But Stella’s confidence did not live long.  Mr. Hazlewood was a child at deceptions; and day by day his anxieties increased.  His friends argued with him—­his folly and weakness were the themes—­and he must needs repel the argument though his thoughts echoed every word they used.  Never was a man brought to such a piteous depth of misery by the practice of his own theories.  He sat by the hour at his desk, burying his face amongst his papers if Dick came into the room, with a great show of occupation.  He could hardly bear to contemplate the marriage of his son, yet day and night he must think of it and search for expedients which might put an end to the trouble and let him walk free again with his head raised high.  But there were only the two expedients.  He must speak out his fears that justice had miscarried, and that device his vanity forbade; or he must adopt Pettifer’s suggestion, and from that he shrank almost as much.  He began to resent the presence of Stella Ballantyne and he showed it.  Sometimes a friendliness, so excessive that it was almost hysterical, betrayed him; more usually a discomfort and constraint.  He avoided her if by any means he could; if he could not quite avoid her an excuse of business was always on his lips.

“Your father hates me, Dick,” she said.  “He was my friend until I touched his own life.  Then I was in the black books in a second.”

Dick would not hear of it.

“You were never in the black books at all, Stella,” he said, comforting her as well as he could.  “We knew that there would be a little struggle, didn’t we?  But the worst of that’s over.  You make friends daily.”

“Not with your father, Dick.  I go back with him.  Ever since that night—­it’s three weeks ago now—­when you took me home from Little Beeding.”

“No,” cried Dick, but Stella nodded her head gloomily.

“Mr. Pettifer dined here that night.  He’s an enemy of mine.”

“Stella,” young Hazlewood remonstrated, “you see enemies everywhere,” and upon that Stella broke out with a quivering troubled face.

“Is it wonderful?  Oh, Dick, I couldn’t lose you!  A month ago—­before that night—­yes.  Nothing had been said.  But now!  I couldn’t, I couldn’t!  I have often thought it would be better for me to go right away and never see you again.  And—­and I have tried to tell you something, Dick, ever so many times.”

“Yes?” said Dick.  He slipped his arm through hers and held her close to him, as though to give her courage and security.  “Yes, Stella?” and he stood very still.

“I mean,” she said, looking down upon the ground, “that I have tried to tell you that I wouldn’t suffer so very much if we did part, but I never could do it.  My lips shook so, I never could speak the words.”  Then her voice ran up into a laugh.  “To think of your living in a house with somebody else!  Oh no!”

“You need have no fear of that, Stella.”

They were in the garden of Little Beeding and they walked across the meadow towards her cottage, talking very earnestly.  Mr. Hazlewood was watching them secretly from the window of the library.  He saw that Dick was pleading and she hanging in doubt; and a great wave of anger surged over him that Dick should have to plead to her at all, he who was giving everything—­even his own future.