'Mrs. Rolfe, you are aware of too many things. In your position I should be uneasy.'

'I will leave you to enjoy your _own_ uneasiness,' returned Alma, with a contemptuous laugh. 'You must have enough of it, without imagining that of others.'

She half turned. Sibyl again took one step forward, and spoke with ever so little tremor in the even voice.

'You have understood me, I hope?'

'Oh, quite. You have shown plainly how--afraid you are. Good morning, Mrs. Carnaby.'

Baker Street station being so near, Alma was tempted to go straightway and demand from the Leach sisters an explanation of what she had heard; they, too, seemed to be behaving treacherously. But she was unwilling to miss the luncheon hour at home, for Hughie would speak of it to his father, and so oblige her to make false excuses. Besides, she had suffered more than enough indignity (though not unavenged!), and it was better to summon the sisters to her presence.

On reaching home, she at once sent them an ordinary invitation, but of the briefest. In the evening she received Dymes's acknowledgment of the cheque. Next day she wrote to him, a few formal lines, requesting that he would let her know Mrs. Strangeways' address as soon as he had discovered it.

Dora Leach came to Gunnersbury alone. She was in distress and worry, for her father had fallen ill again, and the doctors doubted whether he would ever be fit to resume work; it had just dawned upon Dora that the breadwinner of the family deserved rather more consideration than he had been wont to receive, and that his death might involve unpleasant consequences for those dependent upon him. To Alma's questioning she replied frankly and with self-reproach. It was true that she had whispered her friend's suspicions of Mrs. Carnaby, but only to one person, and in strictest confidence. Neither she nor Gerda had met Mrs Carnaby, and how the whisper could have reached Sibyl's ears was inconceivable to her.

'It doesn't matter in the least,' said Alma, finally. 'To tell you the truth, I'm not sorry.'

'Why, that's just what I thought!' exclaimed Dora, with sudden clearing of her countenance.

In a fortnight or so there came a note from Dymes, written at Brussels.

He had ascertained that Mrs. Strangeways was somewhere on the Continent, but as yet he could not succeed in 'running her down'. Let Mrs. Rolfe depend upon his zeal in this search, as in any other matter in which he could be of use to her. Unfortunately, this envelope came under Harvey's eyes, and Alma, knowing he had seen it, felt obliged to speak.

'Mr. Dymes refuses to believe that I shall never play again in public,'

she remarked, putting down his letter, as carelessly as possible, by her plate at breakfast.

'Does he pester you? If so, it might be better for me to----'

'Oh dear, no! I can manage my own correspondence, Harvey, thank you.'

Her tone of slight petulance was due to fear that he might ask to see the letter, and it had its effect. But Alma's heart sank at the deception, and her skill in practising it. Was it impossible to become what she desired to be, an honest woman! Only yesterday Harvey had spoken to her with vexation of a piece of untruthfulness in Hughie, and had begged her to keep a watch upon the child's habit in this respect.

And she had promised, with much earnestness, much concern.

There are women who can breathe only in the air of lies and of treachery. Alma rebelled against the fate which made her life dishonourable. Fate--she declared--not the depravity of her own heart.

From the dark day that saw her father's ruin, she had been condemned to a struggle with circ.u.mstances. She meant honestly; she asked no more than the free exercise of instincts nature had given her; but destiny was adverse, and step by step had brought her into a position so false, so hopeless, that she wondered at her strength in living on.

Hughie had begun to learn the maps of countries, and prided himself on naming them as he turned over an atlas. One day, about this time, she looked over his shoulder and saw the map of Italy.

'Those are lakes,' said the child, pointing north. 'Tell me their names, Mother.'

But she was silent. Her eye had fallen upon Garda, and at the head of the lake was a name which thrilled her memory. What if she had gone to Riva? Suddenly, and for the first time, she saw it as a thing that might have happened; not as a mere dark suggestion abhorrent to her thought. Had she known the world a little better, it might have been.

Then, how different her life! Pleasure, luxury, triumph; for she had proved herself capable of triumphing. He, the man of money and influence, would have made it his pride to smooth the way for her. And perhaps never a word against her reputation; or, if whispers, did she not know by this time how indulgent society can be to its brilliant favourites?

