Would he indeed keep his cruel threats to her?  Would he bring forward those letters to spoil her life once more—­to prevent her from marrying Maurice should she ever have the chance of doing so?

Stooping alone over her fire, with all the brightness, and all the freshness gone out of her, with an old and almost haggard look in the face that was so lately beaming with smiles and dimples, Helen Romer asked herself shudderingly these bitter questions over and over again.

Had she been sure of Maurice’s love, she would have been almost tempted to have confessed her fault, and to have thrown herself upon his mercy; but she knew that he did not love her well enough to forgive her.  Too well she knew with what disgust and contempt Maurice would be likely to regard her past conduct; such a confession would, she knew, only induce him to shake himself clear of her for ever.  Indeed, had he loved her, it is doubtful whether Maurice would have been able to condone so grave a fault in the past history of a woman; his own standard of honour stood too high to allow him to pass over lightly any disgraceful or dishonourable conduct in those with whom he had to do.  But, loving her not, she would have been utterly without excuse in his eyes.

She knew it well enough.  No, her only chance was in silence, and in vague hopes that time might rescue her out of her difficulties.

Meanwhile, whilst Helen Romer sat up late into the early morning, thinking bitterly over her past sins and her future dangers, Maurice Kynaston and his mother also kept watch together at Walpole Lodge after all the guests had gone away, and the old house was left alone again to the mother and son.

“Something troubles you, little mother,” said Maurice, as he stretched himself upon the rug by her bedroom fire, and laid his head down caressingly upon her knees.

Lady Kynaston passed her hand fondly over the short dark hair.  “How well you know my face, Maurice!  Yes, something has worried me all day—­it is a letter from your brother.”

Maurice looked up laughingly.  “What, is old John in trouble?  That would be something new.  Has he taken a leaf out of my book, mother, and dropped his money at Newmarket, too?”

“No, you naughty boy?  John has got more sense.  No!” with a sigh—­“I wish it were only money; I fear it is a worse trouble than that.”

“My dear mother, you alarm me,” cried Maurice, looking up in mock dismay; “why, whatever has he been and gone and done?”

“Oh, Maurice, it is nothing to laugh at—­it is some woman—­a girl he has met down at Kynaston; some nobody—­a clergyman’s daughter, or sister, or something—­whom he says he is going to marry!” Lady Kynaston looked the picture of distress and dismay.

Maurice laughed softly.  “Well, well, mother; there is nothing very dreadful after all—­I am sure I wish him joy.”

“My boy,” she said, below her breath, “I had so hoped, so trusted he would never marry—­it seemed so unlikely—­he seemed so completely happy in his bachelor’s life; and I had hoped that you—­that you——­”