"You have thought over what I told you when you were here," she said, softly. "You have thought of it, of course."

"Yes," I answered. "How could I help it--how could I think of anything else?"

"You have remembered that you are my daughter," she added, with a little quiver in her tone.

"Yes."

I kept my eyes upon the carpet; she sighed.

"You are very hard," she said--"very hard."

"I do not think so," I answered. "I do not wish to be. It is not I who have made myself; I cannot control my instincts. I do not wish to say anything to you unless it comes from my heart."

"You are my daughter," she murmured, softly.

"It is true," I answered; "yet consider that I have only known it a few days. Do you think that I can feel--like that--towards you so soon? It is impossible. A few weeks ago we were strangers. I cannot forget that."

She winced a little at the word, but I repeated it.

"It may seem an odd thing to say, but so far at any rate as I was concerned, we were strangers. I do feel--differently towards you now of course. In time the rest will come, no doubt, but I should only be a hypocrite if I pretended more at present, you must see that; and," I continued, with a shade of bitterness in my tone, "there is the shame. One cannot forget that all at once."

She shrank back as though I had struck her a blow across the face. Unwittingly I knew that I had wounded her deeply. But how could I help it?

"The shame," she repeated in a low tone--"ay, the shame. That seems an odd word for me to hear. But it is a true one. I must learn to bear it. There is the shame! Oh, G.o.d! this is my punishment."

"You cannot deny it," I said. "How could you ever have thought of it in any other way? You deliberately chose to live with my father without marrying him. By your own admission there was not the faintest obstacle to your marriage. You had the satisfaction of living up to your theories, I have to pay the penalty."

She bowed her head.

"It is true," she said.

She covered her face with her hands and there was a long silence between us. The clock in the room seemed suddenly to commence a louder ticking; outside, the yellow leaves came fluttering to the ground, and the wet wind went sighing through the tree tops. The rain dashed against the steaming window panes. I looked away from the bowed figure before me out into the desolate road, and found my thoughts suddenly slipping away from me. I wondered where Bruce Deville was, and Olive Berdenstein. Were they together and was she succeeding in her purpose? After all what did it matter to me, a poor, nameless girl, with a shadowed past and a blank future? I sighed, and looked back into the room. The sound of her voice broke the silence, which was becoming unbearable.

"I do not wish to excuse myself," she said, softly; "nothing can excuse me. But in those days, when I was young and enthusiastic, it seemed to me that I had but to lead and the world would follow me. I thought that by the time my children were grown up--if I had children--what is called illegitimacy would be no longer a thing to fear. You see I dwelt for a little time in a fool's elysium. Believe me that I am sharing with you the punishment--nay, mine is the greater half, for I believe that my heart is broken."

I was moved to pity then and took her hands. But as yet the veil hung between us.

"I will believe that," I said, softly; "I shall try always to remember it. I will not think hardly of you in any way. The rest must come gradually I think--no, I am sure that it will come some day."

Her eyes were soft with grat.i.tude. She held out her hands to me, and I gave her mine freely. We spoke no more upon that subject. But perhaps what I went on to say was almost as interesting to her. I had been thinking of it for some time, now it became inevitable.

"I had a purpose in coming to see you this afternoon," I said. "I want to talk to you about it. Do you mind?"

She shook her head. I continued almost immediately.

"I have come to ask for your advice," I said. "I want presently, when this trouble has pa.s.sed over and Olive Berdenstein has gone away, to leave home, to take up some work of my own. In short, I want to be independent, to take my life into my own hands and shape it myself."

She looked at me with a certain wistful thoughtfulness.

"Independent? Yes, you look like that," she said, softly.

"In any case I have no taste for a home life," I continued. "After what has pa.s.sed I should find it unbearable. I want active work, and plenty of it."

"That," she said, with a sigh, "I can well understand. Yes, I know what you feel."

Not altogether, I thought to myself, with a little wan smile. She did not know everything.

"I should like to get right away from here," I continued. "I should like to go to London. I don't know exactly what work I am fitted for; I should find that out in time. I took a good degree at Heidelberg, but I should hate to be a governess. I thought perhaps you might be able to suggest something."

A sudden light had flashed into her face in the middle of my little speech. Evidently some thought had occurred to her which she hesitated to confide to me. When I had finished she looked at me half nervously, half doubtfully. She seemed to be on the point of suggesting something, yet she hesitated.

"If there is anything which has occurred to you," I begged her, "do not mind letting me hear it, at any rate. I am not afraid to work, and I shall not be very particular as to its exact nature so long as it does not altogether deprive me of my liberty."

"I was wondering," she said, looking at me keenly, and with a faint color in her cheeks--"I was wondering whether you would care to accept a post as my secretary. I am really in urgent want of one," she added, quickly; "I wrote out an advertis.e.m.e.nt to send to the _Guardian_ last week."

"Your secretary?" I repeated, slowly.

"Yes; you would have to learn typewriting, and it would be dry work. But, on the other hand, you would have a good deal of time to yourself. You would be to a very large extent your own mistress."

I scarcely knew how to answer her, yet on the whole the idea was an attractive one to me. She saw me hesitate, but she saw also that it was by no means in displeasure. Before I could find anything to say she spoke again.

"At any rate, think of it," she suggested. "Don't decide all at once. You would live with me, of course, and I could give you sixty pounds a year. It does not seem much, but you would scarcely get more than that to start with at anything. Listen! Isn't that Mr. Deville?"

I sprang up and moved towards the door.

"I thought you told me that you were not expecting him to-day!" I exclaimed.

She looked at me in surprise.

"I was not expecting him--in fact, he told me that he was going to Mellborough. But does it matter? Don't you want to see him?"

"No!" I cried, breathlessly; "he is coming across the lawn. I am going out the other way. Goodbye."

"Why, what has poor Bruce done to offend you?" she cried, in some concern. "I thought you were getting such friends."

"He has not offended me," I answered, quickly. "Only I don't want to see him to-day. Goodbye."

I ran down the path, leaving her standing at the front door. I just saw the back of Bruce Deville's Norfolk coat as he entered the house by the French windows, and I hoped that I had escaped him. But before I was half way through the little plantation I heard firm footsteps behind me and then a voice--

"Good afternoon, Miss Ffolliot!"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Deville," I answered, without looking round.

There was only room for one in the path. He pa.s.sed me, taking a huge stride through the undergrowth, and turning round blocked the way.

"What is the matter?" he asked, quietly. "What have I done? Why are you trying to avoid me, like this?"

"I do not understand you, Mr. Deville," I answered, untruthfully, and with burning cheeks. "Be so good as to let me pa.s.s."