It was winter. February was drearier than usual, and Caroline Cardew sat in her town house alone. It was a gaunt, old fashioned place, severely furnished in the early Victorian style, but with many articles of furniture belonging to previous generations of respectable Georgian ancestors. The afternoon was bleak and grey, and she sat knitting before the fire. Outside the rain was drizzling and the sky was darkening.

She seemed to have aged very much in the last few months, and her eye had lost its keenness. She had sunk into insignificance in public affairs since the death of her brother the Bishop, and in family affairs she had chosen to hold herself aloof. She missed the Palace at Ripley, and the excitement of going to and fro, and the occasional visits which her brother used to make to her in town, where he used her house as his headquarters. She missed Jack most of all.

Her visitors were surprisingly few; but the house was run as heretofore, and she sat in solitary state.

A visitor! She sighed with relief and put down her knitting, expecting the maid to announce the newcomer. Instead she heard the swish of silken skirts on the stairs and some one running up, talking all the time. Beatrice!

The girl entered unceremoniously, and greeted her friend with her usual brusqueness.

"Afternoon, aunt. Didn't expect to see me, did you? Was in town, so thought I'd come."

Beatrice was dressed in a costume which was half country and half town, and carried a walking stick; her; jacket glistened with rain, and she looked rather draggled.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming to town, child, then I could have sent the carriage?"

"Oh, just ran up on the spur of the moment--to see Jack and Mabel." Aunt Caroline retired into her shell and took up her knitting. "But before I went, thought I'd come and see you. Mabel is living with Jack at his chambers, you know, and they are still keeping the marriage dark. Lady Hester came back yesterday, and she's staying at a hotel close by, and making their place her headquarters."

Grim silence from Aunt Caroline, and a pause.

"Fancy money's rather tight there." Beatrice took off her gloves, and flung them on the table with her stick. Then she thrust her hands into the side pockets of her jacket and walked up and down, as she talked, like a man.

"I think it was very mean of the Bishop to squander everything and live beyond his income, so that when he died there was nothing left for Jack and his wife but debts."

"I object to your referring to my dear brother in those terms."

"And you are mean, too," cried Beatrice, wheeling round remorselessly. "You always said that your father left his money to you, so that the Bishop shouldn't spend it. The fact is, your money is as much Jack's as anybody's."

"I don't allow you to dictate to me on questions of finance."

"Finance--fiddlesticks!" cried Beatrice, with a laugh. "You know you are only sulking. You're behaving very shabbily, auntie--yes, you are, and it's no good denying it. Jack's income stopped with his father's death, and Lady Hester only had her own allowance, which was just enough to keep body and soul together. She went away to travel and recover herself a little; but she hadn't money enough to keep her going, and was obliged to come back to settle down in some obscure retreat. The irony of it all is that Mabel is a rich woman."

"Mabel? How? What do you mean by rich woman?"

"Why, her father left her quite a little fortune--not that she means to touch it."

"Ah, she has told you all her miserable family history?"

"Yes, every word. But it has come to this, that Jack isn't making as much money as he expected, and they're finding it very hard to make both ends meet and keep their marriage dark. People are whispering things about the lady living in the Temple--it's _infra dig._, you know, for a barrister to keep his wife there--it isn't the thing. Now that Lady Hester has come back they'll have to go through a mockery of marriage just to satisfy the Bishop's old friends and those who were deceived by the announcement of the engagement. Then they must go into a suburb."

"Why do you tell me all this?"

"Because Jack is too proud. I've heard it all from Mabel; and I want to know if you wish Jack to live upon his wife's money--her father's ill-gotten money?"

"God forbid!" exclaimed Aunt Caroline in horror. "I'd no idea the man had anything. I thought he was a penniless scamp."

"You see he wasn't. He was rich. What are you going to do?"

"I tell you I won't be questioned in this fashion. Beatrice, your manners are abominable. You don't treat me with proper respect."

"Oh, la--la--that for respect!" and she snapped her fingers. "You don't deserve any. You are behaving too shabbily, auntie."

"I--I deny that!" faltered Aunt Caroline.

"Well, as soon as I leave here I am going to the Temple to see Lady Hester. I hear she is very much broken up, and Mabel has arranged with Jack for her to come and live with them when they get their miserable villa in the country."

