Oh, make my love a coffin

Of the gold that shines yellow,

And she shall be buried

By the banks of green willow.

—Somerset folksong:  “By the Banks of Green Willow”

The sad figure in all this is poor Aunt Tranter. She came back from her lunch expecting to meet Charles. Instead she met her house in universal catastrophe. Mary first greeted her in the hall, white and distraught.

“Child, child, what has happened!”

Mary could only shake her head in agony. A door opened upstairs and the good lady raised her skirt and began to trot up them like a woman half her age. On the landing she met Dr. Grogan, who urgently raised his finger to his lips. It was not until they were in the fateful sitting room, and he had seen Mrs. Tranter seated, that he broke the reality to her.

“It cannot be. It cannot be.”

“Dear woman, a thousand times alas ... but it can—and is.”

“But Charles ... so affectionate, so loving . . . why, only yesterday a telegram ...” and she looked as if she no longer knew her room, or the doctor’s quiet, downlooking face.

“His conduct is atrocious. I cannot understand it.”

“But what reasons has he given?”

“She would not speak. Now don’t alarm yourself. She needs sleep. What I have given her will ensure that. Tomor-row all will be explained.”

“Not all the explanations in the world ...”

She began to cry. “There, there, my dear lady. Cry. Noth-ing relieves the feelings better.”

“Poor darling. She will die of a broken heart.”

“I think not. I have never yet had to give that as a cause of death.”

“You do not know her as I do ... and oh, what will Emily say? It will all be my fault.” Emily was her sister, Mrs. Freeman.

“I think she must be telegraphed at once. Allow me to see to that.”

“Oh heavens—and where shall she sleep?”

The doctor smiled, but very gently, at this non sequitur. He had had to deal with such cases before; and he knew the best prescription was an endless female fuss.

“Now, my dear Mrs. Tranter, I wish you to listen to me. For a few days you must see to it that your niece is watched day and night. If she wishes to be treated as an invalid, then treat her so. If she wishes tomorrow to get up and leave Lyme, then let her do so. Humor her, you understand. She is young, in excellent health. I guarantee that in six months she will be as gay as a linnet.”

“How can you be so cruel! She will never get over it. That wicked ... but how ...” A thought struck her and she reached out and touched the doctor’s sleeve. “There is anoth-er woman!”

Dr. Grogan pinched his nose. “That, I cannot say.”

“He is a monster.”

“But not so much of a monster that he has not declared himself one. And lost a party a good many monsters would have greedily devoured.”

“Yes. Yes. There is that to be thankful for.” But her mind was boxed by contradictions. “I shall never forgive him.” Another idea struck her. “He is still in the town? I shall go tell him my mind.”

He took her arm. “That I must forbid. He himself called me here. He waits now to hear that the poor girl is not in danger. I shall see him. Rest assured that I shall not mince matters. I’ll have his hide for this.”

“He should be whipped and put in the stocks. When we were young that would have been done. It ought to be done. The poor, poor angel.” She stood. “I must go to her.”

“And I must see him.”

“You will tell him from me that he has ruined the hap-piness of the sweetest, most trusting—“

“Yes yes yes ... now calm yourself. And do find out why that serving-lass of yours is taking on so. Anyone would think her heart had been broken.”

Mrs. Tranter saw the doctor out, then drying her tears, climbed the stairs to Ernestina’s room. The cu............