Miss Cardew was up betimes and wandering about the house. She was as alert as ever, despite a night with never a wink of sleep or a moment's rest. She waited expectantly for Mr. Bannister, fully believing that he would have come to the conclusion that it was better to go by the early train and accept her offer. But there was no sign of the guest stirring, and his man was not to be seen. This was at seven o'clock. She was both disappointed and astonished. That the fellow should scorn her offer of thousands was inconceivable. The only thing that could prevent him going would be the obstinacy of his daughter, who might not be prepared to abandon her husband at such short notice. The old lady supposed that Mabel would be open to bribery: but if the girl had a conscience, her father; might finally exercise paramount influence.

If Bannister himself held out she must, as a last resort, appeal to Mabel. With this end in view she knocked softly at the girl's bedroom door.

Some one was stirring within, but there was no answer at first. She knocked more loudly.

"Who it is?" asked a husky voice.

"It is I, Miss Cardew. I want to speak to you."

Mabel came to the door and turned the handle; but, of course, it would not open; her father had the key.

"I can't let you in."

"Why not, my child?" asked the old lady, in as kindly a tone as she could manage.

"I am very sorry, Miss Cardew, but I am locked in."

"Locked in?"

There was a pause, during which Mabel felt extremely foolish, and Miss Cardew pondered deeply. "Who locked you in, my dear?"

Mabel tried to say, "My father," but the words choked her, and she took refuge in a lie.

"I don't know."

"I'll soon put that right. There are duplicate keys of the house down stairs. I'll let you out."

Aunt Caroline hurried away, and presently returned with a jingling bunch of keys, to every one of which a label had been attached by her own hands. The door was flung open, and she entered, to find Mabel up and dressed, but with her hair all tumbled and her eyes red with weeping. She looked at the old lady in a scared fashion, then became conscious of her dishevelment. Her bed had not been slept in, but there was a deep indentation where she had lain during a few hours' sleep.

Aunt Caroline took all this in at a glance. "Not been to bed, Miss Bannister?"

"No."

"Why were you locked in?"

Mabel walked to the mirror and re-arranged her hair, more as an excuse to turn her back and avoid the penetrating scrutiny than because she cared about her appearance. Aunt Caroline carefully shut the door after her, and slipped the top catch--which could not be turned from the outside. This made her secure from any chance surprise by Mr. Bannister.

Mabel looked round in some alarm, and put out her hand for her hat.

"You seem to be preparing for a journey. I see your things are packed."

"Yes, I'm going away," replied Mabel sulkily. She put on her hat very calmly. "The Bishop is ill. I can do nothing, and guests are only in the way at such a time."

The old lady felt sorry for the girl. Her bitter jealousy vanished now that she had Jack's wife utterly at her mercy.

"I cannot help thinking that you are wise to go, my dear. I presume your father had a talk with you after my interview with him last night."

"What interview?"

"We had a little business conversation. I want him to go away too."

Mabel flashed round a frightened glance; a piteous, hunted look came into her eyes; but the old lady reassured her by placing a hand on her shoulder. "I am very sorry for you, my child. I know your secret--and your mother's."

Mabel drew away in shame.

"Your father cannot remain in this house; my brother is ill, and you both have a very good excuse for going."

"Oh, you needn't think I want driving away," cried Mabel desperately. "I should have gone last night, but I was prevented."

"There is one question I want to ask you, my child. Was your marriage with Jack--ah, yes, you see I know that you are married to Jack--purely a love affair between you two, or was it a planned conspiracy between you and your father?"

"How dare you insult me by such a question?" cried Mabel, white with anger.

"I don't wish to insult you, my child, but I must be frank. The circumstances with which we are dealing are very unusual, remember. I have told you I am sorry. If anything could be done to straighten things out you would find a friend in me. But there is only one way--for you to go. Your marriage must be forgotten. My brother has no suspicion of it, and some reasonable excuse must be made to explain your separation from Jack. A lovers' quarrel will always account for a broken engagement."

Mabel showed signs of collapse. She rested one hand upon the dressing table and swayed badly. Her agony was apparent in her face.

"Sit down, my child, sit down. I am interested in you: first as Jack's wife, secondly on your own account. As a Christian woman I must do my duty by you. You shall not want for the necessaries of life--so long as you disassociate yourself from your father."

