Odeyne's marriage
Date: 2025-05-15T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Christian life -- Fiction; Conduct of life -- Fiction; Gambling -- Fiction; Spouses -- Fiction

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Title: Odeyne's marriage

Author: Evelyn Everett-Green

Release date: May 15, 2025 [eBook #76100]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co, 1900

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ODEYNE'S MARRIAGE ***

Odeyne's Marriage.

BY

EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN,

AUTHOR OF "ARNOLD INGLEHURST"; "EUSTACE MARCHMONT";
"HER HUSBAND'S HOME," ETC.

NEW EDITION.

LONDON:
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.,
48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.

COPYRIGHT BOOKS UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.

THE CRUISE OF THE ARCTIC FOX . . DR. GORDON STABLES.
CLEARED FOR ACTION . . . . . . . W. B. ALLEN.
EXILES OF FORTUNE . . . . . . . DR. GORDON STABLES.
A REAL HERO . . . . . . . . . . G. STEBBING.
A TANGLED WEB . . . . . . . . . E. S. HOLT.
BEATING THE RECORD . . . . . . . G. STEBBING.
THRO' UNKNOWN WAYS . . . . . . . L. E. GUERNSEY.
IN SHIPS OF STEEL . . . . . . . DR. GORDON STABLES.
IN CLOISTER AND COURT . . . . . E. EVERETT-GREEN.
THE UGLY DUCKLING . . . . . . . HANS ANDERSEN.
ODEYNE'S MARRIAGE . . . . . . . E. EVERETT-GREEN.
ENGLAND'S HERO PRINCE . . . . . DR. GORDON STABLES.
ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES . . . . . H. C. ANDERSEN.
FACING FEARFUL ODDS . . . . . . DR. GORDON STABLES.
SHOULDER TO SHOULDER . . . . . . DR. GORDON STABLES.
EDGAR NELTHORPE . . . . . . . . ANDREW REED.
WINNING AN EMPIRE . . . . . . . G. STEBBING.
HONOUR NOT HONOURS . . . . . . . DR. GORDON STABLES.
IDA VANE . . . . . . . . . . . . ANDREW REED.
GRAHAM'S VICTORY . . . . . . . . G. STEBBING.
THE END CROWNS ALL . . . . . . . EMMA MARSHALL.
HER HUSBAND'S HOME . . . . . . . E. EVERETT-GREEN.
FOSTER SISTERS . . . . . . . . . L. E. GUERNSEY.
DOROTHY'S STORY . . . . . . . . L. T. MEADE.
A TRUE GENTLEWOMAN . . . . . . . EMMA MARSHALL.
BEL MARJORY . . . . . . . . . . L.T. MEADE.
WINNING GOLDEN SPURS . . . . . . H. M. MILLER.
ON TO THE RESCUE . . . . . . . . DR. GORDON STABLES.
DASHING DAYS OF OLD . . . . . . DR. GORDON STABLES.
TWO SAILOR LADS . . . . . . . . DR. GORDON STABLES.
IN SEARCH OF FORTUNE . . . . . . DR. GORDON STABLES.
ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY . . . DR. GORDON STABLES.
HEARTS OF OAK . . . . . . . . . DR. GORDON STABLES.
OLD ENGLAND ON THE SEA . . . . . DR. GORDON STABLES.

LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO.,
48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

ANTICIPATION

CHAPTER II.

ODEYNE'S HOME

CHAPTER III.

FAREWELLS AND GREETINGS

CHAPTER IV.

A LITTLE CLOUD

CHAPTER V.

THE RITCHIES AT HOME

CHAPTER VI.

AUTUMN DAYS

CHAPTER VII.

BEATRICE AT HOME

CHAPTER VIII.

AN ADVENTUROUS DRIVE

CHAPTER IX.

NEW FRIENDSHIPS

CHAPTER X.

CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER XI.

A SHOCK

CHAPTER XII.

LITTLE GUY

CHAPTER XIII.

THE HOME-COMING

CHAPTER XIV.

A CHANGED LIFE

CHAPTER XV.

CLOUDS IN THE SKY

CHAPTER XVI.

THE PACE THAT KILLS

CHAPTER XVII.

DARK DAYS

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE CRASH

CHAPTER XIX.

THE TWO WIVES

CHAPTER XX.

A STRANGE CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER XXI.

HUSBAND AND WIFE

CHAPTER XXII.

CONCLUSION

ODEYNE'S MARRIAGE.

CHAPTER I.

ANTICIPATION.

"And so this is really Desmond's wedding-day?" remarked the dainty invalid, as she donned a remarkably becoming cap, and settled herself comfortably upon her pillows. "Well, to be sure, it is natural enough, I suppose, but somehow he has always seemed such a boy. Really I find it difficult to realise him with a wife. I wonder how the poor girl will get on."

"The poor girl, mother; really I do not think she is to be pitied. I think she has done uncommonly well for herself—a country clergyman's daughter," answered Maud, with a lifting of the delicate dark brows that showed a trace of superciliousness.

"That is just the whole point of the matter, my dear. If he had selected a bride out of his own world she would have known exactly what to expect from her marriage—she would have understood the risk she ran with a youth of Desmond's temperament; but this rustic maiden probably knows nothing, and will not even be on her guard. It makes me anxious for them both."

Maud looked up quickly, knitting her brows somewhat.

"But, mother, Desmond is steady enough now. He has never been more than a little wild and extravagant at Oxford, and so many young men are that. I am sure the last year or two he has been a model of discretion, and his marriage will sober him down still more—at least that is generally supposed to be the effect it has."

"I hope it may—perhaps that is his best chance. Oh no, Maud, I am not running down your brother—you need not give me such black looks. But facts are stubborn things, and it is no use trying to blink them; and the fact remains that your beloved Desmond has never yet stood up with any success against temptation. When there is no special inducement to take him out of the beaten path, he keeps to it pretty steadily; but he cannot withstand temptation, and anyone can lead him, who goes to work the right way."

"You talk as if Desmond were a pitiably weak creature, and I am sure he is anything but that."

The mother smiled a little, and shrugged her shoulders with an almost imperceptible gesture.

"We will not discuss the matter further. Desmond is one of the most attractive men I have ever seen in my life, though I am his mother that say it. He is a great many charming things, as we all know. Let us endow him with all the cardinal virtues as well, if you will. I have no objection, certainly."

Maud made no immediate reply. It was no new thing that her mother's conversation irritated her a good deal more than she would ever have admitted. But the friction was too chronic to be much noticed, and it was not long before she spoke again.

"I almost wish I had gone, after all. I think you could have spared me for two days, mother."

"I am sure I could. I told you so all along, but I thought you rather wished for a valid excuse for staying away."

"Well, I believe I did then, and now I am rather sorry. It seemed as if Desmond were almost throwing himself away, to marry like that. He could have made a really good match if he had liked, and this girl has nothing, I suppose?"

"She has a good old name and a charmingly pretty face, if her photographs do not flatter her outrageously. Of course Desmond might have done better; but then, again, he might have done worse—got into some tiresome or dangerous entanglement, so we will not fall foul of his engagement to Miss Hamilton. Why, they will be positively getting married at this very moment—yes, I wish you had been there, Maud. You could have told me all about it afterwards—how the bride behaved, and what the dresses were like, though, to be sure, in a place like that they would be nothing much to look at. Why, whoever can that be, coming at this hour of the morning? Oh, very likely only a friend to ask at the door after me."

"I think it is surely Beatrice," said Maud a moment later. "I am sure that is her step on the stairs."

"Beatrice—impossible! Beatrice is in town——"

"Is she indeed?" cried a clear, vibrating voice from without; and the next moment the door was thrown open to admit the entrance of a very stylish-looking figure, whose every movement was accompanied by the rustle of silk and the sweeping sound of rich raiment.

Beatrice Vanborough had the knack of producing an impression wherever she went. She was decidedly good-looking, but many better-looking women would attract less notice. Her figure was more perfect than her face, and she had the art of dress almost in perfection—dress in her own style, that is; and her style was to be rather extreme in richness and abundance of adornment. Still, she contrived never to look over-dressed in an ostentatious way, and was greatly admired wherever she went. She spoke with a good deal of gesture, and had several little mannerisms that some people called affectations; but she was abundantly good-natured, and delighted to do anyone a kindness, especially if it did not put her out at all personally, and she was a marked contrast in most external ways to her quiet sister Maud, albeit an excellent understanding existed between them.

"Yes, here I am, you see. We ran down last night, Algy and I. Ascot fairly knocked me up—it was so fearfully hot, I felt like being grilled alive every hour of the day, and then Algy was unlucky, and that made the dear boy a bit bearish; so on the whole we decided that a week of country air would do us good, and here we are. And so Desmond is really being married to-day? Why, Maud, it is too bad of you not to be there. I did my best to get Algy to the scratch, but a country parson's family was altogether too much for him. My lord would not budge an inch, and I could not well go without him; but you ought to be ashamed of yourself. It looks as if his family held aloof, and really I am delighted that the dear boy has taken a wife and settled down. And it will be such an advantage to get the Chase inhabited again. I trust the little rustic maid will not be altogether too ingenuous and rustic. I mean to make great friends with her, and regularly initiate her into the mysteries of fashionable life."

"Well, it will be a very good thing if you do take her in hand; you will do it better than Maud, and I must not attempt much, or I shall get the character of the interfering mother-in-law directly. Yes, I hope it will turn out happily for both; but I could wish he had taken a fancy to someone of whom his family knew more."

"Oh, do you think so? Now, I quite like the idea of the new element about to be introduced. Give me novelty above all things! And is it really true that Desmond is going into the business? That seems to me the most wonderful thing of all. Our bright, careless Desmond to turn into a City merchant! You should have seen how Algy and I laughed when we heard the news. Algy gives him a month before he throws the whole concern overboard."

The mother smiled, and made one of her little indescribable gestures, of which Beatrice's seemed the exaggerated copy; but Maud took up the cudgels, and replied with grave directness—

"I do not see why you should laugh. I think it is a very sensible thing to do. A man is always better for an occupation; and perhaps in time there will be a family to provide for, and it would be much better not to let the business slip out of his hands altogether."

"Sensible! why of course it is sensible; it is the appalling sensibility of the arrangement that is the joke of it. It seems to me that the little bride must have an eye to the main chance, in making such a stipulation, in which case I have hopes of her. She will be better than a fortune to him, if she can only induce him to stick to the collar, and interest himself in the mercantile house. I know what idle men are like"; and she made a little expressive gesture with her daintily-gloved hands.

Maud said nothing, but let her sister rattle away as she would. It was always rather entertaining to hear Beatrice talk, and it did her mother good to be amused. Of course, if they would persist in misunderstanding Desmond, and making jokes about him, it was not her fault. She was the only one in the family who really appreciated him.

"I sent her the loveliest wedding present—really when the time came I took great credit to myself for making up my mind to part with it at all. Algy did grumble at the bill; but one couldn't be stingy to the bride of the only son of the house. It was the sweetest necklace of pearls you ever saw in your life. If she has a complexion she will be enchanted with them. She wrote me a very pretty letter of thanks, but I don't think she had the least idea of the value of them. I think she will turn out a dear little girl. I quite love her already. I wish I could see her now. I offered to superintend the making of the wedding dress at my own woman's; but no, the child had the exquisite innocence to prefer her own dressmaker. I fear my lady will find that she must have another wedding dress made, to face the county in, but she can find all that out for herself in time. I do not think we shall find her lacking in a species of sound common-sense."

"I sent her a dressing-bag," said Mrs. St. Claire, who was looking roused and interested, "and Maud some silver, I don't exactly remember what. Of course she will find more gifts of mine at the Chase when she gets there. Have you seen the place since it was done up for them, Beatrice? Really you ought to go; it looks charming. Desmond has been mighty particular in his orders, I can tell you. He has spent a lot of money over it, you may be sure."

"And quite right too. He has plenty, and he ought to keep up his position in the place. He cannot have spent his income these past years, and he is right in making his home comfortable before settling down. Seen it? No, how could I have seen it? I have not been in these parts for an age. Happy thought! we will drive over there this afternoon, Maud, whilst mother has her nap. I told Algy not to expect me back to lunch. We will certainly go home viâ the Chase."

So after the midday meal Mrs. Vanborough's carriage was ordered, and the two sisters set off for a visit to their old home.

The Chase, though within thirty miles of the great metropolis, was still to all intents and purposes a country house. It lay in the midst of lovely scenery, not far from the valley of the Thames, was surrounded by wooded hills and running water, and formed altogether a charming retreat, despite the fact that mansions and villas showed a disposition to crop up in the vicinity, and people began to prognosticate that in the course of time the place might be much spoilt by over-building. But for the present, at least, that danger was not imminent, and in no case could the house itself suffer very much, for it was surrounded by its own small but well-wooded park, some fifty acres in extent, and nothing could be seen from the windows of the living-rooms but the gardens and grass-land and fine timber belonging to it.

The Chase was a thorough-going, old-fashioned house, such as are growing more and more scarce every year, with gable ends, twisted chimneys, and great cross-way beams let into the brickwork at intervals.

It was by no means a very grand house, as such things go in these days, for many of the rooms were low, some of the ceilings were intersected by heavy rafters, and the oak panelling, of which there was much in the house, was worm-eaten, and the carving a good deal defaced.

But for all that it was a home-like and comfortable place, deliriously quaint, and not really gloomy, although some people might be disposed to call it so.

It was the kind of house that seemed to want young life about it—children's footsteps pattering up and down the passages, children's voices babbling in the still old rooms. It was a house that would be a paradise for children, and seemed to cry out for their presence. It had been built two or three centuries back, by a remote ancestor of the St. Claires, but had passed out of their hands for many generations, and known a variety of different owners.

The father of Desmond and his sisters had started in life with the resolve to buy back the old place, and with very tolerable hopes of success. His father was then partner in a thriving mercantile house, with the prospect of soon becoming the head. In time this consummation was achieved. The business throve under the careful management of an honest and hard-headed man of business.

The son found himself a rich man whilst still comparatively young, and as he was an only child he had things all in his own hands.

The Chase was bought and restored, it was entailed in due course upon the eldest son and his eldest son, and the proprietor quitted this life when the call came with the feeling that he had at least lived to fulfil the dream of his childhood.

Into this fair inheritance young Desmond had stepped, and was about to take up his abode in the home of his childhood. As the sisters stepped across the threshold Beatrice looked round with her curious eyes, for it was many years since she had seen her old home, and she was eager to note what changes time had wrought in the place. The people who had rented it after their father's death had not been in the society affected by Beatrice after her marriage, and the tenancy had only recently expired.

"Ah, the dear old hall—that delightful square staircase—how I remember it all again! Well, really, Desmond has a very pretty taste if this decoration and furniture is his choice. That stained glass is just what was wanted to give the dim religious light one expects in such a place as this, and these skins and quaint old armour and other accessories are delightfully in keeping with the old furniture I remember so well. Were you his aide-de-camp, Maud? Really, it is quite charming. I hope the little girl will have education to appreciate it, and not hanker after apple-green hangings and magenta table-covers. Not but what gay colours are rather coming to the front once again. Well, every fashion has its day, and we are so constituted that we all rave over the newest thing out, no matter how intrinsically hideous it may be. Oh, not you, Maud; you go on in the even tenor of your way, quite superior to all the fluctuations of fashion. Gracious goodness, who are these? Surely people cannot think that the bridal couple have already arrived? Who on earth can be calling now?"

"Pray don't agitate yourself, Beatrice; it's only some of the Ritchies coming to see the house now that it's ready. I told them they might. You know they will be Odeyne's nearest neighbours, so naturally they take great interest in it all; and they were our playfellows, too, you know."

"Know—I should think I did know! My dear, it is a fact they never allow us to forget. Well, they are excellent good folks, and will doubtless suit Odeyne down to the ground. But I think if they are coming round too, I will postpone the pleasure of a thorough tour till another day. You will not mind walking back if I take the carriage home? I really think I must be getting back to Algy now."

Maud smiled, not without a touch of satire.

"Oh, by all means satisfy your wifely instincts. The walk is nothing. Don't let me stand in Algernon's way. Well, Cissy, so you have found your way up, have you? Everybody seems to choose the wedding-day to visit the house, you see."

The girl thus addressed—a maiden with a demure little face and a pair of merry, saucy-looking eyes, generally hidden beneath very long black lashes—came towards the sisters with outstretched hand. She was followed by a pair of brothers, both tall and well-grown, but without any great share of external finish of manner. The trio were the children of the doctor of the place, and the sons, who had both elected to follow their father's profession, had been mainly brought up at home, only leaving Harlington for the necessary hospital work prior to examination. Cuthbert was by this time his father's junior partner, whilst Tom was still studying and not yet qualified. Both young men had the reputation of being very clever; but talent without grace and finish of manner had no attractions for Mrs. Vanborough, and she openly avowed that the Ritchies bored her to the verge of distraction.

But there was nothing of this to be detected in the greeting which she bestowed on the young girl and her two brothers. Beatrice was far too much the accomplished woman of the world to be betrayed into the least gaucherie or want of manner. She listened to Cissy's outspoken raptures with the pleasantest possible of smiles.

"It is perfectly lovely. I never saw anything more delicious. How your little boy will like playing here, Beatrice! It is such a perfect house for children. How well I remember the romps we had all together here long ago!"

Beatrice gave the least little look of amusement at her sister out of the corner of her eyes, as she answered with admirable cordiality—

"Ah, perhaps he will; I had not thought of that. He is scarcely of an age to discriminate much as to his surroundings."

"Oh, I don't know. I think children are much more discriminating than people think, and notice much more too. I know we all did——"

But Beatrice was already on the way to her carriage, making gracious little farewell gestures as she moved.

To hear Cissy Ritchie's raptures or theories upon children was a little too much. She felt she must escape at all costs.

If there was one thing that bored her more than another it was to be expected to give an account of the perfections of her handsome, sturdy, year-old son. In her own way she was fond and proud of him, but to get up any kind of enthusiasm about him was a thing she had declined from the first.

Possibly her absence was a relief to the rest. Mrs. Vanborough, with her rustling silk, her elegance, and her vivid personality, had a way of being a trifle overpowering; perhaps this was what she desired in certain circumstances.

At any rate, after she was gone Cissy grew more confidential and eager, whilst "the boys," as it was the fashion to call the doctor's two tall sons, seemed to come out of their shell of reserve, and looked, in consequence, less awkward and shy.

"I can't think how you could keep away, Maud. I should have been dying of curiosity to see her."

"Ah, that is a complaint of which you die daily," interpolated Tom in his dry way; "Maud knows better."

"Are you not in a dreadful hurry to see her? I don't know how I should ever endure to let one of the boys marry a girl I had never seen. Tom, why do you laugh? You might do such a thing, you know. You are a dreadful boy for keeping a secret. Nobody can find out if you don't mean them to."

"Well, I am glad to hear that at any rate. I will take a leaf out of Desmond's book one of these days, and bring you home a stranger for a sister. I should like to see the meeting."

"It would not be interesting," said Cuthbert. "Cissy would run into her arms and swear an eternal sisterhood on the spot. Cissy has the good old-fashioned family feeling finely developed. A relation is a relation, to be swallowed whole without the least reservation. That is the advantage of having Scotch blood in our veins. We can take to anyone who bears our name."

Whilst the boys rattled on in the half-nonsensical, half-speculative way characteristic more or less of the whole family, Cissy stole a furtive glance at Maud, as if to see how she was feeling on the subject—whether she was prepared to take the new sister in this unquestioning fashion. Perhaps Cissy's quick sympathies gave her a greater insight into Maud's nature than most people possessed, and enabled her to guess that the marriage of her brother was not a source of unmixed pleasure to her. Truth to tell, Maud was not a little disappointed at the turn matters had taken. She had never fancied that Desmond would settle down to matrimony in his early manhood, and she had indulged bright dreams of what life would be like at the Chase, with Desmond the master and she his housekeeper and companion.

The girl had a love of power, as well as a passionate attachment to her old home; and the news that her brother was engaged to a stranger, of whom they knew nothing, brought with it a sense of disappointment none the less keen because borne in utter silence. And Cissy guessed at the existence of some such feeling, though she was far too shrewd and tactful to betray any such knowledge, and so, as they made the tour of the house together, Maud found something soothing in her presence, and was glad to let her talk and indulge pleasant little fancies about the coming bride, and the pleasure it would be to both her and Desmond to have a sister so near at hand.

Somehow, with Cissy at her side, Maud felt that it would not be hard to love that new sister, and give her the welcome that would seal their friendship at once; but when she was left alone in the shadowy house, with the ghosts of departed fancies lingering all around, and the sunny influence of a truly warm heart removed, then the old soreness, akin to jealousy, came creeping back, and with it a miserable feeling of antagonism towards the woman who had come between her brother and herself.

"I shall never care for her, I know I never shall, and that will make it all the worse, because Desmond will be angry—he will never understand. Besides, why should he? He never loved me as I loved him. He would say that we were very good friends, and nothing more. It is always the way with women, I suppose—some women, at any rate—to give their all, and get nothing, or almost nothing, in return. Well, I suppose I can bear it as well as anyone else; but oh, Desmond, do not ask too much—do not expect me to love your wife for your sake."

But though Maud was thus open with herself she might not quite have liked to hear the remark made by Tom Ritchie as the brothers and sisters turned homewards again.

"It strikes me," said that astute young man, "that however much in love Mrs. Desmond St. Claire may be with her husband, and however happy they are, and will be, together, that she will have rather a rough time of it with Desmond's relations."

CHAPTER II.

ODEYNE'S HOME.

Odeyne stepped out of the long French window which opened upon the lawn, but instead of joining the family party, grouped together beneath the sweeping boughs of the great cedar tree, she shrank away into the friendly shadow of the willow arbour hard by, and looked across the sunny vista, with eyes in which there was a sparkle of suspicious moisture, albeit there was no look of unhappiness in the girl's fair face, but rather an expression of deep content.

And yet, now that the last day in the old home had really come, Odeyne found it in her heart to wonder how she had ever made up her mind to leave it, and to go out into the great unknown world, even with Desmond at her side. It was a great mystery to her even now, the strange, new, overpowering love which had crept into her life and changed its whole tenor—had made her willing to leave her sheltered home and all the tender associations of her childhood—father, mother, sisters, and brothers, including even Guy, her dearly-beloved twin, from whom she had vowed a hundred times that no power on earth should ever part her. Sometimes it seemed as if it could only be a dream, from which she should soon awake; but, then, Desmond was no dream; he had grown to be as the girl's second self, and it had become an impossibility to picture life without him.

She wanted a little time for quiet thought. She had been indoors writing the last letters (in all probability) that would ever be signed Odeyne Hamilton, and she had promised to join the others at afternoon tea beneath the old cedar; but the tray was not yet brought out, though the party had all assembled in the cool retreat, and she wanted to sit a few minutes looking at them all, herself unobserved, so as to carry away with her a picture that would ever after be a source of pleasure and tender satisfaction.

For there was not one face missing in the dear group. There was the father, with the snowy head—the typical clergyman, even to the beautiful benevolent sweetness of expression, which surely ought to characterise the faces of those whose lives are specially dedicated to the feeding of Christ's flock; the mother, all gentle seriousness, with unselfish love shining in her eyes, and making lovely the whole countenance, even though some anxious fears could not but mingle in sympathy with her child's happiness. Then there was tall, manly Edmund—every inch the soldier—and Walter, his father's curate, so good and steady, who had never given his parents one hour of real anxiety or pain. There was bright, capable Mary, a model eldest daughter and sister, and the three girls yet in the schoolroom and nursery—Patty, Flossy, and Nesta, the pets and plagues of the house. And last, though by no means least, there was Guy—Guy with the thin, pale, intellectual face, the broad brow, beautiful dark eyes, and the ever-changing lights and shades flickering always in them.

It was upon Guy's face that Odeyne's glance rested most long and most lovingly, for it was after all Guy who would miss her most.

For Guy had lived always at home, on account of his delicate health, and his twin sister had shared alike in his studies and his amusements, had been his nurse in sickness and his comrade in health, till the two had grown to be almost shadows of one another.

It had always seemed to the girl as if Guy's lack of physical strength had been in some sort her fault, as if she had taken an undue share of it, rather to his detriment.

One delicate child in a pair of twins was nothing uncommon; but it seemed to her as if it ought to have been the girl, not the boy, who should be called on to take the extra burden of ill-health, whereas, in this case, she was endowed with an unusually strong physique, and had hardly known a day's illness in her life, whilst Guy had gone through pretty well every misery to which flesh is heir.

There was a strong likeness between this brother and sister. Both had the same straight level brows, the same expressive eyes of dark grey, that looked almost black in shadow, and the same delicate, regular features.

But the smooth, rounded cheek of the girl was tinged with a beautiful bloom, and her every movement spoke of an overflowing vitality and power of enjoyment.

It was pleasant to watch Odeyne walk, or carry on any active employment: there was a dainty grace and precision in her movements, as characteristic as it was unstudied, which gave a subtle gratification to the spectator, and showed an amount of healthy physical training of a perfectly feminine kind that it is refreshing to meet with in these days of extremes.

Guy's movements, on the contrary, were slow and languid, and his oval face wore the pallor of confirmed ill-health. At the same time he was stronger and better than he had ever been in his life before, and, but for this marked improvement of the past year, it may be doubtful whether even handsome and gallant Desmond St. Claire would have urged his suit with any measure of success.

It was Guy's keen eyes that detected his sister in her shady retreat, and detaching himself unobserved from the group beneath the cedar, he took a circuitous path that brought him at length to her side.

"Well, Odeyne, in maiden meditation lost? A penny for your thoughts, Schwesterling mein."

But at the caressing touch of his hand upon her shoulder, and the sound of the old familiar pet name, the moisture on the girl's long eyelashes resolved itself into very decided drops, which made her brother's face and the sunny garden swim before her in a golden mist.

"Oh, Guy, I don't know how I have ever done it. I don't know how to go through with it now. It seems almost wicked to go away and leave you all. Am I right? Oh, I wish I were sure."

"My dearest child, you must not encourage these foolish thoughts," was the calm rejoinder, spoken in Guy's low, even tones, that despite their quietness and evenness betrayed to the girl, who knew every cadence of his voice, an amount of feeling that he would never openly display. "You are only doing what every woman does at one time or another in her life—or at least the great majority of them. What is it that troubles you at the last? You have not quarrelled desperately with Desmond since the morning?"

But Odeyne's glance was serious and grave, and tinged with a sort of wistful anxiety.

"You know it is not that. It is no fear of Desmond. I think it is fear of myself. Guy, do you remember how I so often grew almost discontented and cross because our lives were so quiet, so shielded, so far removed from the struggle and battle of life? Well, those thoughts of rebellion are troubling me now—now that I am going out into the world to be my own mistress, as people say. You do not know what I would give to feel that there would always be mother to turn to. I wish I had never been discontented. How is it one never values what one has until it is going to be taken away?"

Guy put his arm caressingly round her neck, as he knelt on one knee beside her. The slanting light from the westering sun twinkled into their leafy retreat in a myriad golden shafts, interspersed with flickering shadows, the breeze rustled the leaves overhead, the birds began to twitter softly after their midday silence. A sort of restful hush seemed over all the world, and the sense of farewell was fast stealing over the heart of brother and sister alike.

"Odeyne," he said tenderly, "you have little enough to reproach yourself with, I am sure. I suppose it is implanted in our very nature—that longing to go out and try conclusions with the world. Even I know something of it, though I should make so poor a figure there. I think you will give us all reason to be proud of you. You were always cut out more or less for the part of the great lady. You must let me soon come to you in the new home. I want to see you at the head of your own table, queening it in your own house."

She smiled then, but the look on her face did not change.

"That is part of the trouble, I think. It is only lately I have realised that Desmond is rich, and has a large house, and a lot of servants, and that things will be very different from what I have been accustomed to here. I feel so small and inexperienced, and so young. If only it were not so far away! If only I could have mother to go to for advice!"

"You will have Desmond."

There was a soft light in the girl's eyes. She looked very lovely at that moment, her brother thought.

"Yes, I shall have Desmond; but that is not quite what I mean. I want somebody who will tell home-truths to me—Desmond always says everything I do is right. You will be a help when you come, Guy, in many ways; but I shall want mother dreadfully sometimes, I know."

"After you have been married some time, possibly Desmond will indulge your taste for home-truths more freely."

"Oh yes, I daresay he will. He has plenty of will of his own; I do not like men who have not. But, Guy, I am so distrustful of myself. I am afraid I may grow too fond of pleasure and luxury, and the things that seem to be coming to me. Do you remember all my castles in the air about the big house I was to have some day, and the horses and carriages, and grand way of living, and how I always said that that was just what I should like? Well, now that Desmond has talked to me about the Chase, and all the things that go on there, and what will be expected of us, it is just as if I were getting everything I had coveted—if that is not too strong a word to use—and I am afraid I may grow too fond of pleasure, and the bright, butterfly life that we seem to be going to lead. You know, Guy, I am very fond of pleasure—very fond of it indeed—though here, with father and mother and all the influences round us, I have not done anything to make them fear for me. Oh, I wish it did not seem all quite so strange! Suppose I grow careless and vain and idle, and become a trouble to you all, how sad it would be!"

"I do not think there is very much fear of that, Schwesterling; you have your sheet-anchor fast, I am sure."

A new look crossed the girl's face.

"Oh, I hope so, Guy; that is the great comfort of all. I could never dare to go away but for that"; then after a little pause she added very softly: "You will pray for me always when I am gone, Guy; for I know there will be so many more temptations, and I feel so ignorant and so weak."

He pressed her hand by way of answer. Even to each other this brother and sister were reserved as to their deeper feelings, though they knew them to be in accord. Guy stood looking straight out before him with a look of fine concentration on his face, whilst the girl wiped the tears from her cheek, and presently looked up with a smile in her sweet eyes.

"There, I am better now. I think I just wanted a little talk with you all to myself. Let us go to the others now. I must not be long away. Every hour is precious to-day."

"Ah, yes, let us come. We shall think of this afternoon when to-morrow comes, and there is a great blank in the house. You will be the best off; you will not be aware of it. No, no, little one, do not look like that. It is all right, and I shall like to think of you and Desmond having a good time together. You have been cooped up quite long enough in one place. It is right that some of the birds should leave the nest. Only I suppose you do not want me to say I shall not miss you at first. It would be but a poor compliment after all these long years of willing service. Am I to be allowed to thank you for them before you take wing, little sister?"

"Please not, Guy, unless you want to make me cry again, and I hate to cry. If one once begins there is no leaving off, and tears are so perilously near one's eyes to-night," with a tremulous little laugh. "Besides, Desmond will soon be here, and he would be distressed. Men cannot quite understand what leaving home is like to us."

"And I do not think he has ever known a home like this either," answered Guy, as they moved away together. "You will have to develop the domestic instinct in him, Odeyne."

There was laughter and the soft sound of happy voices round the tea-table that evening, for all were determined that to-morrow's bride should not be saddened on her last day at home, by the thought of the regrets her absence could not but cause.

She was marrying, with the full consent of her parents, a man who was passionately attached to her, and of whom the whole family was very fond.

He had come for six months to the Rectory last year to read with Mr. Hamilton for an examination, and had in that time made himself beloved by all, for his never-failing flow of happy spirits, his warm-hearted, affectionate disposition, and for the way in which he had grown into the family circle, and shared their joys and sorrows almost as if they were his own. Of his "people," as he called them, and his prospects he had spoken but little. Not that there was any mystery about the matter: he was very open about himself and his own affairs. He had lost his father when he was seventeen, and his mother had elected to go abroad with his two sisters whilst he spent his time first at a tutor's and then at college. Meantime the family house was let to strangers; for it was entailed on Desmond, the only son, and he did not see any use in living there alone. Since his coming of age things had not materially changed until about a year ago, when Mrs. St. Claire had returned to England, and had settled down in a smaller house, about half-way between her old home and the house where her elder daughter spent much of her time.

Beatrice St. Claire had made a fairly brilliant marriage, and was now the Hon. Mrs. Vanborough, with a town house and a country house, being herself a leader in a small social circle. Maud was still at home with her mother, and both were naturally anxious that Desmond should return and settle near them. They had never come to the remote Devonshire village to see his future wife—they were very busy at home, and shrank, as it seemed, from the long journey; but both had written in a kind and genial fashion, and Maud would have certainly been present at the wedding, had it not been that Mrs. St. Claire had been overtaken by a sharp attack of illness the previous week, which kept both her and her daughter at home.

It was a disappointment to all parties, though not what it would have been had Desmond known more of his nearest relatives. But though he always spoke of them with warm affection he had been too much separated from them and their life of late years, to have very much in common; and the home of his betrothed was far more of a home for him than the residence of his mother. Perhaps Mrs. Hamilton was the most disappointed at the absence of Desmond's mother. She felt a great anxiety to know what manner of woman it was who would be henceforth the nearest confidante and adviser of her dearly-loved daughter. She often found herself wishing that she knew more about the life into which her child was about to step—more about the man himself, into whose hands they were about to commit their treasure. True, in one sense of the word, they knew everything—he kept nothing back—not even the fact that at Oxford he had been more than a little extravagant, and had been in serious disgrace more than once with the authorities for his wild pranks and misdemeanours of various kinds. No one could be more open than Desmond was, and no one could express more contrition for past follies, or a livelier determination to amend in the future. And then he and Odeyne loved one another. There could be no manner of doubt as to that, and when all was said and done there was nothing in the young man's past career to justify the loving parents from withholding their consent, despite sundry fears and forebodings on the part of the anxious mother. Indeed, from a worldly standpoint, Odeyne was doing very well for herself, as young Desmond was very well off, and would be likely to add to his income as time went on, for he had finally decided, mainly through the advice of his future father-in-law, to enter the large mercantile house in which his own father's fortune had been made, and to be more than a mere name upon the books. Mr. Hamilton had a not ungrounded horror of an idle man, and as Desmond showed no special leaning towards any profession the Rector strongly urged him to take the place open to him in the business house, and make himself a power there. He need not give his whole time to it; but at least it would save him from some of the temptations that so closely beset a wealthy man actually without employment. The Chase was so situated that it was easy to run up to town from it three or four times a week, and Desmond, after a little vacillating, and not unnatural distaste of "harness," had decided to take the advice pressed upon him, and was by this time quite pleased at the prospect, and full of the wonders he was going to accomplish when once he had his hand on the reins.

His bright, sanguine temperament was one of his great charms. Perhaps he owed it in part to the Irish blood that ran in his veins—though for several generations his immediate ancestors had been English—at any rate he had a happy buoyancy of disposition that made his company delightful, and endeared him to all with whom he came in contact.

There was certainly something peculiarly winning and attractive in the face that was bent over Odeyne an hour later, as the lovers, so soon to be united, stood together in the dewy garden, not talking much, but pacing side by side in quiet contentment, glancing now and then at each other with eyes that were eloquent of love. Desmond St. Claire was just four-and-twenty, tall, broad-shouldered, but with plenty of suppleness and grace in the free movements of his strong limbs, as also in his whole bearing and carriage, particularly the pose of the head, which had a very characteristic set of its own, that might have been called haughty but for the open, smiling brightness which was the prevailing expression of the handsome, bronzed face. The young man looked like one of Fortune's favourites. Guy used to tell him he also looked like an only son.

"One can see you've had no brothers to bully you, or take you down a peg every now and then," he said to him early on in their acquaintance; "it's easy to see you have always been surrounded by adoring women-folk." And though this last statement was hardly correct in its literal sense, it was none the less true that Desmond had been used from childhood to be made much of, and to consider himself a personage of some importance; nor had his training done very much, so far, to eradicate the idea; though it is but fair to say the young man was hardly aware that he held it. There was no bumptious self-assertion about him. On the contrary, he was more disposed to under-value his own attainments, and to admire others above himself. Still, notwithstanding all this, he could not rid himself of the air of a prosperous and rather important personage, and Odeyne found no fault with the little air of distinction that he wore with so much of boyish ease and grace. She liked, too, above all else, the tender, protecting manner he always assumed towards herself when they were alone together. Odeyne had won the reputation at home of being slightly independent, and anything but desirous of constant protection in the little details of her daily life; indeed, she seemed rather protector than in need of care herself, in her relations not only with Guy, but also with her mother and little sisters. Yet none the less did she find a great sweetness in depending upon Desmond, and feeling that he was watching over her and upholding her in all their mutual relations. Odeyne was too true a woman not to delight in this feeling, however little it might seem to some to be a part of her nature.

To-night Desmond was in an unusually serious mood, but the girl was content that it should be so. They walked for some time in silence, and then he said tenderly and softly—

"You have had a very happy home here, my darling; sometimes I feel half afraid of taking you away. Suppose I fail to make you happy. Suppose the day should come when you should repent that you had ever married me."

"That day never could come, Desmond," answered the girl in clear, low tones, with an upward glance more eloquent than words.

"I trust not, dearest; but one never knows what may happen——"

"Nothing that happens could bring that to pass," was the quick reply. "I know we may have trouble and sorrow—no lives are quite exempt from that; and why should we expect it? But do you not know that trouble shared with you would be sweeter than any ease and pleasure enjoyed alone? The more sorrow fell to your lot, the more I should want to be with you to share it."

He turned and clasped her in his arms.

"God bless you, sweet love, for those words," he said, with a quiver in his voice. "I only trust I may be worthy of the treasure I shall take to myself to-morrow."

"If God does bless us," answered Odeyne in a whisper, "we need not be afraid of the future, or what it will bring. I am so glad you said that, Desmond. I can't talk about things, but I want us—oh, so much, to feel alike in everything."

"My darling, we will. You shall teach me to be like your own sweet self. This home has always been a living lesson to me. If we can make our own like it I shall be content."

"Oh, if we could!" cried the girl with beaming eyes. "Ah, Desmond, let us try. We may come a good deal short of our ideal, but at any rate we will try."

He smiled as he caressed her curly hair. The old brightness had come back to his face. Desmond's grave moods were seldom of long continuance.

"By all means, dearest, let us try. Only you may not find it quite such an easy matter as you think now, to model our future household upon that of a rustic rectory. Here we live in Arcadia; there it will be—well, different."

There was a sweet, grave brightness upon Odeyne's face on the morrow, as she stood before the altar of the quaint little parish church where she had been christened, and repeated after her father the solemn words that made her the wife of Desmond St. Claire. Behind her stood her sisters, and those nearest and dearest; whilst at her side stood the man of her choice, and before her was the strange future life, which seemed to stretch itself out in rainbow tints.

The bells clashed out a merry peal as she left the church; all the village was en fête to see Miss Odeyne's wedding. In the absence of the bridegroom's relations every face was familiar and beloved—for Desmond was mighty popular in the little village he knew so well.

It seemed a wedding all smiles and no tears, and even when the moment of farewell came the smiles predominated, despite the mist that obscured the visions of some of the party who watched the departure of the bride.

"They are all your brothers and sisters now, Desmond," said the young wife, leaning forward to take one last view of the crowd of dear, familiar faces.

"Of course they are," he answered, his fingers closing upon hers, his hat in his hand, waving a glad farewell salute. "I never had any brothers of my own, and all yours are mine now. We will have them all down to the Chase for our first Christmas there, if we don't get them before. You shall never feel that marriage has made the least bit of a barrier between you, my loyal little wife; only you will give yourself to me for just a little while without any rivals in your heart, will you not?"

At that question Odeyne turned to her husband with a beautiful light in her eyes, and answered—

"Desmond, you know that you are always first now. Whatever lies before us in the future you will always find me by your side. We have taken each other for better for worse."

He took her hand and carried it to his lips.

"It shall never be for worse, my darling!" he cried, "I will promise you that!"

CHAPTER III.

FAREWELLS AND GREETINGS.

"Oh, Miss Odeyne—I beg your pardon, I mean Mrs. St. Claire, but it seems as if my tongue would never learn the new name rightly—I've got a favour to ask of you that I've been longing all the time to talk to you about, and now the time's come it seems as if I didn't know how to say it rightly."

"Why, Alice, have you turned shy all in a moment, or do you think I have changed in a few weeks?" and Odeyne glanced at the girl's downcast face with an encouraging smile. "Well, you shall have your wish, and brush out my hair for me, and you can talk to me as you do it, and let me hear what this wonderful favour is."

Alice Hanbury was a pretty, neat-fingered damsel, who had been all her life more or less at the Rectory, and had received her training for domestic service under the kindly eye of the mistress. She had of late years been employed chiefly in the capacity of sewing maid, on account of her deftness with her fingers and love for her needle, and it had been said from time to time in the family that Alice ought to be a lady's maid, she had so much taste and cleverness in all the details of the toilet. For the past year or more she had attached herself especially to Odeyne, and it was her great delight to be permitted to dress the girl's abundant hair, or to array her for any simple festivity to which she might be going. So it had not surprised Odeyne on this particular occasion that Alice should follow her to her room to ask leave to assist her to dress for dinner, and she had willingly consented, for her month of wifehood had not damped in the smallest her interest in every detail connected with the old life, and to that old life the maid entirely belonged.

This unexpected visit to the old home on the conclusion of the wedding tour had come as a delightful surprise to Odeyne—a surprise planned by her husband, and valued tenfold as proof of the tender love he bore her. It had been arranged between Desmond and her parents without her knowledge, and only when the train was approaching the well-known country had she suspected his purpose, or understood the merry, mischievous glances and speeches which had been perplexing her all day. And now, after a week of unalloyed happiness, the last evening had once more come; but Odeyne was not sad to-night, for Desmond was now her husband, and there was no room in her faithful heart for anything but the truest love and confidence.

"Well, Alice, I am waiting to hear what this wonderful favour can be. You may be quite sure I will do anything for you that I can." And there was a pleasant consciousness now in the girl's mind that she had the power to do a good deal for her old friends or dependents. A month's experience of life as a rich man's wife had not been lost upon her. It could not help being a pleasant experience, and just now everything was tinged with a golden halo.

"Oh, miss—I mean ma'am—if you would only take me away with you to-morrow! I could be quite ready, indeed I could, and I have so set my heart upon it. They all say you must have a maid to wait upon you in your grand new house, and though I may not be so fine as some you could get, I know your ways, and no new maid would serve you as faithful as I would. I've spoken to the missus and Miss Mary, and they both approve if you do. And oh, Miss Odeyne, do take me! The house isn't like itself without you, and I would so like to go with you to your new home."

"Well, Alice, if you really mean it, I shall be very glad. Your mistress was speaking about it to me the other day, and we decided that, as she can spare you, and as it is only right you should 'better yourself,' as they say, you should come to me at the Chase. I shall be very glad, you may be sure, but I should like you to think it over carefully first. It is a serious thing to leave home and the place in which one's life has always been passed, and to begin again in quite a new one. You will get larger wages, and your life may be more lively and amusing, but, Alice, there will be more temptations too, and you ought to think carefully before you make your decision. I should be so very sorry if any harm came to you from having followed me."

"But, ma'am, I don't see how it could; I should be with you. It will be almost the same as if I was here."

"I am afraid it will be hardly that, Alice," answered the young wife, with a smile and a sigh, "though I shall do my best to make it so. But you must think it over and talk to your mother, and if you decide that you really wish it, you can come to me any time that you like."

"Oh, but, ma'am, I have spoken to mother already, and she is as pleased as can be. She thinks I should be better away, because of that Jim Rich, who won't let me alone"; and Alice tossed her head and blushed a little, for that was the name of one of her admirers, and she was conscious of having given him more encouragement than was altogether fair, considering she never intended marrying him. "And indeed, Miss Odeyne, it was she who bid me ask if I mightn't go away with you to-morrow. I saw her this very afternoon, and it was that that put it into my head. I could be quite ready, indeed I could, and I should be so glad to get away quiet before anybody knew."

Odeyne looked thoughtfully at the girl, half understanding her eagerness, half afraid to gratify it. She saw that Alice was very pretty. She suspected she had reasons for wishing to get away to a new place, but she wondered if it would be really kind to take her. Her innocent little vanities and coquetries were very harmless here, but might they not get her into trouble elsewhere?

"Well, is the weighty matter settled yet?" asked a clear voice at the door, and Odeyne looked up, relieved to see her elder sister before her. Mary always knew what to do for the best.

"Ah, Mary, you have come in good time to give us your advice. This foolish Alice wants to leave you all to come with me to-morrow. What must I say to her?"

Mary sat down and heard all that there was to hear, and, to the great delight of the little Alice, decided in her favour.

"It will be better for her to go, as she has set her heart on it," she explained to her sister, as they went downstairs together. "She is unsettled here and is anxious to go elsewhere, and she will be far safer with you than anywhere else we could place her. My own opinion is that she will get married before very long. She attracts a good deal of notice with her pretty face and dainty little ways. She will very likely marry rather above her own class, as she has rather grand ideas, and is certainly hardly suited to the life of a working man's wife. Poor little Alice! I hope she may be happy; at least she will have a mistress who will look well after her, and more than that no one can do."

It was a happy evening for Odeyne. After dinner she sat in the curtained nook beside the open window, and one and another of the dear ones came and had a little quiet talk with her. She was so happy, and Desmond so devoted, that the anxious fears experienced at one time or another could not but be laid at rest, at least for a while. Guy looked with keen scrutiny into his sister's face and then smiled.

"One needn't condole with you yet then, Schwesterling; you seem to have found out 'how to be happy though married.'"

Odeyne laughed softly to herself.

"At least I shall not commit myself to any lamentations yet. I will leave your sharp eyes to find out the domestic discord when you come to see us. And when will that be, Guy? I shall not feel that the Chase is quite a proper home until you have been to see us there."

"Oh, I will come all in good time, never fear, but not just at once. It is a mistake for the relations to be too thick on the ground at first. You will want a few months to get settled down to the new life. It would not be fair to Desmond to come crowding in too fast. He will want his wife to himself for the first spell at any rate."

"Desmond is too unselfish to be exacting, and he is so very fond of you all too."

"Well, you will have Edmund at any rate close at hand. How pleased you must have been to hear of that appointment! Five years of him almost at your gates. He will be quite a tame cat about your place."

"It will be delightful," said Odeyne with shining eyes; "I have had a lingering hope of something of the kind ever since I realised that the regimental depot was so near the Chase. Desmond was almost as pleased as I. You cannot think how anxious he is that I shall be happy, and not miss you all too much. He is so good to me, Guy."

It was almost the only time Odeyne had allowed herself to praise her husband quite so openly as in these few words. She was not wont to gush at all, and Desmond was too near and too dear for her to speak much of him. So that though her happiness and his devotion were tolerably patent to all, she had said little of it in words; and it was not without a feeling of keen pleasure that the mother, seeking the quiet retreat in which her child had ensconced herself, overheard these last words, before she herself was seen.

"I am pleased indeed to hear it, my darling," she said, as she took the chair Guy had vacated in her favour. "I would not ask you such a question, and indeed one has but to look at your face to read an answer of the best kind there. Still, it is good hearing, and will help us to send you on your way with lighter hearts; but, my darling, there is one question your mother would like to ask you before you go to begin the new life, but I will not do so unless you tell me I may. I would not intrude——"

"Mother, darling, how could you? As if there were anything in the world I would not tell you. I love to talk everything over with you. Only I don't want to bore people with my affairs, and I know it sounds so silly to be always praising one's husband."

"You need never fear tiring me either with praise or any kind of confidence, little daughter. I love Desmond dearly; he is almost like one of my own boys. What I wanted to ask you, my dear child—just the one little doubt that troubles me sometimes—will Desmond help you to rule your household in the fear and love of God? Will he think of the welfare of others in the ordering of his daily life? So much will depend upon the atmosphere, of your house—if you understand what I mean by that. You will have responsibilities resting upon you, darling, such as you have never known before. There will be many lives in the future more or less influenced for good or evil by yours. If you are lax and careless, others will become so, almost as a matter of course, whilst in proportion as you show a regard for what is of paramount importance, so will your dependents be led to do the same. You cannot live for yourselves alone—none of us can. We have duties towards others that we cannot rid ourselves of, however much we may wish. You understand that, my child? I know you wish to do right; but do you quite understand that you will be in the position of one whose actions will be watched by many, and who will have a wide-spreading influence over many lives?"

"Mother dear, I think I do, and indeed I will try. I do want to do what is right—to make our home like this."

"And will Desmond help you?"

"Oh, I think so. He is so kind and considerate whenever we make plans together. Of course he is a little reserved—men always are—and I am not very good at talking either; but he means well, I know. He has very beautiful thoughts sometimes—only you know he has never had a home of his own like ours, so it is hardly to be expected for him to feel just as I do."

