raced her
cavalier. Nesta waved hand to her, and nodded. Mrs. Marsett withdrew her
eyes; her doing so, silent though it was, resembled the drag back to sea
of the shingle-wave below her, such a screaming of tattle she heard in
the questions discernible through the attitude of the cavalier and of
the lady, who paused to stare, before the leap up in the saddle. 'Who
is she?--what is she?--how did you know her?--where does she come
from?--wears her hat on her brows!--huge gauntlets out of style!--shady!
shady! shady!' And as always during her nervous tumults, the name of
Worrell made diapason of that execrable uproar. Her hat on her brows had
an air of dash, defying a world it could win, as Ned well knew. But she
scanned her gauntlets disapprovingly. This town, we are glad to think,
has a bright repute for glove-shops. And Mrs. Marsett could applaud
herself for sparing Ned's money; she had mended her gloves, if they were
in the fashion.--But how does the money come? Hark at that lady and that
gentleman questioning Miss Radnor of everything, everything in the world
about her! Not a word do they get from Miss Radnor. And it makes them
the more inquisitive. Idle rich people, comfortably fenced round, are
so inquisitive! And Mrs. Marsett, loving Nesta for the notice of her,
maddened by the sting of tongues it was causing, heard the wash of the
beach, without consciousness of analogies, but with a body ready to jump
out of skin, out of life, in desperation at the sound.

She was all impulse; a shifty piece of unmercenary stratagem
occasionally directing it. Arrived at her lodgings, she wrote to Nesta:
'I entreat you not to notice me, if you pass me on the road again. Let
me drop, never mind how low I go. I was born to be wretched. A line from
you, just a line now and then, only to show me I am not forgotten. I
have had a beautiful dream. I am not bad in reality; I love goodness,
I know. I cling to the thought of you, as my rescue, I declare. Please,
let me hear: if it's not more than "good day" and your initials on a
post-card.'

The letter brought Nesta in person to her.

CHAPTER XXX. THE BURDEN UPON NESTA

Could there be confidences on the subject of Mrs. Marsett with Captain
Dartrey?--Nesta timidly questioned her heart: she knocked at an iron
door shut upon a thing alive. The very asking froze her, almost to
stopping her throbs of pity for the woman. With Captain Dartrey, if with
any one; but with no one. Not with