by every act of my married life. I have nothing to regret, nothing to atone for. I feel myself free to reward Captain Winstanley's devotion. He has followed me from place to place for the last two years; and has remained constant, in spite of every rebuff. He proposed to me three times before I accepted him."
Mrs. Scobel had been favoured with the history of these three separate offers more than once.
"I know, dear Mrs. Tempest," she said somewhat hurriedly, lest her friend should recapitulate the details. "He certainly seems very devoted. But, of course, from a worldly point of view, you are an excellent match for him."
"Do you think I would marry him if I thought that consideration had any weight with him?" demanded Mrs. Tempest indignantly. And Mrs. Scobel could say no more.
There are cases of physical blindness past the skill of surgery, but there is no blindness more incurable than that of a woman on the verge of forty who fancies herself beloved.
"But Violet's dress for the wedding," said Mrs. Scobel, anxious to get the conversation upon safer ground. "Have you really said nothing to her about it?"
"No. She is so headstrong and self-willed. I have been absolutely afraid to speak. But it must be settled immediately. Theodore is always so busy. It will be quite a favour to get the dress made at so short a notice, I daresay."
"Why not speak to Violet this afternoon?"
"While you are here? Yes, I might do that," replied Mrs. Tempest eagerly.
She felt she could approach the subject more comfortably in Mrs. Scobel's presence. There would be a kind of protection in a third person. She rang the bell.
"Has Miss Tempest come home from her ride?"
"Yes, ma'am. She has just come in."
"Send her to me at once then. Ask her not to stop to change her dress."
Mrs. Tempest and Mrs. Scobel were in the drawing-room, sitting at a gipsy table before an open window; the widow wrapped in a China-crape shawl, lest even the summer breeze should be too chill for her delicate frame, the Worcester cups and saucers, and antique silver tea pot and caddy and kettle set out before her, like a child's toys.
Violet came running in, flushed after her ride, her habit muddy.
"Bogged again!" cried Mrs. Tempest, with ineffable disgust. "That horse will be the death of you some day."
"I think not, mamma. How do you do, Mrs. Scobel?"
"Violet," said the Vicar's wife gravely, "why do you never come to our week-day services now?"
"I – I – don't know. I have not felt in the humour for coming to church. It's no use to come and kneel in a holy place with rebellious thoughts in my heart. I come on Sundays for decency's sake; but I think it is better to keep away from the week-day services till I am in a better temper."
"I don't think that's quite the way to recover your temper, dear."
Violet was silent, and there was a rather awkward pause.
"Will you have a cup of tea, dear?" asked Mrs. Tempest.
"No, thanks, mamma. I think, unless you have something very particular to say to me, I had better take my muddy habit off your carpet. I feel rather warm and dusty. I shall be glad to change my dress."
"But I have something very particular to say, Violet. I won't detain you long. You'd better have a cup of tea."
"Just as you please, mamma."
And forgetful of her clay-bespattered habit, Violet sank into one of the satin-covered chairs, and made a wreck of an antimacassar worked in crewels by Mrs. Tempest's own hands.
"I am going to write to Madame Theodore by this evening's post, Violet," said her mother, handing her a cup of tea, and making believe not to see the destruction of that exquisite antimacassar; "and I should like to order your dress – for – the wedding. I have been thinking that cream-colour and pale blue would suit you to perfection. A cream-coloured hat – the Vandyck shape – with a long blue ostrich – "
"Please don't take any trouble about it, mamma," said Vixen, whose cheek had paled at the word "wedding," and who now sat very erect in her chair, holding her cup and saucer firmly. "I am not going to be present at your wedding, so I shall not want a dress."
"Violet!" cried Mrs. Tempest, beginning to tremble. "You cannot mean what you say. You have been very unkind, very undutiful. You have made me perfectly miserable for the last seven weeks; but I cannot believe that you would – grossly insult me – by refusing to be present at my wedding."
"I do not wish to insult you, mamma. I am very sorry if I have pained you; but I cannot and will not be present at a marriage the very idea of which is hateful to me. If my presence could give any sanction to this madness of yours, that sanction shall not be given."
"Violet, have you thought what you are doing? Have you considered what will be said – by the world?"
"I think the world – our world – must have made up its mind about your second marriage already, mamma," Vixen answered quietly. "My absence from your wedding can make very little difference."
"It will make a very great difference; and you know it!" cried Mrs. Tempest, roused to as much passion as she was capable of feeling. "People will say that my daughter sets her face against my marriage – my daughter, who ought to sympathise with me, and rejoice that I have found a true friend and protector."
"I cannot either sympathise or rejoice, mamma. It is much better that I should stop away from your wedding. I should look miserable, and make other people uncomfortable."
"Your absence will humiliate and lower me in the sight of my friends. It will be a disgrace. And yet you take this course on purpose to wound and injure me. You are a wicked undutiful daughter."
"Oh, mamma!" cried Vixen, with grave voice and reproachful eyes – eyes before whose steady gaze the tearful widow drooped and trembled, "is duty so one-sided? Do I owe all to you, and you nothing to me? My father left us together, mother and daughter, to be all the world to each other. He left us mistresses of the dear old home we had shared with him. Do you think he meant a stranger to come and sit in his place – to be master over all he loved? Do you think it ever entered his mind that in three little years his place would be filled by the first-comer – his daughter asked to call another man father?"
"The first-comer!" whimpered Mrs. Tempest. "Oh, this it too cruel!"
"Violet!" exclaimed Mrs. Scobel reprovingly, "when you are calmer you will be sorry for having spoken so unkindly to your dear mamma."
"I shall not be sorry for having spoken the truth," said Violet. "Mamma has heard the truth too seldom in her life. She will not hear it from Captain Winstanley – yet awhile."
And after flinging this last poisoned dart, Vixen took up the muddy skirt of her habit and left the room.
"It was rather a pity that Arion and I did not go to the bottom of that bog and stay there," she reflected. "I don't think anybody wants us above ground."
"Did you ever know anything so humiliating, so shameful, so undutiful?" demanded Mrs. Tempest piteously, as the door closed on her rebellious daughter. "What will people say if Violet is not at my wedding?"
"It would be awkward, certainly; unless