"But you will help him and lead him? He loves you so dearly that he will do much for your sake; and remember, my dear child, that much—very much—depends on beginnings. Try to begin well, and the habit once formed will, in itself, be a help. You will understand better as you go on what I mean, and your mother's prayers will be with you always that you may be guided right."

"Your home—our home—my darling. Do you think it will ever be as dear as the old one?"

Desmond looked with fond pride into the sweet face of his bride as he put this question, and caught the look of sparkling happiness in her dewy eyes.

"Desmond, it is lovely—you never told me half. How I wish they could all see it! I shall never be able to make them understand how beautiful it all is. I am almost afraid of being mistress of such a house. Oh! suppose I do not give you nice dinners—suppose I make a dreadful muddle of the housekeeping? Whatever will you say?"

He laughed and kissed her fondly.

"Well, in that awful contingency we will get in a housekeeper to relieve you of all the distasteful offices. My wife is not going to be allowed to worry herself over disagreeable duties. She is to be a lady at large, ready to do the honours of the Chase, and go about to all the festivities, and make the county belles die of envy. Oh, yes, my love, I shall say what I please now. You are my property; I shall be as proud of you as ever I like. I am going to make my little wife a very important person, and if you think that housekeeping details will bore or worry you, we will get a woman in forthwith to relieve you of the burden."

"Now! Desmond, how can you talk such nonsense? as if I were quite a goose! Why, I am appalled as it is at the number of servants we seem to have—if those were the servants we saw drawn up in the hall to welcome us. I do not think we can possibly want them all, let alone another. Little Alice will be quite superfluous, I fear."

"Not a bit of it. You must have your own maid. And as for the rest, you will find you want them all. My mother has made all the arrangements of that kind, and she knows what the house wants; she lived here long enough to be an authority on such points."

"Your mother—Oh! Desmond, shall we go and see her this first evening? Would she like it?"

"Oh, she would like it well enough; but don't you think it would be rather a bore for us? I want my wife all to myself."

She gave him a quick kiss. She liked to hear him speak after this fashion, but her answer was decided.

"I think it would be nice to go. I want to see her so much; and you know she must be so eager to see you again. Yes, let us go, Desmond dear. You must really be impatient to see your mother."

Desmond submitted, only stipulating that they should return home for dinner. They had spent the previous night in London, and had come down early to the Chase, so that there would be plenty of time for the proposed visit.

The young husband was very particular as to the appearance his wife presented; hut, though her dresses were country made and very plain, they fitted her to perfection, and suited her so well that even his fastidious eye could find no fault. Odeyne was quite amused at his anxiety as to what impression she made, but gradually came to understand it better.

It was a new thing to have out a carriage and pair of horses, to go a distance of less than two miles, and to sit behind two men-servants; but Odeyne could not help feeling a little innocent exaltation in her grandeur—with a hope that it was not wrong to find it all so delightful—and as they neared the abode of her mother-in-law, she had other things to think of.

Desmond's mother! How she would love her! She should never feel that she had lost her son by his marriage. No wife ought ever to stand between a mother and her son; but before she had got to the end of her train of thought the carriage stopped, and she found herself following Desmond into a lofty room, rather dim, and redolent of some subtle perfume, but furnished in the sumptuous way that was quite new to the inexperienced country girl.

The next moment her hands were taken by a pair of thin, cold ones, and she found herself kissed French-fashion on both cheeks; but somehow she was not able to put her arms about her new mother's neck, as she had always intended—not that there was any lack of cordiality in the voice that said—

"And so you have come the very first day? Really, my dear children, I am very much obliged to you."

"That was Odeyne's doing. I could not get her to settle to anything till she had seen you. She felt so certain you must be dying to see me again. You see, we mean to practise the domestic virtues in the most exemplary manner."

"The more the better, Desmond. I am glad Odeyne has so much kindly sense and sound, feeling. My dear, if this great boy of mine tries to laugh you out of any of your charming old-world ways, do not pay any attention to him. You are wiser than he will ever be—stick to your own opinion, and bring him round to it."

"You see what you have to expect, Odeyne—a life of constant struggling and tyrannical opposition," cried Desmond merrily. "Never mind, you will at least have an ally in my mother, and she is a host in herself. Ah, here is Maud! Well, madam, you did not expect to find this ceremony inflicted on you so early, did you? Pray let me introduce my wife, and you must make your peace with her as best you may, for I assure you she has never forgiven you your absence at the wedding. Odeyne is a great stickler for etiquette, eh, wifie?"

"Desmond, how can you?" But Desmond rattled away in the same nonsensical fashion, whether to cover a species of nervousness, or simply to try and put all parties at their ease, Odeyne did not feel certain. The mood was new to her in this particular form, and she was not quite sure that she liked it. She would rather have heard something besides banter and nonsense from his lips at this first interview with his relations.

But whilst he rattled on to Maud, Odeyne had the opportunity to enjoy a little quiet talk with his mother, which was just what she wanted. She hoped the pretty old lady, with the bright eyes and dainty grace of manner, would talk to her of her boy, and reveal, by little nameless touches, the motherliness in her nature, but somehow the interview failed to be quite satisfying, or, perhaps, Odeyne had expected too much.

Mrs. St. Claire was very gracious and affable. Notwithstanding the fact that her eyes scanned the girl from head to foot in a way that a shy person would have found rather disconcerting, she talked very kindly, though at times with a touch of satire in her voice and manner that jarred a little upon Odeyne.

She paid her daughter-in-law many little compliments of a very refined and graceful kind; but Odeyne would have liked a warm pressure of the hand, or a tender look towards the son, better than all these put together. She could not help feeling as if some kind of a gulf lay between herself and these people, and as the feeling was quite unknown to her in the life she had led at home, it was disconcerting, and she was disposed to blame herself for it.

Desmond did not stay long, nor did it seem expected that he should.

Odeyne hardly spoke a word to the stately sister, of whom she felt a considerable amount of awe. She ventured to ask her to come soon to see her, but she was not sure that the invitation had not been rather taken as an affront, it was so coldly responded to.

"Well, no one can say we have not done our duty nobly," cried Desmond, throwing himself backward in the carriage with a sigh that sounded rather like one of relief. "Poor old Maud, she looks a bit glum, but that was always the way with her. You seemed to hit it off nicely with the mother, Odeyne. She is a mighty particular old lady, too, so you are to be congratulated."

Odeyne smiled and made no reply. She would not admit even to herself that she had been damped or disappointed. She said that it was foolish to expect every home party to be like the one she had just left, and that she should soon learn to understand other people's ways without feeling chilled. Desmond, almost as if he divined that she had been a little disappointed, was tenderness itself all the evening, and they had a wonderfully sweet time, walking in the quaint old garden and wandering about the dusky rooms, planning the use for each, and picturing the happy life they were about to commence together. Even the grand dinner, with two men-servants in the room, did not oppress Odeyne. She was not quite sure if she liked it as well as the simpler mode of life to which she was accustomed, but at least it interested and amused her, and she liked to watch and admire the easy way in which her husband took his place and gave his orders.

The evening, when they sat out together on the terrace and watched the moon rise over the trees, was perfect, and the girl's heart was very full of thanksgiving for the happiness of her future lot.

"Shall we have prayers in the hall, dear? It seems the most suitable place, I think," she said, rising to move indoors as the clock struck ten. Desmond had risen too. Now he paused, and looked at her a little oddly in the dim light.

"Prayers! Oh, I had not thought about that. I don't think, dearest, that we can manage evening prayers here."

"Why not, Desmond dear?"

"You see, Odeyne, we shall often be out in the evening, and often we shall have people in the house who will not be used to that ceremony; and I can't bear a parade, or making that kind of thing a bore to people. I'm sure you would not wish it either. And it is no good beginning unless one means to keep it up."

Odeyne stood still thinking, with a little shadow upon her face.

"Well, Desmond dear, I do not want to do anything to bring what we prize into contempt; but we should not like to have no prayers in our house. Shall we have them in the morning instead? We shall always be at home then, and if people do not like them, as you seem to think, they need not come down. But the household will meet together regularly, as we did at home."

Desmond seemed still to hesitate; but it was the first thing she had asked him in the new home, and he loved her too well to deny any request of hers willingly.

"Well, darling, we will settle it so, though you know your ideas on some points are rather antiquated. We will have prayers in the mornings before breakfast, and the only stipulation I make is that if I am not down in time, you read them yourself."

Odeyne smiled and consented, but she thought the stipulation not likely to be enforced, and the experience of the following week proved her confidence to be well grounded. Desmond was everything her heart could wish, and the days flew by one after another as if on golden wings.

The only small trouble was the coldness of Maud, with whom she had resolved to make such friends, for Desmond had spoken several times of Maud's devotion to himself.

Odeyne was quite unable to comprehend that dumb, pained jealousy which Maud experienced every time she saw Odeyne and her husband together. How could she guess at the vague heart-hunger of one who had never been ardently loved, whose lot it had always been to give, rather than to receive, tokens of affection?

"I want to show you something," she exclaimed one day, when Maud chanced to drive across with some message from Mrs. St. Claire; "I have been planning a surprise for Desmond, and it has just come. He is in town, of course, and I have nobody to share my pleasure with. I am so glad you have come!" and she put her arm within that of Maud, trying hard not to think her irresponsive and cold. Surely she would take pleasure in anything that was done for Desmond!

Odeyne led the way across the hall to the little sanctum that was Desmond's particular "den." Hitherto that place had been rather sparsely furnished, but to-day it had been completely metamorphosed by the introduction into it of a very beautiful carved and inlaid bureau, a chair of the same sort of workmanship, an overmantel, and some fine skin rugs laid down upon the floor.

"There!" cried Odeyne, with innocent pride and pleasure, "now the room looks worthy of Desmond, does it not?"

Maud looked round with eyes that took in everything, and that expressed a certain amount of surprise.

"It is very handsome," she said. "That sort of work is very uncommon, and——"

She stopped, but Odeyne understood in a moment what the unfinished sentence implied, and answered eagerly—

"It is rather expensive, but it is good, and I knew it was just Desmond's taste, and that he would not get it for himself. You see, I have an uncle in Australia, and he sent me a cheque to get myself a wedding present. It did not come till after we were married, and so I just kept my little secret from Desmond, and ordered these things for a surprise. Do you think he will like them?"

"Yes," answered Maud, but still in the same rather cool way; she hesitated a moment, and then added in a hasty and almost nervous fashion, "But you might have been wiser to keep your money, Odeyne. You may want it for something more important some day. And I would not encourage Desmond to be extravagant, if I were you. Don't let him think he must needs have everything he sets his fancy on. It's not the best thing for any of us!"

Then she bid a hasty adieu to her sister-in-law, and beat a retreat, leaving Odeyne standing in the middle of the beautified little room with rather a startled look upon her face.

What had made Maud say that?

CHAPTER IV.

A LITTLE CLOUD.

"My dear, you are charming—perfect. I own that I have had misgivings: but you have proved yourself the best judge. My own treasured Madame could not have turned you out better. I am delighted with you. Now you need not blush at a compliment from a sister, not but what it is a remarkably becoming blush."

"Now Beatrice—please——"

"My dear child, if you think to stop my tongue, or to curb my freedom of speech, you are attempting an utter impossibility, as your husband will tell you, if you still take the trouble to apply to him for information. Well, Odeyne, I hope you will enjoy your first introduction to society. You must expect to have your measure taken pretty freely by all the company, who are more or less dying of curiosity to see Desmond's bride: but at least your appearance defies criticism. It is as quaint and delicious and altogether charming as your name, which nobody has ever heard before."

Odeyne was standing before Beatrice, in one of the elegantly-appointed rooms of Rotherham Park, the country residence of the Hon. Algernon Vanborough. It was the first dinner-party which had been given in honour of the bride, and Odeyne felt a little excited, and perhaps a trifle nervous too, at the prospect of facing a fashionable assemblage, met together in her honour, though fortunately for her she was not either self-conscious or shy. The long straight folds of her white silk wedding-dress hung in severely classical lines about her slight, well-proportioned figure, giving it additional height and grace. The dress was absolutely plain, without a particle of trimming, and had originally been high to the throat and wrists. Since then Alice's deft fingers had cut a small square in front and arranged a high Medicis collar at the back, whilst the sleeves were now short to the elbow and finished off with delicate lace ruffles. Odeyne wore no ornaments save the string of pearls—Beatrice's wedding gift—round her neck, and a spray of stephanotis and maidenhair fern fastened on her shoulder. Starry white blossoms nestled in her dusky hair, which was piled up on the top of her head. She possessed a marked individuality of her own that was not lost upon Beatrice. Not only was she decidedly beautiful, but she had an air of distinction—a thing of which Mrs. Vanborough thought a great deal more.

Odeyne and her husband had come early, a good hour before other dinner guests were likely to arrive. The young wife had taken a liking to Beatrice, more because she found her so easy to get on with, than for any great similarity in taste or feeling: and then there was no doubt that Beatrice liked her—which was more than she could say with certainty of the rest of Desmond's near relatives; and it is easy under such circumstances to entertain warm feelings. Odeyne was eager to like her husband's people and make herself one of them, but Maud's coldness repelled her, whilst there was something in the air and manner of the mother which always had the effect of jarring on her sensibilities, though she could never exactly tell why.

So Beatrice was a pleasant contrast, and she had accepted the brother's wife as a sister from the first. Desmond, too, liked his sister's house far better than his mother's, and was always ready to ride or drive across, or to ask them over to the Chase. Odeyne had seen Beatrice quite a number of times already, and the small amount of natural constraint she had felt at first was rapidly vanishing away. It was certainly rather hard to feel constrained with Beatrice, unless she intended you to be so.

As they turned to go downstairs together, Odeyne paused and said—

"Please may we go to the nursery first? I have not seen the boy for such a long time."

Beatrice laughed as she answered—

"Do you say that because you really wish to go, or because you think it will please me to pretend you do?"

"I say it because I want it. I think it bores you to go to your nursery, Beatrice, but I can quite well go alone. I know the way by this time."

Again Beatrice laughed, shaking her head.

"Your candour is delightful, and your eyes are sharp. Take care that the combination does not get you into trouble one of these fine days, fair sister. But I will go with you. You have a happy knack of not boring me with your admiration of the boy. You do not expect me to drivel over him, and really I cannot stoop to that."

The nursery was dimly lighted, cool and empty. The rosy, beautiful boy lay sleeping in his cot, with one round, fat arm flung over his head. Odeyne bent over him and kissed him many times, a strange thrill running through her as she did so. It seemed such a holy and beautiful and wonderful thing to have a little innocent child all one's own. She felt that if such a life should some day be given to her, as a gift from heaven, she would hardly know how to prize or cherish it enough.

"Oh, Beatrice," she said, lifting herself up at last, "how good it must make you try to be, to have a darling like that to think for! I think it must be a great help, though of course it is a great anxiety too."

Her sister-in-law regarded her with a look of speculative curiosity, in which amusement and something not altogether removed from sadness were strangely blended.

"A help?" she repeated questioningly. "In what way?"

"Oh, you must know, you must feel it. Think how sad it would be if one's own children saw the least thing to make them lose confidence in one. I know if I had seen mother or father doing wrong, or being careless or frivolous, it would have felt as if the very foundations of the world were giving way. Don't you know what I mean? I think you must. There are so many temptations in life, but nothing would help to keep us clear of them like the thought that we might be setting a bad example to the children who trusted us. It would be too dreadful to think that we had perhaps given the first impetus in a wrong direction."

And Odeyne's face was turned upon her companion with a depth of sweet seriousness upon it that for once seemed to silence the lively Beatrice.

"Well, dear, suppose we go down now," she said, after a little pause. "Your ideas are beautiful—almost too beautiful for daily wear, I fear—never mind, you shall set us all an example one of these days. No, I am not laughing at you, I verily believe you will; though whether we follow it is quite another matter. Ah, here is Maud, come in good time also. Well, I will leave you together, and go down, for people may be coming any time now, and Algy is always fussing over the wine till the very last moment."

Beatrice's dinner was a great success—most of her entertainments were—for both she and her husband possessed the knack of getting the right people together, and entertaining them well.

Odeyne was the person of greatest importance that night, and she made quite a little social success, which she enjoyed in the fresh, spontaneous way of a young thing, to whom everything was new and delightful.

She saw that Desmond was pleased with her, and with everything, and that added to her enjoyment; and then the talk was so bright and lively, there was such sparkle and wit in the sallies and retorts, that the girl was quite taken out of herself, and found it all most entertaining; nor was she herself by any means a cypher either, but showed that she could talk with a spice of originality that delighted her neighbours. She was so fresh and bright and unsophisticated, without being silly, that all were taken with her, and it was said on all hands that the new Mrs. St. Claire was going to be an addition to the county.

So the dinner and the first part of the evening passed off delightfully, and it was only after the gentlemen joined the ladies later on in the drawing-room that anything occurred to mar the pleasure of what had gone before.

Odeyne gathered from the talk in the drawing-room that the Goodwood races, which had hitherto been but a name to her, were shortly coming off, and that everyone talked as if all were going as the veriest matter-of-course.

So far Desmond had not mentioned the matter to his wife, and Odeyne was a little surprised that Beatrice should speak of her going as if it were a settled thing.

The girl had never seen a race in her life, and she thought it must be a very pretty sight.

At the same time she felt a misgiving as to whether her parents would altogether like her to be there, and she wondered if there could be anything wrong about it, for all these people evidently meant to go, and saw no harm in it.

Beatrice looked at her once or twice as the conversation proceeded, as if to see how it affected her; but Odeyne was not one to air her opinions too freely, especially when she was uncertain of her ground, and she had implicit confidence in her husband's judgment. He would never take her to any place she ought not to be seen at.

Desmond seemed in a very lively mood when he came in. He stood beside his wife's chair, as though he liked to feel her near; but he continued his conversation with the men about him, and though Odeyne listened to every word, she found that she understood very little. It seemed to be about horses and racing, and that was about all she made out. Sometimes note-books were produced, and entries made—Desmond himself made a good many—but she did not understand what it was about, and was half ashamed of the feeling of uneasiness which came over her as she watched and listened.

But before long the carriage was announced, and they took their departure; and when she was once alone with her husband, felt his arm about her waist, and heard his tender words of playful praise for the impression she had made on the neighbourhood that night, she felt perfectly happy again. He would never do the least thing that was wrong; and, indeed, her confidence was such that she was not afraid to put the question to him direct when they had got home, and were sitting together for a chat before retiring for the night.

"Desmond, what were you all doing with your note-books just now?" she said, laying her hand caressingly on his coat-sleeve; "it looked almost as if you were betting together. What was it?"

"Well, you might have made a worse shot, little wifie; did you never hear of fellows laying a little money upon coming events?" and he laughed at his little pleasantry.

"But, Desmond, I thought it was wrong to bet."

He stooped and kissed her grave face.

"So it can be, darling—very wrong indeed, as some men do it; but not as your husband does. You may trust me, my sweet, never to cross the line that divides a little innocent fun from what verges on actual fraud and roguery. Why, what a serious face, to be sure! What is the matter, Odeyne?"

"I—I hardly know how to say it, Desmond; you know it is not that I do not trust you—I know you would never do anything really wrong. But I cannot help thinking it would be so much better not to bet at all. You admit yourself that it can be very wrong indeed, and don't you think in such a case it is safer to leave it alone altogether?"

His pleasant smile beamed like sunshine over his face. It was almost enough in itself to dissipate her fears.

"My good, little, prudent wife, you speak with great seeming wisdom, but with a good deal of inexperience too. We live in a world where, unfortunately, every good thing and every pleasant thing is not only used, but abused also—very shamefully abused in many cases; but that is hardly a reason for not making a legitimate use of them. We cannot cease clothing ourselves because sweaters' dens exist, nor can we all feel it necessary to give up our glass of wine or beer because some men will persist in getting drunk. We have to buy horses, even though we know that dealers are cheating us, and we should have to live in glass cases, and never do a thing, if we were to be deterred by the thought that we were unconsciously encouraging vice in some form or another in the actions of our daily lives. We can only take care that all we do ourselves is upright and honest, and leave the rest. We cannot possibly stop the evil in the world, but if we set a good example of temperance in all things, and just and upright dealing, we are doing good in a way—and nowhere is such temperate example more needed than on the racecourse."

Odeyne was silent. She had hardly given these matters a thought in her past life, they had been so utterly removed from her range of vision. She felt that there was a flaw in Desmond's specious argument, but hardly knew how to detect or expose it. As her silence did not appear to be of quite a consenting kind, Desmond continued his little discourse.

"You see, Odeyne, it does not do for a man to make himself peculiar. If he does, he at once loses all influence over his friends, and is put down at once as a milksop or a fool. I live amongst a very nice set of fellows, I know their ways and like them, and we thoroughly understand one another. Everyone admits that it is a right and proper thing to spend a certain amount of one's income in amusement; and so long as this sum can be well afforded, and is never exceeded, there can be no reason alleged against spending it as one wishes. If it amuses me to risk a few pounds over a little bet with a fellow, just as well off as myself, what earthly harm can it do? We can both of us afford to lose, and if I win his money one day, he will win mine the next, and so in the long run things are pretty much where they were, and we have had our little bit of fun. You wouldn't think anything of playing a game for counters; and really, when one has a little margin in money to throw about in that sort of way, there's precious little difference that I can see. I admit that a man who tries to get his living by betting is likely enough to turn rascal, and, of course, it is simple idiocy the way clerks and fellows of that class are betting nowadays. But, as I said before, with that we have nothing to do. What I do promise, little wife, is that you shall never have any cause to be anxious on my account; but to say I would never lay a pound on a favourite horse would be absurd. We should be the laughing-stock of the whole place, and lose every scrap of influence we might otherwise possess. The moment you put yourself on to an entirely different plane from the rest of your world, from that moment your power ceases; and I should be really sorry to lose what influence I have with Algernon Vanborough, for he is disposed to be very reckless, and for poor Beatrice's sake I should be most reluctant to cut myself off from the chance of keeping him steadier. He is a very good fellow, and will listen to advice now; but if he thought I had 'turned Puritan,' as he would call it, he would never listen to another word I had to say."

Even then it was some time before Odeyne answered, and her words were prefaced by a sigh.

"Well, Desmond, perhaps you know best, but I am sorry, for I can't like it, or feel quite as you do. I know so little about these things that I can't argue—I have no facts to go upon—only a vague feeling that it can hardly be right to encourage any amusement that leads to so much sin and misery. It isn't the racing itself I mean. I think it must be a splendid sight to see the beautiful, strong horses run. If you like me to go with you to Goodwood, or anywhere else like that, I would go directly. But I do wish you would not bet—I have such a strong feeling against it, though to you perhaps it seems a foolish one. It seems to me almost like stealing, to take another man's money without earning it—and you say yourself that it is roguery in lots and lots of people. I'm afraid I don't quite see the difference. How can what is wrong in one case be right in another? The degree of wrong, I can see, may differ, but in kind it is the same; it is still a wrong."

"Well, dearest, I suppose I can hardly expect you, with your training and antecedents, to take any but a rather narrow view of such a complicated and difficult question. I admit that it is a very difficult one, and that your heroic remedy, if it could be enforced, would doubtless do an immense amount of good; but then, unluckily, it can't. We have to take the world as we find it, not as we should like it to be; and under these circumstances we have to accept a good deal of evil with it. Believe me, darling, that I am really acting for the best in not rushing to extremes either in one direction or another. I have seen as much harm done by the one extreme as by the other, and I am convinced that a middle course is the wisest and best, as well as the kindest to Beatrice. You will try to trust me, Odeyne, and believe that I act for the best?"

"I will try, dear Desmond," she answered with one of her tenderest glances. "You know that I trust you. But when a thing seems dangerous to one's self, it is always difficult to be convinced that the danger is imaginary. And you know, dear, if you do not mind my saying it, it can never be really right to do evil that good may come."

His answer was a smile. Desmond was never angry—least of all with his young wife, whom he so tenderly loved. Of course it was just what was to be expected from her, a little fear at first, and a few words of remonstrance; but she would soon learn that the danger was purely imaginary, and cease to dread it, and he would never give her one hour of real anxiety. He had had his lesson young, whilst still a mere lad. He had suffered enough then, he told himself, for a lifetime, and would be in no danger of falling into the trap again. He had plenty of ballast on board now to keep him steady—his wife at home, and his business abroad. If, to please her, he gave up a great part of his time to uncongenial toil, it would not be fair on her part to grudge him his fairly-won and innocent amusements. Odeyne was not unreasonable; she would see this for herself, and meantime he would keep all objectionable sights and sounds from her. She should be as happy as the day was long.

And there was no denying that the girl enjoyed Goodwood week immensely. Desmond took her to the place before the racing began, and showed her the country for miles round. They visited Arundel Castle and the little watering-places in the vicinity, and to Odeyne, to whom everything was new, it was altogether delightful. The beautiful sweep of down, upon the crest of which the racecourse stands, was in itself a joy to her. It was all so fresh, so breezy, so open, even in the heat of summer, that it was hard to believe anything very bad could go on there; and then the horses were so beautiful and so noble-looking, and struggled so gallantly to respond to the efforts of their riders when the time came, and it all seemed so perfectly fair and honest, that the whole scene could not but be a delight to the girl so keenly alive to beauty as Odeyne. She could not believe that there was any cheating and rascality in such an apparently simple thing as riding a race, and she was too far removed from the betting-ring, and too ignorant of the meaning of much that went on around her, to be enlightened or disillusioned to any great extent. Her husband saw her looking animated and happy, and was content, and the time passed away pleasantly for both.

Occasionally the girl's happiness was damped by the sight of some wretched, haggard face, and she would realise forcibly at such a moment that there was a very black reverse to all this sunshine and glamour. At such times she would long to be back in her quiet home, and wonder if she were right in being here at all. She would fain have given of her abundance to some of the broken-down wretches she sometimes saw, crushed down to the ground with misery; but once when she timidly suggested something of the kind to Desmond, he only shook his head.

"My dear child, where would be the use? he would only go straight to some sharper and lose it all again. What can such fellows as that know about racing? They are bound to lose. Nobody in the world can help them. They merely help those rascally bookmakers to live and thrive."

At such moments Odeyne would feel sick at heart, and wonder in what lay the almost miraculous attraction of the scene; but it was not until the last day that she was in any way disturbed on her own account, and then it was only by some chance words from Beatrice.

"Well, Odeyne, it has been charming having you in our party, I have enjoyed it double as much, so the advice I am going to give you is the more disinterested. If I were you I would try to wean Desmond away from such places. He is devoted to you and a very dear boy, and you might be able to use your influence successfully. He hasn't the head for this sort of thing. He is much too impulsive and generous and easy-going. He hasn't got far out yet; but one of these days he will get regularly dipped, if you don't keep him out of the way. Algernon is past cure; all I can hope is that he will keep fairly lucky, as he is for the most part, thank goodness. But then Algy has twice Desmond's head, and a vast deal more knowledge to boot. So if you take my advice, you will keep your boy away. He is young enough now to learn better, but he will not be so long."

Odeyne made but little reply, quietly thanking Beatrice for her advice, but not dropping a hint as to her own anxieties—she was far too loyal a wife; but she turned the counsel over many times in her mind, and went home with the feeling that the first little cloud had come into her sky to dim the sunshine of her great happiness.

CHAPTER V.

THE RITCHIES AT HOME.

Despite the little warning clouds in the clear horizon of her sky, Odeyne settled down to her life in the new home with a sense of deep content and happiness. It was all so interesting, so novel, and the interest rather increased than lessened as time went by. The house in itself was a perpetual source of pleasure to its young mistress. It was so delightful to be surrounded by pretty things, and to find everything for which she had expressed a wish supplied as if by magic. True, when Desmond began to go regularly to town the young wife found the days a little long, and sometimes even a little lonely; but Odeyne always had plenty of occupations, and was not one to let time hang on her hands heavily. Desmond did not go up to business more than three or four times in the week, and on the other days he was with her all the day. They had much to plan on the laying out of their garden, for the girl was devoted to flowers, and it was not till August was losing itself in September that she ever began to feel a little dull on the days she spent alone.

The autumn came somewhat early that season, with driving rain-storms, and frost that nipped the flowers, and drove Odeyne from her favourite arbour in the garden to the fireside for comfort. There is always something just a little bit sad in the death of the golden summertide, and Odeyne, who had been accustomed to be one of a big family, and to share in the abundant life of a household of noisy young things, felt the silence of her home as something strange and not altogether natural. And yet she saw little chance of improving matters at once, for she was too much the new-comer to be able to take the initiative with her neighbours, and just now many of the houses were empty, for Scotland had drawn off the sporting men to the grouse moors, whilst Switzerland and other foreign resorts had claimed others. True, now that September was fairly in, people would be coming home again fast; but just at the present time most of the nearest houses were vacant, and Odeyne was thrown quite upon her own resources.

As she stood warming her hands over her cheerful fire of logs, after having enjoyed the early cup of tea to which she was partial, looking out the while over the park at the driving clouds chasing each other across the blustery sky, she felt a wish to do or see something instead of spending the remainder of the afternoon in the house, and after a pause for consideration, she said aloud—

"I declare I will go and see the Ritchies. They are home again now, I know. It seems ridiculous that I have never once seen my nearest neighbours, though I have been living here so many weeks. And I have a feeling that I should like them, though Desmond does laugh over them with Beatrice."

It was quite true that no meeting had so far been accomplished between young Mrs. St. Claire and the doctor's household. When first calls had been exchanged neither party had been at home, and not long after Odeyne's arrival at the Chase, Mrs. Ritchie and her daughters had gone for a month to the seaside, and were only just back now. It was Odeyne's turn to call there, and it seemed a happy inspiration to go this rather dreary afternoon, to fill up the time of Desmond's absence.

The walk was a short one, and Odeyne hurried over it, for a black cloud was coming up from the south-west, and threatened to fall in heavy rain before long—indeed, the first drops were plashing down as she reached the friendly shelter of the porch; and when she was informed that Mrs. Ritchie, though not at home, was expected in every moment, and asked if she would not wait, she gladly assented, for she had no wish either to be baulked again or to get a wetting.

She was ushered through a homely-looking hall, rather like a parlour, and into a low-ceiled room which bore traces of the constant occupation of a family party. There was no blinking the matter that the Ritchies' house was rather untidy; but there are two kinds of untidiness, at least, one of which has a home-like and pleasant side, altogether removed from slovenliness and dirt, and it was to this class that the disorder in Mrs. Ritchie's house belonged. Indeed, Odeyne's heart warmed at the sight of it. It recalled the old home to her mental vision, as nothing at the Chase ever did. There was something pleasant to her eyes in the worn and battered look of many of the articles of furniture, in the threadbare patches on the carpet, covered by rugs, and the pieces of unfinished needlework and well-used books lying about on table, and chair. It was certainly very charming to have all your surroundings harmonious and beautiful, but it was more natural to see traces of economy and lack of means in the ordering of the household, and Odeyne knew that she should feel the more at home in this house for these little familiar touches.

The room was rather dim and dark, for one window was shaded by a little greenhouse into which it opened, and the black cloud had spread over the sky by this time. Odeyne at first thought no one was present, as she had been ushered in unannounced: but as she advanced towards the cheerful fire that glowed in the grate, a figure raised itself suddenly into a sitting posture upon the rug, and a voice out of the shadow said—

"I beg your pardon. I believe I have been to sleep."

Odeyne looked at the speaker, and in the uncertain light could not make out whether it was a boy or a girl. The hair was short and curly, the face, with its sharp, marked features, might have belonged to either sex, and the dress was concealed by the heavy folds of an old carriage rug which enveloped the semi-recumbent figure.

"I hope you haven't been waiting long. I don't know who you are, or if you've come to see father or mother; but it was sensible of the girl to bring you in here, any way, for the consulting-room is precious cold, I daresay."

"I am not a patient," answered Odeyne with her sweet, low laugh; "I am Desmond St. Claire's wife, and I have come to see you all. I am very glad to have found somebody at home at last, and I should very much like to know who you are."

The answer was prefaced by an answering laugh.

"Me? Oh, I'm only Jem. I don't count as anybody. I'm no good. Mother will be in almost directly. She'll be awfully glad to see you—so am I, for the matter of that. We've known Desmond ever since he was a little boy—at least, the rest have. I don't profess to remember much about it, for it's a great many years since we have seen anything of him. I think he's got rather too grand for us, as all the rest have, except, perhaps, Maud. It's no fun, you know, when people get what Tom calls 'heavy swells.' I'd as soon not pretend to be so very intimate. It looks as if one wanted to push one's self where one isn't wanted."

"Well, at any rate, Jem, I'm not a heavy swell in any sense of the word, I hope; and I think you and I ought to be friends, as we both like plain speaking. And then in my old home I had quite a reputation for getting on with boys—hitting it off, I suppose Tom would say."

"To be sure he would. I'm glad you are not too grand to talk a little slang in private. But I am not a boy, worse luck, only a girl—and a girl with the awful name of Jemima, to boot. It's like adding insult to injury, as I always tell them. I thought perhaps you might have known our names; but of course Desmond would hardly take count of me. I never played about with the others."

And as the girl slowly raised herself into a more upright sitting posture, Odeyne saw with compassion that there was some malformation of the childish figure, though she could not detect exactly what it was. The face had the marked cast that so often accompanies deformity, but the features were good, and the expression decidedly attractive. The eyes, too, were really beautiful, and there was something pathetic in the underlying sadness of their clear depths, none the less so because the girl was often laughing, and seemed to have a more than common aptitude for fun.

Odeyne bent forward and softly kissed the broad, pale brow. Jem started, and then flushed as she caught the sweet look in the eyes bent upon her.

"I have a very dear brother, who was an invalid for a great many years," said the young wife softly. "I know all about sick people and their ways. You must often come to see me, if you can, and I will come to see you, too. We shall be great friends, I know, though you are only a girl."

"Oh, I'm not an invalid," answered Jem quickly; "I'm only deformed; and that makes my back ache a good deal, often. It ached all last night, and kept me awake; so I went to sleep over the fire just now, and didn't hear you come in. I hope you didn't think I was a lunatic."

"Then you can get about the house, and out of it too, I hope? That is right. It will make it easier for us. And some day you will come out driving with me, I hope; for it is very dull going all alone, especially for anyone like me. I have been used to a large family of brothers and sisters, till I married and left them all. I want to have some friends here to see plenty of. I shall make a beginning with you, I think."

Jem's face beamed with pleasure.

"Will you really? Well, you are a brick—if you don't mind my saying so. And you will tell me about your brother, won't you?—the one who was ill. I hope he did not die," with a quick, upward look. "You did not look sad when you spoke of him."

"Oh no, he is not dead; he is much better and stronger than he has been ever since he was born. Some day soon, I hope, he will come and see me; but I may have to wait till the spring, I am afraid, as it might not do for him to leave home in the damp or cold, and Devonshire is warmer in winter than this place. But I have my soldier brother at Ashford, not five miles away. He is adjutant of his depot, and he comes to see me as often as he can, which is very nice. Now tell me about your brothers and sisters. Desmond has told me their names, but he has talked to me about so many strangers that I get a little confused amongst them all."

"Oh, we are not a large family—there are only Cissy and Cuthbert and Tom. Tom is my favourite, because he is nearer my age, perhaps, and he amuses me the most, and we seem always to understand one another without any words—you know what I mean, don't you? But I think we are a very united family altogether. Sometimes I think we must be a bore to people, for I know we do like talking of one another, and praising up one another, and in my inmost soul I know that that is what one might reasonably call bad form, but I go on doing it all the same. I could talk to you about Tom by the hour together, and enjoy it. It is a family failing, I believe."

Odeyne was much entertained by her quaint little companion, but had not the chance to make a rejoinder, for the door opened to admit Mrs. Ritchie and her elder daughter, whilst a confusion of masculine voices in the hall without bespoke the close proximity of the sons. In another moment the room seemed full, and Odeyne had exchanged greetings with the whole family. Thanks to what she had been told by Jem and Desmond, she was able to distinguish one from another, and though the light was still rather dim she could see enough to enable her to make her observations with a certain amount of accuracy and discrimination.

Mrs. Ritchie she found delightful from the first. Not that she was endowed with any great outward attractions, or shone in conversation. On the contrary, she was stout and homely in manner and appearance, and a little bit inconsequent at times in her speech, making remarks that elicited peals of laughter from her quick-witted children, in which no one joined more heartily than herself. But then she was every inch the mother, with the mother's quick, kindly eye, the mother's gentle restraining and encouraging influence. Her children's faces lighted instinctively as they turned towards her. They talked to her as if she were one of themselves, and familiar with every detail of their lives. The tall sons waited on her, and paid her little marks of attention, as if it were a privilege and pleasure to do so, and her husband sat beside her, with his hand on the back of her chair, in a way which plainly testified to the satisfaction it was to feel her near. Different as many things were, Odeyne was reminded of her old home again and again, and she felt for the first time since leaving it the warm, comfortable sensation of being in the midst of a thoroughly united family.

Perhaps Jem was right in saying that they were fond of talking of themselves and their own affairs, but if it were the case Odeyne was not disposed to find any fault—indeed, she often found her attention straying from the more or less conventional conversation carried on by one or another with herself, to the free-and-easy chatter the sons were indulging in, or the anecdotes the father was relating to his "little girl," as he called Jem.

And when it became evident to all that their guest enjoyed the unrestrained converse of a family party they tried to let her share in it; little domestic jokes and catch-words were explained, merry sallies exchanged, and the new-comer showed herself so thoroughly up to this style of conversation that she made her way with wonderful rapidity, and was taken at once into the inner circle as a friend.

"It is so nice that Desmond has married you," Jem remarked with the quaint outspoken candour that seemed to be her prerogative in the home party. "We have been so wondering what you would be like, and if we should see more or less of Desmond after his marriage. Tom saw you out riding the other day, and said——"

"Shut up, young 'un!" here interposed Tom, though not with the air of confusion that many lads would have betrayed under the circumstances; "tales out of school ain't fair."

"Tom said," continued Jem, perfectly unabashed, "that you were awfully pretty, but looked altogether a cut above us, and were very thick with Mrs. Vanborough and her set, of whom we see almost nothing. But you're not a bit like any of them really, and I am very glad. I do so hope you will like us. We have not got a great many fashionable friends, you know; but it is nice sometimes to see people who wear pretty things, and go out into the world. I do so like to sit and listen to stories about what goes on, that none of us ever see. I could talk to you all day——"

"That I am sure you could do," put in Tom, sotto voce. "And what a treat it would be for Mrs. St. Claire!"

Jem gave him a reproving glance, and then laughed, not taking up the thread of her ideas. The father turned and laid a hand upon her curly head, saying caressingly—

"The little girl always was the family chatter-box; but she is none the worse for that, is she, Jem?"

"No, daddy, I hope not; one must assert one's self somehow, when one is the youngest of the family."

"And we have known dear Desmond from his childhood," put in Mrs. Ritchie, in her placid way, turning towards Odeyne in more confidential fashion. "He was always such a dear boy, and as a little fellow he was always here, playing about with Cuthbert, who is very much his own age. Of course we have seen but little of him since his father's death; he has not been much in the neighbourhood, and seven years is a big gap in a young life. Of course we were all anxious to know if we should renew the pleasant acquaintance, when he came to live so near us. I hardly know why it has been, but we never seem to have got into the old easy terms with the girls since they came back. Maud is a pretty constant caller, but not much more than a caller, and Beatrice we hardly ever see. She has grown quite out of our little world, poor girl." And Mrs. Ritchie sighed in a way that would mightily have amused the Hon. Mrs. Vanborough had she chanced to overhear it.

But Odeyne understood better, and gave a quick look at the speaker. A wordy battle was going on in another quarter, and under cover of the noise the visitor drew a little nearer to her hostess.

"I think I know partly what you mean about Beatrice. I have felt it a little myself, though I could not say so to anyone but a very old friend of the family. Do you know much about the people I meet at her house? They are not a bit like those I have seen anywhere before I married—but, then, I hardly saw anything or anybody. I am so dreadfully inexperienced."

"Oh, my love—I beg your pardon, I should say Mrs. St. Claire——"

"Oh no, please not—please say Odeyne. It is so nice to hear one's name sometimes, and you are Desmond's oldest friends, and will soon be mine, I hope. But you were going to tell me about Beatrice. Oh, it would be such a comfort to have someone to advise me! Desmond cannot quite understand what I mean. He has grown used to it—but it is a kind of atmosphere there is in the house—I do not know if I can explain. I hope I am not wrong in saying so much—but sometimes I feel as if it would be such a relief to talk to somebody who feels a little as I do. Indeed, I do not want to find any fault."

"My dear, I am sure you do not; and I know exactly what you mean. I do not go often to the house, but one hardly needs to go there to know what causes your anxiety. Perhaps our position of very old residents, and my husband's profession, which takes him into so many houses, gives us exceptional opportunities for knowing much that goes on; but, at any rate, we do hear a good deal, and I am afraid it is no secret now that Mr. Vanborough is almost entirely 'on the Turf,' as they call it, and that it is a very fast company that assembles at his house."

And as Odeyne made no reply, but sat looking rather pale and grave, the speaker continued eagerly—

"But, dear Odeyne—if I may really call you so—you must not run away with the idea that there is anything bad about Beatrice or her house. I believe many of her great friends are exceedingly nice people—kind, open-handed, generous, and in many ways high-principled too. You know how charming she is herself, and how she draws people to her. Dear girl, my heart often aches for her, as I think of all the temptations to which she is exposed. Still she married with her eyes open, and she must take the consequences. But, oh, my dear—if you will not think I am taking an unwarrantable liberty in saying it—do not let Desmond go too much into that set, if you can help it. It is hardly a safe one for a young man with plenty of money, and his unsuspecting nature. At home with you, or in many houses round, he will be safe; but I would not like, if I were his mother, to see him too often at Mr. Vanborough's."

Odeyne sat silent so long that her hostess took sudden alarm, and added, in the humblest way—

"I hope I have not said too much, or offended you in any way. Perhaps it was a liberty to have spoken so frankly about your husband's relations; but I love him——"

"Oh, Mrs. Ritchie, please do not think I am offended—indeed, I am very grateful to you. I know it is because you love him that you say all this. It is not about Desmond that I was looking grave. He goes there very little now that he is so often in town, and the days are getting shorter. He is very fond of his sister; but I do not think he cares at all particularly for her friends. It was of poor Beatrice herself I was thinking. I do feel so very sorry for her. And that dear little boy. What will she do as he grows up, if—if——" Odeyne paused there, hardly knowing how to finish the sentence. "Ah, that poor darling child! I have asked myself the same question many times; but there are some things that hardly bear thinking of. Perhaps Beatrice will awake to the danger before he gets of an age to know or notice much. Perhaps God may have sent you here just now to be her guardian angel and his."

The words were so very simple-spoken that Odeyne could have smiled, yet the tears were near her eyes too.

"I am afraid I am not much like a guardian angel," she answered with equal simplicity; "but at least I will do my best, and if—if I am in trouble or perplexity, may I come to you and tell you all about it? I am so far away from my own mother, and this house reminds me so much of my own dear old home."

It was good to the girl to receive the warm, motherly kiss that Mrs. Ritchie bestowed on her at parting. Certainly this visit had brought about an intimacy little expected, and had been a very remarkable introduction. It was hard to believe she had never seen these people two hours ago, and stranger still that the first interview should have been so confidential. But so it was, and as Odeyne walked back, attended to her own gate by Cuthbert and Tom, she felt that it was but the prelude to a very pleasant and satisfactory friendship.

CHAPTER VI.

AUTUMN DAYS.

"What, Alice, so soon?" said Odeyne, with something of surprise and gentle reproof in her tone. "I do not wish to stand in the way of your happiness, as I think you know, but is it not rather sudden?"

Pretty Alice stood before her young mistress, twisting the corner of her apron in her fingers, her face rosy-red with the stress of her feelings—shame, pleasure, and gratified vanity all blended together—not unmixed, Odeyne hoped, with deeper and more lasting emotion.

"If you please, ma'am, it does not seem sudden to us. He has been courting me a good while now. We met each other at Goodwood, where you and the master went for the races. He is everything that is respectable, and I think mother would be pleased. But I wanted to tell you first of all, as you've always been so kind."

"What is his name, Alice? and what do you know about him? Do you quite understand what a serious step you are taking in thinking of marriage? I only speak like this for your own good. It seems as if I were in a manner responsible for you, as you are so far away from your own relations, and have left them all to be with me."

"Oh yes, ma'am, I know that, and I know you are always kind. But if you were to see him, I am sure you would be satisfied. Why, he is almost a gentleman, and he earns his two pounds a week regular. He is what they call a clerk, and he wants, above everything, to get into the master's office. He has very good references, he says, and I thought maybe you would speak up for him."

"Well, Alice, the master shall certainly hear all about it, and no doubt he will do all that is kind and right, and I should be very glad for your husband to be in our employ. But if he is a clerk, what took him down to Goodwood in race week? It was not the best place for him, surely?"

"You see, ma'am, we like our little bit of amusement as well as our betters. Poor folks have the same kind of feelings as rich ones, I think. It isn't a bad place—you and the master were there. It was as good a way of spending his little bit of holiday as any other."

Odeyne made no reply.

There were times when she felt a momentary sinking at heart, for which she could not entirely account.

Instead of answering, she asked a question.

"What is his name? You have not told me that."

"Walter Garth, ma'am; and if you would please see him I think you would not object any more. He has no father or mother, and his sisters and brothers are all married and scattered, and he has nobody depending upon him. We should be very happy and comfortable. He has saved a little money, and he says if I like it better, he will live in the country and go into town every day. Oh, he is very, very kind, and will do anything if I will only marry him. I do hope, ma'am, that you will let me."

Odeyne smiled a little at the girl's simplicity.

"It is hardly for me to decide such a point, Alice. I will give you the best advice in my power, but you must be the one to decide. All I hope is that you will not act in a hurry, but will insist on at least six or eight months' engagement. If he really cares for you he will not mind the delay very much, if you ask it, and it will give you time to know more of one another."

Alice looked a little disappointed; she hesitated, and then said, as she twisted her apron still more—

"He will think that a long time to wait. He wants to be married at Christmas—and thought that rather long. Folks like us do not care for waiting such a time. When it's all settled it seems more sensible like to get it all over and done with—leastways Walter thinks so—he said so the other day."

"And are you in such a great hurry to leave me?"

A different look came into the girl's face at once. She was not really ungrateful or callous, and she loved her mistress dearly; but she had been thinking of her own affairs of late to the exclusion of all else, and at such a crisis of a woman's life such self-absorption is natural and pardonable enough.

"Oh no, ma'am; sometimes it half breaks my heart to think of leaving you. But what can I do? I can't say I don't care for Walter when I do, and if he would but let us live somewhere near here, where I could see you often, I think I should be quite happy again. Oh, if you would but see him yourself, I am sure you would help us."

"Well, Alice, I will. You know I always wish to stand your friend. And I should be very glad to have you near, if the distance from town is not too great. I will certainly do what I can to promote your happiness. You had better write to this Walter Garth to come over next Saturday afternoon. I will pay his expenses."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Alice, brightening up at once; "he is sure to come. He often does run over for the Sunday. I know you will be pleased with him, and he is truly fond of me."

Then Odeyne finished her toilet quickly and went downstairs, for she was expecting her mother-in-law and Maud on a visit of some days, and they might arrive at any time now.

Mrs. St. Claire and her daughter had been among the number of those who had been absent from home during the past weeks, so that Odeyne had seen but little of them. She had made the most of the opportunities presented during the first month of life at the Chase, and in many ways she seemed to know them pretty well; but so far no real intimacy of thought or feeling had been established between them, and she hoped that a residence beneath the same roof would bring about this desirable consummation.

But as she reached the hall a cry of pleasure escaped her lips, for she saw her brother Edmund standing there, muffled up in a thick overcoat and comforter, his portmanteau at his feet.

She ran towards him with a face full of sunshine. She had seen nothing of him for nearly a fortnight, and his visits had so far been altogether too few and far between to satisfy her, though she knew that he could not help it.

"Edmund, delightful! And have you really come to stop? What a dear boy you are! Do you know how pleased I am to see you?"

He stooped and kissed her warmly. His face was very bright too.

"Well, you see, I have taken you at your word. You said there would always be a bed for me whenever I liked to turn up. I hope I have not exceeded my prerogative in taking you by surprise."

"Edmund, how hoarse you are! You must have a horrid cold."

