But Judith and the odious Fanny were planning to get rid of Mellyora.

People in love are apt to play the ostrich. They bury their heads and think because they see no one, no one sees them. Even such a cold-blooded man as Justin could fall in love and be foolish. He and Mellyora decided they must meet in some place where they could be alone and occasionally they would ride out—not together—and meet, though never twice in the same place. I pictured them walking their horses, talking earnestly before they parted to come home separately. But of course it was noticed that they both disappeared on the same afternoons.

This was their only indulgence. I was as certain as I was of anything that they had never been lovers in fact. Mellyora might have been tempted had her lover been of a more fiery temperament. The restraint would be on Justin's part.

But such a situation, however determined the chief actors were to preserve their honor and do their duty, was like sitting on top of a barrel of gunpowder. At any moment there could be an explosion and Fanny—perhaps Judith too—was determined that there would be.

One morning when I went down to the kitchens to give orders for the day I overheard a remark which disturbed me. It was Haggety who made it and Mrs. Rolt tittered her appreciation. Fanny had seen them together. Fanny knew. Parsons' daughters were the same as any village sluts given half the chance. Fanny was going to find out the truth, and when she had, someone was going to be sorry. You could trust Fanny. There wasn't much she missed.

There was silence when I walked into the kitchen; and mingled with my apprehension for Mellyora was my pride in the manner in which my presence could subdue them.

I gave no hint that I had heard what they were saying, but merely proceeded to give orders.

But when I went upstairs I was thoughtful. If Fanny did not go soon, there was going to be trouble which might result in Mellyora's being obliged to leave the Abbas. What would happen then? Would Justin let her go? Often a decision could be forced and when it was, how could one be sure in what way people would act? Fanny must go; but how could I dismiss Judith's maid?

I went to Judith's room. It was early afternoon and I knew that after luncheon she retired to her room to drink herself drowsy.

I knocked lightly at the door and when there was no answer knocked again more loudly. I heard the clink of glass and the shutting of a cupboard door. She still kept up the pretense that she was not drinking.

"Oh," she said, "it's you."

"I came in for a chat."

As I came close to her I could smell the spirits on her breath and noted the glazed look in her eyes; her hair was untidy.

She shrugged her shoulders and I set a chair before the mirror. "Let me dress your hair, Judith," I said. "I always liked doing it. It's what I call good-tempered hair. It does what you want it to."

She sat down obediently and as I took out the pins and her hair fell about her shoulders, I thought how vulnerable she looked.

I massaged her head as I used to and she closed her eyes.

"There's magic in your fingers," she said in a soft slurred voice.

"Judith," I said softly, "you're very unhappy."

She did not answer, but I saw that her mouth drooped.

"I wish there was something I could do."

"I like you to do my hair."

I laughed. "I mean something to help you to be happier."

She shook her head.

"Is it wise ... all this drinking?" I went on. "Fanny gets it for you, I know. It's wrong of her. You've been worse since she came."

"I want Fanny here. She's my friend." Her mouth was obstinate.

"A friend? Who smuggles drink to you when Justin is so anxious that you shouldn't drink, when he wants to see your health improved?"

She opened her eyes and they flashed momentarily. "Does he? Perhaps he would rather I were dead."

"What nonsense. He wants you to be well. Get rid of Fanny. I know she is bad for you. Get well... and strong. If your health were better you might have a child which would give Justin so much pleasure."

She turned round and gripped my arm. Her fingers burned my skin.

"You don't understand. You think you do. Everybody thinks they do. They think it is my fault there are no children. What if I were to tell you that it is Justin's?"

"Justin's. You mean ... ?"

She released me and, shrugging her shoulders, turned back to the mirror. "What does it matter? Just brush it for me, Kerensa. That soothes me. Then tie it back and I'll lie down and sleep awhile."

I picked up the comb. What did she mean? Was she suggesting that Justin was impotent?

I felt a great excitement. If this were so, there could never be any danger of anyone's displacing Carlyon. The problems of Mellyora and Justin were forgotten before such an important issue.

