Part 18 (2/2)

”And Netty?”

”Netty must bear her share of the burden you have put upon us. We will bear it together.”

”No; Netty is blameless. You and I, John, must suffer, not she. It would be wicked to ruin her young life. You won't denounce me, John. You can't.

You won't have me sent to prison. You won't disgrace me in the eyes of my friends. You won't do anything--at least, until Netty is married--will you?”

”Harry Bent must know.”

”No, no, John. You know what his people are, stiff-necked, conventional, purse-proud, always boasting of their lineage. Until Netty is married!

Wait till then.”

”I don't know what to do,” moaned the broken man, bursting into tears, and sinking into his chair at the table.

”Be guided by me, John. The dead can't feel, while the living can be condemned to lifelong torture.”

”Have your own way,” he groaned. ”I don't know what to do. I shall never hold up my head again.”

”Oh, yes, you will, John, and--there is always my shoulder to rest it upon, dearest. Let me comfort you.”

Netty Swinton sat before the drawing-room fire, curled up on the white bearskin rug with a book in her hand, munching biscuits. Netty was generally eating something. Her eyes were red, but she had not been weeping much, and, as she stared into the embers, her pretty, expressionless little mouth was drawn in a discontented downward curve.

She was in mourning--and she hated black. Netty was thinking ruefully of d.i.c.k's disgrace that had fallen upon the family, and wondering anxiously what the effect would be upon Harry Bent and his relations, when a knock at the front door disturbed her meditations, and presently, after a parley, a visitor was announced--although visitors were not received to-day, with Mrs. Swinton lying ill upstairs, and the rector shut up alone in his study.

”Miss Dundas.”

Netty rose ungraciously, and presented a frigid hand to Dora, casting a sharp, feminine eye over the newcomer's black dress and hat, which signified that she, too, was in mourning. This Netty regarded as rather impertinent.

The girls had never been intimate friends, although they had seen a great deal of one another when Mrs. Swinton took Dora under her wing and introduced her into society, which found Netty dull, and made much of Dora. This aroused a natural jealousy. The girls were opposite in temperament, and, in a way, rivals.

”Netty, is your mother really ill?” asked Dora, as she extended her hand, ”or is she merely not receiving anyone?”

”Mother has a bad headache, and is lying down. She is naturally very upset.”

”Oh, Netty, it is terrible!” sobbed Dora, breaking down hopelessly. ”It can't be true--it can't!”

”What can't be true?” asked Netty, coldly.

”Poor dear d.i.c.k's death. It will kill me.”

”I don't think there is any doubt about it,” snapped Netty. ”And I don't see why you should feel it more than anybody else.”

”Netty, that is unkind of you--ungenerous. You know I loved d.i.c.k. He was mine--mine!”

”Forgive me, but was he not also Nellie Ocklebourne's, and the dear friend of I don't know how many others besides? But none of them have been here since they heard that he got into a sc.r.a.pe before he went away.”

”There has been some hideous blunder.”

”No, it is simple enough,” said Netty, curling herself up on a low settee. ”Think what it may mean to me--just engaged to Harry Bent--and now, there's no knowing what he may do. His people may resent his bringing into the family the sister of a--forger.”

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