I cannot but see that you and he have some
secret which he is using to distress you!' She paused, and her clasp
grew closer still as Stephen's head sank on her breast. 'I know you have
done something or said something foolish of which he has a knowledge. And
I know my dear one, that whatever it was, and no matter how foolish it
may have been, it was not a wrong thing. God knows, we are all apt to do
wrong things as well as foolish ones; the best of us. But such is not
for you! Your race, your father and mother, your upbringing, yourself
and the truth and purity which are yours would save you from anything
which was in itself wrong. That I know, my dear, as well as I know
myself! Ah! better, far better! for the gods did not think it well to
dower me as they have dowered you. The God of all the gods has given you
the ten talents to guard; and He knows, as I do, that you will be
faithful to your trust.' There was a solemn ring in her voce as the words were spoken which went
through the young girl's heart. Love and confidence demanded in return
that she should have at least the relief of certain acquiescence; there
is a possible note of pain in the tensity of every string! Stephen
lifted her head proudly and honestly, though her cheeks were scarlet,
saying with a consciousness of integrity which spoke directly soul to
soul:

'You are right, dear! I have done something very foolish; very, very
foolish! But it was nothing which any one could call wrong. Do not ask
me what it was. I need only tell you this: that it was an outrage on
convention. It was so foolish, and based on such foolish misconception;
it sprang from such over-weening, arrogant self-opinion that it deserves
the bitter punishment which will come; which is coming; which is with me
now! It was the cause of something whose blackness I can't yet realise;
but of which I will tell you when I can speak of it. But it was not
wrong in itself, or in the eyes of God or man!' The old woman said not a
word. No word was needed, for had she not already expressed her belief? But Stephen felt her relief in the glad pressure of her finger-tips. In
a voice less strained and tense Miss Rowly went on:

'What need have I for money, dear? Here I have all that any woman,
especially at my age, can need. There is no room even for charity; you
are so good to all your people that my help is hardly required. And, my
dear one, I know--I know,' she emphasised the word as she stroked the
beautiful hair, 'that when I am gone my own poor, the few that I have
looked after all my life, will, not suffer when my darling thinks of me!' Stephen fairly climbed upon her as she said, looking in the brave old
eyes:

'So help me God, my darling, they shall never want!' Silence for a time; and then Miss Rowly's voice again:

'Though it would not do for the world to know that a young maiden lady
had paid the debts of a vicious young man, it makes no matter if they be
paid by an old woman, be the same maid, wife, or widow! And really, my
dear, I do not see how any money I might have could be better spent than
in keeping harm away from you.' 'There need not be any harm at all, Auntie.' 'Perhaps not, dear! I hope not with all my heart. But I fear that young
man. Just fancy him threatening you, and in your own house; in my very
presence! Oh! yes, my dear. He meant to threaten, anyhow! Though I
could not exactly understand what he was driving at, I could see that he
was driving at something. And after all that you were doing for him, and
had done for him! I mean, of course, after all that I had done for him,
and was doing for him. It is mean enough, surely, for a man to beg, and
from a woman; but to threaten afterwards. Ach! But I think, my dear, it
is checkmate to him this time. All along the line the only proof that is
of there being any friendliness towards him from this house points to me. And moreover, my dear, I have a little plan in my head that will tend to
show him up even better, in case he may ever try to annoy us. Look at me
when next he is here. I mean to do a little play-acting which will
astonish him, I can tell you, if it doesn't frighten him out of the house
altogether. But we won't talk of that yet. You will understand when you
see it!' Her eyes twinkled and her mouth shut with a loud snap as she
spoke. After a few minutes of repose, which was like a glimpse of heaven to
Stephen's aching heart, she spoke again:

'There was something else that troubled you more than even this. You
said you would tell me when you were able to speak of it . . . Why not
speak now? Oh! my dear, our hearts are close together to-night; and in
all your life, you will never have any one who will listen with greater
sympathy than I will, or deal more tenderly with your fault, whatever it
may have been. Tell me, dear! Dear!' she whispered after a pause,
during which she realised the depth of the girl's emotion by her
convulsive struggling to keep herself in check. All at once the tortured girl seemed to yield herself, and slipped
inertly from her grasp till kneeling down she laid her head in the
motherly lap and sobbed. Miss Rowly kept stroking her hair in silence. Presently the girl looked up, and with a pang the aunt saw that her eyes
were dry. In her pain she said:

'You sob like that, my child, and yet you are not crying; what is it, oh! my dear one? What is it that hurts you so that you cannot cry?' And then the bitter sobbing broke out again, but still alas! without
tears. Crouching low, and still enclosing her aunt's waist with her
outstretched arms and hiding her head in her breast; she said:

'Oh! Auntie, I have sent Harold away!' 'What, my dear? What?' said the old lady astonished. 'Why, I thought
there was no one in the world that you trusted so much as Harold!' 'It is true. There was--there is no one except you whom I trust so much. But I mistook something he said. I was in a blind fury at the time, and
I said things that I thought my father's daughter never could have said. And she never thought them, even then! Oh, Auntie, I drove him away with
all the horrible things I could say that would wound him. And all
because he acted in a way that I see now was the most noble and knightly
in which any man could act. He that my dear father had loved, and
honoured, and trusted as another son. He that was a real son to him, and
not a mock sop like me. I sent him away with such fierce and bitter pain
that his poor face was ashen grey, and there was woe in his eyes that
shall make woe in mine whenever I shall see them in my mind, waking or
sleeping. He, the truest friend . . . the most faithful, the most
tender, the most strong, the most unselfish! Oh! Auntie, Auntie, he just
turned and bowed and went away. And he couldn't do anything else with
the way I spoke to him; and now I shall never see him again!' The young girl's eyes ware still dry, but the old woman's were wet.