"I have, but do not scold it or me, for it has got me this unexpected week's leave of absence. Yes, Odeyne, I have positively come for a whole week, and you had better make up your mind to the infliction. I am supposed to want a little nursing, so you see what you are let in for."

She laughed as she led him into the cosy drawing-room, and established him in the armchair by the fire. He was in the best of spirits, despite his hoarseness and trifling indisposition, and neither brother nor sister were disposed to find fault with it, as it had brought them so much pleasure.

"I hope you will not mind, Edmund, but mamma and Maud are coming to-day to stay for a little while. I am very glad to have you, for mamma likes to be talked to and amused, and I am sure Desmond will be delighted; for of course it is a little dull for him when my time is taken up so much more by visitors. I do not think you have ever seen any of Desmond's relations, have you?"

"No, never. What kind of an old lady is she? Very formidable, eh? Does she bully you?"

"Oh no, Edmund. She is very kind. She makes us beautiful presents, and is not the least bit captious or interfering. Sometimes I almost wish she would make more criticisms. But she always says complimentary things about all we do."

"Ah, well, I think she would be rather hard to please if she found fault with your ménage. Well, I will do my best to be civil to the old lady. What is the sister like? Is she as pretty as Mrs. Vanborough? I saw her once, driving with her husband in a very extensive turn-out. She was a regular stunner."

"Maud is not much like Beatrice—not nearly so easy to get on with at first, but I am not sure that I should not really like her better if I could only get to know her; but I do not think she likes me, and that makes it more difficult."

"She must have rum taste, then."

Odeyne laughed and shook her head.

"You think so, dear boy, but people are so different. I cannot hope to please them all, I am afraid. Hark! that is Desmond's step. Oh, how good of him! He has come home by an earlier train, to be here when mamma arrives."

Desmond it was, and as he entered the room his face lighted up with pleasure, for he liked immensely to have a man-guest, and he had already heard that his brother-in-law had arrived with luggage.

"This is capital, isn't it, Odeyne? So the mater has not turned up yet? Well, she will not be long now. And how does the world wag with you, Edmund? You come in good time to give us the Ashford gossip. My mother loves a little military news."

The two men plunged into talk at once, and Odeyne sat listening, with her face bright with pleasure and interest. She felt that it was a very happy chance that had brought Edmund to the Chase at this particular juncture. Mrs. St. Claire was sure to like him—she was fond of anyone who would talk in a bright, animated way, and Odeyne had a good deal of sisterly admiration of, and pride in, her handsome soldier brother. Perhaps he was the one out of the whole family group most likely to produce a favourable impression on the old lady, and it was a relief to have him in the house upon this first visit.

Nor was Odeyne disappointed by the result of her expectations. Mother-in-law and sister-in-law alike seemed pleased and aroused by the gaiety of the two young men, as they sat over the fire making merry together and entertaining the ladies by their jokes and stories.

Edmund did his best, for his sister's sake, to please her new relations, and Mrs. St. Claire remarked, as Odeyne accompanied her to her room that night, that it must be a great advantage to have her brother so near at hand. Odeyne assented warmly, and listened to her mother-in-law's little compliments about Edmund with far more pleasure than when the soft speeches were addressed to herself.

Even Maud had been quite lively and talkative that evening, and Desmond, who had been a little disposed to grumble about the visit of his relatives, now declared that Odeyne had been quite right in suggesting it, and that she was a first-rate little mistress and hostess.

Odeyne was still almost childishly pleased at any compliments from her husband, and glowed with a happy satisfaction. Then, as they sat over their fire sociably together, she told him of little Alice's petition of that afternoon, and asked him what he thought of it.

Desmond listened, and seemed struck by a happy idea.

"Tell you what it is, Odeyne, if that fellow Garth is any good, and has a good character, and all that, it strikes me he might be uncommonly useful to me. And in that case I would engage him almost at once."

"Oh, Desmond, I am so glad. Have you really an opening for him? How very fortunate."

"You see, it's like this. I want a trustworthy fellow to act as a sort of confidential clerk, to live near here and go up with messages and letters on the days I don't go in to business. Several of these horrid, wet, foggy days I might have stayed cosily at home with my little wife, if I could have sent a confidential messenger up to the City house. And now, with the hunting just beginning, I may be a little less regular again, and it would be no end of a convenience then to have a fellow like that at one's own gates, to send in every morning with instructions for the day. And in the winter, when the weather may be perfectly beastly, it would be a great relief to feel less tied, eh, wifie? You would be glad sometimes to keep me at home, when the snow was on the ground, and the whole place reeking in frost-fog?"

"I should indeed, Desmond. I cannot bear you going by rail when it is foggy. I am not so used to trains as people who have lived amongst them all their lives. And I should be very pleased indeed to keep Alice still under my eye, so to speak; only you know, dearest, I should not like to see you grow slothful over your business on the strength of this new arrangement."

Desmond laughed lightly as he bent to kiss her.

"No danger of that, so long as I have so faithful a monitor as my little wife at home. Are you in such a great hurry to get rich, dearest, that you are determined I shall not let the grass grow under my feet?"

Odeyne smiled and shook her head, but made no other answer. She had no wish to put into words the vague feelings that prompted her to urge her husband to keep as far as possible to some steady occupation, be it what it might.

Next day the young wife took Mrs. St. Claire all over the house. She had never really seen it since she had left it many years ago, and it interested her to note all that had been done in the intervening time. Odeyne was half afraid that there might be something painful to her in thus going over the place; but either she did not feel it so, or else she was most successful in hiding the feeling. She admired and praised—not without a few shrewd comments that partook of the nature of criticism—and Odeyne was both glad and grateful for any hints, both because she knew her own inexperience, and because she felt it more like real intimacy to be criticised as well as praised. In the course of their peregrinations they reached the nurseries, which had been left almost untouched since the elder Mrs. St. Claire's time. They were bright, cheerful rooms, with plenty of light and space, and Odeyne paused here and hesitated, the colour rising in her face as she looked round her, for she had a little confidence she wished to make to Desmond's mother, and it seemed almost easier to make it now.

"We have done nothing here so far, but I wanted to ask you—do you think they should be freshly papered and painted? I think they look a little dingy and neglected, and I think—I hope—if all goes well, that we shall want them in the spring."

Mrs. St. Claire was much pleased and gratified, though she said little. There was just one quick, bright glance, and warm pressure of the hand that brought the blood to the girl's face, and nearly brought the tears to her eyes too, and then the mother-in-law turned into the woman of business, and began to give very sound and practical advice as to what would be needed in the doing up of the rooms themselves.

Certainly, after that morning a better understanding existed between the elder and younger Mrs. St. Claire. Odeyne was always ready to meet advances more than half way, and the feeling that she had become more to Desmond's mother, and had risen in her estimation, was very pleasant. Maud was not sensibly changed; she spent every available moment with Desmond, and when he was out, Edmund showed a disposition to monopolise her. When Maud was in her better moods she could be very amusing and interesting, with her quick observation, keen tongue, and remarkably vivid descriptive powers. But in Odeyne's presence she seldom unbent like this, and it was only by hearsay that she learned how different others found her.

Edmund was of great service at this time, and the days flew by only too fast. His cold mended apace, and he was deprived, as he said, of the only decent excuse he might have alleged as the reason for an extension of his absence from duty.

"By-the-by, do you hunt?" asked Desmond, on the last day of Edmund's stay at the Chase; "if you do we shall often meet. The season will begin almost directly."

Edmund laughed at the question.

"Soldiers who have little but their pay to live on, can't afford to hunt."

"Oh, if that is all, I can give you a mount any day you like to arrange to be at the meet, if you will give me a day's notice. You must ride half a stone lighter than I. Any of my horses would carry you easily."

Edmund's face brightened. Like all country-bred men he enjoyed a day with the hounds immensely; but it was a pleasure that was very rarely attainable.

"It's awfully good of you to say so, but really I should hardly like to take advantage of your offer. You must want your hunters yourself."

"Oh, I've more than I want. I have a couple coming down from Leicestershire next week. I meant to give my old hunter, whom I can trust down to the ground, to my wife to hunt this season; but she does not approve of ladies in the hunting-field—and perhaps she is right—so really I have a spare animal very much at your service. It will be a charity to ride him, for he loves the work, and would take it very ill to be left time after time in his stable when the hounds were out. You'll really do me a favour if you'll use him as often as you can. Send me a line at any time and he shall be brought to the meet for you, unless you will come overnight and ride him across yourself."

"Well, really you are awfully kind. I don't know what to say. Suppose I bring the animal to grief?"

"Well, we'll put it down to Odeyne's account. One always reckons to lose one horse a season if a lady hunts it. If it doesn't go lame, it gets a sore back, and anyway is no more good."

"Well, Desmond, if you persist in making such good offers you can't expect a fellow to decline them—it's not in human nature. I shall be only too pleased to come as often as I have the chance. What kind of runs do you get round here?"

"Well, regular hunting men from the Midlands would call them execrable—not worth calling runs at all; but we residents try to make the best of things, and enjoy our sport very well. Of course it isn't hunting country, it doesn't take two eyes to see that; but all the same we get very fair runs from time to time, and it is always pleasant to meet one's friends, and all that kind of thing. You will get to know a lot of jolly fellows, and that alone is worth something. And I shall like introducing you and making you feel at home here. If you have five years of it, it is worth while to know the people about, and soldiers are always popular, eh, Odeyne?"

Odeyne looked back with a smile, yet her husband's last words had caused her a momentary anxiety. Would this hunting throw Desmond into the company of Beatrice and her set once more? And would Edmund make friends amongst them too? She had felt so pleased to hear the offer which was to give him so much pleasure, and already her satisfaction was a little damped. But then she took heart again, for if Edmund were with him surely Desmond would not be so dependent on Beatrice and her friends. Perhaps all would turn out for the best, and she must not encourage idle fears, but rather resolve that his home should be full of sunshine, so that he always came back to it with renewed pleasure.

When their visitors had left them, husband and wife turned their attention to Alice Hanbury's love affairs. Walter Garth presented himself duly, and produced a most favourable impression. He was good-looking in a manly fashion, and was evidently very much in earnest in his courtship. He was better educated than most men of his class, and far more refined in manner. Alice had had some cause to speak of him as "almost a gentleman," though at the time Odeyne had thought it anything but in his favour. However, his refinement proved to be that of nature, not a mere veneer assumed for a purpose; and as Desmond took a decided fancy to him, and his employers gave him an excellent character, all went smoothly for the lovers. It was arranged that they should live at one of the lodges, that Alice should continue certain little offices for her mistress as long as she cared to do so, and that Garth himself should go up daily to town in the capacity of Desmond's confidential clerk. His salary was liberal, his duties more responsible than onerous, and nothing could have seemed more delightful to the happy Alice. The wedding was fixed for Christmas, as Desmond took the part of the sighing swain, and declared that it would be cruel to ask him to defer his happiness longer; and Alice looked forward to her future life without the smallest misgiving of any kind.

Even Beatrice was quite interested in this new plan.

"It's a capital idea!" she cried in her decisive fashion. "For really it is rather absurd for Desmond to be tied so much by the business. He is never to be had when wanted, and it is always the office that is the excuse. A confidential man on the spot will be an immense help, and now we shall see more of you both, I hope. We have let you enjoy a preternaturally secluded honeymoon all these months, as you are both such babies and so refreshingly fond of each other. But you must not live always shut up as you are doing now. So I give you fair warning!"

"I am sure we come to see you very often, Beatrice," said Odeyne, with a slightly heightened colour.

"Oh yes, dear, you drop in pretty often, and it is very nice of you; but you decline invitations to stop in the house because of the distance from the station for Desmond. I don't care much for afternoon calls. I like people who come and stay—and so does Algy. He is very fond of Desmond, and has been quite cross that he is so hard to get hold of. But this new plan will make all easy."

Odeyne smiled, trying hard to keep down a dull sense of reluctant pain that would assert itself, she hardly knew why.

"We shall be having visitors of our own very soon," she remarked, looking at her sister-in-law with brightening eyes. "We have planned to ask quite a houseful of my people down for Christmas. I don't know how many will come, but I am sure we shall get some of them."

"That will be very delightful for you," answered Beatrice cordially; "I am sure I shall be very pleased to make the acquaintance of one and all. Your brother Edmund is delightful. Algy has taken quite a fancy to him, and we hope to see a good deal of him. If the rest are at all like him they will be very popular here—as you are yourself, my dear. But we are some way off Christmas yet, and I hope we shall be able to show you a little social gaiety before then. I shall arrange something with Desmond soon about getting you across."

Beatrice sailed away to her carriage, all smiles and graciousness and good temper. She treated Odeyne in a far more sisterly fashion than Maud ever dreamed of doing, and was sincerely fond of her; and yet she had a way of leaving behind her a curious sense of oppression, which Odeyne tried in vain to shake off.

"I love Beatrice dearly," she said to herself, giving a little shake, as though to get rid of some unwelcome impression; "but somehow I don't want to go and stay at her house. We are so happy here. I wonder what Desmond will say about it?"

CHAPTER VII.

BEATRICE AT HOME.

Desmond decided that they ought to accept the invitation.

"The fact is, darling, we are in danger of growing selfish in our happiness," he said. "But it won't do to shut ourselves up altogether at home; and I particularly want to be useful to Beatrice if I can. Poor Algy is a rattling good fellow, in his way; but he is going the pace altogether too fast. I want to put a spoke in his wheel if I can, for her sake and the boy's. I think she looks to me to do it. You see she has no father, and her brother is naturally the person she would depend on."

Desmond spoke with perfect sincerity and good feeling. In the plenitude of his own happiness and prosperity, he would fain have stretched out a friendly hand to all the world within reach. He felt so very staid and sober himself, going into business with a commendable regularity, and really showing an aptitude for such matters which he had hardly expected at the outset. He began to feel that he could look with a certain friendly compassion and solicitude upon a man like Algernon Vanborough, who was getting more and more deeply "dipped," and whose affairs were becoming unpleasantly involved. He promised himself that he would speak plainly with his brother-in-law when they were alone together, and he explained to Odeyne that he hoped great things from their joint influence with their relatives.

"For Beatrice wants a word of caution too," he said. "She is a bit extravagant herself, you know; must have everything in tip-top style, and all that sort of thing, and goes the pace in her way almost as fast as Algy in his. It would be no end of a good thing for her to make a friend of you, and unless she fills the house too full for the hunting, you ought to have a good many opportunities of getting intimate. She has taken a great liking for my little wife!"

Alice the maid was very pleased to hear of the proposed visit.

"You will be able to wear all your new dresses there, ma'am, and here we are so very quiet," she remarked, rather to Odeyne's amusement, seeing that until a few months ago Alice had known nothing but the still, peaceful life of the Rectory. "The master brings you home such lovely things; and some of them you've hardly so much as put on yet."

This was true enough, for Desmond was constantly bringing home from town boxes full of finery for his wife. Anything that took his eye as he walked the streets he must have for Odeyne, and Alice had quite a gift for adapting these purchases to suit her mistress's figure. Nor was the girl herself forgotten. Desmond took a good-natured interest in her and her affairs, and would often bring some little thing back for her as well, and laughingly remark that it would "do for the trousseau."

Odeyne sometimes remonstrated a little at the rather over-lavish way in which her husband spent his money, but he would only laugh and call her a little miser, and declared that if she persisted in sending him to "money-grub" in the City day by day, she must not grudge him the satisfaction of spending a small portion of these earnings on people who showed them off to such advantage. Then Odeyne had to smile and be kissed into compliance. She was too happy and too fond and proud of her husband to entertain any serious misgivings where he was concerned.

And now Desmond promised himself some relaxation.

"What is the good of having this new man if you do not let him save you a little more?" Beatrice asked, soon after they had been established in her luxurious house. "I'm going to have him over, and put him up at the Vanborough Arms whilst you are here. I want you to take a holiday and have a good time. We shall be having some friends down soon, and you mustn't always be rushing off to town, Desmond. You are wanted much more here."

Beatrice spoke gaily, but Odeyne thought there was a slight undertone of anxiety in her voice, and the next time they were alone together she said to her, almost entreatingly—

"Don't grudge Desmond to us whilst you are here. He is much more wanted by Algy than by the office. He is fond of Desmond, and that keeps him away from other places and people. Sometimes I am awfully wretched about him, Odeyne; and I don't seem able to hold him back one bit. He is fond of me, but I have no power over him. It is not with us as it is with you and Desmond. You could bring him back to your side with a single glance. He would forego anything sooner than grieve you."

Odeyne smiled a little happy smile, for she felt that these words were true. She was more drawn towards Beatrice this time than she had been before, for she felt that she stood in need of help and sisterly comforting. On the surface she was bright and sparkling, but when alone with her "sister," as she always called Odeyne, she often permitted some of the fears and anxieties which preyed upon her to come to the surface.

"It is such a relief to speak of these things sometimes," she said; "I believe I might get morbid about them if I had no outlet. And mamma is such a Job's comforter. She did not much want me to marry Algy; she thought him fast then, and now she thinks in her heart that I am only reaping what I have sown; and Maud thinks of nothing but Desmond, and that Algy will hurt him and draw him into his set. Sometimes I feel quite alone in the world amongst them all. But you understand better than anybody, though you are a stranger, and Desmond's wife too. He is a dear boy, and shows his good sense and good taste in choosing you out of all the world!"

Alice was very delighted by the arrangement which brought her lover so near to her during these days of enjoyment at Rotherham Park.

Walter Garth had to come daily to the Park to report to the youthful head of the firm, and to take orders and messages for the morrow. After that business was completed he generally spent an hour with Alice, whilst Desmond read the letters brought, after which he was summoned again, and took notes and instructions for answering these on the morrow. His quickness of comprehension and ready skill with his pen commended him much to Desmond, who was not himself fond of letter-writing, and he soon began to put more and more of his own work upon Garth, and to use him for increasingly confidential correspondence.

This was exactly what the young man wanted, and his face used to be very bright and well-satisfied as he talked with pretty Alice in some secluded corner of the grounds, or in the privacy of the housekeeper's room.

"I mean to get on in the world," he would say; "I feel it in me to succeed. Some fellows just plod along the same beaten way all their lives; but that won't do for me. I'm going to get on. I mean to die a rich man. There's plenty to be made, even in bad times, by fellows who have their eyes open. I'll make a lady of you, my pretty one, all in good time. There's many a fine lady would give her ears for your face and figure. And when your husband has made his pile you'll be able to queen it with the best of them! You are learning every day what fine ladies say and do. You'd like to ride about in your own carriage, and wear silks and satins, and have servants to wait on you, eh?"

Alice blushed and laughed at these questions, and sometimes told Walter he was trying to fly too high; yet when he told her of men now rolling in money, who had begun life as quite poor boys, she could not but listen with sparkling eyes, for she was learning a great many things in Mrs. Vanborough's house, and the thirst for pleasure and luxury which had made her desire to follow Odeyne to her new home was working more and more strongly in her, so that the idea of some day being mistress of a fine house of her own was like an intoxicating draught of wine to her lips.

"Oh, but, Walter, it takes such a while to get rich!"

"Sometimes it does, but not always. One can have more than one iron in the fire, you know. Why, you know, there are some men who can make a fortune by a stroke of the pen—on the Stock Exchange—and even fellows like myself can do a little in a quiet way by watching the markets. I've trebled my little savings this year, for instance, just by getting a hint, and buying and selling at the right moment."

Alice did not understand a word of this; but it was quite enough that Walter did, and that he was making money in more ways than one. Alice had come to the conclusion that there was nothing so nice in the world as to be rich, to have fine clothes and jewels to wear, and nothing to do but amuse one's self from morning till night.

"I wish you could see Mrs. Vanborough's jewels," she remarked one day. "They are beauties, and no mistake! They must have cost a mint of money. Her maid says she used to have more than she has now. But the master sometimes gets horribly close for a bit, and then Mrs. Vanborough has to sell some of her things to pay her bills. Sometimes she buys them back, and sometimes she doesn't. But she's got a lot of beauties still. I wish you could see them. They do shine when she puts them on!"

"They'd shine just as much if somebody else put them on, would they not?" suggested Walter laughingly. "Suppose you dress up in them some day, when they have all gone out to dinner, and come and show yourself to me in them. I should like to see how my little sweetheart would look, dressed up as I mean to dress her up some of these days!"

Alice laughed and blushed and disclaimed. A short time since she would have been horrified at the notion of taking advantage of the good nature or carelessness of a lady, and obtaining surreptitious access to her jewel case in her absence; but of late she had been breathing in a different atmosphere, and it did not require any very great pressure on the part of Walter Garth to induce her to make the experiment.

He hardly knew himself why he felt a curiosity about the family jewels; but he was one of those men who desire to leave no stone unturned for his advancement. He had an instinct that it might be an advantage to him to know as intimately as possible the affairs of all these fine folks. He was hearing a great deal about them at the inn where he lodged, and he made a mental note of the information thus gained. His position as Desmond's confidential clerk gave him great advantages for obtaining information, and he was very much of the opinion that knowledge and power went hand in hand.

Choosing a night when the Vanboroughs and their guests were out, he got pretty little vain Alice to dress herself up in sparkling jewels, and whilst she was delighting in her own reflection in the glass, he was taking a mental inventory (afterwards to be placed on paper) of the gems; for he was something of a connoisseur already as to their value, having one of those retentive and inquiring minds which never lose an opportunity of gaining information, no matter what the subject may be.

When Mrs. Vanborough's had been duly shown off and catalogued, he asked about Mrs. St. Claire's. Alice hesitated a little. She was still deeply attached to Odeyne, and she had a vague shrinking from anything that could be thought disloyal towards her. She knew that were her mistress at home, she would never dare display the contents of her jewel case even to Walter, her lover. Of course it was natural that Walter should like to see pretty things, and Alice felt a secret pride in all the beautiful trinkets her mistress now possessed. She would like him to be duly impressed by them; yet she disliked doing anything that would make her feel ashamed before Odeyne on her return.

But the Rubicon had been crossed when she had clasped Mrs. Vanborough's jewels upon her neck and arms, and had heard her lover praising them and her alike. A little judicious coaxing, and the girl tripped away to find her mistress's jewel case. She would not put on the sparkling ornaments, but she unlocked the case, and displayed with pride and delight the glittering contents.

Odeyne had come in for the St. Claire family jewels, some of which were very fine ones. Her husband and his friends had made considerable additions to this collection upon her marriage, and, as Walter Garth was quick to note, the young wife possessed a remarkably fine collection of gems, many of which were family heirlooms.

His remarks and appreciation of the stones pleased Alice, although her conscience smote her a little, and she was glad to get the jewel box safely locked up again in its accustomed drawer. When she went back to Walter, she found him drumming thoughtfully upon the table with his fingers, looking out straight before him.

He rose when she came in and carefully shut the door behind them.

"I want to give you a word of caution, Alice," he said. "In a house like this, or indeed in any other place, you must be uncommonly careful of such a costly case of jewels as that one. I had no idea Mrs. St. Claire had such fine things. They ought to be kept always in a regular safe."

"So they are at home," answered Alice. "There is a safe in the master's dressing-room, and they always lie there, and he has the key. But of course when they are on a visit things are different. But the case is kept locked up in a drawer, and I have the key in my pocket generally."

"Well, just you be careful, dear, that's all, and don't get gossiping with other maids about those jewels. One hears of ugly things happening in houses where there is a haul of that sort to be had; and it's our business to protect our employers' property all we can. That's why I wanted to see what sort of things you had under your care. You are such an innocent, unsuspecting child, you would never think any harm of talking about them."

Alice blushed a little nervously. She was rather fond of chattering about the glories of her place, which were so much greater than anything she had known before. But this caution from Walter was quite enough. Already she began to think of burglars and murderers.

"Oh, I wish we were safe at home again! Then I should not have the care of the things!"

"Now, don't be a foolish child. I did not say all this to frighten you, but just that you might be cautious. Burglars aren't so numerous as some people think. You needn't be the least afraid just because I've given you a caution. I'm glad I know, myself; and I'll keep my eyes and ears open whilst I'm about here. But don't you go and get into any sort of fright. And now tell me about our own little home, and how soon it is going to be ready for us. For I am wanting very badly to settle down, with my own little wife all to myself."

Alice had a great deal to say about the pretty lodge at one of the gates, and the additions and improvements that were being made to it. In the pleasure of talking of their future home she forgot all her other anxieties, and parted from Walter in the best of spirits. She had already begun to think that so long as she might still be permitted to perform a few offices for her beloved mistress, she would like the independence of a little home of her own, and the freedom to wear a gayer style of dress while still in Odeyne's service. She had blossomed out into a very dainty little waiting-maid of late, but she was meditating a higher flight when she should be Mrs. Walter Garth; and there were a few garments on which she had spent a good deal of time and thought, which she had not cared to show to her mistress when completed.

The house was very gay now. Algernon Vanborough had asked some of his friends and associates, and sport and amusement were the order of the day.

Desmond was a keen sportsman, and whether it were shooting or hunting that was the day's programme, he was always ready, and always held his own with his companions. His bag was always one of the heaviest after a day in the stubble; and he generally managed to be in at the death when the fox had been run to bay.

He would come in healthily tired from his day's sport, and after dinner would sit dozing in an easy-chair beside the fire, and retire early to bed, whilst the other men adjourned to the billiard-room, and were often hours in dispersing.

Odeyne often felt keenly for Beatrice, as she noted the half-wistful way in which she sometimes looked at her husband, as though entreating him to leave his guests for once and follow the earlier members of the household. But of course, as host, he had easy excuse to make, and she would sometimes take Odeyne's arm and say, with a laugh which was sadder than tears, "If only I had my husband in such good order as you have yours, things would be very different with us. How do you manage him, my dear?"

Once Odeyne, after a visit to the nursery, made a great effort over her natural reserve, and answered—

"Desmond and I always read and say our prayers together, Beatrice. It began from the very first, directly after we were married. He told me that he had got into careless ways, that he had almost forgotten how to pray; and he said I must teach him again. It has been such a link, for we have never missed yet. He knows I wait for him, if he does not come up with me. It is only just a few minutes morning and night; but I think it hallows the whole day."

Beatrice turned her face a little away, and there was a certain huskiness in her voice as she answered—

"I wonder what you would say if I were to tell you that I don't know how long it is since I said any prayers!"

And after a short pause Odeyne answered—

"I think it would make me understand a great many things!"

Desmond was immensely in love with his young wife still, and never more so than when he saw her amongst Beatrice's friends. She seemed to him like a pure stately lily amongst them all, so fair and calm and innately feminine and refined. There might be more beautiful women there—Beatrice herself was far more brilliant; but there was a charm to him about Odeyne's gentle presence and feminine sweetness of which he was keenly conscious, day by day and hour by hour. And in the evenings when she would sit at the piano and sing to them, when her clear, sweet, pathetic voice roused the admiration and delight of the whole company, he would place his chair where he obtained the best view of her face, and would tell himself a hundred times over what a happy man he was to have won such a treasure for himself.

But Desmond was not the man to be satisfied with mere inward admiration of his wife, nor even with those endearments which he lavished upon her in private. He wanted her to have the best of everything that the world possessed, to see her surrounded by all that heart could desire, and in spite of her loving remonstrances, he was always heaping upon her presents of every description, although since he was now taking a holiday from his labours in town, he had not the same opportunity for bringing home gifts with him from day to day.

Nevertheless, neither mind nor thoughts were idle. He had observed on several occasions of late, that when the ladies drove out to meet the sportsmen, or to see the hounds throw off, Odeyne was not amongst the number. He discovered by side winds that there was not quite enough carriage accommodation to contain all the house party, and that Odeyne was always eager to give up her place to someone else, if any sort of difficulty arose at the start.

He said nothing about this, even to Odeyne herself, who always told him she was glad of a quiet time to write home, or see to other little things, or to play with Beatrice's boy, who was beginning to look upon her as his best friend. But he had in his head a plan of his own, and worked quietly to bring about its fulfilment.

It had been a wet and stormy day, so that the house party had not done anything more adventurous than a little shooting over the home covers. All had returned to lunch, and were lounging about afterwards discussing the prospect of any further attempt at facing the long, wet grass, when Desmond came in with a smile upon his face and went straight up to his wife.

"Odeyne," he said, "do you mind coming round to the stable-yard? I want to show you something."

At that word the company all looked interested. Beatrice's face beamed with arch fun, the men (so to speak) pricked up their ears, and Algernon cried out—

"What is that, eh? The stable-yard? Well, I hope you don't confine the invitation to your wife alone. Mayn't the rest of us come too?"

"To be sure, to be sure; the more the merrier!" cried Desmond, with a laughing look round him. He was in excellent spirits, and as pleased as a boy about something. The ladies got their hats and wraps, the men took their caps, and all moved in a body towards the great paved stable-yard, upon which, it was commonly rumoured, Algernon Vanborough had spent a fabulous sum of money.

Desmond led the way, leading his wife by the hand. The little lover-like ways of the young husband were rather amusing to the other visitors, most of whom, though not old in years, had lived through a number of illusions, and counted true love as one of these.

In the centre of the great square yard stood a dainty little pony-phaeton upholstered in dark green morocco, with every fitting of the most costly and luxurious kind. The little carriage was drawn by two small and very handsome black cobs, who stood with arched necks and pawing feet, wonderfully well-matched and showy. The harness was all new and the best of its kind, the silver plating shining in the gleam of sunlight that lit up the scene as the party approached.

Odeyne uttered a little cry of pleasure and admiration. She had never seen such a pretty turn-out in her life; yet she did not realise for a moment what was the meaning of her husband's action, as he led her up to it and placed her in the carriage.

"What do you think of it, darling?" he asked. "You will not be afraid to drive yourself sometimes, when I have taken you about a little to show you how gentle and tractable the cobs can be?"

Then she looked up and understood, and the blood rushed to her face.

"Oh, Desmond!—how could you? Oh, you are too kind. But we have so many horses as it is!"

"My wife must have her special carriage—I have always intended that," he answered, giving the reins into her hands and taking his seat beside her. "Come, dear, and let us just see how they obey their new mistress. Let them go, James, we will take a turn through the park."

The little carriage vanished amid admiring comments from the knot of visitors; all had some approving remark to make upon the beauty of the carriage or the horses.

No adverse criticism was passed by any of these, but one of the grooms, belonging to a guest, looked after the carriage as it vanished round a bend in the park, and remarked as he took a straw from his lips and turned to one of his companions—

"Nice turn-out enough, but them two black cobs look to me uncommonly like the pair that nearly killed Lady Mashingham in the spring!"

CHAPTER VIII.

AN ADVENTUROUS DRIVE.

"Oh, Tom, do look! What carriage is that coming up the drive? I don't know it."

Jem craned up from her couch to peer through the window, whilst Tom, who was writing letters at the table, gave a good look and replied over his shoulder—

"I don't know the turn-out. But it looks like Mrs. St. Claire driving. She is still at Mrs. Vanborough's, is she not?"

"Yes; I wonder if it is she. Oh, I hope it is! It's such a long time since I saw her! Oh, I do believe it is! I wonder what she has come for so early. It is not quite eleven, is it? There is the bell. I hope they will show her in here."

Jem occupied her favourite place, curled up on a corner of the big, battered, dining-room sofa, with a pile of books beside her. She was an omniverous reader, and her studies took the form of unlimited reading, as her weak back prevented much writing or any attendance at classes. At this hour she was generally alone, for Mrs. Ritchie had her household duties to attend to, Cissy was a good deal occupied by giving music lessons to some of the children of the neighbourhood, whilst the doctor and one or both of his sons would be out in the interest of patients. Occasionally Tom took possession of the writing-table in the bay window, and gave a qualified attention to Jem's talk, when she was not engrossed by her books.

The carriage had swept round the corner out of Jem's range of vision; but Tom craned his head round as it turned, and remarked—

"It certainly is Mrs. St. Claire, and she is going to get out. I think I shall slope. This smoking jacket isn't fit to face the county in!"

But before the young man could escape the door was thrown open, and Odeyne came forward, with flushed and smiling face and outstretched hands, and bent over Jem and kissed her warmly, quite like an old friend. Tom suddenly forgot all about the shabby old jacket, and decided not to make a bolt.

"I came to ask Jem if she would like a drive this morning," said Odeyne, looking from one to the other; "it is such a bright, exhilarating sort of day, and the hounds are to meet on Hackwell's Down. I am to drive over and see them. I thought perhaps it would be a treat to this little girl to go with me."

Jem's eyes were alight in a moment.

"Oh, I should love it! It would be heavenly! I haven't had a drive for such an age; for one horse has been lame, and daddy has had to spare the other all he could. You are a darling, Mrs. St. Claire! Do let me run and ask mother; and then I'll be ready in a twinkling—you'll see!"

There was not much run in poor little Jem, but she was away with all possible speed, and Tom said, gratefully, to Odeyne—

"It is awfully kind of you, Mrs. St. Claire. It will be a real charity, for poor Jem sees almost nothing of what goes on outside these walls, and she has the almost morbid craving after sensations and experiences which goes with her temperament."

Mrs. Ritchie came in almost immediately, with a happy face and words of gratitude on her lips. Hitherto none of their friends had taken special notice of poor little Jem. Her weakness, her rather abnormally sharp powers of observation, and her too free and ready tongue had been somewhat against her. Some people thought her spoiled and forward, children were half afraid of her, and she had been shut up within herself, and within the family circle, almost more than was good for her.

To be noticed and taken out by Mrs. St. Claire of the Chase was a novel and delightful experience. Odeyne had driven mother and both daughters out once in the luxurious landau, and all had enjoyed it greatly; but this special invitation to see the meet of the hounds was something altogether more delightful and wonderful.

"Oh, what a lovely carriage!—what beautiful little horses!" exclaimed the excited girl, as she stood looking at the handsome pair, pawing their dainty hoofs on the gravel, as the smart-looking lad stood at their heads awaiting his mistress.

"Yes, Desmond gave me the whole turn-out a week ago," answered Odeyne, with a little smile of pleasure on her face. "He has taken me out every day since, and taught me how to manage a pair, for at home we had only a nice old pony to drive, and there was never any trouble with him. These little fellows are spirited, but they are very gentle too. You will not be afraid, Jem dear?"

Jem laughed to scorn the idea of feeling afraid. It was not a sensation with which she had much acquaintance.

"I should like to have an adventure—I really should!" she answered as they arranged the great fur carriage-rug cosily round their feet. "Nothing of that sort ever comes in my way. When I read about heroes and heroines having such thrilling and delightful squeaks for their lives, and always coming safe through in the end, I always wish that something like that would happen to me! It must be so interesting to think about afterwards, even if one did not enjoy it at the time—and I think I should do that!"

Mrs. Ritchie smiled and half shook her head as she kissed her child before the carriage drove away.

"You are a sad little madcap at heart, Jem; you will shock Mrs. St. Claire! She will be quite content to bring you homo without any startling adventure, I am sure."

Odeyne smiled and nodded; the horses shook their handsome heads and went off at a fine pace. Tom and his mother stood looking at the vanishing carriage, and then the young man said—

"I've half a mind to take the short cut and make for Hackwell Down myself. I've nothing very pressing on hand, and I should like to see Jem's pleasure over the sight of the field, and all the horses and dogs. I'll get a bit of a run myself, I daresay. I know the line the foxes generally take hereabouts. I'll just finish the letter I have in hand and be off."

"Yes, do, dear," answered Mrs. Ritchie; "I shall be more comfortable if you are there. Those horses looked to me very spirited. But of course Desmond would not give anything to his wife to drive without being sure it was safe."

"Desmond is a bit of a feather-brain," muttered Tom under his breath, as he strode back to finish the letter he was writing.

Meantime Jem was enjoying herself immensely. She had never had such a delightful drive in all her life. She fell over head and ears in love with the horses; the carriage went so easily on its springs that she felt no vibration. The sun shone, and the keen feel of the autumnal morning was bracing and exciting. She chattered away in great style, telling all the news of the place in a racy and entertaining fashion, nodding gaily at all the cottagers as she passed them by, and feeling very grand and elated at her position as Odeyne's companion.

"I hope you are soon coming home again," she said. "It is so much nicer when you are at the Chase, and there is a chance of seeing you any day. Rotherham Park is such a long way off, and you seem quite out of our world when you go there. And, oh, I wanted to ask you what you are doing to the lodge by the queer old gate that isn't much used? Cuthbert says the old cottage is being quite altered, and such a pretty sort of picturesque house going up, with timber and gables and ever so many nice things. I've been wondering ever since what you were doing it for, because the road and the gate are hardly ever used. Nobody goes down Water Lane if they can help it—not with a carriage, you know."

"Yes, I know. We are not thinking of using the lodge as a lodge exactly; as you say, since the new road was made through the place, Water Lane hardly counts. But we want a nice cottage near the house for Desmond's confidential clerk to live in. He is going to marry my maid, and, as she comes from my old home, I want if possible to keep her near me. She is a very pretty and refined sort of girl. I think perhaps it will be a good thing for her to be married and settled. She is a good deal noticed and admired when she goes about to strange houses. And Desmond is making the house rather larger than necessary, for he thinks we may sometimes want an extra bedroom or two in the summer or the shooting season, if our house were to overflow. One or two of the rooms will be kept for that purpose. The Chase is not really a large house—not so large as it looks. The hall and corridors take up more space than you would think, and we have not a great many bedrooms."

"I wish you'd take me on in Alice's place when she marries," laughed Jem; "I should like to live in a big house, and see all that goes on there, and hear how the servants gossip behind their master's back. Don't you think I should look the part very well, dressed up in cap and apron? And I'd report to you quite faithfully all that went on. I think I should make rather a good spy."

"I don't know that I particularly want a spy, dear," answered Odeyne, "but you shall come to the Chase one of these days as my little friend and companion. When the winter comes, and you and I are both rather shut up, we will keep each other company; for the days are often long when Desmond is away; and I want to overhaul the library books as one of my tasks, and I think you could help me at that sort of thing."

Jem's eyes sparkled brilliantly at the bare thought.

"You are a darling!" she cried in her frank, free way. "I am glad that Desmond didn't marry a cut-and-dried creature like Maud, or a fine fashionable madam like Beatrice! Oh, I beg your pardon! Perhaps I should not have spoken like that of your sisters-in-law. But I don't think you can be so very fond of them!"

"I want them to be sisters-in-love, not sisters-in-law," replied Odeyne with a sweet gravity in her smile. "Desmond and I are one now, and everything that is his belongs to me."

For once Jem found nothing to reply. Her over-ready tongue had betrayed her, as she felt, into remarks she was scarcely justified in making. Odeyne had not taken them amiss; yet the girl felt that she had been unconsciously rebuked.

But all such thoughts were quickly driven away by the gay scene that met her eager gaze as they approached Hackwell Down. Jemima had never seen anything so pretty before, and exclaimed with delight as her eye roved over the wide expanse of level turf.

Upon the crest of the green ridge stood a knot of huntsmen in their scarlet coats, with the whippers-in keeping in order the pack of fine hounds, whose waving tails looked like a forest of tiny saplings in a high wind. Scattered about the level plateau were horsemen and footmen, a motley assembly all on pleasure bent. Grooms led up and down handsome hunters whose masters were driving across; ladies were leaving their carriages and mounting their horses; bold little fellows on small ponies were prancing round, in a mighty hurry to be off. The field was dotted with men in the pink, some already mounted, others talking to each other or to the ladies in the carriages. Some of these approached Odeyne and exchanged greetings with her. Jem took stock of them with her sharp glances, and summed them up for Odeyne's benefit when they had bowed themselves off. She was much more delighted with the horses than with the riders.

"They are dear things! I should like to kiss them all, and the dogs too. I think the world would be a much nicer place if the horses and dogs and nice animals were left, and about three-quarters of the people killed off! I'm sure we could spare most of them—and have a much nicer time without them!"

Odeyne did not try to bring her carriage very close up to the others assembled there, partly because the horses were restless and excited, partly because Jem was visibly anxious not to be made to face Beatrice and all her fine friends. The girl was not shy, but she appeared to feel a sort of instinctive antagonism to fashionable society, and when Desmond rode up to his wife's carriage, looking very handsome and gallant in his faultless get-up, he was much amused by Jem's sallies and retorts, and persisted in introducing several of his friends for the entertainment of hearing her snub them, which she was not slow to do.

But before long the field began to move; Desmond waved his hand to his wife, and rode off. He had instructed her how to drive, so as to see as much as possible of the run; and Odeyne was not sorry when she could give her restless little horses their heads, and set them in motion along the road in a parallel direction to that taken by the hunt.

For a time all went well; the road was wide and smooth; they passed all the other carriages, to Jem's great satisfaction—skimmed by them at a delightfully rapid pace, and left them far behind. Odeyne fancied that Beatrice and her coachman had both of them called out something to her as she trotted by; but she could not hear what was said, and Jem had rather urgently begged her not to pull up to listen.

"They will want us to stay by them," she cried pleadingly, "and that will spoil all our fun. Do go on!—do go on! It is lovely racing along like this!"

Odeyne was willing to gratify the girl, the more so because she was herself enjoying the exhilaration of the rapid movement, and because she was conscious that the horses would not be easy to pull up in their present excited mood. They seemed to know that the hunt was sweeping on in advance, and to be resolved not to be left far behind.

The road trended upwards for a considerable distance, and then the descent commenced. For some distance it was only gentle in character, and the road continued firm and good. But towards the foot of the hill there were several steep pitches, and as Jem had heard from report, the water channelled down it in the winter, and there were always loose stones which sometimes caused accidents to horses and riders. So as they flew down the hill she said to Odeyne, half regretfully—

"I think you had better pull them in a little now. It will be steeper soon, and there is a nasty turn farther on I know, besides the road gets bad too."

Odeyne made no reply, and the carriage continued its rather perilously rapid descent. Jem looked at her and saw that she was straining rather hard at the horses; but they appeared to take no manner of notice of her efforts to check them. They were only going at a very rapid trot as yet. They could not be said to be exactly bolting, but there was a stubborn look in the way in which their heads were bent down, as though they had made up their minds as to their course of action, and intended to have their own way.

"Jem, dear," said Odeyne, still quite quietly, "the horses are pulling rather hard. Just tell the groom to lean forward and help me to check them. My arms are growing tired."

Jem spoke to the groom, who was a smart-looking youth, but only a lad himself. He was looking a little scared himself, for the awkward descent was very near now, and the horses appeared on the verge of breaking into a gallop.

It is always rather a risky thing for two persons to try and pull upon one pair of reins. The moment the horses felt the jerk of the new hands brought to bear upon them, they broke simultaneously into a hard gallop, shaking their heads as though to seek to free themselves from the pressure on their mouths, but too excited now to be checked by it.

Jem's face grew rather pale as she felt the sudden swaying movement as the carriage oscillated from side to side.

"Sit still, dear," said Odeyne quietly; "perhaps it is really safer for them to canter down the hill than trot. There is nothing in the way, and if we reach the bottom safely there is a good road beyond us."

Jem sat very upright, her eyes taking in everything, every faculty on the alert. She was having her wish with a vengeance now, and even in the midst of her fears for the safety of the whole party, there was a certain dim sense of elation in the thought that here she was actually in the midst of a coveted adventure!

Down the hill plunged the carriage, bumping and swaying in a fashion that made Jem cling tightly to the seat, but maintaining its position, even though the road was rough and rutty and the pitch of the hill steep. Now they had all but reached the bottom. They saw the wider, better road lying before them. Jem gave a gasp of relief, and the groom muttered something that sounded like a rude exclamation of thankfulness. In another minute, and Jem believed that all peril would be past, when suddenly across the road swept some half-dozen belated huntsmen, hot on the track of the field, dashing in front of the excited horses without so much as a glance in their direction, and frightening the already startled creatures almost out of their senses.

Plunging and snorting with terror, they instinctively paused for a moment, one of them backing almost upon its haunches, the other rearing till he looked as though he would have fallen backwards upon the carriage, and then, with a simultaneous bound, they sprang forward at redoubled speed, swerved from the road, dashed through the gate after the retreating riders, and commenced a wild gallop across the meadow in the wake of the hunt.

At that moment the groom lost his head, loosed his grasp upon the reins, and threw himself out of the carriage.

Jem and Odeyne were left alone, unable even to cast back a look and ascertain whether or not the lad was hurt. Odeyne still retained her grasp of the reins, but all control of the horses had been lost. Her face was very set and white, but her voice was still calm and controlled.

"Would you rather try the jump, dear?" she asked; "I am afraid we shall have an accident. I can do nothing with the horses. And something might break any minute; or they may take up against a gate-post and dash the carriage to pieces."

"I have no jump in me," said Jem, still looking straight ahead. "I think I should do for my back if I were to try. Perhaps they will run into a hedge and stick fast, and we can get out before they kick the carriage to pieces. Oh, there is Tom! Look! He is racing towards us! But what can he do?"

Odeyne looked and saw. Tom Ritchie was undoubtedly scudding towards them diagonally over the field. The rough nature of the ground was beginning to tell upon the cobs. They were panting and straining, but the pace had slackened. They could not make the same running here as over the hard road. But still they were resolutely running away. The reins dragged hopelessly against them. They seemed to have mouths of iron. Odeyne's strength was deserting her. She felt a strange dimness of vision, and knew that her grasp on the reins was relaxing.

Jem's eyes took everything in: Odeyne's sudden faintness, the rapid approach of Tom, the exhaustion but stubborn determination of the horses. What would happen next? What could Tom do to save them?

Tom was a trained athlete. In feats of agility and daring he had always excelled. He was not gifted with any very remarkable muscular strength, but he was lithe and active as a cat.

Measuring his distance, and coolly biding his time, he made a quick, sharp rush, and vaulted cleverly upon the back of the nearest cob, clutched the reins of the pair, and by throwing his whole weight and strength upon them succeeded bit by bit and inch by inch in checking their mad career. The horse upon which he had sprung, encumbered by this heavy and unexpected weight, checked its course to plunge and try to dislodge the unwelcome burden. The other, thus left to pull alone, quickly felt its exhaustion and the drag of its companion, and began to think better of the matter. Tom sat like a centaur, and tugged manfully at the reins. The boundary hedges of the extensive field were nearly reached. This obstacle seemed to bring the runaways to their scattered senses. To rush themselves into a trap would be painful and humiliating. They appeared to take this view of the case themselves, and with only a small show of resistance permitted Tom to bring them to a standstill.

Then Tom leaped down, and still holding the reins in his hands, approached the carriage. Jem was sitting white, but wide-eyed and erect. Odeyne, with an ashy face, was leaning back against the cushions almost, though not quite, unconscious. She strove to make a sign of gratitude to Tom, but pressed her hand to her side and gave a little gasp. The groom was running up in a great fright, unhurt, though a good deal torn and battered from his fall.

"Don't leave us with him, Tom; don't let him have the horses!" pleaded Jem in sudden alarm; and Tom gave the shame-faced youth a cool and stern glance.

"A pretty sort of fellow you are, to be sent out in charge of ladies!" he remarked. "However, that is your master's business, not mine. Go straight to Mrs. St. Claire's house, just across that gap, and tell her that Mrs. Desmond St. Claire has been very near a bad accident, and is coming to her house for shelter till she is well enough to go home. Go quickly. I will stay with the ladies, and bring the carriage there as soon as possible."

The youth slunk away feeling thoroughly ashamed of himself, and Tom, with another look into Odeyne's face, took possession of the horses, turned them round, and led them back over the meadow, now in a very meek and subdued state.

He hardly spoke a word till they were upon the road again, when he turned Jem into the groom's dickey behind, and himself took the reins and seated himself beside Odeyne.

"You will not be afraid to let me drive you, Mrs. St. Claire? I think there is no fear of any farther misbehaviour on the part of your horses."

Odeyne roused herself to give a faint smile and say—

"You are very kind. I am not at all afraid. I have been just a little tired and shaken. I hope Jem is none the worse for it."

"Jem will be all right," answered Tom briefly; and putting the horses into a rapid trot, he quickly drove them up to the door of Mrs. St. Claire's house.

It was evident that the battered appearance of the groom, together with his agitated and confused story, had spread consternation and dismay in the household. Servants were standing about in the hall; and as the carriage drove up, Maud appeared with a very pale frightened face, and on seeing Odeyne's state of pallor and exhaustion, uttered a little exclamation of anxious grief.

"Mrs. St. Claire has been a good deal frightened and shaken," said Tom, as he helped her to alight and assisted her into the hall. "Take good care of her, and I will try and find Desmond and let him know. He will be certain to come immediately. If you want my father, he will be at Holler's Farm about two o'clock; but I think rest and care will be all that are needed to put you all right again."

