"And now? How does he seem now?"

His forehead wrinkled into lines.

"Depressed. Nervous. Inclined to be jumpy. He has lived for his work, and hates the idea of giving up, even for a time. He has overtaxed his strength for years, and his nerves are bound to play up. However, once we get them off to the sun, he'll soon pull round."

"And when do they--"

"As soon as possible. It is Delphine who is putting things off. So far as Merrivale himself is concerned, the sooner he starts the better.

He'll not grow any stronger where he is. When are you coming back to 'Pastimes'?"

"It's uncertain. Not before Christmas. Is your mother quite well?"

"Quite, thanks. You know that I have made Miss Harding's acquaintance.

She is a charming old lady."

"I'm so glad you like her. I knew you had called. Nice little flat, isn't it?"

He growled, his face eloquent with disapproval.

"If you call it 'nice' to live burrowed underground! How sane people can consent to live in town, herded together in a building more like a prison than a home--"

"'The goodness and the grace' did not make us _all_ country squires!" I said shortly, whereat he laughed--quite an easy, genial laugh, and twinkled at me with his blue eyes. It was extraordinary how natural and at his ease he appeared; so different from the stiff, silent man I had known at Escott!

The journey takes exactly sixty minutes, and we talked the whole way.

For the first twenty minutes I was on my guard, nerving myself to say "No" for the second time, with due firmness and finality. For the next twenty I was friendly and natural. He was behaving so well that he deserved encouragement. During the third twenty I said less, stared out of the carriage window, and felt a disagreeable feeling of irritation and depression. He went on talking about books and gardens and parish difficulties, and I wasn't interested one bit. One may not wish a man to propose to one for the second time; but, with the echo of vows of undying devotion ringing in one's ears, it _is_ rather daunting to go through an hour's _tete-a-tete_ without one personal remark! He had said that I was thin. Perhaps he found me changed in other ways.

Perhaps on meeting me again he found he did not like me as much as he had believed. Perhaps he was glad that I had said "No". We parted at the Vicarage gate; he apparently quite comfortable and composed, I in the lowest depths. What a change from last time!

The door opened, and before I had time to blink Delphine's arms were round me, and a hot, wet cheek pressed against mine. She was sobbing in a hard, breathless way which made my heart leap; but even on the way to her sitting-room I gathered that my first fear was unfounded.

"Jacky was--the same! In bed. So tired--always so tired! Seems to care for nothing. Hardly even"--the blue eyes opened in incredulous misery--"for _me_!"

"When people are very weak, they can't care. It takes strength even to love--at least, to realise that one loves. I never knew a man who adored his wife more than Mr Merrivale does you; but I expect it suits him better just now to lie quietly and snooze rather than to hold your hand and watch you cry."

She looked guilty at that, and tossed her head with a spice of her old spirit. But the next moment her breath caught in a sob, and she cried desperately:--

"Oh, Evelyn, it's all awful! Other things--everything--far worse than you know. I'm the most miserable creature in the world. I think I shall go mad. I sent for you because--"

"Hold hard for one moment! I'm hungry! I need my lunch! So do you, by the look of you. Shall we have it first, and tackle the serious business afterwards in your room, where we shan't be interrupted. There will be plenty of time; I needn't leave till five."

"I ordered cutlets, and an omelette, and coffee afterwards. All the things you liked best when you were here. But I can't eat a bite. It would choke me. I hate the sight of food."

"Very well then--you can watch me eat mine," I said, with the callousness of one who had heard dozens of people declare the same thing, and then watched them tuck into a square meal. Delphine proved another protester to add to the list. She ate her share of the meal with no sign of choking, and brightened into acutest interest at hearing of my escort from town. The fork stopped half-way to her mouth; her eyes widened to saucer size. In the sheer surprise of the moment she forgot her grief and anxieties.

"But--but--how _could_ he be there? He was here last night. Quite late. Ten o'clock. Walked down after dinner to hear how Jacky was!"

I made a vague sweeping gesture, which was designed to express a lack of all responsibility concerning the Squire's eccentricities, but Delphine's suspicions were aroused, and she was not to be easily put off.

"He must have gone up by the workman's train. And yours left at eleven.

