And yet, while it was true that Stephen’s visit had been responsible for her nervous breakdown, it was not for the reason that Martha supposed.  His reference to her private affairs had of course offended her, and justly so, but there was something else which hurt her far more—­a something in the old ship-chandler’s manner when he spoke to her which forced to the front a question ever present in her mind, whatever her task and however tender the ministrations of the old nurse; one that during all her sojourn under this kindly roof had haunted her, like a nightmare.

And it was this.  What did the look mean that she sometimes surprised in Martha’s eyes—­the same look she had detected in Stephen’s?  Were they looks of pity or were they—­and she shuddered—­looks of scorn?  This was the nightmare which had haunted her, the problem she could not fathom.

And because she could not fathom it, she had passed a wakeful night, and this long, unhappy day.  This mystery must end, and that very night.

When the shadows fell and the evening meal was ready, she put away her work, smoothed her hair and took her seat beside the nurse, eating little and answering Martha’s anxious, but carefully worded questions in monosyllables.  With the end of the meal, she pushed back her chair and sought her bedroom, saying that, if Martha did not mind, she would throw herself on her bed and rest awhile.

She lay there listening until the last clink of the plates and cups and the moving of the table told her that the evening’s work was done and the things put away; then she called: 

“Martha, won’t you come and sit beside me, so that you can brush out my hair?  I want to talk to you.  You need not bring the lamp, I have light enough.”

Martha hurried in and settled herself beside the narrow bed.  Lady Barbara lifted her head so that the tresses were free for Martha’s hands, and sinking back on the pillow said almost in a whisper:  “I have been thinking of your brother, and want your help.  What did he mean when he said that things could not go on as they were with me?  And that he was going to put a stop to them if he could?”

Martha caught herself just in time.  She was not ready yet to divulge her plans for her mistress’s relief, and the question had taken her unawares.  “He never forgets, my lady, what he owes your people,” she answered at last.  “And when he saw you, he was so sorry for you he was all shrivelled up.”

She had the mass of blonde hair in her fingers now, the comb in hand prepared to straighten out the tangle.

For a moment Lady Barbara lay still, then turning her cheek, her eyes fixed on Martha’s, she said in firmer tones:  “You are to tell me the truth, you know; that is why I sent for you.”

“I have told it, my lady.”

“And you are keeping nothing back?”

“Nothing.”

The thin hand crept out and grasped the nurse’s wrist.