Odeyne had felt like one in a dream for some time. Now she seemed to wake up to find herself lying upon a sofa in Maud's own private little room, which she had only once penetrated to before, whilst her sister-in-law, ordinarily so cold and unsympathetic, was hanging over her with tears in her eyes, seeking to restore her, not by cordials and essences alone, but by tender caresses, loving words, and kisses that came so strangely from those lips.

Odeyne sat up, and laid her head against her sister's shoulder.

"Oh, Maud, how good you are!" she cried, taking her hand and carrying it to her lips; and Maud's tears suddenly ran over as she kissed Odeyne again and again, saying—

"Oh, my darling, let us be sisters always now. I shall never forget the terrible thought that came over me when for one moment I thought they said that Desmond's wife had been killed; and I knew I had never spoken one loving word to her all the time she had been my sister!"

CHAPTER IX.

NEW FRIENDSHIPS.

Desmond appeared white-faced and agitated, having heard the tidings of some disaster, but not the details. His greeting to his wife was pretty to see, and her calm and smiling face quite reassured him as to her safety. But when his anxiety was allayed, his anger blazed up more fiercely than his wife had seen it since her marriage. She had heard of Desmond's gusts of passion in old days from her brothers; but well as she knew him now, she had never seen him so angry as on this occasion.

His anger was chiefly directed against the friend from whom he had purchased the turn-out for his wife.

"I wouldn't have believed it of Garston. He shall hear of it again—and so shall others. The lowest, dirtiest trick! And when I was doing him a kindness and all! They are all saying now that those are the same cobs as brought Lady Massingham to nearly fatal grief! And he sold them to me for a pair of perfectly trustworthy horses for my wife to drive! A fellow like that wants horsewhipping, and the cobs want shooting! I've a great mind to do both horsewhipping and shooting with my own hands—I have, indeed!" and Desmond ground his teeth.

"No, don't do that, Desmond, dear," said Odeyne soothingly. "Indeed, the fault was partly mine. I was not driving carefully enough. The rapid motion was pleasant, and they were eager, and it was easier to let them have their heads than to keep them in hand. But I know it was bad driving; and I have had my lesson. I will take care never to let them get beyond themselves again."

"As though I should ever let you sit behind them again, my precious darling!" cried Desmond. "No, I'll have it out with Garston, and he shall either take them off my hands at the price I paid for them, or I'll expose the whole transaction at the club, if I don't horsewhip him too! The way I made things easy for him; and to be treated like this!"

"What do you mean about making things easy for him and doing him a kindness in the transaction?" asked Maud.

"Why, just this, that he got pretty heavily dipped at the St. Leger—and partly through bets to me; and hearing that I was looking out for a handsome turn-out for my wife, he came and told me of the one he had lately bought for his own, and which must now go to help pay his debts. He begged me to take the thing off his hands at a valuation, and, like a fool, I took his word and did so. It wiped off his debt to me, and I gave him a cheque in addition. I behaved really handsomely to him, because he was an old friend, and rather down on his luck—and this is how he serves me!"

Desmond broke away to go and write an indignant letter to the man against whom his anger was so stirred; whilst Odeyne and Maud were left together, looking into each other's faces with a certain veiled anxiety.

"Oh, Maud," exclaimed Odeyne suddenly, "I don't wonder now at what happened to-day!"

"What do you mean, dear?"

"How can one expect a blessing upon things obtained in such a way? The price of a bet!" and Odeyne hid her face.

"I hoped that Desmond had given up that sort of thing on his marriage," said Maud gravely. "But don't you think it is a little superstitious to speak in that way?"

"I don't know," answered Odeyne still very gravely; "I have thought a great deal about these things since—since—since they have been brought before me so much. It cannot be God's way of giving us riches—I think everybody would admit that. And what does not come of God, comes of evil; I cannot see it in any other light. And if we take and use the devil's gold, how can we expect a blessing to follow it?"

Maud was silent awhile, and then said thoughtfully—

"That is a broad way of stating it, and an unconventional way of looking at things; yet I am not sure that there is not an element of sound sense and truth in what you say. I have seen enough to know that the gambler's wealth is not blessed to him! Ah, Odeyne—can you not save Desmond from his besetting sin?"

Odeyne was almost startled by the earnestness, the almost anguish of Maud's tone. Hitherto the sister had been so reserved and cold, and above all had spoken so little to her of Desmond, that this appeal came with strange force and power.

"What do you mean?" she asked, a little startled.

"I have always tried to shut my eyes to it," continued Maud in the same strained voice; "I have always loved Desmond better than anything in the world, although he has not specially cared for me. I have stood his champion through everything. I have tried not to believe in his faults and in his weaknesses. I have almost quarrelled with our mother for seeing them so clearly. I have always declared them just youthful follies, which he would speedily outgrow. Although I was jealous and unhappy at hearing of his marriage, I was glad to believe that it would be a turning point in his life, and that that and the office would sober him down. Ah, Odeyne!—don't let us all be disappointed after all! He loves you very dearly. Can't you get him to give up that one pernicious habit—for your sake?"

"I hoped he had," answered Odeyne in a very low voice. "At least he spoke very reasonably about it, and said that with him it was a mere trifle he risked—just to keep himself from being peculiar, and not to lose all influence over Algernon, which he would do if he set up for what he called a saint."

Maud smiled a little bitterly.

"That is always the way—they have always some good reason, and each one thinks that he individually is exempt from danger. But O, my dear child, don't you be led into thinking that Desmond cannot be led away himself. Algernon and his friends are notorious. That is why I hate you and Desmond to be in their house. Beatrice ought not to ask you. But poor Beatrice tries to shut her eyes to what she is powerless to stop, and to live on the surface of things, hoping that the evil day will somehow be staved off. I pity Beatrice from the bottom of my heart (though she would not be grateful for any token of sympathy), but her house is not the place for you or Desmond. Do take him home and keep him there!"

"I will try," answered Odeyne, not a little startled at this sudden outbreak from Maud, putting into words the vague thoughts and fears which had haunted her for so long. It was a great relief to be able to speak freely to Maud, and to feel that the barrier between them was broken down; yet she was made more anxious on Desmond's account after this talk with his sister, than she had ever been before.

One good thing resulted from the threatened accident, and that was that the visit to Beatrice's house came to an abrupt conclusion. Quiet and rest were ordered for Odeyne after the shock she had suffered. She remained at her mother-in-law's house for a few days, and then went home to the Chase with Desmond, who had been so fully occupied during these days in inquiries and arrangements about the cobs, that he had no time for anything else, beyond petting his wife and teasing his mother and sister whenever he was at home.

It was proved that only one of the cobs had belonged to Lady Massingham, and that the quieter of the pair. There was no actual vice in the creatures, only a superabundance of energy, and Desmond soon succeeded in selling the spirited pair to a horsey lady in the neighbourhood, who laughed the thought of fear to scorn. A sound and quiet horse was bought for Odeyne's pretty phaeton, a handsome creature that would give her no trouble or alarm, and Desmond, in high good humour with himself and with his purchase, took his wife t home, having had for the time being enough of gaiety, and feeling ready for a quieter life and for the routine of the office.

"Yes, dear, you are quite right, I believe," he said to Odeyne, when she strove to speak to him seriously of the peril he ran into, and of her abhorrence of practices which were too familiar to him to strike him with any great disgust. "That sort of thing does make beasts and cads of men. Look at Garston, for instance; the fellow won't even apologise, but declares everything he did was square and above-board, and as good as tells me that my wife is a fool and that I am a liar! And even Algy, who is a good sort of fellow in his way, was inclined to take his part and only laugh at the whole thing. I'm not at all pleased with him and his set. I'm sorry for poor Beatrice, but I can't stand everything for her sake. We'll keep away from that house for a bit."

Odeyne's heart rejoiced at these words. If only she had Desmond to herself, and could keep him away from Beatrice and her set, she felt certain all would be well. He was so tender and affectionate at home, and so regular in his attendance at business, that she hoped everything for his future. If he could but see the deterioration of character that must of necessity follow upon the indulgence of vicious habits, surely he would of his own accord revolt from those habits and break the yoke from his neck.

Odeyne might have been rather lonely at this time, had it not been that Cissy Ritchie came to stay with her for a while. This arrangement was practically made by Mrs. St. Claire, who did not think Odeyne ought to be quite alone just now, and who decided that one of the Ritchie girls would do very well to wait on her, and fetch and carry, until some of Odeyne's own people could come to be with her. Mrs. St. Claire believed in cheerful companionship, and was also decidedly averse to Odeyne's driving about alone. She spoke to Dr. Ritchie on the subject, and he gladly gave permission for Cissy to stay for a while at the Chase. Jem would have loved to be the one selected, but her father knew that Odeyne would wait upon her and look after her, rather than suffer the lame child to save her steps. So Cissy was the one in the end selected; and Odeyne found it pleasant to have in the house a quick-witted, sensible, and sympathetic companion, who was always on the spot if wanted, but who had the knack of effacing herself quickly and completely whenever husband and wife wanted to be together.

Maud would have liked to be Odeyne's companion now, but she could not be spared by her mother, who was always something of an invalid, especially during the winter months. Cissy Ritchie, however, was delighted to come, and after a very short time Odeyne found that she liked and trusted her most fully.

The chief interest and excitement of those days was the approaching marriage of pretty Alice, the maid, and the renovation of the lodge which was to be her future home.

Odeyne drove down very often to see how it was getting on, and Cissy became keenly interested in the place and its future occupants. She helped Alice with some of her trousseau garments, a little amused sometimes at the daintiness of them for a girl in her position.

"You will be quite a fine lady one of these days, Alice," she remarked, as Alice displayed to her a hat and cape which she had had given to her by her fiancé only a few days before. And Alice blushed and bridled a little as she answered—

"That is what Walter hopes, ma'am, in a few years. He means to make his way in the world, and he says he will make a lady of me before we grow so very much older."

"And how is he going to set about that, Alice?" asked Cissy, with one of her quick little penetrating glances.

"He means to be rich one of these days, you see, ma'am," answered Alice, "and then it'll all be easy."

"Come Alice," said Cissy with a little laugh, "you know better than that. Why it was only the other day you told me yourself that Mrs. Bennet and her daughters would never be ladies as long as they lived! Yet they are rich enough to curl their fringes with bank-notes if they had a mind to!"

Alice blushed again, but lifted her pretty head with a gesture that meant a good deal.

"I don't think that those poor ladies have ever been used to good society—not till it was too late to learn. One has to be brought up with ladies to understand the ways of them!" And Alice plainly considered that she had had that sort of education, and could hold her own in any society!

"At least, Alice, believe me that money has nothing to do with it," said Cissy gravely. "Some of the best and truest ladies in the world are poorer than you and your husband will be, even when you first set up. A true lady, Alice, is born, not made. And the truest test I know of real refinement is the gift of putting aside self for the sake of others."

Alice did not look as though she thought much of that as a test; but she was fond of Miss Ritchie, and did not argue with her. Cissy was very quiet, but she had a way of speaking straight to the point, of supporting her words if need be with pregnant arguments. Odeyne had begun to find her interesting as well as kind and useful, and her knowledge of the neighbourhood and all the people there was both useful and entertaining.

One day, as they were sitting together in that comfortable sanctum of Desmond's, which Odeyne had beautified for him, and which on cold and blustery days was the cosiest corner of the house, a note was brought in to them which proved to be of some importance. Walter Garth was the bearer, and in it Odeyne was asked to give him some important papers which were locked up in the safe in this very room. Odeyne had a duplicate key in her possession; but she was not clear from Desmond's rather vague directions what the papers were that were wanted.

"I think I must have the man in. Very likely he will know. Desmond always says he is so observant and quick. He saves him a great deal in time and trouble."

Cissy leant back in her chair and surveyed the new-comer as he entered. Although she had heard a good deal about Walter Garth, she had never seen him before, and as Alice's future husband she took a considerable interest in him.

She watched him closely all the time he was in the room talking with Odeyne. He knew all about the papers; was very quiet and courteous in his manner. In accent and voice he could have passed as a gentleman in any ordinary society, and yet he could not justly be accused of giving himself airs; he was far too quiet and respectful.

"So that is Alice's fiancé," said Cissy when the visitor had taken his departure.

"Yes; what do you think of him?" asked Odeyne, who had come to have a considerable respect for Cissy's powers of discrimination.

"I didn't take to him," answered Cissy briefly.

"Didn't you?" asked Odeyne, rather surprised. "Most people have formed a very favourable impression of him."

"Oh, I should think he was clever, if that was what was wanted, and as quick as they make them, as the boys would say. I should think he could be a very useful servant and a very trustworthy one, so long as it was in his interest to be so. But I wouldn't trust him beyond that point."

Odeyne felt just a little hurt. Walter Garth was rather a protégé of hers, for Alice's sake.

"Don't you think you are rather harsh in your judgments, dear Cissy?" she asked. "What makes you think such things?"

"It's a kind of instinct I have," answered Cissy. "I can't help it; it was born in me. I have a feeling about people the very first time I see them. I sometimes wander away from my first impression for a time; but almost, if not quite invariably, I come back to it in the end."

"I have heard people talk like that before," said Odeyne. "I have not that kind of gift myself. Sometimes I think it may be rather a dangerous one. It must give rise to a certain amount of prejudice."

"Yes," answered Cissy readily, "it does. One judges beforehand on instinct, without waiting for development and reason. I have had my qualms about it. Once, when I had the chance of talking to a very holy man, I asked him what he thought about that sort of intuition."

"And what did he say?" asked Odeyne with interest.

"He said it all a great deal more beautifully than I can do; but the gist of it was this—that these instincts were often given us by God, for our defence and guidance; but that like every God-given thing, it was liable to abuse, and that the enemy would be certain to strive and make us abuse it; so we must watch ourselves very carefully, and above all avoid judging and condemning our brethren, and so missing that bond of perfect love which should be strong enough to embrace all mankind, even though over some we may have to weep tears of blood for their wickedness and unbelief."

"Yes, I like that sort of answer," said Odeyne, "and I am sure God does give us instincts to help us to avoid evil. Think how little children shrink away from wicked persons without knowing why. I have so often noticed that, and thought how beautiful it was. But tell me, have you any reason rather than this instinct for distrusting Walter Garth?"

"Not exactly," answered Cissy. "I did not quite like the way he examined the key of the safe when he had locked it up, or the sort of stock he seemed to take of everything in the room; but perhaps he has trained himself to habits of observation, and does it unthinkingly; for I suppose he has been inside this room before to speak to Desmond.

"Desmond generally sees him in the little waiting-room opposite, where Garth has a writing-table, and sometimes writes a few letters for him. He may have been in here before; but I don't know. As you say, he is one of those observant men who takes in everything. Perhaps it is not quite an agreeable habit, but Desmond has found it very useful."

Cissy said no more. She had no wish to be disagreeable, and the fact that Walter Garth's face had struck her rather unpleasantly was not a matter of much consequence. Alice was satisfied with him as a lover, and Desmond as a clerk. He had many good qualities to recommend him, and even if there were possibilities of an ugly kind in his nature, perhaps nothing would ever arise to call them forth, or perhaps the influence of his wife and home would gradually eradicate them.

"If Alice were not such a vain, feather-brained chit herself," mused Cissy, as she thought over the situation. "Her real devotion to Odeyne is her best point; except for that she seems to me but a flighty little thing, bent on being a fine lady in so far as it is possible. They are going to keep a servant, and she plainly intends to go about very smart, when she is not up at the house looking after Odeyne's things. Perhaps the responsibilities of matrimony will sober her down; but her one leading idea seems to be to have a good time and enjoy herself thoroughly."

Odeyne had decided not to engage another maid at once. She had never been used to much personal attendance, and did not care for it. She needed some help in the care of her rather extensive wardrobe, and that Alice was eager to give still. She did not want to sever her connection with the big house and all its attendant gaieties, nor did her husband wish this either. He told her that she would find it very lonely all day at the lodge, and encouraged her to continue her duties in so far as it was possible. This arrangement pleased and suited Odeyne very well, and was to be adopted for the present, at any rate. The wedding was to take place as soon as the additions to the lodge were made, and that would certainly be before Christmas, so there was not much time to make others.

Desmond's ideas just now were rather on a large scale. The prospect of the nurseries at the Chase being wanted shortly, gave him an idea that they would find the house rather small when visitors arrived for such occasions as the shooting and hunting, or a county ball. He had therefore taken a great fancy to his plan of enlarging the lodge, which was never used as a lodge, and making it at once a comfortable home for the Garths and a sort of overflow house, where his own guests could be accommodated when necessary.

Odeyne was always ready to fall into any project of his, and although she was a little astonished at the elaborate plans and heavy estimates submitted, Desmond assured her that he could well afford to carry out his scheme in his own way, and added that there was never any real extravagance in improving a property. It would be an advantage to the family, in the long run.

He went to work all through in an open-handed and lavish way. Everything, even the furnishing, was done at his own expense, and in a style that Cissy frankly told him was rather absurd for such people as Garth and his wife.

But Desmond only laughed. This lodge was his pet hobby just now, and as it kept him at home when he was not at business, and was certainly a safer way of spending money than others in which he was fond of indulging, nobody seriously opposed him, and the delight of Alice with her pretty home was quite amusing to see.

The house was divided practically into two parts, the one being an exceedingly comfortable and even elegant cottage for the Garths, the other forming a quaint suite of rooms for bachelor guests, including a smoking-room, a bathroom, and two good bedrooms, with a dressing-closet or boxroom wedged between them. Two, or even three men could be comfortably accommodated here, and Desmond was as pleased with the appearance of the furnished and embellished rooms as a child with a new toy.

The wedding of Alice and Garth came off in due course, just a fortnight before Christmas. The bride had insisted upon white for her own wear, although Odeyne had gently suggested that grey would be more serviceable, and would be more comfortable and suitable for the season of the year. But that did not meet Alice's views at all, nor, as she said, those of Walter. She should not feel properly married, she declared, if she were not married in white. So Odeyne was prepared for something rather fine, but not for the sweeping white silk and the flowing veil with which Alice astonished the church upon the morning of her wedding-day.

Desmond had ruled that she should be married from the house, and have a carriage to convey her and two of the other maids, who were to act "bridesmaids" for her. Odeyne, knowing that Alice's besetting sin was vanity and love of display and admiration, would much have preferred to have everything more quiet and suitable; but Desmond was in a gay, benignant, and almost rollicking mood, encouraged Alice and Garth in all their ideas of future grandeur, and laughed at Odeyne's scruples as out of date in these liberal and levelling days.

So Alice swept up the aisle in robes as fine as many ladies wear on such occasions, and she looked altogether so dainty, so pretty, so refined, that she might be pardoned for the idea that she was on the high road to becoming a "real lady."

She was a little shy of the thought of meeting her mistress's eye; but for the rest she was glad that all the world should see her in her finery and grandeur. She was going away with Walter as soon as she had changed her dress after church; and before she saw her lady again the impression of her foolish grandeur would surely have worn away.

So she escaped without any real leave-taking from her mistress, and when Odeyne, a little hurt, spoke of it to Desmond, he only laughed and said—

"The little puss was afraid of a scolding for all that finery. Never mind, wifie; it was rather absurd, but it made her very happy, and I suppose she could afford it. She has had a lot of things given to her. Let's walk down and look at the lodge again. I am looking forward to seeing it inhabited."

And when they stood inside the pleasant rooms, and spoke of using them later on, Desmond broke into one of his gay laughs and cried—

"You see, wifie, it really is a capital move having a place like this; for when your careless husband has ruined himself over horseracing, and who knows what beside, we shall be able to let the Chase, and live cosily here ourselves, until our fortunes mend again. Really it wouldn't be half bad!"

He laughed and kissed her as he spoke; but Odeyne shivered a little, and drew her fur cloak closer round her.

"I don't like you to say such things, even in jest, Desmond," she answered, and she wished that he had not laughed again as they sallied forth.

"If he would take life just a little more seriously!" was the unspoken cry of her heart. "I wish he had not said that about the lodge. He has spoilt it for me now!"

CHAPTER X.

CHRISTMAS.

"Guy, Guy! oh, dearest Guy! Can it really be you? It seems too good to be true!"

"Very much myself, Schwesterling mein, and very delighted to be here at last, and to see you in all your glory!"

"Oh, Guy, it is delightful! It is like a dream! Why did you not tell me you were coming?"

"Because I am rather an uncertain mortal in the winter, and I would not have had you disappointed for anything. I knew you would be anxious about the mother, and I did not want you to have any more bothers. Besides, I like a surprise."

"So do I when it takes this form! Oh, Guy, it is so good to see your dear face, and to have somebody here for Christmas! How pleased Desmond will be when he comes home! Edmund will run over just for the few days he can get away; but when his leave is due he will go home, of course. Now tell me about all the dear ones at home. Make yourself comfortable in that big chair, and I will get you your tea. It is so good to have you there! Now tell me about them all—mother in particular."

"She is much better; it was just a sharp attack of bronchitis. We think she took a chill. Of course Mary has been busy nursing her and looking after things, so it was impossible for us to think of a family gathering here—even if father and Henry could have got away. Nor did it seem a very advisable thing, all round, to have you and Desmond across to us. Then I made up my mind that if mother were really convalescent, and they could spare me, I would come here myself to be your companion during some of these dull winter days. They all thought it a capital plan, and here I am, you see!"

"It is delightful!" cried Odeyne, with shining eyes. "It will make Christmas just perfect. There will be a few quiet gaieties to enliven you. I keep rather quiet, because I prefer it; but you can have a good deal of fun if you like it. It is rather a gay little place in its way."

"My fun will be sitting at home with you, I think, little sister. That's rather more my idea of enjoyment than gadding about, though, of course, I want to know Desmond's people, and will make one of any family gathering to which I am asked. Now tell me every single thing about yourself, and your life, and all that you do. You have been very good about writing long letters; but after all letters only give a rather dim and distant idea of the real thing."

To have a long and confidential talk with Guy was just the luxury most desired by Odeyne. To her second self she could pour out all that was in her heart about her new life and the people by whom she was surrounded. Long before the story was done an interruption came in the arrival of Desmond; and his cordial welcome to his wife's brother put Guy perfectly and entirely at his ease in this house. Desmond had always been very fond of Guy, and to have him on a visit of indefinite length suited him exactly.

Desmond was in almost boyishly high spirits all the evening, and upon the next morning. He laughed, and made obscure remarks to Odeyne, not altogether comprehensible to her; till at last she turned laughingly to Guy, and said—

"He is up to some mischief—I know he is! He always betrays himself like that when it is coming!" Then turning to Desmond and shaking her finger at him, she said, "Take care, you bad boy, and don't you get into trouble, or you'll be well hen-pecked when you come back to me, I can tell you!"

And as Desmond went off laughing and bubbling over with mirth, after kissing his wife as he always did, she turned to her brother and said—

"He is such a boy still in some of his ways, but he really is growing to be a very good man of business, they say. We had a dinner for some of the other members of the firm not long ago. They were heavy City men, not the sort of people we meet in society as a rule, but very worthy in their way. Several of them said very complimentary things about Desmond's abilities to me. I am so glad he has that regular occupation as a sort of ballast, for he has such high spirits that if he had nothing to do but enjoy himself I should be almost afraid for him."

"He seems wonderfully young for his years and position," said Guy; "but it is nice to see him so happy; and if he works hard, too, no one need fall foul of his high spirits."

Odeyne spent a very happy morning showing Guy all over her house and garden. Cissy Ritchie had gone home the day before the arrival of the brother, as Odeyne felt it would be selfish to keep her away during all the pleasant bustle of the Christmas preparations at home. And now, having Guy, she wanted no one else; and they spent a charming morning together, his interest and pleasure in her possessions giving them an added value in her eyes.

"Desmond must be a richer man than he told us," was his comment as they sat at lunch together, the servants having handed the dishes and retired. "We knew by the settlements that he had a very fair fortune of his own; but there is something almost princely in the way he spends his money here. Does it feel at all strange to you to be the queen of so much grandeur?"

"It did at first; but I have grown used to it. You don't mean you think Desmond extravagant, do you, Guy?"

"I certainly meant no criticism of that sort," answered Guy. "You know extravagance is to my thinking spending more than a man has a right to do—more than he can really afford. If he is living within his income, giving a fair proportion to those who need it, and keeping a margin for a less prosperous day, then, according to my ideas, he has a full right to do as he will with the remainder, so long as he does not fritter it away in follies and vanities, or, of course, in vicious pleasures. But I am sure Desmond has no tendencies of that sort."

"Indeed, I hope and trust not; but I do sometimes wonder if he is not a little more fond of spending money than is quite wise. He is very generous to everybody; he gives away liberally to a number of good objects, and likes me to help in the parish and subscribe to all the local charities. I am more afraid of his being indiscriminate in his charities than niggardly. He is always so sorry for people in trouble. He is a very dear fellow, though I suppose it is not for me to praise him!"

"Never mind, I like to hear you," answered Guy. "And now tell me about little Alice! I have a box of presents for her from her people and friends at home. They were rather taken by surprise at the suddenness of the marriage, and had not got the things all done in time. Shall we take them to her this afternoon, if you have nothing more important on hand?"

"I should like that very much," answered Odeyne. "I have only just seen her since she got home. They had a little trip after the wedding; but they arrived home three days ago. Alice had hardly got settled down then, but now she will be ready for visitors. She will be delighted to see anyone from the old home. We will order the carriage and go."

This was accordingly done; and the brother and sister reached the pretty lodge early in the afternoon. There was a small maid-servant with ribbons in her cap to open the door, greatly to Guy's amusement. This damsel showed them into the parlour, where she said her mistress would see them directly; she had run out a few minutes before, but would certainly not be long gone. She was doing up her dress, the girl informed them, with an air of pride, for a ball at the Royal George that evening.

This fact explained the remarkable state of the parlour, which was littered from end to end with odds and ends of white ribbons and bits of silk. Upon the table lay Alice's wedding dress, upon which she was plainly at work, taking out the sleeves, and cutting it low in the neck, in obvious imitation of some of Odeyne's Paris gowns, which had filled Alice with boundless admiration. Long white gloves lay upon the table, together with what Odeyne did not at all like to see—some sham diamond ornaments—a clever enough imitation of the real thing; but only a trumpery imitation, yet too costly all the same for Alice to buy.

Guy took in all this as quickly as Odeyne herself, and uttered a long, low whistle.

"This is an odd sort of development for that quiet little dainty Alice. How comes it all about?"

"I don't know," answered Odeyne, with tears in her eyes. "I am afraid I have not done my duty by her. I was always fond of her, and she seemed like a little bit of home. I talked to her, and perhaps made too much of her, and she is so pretty that when she went about with me she was always noticed and made much of. I am afraid that vanity has always been her besetting sin, and that I have not done enough to combat it."

At this moment Alice came hurrying in with her hands full of sprays of delicate ivy. Odeyne remembered that one of her Paris dresses was trimmed and adorned with ivy sprays, and that Alice had always particularly admired it. The inference was obvious. The ex-maid was going to appear at this local festivity in a dress closely imitating one of her mistress's. It was not the imitation itself that troubled Odeyne, but the incongruity of the whole thing—Alice dressed up to the eyes, going to a ball, when she would have been so much better and happier sitting at home with her husband, mending his stockings and cooking his supper!

The girl crimsoned from brow to chin on seeing her visitors, and hastily invited them into the other room, where there was not all that litter about.

"Jane was so stupid," she grumbled, with a toss of the head; "really, servants were more trouble than they were worth!"

Odeyne made no comment on what she had seen. She knew very well that any remonstrance would be thrown away. Alice was now a married woman, free of all control in her own house, save that of her husband. If he approved this kind of thing it was not for others to interfere, and Odeyne contented herself with inquiries about the little holiday trip, and whether the lodge was a comfortable place to live in.

Then the box was brought in, and Guy gave her the key, and quite a number of messages from her mother and friends. Alice grew more like herself at this point, and opened the box with natural curiosity; but her face fell somewhat as she drew out its contents, and there was something like a supercilious curl on her pretty mouth as she laid the things out on the little sofa.

A year ago she would have been delighted by the quiet and neatly-made dresses and the comfortable, warm shawl that her mother and sisters had made for her, and her brother sent from his manufactory. To Odeyne's eyes they looked far more suited to the young wife's position than the finery in the next room. But Alice was evidently of quite another opinion.

"It's kind of mother, to be sure; but folks right away in the country don't know anything about fashions and style. Why, those things might have come out of the ark! But then poor mother would never be any the wiser!"

"They are nice, serviceable dresses," answered Odeyne, "and your mother and sisters' beautiful needlework would make any of their handiwork valuable. I think you will find their presents very useful, Alice."

"I can wear them up at the house when I come," said Alice, as if this were rather a bright idea; and it gave Odeyne the opportunity of saying—

"You have not found your way up there since you came back."

"No, ma'am, I have been so very busy. It takes time to get settled and in order; but I shall come very soon—perhaps to-morrow."

Odeyne looked at her rather gravely.

"I think you will be too tired to-morrow, Alice, after the ball to-night."

Alice coloured up, but answered rather hastily and defiantly—

"Well, ma'am, I can't help the ball. It's got up partly for us—Walter having been a guest there so long, and me being a bride, and all that. I don't see why we shouldn't have our bit of fun as well as our betters. Everything's going to be done in first-class style, and I'm to open the ball with the master of the house—just as you did, ma'am, when you went as a bride to Lord Altrincham's."

"I was not finding fault with you, Alice," said Odeyne with gentle gravity. "You have a husband now to take care of you. If he approves of this sort of thing I have nothing to say."

"Oh, Walter likes to see me dressed like a lady and everybody admiring me," answered Alice with the freedom of one to whom a considerable liberty of speech has been granted.

"To be sure, he is often a bit jealous—that's the way with men—but he likes it all the same, and was pleased for us to go. Most of the guests pay for their tickets, but Walter and I go free, because it's our wedding ball, you know."

Odeyne did not stay long. She felt rather sorrowful and anxious, and yet altogether helpless as regards Alice, and she had an uneasy feeling that perhaps it had not been a good thing for her, this transporting of her from the quiet Rectory to the gayer life of the Chase. But Guy tried to cheer her up.

"She would never have stayed there. She was resolved to go and see life for herself elsewhere. She might have done much worse. She is married now to a man of whom all speak well. It is the fashion nowadays to ape the gentry in everything. It is a pity they cannot take their pleasures more simply; but we have to take things as they are, not as we should like to see them. Alice will play her little game of vanity and display, and enjoy it; let us be thankful she has a husband at her side all the while. When she has a few babies to look after she will think of things differently. The responsibilities of life will come upon her quite fast enough."

When Desmond came home that afternoon it was by an earlier train than usual; and out of the back of the dog-cart came a large box and a number of parcels, and as he flung them down gaily on the drawing-room sofa he exclaimed—

"There, little wifie! I told you I would look after the presents for 'home.' You see if I have chosen right, and give me credit for being a good shopper!"

"Oh, Desmond! how delightful of you! I was beginning to think you had forgotten. Let us have the lamp in and examine everything! We ought to send them off to-night, or first thing to-morrow, for it is the twenty-first—and traffic is always crowded just now."

It was indeed a grand show of presents that was displayed when the lamps were brought in. Desmond had forgotten nobody, and seemed to have intuitions as to the taste of all. For the Rector there were rare old books on divinity, and some modern works which were exciting no small stir amongst thinking men, and which Odeyne was certain her father would delight in possessing. For the mother there was a beautiful soft Indian shawl, just such a wrap as her children would love to see her in; for Mary a fur-lined cloak that would enable her to resist the cold, even in the severest weather; and for Henry, who did all the long tramps over the scattered parish in the snow, and all the night-work too, a fur-lined coat—just such a one as Desmond wore himself up to town in cold weather.

"Henry and I could always wear each other's things," said Desmond, as he undid the bundle, "so if it fits me it will fit him. I should have liked to get one for the father too, but I knew he was so wedded to his wonderful Inverness that I don't believe he would ever wear it."

"I don't think he would," answered Odeyne; "he will never put on anything with sleeves. But for Henry this will be splendid; he will not mind the weight, and he does feel the cold a good bit."

For the three little girls there were wonderful boxes of bonbons, story-books, and dolls. For the old servants, shawls, tea-caddies, and so forth. Then he had bought a plated tea-pot and sugar basin for Alice and her husband, and various small things for old people on the estate.

"I sent things off for the mother, and Maud, and Beatrice, and Algy, straight from the jewellers," he explained; "I always think that women-folk like jewellery better than anything else; and they will show you them all in good time, if you care to see. Don't you expect anything yourself, wifie, after all this outlay? I'm about bankrupt now, till the next quarter begins"; and Desmond laughed gaily as he bent to kiss Odeyne.

"I don't want anything but you, Desmond," she answered, with a happy light in her eyes, "and I told you all along that my Christmas present was to be the carte-blanche you gave me to make a nice Christmas for all the poor people on the estate."

Odeyne was in fact very busy all these next days with her distribution of doles and gifts. She took great interest in the people about them, those who were her husband's tenants, and those who belonged to the parish also. From the Ritchies and from the clergyman's wife she had learned much about them; and Christmas Eve was quite given over to the pleasure of seeing the people all going happily away with the gifts of good things provided.

But when Odeyne came down on Christmas morning to find her plate piled with parcels—many of them brought by Guy from home, others come by post, some left at the house by friends in the neighbourhood—there was one suspicious-looking packet which she could not but open first, and there, within the morocco case, lay a wonderful diamond necklace and pendant, that even Odeyne's experience told her must have cost a small fortune.

"To my dear wife," were the words inscribed upon a little scrap of paper inside the lid; and when Odeyne lifted her dazzled eyes there was Desmond standing over her, to put his arm about her and press kisses on her lips.

"Darling, I won't be scolded!" he cried gaily. "It is my good little wife who keeps me from bad habits, and sends me into the City day by day, making a richer man of me than I ever thought to be! I will have my own little whims as to how I spend the money she has helped me to earn. Even the careful Guy will say that that is all fair and square!"

Guy and Edmund were both at table, and both struck dumb by the magnificence of Desmond's gifts. Guy's was a splendid dressing-bag with every accessory heart could wish, and silver monograms on everything; and Edmund's a complete hunting rig—scarlet coat, white breeches, top boots, and immaculate hat—all from one of the first tailors in London (Edmund understood now why he had been badgered into leaving a suit of clothes at the Chase on the pretence of its making his visits easier), and a fine set of golf tools, which he had been desiring for some time, but had not yet thought himself justified in buying.

"Really, Desmond, you are too generous!" they cried, pressing up to thank him; but he waved them gaily off, saying—

"Don't thank me. Thank Odeyne; it's all her doing, I assure you. And, besides, a man and his wife are one; so she must never be left out of anything you attribute to me."

Odeyne looked at her bright-faced young husband with a world of love in her eyes, and wondered whether ever woman was so happy as herself that day.

Upon the morrow was a grand ball at Beatrice's house. Odeyne had begged off, and had been permitted to stay quietly at home; and Guy would now be her companion, as late hours and dancing were alike injurious to him; but Edmund and Desmond of course must be there; and Odeyne had promised to drive Guy over earlier in the day, to introduce him to her sister-in-law, and look round at the flower-decked rooms and at the preparations for the evening's festivity. Guy had been introduced before this to Mrs. St. Claire and Maud, and had been very cordially received there. But, so far, he had not seen Beatrice, and was glad of the opportunity.

It was impossible to catch Mrs. Vanborough at a disadvantage. Although she had been busy all the morning superintending the arrangement of the rooms, and although her hair was tumbled, and she had on, for her, quite an old dress, she managed to look bewitchingly bright and pretty as she came sailing down the staircase to meet them; and Odeyne noticed in a moment that the slightly forced mirthfulness of her laugh and the haggard expression of her eyes had quite vanished, leaving her all sparkle, and brightness, and life.

"You delightful creature! I was afraid you might be afraid of the snow. And I am dying to thank you and Desmond for your lovely present. Algy says opals are unlucky; but I don't care if they are. I am not superstitious, thank goodness, and I love them and dote on them. I am going to wear them to-night. I have a lovely new dress I want you to see. Oh yes, and Guy shall come too! I'm not foolish enough or inexperienced enough not to know that men like to see pretty things just as well as we do, and often have just as good taste. Come and see my dress and my flowers—I have had three splendid bouquets sent me, and I hardly know which to wear. You shall help me to decide. I'm sorry you won't be there to-night; but I shan't bother you to come. I believe you will be better at home, really; and you will have Guy to take care of you."

Beatrice's friendly way of adopting Odeyne's brothers almost as her own, gave them a feeling of intimacy with her almost at once; and Guy was quite pleased to follow her into the luxuriously-appointed upstairs room, where the beautiful ball-dress lay spread out upon a couch.

"It's a real Worth dress. I haven't been able to afford one for quite an age; but Algy said I really might this time. My dear Odeyne, I don't know how to be grateful enough to you for what you've done for us. It has just made all the difference in the world to us."

Odeyne raised a puzzled face and said—

"I don't know what you mean, Beatrice."

"Oh, don't you know that Desmond has taken Algy in hand, and is teaching him some sort of business. He never could have done that, if you had not got him to take up the work himself first."

"I didn't know," answered Odeyne eagerly. "Desmond never said anything about Algernon. Is he going into the business house?"

"I don't know exactly what it is," answered Beatrice; "I am so ignorant about business. All I know is that Algy goes into the City two or three days a week, and that things have been ever so much better with us ever since. And it's all dear Desmond's doing. He has taught Algy everything, and put him in the way of things. We have paid off no end of our debts, and are quite flourishing again."

Odeyne was delighted. She wondered why Desmond had never told her, and she wondered why Guy looked rather grave and said nothing. Perhaps it was because he did not know Beatrice well enough to join in a conversation about her private affairs.

Then after they had looked at the dress and the opals, and had gone downstairs and admired the rooms with their great banks of flowering plants, Beatrice took them into her boudoir, which was the only really comfortable room in the house, and gave them tea, and told them racy stories, till they all laughed heartily together and felt quite like old friends, and Guy promised to come again soon, and not make a stranger of Desmond's sister.

"There is something about Beatrice that fascinates me always," said Odeyne as they drove home, "and the little boy is sweet, though I did not like to ask for him to-day, as they were all so busy. Algernon is the one I can never quite like. He gives me the impression of being a fast man—not a good one. But I was so glad to hear that he had taken to business ways. I wonder why Desmond never spoke about it. Why do you look like that, Guy? Don't you think it's a very good thing?"

"That depends upon what he does," answered Guy gravely. "I do not quite understand how such elasticity of means can have been made in so short a time. I don't profess to understand business, but common sense tells me it is not likely that it has been done in the ordinary course of business."

"But, Guy, how else could it be done?"

"It sounds much more like gambling in stocks and shares. You know there are fortunes won and lost every day on the Stock Exchange. It is another form of gambling, and rather a terrible one. I hope that Desmond is not dabbling in that sort of thing in the way of business. Keep him from it with all your might, Odeyne, if there is any danger; for it generally ends in one thing, and that is—ruin."

CHAPTER XI.

A SHOCK.

Guy and Odeyne spent the evening of Beatrice's grand ball quietly together at the Chase, as planned. It was a great delight to both to be once more under one roof, and living the same life. And this was the first occasion on which they had had leisure and opportunity for one of their long confidential chats.

Odeyne had been looking forward to it for quite a long time, the other days having been so full of employment and the calls of friendship. Yet now that it had come, the young wife was not so uncloudedly happy as she had expected to be. Although she asked innumerable questions about the old home and friends there—questions she had been treasuring up against the time when she and Guy could be alone and at leisure—yet she often felt her attention straying as she talked, and was conscious of a dull indefinite weight at her heart that she hardly wished to drag into the light of day.

And yet as time went on, and the old familiar relations between herself and Guy re-established themselves without any effort on either side, the desire to confide in and consult him became too strong for resistance; and suddenly breaking in upon what he was telling her, she said almost abruptly for her—

"Guy, dear, you won't think it unwifely of me, will you, if I talk to you a little about Desmond?"

"Not a bit," he answered; "you know Desmond and I were always fond of one another. Sometimes I think it was his goodness to me when I was ill and good for nothing that made the first link between you two."

"I think it was. Guy, Desmond is the dearest of husbands. I don't think any two people could be happier than he and I; and yet every now and then I have such a strange feeling of misgiving. It comes over me that perhaps I am not the best wife he could have chosen. There are times when I feel that I have not the influence over him that I ought to have. He will give me everything I want. I am almost afraid of admiring anything, lest he should at once send for it, whether we need it or not. But sometimes I wonder whether he would give up things for me if I asked it—and then I do not feel so sure."

Guy looked grave and thoughtful. Few as had been the days he had spent at the Chase, they had given him time to observe many things, and he understood Odeyne almost more fully than she expected him to do.

"He does spend a good deal of money, Odeyne—generously and kindly, to be sure, but rather over-lavishly. It might be a good thing if you could put a check upon that."

"I do try very often," she answered, "but you heard how he answered me the other day; and if business is so good——"

"That is just my puzzle," answered Guy. "I do not know so very much about business; but I have never looked upon a berth like Desmond's as such an immensely lucrative thing. No doubt it is very advantageous to him to have it. He will probably in time build up a solid little supplementary fortune to leave behind him. But I do not quite understand how it puts him in command of such large sums of ready money; and yet when I chaffed him the other day about the bills he was running up, he declared everything was paid for on the spot. He had had enough of debts, he said, at college. He never meant to contract any more. And I was very glad to hear him say that, although it left the other puzzle untouched."

Odeyne said nothing for a while, but looked into the fire, and when she spoke there was a certain hesitation in her tones.

"Guy, what were you saying this afternoon—about Algernon Vanborough, you know—and the Stock Exchange?"

"Why, that it looked rather as though he must be dabbling in speculation in stocks and shares, going into the City, and suddenly having command of money again. No doubt there is a great deal to be made in that way; but it needs a cool and clever head, and I should not think Algernon Vanborough had that."

"I do not like him much," said Odeyne. "But Beatrice spoke as if Desmond were helping him. I thought it was in the way of business."

"Yes, some kind of business; but Beatrice was very vague about it herself. It is a word that carries a wide meaning."

"Oh, Guy!" exclaimed Odeyne, with sudden anxiety and distress, "do tell me, is there anything wrong in that sort of speculation—and do you think that Desmond is speculating too?"

"I confess it looks a little like it," answered Guy; "but as to whether or not such speculation is honest, I hardly know how to answer. Of course 'men of the world' would laugh at the notion of calling it anything else. And there is a certain buying and selling of stock that is perfectly fair and legitimate; but undoubtedly there can be a shady side to it; and in any case I should shrink from gaining large sums of money without doing honest work for it. Your gain is somebody's loss. It seems a perilous pastime to indulge in. It draws men on and on into deeper places. In its essence it is a form of gambling, Odeyne, although it may not be recognised as such at the outset."

At that word Odeyne caught her breath a little. It filled her with a vague terror and distress. More than once she had been warned about Desmond's tendency towards that perilous amusement, but she had fondly thought that her influence was holding him back from it.

"Then, Guy, would you have me speak to him about it? Do you think I should warn him?"

"I am rather shy, Odeyne, of giving advice where husband and wife are concerned. I think you are the best judge of what you should say to Desmond. His love for you is very true and deep. If he knew that anything in his conduct distressed you, surely he would give it up?"

Odeyne sighed, and a little pucker furrowed her brow.

"Some things he would directly; but I do not feel so sure about it when it seems to be business. He would be very kind, and he would explain it all so that I should see it was all right, but I don't feel so certain that he would give it up. That is where it sometimes comes over me that another woman might have made him a better wife. I am not strong-willed enough to have the influence I sometimes want."

"There is influence of another kind," said Guy thoughtfully after a long pause. "A man with a very high standard before his eyes—the highest standard of all—shrinks back from all such doubtful things with an instinct of repulsion, and does not argue about them. He feels the evil possibilities, and lets it alone. Try and win Desmond to such a standard as that, and the rest will follow of itself."

Odeyne drew a deep sigh.

"If only I could!" she answered. "If only I could! But, Guy, I am sometimes in danger of growing careless and forgetful myself, and Desmond does not care for being talked to."

"I don't think talking ever does much good," answered Guy in the same thoughtful way. "You must live your lessons, Schwesterling, not talk them. And then there is always the power of prayer. I often think we forget what a mighty weapon that is if used regularly, and used aright."

Odeyne covered her face with her hands, and there was a sound of tears in her voice as she answered—

"Oh, Guy, it is not so easy to be good, to think of all these things, to keep unspotted from the world, here, in this big house and amongst the people I live with, as in the dear old home. I do try; but there is always so much to distract my thoughts. You will pray for us, Guy, will you not, dear brother? For me as well as for him; for indeed—indeed I need it!"

Very soon after that Guy persuaded Odeyne to go to bed. She had intended to sit up for her husband; but she was really tired, and Guy opined that they might be very late, since a light snow had fallen, and travelling would be heavy. He would sit up and see that there was a blazing fire, and some hot soup ready for them as ordered; and presently Odeyne let herself be persuaded, and went off to bed.

Although rather anxious and troubled in mind, she strove to put aside gloomy thoughts, and to reassure herself by thinking of the many lovable traits in her husband's character. She could not expect perfection, of course; and when she contrasted him with Algernon Vanborough and some of his associates, she felt that she had cause rather for thankfulness than disquiet, although, to be sure, Desmond was just a little too easily led.

She had dropped asleep, with her door half open, that she might hear her husband's voice when he returned, and feel assured of his safety, when she was roused by a stir in the hall, and sat up in bed to listen.

The hall being two stories high, and her bedroom door opening upon the gallery just at the head of the staircase, she could hear any sound there, and even any words spoken in a loud voice, and to-night as she sat up listening, she was perfectly certain that she heard Edmund say in answer to words spoken by Guy—

"It's all right—don't make a fuss or wake Odeyne. They'll bring him in directly. We'll have him all right before she sees him."

In a moment Odeyne was out of bed, trembling in every limb. Desmond had been hurt. There had been an accident on the slippery roads. He always would take his dog-cart and drive so fast. She was hurrying into a rather elaborate wrapper, which would pass for a tea-gown, and was hastily coiling up her abundant hair as these thoughts passed through her brain. She must go to him, and see to his hurts. She was afraid of nothing but suspense. In another moment she was out upon the gallery, and looking down into the hall below, saw Desmond being supported into the hall between Edmund and the footman, an idiotic grin upon his face, a babble of thick and incoherent talk proceeding from his lips.

"It is a head injury!" she said to herself, her heart almost standing still. "He must get to bed at once, and I will attend to him"; and she flew down the staircase.

Guy suddenly glanced up and saw her, and came striding to meet her, looking almost stern in his gravity.

"Odeyne, don't come down—don't let the servants see you. Go back to your room. I will come to you there if you like. Desmond would rather that you did not see him now—with the men-servants about and all."

Then she understood. She gave a low wail that went to Guy's heart; and turning she went back to her own room, and threw herself into the chair beside the fire, feeling as though the foundations of the earth were giving way beneath her.

How long she remained thus she knew not. A light tap at the door aroused her. She started up and heard Edmund's voice asking if he might come in. She lighted the candles upon the toilet table, wiped the traces of tears from her face, and went to the door trying to appear as calm as possible.

Her soldier brother came a few paces into the room, and put her back into her chair.

"I'm awfully sorry, Odeyne; I feel half to blame myself; but I've come to tell you it's not nearly so bad as you may perhaps think—the sort of thing that might happen to anybody who hadn't a very strong head. It was Algy Vanborough's fault. That fellow is a great fool. It was an awfully jolly ball, and Desmond had been Beatrice's right hand all through, dancing with all the wall-flowers, and trotting out little first-season misses whom some of the fellows turned up their noses at. Nobody could have been nicer and kinder all along. And at supper it was the same. He was everywhere, looking after everybody—a hundred times more good than Vanborough. I daresay he got thirsty, and perhaps he may have drunk rather more champagne than was quite wise; but he was not the least excited or anything at the house—make yourself quite easy about that."

"Then when was it?" asked Odeyne with dry lips.

"As I say, it was that fool Algy's fault. We were getting into the dog-cart; Desmond was in already, and he came out with glasses of 'something hot, just to keep out the cold, you know.' Well, it was a bitter night; one couldn't altogether fall foul of him for that. But when I tasted my glass it was so horribly strong—whisky punch or some heady mixture like that—that I wouldn't drink it. I was going to warn Desmond, but he had already drained his glass; and of course, after the champagne, and with the change into the cold air, it got into his head; and I had to take the reins before we'd gone two miles. That's the whole story, Odeyne. I'm awfully sorry you saw him, but really it was the sort of accident that might happen to the soberest fellow living. Don't you remember when Mary came in dripping that day of the thunderstorm last summer year, how we gave her some hot brandy and water, and she couldn't walk straight after it?"