"Mabel recognizes her mother then?"

"What do you expect? Why shouldn't she? Don't you think poor Lady Hester has suffered enough? Wasn't she more sinned against than sinning?"

"She deceived my brother."

"Well, and he never knew anything about it. So what does that matter?" replied matter-of-fact Beatrice.

"And do you expect me to know her?"

"Of course, if you don't want the world to talk and ask questions. Why shouldn't you know your brother's widow? They know that you've got all your brother's money tied up in a horrid bank, or consols, or something of that sort. They'll say you ought to be ashamed of yourself to let her pinch and screw in poverty."

"Her daughter has money. Let her live on that."

"What! and you a Christian woman? I'm shocked. You don't mean it, auntie. Mabel oughtn't to touch a penny of that money. It should go to hospitals, or something of that sort. But if you're going to play the skinflint, it can't. She can't see her husband wearing himself to a shadow and working night and day for fees that never arrive. The brewery people can't always be at law; and he must live."

"Beatrice, I'm surprised at you talking like this. If he had married you he would have had a handsome income; but he didn't."

"What--you offered him a bribe to marry me?" cried the girl, starting up with flaming cheeks. "How dared you? You horrid old woman!"

"Beatrice! You are insulting as well as ungrateful. Jack preferred to marry without consulting me----"

"And quite right, too. Haven't you eyes in your head? You've known me since I was a girl in short frocks--and you know what a fright I've always been--and you've seen Mabel. If I don't complain, why should you? You used to profess some regard for Jack. Now--well, I seem to be the only one left to look after his interests, and bully his mean old aunt. They're all afraid of you--goodness knows why--but I'm not."

"Beatrice, you are presuming. I will not listen."

"You needn't be in such a hurry to cut me short, because I've done with you, auntie, after to-day. You're no fit friend for a Christian girl, and I won't know you."

Aunt Caroline choked with a mixture of emotions--anger at the girl's impudence, fear that there was truth in her threat, and a tender feeling that was always provoked by the familiar term "auntie" from Beatrice's lips. These two angular women were intensely devoted to one another, and bound by an invisible tie. No other woman, not even in Beatrice's own family, was as much to the girl as Caroline Cardew; and nobody of late years had voluntarily sought the grim old lady's friendship on frank, honest terms. She was feeling very old and conscious that the race was to the young. The old were forgotten and left behind if they tried to retard the pace of the vigorous and strong, who jostled joyfully along life's crowded path in their eagerness to drink to the full of the fountain of life and desire.

"It's no good your trying to bully me, Beatrice. Hester has made her bed, and she must lie upon it. Jack is a man, and if he chooses to be independent of me and my advice, let him work. It'll do him good. I don't mind telling you, in confidence, that in my will I shall take care that his interests are properly looked after."

"Oh, yes, after you have given the bulk of your fortune to the Home for Lost Dogs, and the tabbies' nursing quarters. Look here, auntie; you're very miserable in this house. The place bears the stamp of wretchedness and loneliness everywhere. It's nearly dark now, and there's isn't a lamp going. There's positively a smell of mildew; and the man who opened the door to me had been asleep, and looked wretched and ill-tempered. You've no business to live alone, demoralizing servants by idleness. They'll murder you some day, just for a little excitement. If you go on like this you'll be driven by sheer misery to wander round the country and seek distraction in seaside boarding houses."

"I am quite content," replied the old lady doggedly, as she resumed her knitting.

"Glad to hear it. As for Jack and Mabel, they're just insanely happy. Her letters reek of it. She has been looking forward to her mother coming home as to some great treat. It'll be good to see them together. That's why I am going there to-day."

Aunt Caroline gave a sniff of contempt; but her eyes filled with tears, and the fire in front of her became a blinking haze. Beatrice proceeded to put on her gloves in leisurely fashion, and re-arranged her hat in a mirror.

"Nice fright I look. At any rate, they'll be glad to see me, which is more than you could say, auntie."

"I--I--I won't listen to your impertinence. I don't allow girls to teach me my proper duty. I know what is right and what is wrong. I--I----"

The old lady had risen to her feet, and was stammering and stuttering between her choking sobs.