How very peculiar! And he said nothing last night. ... Did I tell him you were coming?" She wrinkled her brows in the effort to remember.

"Yes, I did. He said something about taking me for a drive to freshen me up, and I said you would be here before lunch. Evelyn, he couldn't possibly have gone to meet you!"

Evidently she suspected nothing. I tried to look composed and natural, and said lightly:--

"It seems preposterous, doesn't it. He certainly did not say so."

She stared at me curiously.

"What did you talk about? About us? Did he say anything about me?"

"Of course. What do you suppose? We had quite an argument, because he seemed to think it a pity that you should injure yourself by fretting, and I said I didn't see how you could do anything else."

She smiled, and tilted her head, her complacency restored.

"That was it, I suppose! He wanted to talk to you before you saw me.

He is good. And you argued with him, you say? Disagreed, I suppose.

Oh, well--men are always more tender-hearted than women."

I felt annoyed, and munched in silence, staring fixedly at my plate. If this particular man was so much more understanding, why had she summoned me from town?

After lurch Delphine ran upstairs to see her husband for a few minutes, and then returned to me in her little sitting-room. He was tired, she said, and hoped to sleep until tea. She had not told him of my visit; he was so listless and apathetic that it worried him to talk, or to have people talk to him. "I don't believe he will ever be the same again!"

"People always say that in the middle of an illness, but they find their mistake later on. After a long rest the Vicar will be better than he has been for years, and it will be your business to see that he never works so hard again. You were always longing for a change, Delphine.

Think how you will enjoy Switzerland, sitting out in the crisp clear air, looking at those glorious mountains, with no house or parish to worry over--nothing to do but wait on your dear man, and watch him growing stronger every day!"

She looked at me dumbly, while the colour faded out of her cheeks, and the pretty curved lips twitched and trembled. I saw her clasp her hands, and brace herself against her chair, and knew that the moment for confession had come, and that it was difficult to find words.

"No worry!" she repeated slowly. "No worry! But that's just what is killing me. I'm so worried, so worried that I feel sometimes, Evelyn, as if I were going out of my mind!"

"You mean--about your husband?" I asked, but the question was really put as a lead; I knew she was not referring to illness.

Delphine shook her head.

"That is bad enough, but it is not the worst. The worst is that through me--through my wretched, selfish, vain, discontented folly, I--I have made it difficult for him even to get well. I--I have got into a horrible mess, Evelyn, and when he hears of it--when he has to hear, he will be so worried, so miserable, so disappointed, that it will bring on a relapse, and he will probably be worse than before. We can neither of us be happy again--never, never, any more!"

"Sounds pretty bad!" I said, startled. "But there must be some way out, or you would not have sent for me to help you. You are going to tell me the whole truth, Delphine! Half confidences are no use. You will speak honestly, and--let me speak honestly to you?"

"Oh, yes! You _will_ do, whether I allow you or not. I know you!"

"Well, then"--I bent forward, staring full in her face--"let's get to the point. Is it another man?"

Her face answered, without the need of words. Amazed resentment blazed out of her blue eyes.

"Another man! I should think not! How hateful of you, Evelyn! I'm despicable enough, but I love Jacky. There's no other man in the world for me. Of course," she paused, and faintly smiled, as at a soothing recollection, "people admire me. I can't help that, and there's no harm so long as I don't flirt. There's the Squire. I think if I were not married, he might want--but I _am_ married, and it's the honest truth that I've never said a word to a man since our marriage that I shouldn't be willing for Jacky to hear. No! it's not that--"

"It's money, then," I said quickly. (So the Squire would "want," would he? Oh, indeed!) "Delphine! you have been getting into debt?"

"Oh, how did you guess?" She turned her head over her shoulder, as though afraid some one might overhear. "Oh, Evelyn, n.o.body knows but you. I think I have been mad. Goodness knows what I expected to happen in the end. I was in a crazy, rebellious mood, tired to death of being dull and careful, and I had a wild spell of extravagance, ordered whatever I wanted, ran up bills in town. I went to your dressmaker. I was sick of making my own clothes, and looking a frump. I'm young, and I'm pretty, I wanted to look nice while I could. Every one said I _did_ look nice; but she is a terror, that woman of yours! I had no idea of the bill!"

"You did not ask for estimates in advance?"