"You are offering me money?" demanded the girl proudly.

"I am not offering anything. I am insisting. It is your right. As a nephew's wife, you must be supported; as Hester's daughter you are entitled to consideration from your unhappy mother. Come, come, now, no nonsense! It is no good your frowning at me like that. How much money have you, where are you going, and what explanation are you going to give to Jack?"

"I have written him a letter."

"Explaining everything?"

"No, not everything."

"May I see it?"

"No."

Aunt Caroline folded her arms and walked up and down a few paces, then came to a standstill, staring out of the window, rigid as a statue--a favorite trick when thinking earnestly. "I must know what you have said to the boy. I cannot have his life ruined. I want to know the nature of the blow you have dealt him."

The awfulness of Jack's position had not really dawned on Aunt Caroline until now. It was all very well to plan a life of celibacy for her nephew, but she knew that Jack would have something to say upon the point.

"Jack ought to be able to get a divorce from me," sobbed Mabel.

"Not unless you gave him a pretext--and that would be sinful, anyway. It would be a dreadful scandal as well. The whole story of the marriage would have to come out. Those whom God has joined let no man put asunder."

"You don't seem to be acting in the spirit of that yourself."

Aunt Caroline started guiltily. This again was a new point of view that had not presented itself to her.

"It is no good your blaming me. It is not I who caused the trouble. You yourself admit that you must go away. Where are you going?"

"I--I don't know. I think I shall go to Beatrice Carew first, and ask her advice. I must tell some one."

"What--tell Beatrice of your marriage! Child, are you mad?"

"I have no other friend in the world."

"Child, child, think of your mother's and my brother's reputations. You mustn't breathe a word to a living soul."

"Then I shall go away to Italy--to the convent. I was happy enough there. Perhaps they'll take me back when they know all."

"That sounds very wise. But I hope it isn't a Roman Catholic convent."

"It is."

"Child, you cannot go there. You are of our faith, and you must not imperil your immortal soul----"

"Don't talk to me of your faith. I do not want such a faith. You have no Christian charity, and you only come here to torture me. You know what you are trying to do--to drive me to kill myself so that Jack will be rid of me and be free to marry Beatrice as you intended."

"My poor child, you don't know what you are saying. You are talking wildly, and you do me an injustice--a terrible injustice."

"You've never been anything but rude and insulting to me," cried the girl, standing with clenched hands and flaming eyes before the gaunt old lady. "You're a scheming, cruel, wicked woman. You don't care anything for Jack's happiness so long as he does what you want, and marries whom you wish. Do you think Beatrice would be happy with him if she knew all about me?"

"Tut-tut, girl, calm yourself and lower your voice."

"I have written my letter to Jack, and I am going to London by the first train. If Jack should try to follow me--as he is sure to do--he mustn't know anything of my movements. So I shan't tell you or anybody else. All I ask of you is that you will spare my mother now that you know her secret, and not vent your miserable spite by plotting her ruin. It's easy to see how you hate her. You show it every time you look at her."

Mabel could not bring herself to say more for fear that she would reveal too much. Aunt Caroline knew the secret of her birth, and she dreaded what would happen if the old lady were to discover, or even suspect, the real relationship between her father and Lady Hester. She busied herself with packing into a handbag the last few personal articles from the dressing table. She was brisk in her movements, and found relief in action. Aunt Caroline stood and watched her.

"What time does the first train go to London?" Mabel asked curtly, as she closed her hand-bag with a snap and reached out for her gloves.

"What place are you going to in London?"

"I have told you--I don't know."

"I cannot allow you to go in that fashion, Mabel."

The use of the Christian name had its effect. It was the first sign of amity that the old lady had put forth.

"It is no business of yours."

"How much money have you?"

"About eighteen shillings. But if you think I'd touch a penny from you----"

"It is not my money. It is Jack's. I hold it in trust for him, and you are entitled to all you need. My child, I regard you as more sinned against than sinning."

