THE WAY TO HAPPINESS

It was an unpleasant shock to Juliet on the following morning when she went to Mrs. Fielding’s room after breakfast to find her lying in bed, pale and tear-stained, refusing morosely to partake of any nourishment whatever.

Juliet always breakfasted alone, for the squire was in the habit of taking his early ride first and coming in late for the meal.  She usually took a morning paper up with her with which to regale the mistress of the house before she rose, but the first glance showed her that this attention would be wholly unwelcome to-day.  Even the letters that had accompanied her breakfast tray were scattered unopened by her side.

“Why, what is the matter?” said Juliet.

“I’ve had—­a wretched night,” said Mrs. Fielding, and turned her face into the pillow with a sob.

Her maid glanced at Juliet with raised brows, and indicated the untouched breakfast with a shrug of helplessness.

Juliet came to the bedside.  “What is it?  Aren’t you well?” she questioned.

“No, I’m wretched—­miserable!” The words came muffled with sobs.

Juliet looked round.  “All right, Cox.  You can go.  I will ring when you are wanted.”

Cox went, leaving the despised breakfast behind her.

Juliet turned back to the bed, and found Mrs. Fielding weeping unrestrainedly.  She bent over her, discarding all ceremony.  “My dear girl, do stop!” she said.  “What on earth is the matter?  You won’t get over it all day if you go on like this.”

“Of course I shan’t get over it!” sobbed Mrs. Fielding indignantly.  “I never do.  He knows that perfectly well.  He knows—­that when once I’m down—­it takes me days—­weeks—­to get up again.”

“Oh, dear!” said Juliet.  “It’s a quarrel, is it?”

Mrs. Fielding raised herself with a furious movement and thrust out a white arm on which the bruises of a fierce grip were mercilessly defined.  “That’s how—­he—­quarrels!” she said bitterly.

Juliet drew down the loose night-dress sleeve with a gentle but very decided hand.  “Don’t let anyone else see it!” she said.  “And don’t tell me any more unless you’re sure—­quite sure—­you want me to know!”

“Why shouldn’t you know?” said Mrs. Fielding pettishly through her falling tears.  “It’s your fault in a way.  At least it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been here—­you and that horrid little cad of a schoolmaster.”

“Oh, don’t put it like that!” said Juliet.  “It’s such a pity to offend everybody at once.  You really mustn’t cry any more or you’ll be ill.  I’m sure it isn’t worth that.”

“I don’t care if I die!” cried Mrs. Fielding, with a fresh burst of weeping.  “I’m miserable—­miserable!  And nobody cares.”

She flung herself down upon the pillow in such a paroxysm of hysterical sobbing that Juliet actually was alarmed.  She stood beside her, impotent, unable to make herself heard, and wondering what to do.  She had never before looked upon such an abandonment of distress as she now beheld, and since Mrs. Fielding was obviously beyond all reasoning or consolation she was powerless to cope with it.  She could only stand and wait for the storm to spend itself.