The fifteen pounds had been accepted in an honourable and ladylike manner by the elder sister--but without any overpowering expression of grat.i.tude. No doubt it was a bitter pill to her, forced down by necessity, and without guessing that it cost the donors anything.

Dolores's mind was set at rest as to Flinders's evasion before night, and on the Sunday morning even Nurse Halfpenny could find out nothing the matter with her, so that she was obliged to make her appearance as usual. Uncle Reginald did not kiss her, he only gave a cold nod, and said 'Good morning.' Otherwise all went on as usual, and it was pleasant to find that Fly was as entirely used as they were to learning Collect and hymn, and copying out texts ill.u.s.trating Catechism, and that she was expected to have them ready to repeat them to her mother some time in the afternoon. There was something, too, that Mysie could not have described, but which she liked, in the manner in which, on this morning, Dolores accepted small acts of good nature, such as finding a book for her, getting a new pen and helping her to the whereabouts of a Scriptural reference. It seemed for the first time as if she liked to receive a kindness, and her 'thank you' really had a sound of thanks, instead of being much more like 'I wish you would not.' Mysie felt really encouraged to be kind, and when, on setting forth to church, everybody was crowding round trying to walk with Fly, and Dolores was going along lonely and deserted, Mysie resigned her chance of one side of the favourite Phyllis, and dropped back to give her company to the solitary one. To her surprise and gratification, Dolores took hold of her hand, and listened quite willingly to her chatter about the schemes for the fortnight that Fly was to be left with them. Presently Constance was seen going markedly by the other gate of the churchyard, quite out of her usual way, and not even looking towards them.

It was the last day of the old year, and, in the midst of the Christmas joy, there were allusions to it in the services and hymns. Something in the tune of 'Days and moments quickly flying,' touched some chord in Dolores's spirit, and set her off crying. She would have done anything to stop it, but there was no helping it, great round splashes came down, and the more she was afraid of being noticed, the worse the choking grew. At last, the very worst person--she thought--to take notice. Uncle Reginald, did so, and, under cover of a general rising, said sternly, 'Stop that, or go out.'

Stop that! Much did the colonel know about a girl's tears, or how she would have given anything to check them. But here was Aunt Lily edging down to her, taking her by the hand, leading her out, she did not know how, stopping all who would have come after them with help--then pausing a little in the open, frosty air.

'Oh, Aunt Lily! I am very sorry!'

'Never mind that, my dear. Do you feel poorly?'

'Oh no; I'm quite well--only--'

'Only overcome--I don't wonder--my dear--can you walk quietly home with me?'

'Yes, please.'

Nothing was said till they had pa.s.sed the 'idle corner,' where men and half-grown lads smoked their pipes in anything but Sunday trim; and stared at the lady making her exit, till they were through the short street with shop windows closed, and a strong atmosphere of cooking, and had come into the quiet lane leading to the paddock. Then Lady Merrifield laid her hand on the girl's shoulder very gently, and said, 'It was too much for you, my dear, you are not quite strong yet.'

'Oh yes; I'm well. Only I am so very--very miserable,' and the gust of sobs and tears rushed on her again.

'Dear child, I should like to be able to help you!'

'You can't! I've done it! And--and they'll all be against me always--Uncle Regie and all!'

'Uncle Regie was very much hurt, but I'm sure he will forgive you when he sees how sorry you are. You know we all hope this is going to be a fresh start. I am sure you were deceived.'

'Yes,' said Dolores. 'I never could have thought he--Uncle Alfred--was such a dreadful man.'

'I expect that since he lost your mother's influence and help he may have sunk lower than when you had seen him before. Did your father give you any directions about him?'

'No. Father hated to hear of him' and never spoke about him if he could help it; and we thought it was all Mohun high notions because he wasn't quite a gentleman.'

'I see. Indeed, my dear, though you have done very wrong, I have already felt that there was great excuse for you in trying to keep up intercourse with a person who belonged to your mother. I wish you had told me, but I suppose you were afraid.'

'Yes' said Dolores. 'And I thought you were sure to be cross and harsh,'

she muttered. And then suddenly looking up, 'Oh, Aunt Lily! everybody is angry but you--you and Mysie! Please go on being kind! I believe you've been good to me always.'

'My dear, I've tried,' said Lady Merrifield, with fears in her brown eyes and a choke in her voice caressing the hand that had been put into hers. 'I have wished very much to make you happy with us; but the ways of a large family must be a trial to a new-comer.'

Dolores raised her face for a kiss, and said, 'I see it now. But I did not like everything always, and I thought aunts were sure to be unkind.'

'That was very hard. And why?'

She was heard to mutter something about aunts in books always being cross.

'Ah! my dear! I suppose there are some unkind aunts, but I am sure there are a great many more who wish with all their hearts to make happy homes for their nieces. I hope now we may do so. I have more hope than ever I had, and so I shall write to your father.'