"It is very kind of you. If it hadn't been for you and your absurd opposition, and your money, and the necessity for our engagement being quashed at the outset because you were in Switzerland and hadn't been consulted, Jack and I wouldn't have been married secretly. We should have been properly engaged, and this upset would have only ended in a broken engagement--not two lives joined, then severed forever." The girl broke down again, and sobbed with her face in her hands.

"Forever!" echoed the old lady, as if talking to herself, and standing with arms crossed, and staring out of the window. "A woman's life is long and dreary. Who should know it better than I?"

Mabel paid no heed; and the old lady seemed to forget her existence; she was looking back over the years of her own barren existence. The bright eyes grew dim, the muscles of her face became strained, and the hard lines of the mouth were tense and drawn. When next Mabel looked up, a great tear was rolling down Aunt Caroline's cheek. The thin, bony hands had dropped to her sides, and the fingers worked convulsively. Her breath was labored, and the haughty carriage of the head had given place to a weary droop. Her chin rested on her breast. The excitement and anxiety of the night were telling upon her, and she looked like fainting.

"You are not ill?"

The old lady beckoned for a chair, and, when the girl brought it, sank down, limp and ashen. Mabel put on her gloves slowly, wondering how soon she could escape. This miserable interview had become meaningless. It altered nothing; it only made the obvious more inevitable. She looked at her watch. It had stopped--it was symbolical of everything that belonged to the hitherto. With the winding of her watch began a new life. The clicking of the cogs as her shaking fingers turned the little gold knob seemed to arouse Aunt Caroline.

"It's no good your thinking of going yet awhile. The train doesn't leave till eight. You must have some breakfast, child, and--and I think I had better see Lady Hester first. Your mother surely has some right to demand the information you refuse me. I'll not be responsible for driving you away in your present frame of mind. I have no animosity against you; and you must try and realize that. If you cannot be generous, at least be just. I was prepared to dislike you in the beginning; but when I saw you I was only angry because you were not what I expected, and I--I couldn't hate you. You were too young, and fresh, and innocent. Please understand that. I absolve you from all blame. You are a child of sin, but you are not like your father. I want to be friends with you."

She held out two trembling hands, but Mabel drew back.

"Jack will hate you all his life for this. He will guess that you were at the bottom of it. If it hadn't been for you I could have faced him."

"No, don't say that, Mabel, don't say that," cried the old woman piteously. "You shan't set him against me."

"He'll never forgive you, and he'll search the world until he finds me. I feel it, I know it. That's what paralyzes me. I don't know where to go. He knows all about my life and my friends. If I go to the convent that is the first place he would think of. Oh, what am I to do?"

"Child, I'm afraid we may both be wrong. Jack will certainly feel that he had a right to be consulted. He mustn't imagine that I had any hand in ruining his life."

"No, you want to stand well with him and injure me at the same time. But you can't do it. I told him how impossible it would be for us to declare our folly to the world--how it would rob him of your fortune and make bad blood between you and his father. I know my own father is impossible. I am only a thief's daughter."

"Hush, my child. Not so bad as that, I hope. It is an ugly term for a daughter to use."

"It is true, nevertheless," cried Mabel recklessly. "The clothes I wear don't belong to me. The jewelry I am taking away to sell probably belongs to somebody else. A nice wife for a lawyer! Why, some day my own husband may be called upon to prosecute my father in the felon's dock! What does it matter what becomes of me--whether I die in the gutter, or in the workhouse--or in the Thames?"

Mabel gave way to her passion, and frightened the elder woman, who put a gentle hand on her shoulder; but she flung her off, almost striking her.

"I am going. Don't touch me. You need not thrust me out. I shan't make a scene. I shall be obliged if you will order a servant to take those two bags to the station. I shall walk down at once and wait for the train."

"Surely it would be better if you waited for your father. I fancy he will be going early this morning."

"My father!" cried the girl contemptuously. "He will not stir till eleven. If you were to send in word that I was leaving him forever, he would only turn over and curse you for awakening him."

"I have offered him money to go away."

"Oh! perhaps you came here to offer me money, too! Thank you. I understand your generous instincts. Hush money they call it, don't they? Well, you need not pay any money to keep me quiet. My father will take all you want to give away, and I shall be as silent as--the dead. And now there is nothing more we want to say to each other except good-bye. And will you please send my things to the station? If they don't come, I shall go without them."

