When Stephen had sent off her letter to the bank she went out for a stroll; she knew it would be no use trying to get rest before dinner.  That ordeal, too, had to be gone through.  She found herself unconsciously going in the direction of the grove; but when she became aware of it a great revulsion overcame her, and she shuddered.  
Slowly she took her way across the hard stretch of finely-kept grass which lay on the side of the house away from the wood.  The green sward lay like a sea, dotted with huge trees, singly, or in clumps as islands.  In its far-stretching stateliness there was something soothing.  She came back to the sound of the dressing-gong with a better strength to resist the trial before her.  Well she knew her aunt would have something to say on the subject of her interference in Leonard Everard’s affairs.
 
Her fears were justified, for when they had come into the drawing-room after dinner Miss Rowly began:
 
‘Stephen dear, is it not unwise of you to interfere in Mr. Everard’s affairs?’
 
‘Why unwise, Auntie?’
 
‘Well, my dear, the world is censorious.  And when a young lady, of your position and your wealth, takes a part in a young man’s affairs tongues are apt to wag.  And also, dear, debts, young men’s debts, are hardly the subjects for a girl’s investigation.  Remember, that we ladies live very different lives from men; from some men, I should say, for your dear father was the best of men, and I should think that in all his life there was nothing which he would have wished concealed.  But, my dear, young men are less restrained in their ways than we are, than we have to be for our own safety and protection.’  The poor lady was greatly perturbed at having to speak in such a way.  Stephen saw her distress; coming over to her, she sat down and took her hand.  Stephen had a very tender side to her nature, and she loved very truly the dear old lady who had taken her mother’s place and had shown her all a mother’s love.  Now, in her loneliness and woe and fear, she clung to her in spirit.  She would have liked to have clung to her physically; to have laid her head on her bosom, and have cried her heart out.  The time for tears had not come.  Hourly she felt more and more the weight that a shameful secret is to carry.  She knew, however, that she could set her aunt’s mind at rest on the present subject; so she said:
 
‘I think you are right, Auntie dear.  It would have been better if I had asked you first; but I saw that Leonard was in distress, and wormed the cause of it from him.  When I heard that it was only debt I offered to help him.  He is an old friend, you know, Auntie.  We were children together; and as I have much more money than I can ever want or spend, I thought I might help him.  I am afraid I have let myself in for a bigger thing than I intended; but as I have promised I must go on with it.  I dare say, Auntie, that you are afraid that I may end by getting in love with him, and marrying him.  Don’t you, dear?’  This was said with a hug and a kiss which gave the old lady delight.  Her instinct told her what was coming.  She nodded her head in acquiescence.  Stephen went on gravely:
 
‘Put any such fear out of your mind.  I shall never marry him.  I can never love him.’  She was going to say ‘could never love him,’ when she remembered.
 
‘Are you sure, my dear?  The heart is not always under one’s own control.’
 
‘Quite sure, Auntie.  I know Leonard Everard; and though I have always liked him, I do not respect him.  Why, the very fact of his coming to me for money would make me reconsider any view I had formed, had nothing else ever done so.  You may take it, Auntie dear, that in the way you mean Leonard is nothing to me; can never be anything to me!’  Here a sudden inspiration took her.  In its light a serious difficulty passed, and the doing of a thing which had a fear of its own became easy.  With a conviction in her tone, which in itself aided her immediate purpose, she said:
 
‘I shall prove it to you.  That is, if you will not mind doing something which will save me an embarrassment.’
 
‘You know I will do anything, my dearest, which an old woman can do for a young one!’  Stephen squeezed the mittened hand which she held as she went on:
 
‘As I said, I have promised to lend him some money.  The first instalment is to be given him to-morrow; he is to call for it in the afternoon.  Will you give it to him for me?’
 
‘Gladly, my dear,’ said the old lady, much relieved.  Stephen continued:
 
‘One other thing, Auntie, I want you to do for me: not to think of the amount, or to say a word to me about it.  It is a large sum, and I dare say it will frighten you a little.  But I have made up my mind to it.  I am learning a great deal out of this, Auntie dear; and I am quite willing to pay for my knowledge.  After all, money is the easiest and cheapest way of paying for knowledge!  Don’t you agree with me?’
 
Miss Rowly gulped down her disappointment.  She felt that she ought not to say too much, now that Stephen had set aside her graver fears.  She consoled herself with the thought that even a large amount of money would cause no inconvenience to so wealthy a woman as Stephen.  Beyond this, as she would have the handing over of the money to Leonard, she would know the amount.  If advisable, she could remonstrate.  She could if necessary consult, in confidence, with Harold.  Her relief from her greater fear, and her gladness at this new proof of her niece’s confidence, were manifested in the extra affection with which she bade her good-night.
 
Stephen did not dare to breathe freely till she was quite alone; and as she lay quiet in her bed in the dark she thought before sleep came.
&nbs............