“There’s something—­” the elder woman thought, for she was a clever and capable woman—­a woman who could see under the surface of things, a woman who had loved and suffered, and had risen triumphant over misfortunes, which had been so many and so dire that they might have crushed a less valiant spirit.

General Bartholomew had explained briefly: 

“The child is alone in the world.  There is something I don’t quite understand, Helen.  It is about a marriage—­” The old gentleman paused.  “Look here, I’ll tell you.  I had a letter from Lady Linden, an old friend, and she begged me to find Joan and bring her and her young husband together again.”

“Then she is married?”

“No, that is, I—­I don’t know.  ’Pon my soul, I don’t know—­can’t make head or tail of it!  She says she isn’t, and, by George! she isn’t a girl who would lie; but if she isn’t—­well, I’m beaten, Helen.  I can’t make it out.  At any rate, I did bring her and the lad, and a fine lad he is too, George Alston’s son, together.  And he left the house without seeing me, and afterwards the girl told me that he was practically a stranger to her, and that there had never been any marriage at all.  At the same time she asked me not to write to Lady Linden, and she said that it was no business of hers, which was true, come to that.  And so—­so now she’s come into this money, and she is utterly alone in the world, and wants to go to Starden to live—­why, my dear—­”

“I see,” Helen said.  “I shall be glad to go there for a time you know; it’s Alfred’s country.”

“I remembered that.”

“John Everard is living at Buddesby with his sister Constance.  They are two of the dearest people—­the children, you know, of Alfred’s brother Matthew.”

“Yes—­yes, to be sure,” said the old gentleman, who was not in the slightest degree interested.

“And they will be nice for your Joan Meredyth to know,” said Mrs. Everard.

“That’s it, that’s it!  Take her about; let her see people, young people.  Make her enjoy herself, and forget the past.  I don’t know what the past held.  Joan is not one to make confidants; but I fancy that her past, poor child, has held more suffering than she cares to talk about.  So try and make her forget it.  Get the Everards over from Buddesby, or take her there; let her see people.  But you know, you know, my dear.  You’re a capable woman!”

Yes, she was a capable woman, far more capable than even General Bartholomew realised.  Clever and capable, kindly and generous of nature, and the girl interested her.  It was only interest at first.  Joan was not one to invite a warm affection in another woman at the outset.  Her manner was too cold, too uninviting, and yet there was nothing repellent about it.  It was as if, wounded by contact with the world, she had withdrawn behind her own defences.  She, who had suffered insult and indignity, looked on all the world with suspicious, shy eyes.