'And please--please,' cried Dolores, 'don't let Uncle Regie write him a very dreadful letter! I know he will.'

'I think you can prevent that best yourself, by telling Uncle Regie how sorry you are. He was specially grieved because he thinks you told him two direct falsehoods.'

'Oh! I didn't think they were that,' said Dolores, 'for it was true that father did not leave anything with me for Uncle Alfred. And I did not know whether it was me whom he saw at Darminster. I did tell you one once, Aunt Lily, when you asked if I gave Constance a note. At least, she gave it to me, and not I to her. Indeed, I don't tell falsehoods, Aunt Lily--I mean I never did at home, but Constance said everybody said those sort of things at school, and that one was driven to it when one was---'

'Was what, my dear?'

'Tyrannized over,' Dolores got out.

'Ah! Dolly, I am afraid Constance was no real friend. It was a great mistake to think her like Miss Hacket.'

'And now she has sent back all my notes, and won't look at me or speak to me,' and Dolores's tears began afresh.

'It is very ungenerous of her, but very likely she will be very sorry to have done so when her first anger is over, and she understands that you were quite as much deceived as she was.'

'But I shall never care for her again. It is not like Mysie, who never stopped being kind all the time--nor Gillian either. I shall cut her next time!'

'You should remember that she has something to forgive. I don't want you to be intimate with her but I think it would be better if, instead of quarrelling openly, you wrote a note to say that you were deceived and that you are very sorry for what you brought on her.'

'I should not have gone on with it but for her and Her stupid poems!'

'Can you bear to tell me how it all was, my dear? I do not half understand it.'

And on the way home, and in Lady Merrifield's own room Dolores found it a relief to pour forth an explanation of the whole affair, beginning with that meeting with Mr. Flinders at Exeter, of which no one had heard, and going on to her indignation at the inspection of her letters; and how Constance had undertaken to conduct her correspondence, 'and that made it seem as if she must write to some one,'--so she wrote to Uncle Alfred. And then Constance, becoming excited at the prospect of a literary connection, all the rest followed. It was a great relief to have told it all, and Lady Merrifield was glad to see that the sense of deceit was what weighed most heavily upon her niece, and seemed to have depressed her all along. Indeed, the aunt came to the conclusion that though Dolores alone might still have been sullen, morose and disagreeable, perhaps very reserved, she never would have kept up the systematic deceit but for Constance. The errors, regarded as sin, weighed on Lady Merrifield's mind, but she judged it wiser not to press that thought on an unprepared spirit, trusting that just as Dolores had wakened to the sense of the human love that surrounded her, hitherto disbelieved and disregarded, so she might yet awake to the feeling of the Divine love and her offence against it.

The afternoon was tolerably free, for the gentlemen, including the elder boys, walked to evensong at a neighbouring church noted for its musical services, and Lady Merrifield, as she said, 'lashed herself up' to go with Gillian, carry back the remnant of the unhappy 'Waif,' and 'have it out' with Constance, who would, she feared, never otherwise understand the measure of her own delinquency, and from whom, perhaps, evidence might be extracted which would palliate the poor child's offence in the eyes of Colonel Mohun. Both the Hacket sisters looked terribly frightened when she appeared, and the elder one made an excuse for getting her outside the door to beseech her to be careful, dear Constance was so nervous and so dreadfully upset by all she had undergone. Lady Merrifield was not the least nervous of the two, and she felt additionally displeased with Constance for not having said one word of commiseration when her sister had inquired for Dolores. On returning to the drawing-room, Lady Merrifield found the young lady standing by the window, playing with the blind, and looking as if she wanted to make her escape.

'I do not know whether you will be sorry or glad to see this,' said Lady Merrifield, producing a half-burnt roll of paper. 'It was found in Mr. Flinders's grate, and my brother thought you would be glad that it should not get into strange hands.'

'Oh, it was cruel! it was base! What a wicked man he is!' cried Constance, with hot tears, as she beheld the mutilated condition of her poor 'Waif.'

'Yes, it was a most unfortunate thing that you should have run into intercourse with such an utterly untrustworthy person.'

'I was grossly deceived, Lady Merrifield!' said Constance, clasping her hands somewhat theatrically.

'I shall never believe in any one again!'

'Not without better grounds, I hope,' was the answer. 'Your poor little friend is terribly broken down by all this.'

'Don't call her my friend. Lady Merrifield. She has used me shamefully!

What business had she to tell me he was her uncle when he was no such thing?'

'She had been always used to call him so.'

'Don't tell me, Lady Merrifield,' said Constance, who, after her first fright, was working herself into a pa.s.sion. 'You don't know what a little viper you have been warming, nor what things she has been continually saying of you. She told me--'

Lady Merrifield held up her hand with authority.

'Stay, Constance. Do you think it is generous in you to tell me this?'