"Tut, tut, tut," replied Beatrice, calmly smoothing out a feather before the glass, and scorning the outburst. "It's waste of time getting angry with me. You can be as mad as you like when I am gone, auntie. But I don't think it nice of you to say goodbye like this."

"Good-bye?"

"Yes; in future I shall cut you if I meet you in the street. But I'll shake you by the hand now. Good-bye."

Caroline gripped the back of her chair for support, and made a valiant effort to be stern. Her cold fingers closed on Beatrice's outstretched hand, but she got no further than that. She bowed her head and wept.

"Don't, don't!" murmured Beatrice, with a gulp; "you'll make me cry too. You know I was only fooling."

She assisted the old lady to a chair, where she sank back and gave rein to her grief--the first real tears since her brother's death.

"I knew I should bring you round." Beatrice sat on the arm of the chair and patted the old lady's hand gently. "I'll tell you what, auntie; the best way is not to have any explanations, or make any apologies, or create any fuss. Just sit down and write a note for me to take to Mabel and Lady Hester, and invite them all up to dinner."

Aunt Caroline made no protest now. She sat and stared meditatively into the fire, and considered Beatrice's plan. After a long silence she spoke.

"No--she can't touch her father's money. She's a good girl. I never really objected to her--it was only the way it was done--only----"

"And now that it can't be helped, just invite them to dinner, auntie." Beatrice walked across to a writing desk and took out note paper and envelopes, and made everything ready. She led the old lady to the writing table, and saw her settled. Then she sat by the fire and dried her eyes, and set her teeth firmly. The task before her was as hard as Aunt Caroline's--to visit Mabel in her happiness and see Jack in his little home with his wife.

* * * * * * *

"Why, it's Beatrice!"

Jack opened the door of his chambers and shook the visitor warmly by the hand. She trembled a little, but returned his greeting cheerily, and walked into Mabel's outstretched arms. The place was warm and cosy, and utterly transformed by new furniture, flowers, and draperies. The girls hugged one another silently for a few moments, then Lady Hester came forward to give greeting also. She was much changed, paler and thinner, but very dignified in her widow's black; and there was a new light in her face, a tenderness and graciousness which was novel to Beatrice, who had always found Lady Hester a little stiff and impatient of her rough ways.

"Mother, Beatrice must take off her hat and stay."

"Of course, of course," cried Jack.

"No, no, I've only just called. I've got to catch a train; and I've brought you a letter."

Mabel extended her hand wonderingly, but Beatrice stuffed the letter in her muff. "No, no; not now. When I go."

They drew her to the fire and made much of her, and she melted and became almost tender. Perhaps Jack understood her feelings, for he kept in the background, and left her to Mabel and Lady Hester. When she talked of going he entreated her to stay longer.

"No, no; I'm busy. Been doing good Samaritan work this afternoon. Got to get home to-night. Only a spinster, and not allowed out alone after dark, you know."

She thrust her hand into Jack's gauchely in her worst manner; but Jack understood.

"Here's the letter, Mabel. Good-bye! Good-bye!"

She was gone quickly, and Mabel opened the envelope wonderingly.

"What can Beatrice have to write to us about?"

She read with a grave face, then passed the note to Jack. He read it aloud.

"Miss Cardew presents her compliments, and would be glad of the company of Mr. and Mrs. Cardew and Lady Hester Cardew to dinner on Wednesday. Usual time."

"Hooray!" cried Jack. Then he roared with laughter.

"This is Beatrice's doing," murmured Lady Hester, after a pause. "She escaped so that we should not thank her."

"It's just like her," murmured Mabel.

"You see, Caroline refers to me as Lady Hester Cardew," observed her mother. "I take it that she means me to continue the name?"

"Of course, mother. What can't be explained had better be left alone. Aunt Caroline is going to do the right thing for Jack after all."

"And when auntie turns up trumps she does it handsomely," cried Jack. "It has taken a great weight off my mind. Now that I know where we are, I feel like work at once. I've heaps of stuff to cram into my head before eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. You two must sit over the fire here, and I'll shut myself in the next room."

He seized his brief bag and left mother and daughter together.

They had nothing to say. They comforted one another in a long and tender embrace.