"Yes, I remember," said Odeyne with rather dry lips. "Thank you for coming and explaining it, Edmund. I suppose it was only an accident. But I wish it hadn't happened! Oh, I wish it hadn't happened!"

"So do I," answered Edmund sincerely. "But, honestly, Odeyne, I don't think it's anything to trouble over seriously. Desmond hasn't a very strong head, and Algy had no business to give him that fiery stuff. He didn't think what he was doing when he drank it. It wasn't as if he had the least craving. It was forced upon him when he was in a merry, rollicking mood, and he took it without a thought, as I was nearly doing myself."

"I will try not to make too much of it," answered Odeyne. "I should not mind quite so much if the servants had not seen. I am afraid it will be all over the place soon."

"I'm afraid servants see such much worse sights than that in many houses that this won't make much impression on them," answered Edmund. "All your people are fond of Desmond. He is a very kind and considerate master. Now go to bed, little sister, and we will look after Desmond. A headache to-morrow will be all the result of to-night's mischance—and probably a resolve not to be careless in such a fashion in the future."

Walter Garth walked up from the station in the snow-lighted darkness, to see welcoming ruddy gleams shining out of the window of his pretty cottage home. His footstep outside was apparently heard from within, and Alice opened the door, standing looking out into the darkness—a pretty picture of homely prosperity and cheerful affection.

"Is that you, Walter? How late you are!"

"Yes, it was the train. There was a bad fog in town. I thought we should never get out. Glad we don't have to live in that choking reek, little wife. One can breathe down here!"

Alice relieved him of his coat, went through what was evidently a little daily pantomime of searching his pockets, and brought out a box of bonbons from one of them. It seemed as though Garth had taken a leaf out of Desmond's book, for he seldom returned home without some little trifling gift for his wife. Often enough it was a small household requisite he had been asked to buy, but a parcel of some sort he almost always had, and Alice had come to look upon it as her rightful due.

"Anything happened up at the house?" asked Walter, as he sat warming himself before the fire luxuriously.

"What sort of thing do you mean?" asked Alice, who was bending over the tea-pot, kettle in hand.

"Why, the master wasn't in town to-day; and yet he hadn't sent for me to go to him for orders this morning. Of course I thought he would be there himself, and told them so; but he didn't come, and Mr. Drake was rather put out. He said there were letters waiting to be answered, and that the master had them, and should have sent them in if he wasn't coming himself. They rather jumped upon me. But I couldn't help it."

"Of course not," answered Alice. "Well, it's just like this; the master came home screwed from Mrs. Vanborough's ball last night. This morning he had a tremendous headache, and couldn't think about business anyhow. He didn't get up till twelve, and then they say he was as cross as a bear. It's a shame! because it puts about the mistress so. She has looked like a ghost all day."

Walter Garth gave vent to a low whistle.

"I hope that's not a failing of the master's though! I had no idea of it!"

"Oh no, it isn't now," answered Alice quickly. "Thomson says there was a time once, when he was at college and got into a fast set, when he would take too much now and again; but he's been quite better of that for ever so long now. It was just an accident last night—nothing more."

Walter looked rather grim.

"It's the sort of accident that may cost him dear if he does not look out. Mr. Desmond St. Claire has a good deal of quick cleverness, and he's been uncommonly lucky, I will say—partly because I've looked sharp after things too. But he hasn't too much ballast on board; and he'd be one to lose his head pretty badly if he took to losing. Besides, he can't afford to play fast and loose with all the irons he has in the fire just now. That headache of his to-day will cost him several hundred pounds, and perhaps lose him as much more."

Alice looked quite aghast.

"Oh, Walter, is that possible?"

"To be sure it is. He's been speculating in several things, and has had rather a lot in the Chou-Chou mines, which are being boomed just now. He ought to have sold to-day. I did, and my little speculation brought me twenty-five pounds profit. He has hundreds where I have tens. I expected a telegram all day, but never got one. I believe the boom's over now, and that they will come tumbling down like a house of cards! Well, he can afford to lose now and again. He's been piling up money in fine style lately. Sometimes I'm half afraid of his luck—lest it should make him reckless, or that it should get whispered about in the office. And that would never do!"

A great deal of this was as Greek to Alice, but she understood very well that her husband had made twenty-five pounds in a day, and her eyes sparkled at the thought.

She asked a good many questions that made Walter laugh a good deal, and finally she said in a puzzled voice—

"But I don't still understand where all the money comes from."

"Oh, out of the pockets of poor fools, who speculate without understanding what they are about. They think these boomed affairs are going to turn into something very wonderful, and rush in and buy when they are very high. Then we, who know how the thing really stands, sell high what we've bought for almost nothing, get our money, and then down they go with a crash, and the fools are left lamenting, with waste-paper certificates for their proceedings!"

"Oh, but, Walter, isn't that rather hard on them?"

"Gives them a very good lesson, which, if they take to heart, may save them from further losses. People who don't know what they're about shouldn't gamble in stocks."

"But, then, if there were none of these fools, as you call them, left, how would you make your money?" asked Alice ingenuously, and Walter laughed.

"Well, it seems a merciful arrangement or provision of Providence that the race of fools never becomes extinct," he answered. "As fast as one set collapses another rises up. It is seldom that dupes are not to be had—if only the wirepullers know what they are about."

"Is it quite honest to take their money and give them only waste paper in return?" asked Alice.

"They get their money's value when they buy. Of course, if they choose to hold on too long—till the thing drops to half, or bursts up altogether—that is their affair. In all buying and selling the purchaser takes a certain risk that the goods may be accidentally destroyed. It's the same on the Stock Exchange. They can get good things for their money if they try. But if ignorant fools dabble in risky speculations—well, they deserve to come to grief."

"I hope you won't come to grief," said Alice anxiously. "I should hate to be poor, and to have people making remarks. They would be sure to be spiteful, because they are jealous of me for having got such a pretty home and such nice clothes. They say I have been made a favourite of, and that favourites never come to a good end."

"Who say so?" asked Walter quickly.

"Oh, the girls up at the house. They have always been rather jealous of me, because the mistress has me about her and talks to me. They don't quite like it because I've married better than they can expect to do. And the master thinking so much of you doesn't please them much either. I take them presents of chocolates and things, just to show I bear no malice, and that I am rich enough to buy such things. But they would be delighted, I know, if we came down in the world. So take care you don't, Walter dear."

"Not I!" he answered confidently. "I go about with my eyes open, and I have plenty of irons in the fire. I always do say it doesn't do to have all your eggs in one basket. And now, wifie, what did you say about that diamond necklace the mistress had given her on Christmas Day? Did you say you had set your heart upon having one like it for your next ball?"

Alice opened her eyes wide; she had not said or even thought of any such thing, that she could remember, but her face flushed at the bare idea.

"Farmer Blackthorne's eldest daughter is going to be married early in the spring, and I've heard that there'll be a fine to-do when that happens. Now, if you'd like a necklace made just like the mistress's—in my sort of diamonds—well, I think I could manage that out of my little winnings! I like my wife to put them all to shame, and if the diamonds aren't real, at least they sparkle just as much, and look as pretty."

"Oh, Walter, you are good! I should like that! And the mistress will never know. She won't be much about at that time. Can you really get it made?"

"Of course I can, if you can take the pattern of the necklace very carefully for me, or bring it down here some evening for me to take the pattern myself, which would be almost better. Then I could have one made to look just like it, and you can copy one of her dresses too, and play my lady for all the world."

Alice looked delighted. She had been called "my lady" half in derision, half in admiration, at the last ball she had attended, and her vain little head was almost turned with the compliments received. It was delightful to think of figuring again in even finer trim on another occasion, and Alice had tried on her mistress's jewels often enough to know that they looked most becoming and beautiful clasped round her slender neck.

"Oh, I'll bring it down to-morrow evening. I'll just manage to bend the clasp, or something, cleaning them, and ask leave to take them down for you to mend. Everybody knows how clever you are with your fingers. You won't want it long, I suppose? I can run back with it in an hour or so?"

"Oh yes, a few minutes will be enough for what I want, and then you shall have your facsimile necklace, little wife!"

CHAPTER XII.

LITTLE GUY.

Winter had given place to spring; the first bright coldness of that fitful season had yielded to the balmier airs and warmer suns of May. All the world seemed astir with happiness and life, and there was joy within the walls of the Chase, because a beautiful little boy had been born to Odeyne, and it seemed as if the little heir had indeed the prospect of every happiness and indulgence that wealth and love could bestow.

Who more proud and glad than Desmond when the glad news was told? He quite won afresh the heart of Mrs. Hamilton by his tenderness to his wife and child. And when the doctor, not quite satisfied with the tardiness of Odeyne's recovery, suggested change of air for her, no one could more unselfishly have set his own comfort aside, and forwarded the scheme for mother and child to pay a visit to the Rectory House in Devonshire, than did Desmond.

Of course it was a sacrifice; for he could not come too. It was impossible to leave business for any length of time. He promised visits as they could be managed—a run down now and then, whenever he could get away. But he would not let Odeyne consider his loneliness, or make any arrangements for a speedy return. She was to stay with her own people till she was really strong again. Her health was to be the first consideration in everything.

"It is so good of Desmond to make my way easy," said Odeyne to Mrs. St. Claire, who was paying one of her periodic visits to her grandson, of whom she was immensely proud. "I do want to get strong again; and if they think the change will do it, of course there is nowhere I should like so well to be; but it is hard to leave Desmond. I suppose," with a little appealing glance at her visitors, "that you and Maud could not come to stay here till I get back?"

Odeyne observed that Maud flushed from brow to chin, and bent over the baby to hide it. Maud was now very tender and gentle to Odeyne, and they felt that a strong bond united them, although they seldom had opportunity for intimate talks. She was rather surprised at this sudden flush, and looked at Mrs. St. Claire, who replied in her slightly incisive way—

"Well, my dear, that did occur to me; but perhaps it was not a well-judged thought. It does not do to change the mistress of the house too often; and as Desmond pointed out, whilst thanking us for the kind proposal, it is quite possible you may soon be able to come back yourself, and perhaps it is making rather a needless fuss over the matter."

"Then you did suggest it to Desmond? He did not tell me."

"No, my dear. You are not to be troubled about arrangements. Desmond evidently has ideas of his own, and will not be solitary altogether. He has some bachelor friends he wants to ask down. The house has been rather shut up for some time now. He will enjoy a little male society again, and, of course, Maud might be rather in his way."

"He has had Guy all this time," said Odeyne. "He has not spoken of being dull; but then Desmond is so unselfish!"

"A very good quality in a man, my dear," said Mrs. St. Claire briskly, as she rose to go. "Take care you keep him up to it. Well, I suppose I shall not see you again before you leave; but mind you come back well and strong, for you will have to pick up the reins of government with a strong hand when you return. Don't spoil the boy! Though he is too young yet to be much the wiser if you do. I always think I spoiled Desmond—my only boy—and I have repented it since."

She took the child from Maud and gazed at him long and earnestly.

"More like a Hamilton than a St. Claire, I should say," she remarked. "Well, perhaps it is best so."

Odeyne did not quite hear; she was talking to Maud.

"You think you cannot come down for the christening? Do if you can! I should so like it!"

"I will if I can leave mother; but she is more dependent on me than she will allow. However, I shall be godmother, whether I am there or not! You won't cheat me out of that?"

"Of course not. Mary shall be sponsor for you; and you don't mind his being Guy Desmond? It is Desmond's wish that the Guy shall come first. He won't have two Desmonds in the house."

"No, it makes confusion. Guy is a pretty name. And it is natural you should like your father to christen him. Well, good-bye, dear; I will come if I can, and I will look after Desmond in your absence as well as he will let me!"

Odeyne thanked her and took her boy into her arms. She was not a bit uneasy or unhappy. She had been upstairs for many weeks now. She had her mother with her; Guy was in the house to be a companion to Desmond; and he was tenderness itself when he paid his frequent visits to her. His punctuality and regularity at business had evoked much praise from Mrs. Hamilton, and as she lived almost entirely with her daughter, she had seen nothing to excite any uneasiness.

Little Guy could not fail to be the object of the most absorbing interest to mother and grandmother; and Desmond himself was proud of his son to an extent that was amusing to see.

He brought him the costliest corals and bells, as though he expected him to begin to cut his teeth forthwith, and provoked peals of mirth from the fat, comfortable nurse by his remarks and suggestions for his son's comfort, as well as by the extraordinary medley of offerings he brought.

"Sir, sir, you'll kill the blessed lamb!" was the exclamation constantly heard from the inner room; but little Guy grew and flourished apace notwithstanding.

Of course it was a wrench to Odeyne to contemplate leaving husband and home for a slightly indefinite period; but there was joy in the thought of seeing all the dear home faces, and showing her boy in the old place; and she intended to get strong very fast, so that she might soon return to her duties here. Moreover she confidently expected Desmond would make a way of coming to see her for a week or two later on, when the present press of business was over. Maud had smilingly said that Desmond, like men in general, could mostly find a way of carrying out any pet project; and what could be nearer his heart than a visit to the Rectory, to see wife and son, and perhaps fetch them home?

Odeyne had several callers during the last days before she quitted home. She had not yet been downstairs, but she saw her friends in the pleasant room which had been turned into a boudoir for her during these last weeks, and which was very near her own room.

Here it was that Guy would come and sit with her, whilst her mother took an airing, looked a little after household matters, or paid calls on those who had called upon her. Guy was with her when the Ritchie sisters were announced, and as Jem immediately took almost forcible possession of Odeyne, Cissy fell to the lot of Guy to entertain.

Jem was disconsolate at Odeyne's threatened absence.

"Just as we thought you would be coming out again, and the Chase open to all the world! We all looked forward to the garden parties you would give, and the nice things that would go on when you were about again! It's not been half so amusing since you have been shut up—and now you are going away altogether for ever so long!"

"Not for ever so long, only for a few weeks; and we will try to make up for it later on, and have plenty of parties. And you shall go on having your drives, Jem. I will see about that. You are looking all the better for them, I think."

"Father says they are the making of me," answered Jem, who was decidedly stronger than she had been in the winter. "And it's angelic of you to send the carriage for us as you do. It does mother a lot of good too, I can tell you. But it isn't the same as when you're there! I wish you weren't going away. I don't like it a bit—nobody does."

Odeyne laughed. Jem's girlish adoration of herself was well known to her by this time, and was not unwelcome. Moreover, Jem's frankness of speech often gave her an insight behind the scenes which was sometimes useful. She had learnt a good deal from her free-spoken little friend, albeit Jem had sometimes been cautioned against a freedom that bordered on impertinence.

And now her unruly tongue betrayed her into a remark which an older and wiser person would have hesitated to make.

"I do hope you won't stay away too long! They all say that it will be so bad for Desmond if you do! There has been a difference in him since you have been shut up so many weeks."

And then Jem, catching the look in Odeyne's eyes, suddenly stopped and grew crimson.

"I beg your pardon, I don't think I ought to have said that."

"No, dear, I don't think you ought," answered Odeyne quietly; "but never mind, little harum-scarum. I know your tongue runs away with you too fast sometimes! We will not quarrel, you and I, this last day. You want to see little Guy, don't you? Run and tell nurse to bring him."

Jem went with a crimson face, but soon forgot her confusion in the delight of baby-worship. Hitherto Jem had dubbed all babies alike as "nasty little red-faced things—as like as peas in pods!" But Guy was in her eyes the noble exception. He was like nobody but his darling self; and certainly he was an exceptionally pretty and good-tempered baby.

Odeyne forgot her momentary vexation and uneasiness in watching the pretty play between the pair on the floor; and she also observed something else between the pair in the window, which caused her to look at them somewhat more closely, with a curious thrill at heart.

When at last Cissy rose and said good-bye, she held her hands rather long, and said—

"If Desmond should not be able to come and fetch me home when the time comes, and I want a companion, do you think you could spare time to run down and see us all, and take care of baby and me on the return journey?"

Cissy's face was instantly flooded with bright colour, and the confused delight of her reply caused Odeyne to look steadily at Guy, when the door had closed behind the sisters, to find an answering glow upon his cheek.

"Guy, is it so?" she asked gently.

He came forward and put his hand upon her shoulder.

"I don't know how to answer you," he said; "I never thought of anything at first, except what a sweet unselfish girl she was. She used to come in and out so often, and was so fond of you. We generally talked of you when we got together—of you or of Desmond, and somehow we grew intimate very quickly. But you know I have never looked upon myself all these years as anything but a rickety old bachelor. I hardly know how I have let myself dream of anything different. Certainly I am much better and stronger than I used to be, but——"

"You are as strong now as many men who marry and enjoy quite reasonably good health!" cried Odeyne eagerly. "Oh, Guy, it would be delightful if you would come and live near us. When you get Uncle Godfrey's money——"

"Yes, I know," interrupted Guy quickly, "but somehow I don't like waiting for dead men's shoes. I wish I could do something for myself."

"I don't think you are strong enough for that," said Odeyne, "and you know dear old Uncle Godfrey made you his heir just because you were the delicate one of the sons, and could not go out into the world. I'm sure if you were to tell him all about yourself and Cissy it would please him very much. He has always called you 'his boy,' and been so fond of you."

"I would tell him gladly, if there were anything to tell," answered Guy; "but you know I have not spoken a single word yet. She may perhaps have guessed something—one can't be always quite as careful as one intends. Oh, Odeyne, do you really think there would be a chance for me, and that it would not be selfish to try and get her? You know I have been a very troublesome fellow in my time, and might be so again. You had a good dose of it, and know what it is like!"

"If you don't give her a worse time than you gave me, you need have no fears," answered Odeyne with shining eyes. "Oh, I am very pleased. I like all the Ritchies, and Cissy is particularly unselfish and sweet. Some day we will drive across to Uncle Godfrey and tell him all about it; you know Desmond is sending down one of the carriages and a pair of horses for my use at home; and then we will have Cissy over and take her to see him. His dear old heart will make room for her at once in its warm depths."

So now Odeyne had another and very vivid new interest with reference to this visit home. For the old great-uncle, who lived not far away, and who was Guy's godfather, and had made the boy his heir long ago, was now very aged and in a critical state of health, and Odeyne was desirous to see him again, as her father was of opinion that he would hardly last through the summer. At his death Guy would succeed to a modest independence of about five hundred a year—certainly not a large income according to Desmond's ideas, but enough for persons of modest tastes and inexpensive habits to set up housekeeping in a quiet way. Guy had talents which might be turned to account to augment that income by a little, and Cissy had a thousand pounds of her own (though Guy did not know that), Dr. Ritchie having set aside this sum for each of his children, to be paid over on their making an independent start in life. The idea of Guy's setting up near to her, as she believed he would if he should succeed to his inheritance, was a source of the greatest pleasure to Odeyne, and helped her to forget Jem's hasty words about Desmond, which occurred to her once or twice, and which she had some thoughts of naming to Guy, asking if he thought they required explanation.

And now the day of departure had come, and Desmond was helping his wife into the carriage with the greatest tenderness and care, kissing away her starting tears, promising to run down very soon to visit her, and indulging fond hopes of seeing her back well and strong before many weeks had passed.

Odeyne clung to him passionately, her heart almost failing her at the last, begging him to take care of himself, to send for her if he wanted her, to be all that he had been since their marriage. Not more openly than this would Odeyne allude even to him to the anxieties that sometimes preyed upon her in secret; and Desmond kissed her again, pressed her hands, and promised, bidding her dry her eyes, and not set little Guy howling by the force of example.

Alice was standing by the carriage with the baby in her arms, her own tears falling slowly one by one.

There had been a little discussion once as to whether she should accompany Odeyne in the capacity of nurse; but it had been decided that it would not be right to take her from her husband, even though he was obliging and accommodating when the plan had been proposed.

Alice had not been specially eager to go, although greatly devoted to Odeyne and little Guy; so the monthly nurse had been retained, pending other arrangements, and now Alice almost wished that she were going after all.

It was so hard to part from her mistress and the darling boy, and her life would be a lonely one without the house to come to.

"You must look a little after the master's comforts, Alice," said Odeyne; "keep his clothes in nice order, and write to me about things at home sometimes."

And Alice promised through her tears, and watched the departure of the carriage with blinded eyes, feeling somehow (although she could never have expressed it in such words) as though the good angel of the house were flying away from it, leaving it open to other and more baneful influences.

Two days later, when her husband came back from the City, he said to her gaily—

"How would you like to live up at the great house, wifie, whilst the mistress is away? The master has been talking to me about it. He thinks it would be a very good plan."

"To live at the house?" questioned Alice, "but why? What should we do there?"

"Well, he is going to have a good deal of company down, one way or the other, and of course that means he will not be able to go into business quite so regularly. So to have me on the premises will be a great advantage, he thinks, and save a lot of time and trouble. It really may be a good thing in other ways, Alice; for the master does want a bit of looking after, more ways than one; and he's got into the way of talking very freely to me, and taking what I say in very good part."

"But what should I do there all day, not having the mistress to see to?" asked Alice.

"Oh, you could look after things a bit—put flowers in the rooms, and see to the gentlemen's mending and washing. You could make yourself useful in lots of little ways, and have a good time too. It would save us all housekeeping expenses, and it might be a good thing for us other ways too."

Alice was not quite sure that she thought it a comfortable plan; but she liked variety, and rather dreaded the dulness of the lodge in the absence of her mistress. She had friends as well as enemies amongst the servants at the house, and on the whole she thought it might be an amusing change.

"What sort of company is the master going to keep?" she asked with some interest. "I didn't hear anything about that from the mistress."

Garth laughed a little.

"Gentlemen like the master don't tell everything to their wives, my dear, whatever some good folks may do. The master has been a very exemplary husband, but he has had a precious dull time of it lately, and now he's going to have his little fling. I don't blame him either. It must be rather dull work tied to a sort of saint, like the mistress, and not a clever one either. I often wonder what he finds in her to be so fond of. She's not a patch upon my wife, now, in the matter of looks, and she hasn't got that little spice of the devil in her which makes a woman ten times more irresistible, and which my little Alice can display at the right time."

Alice pouted, and called him a bad man to say such things; but a little flattery went far with her, and greatly as she loved her mistress, she was always a little flattered at being favourably compared with her.

Two days later the Garths removed to the quarters assigned them in the big house; and already Alice noted a difference in the atmosphere that reigned there. A little relaxation of rules had taken place during the time that the mistress was unable to take an active part in domestic government; but so long as Mrs. Hamilton was in the house to give orders by proxy, nothing very remarkable had happened. A little more waste, a little more extravagance, irregularity at church, later hours than there was need for, had crept in; but things had gone pretty much in the old grooves so long as there were ladies in the house; but with only gentlemen to look after, things at once became different.

To begin with, the cook was sent on a holiday on full wages, whilst her place was taken by a French man-cook, who, it was whispered, received wages large enough to keep a curate and his family in clover. A smart-looking housekeeper was added to the establishment—only till the return of the mistress—and she and the cook carried on an endless flirtation together; but as they were both excessively polite to Alice and her husband, and treated them almost as though they were guests in the house, the girl was very well content with the life and the variety of her daily round, kept all the rooms bright with flowers, decorated the dinner-table day by day, and gave all those dainty touches to the house which in the absence of the mistress it would otherwise have lacked.

As for the guests, she soon ceased to keep count of them and their names. They came and went in a confusing medley. Sometimes the house was full from basement to attic. Sometimes it would empty out, and Desmond and his guests would all depart upon a drag and be absent several days. When at home they kept very late hours, playing billiards or cards, often until daylight broke in upon them. Sometimes the master went up to London, but more often he sent Garth in his place; and Alice would often notice a shadow of uneasiness upon her husband's face.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked him one day.

"Nothing special, but I'm afraid the master is going it too fast. He's broken out worse than I thought for. He does not have bad luck on the whole—and he is uncommonly good at billiards. I can watch him there, for they have me in to mark for them. But he's going the pace altogether too fast. He wasn't made for it. He hasn't the head to stand it. I look after everything for him as sharp as I can; and he's very good about taking hints from me—I will say that for him. But it would do him a world of good to go down to the country for a spell. He's been drinking more wine than is good for him these last few nights, and that I dread more than anything. He can't stand it, and if he once takes to it, it'll ruin everything, sooner or later."

Alice looked rather frightened.

"It would break the mistress's heart if he took to drink," she said. "O, Walter, don't you think I'd better write and ask her to come back?"

He turned upon her almost roughly—

"Don't be a little fool, Alice! Can't you see that no power on earth could stop the master just in the middle of his little fling, and with all the race meetings and everything coming off? No, the only chance is to wait till they are over, till he has had a sharpish lesson perhaps, or is a bit sickened with the crew he is getting about him. That will happen by-and-by, I daresay; and then if the mistress comes back—well, she may just have a chance of putting a spoke in the wheel. It is a thousand pities some men can never keep their heads! Why, with care and prudence, going on quietly and steadily, the master might have died a millionaire; but the way he's going now he's more likely to die in a ditch!"

"O, Walter, but can't anything be done?"

"I'm doing all I can, and that's a good bit, I can tell you; for it wouldn't suit my plans at all for the master's affairs to bust up (as the Yankees say) just yet awhile. But they are getting suspicious about him at the office, wonder why he doesn't come, and what the rumours mean which get about. He'll have to be a bit more quiet and prudent if he means to keep out of trouble. I wish Mrs. Vanborough and her set were farther! It's they who do half the mischief. Things wouldn't be nearly so bad but for them. If it doesn't end in the Hon. Algernon coming an awful mucker, and dragging the master down with him—well, I shall be very much surprised."

Nevertheless, in spite of gloomy prognostications, there was plenty of fun in the house. In the absence of the master and his guests at the races the servants got up balls, and invited their friends, and Alice figured on one occasion in one of Odeyne's ball dresses—slightly worn it is true, but very fine for the maid, and in the imitation set of diamonds, which the envious maids declared that nobody would know from the real. And Alice's giddy little head was soon turned by all the flattery she received, though letters to her mistress only spoke of bright and pleasant topics such as village gossip afforded.

"Mrs. St. Claire can tell her other things, if she thinks she ought to know them," she reflected, and held her peace.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE HOME-COMING.

"I am so sorry that Desmond has never found time to come over, mother dear; it has been quite a disappointment to us both. But you understand how it has been, and that business has to be considered; and he has had friends to entertain at home, too. I am very glad he has not been alone all the time; but, oh, how I do want to see him again!"

"I am sure you must, dear child. We have enjoyed having you more than I can say, and we shall miss you and the boy terribly. But now that you really are well and strong, I would not keep you away from Desmond longer. A large house wants its mistress at the helm. You must not be discouraged if you find things gone a little out of gear during your absence. Desmond is too easy-going to be quite the best master, and bachelor ways are not our ways. Still, a little firmness and a patient, cheerful, prayerful spirit will help you along wonderfully, and there is always little Guy for your comfort and solace."

"And Desmond, mother dear," said Odeyne, with her old bright smile; "Desmond must come even before little Guy."

"Yes, my love, I hope so indeed; and having a little child to think for and to train up ought to be dear Desmond's great help and motive in setting a good example to his household and the world. I know you will help him all you can, my dear. But the unconscious influence of a little child is often an immense power."

Odeyne did not altogether understand some of her mother's words. Mrs. Hamilton was parting from her daughter with some uneasiness of spirit; for she had had a long letter from Mrs. St. Claire a few days before, and since then she had seemed in haste to send Odeyne and the boy back to the Chase.

They had paid a long visit at the Rectory, for Odeyne had not made the rapid progress hoped for, and Desmond kept insisting that she should not be hurried, that she must get quite strong before she returned, and that he was getting along very comfortably. His letters were full of affection, and Odeyne fully believed that it was business and business alone which kept him from running down as promised. She was very happy in her present life with her brothers and sisters, her parents, and her child. She was always looking forward to the expected visit which never came; and now she was going back to her husband and her home with a happy heart, quite prepared for a few difficulties and worries in the household, but confident that her husband's loving support would be hers in whatever might arise.

She had engaged a very nice gentlewoman as nurse for little Guy, and she was eager beyond words to present the beautiful boy to his father. She was full of this thought as they neared the familiar country, and when every landmark became known to her, and she could almost see the woods and chimneys of the Chase as the train flew onwards towards the station, she took the baby into her own arms, and leaned eagerly out of the window to catch the first glimpse of Desmond as the train steamed up.

There were several persons on the platform, but for a moment she did not see her husband. Then one of the figures made a rapid sign and movement towards her. It gave Odeyne a momentary shock to realise that she had seen her husband without recognising him!

"Oh, Desmond!" she cried, as he flung open the carriage door, "I hardly knew you with a moustache! It seems to have changed you somehow."

"Does it? Oh, you will soon learn to know me with it! Well, how are you, my darling? Quite strong and well again? That is right. What, am I to kiss that little rogue too?—and in face of all the railway porters? Have you taught him to say 'Daddy' yet, eh?"

"Desmond! he is only four months old!"

"Too young to talk? Well, he will learn quite fast enough, I dare say. Give him to nurse, love, and come to the carriage. She and the child will follow in the station brougham with the luggage. Well, how are they all at the old home? And has Guy come into his fortune yet?"

"Don't talk of it quite so lightly, Desmond dear; we all love Uncle Godfrey, and shall grieve for him when he goes. I saw him to say good-bye, and he looked terribly frail. Guy is staying in the house with him. It is a comfort to all of us, and he likes it. It will not be long now, I fear."

"Well, well, he is very old, you see; and it will be a good thing for Guy. So you had little Cissy down, did you? And they got matters squared up between them? I never thought Guy would be the first brother to marry; but then he has really the best prospects. I've got my suspicions about Edmund here; but an army man has to think twice about matrimony in these days. Not but what Maud's got a tidy little fortune of her own."

"Oh, Desmond!" cried Odeyne, her breath rather taken away by Desmond's rattling talk, "do you really mean that?"

"I mean I have my suspicions. I notice they always gravitate together in society, and all that sort of thing. It may be my fancy, but I've got the notion that he's rather smitten by old Maud. I never thought her fascinating myself, but other fellows may have different tastes."

"Maud has always been your great champion, Desmond," said Odeyne, with just a touch of reproach in her voice.

Somehow she felt a little vague sense of chill and jar in this first meeting with Desmond. He seemed more inclined to rattle on in a half nonsensical fashion, than either to ask or answer the questions that seemed so all-important to her.

And then, had he really changed, or was it only her fancy? Of course the moustache made a difference; but was there nothing else?

She looked at him again and again, and seemed to miss something that had once been there. What it was she could not say, but she felt she missed something in his face, and something in his manner towards herself, that had always been there before.

It was not affection exactly; he was full of welcoming words and affectionate speeches, but his manner was a little boisterous; there was a lack of softness and tenderness about it. He laughed and made jokes all the way home, and put aside any inquiries of hers with a jesting response.

Somehow Odeyne had pictured a different kind of meeting, and was just a little chilled. Then she reproached herself, and argued that the fault was her own for staying so long away from home.

Desmond had been thrown upon bachelor society, and it had had this slight and passing effect upon his outward man.

Then they drove up, and Odeyne found herself at home again.

There were changes in the house, too, which her quick eyes noted at once.

Butler and footman were both strangers to her. There was a good deal of new furniture in the house, but yet it did not look as well-furnished as of yore, for there was a certain indefinable appearance of confusion and disorder. Moreover, the whole house was permeated by a smell of tobacco smoke. It seemed to cling about the draperies in spite of any number of open windows and the scent of the flowers; and it certainly gave a little shock to Odeyne to realise that her dainty drawing-room, in which she took such pride and pleasure, had not been kept sacred from the entrance of smokers.

Upstairs, things were more like themselves, save for the all-pervading scent of tobacco. Alice was awaiting her mistress with an eager welcome.

Odeyne thought that she also was changed. She looked rather pale and thin, her eyes were very bright, and she was dressed, perhaps, a little too much for her position; but Odeyne had always been lenient to Alice's little vanities.

She would have liked to ask a good deal about the master and the household, but somehow Alice gave her no satisfaction. Her answers were vague and unsatisfactory; and she seemed to be listening all the while for the arrival of little Guy and her lady's luggage.

When the child did come, Odeyne herself forgot everything in the interest of inducting him into his nurseries, and Alice's delight in the boy atoned for all else.

Then she had to go down to give Desmond his tea, and surely now, she thought, they would take up their old sweet relations together.

She would tell him all she had done at home, and hear all the details of his life during her absence.

Odeyne talked on about the home-life at the Rectory, and gave him innumerable messages sent by old friends there, or recounted the sayings of the local wiseacres about the beauty and promise of little Guy; and Desmond laughed and made semi-nonsensical replies, but seemed somehow as though he hardly took in all that she was saying. His attention kept wandering off, she knew not whither, and at last she asked gently—

"Is anything the matter, Desmond?"

He started and looked hard at her, saying almost roughly—

"What do you mean? What should be the matter?"

"Nothing, dear; I only thought you seemed preoccupied, and not quite like yourself. But perhaps it is only my fancy."

"You always were rather given to fancy things, weren't you?" he answered, laughing. "You'd better give up the habit, it's rather a tiresome one. Of course a man always has his own cares."

"Yes, and you have had my share too, all this while, dear; I am afraid you have had trouble with the household. I see you have different servants. I hope Thomson has not left altogether. Perhaps he is away for a holiday?"

"Oh, no! He took himself off, and so did several more. You will find a good many of the upper servants new. I've got a housekeeper, too, but, of course, if you don't like her, you can send her packing. But I think she understands her business, and will be useful. You see, dear, we must live a little differently now, and entertain and go out altogether more than we have done. We have had a very delightful honeymoon sort of time, but we must not make ourselves ridiculous. You are quite well now, and we have our position to keep up. We must begin now to do as other people of our position do. It does not answer to be odd."

"I did not know we were odd," said Odeyne, with a little smile, though there was a strange sinking at her heart. "But, of course, if you want things to be different you have only to say so. I will do my best to please you."

"Of course you will; you are a capital little woman, and only want to see a little more of life to be quite perfect. You see we shall soon be having the shooting upon us, and then we shall have the house full; or else pay visits ourselves to other houses, where there are pleasant gatherings; and when the season comes, we must have our house in town for a while. Beatrice has her eye upon one quite near theirs. You must be presented, and all that. I don't consider that you've seen anything of the world yet, little wife. I mean to introduce it to you now."

Desmond rattled on in that vein all through the day.

He wandered by Odeyne's side through the gardens after tea, talking the whole time, and speaking of so many new friends and acquaintances that she grew quite bewildered.

He came with her to the nurseries to see the child when she asked him; but he very soon had enough of the boy, and bore her off with him, declaring that it was his turn now, and that he wasn't going to be ousted by his son; and Odeyne smiled through all, and tried to think that soon she would get into the swing of things here, and that it was only her fancy that they had so greatly changed.

The dinner was rather a surprise to her; it was served with a quiet elaboration that was altogether new. All the dishes were handed, and the variety and richness of these was quite a revelation. It was beautifully dainty, but she knew enough of housekeeping to feel a qualm at the cost of such cookery.

"Oh, it's not poor old Masters!" answered Desmond with a laugh, when she spoke to him afterwards. "I sent that good soul packing some time ago; indeed, I let her go for a holiday directly, and then wrote and told her to get another situation elsewhere. This fellow is quite an artist in his way. He is a first-rate chef. And you needn't bother any more with ordering the dinners, little wife. He does all that, and the housekeeper gets him all he wants. It's far more comfortable than the old way."

"But, Desmond, the expense!"

"Oh, well, until I begin to grumble at the bills you needn't trouble your economical little head about that! All I want of my wife is to dress up and look pretty and bright, and be charming to my friends. The rest of the things can take care of themselves. You needn't bother, my darling."

But Odeyne herself felt that the foundations of domestic life were giving way with her; nor was she reassured upon the morrow, when Desmond kept warning her that she need not hurry over her toilet, as they seldom breakfasted before ten.

"But your train to the City, Desmond," she said. "And we ought to have prayers before the servants disperse to their work."

"Oh, my dear child, we never have prayers now. It's quite out of fashion. People don't understand that sort of thing now, and it doesn't do to make ourselves ridiculous, or to ram those antiquated customs down the throats of our friends. I'm sure you would never get your present establishment into that function. Don't look so scandalised, my love. I assure you that you hardly ever find a house of any pretensions whatever where they have family prayers!"

"I do not think I quite believe that, Desmond," answered Odeyne very gravely. "But even if it were true, I cannot see that it is any excuse for us, who have been taught better, to omit the gathering together of our household to ask God's blessing. Do you think we shall not be in danger of losing that blessing, to a greater or less extent, if we are ashamed to ask it openly because of the sneers of a portion of society?"

"My dear girl," said Desmond a little sharply, "you have been brought up so strictly that you cannot weigh these things. In a household such as ours, prayers would be simply a mockery, and be thought a fearful nuisance by every person except yourself. I don't intend religion to be rammed down reluctant throats in my house, so let us have no more discussion about the matter."

Odeyne was silenced, but the smart of tears was in her eyes. Desmond had never taken that tone with her before, and it cut her to the heart.

There were other troubles in store for her that day. Desmond took the eleven o'clock train to town—he always used to go by the earlier one—and she was left alone to make discoveries for herself. She wished to learn something of the life that went on below stairs, but was quickly made to feel herself an intruder upon a province with which she had no concern.

The fine housekeeper was courteous, but freezing, and evidently not accustomed to take orders save in the most general way from the mistress. The French cook was obsequious and bland, but altogether overpowering. There were only a few of the under-servants left whom Odeyne had engaged or known, and these had grown smart and pert in their appearance and manner. She felt as though she would never again be mistress in her own house, and was thankful in the extreme that she had at least one servant of her own choosing in the nursery, and resolved to keep that department under her strict surveillance. The housekeeper graciously permitted her to give orders of her own for the feeding of the child, remarking that she knew very little about such matters herself, but would take care that Mrs. St. Claire's orders were carried out.

Then Odeyne departed, and went to her own boudoir, where she sat down and indulged herself in a quiet cry, from which she was roused by the sound of voices and steps in the corridor outside.

She rose quickly, dashing away her tears; but Mrs. St. Claire's sharp eyes instantly detected them. She and Maud were her visitors, and they made no attempt to talk pleasing trivialities; but, after exchanging warm kisses, the mother at once drew Odeyne to her side and said—

"My dear, I know you must feel it. It cannot be otherwise. But you must not give way, or think that nothing can be done. Desmond's head has been turned by his successes. He has more cleverness than we have any of us given him credit for, and when a man is successful he is often extravagant and self-willed. But now that he has got his good little wife back, all will be well. You have always been his good angel, and you will continue so to the end, I am sure."

"Oh, if I had never gone away!" sobbed Odeyne, breaking down more under sympathy than she would have done had her mother-in-law spoken less kindly.

"My dear, you were sent away. It was no fault of yours. It has turned out badly, I admit; but, after all, things are not past mending. Now, dear, you know I have never intermeddled with your private affairs before, but will you tell me a little what is troubling you chiefly now? Perhaps if we take counsel together we can help and cheer one another up. And then I must see the boy; but let us get disagreeables over first."

Odeyne was only too glad to pour out her troubles into sympathetic ears, and was relieved to find that Mrs. St. Claire did not take quite so serious a view of the domestic difficulties as she had done herself.

"My dear, I am sorry your nice old-fashioned ways of household management have been disturbed; but, as things are now, I should be disposed to keep on the housekeeper to direct matters, only taking care that I held the place of her mistress. Desmond is quite bent upon having his fling at high life. And if he can afford it, perhaps he is justified in desiring it, and may settle down quietly afterwards. Probably he will tire of it in time, for stability has never been Desmond's strong point, and he takes everything in such a headlong fashion, that the recoil is usually to be reckoned on as pretty safe."

"Perhaps he is recoiling now from the quiet life we led together," said Odeyne sadly; "I was so happy all the time. I never thought that it could be tedious to him."

"I am sure it was not," said Maud, taking Odeyne's hand and caressing it covertly. "He was very happy, too. But he has got into a bad set, and they have led him on. Half of it is Algy's fault. It is his friends that do Desmond so much harm."

"And your task, my dear," said Mrs. St. Claire briskly, "is to seek to exercise a wise discretion with regard to Desmond's friends. I will give you all the help I know. Some may be encouraged and entertained, but some he should be weaned from by every possible means. You will have to go to work cautiously with Desmond, as all rather weak men have a curious strain of obstinacy in their composition, as I dare say you know. I am afraid I make you wince, my love; but I speak a truth that bitter experience has taught me. Desmond is a great many charming things, and has more wits than I gave him credit for; but he is weak and vain and obstinate, and I, his mother, may say so, though I would not suffer anybody else to do so."

Odeyne understood and could not resent the words. She talked long and earnestly with the mother and sister, who, whilst loving Desmond so devotedly, had gradually come to a knowledge of his weaknesses and vicious tendencies.

It had been very bitter to Maud to watch her brother's downward progress of late; but she had not shut her eyes to it, and she did not seek to condone his offences now. Odeyne heard things which filled her with sadness and dismay; yet she was comforted and strengthened by the visit of her husband's relatives, and the half-hour spent in the nursery made amends for much. The grandmother was delighted with little Guy, and thought him immensely improved and grown. She liked the nurse, and approved all Odeyne's arrangements. She stayed to lunch at the Chase, and left Odeyne a good deal happier than she found her, although the cloud had not lifted altogether from her spirit.

An hour or two later in sailed Beatrice, actually leading her little toddling boy by the hand.

"My dear, I could not let the day pass without coming to see you! I am delighted to get you back! How do you find Desmond looking? He is the dearest, cleverest fellow, and we make a great deal of him in our set, I can tell you! Really you have a treasure of a husband, and I hope you appreciate him. If you knew what some wives have to go through, you would!"

Odeyne had the little boy on her lap, and caressing him saved her the necessity of a direct reply. Somehow she felt she could not discuss Desmond with Beatrice, as she had done with her visitors of the morning. Beatrice was looking remarkably well and elegant, and had the air of a woman who has not a care in the world.

"We have such delightful plans. Has Desmond been telling you about them? Just a few garden parties and dull local functions, to do our duty to the neighbourhood, and then delightful house parties here and at our place, and with other friends through the autumn, and perhaps a run to Monte Carlo, or some nice sunny place in mid-winter. They say that Grindelwald is all the rage now for tobogganing; but we shall see. And then a real London season—I was cheated out of mine this last spring and summer, for Algy had let the house when we were in such low water, and really it did seem best to pay off the debts first. But we will change all that now, and be really extra gay. You will have a delightful time, Odeyne. I almost wish I could be you, to go through so many delightful first experiences."

"But, Beatrice," said Odeyne in a puzzled voice, "you talk of impossibilities. Desmond has his business to attend to, and I have a baby to consider. What do you think is to become of either if we go gallivanting about like that?"

"Oh, Desmond has his own ways of seeing to business now he is such a great man. Garth looks after things a great deal. As for the baby, my dear, you will soon find that Desmond will not let you make a slave of yourself to the child. You will have to turn into a fashionable mother, my dear, and leave him to his nurse. I have never been tied by little Gus there, and yet he is a pretty thriving specimen!"

"I do not intend to leave little Guy to the nurse," said Odeyne quietly. "I suppose you do not care to see him, Beatrice?"

"Frankly, my dear, I don't think I do," answered Beatrice laughing. "I have had enough of babies for one day, bringing mine across. When they reach the age for asking questions they become rather terrible. Thank goodness you are some way off from that yet. Ah, here is Desmond coming in. How delightful of him. Desmond, dear boy, I have a hundred things to ask you! May I stay? Or do you feel that you must have Odeyne all to yourself this first day?"

Was it Odeyne's fancy that Desmond was delighted to have a third person at their tea out on the terrace?—that he had no great desire for tête-à-têtes with his wife? The question brought a pang with it, yet it came again and again as she noticed the eager way in which he and Beatrice plunged into talk about people and things quite unknown to her. She could often hardly understand the drift of the conversation, and presently took little Gus up to the nursery to be introduced to his cousin there.

Beatrice turned rather curiously to Desmond and asked, "What does she make of it all?"

He laughed, not quite easily.

"I hardly know. I think she is puzzled; but she is a loyal little soul, and will get used to it all in time."

"I hope so. You won't let her turn you puritan again?"

"I don't think that was ever my line," answered Desmond, with an odd inflexion in his voice. "Anyhow, if it was, that day has gone for good now!"

CHAPTER XIV.

A CHANGED LIFE.

"Oh, how lovely you look! What a beautiful dress! I never saw anything so exquisite! It must have been made in fairyland! Oh, I wish I were out and could go and see all the people. Everybody says it will be such a sight!"

Jem was the speaker, and she was sitting on a corner of the sofa in Odeyne's spacious bedroom, watching Alice's deft movements as she robed her mistress for a grand fancy ball, to which she was going that night in the character of Titania, the Queen of the Fairies.

Cissy had been invited, to her great delight, and was to go under the chaperonage of Odeyne. Since it had become known that Cissy Ritchie was engaged to the brother of Mrs. Desmond St. Claire, she had risen in importance in the eyes of the neighbourhood. Guy had been much liked during his long stay at the Chase, and people were glad to hear that he intended coming to live near to his sister upon his marriage, although, as Cissy took care to inform all her friends, they should only have a small house, and live in quite a modest way.

Cissy was dressed to represent one of Titania's attendant fairies, and looked very pretty in her own way. Odeyne had had her hair redressed by Alice, and had lent her several sparkling ornaments to light up her dress and give a touch of fairylike brilliance to it. She herself was glittering from head to foot. A veritable fairy queen could scarcely have had a more splendid show of gems. Jem was entranced at her appearance, but upon Odeyne's face there rested a little shadow—a shadow that was often to be detected there now, although her gay and busy life seemed one long scene of enjoyment and success.

"What splendid jewels you have, Odeyne," said Jem, approaching the toilet table and looking into the various cases with which it was strewn. "It is like a jeweller's shop."

"Yes, I have more than I want; it is Desmond's extravagance to load me with them," answered Odeyne, smiling. "But, Alice, I don't know why you brought up all these cases from the safe. I told you I should only wear diamonds and pearls to-night."

"I did not like to trouble the master to wait whilst I looked them through," answered Alice, who, like her mistress, looked a little pale and troubled. "And you know he never lets anyone go to the safe without being there himself. So I just took all the large cases and brought them away. I am going to stay here till you come back, ma'am. I shouldn't like anybody else to undress you, and I couldn't be comfortable leaving all these things about in the room, without I was there to see after them."

Odeyne could very well understand that Alice was afraid to leave valuable jewellery lying about, even locked up in a bedroom, with the present miscellaneous household. She looked relieved as she heard the girl's words.

"Oh, if you can stay I need not trouble the master again to open the safe till we get home. But are you sure you can be spared from home, Alice? We may be very late."

"Walter is coming to do some work for the master, ma'am, and he will be writing in the study till quite late, he says. I would rather wait for him here, if I may; I don't like trusting things out of my sight or his."

"Very well, I leave all in your charge," said Odeyne; and at this moment Desmond knocked at the door and asked if he might come in and show himself. He came in, looking an Oberon worthy of Odeyne's Titania, his handsome, careless face wreathed in smiles as he turned round for his wife's inspection, and surveyed himself in the long mirror opposite.

No one could regard him without admiration, and yet it often came over Odeyne with a pang that this was not the old Desmond she had known in the days of yore. He was as gay, as merry, even as affectionate, as ever, but there was something lacking which she missed terribly and yet which defied definition—something there which she wished away, and which she yet found it impossible to complain of, so subtle and indefinite was it in essence.

In the gay life they led there was not overmuch time for thought and analysis. Desmond's idea of pleasure seemed to be always more or less in a whirl. Odeyne found her circle of acquaintances enlarging every day, and invitations poured in, which her husband insisted on accepting, and which involved them in return hospitalities on a grander scale than anything Odeyne had contemplated during her first year of wifehood.

She was often entertained and amused. She had a large capacity for enjoyment. There was a natural innocent pleasure in the grandeur of her present life, which was often present with her. But she had her troubles too; she felt very sadly the godlessness of her household, the absence of the gathering of the household for prayer in the morning, the increasing difficulty of getting her servants and even her husband to church, the hindrance sometimes placed in her own way from regular attendance there.