As it was: a small house at Gunnersbury, a baffled ambition, a life of envy, hatred, fear, suffered in secret, hidden by base or paltry subterfuge. A husband whom she respected, whose love she had never ceased to desire, though, strange to say, she knew not whether she loved him. Only death could part them; but how much better for him and for her if they had never met! Their thoughts and purposes so unlike; he, with his heart and mind set on grave, quiet, restful things, hating the world's tumult, ever hoping to retire beyond its echo; she, her senses crying for the delight of an existence that loses itself in whirl and glare.

In a crowded drawing-room she had heard someone draw attention to her--'the daughter of Bennet Frothingham'. That was how people thought of her, and would it not have been wiser if she had so thought of herself? Daughter of a man who had set all on a great hazard; who had played for the world's reward, and, losing, flung away his life. What had _she_ to do with domestic virtues, and the pleasures of a dull, decorous circle? Could it but come over again, she would accept the challenge of circ.u.mstance, which she had failed to understand; accept the scandal and the hereditary shame; welcome the lot cast for her, and, like her father, play boldly for the great stakes. His widow might continue to hold her pious faith in him, and refuse to believe that his name merited obloquy; his child knew better. She had mistaken her path, lost the promise of her beauty and her talent, led astray by the feeble prejudice of those who have neither one nor the other. Too late, and worse than idle now, to recognise it. She would be a good woman, rule her little house, bring up her child, and have no will but her husband's.

House-ruling was no easy matter. Things did not go as she wished; the servants were inefficient, sometimes refractory, and she loathed the task of keeping them up to their duties. Insomnia began to trouble her again, and presently she had recourse to the forbidden sleeping-draught. Not regularly, but once a week or so, when the long night harried her beyond endurance. Rolfe did not suspect it, for she never complained to him. Winter was her bad time. In the spring her health would improve, as usual, and then she would give up the habit.

At Christmas the Langlands had the customary visit from their relative, Mr. Thistlewood, who renewed his acquaintance with Alma. At their first meeting she was struck by his buoyant air, his animated talk. A week later, he called in the afternoon. Two ladies happened to be with Alma, and they stayed a long time; but Thistlewood, who comported himself rather oddly, saying little and sometimes neglecting a remark addressed to him, stayed yet longer. When he was alone with his hostess, he took a chair near to her, bent forward, and said, smiling----

'You remember our talk about marriage on a minute income?'

'I do, very well.'

'I have found someone who isn't afraid of it.'

'You have? The same person who formerly _was_?'

'No; she was not afraid of the income, but of me. I couldn't be surprised, though it hit me hard. Time has spoken for me.'

Harvey was dining in town. He came back with vexatious news about Cecil Morphew, who neglected business, looked ill, and altogether seemed in a bad way. As he talked, he began to notice that Alma regarded him with brighter and happier eyes than for many a day.

'Why does it amuse you?' he asked, stopping in his narrative.

'It doesn't; I'm as sorry as you are. But I have a surprise for you.'

'A pleasant one, this time, I see.'

'Mrs. Abbott is going to marry Mr. Thistlewood.'

She watched the effect of her words, and for an instant felt the old pang, the old bitterness. But Harvey's confusion of feeling soon pa.s.sed, giving way to a satisfaction that could not be mistaken.

'Who has told you?'

'The happy man himself.'

'I am glad--heartily glad! But I didn't think it would interest you so much.'

'Oh, women--marriages----!'

She threw a pretty scorn upon herself.

'Yes, that's good news. They will suit each other. But she'll give up her school, and that's a nuisance.'

'There are others as good.'

'But not here. Another removal, I suppose.--When is it to be?'

'Not till the Easter holidays.'

They were in the library. Harvey began to fill his pipe, and nothing more was said until he had drawn a few meditative puffs.

'Another removal,' then escaped him, with half a groan.

'Why should you care?' asked Alma thoughtfully. 'You don't like this place.'

'As well as any other. It's convenient for town.'