“I have been thinking of the Lorings.  They encouraged me to doubt you.  They advised me to be silent about what happened at Brussels.  And they too are concerned in my husband’s desertion of me.  He first met Father Benwell at their house.”  Her head drooped again; her next words were murmured to herself.  “I am still a young woman,” she said.  “Oh, God, what is my future to be?”

This morbid way of thinking distressed me.  I reminded her that she had dear and devoted friends.

“Not one,” she answered, “but you.”

“Have you not seen Lady Loring?” I asked.

“She and her husband have written most kindly, inviting me to make their house my home.  I have no right to blame them—­they meant well.  But after what has happened, I can’t go back to them.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” I said.

“Are you thinking of the Lorings?” she asked.

“I don’t even know the Lorings.  I can think of nobody but you.”

I was still looking at her—­and I am afraid my eyes said more than my words.  If she had doubted it before, she must have now known that I was as fond of her as ever.  She looked distressed rather than confused.  I made an awkward attempt to set myself right.

“Surely your brother may speak plainly,” I pleaded.

She agreed to this.  But nevertheless she rose to go—­with a friendly word, intended (as I hoped) to show me that I had got my pardon for that time.  “Will you come and see us to-morrow?” she said.  “Can you forgive my mother as generously as you have forgiven me?  I will take care, Bernard, that she does you justice at last.”

She held out her hand to take leave.  How could I reply?  If I had been a resolute man, I might have remembered that it would be best for me not to see too much of her.  But I am a poor weak creature—­I accepted her invitation for the next day.

January 30.—­I have just returned from my visit.

My thoughts are in a state of indescribable conflict and confusion—­and her mother is the cause of it.  I wish I had not gone to the house.  Am I a bad man, I wonder? and have I only found it out now?

Mrs. Eyrecourt was alone in the drawing-room when I went in.  Judging by the easy manner in which she got up to receive me, the misfortune that has befallen her daughter seemed to have produced no sobering change in this frivolous woman.

“My dear Winterfield,” she began, “I have behaved infamously.  I won’t say that appearances were against you at Brussels—­I will only say I ought not to have trusted to appearances.  You are the injured person; please forgive me.  Shall we go on with the subject? or shall we shake hands, and say no more about it?”

I shook hands, of course.  Mrs. Eyrecourt perceived that I was looking for Stella.

“Sit down,” she said; “and be good enough to put up with no more attractive society than mine.  Unless I set things straight, my good friend, you and my daughter—­oh, with the best intentions!—­will drift into a false position.  You won’t see Stella to-day.  Quite impossible—­and I will tell you why.  I am the worldly old mother; I don’t mind what I say.  My innocent daughter would die before she would confess what I am going to tell you.  Can I offer you anything?  Have you had lunch?”