She strove to be patient. She prayed earnestly for guidance, and sought to combine gentleness with firmness in her dealing with others, and in her relations with her husband when differences arose. Alas! these differences were arising fast now, and Odeyne was sometimes cut to the heart to note how little Desmond seemed aware of it. He would turn the matter off with a laugh and a kiss, and seemed to think it settled; and Odeyne was learning by rather bitter experience, that fond as her husband was of her, he was by no means easily led or influenced. He had a way of slipping away from an argument, or evading a definite answer, which made it almost impossible to bring any moot point to an issue, and he went his own way with a careless obstinacy and persistency that left Odeyne feeling strangely helpless.

His good humour and gay spirits were, however, rarely impaired, and to-night he was in the merriest of moods. He wanted to dress up Jem in some sort of extemporised costume and carry her off with them. He teased Cissy about her betrothal, and made much of his wife, and even accompanied her on her final visit to the nursery, which she never omitted to pay.

All through the long drive in the pleasant cool of the summer evening he rattled away most amusingly, looking so handsome and distinguished in his bravery that Cissy thought him the most delightful of men, although in the Ritchie family there was a good deal of discussion as to whether or not Desmond St. Claire was not in danger of going the pace dangerously fast. No one could well help liking him, for his personal charm was considerable, but, as Tom Ritchie occasionally observed, it was often the most charming men who turned out the greatest scamps in the end.

The ball was a very grand affair, at the house of one of the county magnates. Cissy had never seen anything so fine before, the flowers, the lights, the magnificence of the liveried servants, and the blaze of jewels and gorgeous raiment were quite dazzling to her.

She kept close to Odeyne, who moved along with the self-possession and grace of manner which had always been characteristic of her. She seemed to know a great many people, Cissy thought, and Desmond was hailed on all sides, and seemed popular alike with men and women. Cissy did not know one-tenth of the company, but was content to look on and admire the fine folks; although when the dancing began she was pleased to find partners, and being a pretty girl, light of foot, and merry of tongue, and under the wing of Mrs. St. Claire, she did not lack notice, and enjoyed herself amazingly.

Odeyne danced a little, but often excused herself. She soon found herself a seat upon the balcony, where she could watch the dancing and keep an eye on her charge, yet enjoy the clear cool stillness of the summer's night.

Here it was that Edmund found her, wandering out in a pause of the dancing. He was in uniform, looking very handsome and gallant. Odeyne had twice remarked him in the room, dancing with Maud—who was there under Beatrice's nominal care. Now he too had to come out for a breath of air, and Odeyne rose at once and took possession of him.

"Edmund, I was hoping I should see you to-night. You come so little to the Chase now."

There was a slight accent of reproach in her voice, and he looked down at her quickly as he said—

"But, Odeyne dear, you understand why I stay away?"

Her eyes were turned upon him with a doubtful expression.

"I am not quite sure—I don't want to know too much—yet, Edmund, I think I should like to know. I have been wondering about it. I asked Desmond once, but he only laughed and said he supposed you found metal more attractive elsewhere. I think he meant Maud."

"Desmond has a right to say what he likes to you, but he knows quite well that there is a very good reason why I should not come often to the Chase now that it is always full of company. In plain words, I cannot afford it."

"What do you mean, Edmund?"

"Desmond knows well enough. It began whilst you were away, but it goes on just the same after the ladies have retired. They play very high play there, no matter whether it is cards or billiards. Most of them are rich men, and all are very careless. It may do for them, but it does not do for me. I soon saw what it must end in, and I took myself off. I don't care to come to a place and make myself conspicuous. Desmond meant very kindly in asking me. He thought I should win money by my billiard playing, which is rather good, though I say it. I did win a little, and that set me thinking. I couldn't make that sort of thing fit in with our father's teaching, nor with the sort of standard I've always tried to live up to. One doesn't want to sit in judgment on others, but I saw it wouldn't do for me, so I've been keeping aloof, as you see. But don't misunderstand me, Odeyne. It's not that I love you the least little bit less. If you were in trouble, and would send for me, I'd go through fire and water for you."

Tears had sprung to Odeyne's eyes. She could not command her voice, but she pressed Edmund's hand. His words had cut her to the heart, little as he had meant them to. The cry of her heart was, "Oh, why cannot Desmond feel that too? Why cannot he be content with all the good things God has given us?" But she could not speak these words aloud, and the next minute their retreat was invaded by Beatrice, who came sweeping down upon them in a gorgeous Cleopatra-like robe, jewels blazing upon her bare neck and arms, and her rich draperies rustling yards behind her on the floor. How she contrived to dance in them was a mystery, but she did dance when she had a mind to—not else.

"Well, what mischief are you two hatching out here together? Odeyne, why don't you dance more, and show yourself? Everybody is raving about your dress, and you hide yourself away, and don't half look after that giddy boy of yours. He's carrying on all sorts of flirtations with dowagers and wallflowers promiscuously. Have you seen the picture gallery? Well, you really should. I know this house very well. I'll do the honours for you. Come along."

She took Odeyne by the arm and led her out, saying, laughing, as they got a little way off—

"We must contrive a few happy moments for those lovers. He's so diffident, and she's so cold, that they will never pull it off unless we help them. And really I should like to see poor Maud with a lover at last. It has always been her fate to be passed over in life, and there's a lot of good stuff in her, if one could only get beneath the crust."

"I did not know whether that idea was Desmond's fancy," said Odeyne; "but I'm afraid nothing can come of it for a long time yet. Edmund has very little but his profession, and you know Maud has been brought up in luxury all her life."

"Yes, but she has money. She must have a good fortune by now. It has been accumulating for her ever since she came of age—she has hardly spent anything. Maud isn't like me. She doesn't want a gay life and everything that money can buy. Perhaps she's all the happier for it," and Beatrice suddenly broke off and heaved a long sigh.

"I think happiness has very little to do with being rich," answered Odeyne; and Beatrice gave her a quick sidelong glance.

"I know what you mean—people can overdo it," she said in a rather rapid way. "Odeyne, I wanted to ask you—I wanted a moment with you in private. Do you think Desmond is going the pace too fast, and getting reckless? I'm half frightened sometimes at the way things go. It's delightful, of course, and I never had Algy in so good a temper month after month before. He's always perfectly certain that everything is right—but then that's his way. He doesn't understand business a bit. He takes the good the gods send, and asks no questions. But Desmond is clever—they all say that—and he is the leading spirit. Is he ever gloomy and restless at home? Does he seem anxious or troubled? Does he go on like a man upon whom dark care is secretly preying?"

"No, indeed," answered Odeyne. "He is always gay and lively. My difficulty with him is that he can never be grave for two minutes together. He turns everything into joke. One would think he did not know the meaning of care."

Beatrice's face cleared at once.

"Oh, I am so glad—for Desmond is very transparent. You would soon know if anything were amiss. He would let it out directly. Sometimes I have been afraid, from your manner, that something was wrong. I am so glad.'"

"There are other troubles in the world sometimes besides money troubles," said Odeyne; but Beatrice only laughed.

"Ah, my dear, other troubles are very easily gilded and charmed away by the power of gold. Believe me, if you have plenty of money you can keep trouble and sorrow very effectually at bay."

Odeyne winced, but made no reply. Beatrice, like Desmond, had changed a little during these past months, and not for the better. There was no pleasure in talking to her of anything beyond the trivialities of life. She seemed to have no interest beyond them.

Edmund and Maud were still out upon the balcony. There was a slight pause in the dancing. The room was suffocatingly hot, and the company had streamed out upon one of the great terraces, where ices and lemonade were to be had, as well as cups of all sorts. Maud and Edmund could see the gay shifting throng, lighted up by the glow of a myriad coloured lanterns.

Maud said, as though continuing a train of thought, or some talk that had gone before—

"Do you wonder that I am tired of a life that has seemed nothing but a shifting sort of show—like that?"

"You have had your mother to care for, Maud. Has not that been a sweet and sacred charge? How could I ask you to leave it for what I have to offer?"

"My mother has never really cared for me," answered Maud sadly yet steadily; "it is Desmond and Beatrice who really have her heart, though they give her so much anxiety. I think it is always the prodigal son who is the real favourite. And I would not have it otherwise. I love Desmond with all my heart; although I know now that mother judged him better than I, and that he will make a terrible mess of his life before he has learnt his lesson!"

"You think that, too?"

"How can anybody who knows anything of life help thinking it? Is it not always the way with temperaments like his? He will be led on from step to step. He will plunge more and more deeply, believing in his cleverness and his luck. He may be very lucky for a time, because he is careful; but he will get reckless at last—and then will come a crash!"

"And can nothing be done to hold him back?"

"Nothing, I fear. His marriage seemed just at first as though it would influence him. But, like everything else, he got used to it, and to Odeyne; and she is too inexperienced and gentle to exercise much restraining power. But were she the strongest woman in the world I believe the result would be the same. Our mother is no weakling, but she could never hold back Desmond. When the fit is on him he will go his way."

"And your life has been shadowed through him," said Edmund gently. "It seems as though all the greatest suffering in life came through those we love best."

Maud was silent a moment, and then looked up bravely at him.

"It is so often, Edmund; but not always—ah! I trust not always!"

Something in the appeal of her tone made him put out his hand and take hers in a close clasp.

"Maud, I never intended it should come to this; but love is too strong. I cannot help telling you how I love you!"

"And why should you not tell me, Edmund? Ah, if you knew how hungry my heart has been for love, year after year, year after year!—and it never came to me."

"It is good of you not to blame me for my precipitation, for I have still my way to make in life, and we may have long to wait. Will that be hard, Maud? Will it, by-and-by, seem to you unfair that I spoke so soon?"

"Edmund, if you knew how happy it makes me to know that there is one to love me and care for me above all others! Rather it is I who should feel that I am the unworthy one. No shadow hangs upon your name. No threatened cloud of misfortune gathers in your sky! But look at Desmond! look at Beatrice! Who knows what may overtake them in a few short years? May it be nothing worse than poverty, when it comes!"

There was a pause, and then Maud spoke slowly and thoughtfully.

"I have often thought that some day Beatrice will come back with her boy to live with our mother. I am afraid for Algernon. He is a man I could never trust. Mother and Beatrice would get on better without me——"

She stopped suddenly, and he knew what she would say. Then she should come to him.

"My darling, if you do not mind poverty."

"We should not be so very poor," she answered quietly. "My father left me twenty-five thousand pounds."

He stood and looked at her in surprise. He knew, of course, that Mrs. St. Claire was a wealthy woman, but it had never entered his head that Maud had a fortune of her own.

"I am glad I did not know that before," he said.

"So am I, if it would have made a barrier between us," she answered. "We both had that when we came of age, but I fear poor Beatrice's is all gone. It was not tied up as it ought to have been—at least not nearly all. It was a great mistake—especially with a man like Algernon."

So if Odeyne did not specially enjoy the ball, it may be gathered that others did. It was a very brilliant affair, and the local papers were full of it afterwards. But Desmond came home a good deal flushed and excited, talking rapidly and in a very nonsensical fashion the whole time of the drive, and making Cissy open her eyes very wide at some of his remarks.

Odeyne said nothing till they reached their room that night, when she put her hand upon his arm and said softly—

"Desmond dear, I wish you would not!"

He understood her, and his face flushed hotly.

She did not know for a moment whether he was going to be angry; but then he put his arms round her suddenly and said—

"Oh, my dear little wife, you are ten thousand times too good for me! Why cannot I be the sort of man that you would make of me, if I gave you the chance?"

She put her hands upon his shoulders, and her loving eyes looked full into his.

"No, Desmond darling—not that—but the kind of man God would make of you if you would let Him. But how can you expect it when you never ask Him, and never seek to learn His ways?"

He knew what she meant—that the old habit of prayer, which had been dropped when she was ill, had never been resumed. He hung his head as he replied—

"Odeyne, I'm not worthy to pray for myself; but go on praying for me, my faithful little wife, for I need it more than you can well understand."

"I never do forget to pray for you, dear husband," she answered. "But you, my darling, pray for yourself too; pray to be kept from temptation and evil. God is never deaf to the weakest prayer."

He made a strange sound between a laugh and a sob; but when Odeyne knelt in prayer that night, Desmond, for the first time for many a long month, came and knelt silently beside her.

After that, for a little while, matters were better at the Chase. For a time they were without visitors, and there was a little lull in the round of social gaieties. Desmond, who liked variety above everything, enjoyed even the variety of domestic life by way of a change. He made much of Odeyne and little Guy, resumed some of his old habits of earlier rising and quiet evenings at home, and cheered Odeyne's heart by his tenderness to her—real tenderness, not just boisterous affection.

A good many of his less desirable friends were going abroad just now. He spoke once or twice of taking Odeyne away for a Continental trip; but she pleaded so hard to remain at home after her long absence, and the weather was so exceptionally hot and pleasant, that he was content to let her have her way.

So although he talked of a gay autumn, a big house party and plenty of shooting at their own and other places, he was for the present content to remain at home with wife and child, contenting himself with an occasional run to town, or a short visit paid to Beatrice, or some friend in the neighbourhood.

Odeyne began to restrain the extravagance in the household as she had not ventured to try and do at first. She got rid of some of the servants with whom she was most displeased, and began to feel that the reins of government had not altogether slipped from her hands.

She could not get Desmond to recommence family prayers, or to discharge any of the new men-servants, whom Odeyne disliked and distrusted; but at least things were better and more orderly than when she came back, and the reforms had been made without one angry word having passed between her and her husband.

Mrs. St. Claire expressed open satisfaction with her daughter-in-law.

"My dear, you are doing most excellently. A nagging or a whining woman would drive Desmond wild. But your tact and your judgment do you immense credit. No one could have shown more skill in dealing with a very critical and difficult situation. I hope Desmond appreciates the treasure he has got. For if he escapes, without a crash, it will be to his wife that he owes it."

"Tact!—judgment!—skill!" said Odeyne to herself, when she was alone, "ah no!—if I have done any good at all, it is just because I have never stopped praying for Desmond, and for guidance to do aright myself! And if this dreaded crash is avoided, it will be no doing of mine—but just God's mercy. Yet even if it should come I would try to bear it bravely. For it might be His way of answering my prayers for Desmond, though the world might not see or understand!"

CHAPTER XV.

CLOUDS IN THE SKY.

"Desmond, dear, is it really necessary?"

"Of course it is necessary, you foolish child! Why, you have never spent a week in town in your life. You have not seen a London season, or been presented, or anything! You know it is part of the programme of the year. I think you will like the house I have chosen; but of course you can go up and inspect it, and see if there are any objections."

Odeyne looked at her husband with something of appeal in her eyes. As she did so she wondered again for the hundredth time whether it was her fancy that a change was slowly, but surely, passing over Desmond. She had fought all through the autumn against her growing fears. She had striven by every loving artifice in her power, and by the strength of her own true love, to keep him as far as possible the Desmond of old, the husband she had wedded with such hope and confidence two short years ago.

They had been gay during the past months; visiting other houses occasionally, more often entertaining a large house party at the Chase (an alternative greatly preferred by Odeyne, on account of little Guy), their domestic life had, of course, been much interfered with. They lived, as it were, in public, and had little time for confidential intercourse—a thing which Desmond appeared, if anything, rather to shirk—but Odeyne's patient love and tenderness never failed her, and seemed to act in a measure as a restraining influence upon her husband. She had striven to believe that things were well with him, that he was returning to those more legitimate occupations and interests which had once been his. She had rejoiced when the house emptied itself, and she was free from the obligation to associate with men whom in her heart of hearts she dreaded and disliked. She strove in all things to play the part of hostess courteously, but she heartily disliked and feared some of her guests, and was rejoiced to see them go.

Earnestly did she hope that now they might resume a life of quiet domestic happiness. Little Guy was just reaching the fascinating age when walking and talking begin to be attempted, and Odeyne looked forward to seeing the father taking a fond pride and delight in his beautiful boy.

Desmond was affectionate by nature. With all his faults he had never failed her there. She was sure that the little one would win his way, when once the father had time and opportunity to notice him. Of course he had not wanted the little fellow shown off and brought down with so many bachelor guests in the house. He dreaded being ridiculed as the fond father and doting parent, and had given pretty strict orders that little Guy was to be kept to his own quarters. Nor had Odeyne desired it otherwise with the company they had recently entertained. But, oh, how she had looked forward to the time when they would be alone together, with the bright spring days before them! How happy they would be then! Desmond was always different when he got away from the influences of those fast and loud-voiced fashionable people to whom he seemed to have taken such a fancy. Odeyne lived through the winter in the hopes of better days in store, and just when these seemed about to commence, up cropped the old talk of the London season, and although Odeyne had said all along that she did not desire to go in the least, and much preferred the quiet of the Chase, Desmond seemed to take no note of her words, although from time to time she hoped that the plan would fall to the ground.

He had not spoken of it all the last week, though he had been a great deal in town—up every day from early morning till quite the late evening train. Still he had not spoken of moving there until to-day, when he came home full of pride and delight in the house he had found, and the gay times they were to have.

Had he forgotten, or did he simply ignore what Odeyne had so often said on the subject? As she looked at him, asking herself the question, she was struck anew with the sense that Desmond had changed—was changing month by month—that she could no longer reckon upon influencing him, pleading with him, modifying his ideas by showing him how little they accorded with her own. The loving give and take which had characterised their early married life was slowly but surely giving place to the arbitrary rule of the husband, to which the wife must submit whether she would or no. Perhaps Odeyne had never realised this so keenly as at the present moment, and the pang it brought with it was sharp and deep.

"It is not likely that I shall find fault with any house you have chosen, Desmond," she answered gently, for she never permitted herself to speak a sharp or angry word to her husband. "You are a great deal more particular than I am. But you know I did not want to go to town at all. I have said so all along."

He laughed in the boisterous but mirthless way which had grown upon him of late.

"Oh, that is all nonsense, you know. You must have a London season and see the world. You must be presented and see something of life. One only vegetates down here."

"I have seen a good deal of life even down here latterly, Desmond, and as for being presented, and seeing a little of London Society, a visit to Beatrice would be amply sufficient. I am sorry that you are determined upon taking a house for ourselves. I think it is a needless expense."

"Oh, bother your everlasting talk about expense!" cried Desmond, more roughly than Odeyne had ever heard him speak before. "What does it matter to you so long as I have money to meet it? Your economical scruples are really rather trying, my dear."

"I am sorry you are vexed with them," answered Odeyne with quiet dignity. "But you know I was brought up so differently."

"Yes, but you need not for ever play the country parson's daughter! I wish you would brisk up and be a little more lively and chic—if you know what that means! One gets tired of hearing one's wife always dubbed the fair Puritan, or the uncloistered nun, or even the patient Griselda!"

Odeyne was more deeply hurt than she had ever been before. Something in her husband's tone and look cut her to the heart. It was with difficulty she was able to command her voice and to speak naturally. She would not attempt any reply to his last words; she went back to the question of the house.

"I hope there are pleasant rooms that will make into nurseries for Guy," she said. "I care more about that than anything. I am sorry for the child's sake that it is necessary to go to town at all; but if it must be, the great thing is to be sure that we have suitable quarters for him."

Desmond looked rather taken aback.

"Why, you don't think of taking the boy, do you?"

"Did you think of leaving him behind?"

"Why, yes, to be sure. Haven't you always said how bad London is for country-bred children?"

"I fear it is. But it is still worse for a child to be taken from his mo—from his parents for an indefinite time."

"Oh, nonsense! He would be much better down here."

"No, Desmond, he would not!" answered Odeyne, with unwonted firmness. "If things were as they used to be in this house, if we had our respectable, faithful servants—those whom your mother engaged for us at the outset, some of whom had lived in your family before—if our old household were here now, I might be able to consider the point with different feelings. As it is, it is out of the question. It was all Hannah could do to get along at all, just those few days we have been away at different times on our visits—never more than ten days at any one time. I told you when we came back what sort of goings on there were in our absence, but you only laughed and made light of it, and said it was the way of the world nowadays. You know that I cannot cope with it single-handed, when I have not the power to dismiss the ringleaders. I would no more leave Guy in the house when we are away, now that he is beginning to notice and understand, than I would put him in a den of wild beasts. Nor would Hannah bear it, if I wished to do it. If we go to London for the season the child must come too. I have given way to you so far in everything, as you well know; but in this I cannot and will not. I have my duties as a mother as well as those as a wife."

It was almost the first time that Odeyne had asserted herself in this way, and it was not without its effect upon Desmond. He did not gainsay her—perhaps he was a little ashamed at having the condition of his household so clearly set before him; he only shrugged his shoulders and said—

"Well, I think you will find a young child a great hamper and fetter in London, and if he gets ill you will only have yourself to thank. Why not send him to the mother and Maud, as Beatrice is going to send Gus?"

"Mamma would not have room for two children and two nurses," answered Odeyne. "Gus is quite sufficient of a handful alone, as Maud has said."

She did not like to add that Gus had learnt from his father and his father's associates words that she would not for anything hear from Guy's innocent little lips. It went to her heart to hear how the unconscious, sturdy little fellow rattled out his ugly vocabulary, with the air of one who expects his audience to laugh. Odeyne felt more like crying sometimes when she had the child in her company. Doubtless the best possible thing for him would be a residence under his grandmother's roof, with Maud's firm hand upon him. For since he had grown to the engaging and prattling age, Beatrice had suddenly become immensely proud of showing him off, and he had been outrageously spoiled all through the past winter. Neither parent, however, desired to be bothered with a young child in London, so he was to be sent to his grandmother's safe keeping, as the Vanboroughs had an offer of a tenant for Rotherham Park, and, let matters be never so well with them, the Hon. Algernon never refused an offer that would bring grist to the mill.

Odeyne went up to look at the town house next day. It was a very sumptuously furnished place, with a good hall and staircase, and fine reception-rooms. The other parts of the house were less to her liking, and it was not at all easy to find quarters for the child and his nurse, as Desmond was exceedingly averse to giving up any of the best bedrooms for that purpose. He and Odeyne came nearer to a real dispute upon that point than they had ever done in their lives before. It required all Odeyne's patience, tact, and firmness to get the matter settled without harsh words being spoken.

Fortunately Desmond quickly put away from him any vexed question, and, as he was very much delighted with the house, and with the prospect of his London season, he soon forgot his annoyance, and was quite merry and chatty as they sat at lunch in a fine shop, where he said the best meals in town were to be had.

"It will be such a capital thing to be so near to business!" he said. "It's all very well for you down at the Chase to talk of the delights of the country; but when one has to spend a couple of hours a day in a grilling railway carriage the joy is considerably modified, I can tell you. I do want to be in the City a good deal now. There are a great many very important things going on wanting my constant presence. I shall be exceedingly glad to be within half-an-hour's drive of the—of the office; and you have the Park so near that you will hardly feel cooped up at all. It's almost like living in the country."

Odeyne smiled, without exactly agreeing to the proposition, but answered that if Desmond had business that required a sojourn in town, she would do her best to be happy.

"When you put it on the ground of amusement, well I know that I should be happier at home; but if your duties require more of your time, why, that is another thing altogether."

"Well, they really do," answered Desmond eagerly. "I don't bother you with details, you know."

"No, sometimes I wish you would tell me a little more. Everything that you do would be interesting to me."

"Oh, you wouldn't understand details. They are only for men. But I assure you I have a great many things going on that need much personal overlooking. It doesn't do to be too far away. Not even Garth and the telegraph can do all that is necessary. It will be an immense boon to be so near the spot. You will have your reward, little wife. If you don't like London so very much, you will like to think that your husband is growing to be a really wealthy and important man of business!"

Odeyne smiled a little sadly.

"I do not think that wealth and happiness have a very close connection, Desmond, dear. Sometimes looking back, it seems to me that we were happier before we were so rich. The old days were very sweet, and we had all that we could want then."

For a moment a shadow fell across Desmond's face, and then he turned to Odeyne with something like the old look in his eyes.

"Little wife, I'm not sure but what you're right," he said, with sudden energy. "But look here, let's make a sort of bargain. You go through this one season my way, and leave me a free hand with my undertakings. Then at the end of that time we will go home; and if things have turned out as I expect, I shall be able to retire upon my laurels, and not trouble myself with money-grubbing any more! If we are not millionaires we shall be rich enough for all practical purposes; and we will settle down like staid married people, and turn over a new leaf—or rather, perhaps, turn back to the old one, and make that our model."

Odeyne felt the tears very near to her eyes as she said—

"Oh, Desmond, if we only could!"

"Well, why not? I declare we will! This sort of thing is a tremendous strain. I couldn't stand too much of it. I might even lose my nerve, and that would be fatal. No, no! we will go through with it this time, and then we will retire from the world, and live for one another—and the boy!"

Storm clouds had long been hanging in Odeyne's sky, but as she heard these words, and felt indeed that Desmond was sincere in speaking them, she trusted that the sunshine was not far away, and that if she could but be hopeful and brave better times might yet be in store for them.

She went home happier than she had started out, although the three months' residence in town was an inevitable thing.

* * * * * *

"You have heard of the master's latest idea?" said Walter Garth a few days later, coming in upon his wife after the close of his day's work.

Alice looked up with a rather troubled face. She had altered a good deal of late. Her pretty face had grown pale and rather thin. In her eyes there was often a startled, hunted look, as though she were suffering from some undefined terror. She was still dainty and pretty, with a lady-like air and way of speaking, but she had laid aside a good deal of her old archness and affectation. She looked as though she had other matters to think of than just the adornment of her own person.

Walter Garth had changed very little in outward appearance, save that he looked increasingly respectable and gentleman-like. His manner was still very quiet, but it had acquired an ease and decision which showed that he was accustomed to give advice and to meet with respectful hearing. He dressed well, and spent his evenings now almost invariably in reading, and in the study of some foreign language.

Alice used to wonder at this, and ask what good it was to him: but she never got anything from him but a rather sardonic smile, and the reply that foreign travel was often a pleasant relaxation, and that when he had made his fortune he might like to show his wife something of the world.

Truth to tell, Alice had grown just a little bit afraid of her husband of late. She was certain that he had plans and projects in his head of which he never consciously spoke. He was affectionate and indulgent to her in his way, but she always felt that one half of his life was a sealed book to her.

The only glimpses she ever got of it were at night sometimes, when he would talk in his sleep, and utter mysterious phrases, the import of which she never fully understood, but which filled her with a vague sense of dismay.

He appeared at these times to be like a man walking on the verge of a precipice, or upon ice so dangerously thin that it may at any moment give way beneath the feet.

How she obtained this idea she never could actually say, for it is always strangely difficult to recall the words of a person speaking in sleep, when once the moment has passed by. Here and there a phrase would remain with Alice, and once she asked Walter if he could tell her what it meant; but he gave her such a strange, stern, startled look, and asked her so sharply where she had picked up the words, that she never dared repeat the experiment, and had to make up some false explanation of having seen them in a newspaper; and even so she was certain that he was only partially satisfied.

Yet there was one sentence, often repeated, that always stayed with her, do as she would to forget it. He often spoke it in his sleep, when evidently troubled by bad dreams, and lying tossing to and fro.

"And at worst there are always the jewels—always the jewels!" he would keep saying; and Alice, as she heard him, would shiver all over, and ask herself timidly what he could mean. So a certain reserve had grown up between the pair, and Alice was not the proud and happy wife she had once been.

At her husband's question she looked troubled and said—

"Do you mean about going to London with them? But you won't do that, will you, Walter?"

"Why shouldn't I?" he asked quickly.

"Why, we live here, and you can go up every day. What does the master want beyond that?"

Alice could hardly have said herself why she dreaded the idea of anything which would bring Walter into closer relations with his master, but dread it she did. She had hoped that the move to London would break that constant intercourse, and transform him more to the office clerk again, and keep him away from Desmond St. Claire; but it seemed that it was not to be.

"We can live anywhere where my work lies, for that matter," he answered rather curtly, "and my work is where Mr. St. Claire is. In point of fact he rather begins to want a private secretary, and there is nobody who could do the work for him half so well as myself."

"But you belong to the office, Walter."

He gave a little dry laugh.

"I belong, if you like to employ that phrase, to Mr. St. Claire, and have done this long while. The office has seen precious little of us these last months, I can assure you. We have business on hand of which the office knows nothing, although we keep up a sort of attendance there."

Alice looked troubled and perplexed, though she remained silent. She was a little afraid of questioning Walter.

"The long and the short of it, Alice, is that Mr. St. Claire can't do without me. He is going the pace altogether too fast, and it is all he can do to keep his nerve. He is wonderfully quick and clever, but he lacks stamina, if you know what I mean. He can set things going, but they would often go to pieces if I were not at his elbow to look after him, and see that he forgets nothing. If he would be content to give himself unreservedly to the business, he might do a lot, but he is a bit of a fool too, and he will have his pleasures. He will burn his candle at both ends. I've spoken till I'm tired of speaking. He's a man that will go his own way; but he knows that he can't do without me, and now he wants me to give up everything else and live in the house as his private secretary, and really I believe I must do it, at least if things are to have any chance of pulling through. I can tell you it is not child's play that is before us these next weeks; but if we can pull through we shall land a big fish, and no mistake!"

"And if you can't?" asked Alice, her face growing rather pale at the thought.

Walter slightly shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, we don't think about that—it's better not. We want all our wits and our nerve. Now, Alice, don't you babble about these things to anybody in this world, least of all to Mrs. St. Claire. You know how many times I've told you that men have been ruined before this by the gossiping tongues of foolish wives."

"I shall not say a word, Walter, you may be quite sure of that," answered Alice a little bitterly. "Mrs. St. Claire has quite enough troubles of her own without my adding to them. But if you go with the family to London, what am I to do?"

"Well, that you can arrange with your lady. If she likes you to come too, so much the better. I am not a proud man. I never profess to be other than I am. I have married a lady's-maid, and if my wife likes, under the circumstances, to go on with her attendance upon her mistress, I shall not interfere."

"If you go, I would rather be with you," said Alice; and in her heart she felt that she would rather be near her mistress if trouble were to fall upon them than anywhere else in the world.

Of late Alice had begun to cling more and more closely to her lady. Odeyne was the one person in the world in whom she felt a perfect confidence and trust. She was always the same—always kind and considerate, and the girl was acute enough to see that there were troubles and clouds at the great house as well as those at her own home.

It was an extra trouble to Odeyne to leave the Chase just now, because Guy's wedding with Cissy was to take place soon, and she felt that Desmond should have postponed the London visit till afterwards.

But Desmond seemed to think it absurd to pay any heed to that event. They would run over for it if possible; and of course Guy and any of his family might make what use they liked of the Chase in the absence of its owners. But as for making any sacrifice of his own personal convenience, that plainly never entered into his head.

It hurt Odeyne to have to write home with nothing better than the offer of an empty house for the home party; but perhaps Edmund had prepared them beforehand, for they made no lamentations or remonstrances; and yet Odeyne felt that she would almost sooner they had done so. It seemed so strange to feel that a little barrier of reserve had crept up between them. Yet how could either she or they speak words which should cast any reflection upon Desmond?

It was a comfort to Odeyne to hear that Alice could and would accompany her as maid. She had feared that Garth would think it derogatory to his wife's dignity that she should continue in this capacity.

Alice and Hannah, the nurse, were fully to be trusted where little Guy was concerned, and Odeyne, who knew her life would be a very full one, was greatly relieved that Alice would be near to Hannah when she had to leave the child.

"It is only for three months, Alice," she said, trying to speak cheerfully. "We country people do not like the thought of London; but the days will go by very fast, and then we shall come home and settle for good, and forget all the disagreeables, and be happy again!"

CHAPTER XVI.

THE PACE THAT KILLS.

Odeyne sat in her well-appointed carriage, being rapidly driven from one grand house to another, leaving cards, paying short calls, or presenting herself for a few minutes at some fashionable reception.

Her manner was gracious and free from any shadow of constraint or anxiety; she spoke with her customary gentle amiability. She fancied that some amongst her friends looked at her with curiosity, and threw into their manner a shade of compassionate concern when they addressed her, but if she were conscious of this she gave no sign.

Nevertheless her heart was strangely heavy within her, and as she drove homewards through the westering sunlight, her duties all done, she lay back in her carriage with a cloud of care upon her brow, and the shadow deepening in the eyes which now looked as though they were no strangers to vigils or tears.

What was going on about her? What was the meaning of the strange sense of pressure and peril that seemed to be advancing upon them step by step? She had striven to fight against this feeling as a delusion of a wearied and jaded mind, but latterly it had become urgent and intense.

Why was Desmond so strangely preoccupied that he could neither eat nor sleep? Why could he never even spare the time to accompany her into society as he used to do, and yet was more urgent than ever that she should go, and that she should appear in all the richest trappings that wealth could buy?

Only this morning he had been almost fiercely insistent that she should carry out a very long programme of social duties; he had sketched out himself exactly where he wished her to show herself, and had charged her to be very gay and bright.

"Mind you let everybody see that you are well and happy, and that nothing is the matter," he said more than once, "and don't forget the ball at the Mastermans' in the evening. If I am not back in time, Beatrice will call for you and take you. I will settle all that with her. I have to step across to see Vanborough before I go to the City."

"Not back before ten o'clock, Desmond?" Odeyne had said. "Surely business cannot keep you all those hours. It is not good for you. You are looking terribly haggard and jaded as it is."

He turned upon her almost roughly, although as he continued to speak his manner grew gentler—

"Nonsense! whatever you do, don't go saying things like that about me if people ask questions. It's only the hot weather, and being cooped up in town so long. I thought we should have been able to get back sooner. I tell you what, Odeyne, once let me get these few transactions pulled through and we'll go home and shut ourselves up there together, and not see a soul but our own people for as long as ever you like. I'm sick to death with noise and bustle and the sea of faces about one. Sometimes I wish I'd never come at all—never begun this sort of thing. I don't think the game is worth the candle—I don't indeed!"

Something in the underlying bitterness and weariness of the tone in which these words were spoken touched Odeyne to the heart. She had gone over to her husband and kissed him tenderly, and he had suddenly clasped her in his arms almost passionately and had said—

"You deserve a better husband, my loyal and precious little wife! Oh, if I had only been worthy of you! But you will try to think kindly of me and forgive me all the pain and trouble I have brought—when once we are free again."

"Forgiveness is no word between husband and wife, dearest Desmond," Odeyne had said gently, "because we are one, you know."

His parting kiss and clasp had been balm to her heart, and yet the day had dragged slowly along, although she had carried out to the letter her husband's wishes, and a strange presage of coming misfortune weighed upon her heart.

She reached home to find Desmond still absent, and she sat down to her solitary dinner alone. For once she did not even take the trouble to dress. She would have to dress for the ball later. She wondered if Desmond would return to take her. She heartily wished she need not go. But she would do nothing at such a time to thwart his lightest wish. She was afraid that something terribly wrong was threatening. What it could be she had no idea. Of his business matters Desmond never spoke a word, but she was certain from a number of things that he was engaged in some very large and hazardous transactions, and that for some time he had been exceedingly and increasingly anxious.

Apparently some crisis was near at hand, and after it had passed there was a hope of better and quieter days. It seemed as though he were as weary as she of the round of the treadmill of business and pleasure, and was panting for the freedom and quiet of their own home.

The hope that buoyed up Odeyne's heart all through the day was that the return home was near at hand, and that Desmond had learnt a lesson which might remain with him throughout his life. Tired as she was, she prepared cheerfully to carry out her husband's wishes in the minutest detail. She chose her most becoming ball-dress, and let Alice arrange her hair in the newest mode. It was patent that a good deal depended upon her keeping a brave face before the world, and if so, Desmond should never have to say that she had failed him at a pinch.

She was nearly dressed, when the sound of rustling draperies, and a short, sharp knock at the door, announced the arrival of a visitor, and Beatrice came hastily in.

She was dressed with her usual elaborate care and richness, but her face was strangely pale, and had an odd, drawn look that startled Odeyne as she caught sight of it in the mirror.

"Beatrice!" she cried, releasing herself from Alice's hands and turning quickly round, "something is the matter!"

"Yes," answered Beatrice, in a voice not quite like her own, "my jewels are gone!"

"Your jewels? Do you mean they have been stolen?"

"Yes—it must have been yesterday whilst we were at dinner. But I only found it out this afternoon! I have had a detective. Every inquiry has been made, but at the present moment there is no clue as to the thief. Probably somebody who knew his business very well."

"Oh, Beatrice!—taken from your room whilst you were at dinner, you say?"

"That seems the most probable solution, for there is no trace of violence anywhere. The man must have slipped in during the arrival of the guests, whilst the door was standing open. All we know is this. Your man, Garth, came with a note for Algernon whilst we were at dinner, and had to wait for the answer. He was put into the little alcove just at the head of the first staircase, and as he was waiting he noticed a man coming downstairs with a bag in his hand, who let himself quietly out at the front door. He thought nothing much of it at the time, supposing it to be some hair-dresser or person of that kind, who had preferred to make use of the front rather than the back staircase, knowing that all the guests were at dinner. But it is supposed that that was the burglar, and Garth thinks he could identify him if he saw him again, and has described him pretty minutely to the police. Whether I shall ever see my jewels again is quite another matter," and Beatrice bit her lips nervously as though to try and bring back the blood to them.

Odeyne saw that she was trembling all over. She had never seen Beatrice so unnerved before.

"What does your husband say?" she asked.

"Oh, he had hardly time to take it in at all. Desmond telegraphed for him just after the discovery was made, and he went off in a tearing hurry, leaving me to think of everything. I have not seen him since. He telegraphed that he could not get back, but that I was to go to the ball with you."

"You do not look fit, Beatrice," said Odeyne.

"Fit! what does that matter? Alice shall rouge me up—if you have such a thing as a rouge-pot amongst your toilet accessories! And you must lend me jewels to-night, Odeyne, it won't do to appear without them at the Mastermans'. We must both of us make a brave show, my dear—just to prove to all the world how gay and prosperous we are. Go and get your mistress's jewels out, Alice, and dress me up as cleverly as you know how. Oh, I am not going to throw up the cards till the game is lost. I will at least die game—as the men call it!"

"Beatrice, how wildly you talk," said Odeyne, as Alice went into the dressing-room to get the jewel-cases. There was no safe in this house, but they were securely locked up in a strong cupboard with a Bramah lock.

"Do I?" she queried with a short laugh. "I suppose it is a way we all of us have, when life or death hangs upon the next throw of the dice! Come, Odeyne, don't look at me like a scared creature. You must know by this time as well as I that something very critical is at hand. It is going to be neck or nothing, I take it, with a vengeance!"

Odeyne did not understand; but Alice was coming in with the jewel-boxes, and she made no reply.

"Take what you want," she said; "I am going to wear the string of pearls you sent me for a wedding present, Beatrice, and some ornaments that Desmond gave me soon afterwards."

"Well, make yourself grand enough, that is all; and I will have your diamonds, I think. I hope they will not be recognised as yours. I hardly think so. I was always rather great at diamonds myself—when I could get them."

Beatrice approached the table and opened some of the cases, and then, suddenly bending close down over them, uttered a sharp, startled cry.

"What is the matter?" asked Odeyne, who suddenly felt as though she were walking through a bad dream, not knowing from moment to moment what might happen next. "What is the matter?" she cried, coming up.

"Look!" cried Beatrice, whose face was as white as paper, and whose hands shook like aspens. "Look at your diamonds, Odeyne."

Odeyne looked, but could see nothing wrong.

"They are all there safe," she said, thinking that Beatrice had gone temporarily off her head with excitement. "What is the matter with you?"

"With me? You mean with them!" answered Beatrice, holding up case after case and closely examining them. "Odeyne, don't you see?—don't you understand?"

"See what? Understand what?" asked the girl, half frightened in spite of herself at her sister's words and looks.

"Somebody has been tampering with your jewels, Odeyne," said Beatrice. "These are not diamonds at all—they are only clever imitations. Somebody has done a very clever thing—has had duplicates made of your real stones in paste, and has quietly substituted the sham for the real! You have been even more shamelessly robbed than I have, my dear, for there has been a diabolic cunning and preparation over this fraud."

Odeyne stood silent and thunderstruck. If she had had time to observe anything else she would have noticed that Alice had suddenly turned as white as ashes, and put her hand to her heart as though some blow had been struck home there. She clutched at the back of a chair as though to save herself from falling; but neither her mistress nor Mrs. Vanborough had thoughts for her just then.

"What does it mean?" asked Odeyne, putting up her hand to her head in bewilderment. "What does it mean?"

"I think it means that there are traitors in the camp," answered Beatrice in a strange, dry voice. "I think it means that the rats are deserting the sinking ship, and human rats have the cleverness to carry off booty before they leave for ever."

But Odeyne could make nothing of these words. Her head was in a whirl. She stood looking down stupidly at the glitter of the sham gems, and all she could think of to say was—

"Are you sure they are not right, Beatrice? They look just the same—to me."

"You are not the first person who has been deceived by false gems, my dear," answered Beatrice, pulling herself together with a short, sharp laugh. "I think you have rather a faculty for taking glitter for gold. Don't be too much startled, my dear, when the truth comes home to you."

Odeyne heard these words without fully understanding them.

"Ought I to do anything?" she asked.

"I wouldn't trouble to-night. Let us see first what the night is going to bring forth," answered Beatrice. "There may be wheels within wheels that we know nothing about. Desmond himself may know all about it. Men have been driven to stranger shifts before this, than borrowing their wife's jewels for a while to tide them over a crisis."

Odeyne's pale face suddenly flushed crimson.

"Beatrice!" she exclaimed, almost fiercely. "You forget yourself, I think!"

"Perhaps I do," answered Beatrice, without a shadow of offence in her tone. "I think I have had enough to send me silly to-night. But come, Odeyne, we must not stay staring at these paste things like two blind owls. Paste or no, I must wear them to-night. They will pass muster in the throng we shall meet. Mrs. Vanborough's present reputation stands well enough to admit of the fraud undetected. Here, Alice, clasp this thing on my neck, please. It is at least lighter to wear than the original. Why, girl, your hands are like blocks of ice. You give me the shivers! You needn't be frightened at what you've heard. Your mistress is not the kind who will turn upon you, and accuse you of complicity with the robber."

"Alice, you are ill," said Odeyne. "But you must not give way. I should never think of blaming you. Indeed you have very little to do with my jewellery. We have always kept it locked away ourselves. It is probably the same gang that have robbed Mrs. Vanborough. Now don't tremble and look so white, but go to bed quietly. I can do very well without you when I come back, and I may be late. I do not feel sure of anything."

Time was getting on, and little as the two sisters-in-law felt disposed for the scene of gaiety which lay before them, loyalty to their husbands kept them to their appointment.

They put the finishing touches to their toilets, and then went down to the carriage.

"You don't think that girl knows anything about it, I suppose?" said Beatrice as they drove off. "She looked like a ghost, and was shaking like an aspen."

"I would trust Alice with untold gold!" answered Odeyne warmly. "I have had my fears for her. At first I was afraid she was going to have her head turned by all the admiration she received. She did try for a little while to play the fine lady rather too much. But she has good feeling and right principle, and of late she has been quite her own self again. I am certain she would die sooner than rob me. You must nob wrong her by a doubt, Beatrice."

"I think I have reached the stage when I doubt everybody," answered Beatrice a little bitterly. "I know Algy might be capable of getting up a plant like this, and keeping the jewels safe and snug somewhere; and I should not be certain of Desmond for that matter. Men often want a reserve fund to fall back upon in case of emergency. I don't think I could doubt you, Odeyne, but as for Alice and that husband of hers—I would not make too sure of their honesty, my dear. That man Garth is much too clever not to be a bit of a villain at heart!"

Odeyne was silent. She shivered a little at the recklessness of Beatrice's tone. Then a remembrance flitted across her brain of some words spoken long, long ago by Cissy Ritchie—now Cissy Hamilton, Guy's wife, her own sister—respecting the man Garth. She had not liked his face. She had thought it untrustworthy. But Desmond had always found him most faithful.

It seemed as though Beatrice was following out a similar train of thought, for she spoke suddenly aloud, though almost as one who speaks to herself.

"It might have been he. He knows the house. He was there some time, and there was nobody about. His description of another man may be just a clever bit of lying, to put us on a false scent. I should not be surprised in the least."

Odeyne knew what she meant, but said nothing. The dream-like feeling was coming over her again. A sort of numbness settled down upon her faculties. It gave her temporary relief from the terrible tension of the past day. She did not wish to be roused. She would sooner go on feeling it all a dream.

They arrived at the house whither they were bound. It belonged to one of the City princes, and the gathering included a great many persons who were more or less connected with the City and Stock Exchange. Others were there from a higher sphere. It was a very large assembly and a rather mixed one.

There was dancing in one great room, and the entertainment was called a ball; but great numbers of persons made no attempt to dance, but moved about the other rooms, talking together, and watching those who came in with more or less of interest.

It seemed to Odeyne as though the arrival of herself and Beatrice excited a certain amount of interest and attention. Was it fancy that they were both regarded rather closely, and that there was more than met the ear in some of the words addressed to them?

She felt also as though Beatrice were acting a part all the while, although she could not have explained why. She was so gay, so racy, so brilliant. She made sallies that convulsed her listeners, and her grande dame air had never been more striking than to-night.

When questioned about husband or brother she unhesitatingly declared that they would soon be here. They had been detained by business rather late, and must dine, poor things, and have a smoke before turning out; but they were probably on their way now to answer for themselves; and so on, and so on; whilst Odeyne, who was certain that Beatrice knew no more of their movements than she did herself, listened in amaze, and was thankful that her sister-in-law's quick readiness saved her from the necessity of answering any of these embarrassing questions.

Yet what did it matter whether Desmond and Algernon appeared or not? And why did so many persons ask for them? Once she heard a whisper behind her quite distinct and clear.

"I think it must be all right after all. Those are Mrs. St. Claire and Mrs. Vanborough. They would hardly have shown their faces to-night if——"

A burst of music from the ball-room drowned the conclusion of the sentence. Odeyne felt her heart beating almost to suffocation, and she moved away from Beatrice's side and made her way out into a little covered balcony which she thought was quite empty. It was, however, tenanted by one person, a slight, girlish young creature, the young wife of an acquaintance of Desmond's, just known to Odeyne by sight and name.

As she sat down wearily, Mrs. Neil came up to her with a hesitating and almost deprecating air, and, sinking down upon the lounge beside her, clasped her hands nervously together, forgetting in her visible embarrassment to go through the ordinary form of greeting.

"Oh, Mrs. St. Claire," she said, "I am so glad to see you here. I have been so unhappy these last days; but you will tell me if I am wrong. It is all right, is it not? It is only wicked people who call it all a gigantic swindle? It will be all right in the end, will it not?"

Odeyne felt her lips growing dry. She had some trouble in framing her question.

"What are you talking about, Mrs. Neil?"

"Oh, don't mind keeping up before me—I know all about it. My husband has lots of shares; he says he will be ruined if—but of course that will never be! It is only a horrid calumny! Only I should be so glad to hear you say that you knew it was all right and a real genuine thing."

"If you would tell me what you mean," said Odeyne, "I should, perhaps, be better able to answer you; but——"

"Oh, Mrs. St. Claire, of course I mean the mine—the gold mine they are all going wild about in the City. Mr. St. Claire and Mr. Vanborough are two of the directors, and they say they know all about it. You must have heard them talk. They say they have got up the whole thing."

"My husband never talks to me about business," answered Odeyne, trying to speak very calmly. "I have never heard him mention any mine. But I think—I hope—that if he is concerned in any scheme it will at least be honourably conducted. No one can be certain of success; but I think you may be sure that there will be upright dealing."

"That's what I said!" cried the little wife eagerly. "I was sure it would not turn out a swindle. Oh, I am so much obliged to you. You have made me happy again. I have been so wretched all day. It is so hard to be ruined in one night by some terrible crash—and disagreeable people frightened Alfred so, and said he had been a fool to trust his money in the hands of a known speculator. But I am sure your husband would never do a wicked thing, would he, Mrs. St. Claire?"

There was such childish appeal and such earnestness in the girl-wife's manner that Odeyne could have cried aloud in the anguish of her spirit.

Why could she not say that Desmond was above all reproach? Why could she not assure her that there was nothing to fear? She had said all she dared to do, but she could not go on repeating that assurance. Each moment that she reflected more upon the situation, the less assured did she feel that something terribly wrong was not hanging over them.

She rose suddenly to her feet and moved away.

"I hope all will be right, Mrs. Neil," she said; "but I do not understand business. Misfortune sometimes falls upon the most honourable."

And then she found herself face to face with Beatrice, who, underneath the rouge she had found and put on, was looking ghastly pale.