But how much trust could I put into Judith's wild statements? I considered Justin—so cool and aloof; the love for Mellyora which I was certain had never been consummated. Was this due to inability rather than morality?

I had to find out.

Then I remembered the history of the Derrise family; the story of the monster and the curse. I wanted to know more about that family.

"Judith ..." I began.

But her eyes were closed and she was already half asleep. I could get little out of her now, and then I should not be sure how true it was.

I remembered that, when I had been her maid, she had often talked of her old nurse, Jane Carwillen, who had been with her family for years, and had been nurse to Judith's mother. I had heard Judith say that she had left the family now but lived in a cottage on the Derrise estate. I made up my mind that if I rode over to Derrise and had a talk with Jane Carwillen, I might learn something of importance.

The next day I left Carlyon with Mellyora and rode out to the moor.

At Derrise Tor I paused to look down at the house—a magnificent mansion built in Cornish stone, surrounded by its park in which I caught a glint of sunshine on the fishponds. I could not help comparing myself with Judith who had been born to all that luxury and was now one of the most miserable women on earth, while I, born to poverty in a fisherman's cottage, had become Mrs. St. Larnston. I was continually making comparisons, continually congratulating myself on my achievements. I told myself that my character was strengthening; and if it was hardening too, well, hardness was strength.

I rode down towards the Derrise estate and on my way met some workmen whom I asked to direct me to Miss Carwillen's cottage. In a short time I found it.

I tied my horse to a fence and knocked at the door. There was a short silence before I heard slow footsteps; then the door was opened by a little woman.

Her back was bent and she walked with the aid of a stick; her face was as wrinkled as the skin of a stored apple, and she peered up at me through overhanging unkempt brows.

"Forgive my calling,'' I said. "I'm Mrs. St. Larnston from the Abbas."

She nodded. "I know. You be Kerensa Bee's girl."

"I am Judith's sister-in-law," I said coolly.

"What do you want with me?" she demanded.

"To talk to you. I'm anxious about Judith."

"Come in, then," she said, becoming slightly more hospitable.

I stepped down into the room and she led me to the high-backed settle in front of a turf fire. The fireplace was like a cave in the wall, and there were no bars to keep in the fire. It reminded me of the fireplace in Granny's cottage.

I sat down beside her and she said: "What be wrong with Miss Judith?"

I decided that she was a forthright woman, so I must pretend to be forthright too. I said blundy: "She's drinking too much."

That remark shocked her. I saw her lips twitch; then she pulled thoughtfully at the long stifle hair which grew out of a wart on her chin.

"I've come because I'm so anxious about her, and I thought you might be able to advise me."

"How so?"

"If," I said, "she could have a child, I believe it would help her, and if she would not drink so much, her health would improve. I've spoken to her about it. She seems to despair and think it isn't possible for her to have a child. You know the family well... ."

"They in a barren family," she answered, "and there have always been this trouble. They don't get children easy. There's some as is cursed that way."

I dared not look at her; I was afraid the shrewd old woman would read the satisfaction in my eyes and understand the reason.

"I've heard there's a curse on the family," I ventured. "I've heard it said that long ago a Derrise gave birth to a monster."

She blew with her lips. "There be wild tales in all these old families. The curse be no monster. It be this barrenness and ... the drink. The one do go with the other. Tis a sort of despair in them like. They say tis in the family not to bear sons ... and tis like they've made up their minds to be barren, and they be so. They say ... there be some on us as can't resist the drink. , . . Then they don't resist it."

"So that's the family curse," I said. And after a short pause, "You think it's unlikely that Judith can have a child?"

"Who can say? But her have been married some time and far as I know there be no sign. Her grandmother did have two—reared one and lost the other. He were a boy, but not strong. My young lady's mother were a Derrise. Her husband took the name when he did marry her—to keep the family alive, you see. It gets harder for them, it do seem. My young lady were so much in love. I remember how excited she were when he rode over. We said. Surely love like that will be fruitful. But it don't look like it."