Mabel tugged at her glove, and finished the last buttons in a most determined fashion. She swept the room with one comprehensive, despairing glance and saw Aunt Caroline in tears, with outstretched hands; but she hardened her heart and almost rushed from the room.

The old lady followed, but her legs were shaking beneath her. Mabel was round the bend in the gallery and going down stairs before Aunt Caroline could reach the banister and call down to her.

"Mabel, my child--stop, stop! I've changed my mind." It was useless. The old voice might have been the chiming of the clock for Cinderella; Mabel looked neither to left nor right, but made for the front door, which was just being opened to let in the morning sunlight. Without a word of explanation for her early appearance she brushed past the servant, and began to descend the stone steps, walking in a mist of tears. Her foot rested securely upon the top step, but the second sank, and the third faded into mist and was swallowed up by the earth. She dropped like a stone in a dead faint at the bottom, and rolled over on her back, with one arm outstretched, palm upwards, and the other doubled painfully beneath her.

The footman at the top gasped and faltered, and was for a moment rendered helpless. At the same instant there was a whiz and a whir, and a motor car turned the bend of the drive, and dashed up to the steps.

It was Jack, who had left town at five in the morning, burning with impatience to get to his father, brought down post haste by a message from the doctor sent over night.

The driver of the hired car did not see the dark thing lying in the drive at the foot of the steps until the footman rushed forward with upraised arms and pointed warningly. Then Jack saw and understood.

He leaped out before the car came to a standstill, and raised his wife in his arms.

"Mabel, my darling, what is it? Look up! What has happened to her?"

"She just fell down the steps, sir, I think. Going down in a hurry, and tripped, and came down all of a heap."

Jack was terrified for a few moments; but the girl's heavy breathing reassured him. At least she was alive. Aunt Caroline arrived at the door in time to see the young man dismount, and hurried down the steps to help him.

All efforts to restore the girl were unavailing. Jack was alarmed; but his aunt assured him that it was only a faint. But she spoke so falteringly and apologetically that her nephew seemed to suspect that something was wrong.

"Why was she going out at this hour--before breakfast?" he asked.

"I--I suppose she expected you," faltered Aunt Caroline, taking refuge in a lie, and feeling shockingly guilty.

They carried Mabel indoors and applied the usual restoratives, but without avail. She breathed more easily, but her eyes would not open. Jack instinctively guessed that she had sustained some serious injury, and resolved to carry her upstairs to her room to await the coming of the doctor. His aunt led the way, and by the time she reached the top of the stairs remembered Mabel's letter left for Jack. She hurried on in advance, and entered the room just in time to snatch up the missive and hide it. Never before had she been afraid of Jack. If she had dealt Mabel a blow with her own hand she could not have felt more guilty.

They had not long to wait before the arrival of the doctor. A servant met him coming up to the Palace to see the Bishop. He settled Mabel's fate in a few moments, and located the trouble. She had struck the sharp edge of the stone step, and there was slight concussion, necessitating quiet and careful nursing for days--perhaps weeks.

"Trouble comes not in single spies but in battalions," he muttered to Jack, as he took him by the arm and led him out of the room. "I must now go and see your father. I'll let you know what I think about him in ten minutes. I hear he is almost himself again."

Jack walked up and down the corridor feeling very sick at heart. It was a miserable home-coming after his triumph of yesterday in the courts. He saw the doctor enter his father's room, and in a few moments the Bishop's hearty voice could be heard greeting him cheerily.

"Not much the matter with me this morning, doctor," he said; and the laugh that followed removed a great load from Jack's heart. He returned to Mabel's room, where his aunt was in attendance. She was making up for past coldness by the most assiduous attention to the sufferer.

At nine o'clock Voss appeared, and heard the news of Mabel's accident from the other servants. He carried the information to his master in bed. Bannister turned over and cursed him for the disturbance; but with the full return of waking consciousness he recalled the scene over night, and the locked door. For the moment he feared that she might have hurt herself escaping from a window. But the narrative as repeated by Voss was concise. Mabel had been seen running down stairs with Miss Cardew calling her back; she had gone out of the house, and fell down the flight of stone steps. On being assured that she was receiving due attention, her loving father turned over and went to sleep.