"Come, Odeyne, we have done our duty; we can be going now," she said. "There is a great rush for supper. We shall not be noticed. Do not say good-night to a single soul, but just come away. If they notice our departure they will think we are going somewhere else. We have done what we were sent here to do. Now we had better go and see if there is any news at home of our respective husbands."

She gripped Odeyne's arm almost fiercely. Together they went down the staircase and had their carriage called up. When they were within its friendly shelter Beatrice suddenly broke into dry, tearless sobs.

"This is the last of it—this is our last appearance in public, Odeyne," she said. "The next time we try to show our faces we should be hooted away as the wives of the men who are posted on the Stock Exchange as a pair of swindlers!"

CHAPTER XVII.

DARK DAYS.

Home at last!—the house looking as usual; the butler and footman ready to admit their mistress on her return.

Yes, the master of the house had returned, she was informed; he was upstairs waiting for her. Odeyne drew a deep breath of relief. Somehow she had had an awful presentiment creeping over her that she would find Desmond gone—where or why she could not have said.

With a sense of unspeakable relief she mounted the stairs, but before she had reached her room she was met by a message from the nursery.

"Master Guy is rather poorly. Hannah says will you please come and see him at once? She wanted to tell you before you left, but you did not come to the nursery as usual, and had gone before she knew."

Odeyne's heart smote her. For once in her life she had omitted her parting visit to the child before starting forth for her evening's entertainment. Beatrice's loss, coupled with the strange and disquieting discovery as to her own jewels, had for the moment driven all else from her mind. She had not remembered the nursery visit till she was just about to enter the carriage, and then Beatrice had said almost sharply—

"Oh, never mind. The boy will survive the loss of one kiss. We have more important matters on hand to-night than cuddling babies. It is high time we showed ourselves. You cannot go back now."

So Odeyne had not seen the child since afternoon, and was quite unprepared for the news of indisposition.

Without pausing at her own door she went straight up to the nursery, to find the boy wide awake, fretting and a little feverish. Hannah was disturbed, because Guy was generally so bright and well.

"But there, ma'am," she said, "it's this nasty London does it. The blessed lamb has been used all his life to be out of doors half his time. How can he be expected to thrive cooped up in hot rooms and baking streets?"

This was exactly Odeyne's feeling. Since the hot weather had set in with such unwonted sultriness she had been very anxious about the child. She was not surprised to see him a little out of sorts. It did not make her very anxious, for it seemed to her a thing to be expected. But she did make a resolve there and then that Guy at least should go home to the Chase upon the morrow. Whether she could do so immediately was a point upon which she must consult Desmond, but the boy should leave London at once, and Cissy would look after him and see that no harm befell him till her return. Desmond had been speaking of returning home very soon for some little while now. Surely after to-night they might safely go back, and leave behind them, like a bad dream, all these cares and worries which had of late gathered round them.

Odeyne kissed and crooned over the little crib till Guy began to be drowsy, soothed by her presence, and weary with his long vigil. The nursery was very hot. Odeyne sent for ice, and by a judicious arrangement of windows and doors soon had a better atmosphere about the boy. She believed he would sleep now, and to-morrow he should go home. She would send a letter to Guy and Cissy, and they would be father and mother to him for a little while, if she could not accompany him. How good it was to picture Guy so near! What a difference it would make to her. He was always such a help and comfort—a tower of strength when there was need. It hardly even struck her as strange now that she should think rather of the brother than the husband, as a stay and support at this time. There had been that about Desmond of late which had put it out of her power to regard him as any bulwark between her and the waves of anxiety and trouble.

She descended the stairs to her room. Desmond was there. His face was deadly pale. There was a strange, hunted look in his eyes, and yet, as she approached him with a slight exclamation of concern, his thin lips tried to form themselves into a natural smile, as though to allay anxiety on his account.

"Desmond, dear! are you ill? You look worn out. Why did you not go to bed when you came in? That is the only place you are fit for."

Her eyes wandered round the room as she spoke, and noted certain signs of disorder. They fell upon a portmanteau strapped up as if for immediate travelling. Desmond, too, was not in the clothes he had left the house in that morning. He was in an inconspicuous travelling suit of grey tweed. He was holding his pocket-book in his hand.

"I have some work still to see to, dearest," he said. "There is a little hitch in some of our business matters, and I have to go off at once to set things right. What money have you in the house? It is too late to get a cheque cashed to-night; but give me what you have, and I will leave you a cheque to present at the bank first thing in the morning; and perhaps you had better go home then, and wait for me there."

"Oh, Desmond! that is just what I am longing to do! The child is not well; I want to take him home. But can't you come with us, dear? I don't like leaving you here."

A strange little spasm passed over Desmond's face.

"I shall not be here. I have to go away on business immediately; but I will join you at the Chase as soon as ever I can—trust me for that. Look here, Odeyne; you just have Alice down, and get packed up as sharp as ever you can, and be off by the first train. It will be far the best thing for you and the boy both. Take everything that belongs to us with you, for I shall write and give up the house immediately; and call at the bank on your way to the station, and draw out a good sum to carry on with. Give me all that you have, and I think I'll have your jewels to take care of, too. I may perhaps——"

"Oh, Desmond, I must tell you about that! Something rather terrible has happened. Beatrice has been robbed of her jewels, and a great many of mine—nearly all my diamonds—have been taken too, and false ones left in their place. I don't know when it can have happened, for I should not have known the difference if Beatrice had not found it out."

A strange grey pallor overspread Desmond's face, and he uttered a startled exclamation.

"What!" he cried; "tell me again!"

Odeyne told him all, not surprised that he should be horrified and amazed, yet feeling that she did not entirely understand his frame of mind. When he had heard her to the end he exclaimed sharply—

"And where is Garth? Let him be called at once."

"He had not come back when I left home," said Odeyne. "Alice was asking me if I had had any message from you about him. The servants would know if he had come in since."

"Find out instantly!" said Desmond, with a rather wild light in his eyes. "I sent him back at six o'clock to wait here for me. They did not tell me he had not come. I have been expecting him ever since I arrived."

Odeyne hurried away and made the needful inquiries; but no one had seen Garth. Last of all she went to the door of their room and knocked. Instantly it was opened by Alice, who looked like a ghost, but had made no attempt to undress or go to bed.

"No, she had seen nothing of her husband, she said, nor had any message or note reached her. She was shaking like an aspen, but denied being ill.

"Then if you are not ill, Alice," said Odeyne, "come down and help me. I am not going to bed at all. Master Guy is poorly, and I shall take him home to the Chase first thing to-morrow. We shall not come back here any more, so there will be plenty for us to do. Your master has to go away on business, and will join us later. You and I will have all the arrangements to make, so we shall have our hands full."

Odeyne had no room in her mind for troubling herself over the missing jewels; it seemed to her that it was only one bubble upon a whole sea of mystery and trouble. Alice crept, white and trembling, after her mistress, and was closely and sharply questioned by Desmond as to her husband's movements; but it was plain she knew nothing, and was consumed by fears she dared not put into words. Desmond turned away from her with a few bitter words, the meaning of which was not understood by Odeyne, though Alice shrank at them as though struck by a sharp blow.

"Give me those pearls you wear," he said abruptly, "and anything of value that may be left you. And let me have the money quick. I must not delay longer now."

With a terribly sinking heart Odeyne opened her cash-box and jewel drawer, unfastened the string of pearls from her throat, and taking the stars from her hair at the same time. Desmond thrust the notes and valuables into a small bag he carried with him, and then took up the portmanteau himself and carried it from the room, staggering a little, like a man walking in a dream.

Odeyne sprang after him, closing the door behind her. There was a light burning on this landing, but the rest of the house was dark, Odeyne having dismissed the servants to bed by her husband's desire, when she went to inquire for Garth.

"Desmond, Desmond," she cried piteously, "what is it? Oh, what is it? Have not I, your wife, the right to share the trouble, whatever it may be?"

He took her suddenly in his arms and kissed her passionately again and again.

"So you will, my poor innocent darling—so you will!" he answered. "God forgive me; for I can never forgive myself! Would to heaven I had listened to you before, my faithful little wife! To think that it has come to this. O my God!—forgive me my wickedness, and visit not my sin upon her innocent head!"

A great terror came over Odeyne, and she clung to him with frantic hands.

"Desmond!—Desmond!—don't leave me! Take me with you! I am your wife. We took each other for better for worse. I have the right to be at your side through everything! Take me with you, if you must go!"

He clasped her to his breast, and yet after one long embrace he put her from him.

"It cannot be. I will come back—if I can—if I dare. But you must stay here—with the boy. He will comfort you for the evil your husband has done you. For better for worse; when was it you spoke those words before, and I made such a confident boast? Was it in this life, or in another I have almost forgotten? Oh, my wife, that it should come to this! Why, why was I such an arrant fool?"

He smote his brow with his hand. The bitterness of his remorse was pitiful to see. The longing to comfort him gave to Odeyne strength in the midst of her weakness and bewilderment.

"Dearest," she said, "I think you trusted too much in yourself; you did not look to God for help, guidance, strength to resist temptation. Perhaps this trouble will bring you to Him, as happiness never did. Oh, my darling, I pray it may be so! Do you pray also for yourself. God is very good; He punishes, but He forgives. I shall pray for you night and day till you come back to me. But oh, Desmond—husband—do not leave me long! I cannot bear it!"

The strain was becoming too much. Odeyne felt a mist rising before her eyes; her head swam; she hardly knew when Desmond laid her upon a couch on the landing and hastily called to Alice. What happened after that she never clearly remembered, but presently knew that the grey light of the summer dawn was stealing through an open window near her head, and that Alice was chafing her hands and holding a glass to her lips; but Desmond was gone.

Now they were in the train, rushing swiftly through the smiling country, back to the home towards which Odeyne's heart had turned with such longing all these past weeks, but which would be terribly empty and lonely now till Desmond came back.

Alice and Hannah were with her, and little Guy, looking roused and better already for getting beyond the region of London smoke. The men-servants had remained behind. Odeyne had paid them their wages and dismissed them. They appeared perfectly prepared for this, and some instinct warned her that she had better reduce her establishment as quickly as possible. She was not able to think connectedly yet; but in her heart of hearts she was aware that some financial crash had taken place, and that she must prepare herself for changed circumstances. That was in itself a matter of small consequence to her. Great wealth had brought little real joy to Odeyne. She could live more happily in a cottage than she had lived in her grand London house. But oh, if others should suffer loss and poverty from any act of her husband's! That was the thought which kept her in an agony of trepidation and anguish. She thought of the words heard last night (could it have been only last night?—it seemed years ago now), and of the cloud of pitiful anxiety in the eyes of the young wife. Oh, it was impossible that Desmond could have done anything to involve others in trouble! He so kind and friendly to all! Oh, no!—that was altogether unbelievable!

But Guy would be there to meet her—Guy would tell her all. A little while ago she had felt almost embarrassed at the thought of the first meeting with Guy and Cissy; but that feeling was entirely swallowed up in the present pressing distress.

For Guy and Cissy had been married, and the Chase had been full of her own family and their guests, and yet she herself had only run down for the day, just to witness the ceremony, and to fly back to her many engagements, which Desmond would not or could not forego. She had done her utmost to arrange differently, but circumstances (or her husband's will) had been too strong for her; and although nobody had blamed her by so much as a look or a word, she had felt herself to be acting a heartless part, like some fine fashionable madam—not like the loving sister Guy had a right to expect in her.

But Guy would never think of that now. As soon as he knew she was in trouble he would come to her. She would send for him as soon as she got home. She felt she needed some strong presence near her; but she was startled to see him on the platform waiting for her, his face full of kindly concern, his eyes brimful of love, asking no questions, but seeing to everything for her, as though he were now her rightful protector.

Not till they were in the carriage together, the servants and child having been put into the luggage brougham, did she speak a word; and then she turned her white face and heavy eyes towards him and asked—

"Guy, how did you know?"

"Desmond wired from Dover early this morning. I had been prepared by Edmund two days before. He had heard things that made him very uneasy, and went to town on purpose to see Desmond and ask. After that he came to me here. My poor darling! what can I say to comfort you?"

Odeyne put her hand to her head.

"I don't understand, Guy; I don't know now what has happened. Only that we have been robbed, that Desmond has gone away for a little, and that something is wrong about the business."

Guy gave her a quick glance, and answered gently—

"Yes, there is something wrong about the business. I do not know the details myself yet. Perhaps you need never know them. We must just wait and see what happens. Sometimes things turn out better in the end than people think for. I hope you will not think that Cissy and I have been very officious, but we had Desmond's authority. Some of the superfluous servants have gone—including the housekeeper and the man-cook. They began to be very insolent and overbearing, and to spread damaging reports in the place. So they have been sent away."

"I am so glad," said Odeyne, rather wearily. "Desmond had so much to think of he forgot to name it. I seem only to want to be quiet, and to have you, Guy, and the boy—and—and—Desmond!" and then Odeyne's tears suddenly ran over, and she leaned back in the carriage and sobbed as though her heart would break.

He let her alone; and she was quiet and outwardly calm when they drew up at the familiar door. There was no retinue of servants to greet her to-day; but the warm clasp of Cissy's arms was more to her than any outward show of hired service, and Odeyne was so utterly worn out in body and mind that she let Cissy undress her and put her to bed, and quickly fell into the dreamless sleep of exhaustion, from which all hoped that she would not wake till outraged nature had recouped herself for all the pressure put upon her.

It was only after Odeyne was sound asleep in the darkened room that Cissy had time to turn her attention to Alice, who had utterly collapsed upon their arrival at the Chase, and was lying on her bed shaken, by storms of hysterical sobbing that seemed to tear her to pieces when they came upon her.

Cissy, as a doctor's daughter, knew how to treat the physical symptoms of the disorder, and Alice became more herself in time; but there was such despair in her eyes that Cissy's heart was touched, and bending over her she said—

"What is the matter, Alice? Is anything troubling you, beyond your mistress's troubles?"

Alice suddenly sat up and pushed the masses of damp hair out of her eyes.

"Oh, miss—I mean ma'am, I don't know how to bear it! I feel as though the shame and misery of it would kill me!"

"Now be calm, Alice; you will make yourself ill if you go on so; and for your mistress's sake you must bear up. She will need your loving care through this time of trouble. She has depended so upon you."

Alice wrung her hands together in mute misery.

"That is just it, ma'am—that is just it! She has been such a loving, gentle, trusting mistress, and I have deceived her—I have betrayed her trust!"

"Alice, what do you mean? I do not understand."

For a moment there was a great struggle in the girl's mind. Must she keep her terrible secret, or was it her duty to speak? She swayed to and fro in the tumult of her feelings; but the desire for human sympathy and counsel prevailed over all other considerations, and she cried out—

"Oh, ma'am, I am afraid—oh, I am terribly afraid—that it is my husband who has robbed them. He was always on at me about the jewels. He would have me let him have them to study the pattern. I was silly and vain past belief. I thought some day I would have such things to wear myself, and sometimes he would bring me home a necklet or bracelet just like one of the mistress's, and I would wear it at some party, and think I looked like her. Of course they were all shams, and I knew it, but they were very clever shams. I used to think he did it to please me, but I begin to see he had another purpose now. I couldn't make it out always—he was so keen to know so many things where the jewels were concerned; and I told him everything, and showed him everything, and contrived often to have them in my keeping for a bit, that I might please him by a sight of them. And so, ma'am—I fear now that he has got the real ones, and left the sham ones in their place. There's lots of times he could have done it, for I never would have suspected him of such a thing—never!—never!"

She broke down into sobbing again, and Cissy, who had heard something of the loss of the stones and the manner of their disappearance, was lost in astonishment at the tale. True, she had always felt an instinctive distrust of the man Garth, but she had never supposed him capable of such deliberate treachery as this. She felt deeply sorry for the unhappy wife, who, with all her little faults and vanities, had been loyal and devoted to her mistress all her life through.

"But, Alice, I am dreadfully sorry to hear this. And if this is so, where is your husband? Has he told you? How do you know?"

"My heart tells me," said Alice, with a mournful certainty that was more eloquent than any burst of tears. "Did you not hear? He has gone too. He was sent back with a message to my lady, but he never came. Nothing has been heard of him since. He did not even say good-bye to me. He had the jewels; he cared for nothing else. I shall never see him again! He used me to get his wicked will—and then he left me. He never really loved me—I have known that for a long time now. He admired me, and thought I should be a useful tool and dupe—that is all! He has said so in his sleep. He has showed me his evil heart. He has done now what will make him afraid ever to come back—unless he is caught and brought back! I shall never see him again, unless I see him in a felon's dock. And once I thought he loved me!"

She covered her face with her hands, and turned it to the wall. Her tears were all shed now; a dull lethargy was creeping over her. Cissy knew not whether to speak or to leave her alone, but the question was decided for her by a knock at the door; she opened it to find a maid standing without, who said—

"If you please, ma'am, the Captain and Miss St. Claire are here. I am afraid to disturb the mistress. I thought I had better tell you."

"The Captain" was the name Edmund went by in the household, where he was a great favourite. Cissy already felt as though she had gained a brother in him.

"I will come immediately," she said, and hastened downstairs.

The drawing-room door stood open, and within were Edmund and Maud, standing with grave, expectant faces, as though either the bearers or recipients of evil tidings. Maud moved hastily forward.

"Mother sent me, Cissy. She heard they had come back. She could not rest a moment; and Edmund drove me across. What has happened? and where is Desmond?"

"I don't know," answered Cissy gravely. "Odeyne does not know. I dare not say much—she is on the verge of a nervous fever. Desmond is gone off somewhere—she does not know where. Guy had a wire from him from Dover early this morning—that is the last we have heard of him."

Edmund whistled. Maud threw up her hands with a little gesture as of despair.

"He has absconded!" she exclaimed in a tone that was little above a whisper.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE CRASH.

"Where has he gone, Odeyne? Where has he gone? He could not have left you without a word, as Algernon has left me. They have gone together—and surely you know where they are!"

It was Beatrice who spoke these words; but such a white, wild-eyed Beatrice, that Odeyne hardly knew her.

She broke in upon her at dusk, on that strange day of confusion and bewilderment, and her haggard face bespoke the mental suffering through which she had passed during the past four-and-twenty hours.

Odeyne turned upon her quickly, and took her by the hands.

"Of whom are you speaking, Beatrice? Has Algernon gone too? What does it mean? Oh, what does it mean?"

"It means that we are ruined, ruined, ruined!" cried Beatrice, sinking into a chair and covering her face with her hands. "But, Odeyne, speak, tell me—where is Desmond? You must at least know that!"

"I do not know," answered Odeyne in a very low voice. "He went away—I think he has gone abroad—on business. He will no doubt write soon. Is Algernon gone too?"

"They went together. So much we know, but nothing else. It is terrible, terrible, terrible! Odeyne, I went back home to Rotherham Park to-day to see if there was any trace of Algy there. Do you know what I found there? Bailiffs in possession—the place and all its contents up for sale...." She paused and uttered a strange hysterical laugh. "Will that be the fate of the Chase next? Has Desmond, too, absconded, leaving a mountain of debt behind? Are we both to be left to the mercy of our own relations, whilst our husbands have to flee the country for safety?"

"Beatrice, what do you mean?" asked Odeyne almost sharply, conscious of a pang at her heart that she could not understand or subdue. "Why do you speak such terrible words? Tell me what has happened. I do not understand."

With a great effort Beatrice commanded herself, and made Odeyne sit down beside her.

"How much do you know of this wretched business?" she asked.

"I do not understand anything. Desmond never spoke to me of his affairs. I know that something is terribly wrong; but I think he has gone away to try and set it right."

"He has gone away because it can never be set right," said Beatrice, "and because he is involved in a fraudulent scheme, which has involved a number of persons in ruin. I can't tell how far he and Algernon have been dupes, or how far they have duped others. I believe that man Garth has been at the bottom of a great deal of the villainy of this last bubble. They got to trust him more and more. Sometimes I told Algy they left too much to him. It began by merely dabbling in stocks and shares—speculating on the Stock Exchange people call it; and Desmond was very quick, and made great sums, and Algy too, by his advice. But men never know where to stop, and one thing led to another. I don't understand details, but it is some great mining scheme that has ruined us all. It has broken now like a bubble—and what will be the end no one knows. Meantime Desmond and Algy and Garth have all disappeared. That gives it a very ugly look. Oh, if I were a man I would stay and face things out! I would never run away like a coward, and let all the misery and shame fall upon the defenceless women at home!" And Beatrice's eyes flashed as she wrung her hands together half in angry scorn, half in despair.

"And your house, Beatrice, what did you say about that?"

"Algy's creditors have taken possession of it, my dear. I am a homeless outcast. My mother will give me an asylum for the present; and I believe there is a small pittance settled upon me which will just keep me and the boy from starvation! You may thank your stars, Odeyne, that the Chase is entailed, and that Desmond made a handsome settlement upon you. His creditors will not be able to fleece you and the boy. You will live in clover, whoever else loses."

Odeyne drew her brows together in perplexity.

"But if Desmond has debts—I don't think he has—but if he has, of course I shall pay them. I would not touch the money till every claim was satisfied."

Beatrice uttered a mirthless little laugh.

"My dear, I fancy that before Desmond's claims were all satisfied—claims upon him, I should say, from those whom he has involved in his ruin, there would be nothing left at all! It is generally the way when men lose their heads over some scheme of fabulous wealth and it topples about their ears. Be thankful that you are placed above want, and stick to everything you can. That is my advice; and if you can't help me to any news of our husbands I will go back to mother again. One mercy is that she gauged the characters of both Desmond and Algy pretty correctly. She is not crushed with horror at this catastrophe as Maud is. She has been preparing herself for it all along."

Beatrice was too restless and excited and unnerved to remain long anywhere, and Odeyne did not seek to detain her. The day had been one long series of shocks, and she wanted time for thought. She had sent Guy and Cissy back to their home an hour ago, wishing to be quiet that evening; and they had left her, hoping she would not fully realise all that had come upon her. Perhaps she had not done so till the arrival of Beatrice; but now she felt that her eyes had been opened, and that she could not close them any more. She must think out the thing that had befallen, and decide upon her own line of action.

She went up to the nursery, to find the child sleeping the sound, dreamless sleep of healthy childhood. He had responded at once to removal into the pure air of his home. All the feverish fretfulness had left him since his midday nap; he now looked as well as even his mother could desire.

Thankful that one threatened source of anxiety was removed, Odeyne dismissed the nurse to her supper, and sat down beside the open window, in a position where she could command a view of the sleeping child, to review the situation, and put together the different items of news dropped by one and another, so as to get a clear idea of the exact position of affairs.

But she had hardly composed herself to the task before the door opened softly, and a wan, white face peered in, and Odeyne, after looking at it a moment as if hardly recognising it, suddenly held out her hand, exclaiming—

"My poor Alice, come here to me. We are both suffering the same trouble. I fear, my poor child, it was a bad day for you when you elected to follow me out into the world."

Alice's face quivered, but her tears had all been shed. She was calm now, though she looked like a ghost. She came forward and stood before Odeyne, her eyes upon the ground.

"I wanted to see you, ma'am; I wanted to tell you everything. The fault is mine. I was deceived. I let myself be made a tool of. It was vanity that did it—I wanted to be finer than my right station. I see it all now; but that will not bring back the jewels—and it is my husband who robbed you!"

She covered her face with her hands and trembled. Odeyne had begun to suspect this before, so Alice's statement did not take her by surprise. Beatrice had plainly spoken her opinion of Garth; and the disappearance of the confidential clerk at such a moment looked ugly. Yet all that Odeyne said was—

"My poor Alice, I feel for you from the bottom of my heart. We are both in great trouble and perplexity. Sit down, my poor child, and let us talk together. There is so much I want to know. We are both ignorant and inexperienced; but perhaps, if we compare notes, we shall come to a clearer understanding of what has happened. Tell me, Alice, do you know the nature of the work in which my husband and yours have been engaged of late? It has nothing to do with the business house where Mr. St. Claire has been connected. It is something altogether independent of that."

Alice did not know much, nor was she very clear; but bit by bit Odeyne seemed to see the thing piecing itself together before her eyes. Desmond had begun by small speculations, and had been very fortunate. He had employed Garth a good deal in these transactions, and the quickness of the subordinate had been very useful. Their ventures had turned out well time after time. Algernon Vanborough, to whom gambling in some form or another was as the salt of life, had been drawn in—good nature prompting Desmond to try and share any good thing with his luckless brother-in-law. Algernon had been terribly unlucky of late upon the turf; but for a considerable time he was very fortunate in this new sort of speculation.

Then came a repetition of a state of affairs between the two men with which Odeyne had never been conversant, but which was well known to the rest of the family.

Desmond had once before posed as Algernon's reformer, and the experiment had led to his being drawn into the losses of that extravagant young man, which might have led both of them to ruin, had it not been for Desmond's sudden successes on the Stock Exchange. He believed himself stronger than Vanborough and his associates. In reality he was far weaker, as those who understood his real disposition were well aware.

So it had proved in this case. Vanborough had been bitten by a hundred dreams of wealth, and had plunged into speculations of the wildest nature. Desmond was only too easily induced to follow; and their trusted tool, Garth, was plainly nothing better than an unscrupulous sharper. How far any one of the three had become criminally involved could not at this moment be decided. The fact that all three had fled in one night looked ugly, and aroused Odeyne's keenest anxiety. But not even to Alice would she speak of her most terrible fear. That must be locked away in the recesses of her own heart.

"But, ma'am, you are safe, and the Chase is safe," Alice said eagerly at the end. "Walter always told me that nothing could hurt you, because of the settlements and the entail. The master's creditors can't touch that. He always said that it was such a pity Mrs. Vanborough's money had not been tied up fast too."

Odeyne looked round her, and then out of the window, at the expanse of dewy park and gardens. She had come to love her beautiful home very dearly; yet she spoke with great composure.

"That may be the law, Alice; but there are moral obligations to think of as well as mere legal ones. If I find that others are suffering loss through any action of my husband's I shall make every restitution in my power. Master Guy is too young as yet to understand or feel any change in position. The Chase will some day be his, but it will not hurt him to leave it for a time. Unless things turn out very differently from what I fear, I shall try to find a tenant for it, and let it furnished, and live somewhere myself on as little as possible, till all the claims that are just and right have been settled."

Alice looked at her in mute admiration and amaze. It was some while before she ventured upon the next question.

"But where could you go, ma'am? Back home again?"

"I think not," answered Odeyne quietly; "I do not think that would quite answer. And I should like to be in some place where the master could easily find me if he wanted me. I have been thinking about it a good deal. I think I shall remove, with baby and nurse, to those rooms in your lodge, Alice, which were built on before you married. Hannah would come with me, and you would not leave me, Alice. There we could hide ourselves in obscurity, and wait till our husbands return to us!"

Alice sank down upon her knees beside Odeyne, bursting once more into bitter weeping.

"Yours will come back to you some day, ma'am; for he loves you, he loves you. But I shall never see Walter again. He has gone for ever. I do not think he ever cared for me. I was useful to him; but that was all. He left me without a word or a sign. He will never come back!"

"Oh, Alice, do not say that! I thought he was always an affectionate husband, and that you were so happy together."

"At first I was happy, because he promised me all sorts of fine things, and dressed me up and made a fool of me. But I never got any hold upon him, ma'am. I was always afraid to say a word. If I thought him wrong, I dared not say so. I wasn't true to my better self, nor to the things I'd been brought up to. I let him coax me to do what I knew was wrong; and though he praised me for obeying him, I see now that he despised me in his heart. I lost his respect, and I think when that goes, love soon follows. If I'd been a truer woman, maybe I'd have been a happier one, and have held him back from that great last wrong."

Odeyne was silent, casting her mind back over the past years, and wondering whether she, perhaps, had erred in like manner. Had she been always true to her better judgment? Could she have done more than she had attempted to withhold her husband from his perilous courses? Humbly she admitted her shortcomings and failings, humbly she took upon herself freely and fully her share in the punishment; but one ray of comfort gilded the retrospect. She had never lost her husband's love, her husband's confidence and respect. He had always called her his "good angel," his "guiding star." Often she had told him that he must not thus speak and regard her—that she was no angel, no safe guide; but his answer had always been one so full of love that she could not chide him over-much.

Yes, he had loved her all through; nothing had changed that; and he had always been looking forward to a time when this feverish race after wealth should be over, and they could enjoy a quiet life together as of old.

Ah, how happy they could have been in some humble little home, with each other and the child, if he had only been able to see it! But the thirst for gold was upon him, and he could heed nothing else whilst it lasted; and when once the tide of fortune seemed to have turned against him he lost his head, as too many men of his calibre do in like case; then things had gone desperately wrong, and he had become involved in all manner of ways before he realised his own position, or the peril looming over him.

Bit by bit Guy and Edmund made all this out. Things were in a terrible tangle. There were angry creditors to meet, and, what was harder still, broken-hearted dupes, who had been tempted to follow Desmond's lead, believing him to be some great financial light, and then had awoke to find themselves cheated by the veriest will-o'-the-wisp, and landed in a quagmire of poverty and loss.

The legitimate claims upon Desmond's estate were sufficiently heavy in all conscience; but these could gradually be met and discharged by incomings from the business house, the partners in which showed themselves very well disposed and kindly at this juncture of affairs. Although of late Desmond's attendance at the office had been irregular and meagre, he had done some good service by his quickness and energy, when he had really given his mind to the matter before him, and they were ready to stand his friend now. They thought he had made a great mistake in disappearing like a criminal, as though his affairs could not bear the light of day. True enough, there were some shady transactions among them, but nothing which could actually bring him under the ban of the law. Nor were his affairs in such desperate condition as those of his brother-in-law. There seemed reason enough why that gentleman had given his country a wide berth at this juncture; but Desmond would have done better to stay, and face the thing out to the bitter end.

This was the opinion of those who strove to look into the ugly business and unravel the many tangled skeins; but Odeyne, hearing bit by bit how matters stood, understood better than her brothers how terrible a thing it would be to Desmond to face the situation he had brought upon himself.

She remembered the strained, anxious face of Mrs. Neil at that hateful ball. It had haunted her almost ever since. The Neils were persons who had been tempted to their ruin by Desmond's name as director of this luckless mining venture. He might have encouraged them to place their money in it; and there were many others in like case with them. Oh yes, Odeyne could understand his disappearance and his silence. Desmond had a tender heart and a sensitive nature. He could not bear to see sorrow and suffering about him. She had often reproved him gently for his almost reckless liberality, when any case of distress came personally beneath his notice. How could he bear to meet the people whom he had (consciously or unconsciously) helped to ruin? It was not wonderful to her that he should have fled. There had always been a vein of moral cowardice in Desmond's nature. She had not realised it as fully before as she did now; but this knowledge helped her to understand Desmond's desperate flight at this juncture better than many persons understood it. They thought he believed himself more deeply incriminated than he was. Odeyne did not. She believed he was kept away by the dread of seeing and hearing of suffering which his blind confidence had occasioned.

"Edmund," said Odeyne, as her brothers laid before her the state of affairs some three weeks after the first shock, "you say that I have an income of twelve hundred a year—apart from the business, which is going to pay off the legal debts in instalments—and this house to live in. What rental should I get for the Chase if I were to let it furnished for two or three years?"

"Odeyne! what do you mean?" he asked quickly.

"I mean what I say. I am not going to live here without Desmond. You say he may come back any day when he sees by the papers (if he does see them) that there is no danger to himself in doing so; but I know him better. I do not think he will come. He is gone because he cannot bear to see and hear of the misery of the people who have been ruined through following his lead in those wretched mines. Guy, you have seen some of those people. Tell me, if I were to sell off some of the expensive things here that Desmond bought for me—the house has been perfectly crowded with them—and let the house furnished for three years, and live at the lodge with little Guy and two servants, on a couple of hundreds a year, how soon would there be something to give back to these people—enough to save them from ruin? Desmond has spent hundreds, if not thousands, upon ornaments and curios and beautiful things that the house does not really want. If I were to send a lot of them up to Christie's—they are all presents to me that I am speaking of—and sell them off, would not that go some way towards starting some of these poor things in life again? And then, as money came in, it would go towards refunding a part of their lost capital. Edmund, don't stare at me as though I were out of my senses. Guy understands. I am not going to do anything very wild and rash; but I cannot—I cannot live on here alone in every luxury, whilst people like the Neils, and others, are ruined, and all by trusting Desmond's advice. With the rest I have nothing to do, only those who trusted him with their money, and lost it through him."

Edmund whistled softly to himself. Guy laid his hand upon Odeyne's hand, and said gently—

"I will help you, Schwesterling—I think I know them all; there are not so very many; but some few have lost their all. It has been very sad to see them; but it will be new life for them to know that something will be done. There is no legal obligation upon you, but I think you will be happier, and there is room in our little house for you and the boy, till you can return to the Chase again."

There were tears of gratitude in her eyes as she answered—

"Thank you, dear Guy. It will be sweet to have you so near, but I would rather go to the lodge, and have my own little home there, and a place for Desmond always ready. I think he will come and seek me there some day. Till then I shall be happier there than I could be here. Edmund, dear, you are not vexed with me. Indeed I am trying to do what is really the most right thing, and to clear my husband's name and good fame from any shadow that may have fallen across it."

Edmund bent over her and kissed her again and again.

"I think you are the best wife and the best woman in the world. People may say you are doing a Quixotic thing, but I truly believe you will be the happier for doing it, and I know that Maud will bless you for clearing Desmond's name. She is taking it very hard, poor darling. It has come upon her, and you, as a greater blow than upon many."

"Thank you, dear Edmund; and you will help me to sell such things as I can part with at once, and to find a tenant for the house as quickly as possible?"

"There will be no trouble about that," said Edmund quickly. "General Mannering was asking me only the other day if there would be any chance of getting such a house in this neighbourhood. I believe he would jump at the Chase, and give a good rental as a yearly tenant. He would not care for any sort of lease, as his movements are rather uncertain."

Odeyne's face brightened as it had not done for many days.

"Ah, how nice that would be! Dear Edmund, do see about it as quickly as possible. I cannot be happy here, missing Desmond so terribly, and feeling that all this display and expense are such a mockery. I want to get away into a smaller place as soon as possible, and to feel that I am doing something towards paying off what I can only call Desmond's 'debts of honour.'"

If Odeyne met no opposition from her brothers, she was not destined to come off scatheless in other quarters.

Upon the next day, as she stood surrounded by a collection of articles she was selecting to send up to be sold at the first possible date, Beatrice suddenly burst in upon her in a state of the greatest excitement.

"Odeyne! what is this I hear? You must be mad! You must not dream of such a thing! Let the Chase, indeed! Sell all your valuables! It is sheer madness! What people like you and I have to do is just to stick to everything—everything! Defy the world, and throw sentiment of every kind to the winds! Why, if I had your opportunities I would add to my establishment, and flaunt about in grand style, just to show I had nothing to be ashamed of! To go and hide your head in a hole and give up everything to pay imaginary debts! Odeyne, you must not do it! It is absurd! it is wicked!"

Odeyne turned round with a sweet smile in her sad eyes.

"I am so sorry you are vexed, Beatrice; but I think you would do the same if you were in my position."

Beatrice gave a hard laugh. She had changed very much during the past weeks. She looked older, thinner, less brilliant; as if something had gone out of her life which could never come back to it.

"I ever give up anything for a sentimental scruple! That shows how much you know!"

"Not for a sentimental scruple, but for my dear husband's honour," answered Odeyne quietly. "If you loved Algernon as I love Desmond you would do the same for him—I know you would, Beatrice, whatever you say."

Beatrice was silent, biting her lips, and looking from place to place in the familiar room with strange, restless glances. Then suddenly flinging her arms about Odeyne's neck, she cried—

"Oh, we are two miserable, unhappy creatures, Odeyne; but if only I could be like you!—if only I could be like you! Teach me how, if you can."

CHAPTER XIX.

THE TWO WIVES.

"Jem, dear, is this your handiwork? How good of you! I have been wanting to see you often, but there has been so much to think of. My poor child, you look worn out. You have been tiring yourself making it all so pretty for me here."

Jem's face was quivering all over; she was striving to laugh and be gay, whilst all the time she felt as though the sadness of everything was altogether too much for her.

She turned round with a rather startled face when first Odeyne's voice fell upon her ear. She had been working now for two days in the pleasant rooms at the lodge, striving might and main to make them look as much like Odeyne's favourite rooms at the Chase as human hands could do. She had decorated the place with flowers till it looked like a bower, and from the little personal knick-knacks sent down from the house she had selected such as were most suitable for each room, and produced a very home-like and artistic effect. She had half meant to disappear before Odeyne should herself arrive; but she had lingered on, putting an additional touch here and there, to be sure that everything looked its best; and here was Odeyne actually on the spot without warning of any kind.

Odeyne saw the struggle in the sensitive countenance of her little loving admirer, and just opened her arms, into which Jem rushed with a strangled sob; and the next minute they were sitting side by side upon the sofa, Jem sobbing as though her heart would break, Odeyne striving to soothe and comfort her.

Jem loved Odeyne with that passionate, almost adoring love which very young girls often feel towards women older than themselves. The troubles at the Chase had been heart-rending to her, and she had shrunk from seeming to pry into the sorrow of the young wife, although she had longed with a great and ardent longing to see her again, and try and express her sympathy and love.

An outlet for her energies had been found in the adornment of these new quarters for Odeyne and her child. Guy and Cissy were almost all their time at the Chase, helping in the task of setting it in order for the new tenants. The majority of the servants had left. Things were rather in confusion and disorder up there; and as General Mannering desired possession as quickly as could be, and Odeyne was equally eager to quit, things had gone forward at a great rate; but nobody (save Jem) had had thought or time to give to the setting in order at the Lodge of the various goods and chattels sent down there. Odeyne had said that she could see to all that later, and had not troubled herself in any way about that part of the business.

Nobody, perhaps, save the loving and rather over-bold Jem, would have had the assurance to unpack and set in order Odeyne's private possessions and treasured articles, endeared to her by association. But Jem's love was of that kind which ignores all minor scruples in its desire to do service to the object of devotion; and she had toiled and worked with a will for two long days, and now the result was such that Odeyne looked about her with shining eyes, and exclaimed—

"Dearest Jem, how pretty you have made it! What put it into your head to be such a sweet little fairy? I am so much obliged to you, my child! I thought I should never have the heart to do it for myself; but this is lovely!"

This tribute to her success dried Jem's tears, and she looked into Odeyne's face (as she had not dared to do before) to seek to read there an answer to questions she must not put. But Odeyne rose with a tiny shake of the head, as though she half knew what Jem's beseeching gaze meant, and busied herself by admiring the pretty rooms and their wealth of flowers.

Then arrived the pony phaeton, with Alice and Hannah and the boy. Jem rushed at little Guy and caught him in her arms. They were fast friends now, for Jem had made a practice of waylaying him on his airings and ingratiating herself with him. Little Guy was the happiest of one-year-old mortals, with a laugh and a funny name of his own for everybody. Jem had been dubbed "Polly," for no reason that the adult mind could fathom, and when in an extra merry mood this would be turned into "Pretty Poll, Pretty Poll!"—to the immense delight of Jem, who would make parrot noises and parrot faces, till both she and the child were weary of laughing.

Guy evidently considered Pretty Poll one of the adjuncts of the new home. He trotted from room to room holding fast by her hand, chattered unceasingly if not very intelligibly the whole time, and took to his new domain like a duck to water.

Jem had everything ready for an inviting tea. The kitchen-maid from the Chase had been retained by Odeyne as cook at the lodge, and Alice had eagerly volunteered to do all the housework with a little assistance from Hannah. These three servants were very devoted to their mistress, and were resolved that she should never suffer from lack of personal and loving tendance. But for the wearing anxiety caused by the absence and total silence of Desmond, Odeyne felt that she could be far happier in this simple little home than she had often been at the Chase, surrounded by every luxury. As it was, the cloud rested upon her night and day. She could not lose the sense of her husband's wrong-doing and weakness. She was confronted daily with the results of his recent practices; and, though she might strive hard to make restitution, she could never undo the past, or forget how grievously he had fallen.

Yet her love could triumph over all else, and her prayer went up for him night and day—that prayer which brings its answer in time, because it is the prayer of faith.

The first night spent by Odeyne in her new home was not an unhappy one, despite the strangeness of the change which had come into her life. Guy came in for an hour in the evening, for the little house he had taken for himself and his bride was less than half a mile from the lodge. It was so comforting to Odeyne to have this special brother so close at hand, that it made amends for much. Edmund she had not seen for many days; but that did not surprise her, as he was a busy man, and already he had given more time than he could well afford into the examination of her affairs.

"I saw him three days ago—he was looking very seedy," said Guy; "but he would not allow anything was the matter. I hope he has not been in any way involved in Desmond's unlucky speculations. His manner was certainly a little strange; but I think he would have told me before if he had been in any embarrassment. We talked so freely of the business in all its bearings, and Edmund is very open about his affairs."

Odeyne was easily roused to anxiety now; she had had only too much reason to be; but Guy quieted her fears, and left her tranquil and composed; and upon the morrow she was destined to learn something which fully accounted for the change in Edmund.

Mrs. St. Claire had hardly seen Odeyne during these past weeks. Although not so taken by surprise as some others by this sudden crash, it had affected her health somewhat, and she had had little energy or strength for getting about; but now that Odeyne had actually taken up her abode at the lodge, Desmond's mother was resolved to pay her an early visit; and upon the following afternoon she and Maud were ushered up into the pleasant flower-scented room, which had been made so trim and comfortable by Jem's loving fingers.

Mrs. St. Claire began by striving to retain her customary alert manner, and by passing some spicy remarks about the lodge, and Desmond's forethought in preparing it all so thoughtfully against this catastrophe; but suddenly catching the look in Odeyne's eyes, she stopped suddenly, and put her hands upon the girl's shoulders, kissing her almost passionately again and again.

"My dear," she said, "I hate scenes. I do not want to make things worse; and sympathy is often the most trying thing to bear. But I should like to tell you how I admire and respect you. I should like to thank you for what, in your unconventional bravery, you are doing to save my son's honour and good name in the eyes of men who look below the bare legal side of the matter."

Odeyne only said simply, as she returned Mrs. St. Claire's embraces—

"He is my husband."

"Would to God he were worthy of such a wife!" exclaimed the mother in a voice that broke in spite of her efforts after calmness. "My dear, I do not think I could do it in your place; but I can recognise nobility and true unselfishness when I see it. He is your husband—you want no thanks of mine, I know. But yet I must tell you how I appreciate such conduct, though the world may call it foolish."

Long did Desmond's wife and mother talk together, feeling more drawn towards each other than ever before. Maud meantime sat a little apart, looking pale and inanimate, and speaking no word. Odeyne glanced at her two or three times, but always saw her looking out of the window with the same absorbed gaze. She felt that something was amiss, but knew Maud too well to seek to force her confidence; but she did hope she might have the chance of speaking to her alone before the pair left.

Nor was she disappointed in this. The grandmother must pay a visit to the boy before leaving, and see where he was lodged. Odeyne took her to the nursery-room, but did not enter with her, returning to the other apartment, where Maud still sat in the same listless way, seemingly unheeding what went on.

"Maud, dear, is anything the matter?" she asked.

"You have not heard, then? You have not seen Edmund?"

"No," answered Odeyne with a sense of comprehension, "he has not been here for some time. Maud, what is the matter?"

"Nothing so very much, after all; it was hardly an engagement. There were many uncertainties and difficulties. But it is all over now. I shall never marry."

Odeyne looked at her in astonishment. It was true that the tacit engagement between her brother and Desmond's sister had been little spoken about, and was looked upon as rather indefinite; but those who best knew them had never doubted for a moment that there was warm love on both sides, and that before long some way would be found by which difficulties would be overcome, and the marriage consummated. Therefore this passionately spoken reply of Maud's perplexed her not a little.

"But what has happened to change you? I can't understand you, Maud."

"Can you not? I should have thought it was so easy. How have the marriages with my family turned out so far?" burst out Maud with the bitterness of long pent-up feeling. "How has Desmond treated you, Odeyne? What of Beatrice and Algernon? It is not for me to sit in judgment upon my own flesh and blood, yet I always maintain that if Beatrice had been a different woman she might have held Algernon back from much that has worked his ruin. But she wanted to be rich as much as he did, and now what has it come to? She has to come back to mother—to be a drag and a constant source of worry to her. Nothing but ill follows a marriage with a St. Claire. Edmund had better be thankful for his dismissal. We do not want a third fiasco in one family."

"Maud! Maud!" cried Odeyne in distress, "do you know you are talking very wildly? Is Edmund's happiness in life and his trust in womanhood to be wrecked because Desmond has been wild and ill-advised, and because Beatrice is—what we have always known her to be?"

Maud clutched at Odeyne's hand and wrung it in her pain.

"Edmund will get over it—men always do. He will soon see that he has had a good escape. He knows how near Desmond trod to the borders of—disgrace."

Odeyne went white to the lips. Her voice shook as she asked—

"Maud, do you know what you are saying—and to me?"

"I do," answered Maud almost passionately. "Would that I did not know! They have been merciful to you. They have put everything in the best possible light, but I have heard all. And I, who loved him only second-best to you—I know that only by the skin of his teeth has he saved himself from the clutches of the law. His flight shows that he knew himself morally guilty, though they say he is just safe from arrest. Algernon can never return home; Desmond may. But knowing what I do, and that Edmund knows all—oh, I cannot!—I cannot! It humbles me to the very dust! He shall not link his name with one that is all but smirched and sullied!"

Odeyne felt as though a sword were running through her heart. What others had sought to hide from her, or to put in the gentlest way, Maud in her pain had spoken out in almost merciless frankness. It was terrible; and yet Odeyne still kept her mind upon the question of Maud and Edmund, leaving herself and her anguish in the background of her thoughts.

"Is Edmund to suffer for Desmond's sins?"

"It cannot be helped. It is always so. It is the inexorable way of the world," answered Maud, speaking now more calmly, with a sort of quiet desperation. "But there is another reason also, Odeyne. Hitherto I have always had the uncontrolled use of my own fortune. I have been, in a modest way, a well-to-do woman. Had I married Edmund we could have lived in comfort on our joint means, but now all is changed. Beatrice and her child are thrown back upon mother's hands; Beatrice, with her expensive habits and her load of private debts for a whole season's extravagances. What you are doing for your husband, Odeyne, I must do for my sister; and there is her future to think of too."

Odeyne was silent. She saw very plainly that the maintenance of Beatrice and the boy would be no light burden.

"Mother has never been a saving woman," continued Maud in the same steady monotonous way. "There was no reason why she should not live up to her income. We were provided for, and there would be more for us, in any case, at her death. She has grown used to her comfortable manner of life; one cannot expect her to alter at her age; and there is no margin for so expensive an addition to her household as Beatrice, with nurse and child. The cost of these additions must come out of my purse. Nor could I leave mother alone with such a charge upon her hands. That was always a difficulty in thinking of marriage—now it has become insuperable."

"Edmund would wait——" began Odeyne, but Maud interrupted almost fiercely.

"Wait—what for? Till Algernon is whitewashed—which will be never! Till Beatrice has learned to live upon the pittance still secured to her?—though we believe that Algernon will contrive to get hold of that still! No, no, no! I have made up my mind. I know what is right, and I have done it. It is kind to be cruel sometimes. Try not to hate me—to hate us all, Odeyne—for the misery we have brought to you and yours! Oh, Desmond, Desmond! I loved and trusted you so long and faithfully!"

Odeyne took Maud in her arms and kissed her again and again; but she felt that words were powerless here. Moreover, what to say she knew not; the whole question was so difficult. Maud had a hard and bitter way of doing things, but Odeyne was not sure that she had not judged rightly and well. If things were indeed in such a case, marriage did seem out of the question, and an engagement under such circumstances became little better than a mockery.

But could Beatrice sit down quietly and see such a sacrifice made on her behalf? That was the question which presented itself to Odeyne after her visitors had left her alone. Beatrice had clung about Odeyne's neck only the other day, seeming to be longing after something higher and better than her former code. Surely, if she gave her nobler nature scope, she would come to understand that it was not right for Maud's future happiness (to say nothing of Edmund's) to be sacrificed to her present ease and comfort. She would surely be roused, to a different sort of existence. She would not long b& content to be a burden upon her sister.

Odeyne waited with some impatience for a visit from Beatrice, that she might learn from her frank lips how things were going. She had some little while to wait, for Beatrice did not come for some considerable time and then Odeyne was surprised to find her most elegantly dressed, looking almost as blooming as in days of old, all her sunny good-temper restored, and her aspect as bright and beaming as though nothing were amiss.

