking at the gate--come in, you've not perhaps had your breakfast yet this morning?"

"Yes, thanks, and a hearty one. Do you think I come to eat you out of house and home?"

"I think you come only to the gate."

"Unfortunately, beggars must not be choosers--and I've just time for a word. It's my busy day, as they say in the city."

She was piqued, and showed it.

"Do you not think I would willingly spend all day with you, if----"

"I think," she replied, "that you're engaged to a certain young lady--and you've told me that you're busy."

"It's about her I wished to speak," he said, abruptly changing the subject. "These letters have misled you."

"You mean----"

"I mean that they refer to the plot in which your husband and this young lady are engaged."

She looked at him searchingly.

"You are speaking the truth to me. You know this to be so?"

"On my honour. I am not trying to deceive you. I only ask you to believe that your original suspicions were incorrect."

"But you subst.i.tute something quite as bad."

"Well, no--hardly that. In fact it may benefit you greatly."

"How so?"

"That I'm not at liberty to tell you just now; I hope I can in a day or two. Meantime, may I ask you to keep silence about what I've said, and trust your affairs to me--they shall not suffer in my hands."

"Have I not trusted you, my friend?"

"You have indeed, and I've appreciated it; but that you'll understand better a little later--when I've been able to help you more."

"You have done all for me; you have saved me, and I can never forget it."

"Nonsense, I've done nothing as yet."

"You have given me your sympathy. Is not that something? You have been a true friend to me."

"For old friendship's sake--could I do less?"

She flushed and said hurriedly.

"My father will know how to thank you properly. When I see him----" and she unburdened her heart to the Secretary, who gave her a willing ear.

Together they discussed her plans for the future, her return home, her welcome; in short, a thousand and one pleasant antic.i.p.ations, till Stanley declared, regretfully, that he must go.

"But you have stood already an hour," she murmured, "surely you will come in and rest."

"An hour!" he exclaimed, looking at his watch. "Impossible!"

"No," she said. "Not impossible, I also have stood."

He was overcome at his thoughtlessness, but she silenced his excuses by throwing open the gate and saying:

"Come." And he entered.

Miss Fitzgerald was seated at her ease in a West Indian chair on the lawn. A white parasol shielded her from the sun, and a novel lay unopened in her lap. As she leaned back looking up into the earnest face of a man, with a supercilious smile and a veiled fire in her blue eyes, she seemed to be at peace with herself and with the world. In reality, she was enduring the last of three most disagreeable encounters.

Her first had been with her aunt, Mrs. Roberts, who, quite justly, ascribed the occurrences which had interrupted the harmony of her house-party to the machinations of her niece.

"I invited you here at your own request," she had said, in a private interview before breakfast, in the course of which much righteous wrath was vented. "You a.s.sured me that Mr. Stanley was on the point of asking your hand in marriage, and only needed an opportunity of doing so; which I was the more willing to give, because I saw the extreme advisability of such a step. His actions have belied your words, and moreover, have made you the subject of unpleasant comment in my house, which has greatly annoyed me. I do not wish to be unkind, but you must understand that matters, for the rest of the time we are together, must run more smoothly, or I shall be obliged to suggest your returning to London."

It is hard enough to endure the faulty criticism of an elderly and misguided person, when one is in the right; but when one is in the wrong, and has hanging over one the probability, if not the certainty, of coming disclosures, which will force threats to become realities, such a state of things is unbearable, and Miss Fitzgerald partook of her morning meal feeling that fate had been more than unkind.

Immediately after breakfast she had been treated to an interview with the outraged Mr. Lambert, of which a detailed account is unnecessary, but which resulted in the unpalatable presentation of those obnoxious criticisms known as "home truths."

With all her faults, Miss Fitzgerald, like the parson, came of fighting stock, and, game to the last, she began the dangerous experiment of burning her boats behind her, by informing her hostess that she should leave to-morrow afternoon in any event, as it was not her wish to stay where she was unwelcome. Then, possessed by the spirit that has always prompted heroic deeds, the determination to do or die, she sought and found an interview with Mr. Stanley. She boldly opened the attack, by calling that young gentleman to account for his neglect of the last twenty-four hours.

"I've hardly seen so much as your shadow, Jimsy, and I've been nearly bored to death in consequence. What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Trying to find out to whom you were married."

"Ah! Have you succeeded?"

"Yes, the parson has confirmed your a.s.sertions this morning."

"Did you need his confirmation of my word?"