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‘It’s all up with us,’ said the old gardener, who was pale and trembling after his great effort. ‘We must go. But don’t worry, my girl, don’t worry.’

Then fright took hold upon May Rockett. She felt for the first time what she had done. Her heart fluttered in an anguish of self-reproach, and her eyes strayed as if seeking help. A minute’s hesitation, then, with all the speed she could make, she set off up the avenue towards the Hall.

Presenting herself at the servants’ entrance, she begged to be allowed to see the housekeeper. Of course her story was known to all the domestics, half a dozen of whom quickly collected to stare at her, with more or less malicious smiles. It was a bitter moment for Miss Rockett, but she subdued herself, and at length obtained the interview she sought. With a cold air of superiority and of disapproval the housekeeper listened to her quick, broken sentences. Would it be possible, May asked, for her to see Lady Shale? She desired to–to apologise for–for rudeness of which she had been guilty, rudeness in which her family had no part, which they utterly deplored, but for which they were to suffer severely.

‘If you could help me, ma’am, I should be very grateful–indeed I should–‘

Her voice all but broke into a sob. That ‘ma’am’ cost her a terrible effort; the sound of it seemed to smack her on the ears.

‘If you will go in-to the servants’ hall and wait,’ the housekeeper deigned to say, after reflecting, ‘I’ll see what can be done.’

And Miss Rockett submitted. In the servants’ hall she sat for a long, long time, observed, but never addressed. The hour of her train went by. More than once she was on the point of rising and fleeing; more than once her smouldering wrath all but broke into flame. But she thought of her father’s pale, pain-stricken face, and sat on.

At something past eleven o’clock a footman approached her, and said curtly, ‘You are to go up to my lady; follow me.’ May followed, shaking with weakness and apprehension, burning at the same time with pride all but in revolt. Conscious of nothing on the way, she found herself in a large room, where sat the two ladies, who for some moments spoke together about a topic of the day placidly. Then the elder seemed to become aware of the girl who stood before her.

‘You are Rockett’s elder daughter?’

Oh, the metallic voice of Lady Shale! How gratified she would have been could she have known how it bruised the girl’s pride!

‘Yes, my lady–‘

‘And why do you want to see me?’

‘I wish to apologise–most sincerely–to your ladyship–for my behaviour of last evening–‘

‘Oh, indeed!’ the listener interrupted contemptuously. ‘I am glad you have come to your senses. But your apology must be offered to Miss Shale–if my daughter cares to listen to it.’

May had foreseen this. It was the bitterest moment of her ordeal. Flushing scarlet, she turned towards the younger woman.

‘Miss Shale, I beg your pardon for what I said yesterday–I beg you to forgive my rudeness–my impertinence–‘

Her voice would go no further; there came a choking sound. Miss Shale allowed her eyes to rest triumphantly for an instant on the troubled face and figure, then remarked to her mother–

‘It’s really nothing to me, as I told you. I suppose this person may leave the room now?’

It was fated that May Rockett should go through with her purpose and gain her end. But fate alone (which meant in this case the subtlest preponderance of one impulse over another) checked her on the point of a burst of passion which would have startled Lady Shale and Miss Hilda out of their cold-blooded complacency. In the silence May’s blood gurgled at her ears, and she tottered with dizziness.

‘You may go,’ said Lady Shale.

But May could not move. There flashed across her the terrible thought that perhaps she had humiliated herself for nothing.

‘My lady–I hope–will your ladyship please to forgive my father and mother? I entreat you not to send them away. We shall all be so grateful to your ladyship if you will overlook–‘

‘That will do,’ said Lady Shale decisively. ‘I will merely say that the sooner you leave the lodge the better; and that you will do well never again to pass the gates of the Hall. You may go.’

Miss Rockett withdrew. Outside, the footman was awaiting her. He looked at her with a grin, and asked in an undertone, ‘Any good?’ But May, to whom this was the last blow, rushed past him, lost herself in corridors, ran wildly hither and thither, tears streaming from her eyes, and was at length guided by a maidservant into the outer air. Fleeing she cared not whither, she came at length into a still corner of the park, and there, hidden amid trees, watched only by birds and rabbits, she wept out the bitterness of her soul.

By an evening train she returned to London, not having confessed to her family what she had done, and suffering still from some uncertainty as to the result. A day or two later Betsy wrote to her the happy news that the sentence of expulsion was withdrawn, and peace reigned once more in the ivy-covered lodge. By that time Miss Rockett had all but recovered her self-respect, and was so busy in her secretaryship that she could only scribble a line of congratulation. She felt that she had done rather a meritorious thing, but, for the first time in her life, did not care to boast of it.