“Nina, what do you mean?”

“Nothing that you must know.  I rejoice in my secret because it brings me to you, and you to me.  You degrade yourself by marrying me?  You’ll say something else some day.  Now, goodnight.  I’m going back to Tester.  He’s stone deaf, and he’s waiting up for me.  Good-night—­good-night.  No, Loftus, I won’t injure you.  I injure those I hate, not those I love.”

She kissed her hand to him.  He tried to catch the slim fingers to press them to his lips, but with a gay laugh she vanished, shutting the lodge door after her.  Loftus Bertram walked up the avenue with the queerest sensation of terror and rejoicing.

CHAPTER XV.

JOSEPHINE LOOKED DANGEROUS.

In those days after her mysterious and secret visit to London Mrs. Bertram was a considerably altered woman.  All her life hitherto she had enjoyed splendid health; she was unacquainted with headaches; neuralgia, rheumatism, gout, the supposed banes of the present day, never troubled her.

Now, however, she had absolutely an attack of the nerves.  Mabel found her mother, on coming to wish her good-morning one day, shivering so violently that she could not complete her dressing.  Loftus was not at home.  He had rejoined his regiment for a brief spell, so Catherine and Mabel had to act on their own responsibility.

They did not hesitate to send for the local doctor.

Dr. Morris, who was calmly shaving in his bedroom was very much excited when his wife rushed in to tell him that he was summoned in haste to the Manor.

“And you might peep into the Manor drawing-room on your way downstairs, doctor,” whispered the good lady, in her muffled tone, “and find out if the carpet is really felt.  Mrs. Gorman Stanley swears that it is, but for my part I can scarce give credence to such an unlikely story, for surely no woman who could only afford a felt covering for the floor of her best sitting-room would give herself the airs Mrs. Bertram has done.”

“Just see that my black bag is ready, Jessie,” was the husband’s retort to this tirade.  “And you might hurry John round with the pony-chaise.”

Dr. Morris felt intensely proud as he drove off to see his august patient.  He drew up his rough pony once or twice to announce the fact to any stray passer-by.

“Good-day, Bell,—­fine morning, isn’t it?  I’m just off to the Manor.  Mrs. B. not quite the thing.  Ah, I see Mrs. Jenkins coming down the street.  I must tell her that I can’t look in this morning.”

He nodded to Mr. Bell, and drove on until he met the angular lady known by this name.

“Good-morning, good-morning,” he called in his cheery tones, and scarcely drawing in the pony at all now.  “I meant to look round in the course of the forenoon to see how the new tonic agrees with Miss Daisy; but I may be a little late; I’m summoned in haste to the Manor.”