For many reasons he was glad the debt was paid He was himself
too poor a man to allow the constant drain his son's debts, and too
careful of his position to be willing have such exposure as would come
with a County Court action against his son. All the same, his
exasperation continued. Neither was his quiver yet empty. He shot his
next arrow:

'I am glad you paid off those usurers!' Leonard did not like the
definite way he spoke. Still in silence, he took from his pocket a
second paper, which he handed over unfolded. Mr. Everard read it, and
returned it politely, with again one word:

'Good!' For a few minutes there was silence. The father spoke again:

'Those other debts, have you paid them?' With a calm deliberation so
full of tacit rudeness that it made his father flush Leonard answered:

'Not yet, sir! But I shall think of them presently. I don't care to be
bustled by them; and I don't mean to!' It was apparent that though he
spoke verbally of his creditors, his meaning was with regard to others
also. 'When will they be paid?' As his son hesitated, he went on:

'I am alluding to those who have written to me. I take it that as my
estate is not entailed, and as you have no income except from me, the
credit which has been extended to you has been rather on my account than
your own. Therefore, as the matter touches my own name, I am entitled to
know something of what is going on.' His manner as well as his words was
so threatening that Leonard was a little afraid. He might imperil his
inheritance. He answered quickly:

'Of course, sir, you shall know everything. After all, you know, my
affairs are your affairs!' 'I know nothing of the sort. I may of course be annoyed by your affairs,
even dishonoured, in a way, by them. But I accept no responsibility
whatever. As you have made your bed, so must you lie on it!' 'It's all right, sir, I assure you. All my debts, both those you know of
and some you don't, I shall settle very shortly.' 'How soon?' The question was sternly put. 'In a few days. I dare say a week at furthest will see everything
straightened out.' The elder man stood, saying gravely as he went to the door:

'You will do well to tell me when the last of them is paid. There is
something which I shall then want to tell you!' Without waiting for
reply he went to his study. Leonard went to his room and made a systematic, though unavailing, search
for Stephen's letter; thinking that by some chance he might have
recovered it from Harold and had overlooked it. The next few days he passed in considerable suspense. He did not dare go
near Normanstand until he was summoned, as he knew he would be when he
was required. * * * * *

When Miss Rowly returned from her visit to London she told Stephen that
she had paid the bill at the jeweller's, and had taken the precaution of
getting a receipt, together with a duplicate for Mr. Everard. The
original was by her own request made out as received from Miss Laetitia
Rowly in settlement of the account of Leonard Everard, Esq. ; the
duplicate merely was 'recd. in settlement of the account of--,' etc. Stephen's brows bent hit thought as she said:

'Why did you have it done that way, Auntie dear?' The other answered
quietly:

'I had a reason, my dear; good reason! Perhaps I shall tell you all
about it some day; in the meantime I want you not to ask me anything
about it. I have a reason for that too. Stephen, won't you trust me in
this, blindfold?' There was something so sweet and loving in the way she
made the request that Stephen was filled with emotion. She put her arms
round her aunt's neck and hugged her tight. Then laying her head on her
bosom she said with a sigh:

'Oh, my dear, you can't know how I trust you; or how much your trust is
to me. You never can know!' The next day the two women held a long consultation over the schedule of
Leonard's debts. Neither said a word of disfavour, or even commented on
the magnitude. The only remark touching on the subject was made by Miss
Rowly:

'We must ask for proper discounts. Oh, the villainy of those tradesmen! I do believe they charge double in the hope of getting half. As to
jewellers . . . !' Then she announced her intention of going up to town
again on Thursday, at which visit she would arrange for the payment of
the various debts. Stephen tried to remonstrate, but she was obdurate. She held Stephen's hand in hers and stroked it lovingly as she kept on
repeating:

'Leave it all to me, dear! Leave it all to me! Everything shall be paid
as you wish; but leave it to me!' Stephen acquiesced. This gentle yielding was new in her; it touched the
elder lady to the quick, even whilst it pained her. Well she knew that
some trouble must have gone to the smoothing of that imperious nature. Stephen's inner life in these last few days was so bitterly sad that she
kept it apart from all the routine of social existence. Into it never
came now, except as the exciting cause of all the evil, a thought of
Leonard. The saddening memory was of Harold. And of him the sadness was
increased and multiplied by a haunting fear. Since he had walked out of
the grove she had not seen him nor heard from him. This was in itself
strange; for in all her life, when she was at home and he too, never a
day passed without her seeing him. She had heard her aunt say that word
had come of his having made a sudden journey to London, from which he had
not yet returned. She was afraid to make inquiries. Partly lest she
might hear bad news--this was her secret fear; partly lest she might
bring some attention to herself in connection with his going. Of some
things in connection with her conduct to him she was afraid to think at
all. Thought, she felt, would come in time, and with it new pains and
new shames, of which as yet she dared not think. One morning came an envelope directed in Harold's hand. The sight made
her almost faint. She rejoiced that she had been first down, and had
opened the postbag with her own key. She took the letter to her room and
shut herself in before opening it. Within were a few lines of writing
and her own letter to Leonard in its envelope. Her head beat so hard
that she could scarcely see; but gradually the writing seemed to grow out
of the mist:

'The enclosed should be in your hands. It is possible that it may
comfort you to know that it is safe. Whatever may come, God love and
guard you.' For a moment joy, hot and strong, blazed through her. The last words
were ringing through her brain. Then came the cold shock, and the gloom
of fear. Harold would never have written thus unless he was going away! It was a farewell! For a long time she stood, motionless, holding the letter in her hand. Then she said, half aloud:

'Comfort! Comfort! There is no more comfort in the world for me! Never,
never again! Oh, Harold! Harold!'