LITMIR.BIZ

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much had passed between you, and I understand things a little better after what you tell me. Well! In short, I have what Mr. Gaunt calls a business offer to put before you, and you have until to-morrow afternoon's post in which to make up your mind."

      Virginia obediently seated herself upon a chair opposite her mother, who, between sips of tea, told her of the offer made by Gaunt.

      The elder woman's mind was in a strange tumult—she hardly knew which was the keener feeling in her—her furious jealousy or her devouring desire that her daughter should accept the offer which would lift them out of poverty. On her journey down in the train, she had been growing used to the idea. The sense of outrage, which had stung her so smartly at first, subsided a little, in the light of other considerations. What chances of matrimony had Virginia? Since she had let young Rosenberg slip through her fingers, her mother was beginning to see that she was not the kind of girl to seize chances, even should they present themselves. If Gaunt were serious in his wild plan, if it could be shown that he was financially solvent and able to do as he promised, then she had better swallow her feelings and take what she could get.

      She told herself that it was one of those cases of sudden electric sympathy—of love at first sight. Yet she knew that she said this only to salve her conscience. She was, as her old lover had told her, no fool. She saw his conduct, all of a piece. Why had he taken up the mortgage on Lissendean? To have her in his power. Why did he wish to become her son-in-law? For the same reason. Try to deceive herself as she might, she knew that love had no place in the man's thoughts. When he had spoken of "getting a bit of his own back," he had spoken with a certain momentary glimpse of self revelation. He had uncovered a corner of a mind perverted, a mind which had brooded long upon a solitary idea of grievance until obsessed by it.

      Mrs. Mynors, in her sub-conscious self, knew all this. Had she told her daughter, the girl must have recoiled shuddering from the prospect of such an alliance. As her old lover had foreseen, she was very careful not to tell her daughter anything of the kind. Her better nature had at first fought within her a little. She resolved that she would describe Gaunt's malevolence, his cold-blooded assurance. Then she would come forward, offer to share a part of Virginia's burden, decide that they must stand together and face what her own selfish, mean folly had brought upon them all. But, as she strove to envisage some of what such a step must cost her, she had cowered away from the picture.

      She could not face beggary.

      She began to temporise. How did she know the exact position of affairs? It was possible that, strive though he might to conceal it from her, the man was in love. She determined upon her course of action. She would tell Virginia how Gaunt had watched her in the Gallery. The girl's own demeanour should give her the cue as to whether or no she should proceed to unfold his proposal. If the sudden fancy had been mutual ... after all, it might have been mutual....

      She returned home. She spoke. Virginia betrayed consciousness. Before the mention of the lame man—at the very memory of Hertford House—she had blushed, she had been embarrassed. Further questioning had elicited her clear memory of Gaunt's attention and pursuit. She had owned, with a distinct hesitation, that she thought he looked unhappy. That decided Mrs. Mynors. With a new hard-heartedness, born of her new, tormenting jealousy of Virgie's youth and sweetness, she stamped down the deep-lying scruples. She made the best of Gaunt's case, and said that he wished to come down to Wayhurst to plead his suit himself.

      It took some time to convince Virgie that the man was in earnest. Yet, recalling his appearance and manner, as she held them in her memory, the girl owned to herself that this was a man who might make an eccentric, even a quixotic, offer.

      The interview was broken off short by the entrance of Tony, who flung open the front door, loudly whistling, and could be heard throwing down his books, and shouting for Virgie. He knew better than to enter the little boudoir, his mother's sanctum. Very, very rarely was he permitted to set foot within its charmed area.

      "I have until to-morrow's post," said Virgie gravely, as she lifted the tray with the tea-things, and carried it away.

      The whole affair must be pushed into the background for the time being. Pansy was to be fetched downstairs, the tea-table spread in the garden, more tea prepared. Tony was a willing, if somewhat boisterous, helper. He and his sister between them soon arranged things, and the too brilliant eyes of the little cripple glistened with pleasure as she was laid beside the wire arch smothered in Hiawatha, to enjoy the air of the exquisite summer evening.

      Virgie sat, the socks she endlessly knitted for Tony in her never idle fingers, watching the clear-cut profile, which, as she could not conceal from herself, grew ever more ethereal. Pansy did not seem definitely worse, and had less pain than formerly. But she was wasting, and her sister knew it.

      The Wayhurst doctor was very anxious that a new treatment, in which he had great faith, should be tried. He thought it the only chance; but as it was protracted, and involved a long course of skilled nursing, with daily medical supervision, it would be extremely costly. It was, therefore, out of the question.

      Yet, if Virginia married Mr. Gaunt, it would become easy. He had actually volunteered that Pansy should have all the help obtainable. She glanced from Pansy to Tony, and at the darns on his threadbare trouser-knees. She heard his jolly laugh, and also his quickly smothered sigh, as he remarked that he was the only chap in his form who did not belong to the school O.T.C. He knew that the uniform and camp expenses were beyond his sister's resources.

      This, too, would be rectified, if she did as suggested. It was a bribe of whose strength Gaunt himself could form no idea.

      Later, when Tony had scampered away to bowl at the nets, and she was alone in the kitchen washing up tea-things, she bent her mind upon the extraordinary turn of affairs. The heat had made her so languid that she was obliged to sit down while the kettle boiled upon her tiny oil-stove. Her visit to London had done her spirits good, but London air is not the best for recuperative purposes. Moreover, she had been up late most nights during her stay in town, and the thought of Gerald had at times disturbed her rest. Since her return—and more especially since hearing about the mortgage trouble—her strength seemed to grow less and less. The knowledge that she was almost at the end of her means, and saw no chance of replenishing the empty exchequer, had acted upon a body weakened by a long course of underfeeding. In her heart she knew that she could not go on much longer acting as general servant, and starving herself that the others might have enough. If she broke down—if her health proved to be so undermined that she could not take a situation—what was to become of these helpless ones?

      The idea that her mother could help in any way never occurred to her. The three were bracketed together in her mind, as those for whom she had promised her dying father to care.

      Now came a way out—not an inviting one, but one that had to be faced nevertheless. If she married Mr. Gaunt, he undertook to lift her burdens from her shoulders. Moreover, he lived in the country—the real country. Omberleigh Grange was in Derbyshire, and it must have a garden—a real garden, such as she had been born to, such as she loved. A garden in which to rest and grow strong again, a garden in which Pansy might be wheeled along smooth walks, and lie under the spreading shade of big trees. These things could be hers, at a price. What did the price involve?

      Mr. Gaunt had loved her mother. He knew, of course, that her mother had preferred another man; but she, Virginia, bore a wonderful resemblance to the woman lost, and the lonely man wanted to satisfy his empty heart by cherishing her. In return, he would do for mother, for Pansy, for Tony, all the things that she, poor Virgie, in her helplessness, could not do, with all her love. The sacrifice demanded was just the sacrifice of herself. Well—what did that matter? Why should she not be sacrificed, for the good and happiness of those she loved so ardently? It really was very simple, after all.

      Perhaps a few weeks earlier she might not have felt quite so indifferent. There had been shining gates—the gates of a young girl's fancy—and shyly they had begun to open, and to show a tiny glimpse of rosy mysteries within.

      That was over now. It had been but gossamer and illusion. This was a real, definite, tangible plan—a rope held out to save her perishing family, drifting

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