hen down at Blent. And again she
stood aghast at the thorough-going devotion which such an attitude as
that implied. "If only I could keep out of things!" she murmured. "But I
never can."

Major Duplay drove up the hill in a Blentmouth station fly; he had met
the doctor on the road, and the news was that in all probability Lady
Tristram would not live out the night. The tidings gained added
solemnity from Duplay's delivery of them, even though a larger share of
his impressiveness was directed to the influence the event might have on
his fortunes than to the event itself.

"Then we shall see. He'll assume the title, I suppose. That's no affair
of mine. And then he'll go to Fairholme. That is." He turned suddenly,
almost threateningly, upon her. "I hope you've come to your senses,
Mina," said he. "You'll have to speak, you know. If I can't make you,
Iver will." He paused and laughed. "But you'll speak fast enough when
you find yourself in the lawyer's office."

Mina refused to be frightened by the threatened terrors of the law.

"Who's going to take me to a lawyer's office?" she demanded.

"Why, Iver will, of course." He showed contemptuous surprise. "Oh,
you've gone too far to think you can get out of it now."

She studied him attentively for a moment or two. The result was
reassuring; his blustering manner hid, she believed, a sinking heart.

"You can't frighten me, uncle. I've made up my mind what to do, and I
shall do it."

She was not afraid of him now. She was wondering how she had come to be
bullied into telling her secret at all, looking back with surprise to
that scene in the library when, with sullen obedience and childish fear,
she had obeyed his command to speak. Why was it all different now? Why
was his attempt to take the same line with her not only a failure, but a
ridiculous effort? She knew the angry answer he would give. Could she
give any other answer herself? A new influence had come into her life.
She had not ceased to be afraid, but she was afraid of somebody else. A
domination was over her still, but it was no longer his. Like some
turbulent little city of old Greece, she had made her revolution: the
end had been to saddle her with a new tyrant. There seemed no more use
in denying it; the Major said it, Miss S. said it, the neighborhood was
all agreed. What she herself was most conscious of, and most oppressed
by, was a sense of audacity. How dared she devote herself to Harry
Tristram? He h