"I have had to do duty for us both in the neighbourhood, Odeyne," she cried. "I suppose you could not help it—you are made like that; but it is always a mistake for people in our circumstances to shut themselves up, as if they could not face the world. I have been going about everywhere and making the best of things—not ignoring our misfortunes, of course, they are too well known for that—but putting the best face on them, and showing that we have no cause to hide our heads. That is what a good wife does for her husband. You are doing your share in another way; but I am not as careless of Algernon's good name as you might think. Already I am much better received than I was at first. I assure you I have been very clever and diplomatic. Really things might have been much worse. It is such peace now, living in mother's house, with everything provided for one, and no worries. She enjoys all the life and brightness I bring. Poor dear Maud never had any animation, and she and mother never got on too well together, though they hide their little differences from the world very well."

Beatrice was always a good one to talk. Odeyne had nothing to do for a long time but sit and listen to her in a species of amaze. She could hardly believe this was the same woman who a week or two back had come to her with despair in her eyes and terror in her heart. Already it seemed as though the pleasant life of Mrs. St. Claire's house was making amends for all that had gone before. Beatrice seemed to feel real relief in the absence of her husband, and hardly troubled to conceal the fact. The weary heartache which Odeyne suffered daily through Desmond's absence did not appear to be known to Beatrice.

"And you know, I suppose," she said at last in the midst of her stream of animated talk, "that it is all over between Maud and Edmund?"

Odeyne flashed a wondering look at her. Surely she could not be as callous as she appeared!

"Maud told me so," she said; "I think it is terribly sad. They are both heart-broken. Beatrice, can nothing be done?"

Beatrice slightly shrugged her shapely shoulders.

"I always think it is very dangerous work interfering in other people's love affairs. Maud decided with open eyes. For my part, I think she has chosen very wisely. The marriages in our family have not turned out brilliantly successful so far; and Maud is very comfortable as she is—the practical mistress of a pleasant house. You will not take it amiss if I say that, as the wife of an officer with little but his pay, she might have had a much less easy and pleasant life of it."

"But then ease and pleasure are not everything, Beatrice; love has its part to play too."

"Love has a way of flying out at the window when poverty looks in at the door," said Beatrice, rather cynically, "and Maud was always a cold-blooded creature. I think Edmund might do much better for himself, such a handsome, attractive man as he is."

Odeyne could not find words in which to frame her thoughts. She had been hoping that Beatrice would grow gentler, softer, more unselfish and womanly; and here she was finding her more heartless than ever she had thought her before. Trouble seemed to have seared rather than softened her nature. Every word she spoke grated upon Odeyne's ears. Perhaps Beatrice was shrewd enough to see something of the impression she had produced, for she looked rather intently into Odeyne's face, and said—

"You seem to think that I have something to do with this affair of Maud's ruptured engagement."

Odeyne was silent, not knowing what to say. Beatrice paused for a while, but receiving no reply, broke out again—

"Well, and if I have, can I help it? I must have a home somewhere, and my mother's house is the natural asylum for me under the present state of affairs. How can I help myself? I am grateful to Maud for helping to pay my bills, although I have told her that since Algy will have to be made a bankrupt, she really need not trouble herself so very much. But she can't see things in that light. I can't live upon nothing. And after all, she is my sister. I am grateful to her—I really am—but you know what Maud is—one can't gush to a block of marble! She keeps one at arm's-length, even while she is doing kind actions. It's a great misfortune to have such a temperament, and really I think Edmund is well off his bargain."

"That is not Edmund's own opinion," said Odeyne, a little coldly. "When people understand and love each other, they see in one another what is hidden from the world. I would rather live in a cottage and toil with my own hands, than stand in the way of the happiness of others, and make shipwreck of two lives."

She had not meant to speak like this, but a sudden wave of feeling swept over her and carried her away in spite of herself.

Beatrice eyed her reflectively and presently said—

"That is what you are doing already—for the sake of Desmond's good name, is it not? Well, people like you who can practise, have a right to preach. But I was never a heroine in any sense of the word. Honestly, I can't see, under existing circumstances, how Maud could marry, and take herself and her fortune away with her. And really, with the sort of cloud hanging over all of us, I think we are better without rushing into any more marriages. One hopes one has got to the bottom of the slough by this time; but there is no knowing. I think one Hamilton-St. Claire marriage is enough for the present."

Odeyne turned a little away. This sort of talk jarred very much upon her, as did Beatrice's hollow, selfish cynicism whenever she assumed that manner. Was it assumed sometimes as a cloak and disguise? Was Beatrice sometimes half afraid of letting her better warmer nature get the upper hand, lest it should urge her to sacrifices she was not really prepared to make? Odeyne had striven to think this before, but to-day she began to have her doubts about there being any unselfish side to Beatrice's nature. She was glad that the door opened that moment to admit little Guy, who came toddling in after his afternoon walk. He ran straight up to his mother, and then stretched up his arms towards a picture of Desmond, which hung upon the wall, and cried—

"Daddy!—Daddy!"

It was evident that he expected to be lifted up to the picture—evident that Odeyne was seeking to keep warm in the heart of the baby-boy the love of the "Daddy" who had been of late but little more than a name to him.

Beatrice looked on, and suddenly bit her lip, rising abruptly to her feet. Her little son never spoke of his father—hardly seemed to seek out or to care for his mother. He was fond of his granny, and devoted to his aunt Maud; but the sacred tie between parent and child had hardly been formed as yet. How was it likely to be, when that between husband and wife was so very slack?

"Good-bye, Odeyne," she said suddenly, "you deserve to be happy, and I hope there will be better days for you in store. I would give something to be in your place, I can tell you. But the leopard cannot change his spots. Perhaps there will be a chance for the boy now, with somebody besides his mother to bring him up. Desmond was a wise man to choose such a treasure of a wife. Whether you were wise to take him is quite another matter; but I think the magnet of such a wife would draw any man back, even from the ends of the earth!"

CHAPTER XX.

A STRANGE CHRISTMAS.

"Here is Maud!" cried Cissy, springing up from the breakfast table, the little bow-window of which looked out over the road, though in summer a screen of greenery shut in the quaint little house from being itself overlooked. The next minute she was out in the tiny hall, hands outstretched and face alight with smiles.

"A happy Christmas, Maud! a happy Christmas! You are early abroad. Come in and have a cup of hot coffee. Have you had any proper breakfast yet? Come and share ours!"

Maud let herself be led into the homely little room, where she received a further welcome from Guy.

"Thank you," she said, "I have had a cup of tea, but I am ready for something more substantial. As Beatrice has a cold and is breakfasting in bed, I dispensed with that meal myself. I am on my way to Odeyne. I wanted to be there when the post arrived, in case—in case——"

She paused and seemed to turn her attention to the food placed before her. Cissy's face was full of sympathy, Guy's questioningly grave.

"Maud," he said, "do you really share Odeyne's unspoken hope? Do you think she will hear from Desmond to-day?"

Maud pressed her hands together. Her lips quivered before she opened them to speak. A change had passed over Maud during the past six months. Her face had lost colour and was thinner than of old, yet it had gained much in expression. The statuesque hardness had melted into something much sweeter and tenderer. There was a wistful softness in the eyes that was very appealing in its unconsciousness. Maud had always been handsome, but in old days she had met with scant admiration in her circle. Now there were many who thought her very beautiful, and she was more beloved than she had been at any previous stage of her existence. This consciousness was the drop of sweetness to her in the bitter cup she had been schooling herself to drink.

"How can I tell?" she said in answer to Guy's question; "I am perplexed beyond measure at his long silence. It is not like Desmond to give needless pain to those whom he loves, and yet only one message has reached us all these months. We have done everything to let him know that he may come back safely; yet he gives no sign. It is wearing Odeyne out, though she is always brave and hopeful. But he ought not to leave her in this uncertainty. He ought not!—he ought not!"

"But surely—at Christmas," began Cissy.

"Yes, that is what Odeyne is saying in her heart—what we are all saying and hoping. But I know Desmond so well—so well. It is like this with him—he cannot realise what he does not see with his own eyes. If he is somewhere far away, seeking to retrieve the past, and to make amends for it—if he has made some plan of his own to stay away a certain time, and then return and surprise us all, he may go on month after month believing that his one cheerful message will be enough to keep Odeyne from fretting—living himself in the present, and looking forward to some future happy time when they will be together again."

"But surely, surely he must write!"

"Of course he might! Of course he should. But I can quite believe that he might not—might never realise all that we are suffering, might think he was doing right and expiating his sins by hiding his head for a time, and keeping away in exile. Oh, he has done things like that before—on a much smaller scale. We have had days and weeks of terrible anxiety about him in his boyhood and early manhood; and the wondering excuse has always been, 'I never thought you would worry so—of course I was all right. You would precious soon have heard if I had not been!' That is Desmond all over; and now when he has been overwhelmed with shame, and feels so utterly unworthy of Odeyne's trust and love, and probably thinks that coming back would bring him face to face with a mass of misery of his own making—why I can understand in a measure that he keeps away and works out some plan of his own. But he ought to write—he ought indeed!"

"Let us hope he will—for Christmas," said Guy, "he and Algernon too. Perhaps they are together, taking care of one another. But Beatrice bears the uncertainty better than Odeyne."

"The love is not the same, for one thing," said Maud. "Yet Beatrice cares more than I gave her credit for once. She has been very different latterly. The quiet life has given her time to think; and when all is said and done, the marriage tie is a very solemn and sacred thing. Poor Algernon had given her so much anxiety and trouble, that for a time it was almost a relief to think of him as out of harm's way somewhere. But she wants news of him badly now. The suspense is telling upon her."

"And your mother, how is she?"

"Pretty well—not very bright. Sometimes I am afraid she is really failing. She has never been quite herself since the troubles in June. But she does not complain; only she is much more the invalid than ever before. She has not left the house for nearly a month. But the little maiden was taken to see her yesterday. It was a great delight, and has done her good. But oh, to think that Desmond does not know! It ought not to be! No, it ought not to be!"

Cissy and Guy both prepared to accompany Maud to the lodge, to be there before the arrival of the postman, who was always late on Christmas Day morning.

There had been both anxiety and rejoicing at that little home within the last fortnight, for a little daughter had been born to Odeyne—a frail, tiny morsel of humanity, who had made her appearance before she was expected—but she was thriving well in spite of drawbacks, and had already done something towards comforting the heart of her mother.

"She will be a little Christmas present for Desmond," had been her remark when first the tiny creature had been placed in her arms. "Desmond will come back for Christmas, you know. We could not spend Christmas apart, and he must come and see his precious little daughter."

Words like this had often passed Odeyne's lips during the past days, causing some anxiety to those about her, who were almost nervous of the way in which she seemed to have made up her mind that Desmond would return at this season.

When her brothers or friends had asked her what she really thought about this, and if she had any grounds to go upon, she would smile peacefully and say—

"I feel it in my spirit somehow. I cannot put it into words, but something tells me he is near. He is coming back to us. He would be sure to do so for Christmas. He may have far to come. He may not come just to the day or hour, but he is coming—surely—surely. Perhaps we shall have a letter on Christmas Day to say when."

This confident hope had been a powerful factor in Odeyne's rapid and satisfactory recovery. They had never been anxious about her, only about the little babe, whose flame of life burnt so feebly at the first. Now the child was thriving apace too, and it was pretty to see Odeyne's pleasure in it, and little Guy's wide-eyed interest and curiosity.

Odeyne had both children upon the bed with her, when Maud and Cissy entered with their loving greetings. She was looking very young and bright and pretty, with her hair rather pulled about by Master Guy's mischievous fingers, and the light of expectant happiness shining in her eyes.

"I had such happy dreams about him last night," she said, as they sat talking together. "It seemed when I awoke as though we had been together, and I still heard the echo of his voice. Oh, it is going to be a very happy Christmas! I am to get up to-day, you know, for a few hours. That will be delightful; and then, when—I mean if—Desmond comes, it will give him such a much better welcome!"

Maud and Cissy exchanged furtive glances. They did not quite like to hear her building so much upon this fancy of hers. If it were to meet with disappointment, might not the reaction be bad for her? Yet her confidence could not but have some effect upon them; and there was at least a reasonable hope of a letter; only if it came from far-off lands, it might not reach upon the very morning of the festival.

Alice entered the room with a tray in her hands, and Odeyne gave a little cry; for here was the post—letters, parcels, cards, all heaped up together; some for Desmond, some for the children—for even Miss St. Claire had her share now—and the bulk for the mother herself.

Odeyne sat up with a flushed face, and hastily turned them all over; but Maud had asked Alice a question with her eyes, and had received a sorrowful shake of the head in reply. There was nothing in Desmond's hand amongst all these.

"Letters are often delayed at this time," said Odeyne cheerfully, as she made this discovery for herself. "Besides, if he should be coming himself, he would not perhaps care to write. Desmond was never fond of the pen."

Then she turned her attention to little Guy, opening his parcels and admiring his treasures with all the patience and fondness of a young mother with her firstborn.

Maud slipped away into the other room, where Alice was standing beside the window with tears in her eyes.

"Poor Alice!" said Maud gently, "I fear this is a sorrowful time for you also. You have heard nothing, I suppose?"

"No, ma'am, and I didn't expect it," answered Alice, turning round and wiping her eyes; "I do not expect to ever hear of him again. They all say he has got away to Spain, where he cannot be fetched back, and there he will stay, I am sure. He is too clever to do anything which would put him into danger."

"But he might write to you, at least."

"I don't expect it, ma'am. I might almost say I don't wish it. I did love him once, and meant to make him a true and loving wife; but he has killed the love out of my heart by betraying trust and robbing those who put their faith in him. He made a fool of me, and then cast me off. I don't want to think hard things of one whose name I bear, but I can't love where I can't respect. If he were to send for me, I would go, if you all thought it right, for I've learnt that God's way is for us to do what is right, and leave the result to Him; but I don't think he will. I think a wife would only be a trouble to him. Sometimes he used to tell me he was disappointed in me. That was when he wanted me to get at papers and things which were sometimes put in my care. I wouldn't do that—not towards the end—and then I used to get hard words from him."

"Poor Alice!" said Maud gently, "you have been through a great deal."

"Not more than I needed, ma'am, to show me the truth of things," answered Alice earnestly. "I can see plainly now, looking back, how vain and frivolous and giddy I was. I thought of nothing but myself, and how to get on (as I thought) in life. I wanted to be a 'lady'—a fine sort of lady I should have made! I believe it was that in me that took Garth's fancy. He thought I might help him on. When I began to see through it all, and knew that I should be a better and happier woman without trying after such things as that, he changed to me very soon. He left me with never a word. I don't want to think harshly of him. He is my husband still. But I never want to see him again. I want to belong always to my dear mistress and the sweet children. Nobody knows what she has been to me all this time. And yet she knew everything about me—she knows more than I can tell anybody else—and it has never made one bit of difference. We always did say down at home that there was nobody like our Miss Odeyne in all the world."

Maud went off to church alone, for Guy and Cissy were going to pay a visit to her family on the way, and join forces with them. Maud, always fearful of intruding, took herself off early; and as she had time and to spare, she made a détour, and found herself in a little copse, which was endeared to her through certain associations, of which she did not often allow herself to think at this time.

Oddly enough, it seemed as though somebody else had had a similar motive for prowling into that place to-day. Certainly it looked very pretty, with its carpet of brown and yellow leaves, coated with a crisp white frost. The sky overhead was blue, necked with fleecy white clouds, and the winter sunshine flooded the place with shafts of pale gold light.

Maud walked thoughtfully through the leafless trees, listening to the pleasant plash of the little stream, till suddenly she turned a corner and came face to face with Edmund!

They both started and stood for a moment gazing speechlessly at one another. They had not met since the day when Maud had broken the engagement between them. Their eyes met and did not turn away. It seemed as though they could not help devouring each other in that fashion after the long separation.

Maud was the first to recover herself. She held out her hand and said in tones which she strove to make steady and cheerful—

"May I wish you a happy Christmas, Captain Hamilton?"

He clasped her hand—he almost seized it; and his voice shook unmistakably as he answered—

"You can give me one if you will, Maud."

She did not speak, but she trembled all over, and he felt it, and would not relinquish the hand he held.

"Maud," he said, "I want no pledge. I want no promise. I ask nothing from you whatever. But just let me hear you say that you love me still, and my Christmas will be a happy one, even though we may be no nearer than we have been all these past sad months."

She looked at him with a yearning wistfulness in her eyes.

"To what purpose, Edmund?" she asked, "to what purpose? Is it not better to forget?"

"Have we either of us forgotten so far? Are we of the sort of stuff that forgets? Maud, Maud, do you not think I can honour and love you for your self-denial? Do you not think I can share it too? I will never ask you to neglect a nearer duty—a prior claim—for my sake. But tell me, sweetheart, do you love me still? and if the obstacles were to be removed, would you come to me then?"

The tears rushed to her eyes.

"Oh, Edmund, you know I do! you know I would!"

He stooped and kissed her on the lips.

"That is all I wanted to hear you say. Now you have given me my happy Christmas. I have got all I wanted—and more."

After that they walked to church together, but they hardly spoke another word all the way.

Odeyne got up that day for the first time, and lay upon the couch in the adjoining room, whence she could command a view over the park, lying white and beautiful beneath its mantle of sparkling frost.

Her only visitor after Edmund had left, which he did almost immediately after luncheon, was Beatrice; who, in spite of her cold, drove over to see Odeyne, and to bring some little presents for the boy.

Maud was not the only person who had seen a change in Beatrice during the past six months. Others had begun to see it too. It might have been the illness of the mother, it might have been the unconscious influence and example of Odeyne, or even that of Maud; but whatever the cause Beatrice certainly seemed different. She did not crave for a ceaseless round of amusement. She was more content to live a quiet life at home, and to interest herself in her boy. She was more gentle in her manner towards Maud and her mother, and when she spoke of her husband it was no longer in that half bitter, half flippant way which had often distressed Odeyne in days gone by. She had her ups and down, she had her varying moods, and her fits of waywardness and selfishness, but on the whole she was a much improved Beatrice, and to-day she had not been long with Odeyne before she suddenly burst out with some quite unexpected words.

"Odeyne, do you think anything could be done to bring Maud and Edmund together again?"

Odeyne, who had an inkling that something had happened only that very day, smiled and thought it might be possible if——

"Oh yes, I know what you would say, that the situation has not changed. But sometimes I think it has. I don't say it heartlessly, Odeyne; I feel it terribly; but I can't blind my eyes to the fact. Mother is dying slowly, and she knows it herself. I think we all know it except Maud, who seems in this instance to be strangely blind."

Odeyne looked very grave. She had suspected that her mother-in-law ailed more than was admitted, but she had not put her fears into such plain language.

"She was talking to me about the future only the other day. She tells me she has willed to me all her own little private property, and what comes under her settlement is divided between Maud and me. I believe I should have quite enough to live upon in a quiet way with the child. Or if it seemed better, I might go out to Algernon, if we hear anything about him. I have not been a good wife to him all these years; but I think after what has happened we might both do better if we were to start afresh."

Odeyne said nothing, but her eyes were eloquent of sympathy.

"And in any case Maud ought to be free to make her own life. You were quite right in all you said six months ago. I had no right to let her sacrifice herself to me. Her duty towards mother is another thing. But from that she will soon be released. When that happens she must not let anything that I have ever said or done keep her away from Edmund."

"Dear Beatrice," said Odeyne, with a kindling smile, "it makes me very happy to hear you speak so—for I am sure Edmund and Maud were made for one another."

"Maud will be a better wife than I have ever been," said Beatrice, with a little sigh. "I have not lived with her all these months for nothing. It is always the unselfish people who go to the wall in their youth: but by-and-by wise folks come to know their merits, and then they get the pick of everything, as they deserve to do."

"But I am grieved by what you say of mamma," said Odeyne anxiously; "I had the impression that something was wrong, but——"

"Yes, she never liked it spoken about; and we have got used to it all these years. But you know she is a much older woman than she looks. And once or twice before she has had very slight strokes, though they have never been called by that name. This anxiety about Algernon and Desmond has been very bad for her. I only hope she may live to see Desmond again. But sometimes I fear, if he does not soon come, she will quietly slip out of life before we well know it."

"He will come very soon now," said Odeyne quietly. "He must be quite close now, or he would have written."

Beatrice knew her sister-in-law's "delusion" on this subject, and therefore asked no questions.

She sincerely hoped her presentiment might be true, but did not feel any confidence in it.

She had a profound distrust by this time of men and their ways, and perhaps she had some reason for it.

"Well, dear, let us hope he will," she said as she rose to go. "I must not stay out longer now, as it gets dark so soon, and my cold has been rather bad. But I could not let the day pass without coming to see you. I am glad to find you looking so well and bright, and the baby so flourishing. You really manage to turn out very pretty babies, Odeyne. My Gus was a little monster for the first six months of his life!"

"He is a dear little fellow now," said Odeyne warmly. "Mind you send him to see me very soon. Guy delights in his society, and he is so good to him! I think it is quite pretty to see them together. Gus is always ready to give up to Guy, because he is the smaller and weaker."

"Long may it continue!" breathed Beatrice as she drew on her furs. "That is not the way with men-folk as a rule. It is the weak who have to go to the wall! I suppose it is the influence of pretty well a year of Maud's training. He used to be a little Turk under the old régime."

Beatrice was gone, and Odeyne lay looking out into the dying day.

Alice came in and out softly, and presently brought her mistress some tea.

Odeyne would not have the curtains drawn; she liked to look out, even though the room got dark, and only the light of the fire gleamed upon the walls, and flickered on the diamond lattice-panes.

The moonlight shining on the white frosty ground was a beautiful sight to see.

Odeyne must have fallen asleep, and must have slept long and soundly. Perhaps that was why Alice had not disturbed her to get her to return to bed, or even to light the lamp and draw the curtains.

Even through her sleep she became conscious at last of certain strange, unwonted sounds. It was as though feet were hurrying past her window, and as though the owners of these feet were talking excitedly amongst themselves as they did so.

These sounds mingled with Odeyne's dreams, and she fancied that Desmond was coming hastening back, that they were all running to tell her he was coming; she woke with a start to find herself alone in the fire-lit room, speaking his name aloud; whilst beneath her window, along the road towards the Chase—so seldom trodden by the feet of passers-by—there seemed to be a continuous rush of hurrying feet.

Odeyne sat up and looked out, and gave a great start, uttering a stifled exclamation of alarm and amaze.

The sky was all in a glow; the very windows of her room reflected back the ruddy glare.

"It is a fire at the Chase!" she cried. "General Mannering had a great party there. Something has gone wrong!" And, forgetting all but her excitement and wonder, Odeyne suddenly rose to her feet, and went and stood at the window to try and see what was going on.

The trees, leafless as they were, blocked her view of the actual house-building, but the palpitating light in the sky told its own unmistakable tale; and the rush of feet under her windows showed that all the village was hastening by the shortest cut to the scene of action.

Odeyne looked down and saw the glow of the fire upon the eager, hurrying crowd. It illumined their rugged faces (many of which were known to her), and showed her that all the place had taken the alarm. She heard disjointed exclamations about the engine and the fire brigade, but nothing connected reached her ears, though the red glare grew fiercer each moment.

Suddenly Odeyne started violently, leaned forward with her face pressed against the window, and then, with a face as white as ashes, began striving to unfasten the latch.

But it resisted her efforts. She was weak, and the spring was strong. Upon her face there was an extraordinary expression—a look so strange and wild that Alice, coming suddenly and softly in, started forward with an exclamation of alarm—

"Oh, ma'am—you should not be here!"

Odeyne pointed out of the window in the direction of the Chase. Her words came in panting gasps.

"Alice, after him!—after him! Your master has just passed by. He has gone to the fire. He thinks we are there! After him! after him! and bring him back. Do not stand staring at me! I am not mad! Your master—my husband—went past this window only three seconds ago. You must follow him and bring him here to me!"

CHAPTER XXI.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

Alice stood rooted to the spot, utterly confounded by the words and look of her mistress. Surely she had been dreaming, and had fancied this strange thing! Or could it be that there was fever coming on, and that this was the outcome of some delirious fancy? She did not know what to do, for she felt she must not leave her lady, and yet Odeyne's mood was imperious and excited. It was a great relief to hear steps upon the stairs, and to know that others had entered the house.

Guy, Cissy, and Jem came breathlessly in, evidently anxious to know whether Odeyne was alarmed by the news of the fire at the Chase. The sight of her face was enough to show them that she knew what had happened. Guy came quickly forward, and placed her upon the couch again.

"Do not be frightened, Schwesterling," he said. "It is not the house itself, only some of the outbuildings, they say. I will go and see, and bring you word again, and Cissy and Jem shall stay and take care of you."

"Guy, Guy, Desmond is there! I saw him just now! He ran past with such a look on his face. Go and tell him where we are. Bring him back to me. You will find him. You will see him. He is not much changed. Don't lose a moment. I am not dreaming, and I am not ill—though I can see you all think so. It really was Desmond. I have made no mistake. It is not so very strange either, is it? He was on his way back—I always said so; and, seeing the fire, of course he would think we were in danger, and would run to our rescue. He does not know we are here. Go and find him and tell him. Bring him back to me, quickly! Never mind anything else, only bring Desmond back."

Guy gazed at her in amaze; but Cissy, with her quick feminine instincts, took all in in a moment, and believed.

"Come, Guy, come!" she cried in excitement. "We will go together. We will find Desmond! Yes, Odeyne, darling, be quiet and patient. We will find him and bring him to you. Jem, you must stay with Odeyne; but we will not be long gone. Come, Guy, don't let us waste a moment! We will go and find him, and tell him where to find Odeyne."

Guy let himself be hurried away, though considerably perplexed as to what could have happened. Jem came up and sat down beside Odeyne, her face kindling and flushing with excitement.

"Is it really, really he, Odeyne?" she asked.

"Really and truly it is. I saw him as plainly as I see you, Jem. I don't wonder they think I was dreaming; but I know I am not mistaken. Desmond is there. They will find him and bring him to me. I always said he would come back at Christmas-time! I felt it all over me!" and her eyes kindled with happy tears.

Jem could not remain quiet; she moved to the window, and then to and fro between that and the next room, where a better view of the glow from the fire could be obtained.

"They say it isn't the house, but they are afraid for the stackyard," she said, coming back, after having interviewed some passers-by from the window. "General Mannering has a big party to-night to dinner, and probably everybody was busy, so the fire was not noticed at first. But if it isn't the house it won't matter so much. I hope the stables are all right, and the poor dear horses!"

Odeyne lay on her couch; Alice could not persuade her to go to bed; and Jem ran hither and thither collecting scraps of news, to which Odeyne scarcely listened.

She seemed absorbed in one thought; all her faculties seemed concentrated into the act of listening for certain sounds, for one particular voice.

Jem by-and-by ceased to worry her with information, but went down to the door and peered out into the dark night, wondering what was happening, and whether they had found Desmond, or if it were all a strange delusion and mistake of Odeyne's.

How long they had been gone! Why did not somebody come back? It was bad for Odeyne, being kept in suspense so long.

Jem had a mind to scud away up to the Chase herself, and see if she could not learn something there. But she was not used to being out alone after dark, and she felt a certain shrinking from encountering the rough village lads and other curious spectators that the glow in the sky was drawing from all quarters. So she stood in the doorway hesitating and listening, whilst the flickering redness in the sky seemed, she fancied, to decrease a little.

Hark! what was that? Surely those were familiar voices. Yes, she was certain she heard Guy speaking; and there was another voice, Edmund's she fancied, answering him.

Of course Edmund might be there. Was he not one of General Mannering's guests? She was sure she had heard so. What were they saying? Why did they come so slowly?

"Somebody had better prepare her." Surely that was Edmund who spoke those words. "You go, Guy. She will take it best from you. Don't alarm her—but let her be prepared."

Jem was quivering all over by that time. What was it that had happened? Why did not Desmond speak, if he were there?

What was the thing that must be broken to Odeyne? Was it that she had been mistaken? That there was no Desmond after all? Oh, it would be a cruel blow if this were so.

"Guy, what is it? What has happened? Come quick and tell me!" she cried, as Guy's figure suddenly loomed up before her as he strode rapidly forward. "Have you found Desmond? What is it? Don't say he is not there! I don't know what Odeyne will do if she is disappointed of her hope."

Guy came forward out of the darkness with a rather strange look upon his face.

"Hush, Jem!" he said, "Desmond is close behind. But I must see Odeyne instantly; you run and tell Alice to get a bed ready immediately, and have everything ready for a patient. Desmond has been hurt, but nobody knows yet how much. Now, don't delay me, for I can tell you nothing more. Go to Alice, and I will go to Odeyne."

Jem was her father's daughter all over. Let there be something to do for the sick, and she was full of energy and resource. In a moment all her quiverings and excitements were over, and she went about with Alice making ready a room for Desmond with a self-control and quickness that would have astonished many persons, who looked upon her as something between an invalid and a harum-scarum.

Guy went straight up to Odeyne, met the eager glance of her eyes with a smile, and came across taking her hands in his as he said in quiet, even tones—

"Desmond has come back—you were quite right. It was he whom you saw"; but when she would have sprung to her feet he held her gently back, and continued in the same composed fashion, "Wait a moment, Schwesterling, I have something else to say not quite so welcome. Desmond was rather rash in his mistaken zeal. He has had a fall, and is rather hurt. But he is being brought back here, for you to have him under your care. However, he will not be here for a few minutes yet; and you must not get excited, or we shall have two patients to nurse instead of one."

Odeyne bit her lip, and a little shiver passed through her frame; but the old confidence in Guy, which had always been such a strong factor in her life, enabled her to conquer herself now.

"He is not—dead—nor dying?" she breathed.

"Oh no, there are no fears of that sort. Be calm, darling. I quite hope he is not even badly hurt; but you know what the confusion is at such a time. Edmund and Cuthbert and Tom are bringing him back, and when once we get him to bed we shall soon see what ails him; and your face (if you can be calm and good) will be his best medicine when he comes to himself."

"I will be quite calm," said Odeyne, clasping Guy's hands in her own; "but tell me what has happened."

"It was a curious thing," answered Guy. "Just one of those accidents that come from people losing their heads. The fire itself was confined to the outbuildings and some of the stacks. It has been rather disastrous there, though everything is fully insured. The house itself was not thought even in danger and was in no danger; and yet through the carelessness of some servant your little boudoir, Odeyne, has been nearly burnt out."

"My little room over the porch?"

"Yes, it seems that when the alarm of fire was given, some foolish maid was up there. She must have drawn back the curtains and thrown up the window to look what was going on, and then have rushed off without closing them again. The consequence was that some light drapery was blown across the lamp upon the table, and whilst everybody was out at the other side of the house busy with the real fire, this minor conflagration blazed away merrily and unheeded."

"Yes, yes; but about Desmond?"

"You see, Desmond must have come rushing up—just as you described—and he apparently was the first to catch sight of the glow from the window which he supposed yours. We think he must have believed that you were in some danger; for he commenced climbing up the ivy towards the window, like a cat, and had nearly reached it, when he suddenly lost his foothold, or a branch broke, and he came down with a rush and a fall of brick rubble. He was stunned by the fall; and by that time there were plenty of people on the spot. We got him away, and before we were able to have him carried here we saw that they had got the secondary fire well under. That is the whole story; there is nothing behind. Desmond has been hurt, but probably not badly; and we knew you would rather have him brought here than taken anywhere else, though there are plenty of houses open to him, as I need not tell you."

Odeyne nipped Guy's hand in token of gratitude; but her ears had caught the sound of heavy footsteps in the house, and she sat up, her colour coming and going. Guy still held her gently back.

"You shall go to him as soon as ever they have got him to bed. Just now you would only hinder; and you know you must not do what will throw you back yourself. You have baby to think for as well as Desmond. I will not keep you from him a moment longer than is good for you both."

Odeyne lay back submissively, the flitting colour in her face alone telling her excitement. Jem came in softly with shining eyes, but very quiet and calm.

"Tom says he has managed the journey capitally. They will make him comfortable in bed, and then you shall go to him, Odeyne. He is not himself yet; but Tom says he spoke once, and asked, 'Is Odeyne all safe, and the boy?' So you see he does know where he is, and that he has got home."

It seemed long before Odeyne was summoned, but she bore the waiting well. To feel that Desmond was back—was beneath the same roof—was her own once more, went far to keep up her heart and courage. Perhaps the very knowledge that he could not again disappear from her side as he had done six months before, kept her quiet and at rest. When Dr. Ritchie and his sons came in to reassure her, they found her wonderfully calm and tranquil.

"He will do very well, my dear," said the doctor kindly. "He has a broken ankle, which will keep him to his bed for some time, but that is the worst that has befallen him; the bruises outside and in will have ample time to set themselves to rights whilst he is tied by the leg. Yes, you may go and sit beside him for a little while; but don't talk much—for both your sakes. And then you will let Alice put you to bed—like a good child; for we did not mean you to have had quite such an exciting Christmas Day."

Odeyne smiled her thanks to all, but had no words for any.

She took Guy's arm and passed on to the room where Desmond lay.

She had no thoughts now save for him; and when she saw him lying there with half-closed eyes and white cheek, she bent over him and kissed him, saying softly—

"Desmond! Dear husband, do you know me?"

He stirred a little, opened his eyes for a moment, and moved his hand.

"Odeyne!" he breathed faintly, and returned the kiss she pressed upon his lips.

She sat beside him holding his hand, and he sank into a quiet sleep.

Then she let Alice take her away, for Cissy had declared her intention of sitting up through the night with Desmond; and Cissy was known as one of the best of nurses, so there was no fear of any harm coming during her vigil, and Guy would remain in the house, getting snatches of sleep upon the sofa, and always within call if anything should be wanted.

But the night passed quite tranquilly, Desmond and Odeyne sleeping peacefully in the consciousness of their close proximity; and before Desmond had fully roused himself to a consciousness of his surroundings, Odeyne was at his side once again, with the little new daughter lying upon her lap, ready to be introduced to her father.

The sun shone brightly into the room. Everything was beautifully neat and in order. Flowers had been sent to Odeyne from many quarters since her illness, and the best and sweetest of these were collected to make bright this particular room.

Desmond had been sleeping fitfully for some while; suddenly his eyes flashed open, and met those of Odeyne bent earnestly upon him. He lay gazing at her, almost as though afraid to break the spell, and then said softly—

"Is it really you, my darling?"

She laid her hand in his, and he carried it to his lips.

"Oh, my dearest, dearest love—how good it is to see you once more after this weary while of waiting!"

"Why did you wait so long, Desmond dear? It was such a weary waiting for us!"

"Was it? I thought it would be nothing but relief to you. I had been so unworthy, so wicked, so reckless. I thought the best and kindest thing that I could do for those who had ever cared for me was to vanish out of their lives, and give no sign. I was humbled to the very dust!"

"Did you think I should love you less because you had been through deep waters, and were in trouble?"

"I don't know what I thought! I think I was mad with the shame and the horror. I wanted to hide my head for ever. I could not bear to face those whom I had injured. I don't know how I have the courage to face them now. But it seemed as though I were being drawn back home by cords I could not break. I had to come. I could struggle no longer."

"You see, so many people were praying for your return," said Odeyne simply. "That was the power, I think."

He gazed at her with hungry eyes; and then he saw the white bundle upon her lap, and his face flushed and changed.

"It is your little daughter," she said, holding up the wee face, so that he could look at it. "She has been with us a fortnight now, and is doing very well, though she was the very tiniest of tiny things when she appeared. Shall we have little Guy in to see you, dearest? Or will it be too much?"

"The little chap! Oh, let us have him by all means," answered Desmond, who had been much moved at the sight of the child, of whose existence he had not been aware till now. He could not speak of it even to his wife; but Odeyne understood the silent pressure of his hand, and her heart swelled within her as she realised that there had come a change over Desmond during these months of absence. Suffering had taught him lessons which he had never learnt in prosperity, and had probed depths in his nature which had never been ruffled before. Instinctively Odeyne felt that this was a new Desmond come back to her—the old love deepened, and purified, and mingled with something that she had looked for in vain of old.

Little Guy came in in great excitement, for he had been told that Daddy had come home, and was eagerly impatient to see him again. He was a very fine little fellow by this time, with a considerable command of words; and Desmond was delighted with him, and found it hard to let him go.

Later in the day, when husband and wife were again alone together, the first sense of strained emotion having merged into gentler and quieter happiness, Desmond began to ask questions.

"Where are we, Odeyne? I do not remember this room, nor the view from the window, though the furniture is familiar."

"We are at the Lodge, dearest. I have been living here since June. It makes such a comfortable home for us, and there is plenty of room for us all."

"The Lodge! why so it is! Those new rooms we built on. But why here instead of the Chase, Odeyne? You had ample means to keep that on."

"Yes, dear; but I had no desire to do so. It was so big and so lonely; and I wanted to help others who—who—had suffered through the same crash that brought this trouble to us. I could not have been happy living like that—when others had lost their all. Edmund saw them, and heard what they had to say; and we reckoned that by selling a good deal off, and letting the Chase for three years furnished, and living quietly here, all could be put right, and people set going and kept going, who had any moral claim upon us. There were not so very many. The poor Neils and a few others—just friends who had trusted us, and who owed their ruin to our advice. I could not bear to go on living as though nothing had happened, when they were driven to desperation. You are not angry, Desmond, dear? Of course I would have asked your leave if I had known where you were."

Desmond had turned his head away, and was biting his lips.

"My brave, noble, true-hearted wife!" he exclaimed at last, in tones of deep emotion. "I had not dreamed of such a thing—and yet I might have known—knowing what a treasure I had won! And the thought of the misery of those poor things has been weighing me down like a nightmare. They had trusted me with their money, and I had lost it—lost it almost with open eyes. Legally I was not guilty; but in my heart I was. For when I took it I thought of nothing but my own gain; I threw it away in the wild hope of propping up what I ought to have known by that time was nothing but a gigantic swindle. I had my suspicions, but I would not listen or think. I let myself be led and driven on and on. And you, my wife, have borne the brunt of it all!"

"It would have been easier had you been here to share it, Desmond," answered Odeyne; "but it seemed little enough to do, and Guy and Edmund stood by me through it all. And to see the happy face of little Mrs. Neil when a great part of their money was refunded to them! That made up for much. She was the only one I saw myself. The others were strangers; but I had been so sorry for her. I felt her claim came first."

"It did. Poor Neil! I have been in despair thinking of him; just married, and then to find himself ruined. But how did you manage to get the money? Surely the trustees did not let you sacrifice capital?"

"No, they had not the power, they said. We talked everything over. But you know all the money you had thrown about on me and the house in those two years! I told you all the time what an extravagant creature you were! But how glad I was when the sale of all those extravagances, and some of the horses and carriages, brought in such a fine large sum! The hunters sold very well, and General Mannering bought in all that he wanted for himself—he is our tenant at the Chase, you know. I soon had enough to satisfy the Neils—for, of course, as everybody said, speculators must put up with some loss. They cannot expect to come off scot free. I think myself that it would perhaps be hardly right to treat these claims just like ordinary debts. They all knew they were speculating, although they thought to win and not to lose. After all, Desmond, it is only gambling in another form. Dear husband, you will not let yourself be tempted again? Believe me, it is not riches that make our happiness. We were more happy when we were less rich."

Desmond clasped his wife's hand closely in his as he replied—

"I dare not say 'Trust me, Odeyne,' any more. I have only too often made promises and asseverations which have been lamentably broken; but I pray God to give me strength to keep from such things in the future. I have learned at least this lesson—that wealth brings as many troubles and more temptations than modest affluence. My wife has set me an example which I shall diligently follow. Whether or no the world will laugh at us, we will go on as you have begun. We will not return to our home and to our old life, until all claims which are morally just and right have been settled. We will not have the burden upon us of feeling that whilst we live in ease and comfort others, by my folly, are fighting the grim battle with dire poverty and despair. What you have begun I will carry on; and we will live happily and contentedly in this little home until we can return to the Chase with hearts at ease, and look every man in the face without the feeling that he has the right to curse us in his heart."

Odeyne heard these words with a strange thrill of happiness and relief. This, indeed, was a different Desmond from the careless, reckless one of old. Time was when her scruples would have been laughed or argued away. Now they were admitted and respected, and self no longer took the place of honour in Desmond's heart.

Perhaps he read something of her thought, for he answered almost as though she had spoken,

"Yes, Odeyne, I hope I am a different man.. My darling, I have often thought what I must have made you suffer in old days. I would not let your gentle counsels guide me, and you thought them lost and quite wasted. But, believe me, the example you set me of patient love and ceaseless dutiful obedience was not quite wasted. When I had time to think—when I saw everything in a different light—then I knew what my wife had been to me all this while, and how unworthy I had been of such love and so many prayers. Yes, Odeyne, I thought of the days when we prayed together, and my heart smote me for that time when I prayed no more, and refused to gather our household together to ask a blessing upon it. I saw how, little by little, the blessing had been taken away—and yet not altogether, for were you not always praying? But I had dishonoured God, privately and publicly, and He had turned in a measure away from me. I saw it all. I was humbled to the very dust. Shame and sorrow took hold upon me, and I knew not which way to turn. It seemed to me that I must fight out the battle alone between myself and God before I could come back. I may have been wrong, I may have been selfish. But that was what it seemed to me. I was like the prodigal son in the far country. I was miserable and deserted and wretched; but at last there came the day, even for me, when a voice in my heart bid me arise, and go back whence I had come; and I obeyed it, and here I am."

There were tears upon Odeyne's cheek as she bent down and kissed him again and again; and then lifting her head suddenly in a listening attitude she exclaimed—

"Here are visitors. That is Beatrice's voice. She has come to see you and to ask news of Algernon, which I have not had time to do yet. Oh, Desmond, it is all like a dream; but I shall begin to understand it soon."

CHAPTER XXII.

CONCLUSION.

There was a rustle of drapery outside the door; then it opened wide, and Beatrice came forward with outstretched hands and quivering lips. But she was not alone. Close behind followed Maud, who supported the feeble steps of her mother. Odeyne started up in astonishment at seeing Mrs. St. Claire, and was painfully struck even in that first moment by the change that the past weeks had worked in her. She looked worn, and ill, and old—and till quite recently she had never looked anything like her true age. She came forward rather feebly, but with a strange hungry eagerness of manner; and all drew a little away from the bed where Desmond lay, whilst mother and son exchanged a long, silent embrace. Beatrice had turned to the window and was biting her lips as though to keep back the tears. Odeyne looked at her, and felt cut to the heart on her account. She, herself, had her husband back, a repentant and changed man. But where was poor Algernon?—what had become of him? She almost took shame to herself that she did not know. They had had so little time together, and there had been so much to say.

Maud put her mother into Odeyne's vacated chair by the bed. She bent over Desmond herself, and there were loving whispers passing between them. For several minutes Odeyne and Beatrice stood apart, not even looking at the others; but after a while Beatrice's impatience could no longer be curbed. She wheeled round and came forward.

"Desmond, where is Algernon?" she asked, in a shaking voice.

"In Florida, and in a fair way of doing pretty well, I hope. I left him very hopeful and sanguine. It is rather a rough life, but he has taken to it; and being out in the open air all day seems to suit him, and sends him early to bed, where he sleeps instead of sitting up playing and drinking more than is good for him. He is looking another creature, and is really happier than I have ever known him. I have heaps of messages for you, and he will begin to write now."

"Why did he not before?"

"I will tell you. Perhaps we were wrong. But when we made tracks and got clear away out of the smash, I can tell you we were pretty well ashamed of ourselves. We saw clearly enough by that time that we had been dupes and fools, and had fooled others who trusted us. I shall never clearly remember those last days, or know how far we were really wicked, and how far only confused and weak. One thing, we had played into Garth's hands from first to last, and he had fooled us to the top of our bent. That man was an unmitigated scamp—as probably you all know by this time."

"Yes, we were pretty sure of that. What has become of him, do you know?"

"I don't know; but one can be pretty certain that he got safe to Spain, where he will very likely live in regal pomp on his ill-gotten gains, unless he gambles them away there. But he had a good head, if you like. He knew what he was about. He was at the bottom of every piece of villainy going. We thought him our tool, whilst we were really his. Well, never mind all that. You have probably a better notion of the state of affairs than I have. What happened was that when Algy began to see how things really were, he got into a fearful state of funk, came to me, and we both saw there was nothing for it but to disappear! We did not know what the penalty might be of remaining, and it seemed the best thing we could do to make a bolt."

"That is what men generally do in such a case," said Beatrice, with a little touch of almost unconscious sarcasm in her voice. "I am not sure if it always answers as well as staying and facing it out."

"I don't know," answered Desmond rather wearily. "All that part of the business seems like a black nightmare. I cannot recall details. I remember that we thought it the only thing to do, and we did it. We got away to the Continent. Algy was for trying to break the bank at Monte Carlo, but I said we had had enough of gambling for a lifetime. I would not let him go. We had some money; and I had Odeyne's pearls, and in Paris we sold them well. Algy had withdrawn all his balance from the bank. Altogether we had a small capital; and I think perhaps it was Providence that threw us across this Florida planter, and put the chance in our way."

"Who was he?"

"An Englishman—a capital fellow. Ridgmont is his name. He had married a French wife, and they were over in Paris for a holiday. They were at the same hotel, and we struck up an acquaintance. He was looking out for a partner with a little money, someone who would be willing to live out there and look after the place regularly, for he himself has to travel a good bit, as his wife is delicate, and thinks she wants change pretty often. Algy just jumped at it. I never saw him so keen after anything. I think he was sick to death of the old life, and was bent on beginning afresh somewhere altogether out of the old beat. The idea of orange groves and all that fascinated him, and Ridgmont had taken a great fancy to him. We told him everything—kept nothing back; and of course he looked rather grave, and spoke pretty straight to Algy. But in the end he said he'd take him back with him, and they'd see how the thing worked. There was no mistaking that Algy was really in earnest that time, and Ridgmont got that sort of influence over him which seemed as though it might really be a factor in keeping him straight.

"But why didn't you write?"

"At first I think we were afraid. We did not exactly know how far our creditors could or would pursue us; we wanted to get clear away from Europe before we let anyone know anything. And then we were desperately, horribly ashamed. Perhaps we were wrong, but we both had a strong feeling that we would do something to redeem the past—something to show that all was not vain words, before we showed our faces again. I know for my own part I felt like that. I had made promises and asseverations again and again, only to break them. I felt that Odeyne had cause to curse the day when she married me, and to bless that on which she saw the last of me! Dearest, I know now that I was wrong—that I had never understood you; but that is how I felt in the bitterness of my soul. And Algy was just the same. 'They will be better without us. They will be happier too,' he would say; 'Beatrice will have her mother's house to go to, and Odeyne will live happily at the Chase, not knowing a care or a want.' That was Algy's way of looking at it, and I felt that I richly deserved the punishment of banishment for a time. I forgot to consider that others would suffer. It seemed impossible that they could continue to love anyone so unworthy as myself."

Maud gave a quick glance at Odeyne. She had thought as much herself, and had said it several times. The reaction from his moods of blind confidence had always been one of almost equally blind and exaggerated self-abasement, in which his own shame and remorse had blinded his eyes to any but his own side of the question. Desmond seemed to read her thoughts, and answered them with a faint smile—

"That was always the way, was it not, Maud? You always used to tell me, from childhood, that I was 'nastier' when I was trying to be good, than when I was regularly naughty. I have been a blunderer from first to last. I only wonder you have, any of you, such a welcome for me."

"But Algy," urged Beatrice eagerly, "what of him?"

"Well, Algy is out at this orange farm (if one can use such an expression) in Florida. We put our small joint capital into the concern, and I went out with them to see what it was like. It is a splendid climate and lovely country—a regular fairyland at some seasons of the year. Ridgmont has built himself a fine airy house, with lots of room in it for all of us. Algy took to the life at once. Of course he has to learn his work; but for the present Ridgmont will be there, and he seems satisfied with the progress he is making. The people like Algy, he has the sort of manner and air that go down with them. Algy always had abilities if he chose to use them, and his horsemanship and knowledge of horses stands him in good stead. It is a lonely life, of course, and in a sense rather a rough one; but he likes it, and as long as the Ridgmonts are there he is happy enough. The rub will be when they make another trip to Europe, and he is left all alone on the place. That will be a bit solitary for him. But I hope he won't get into mischief."

"Wouldn't it be better for me and the child to go out to him before that?" asked Beatrice quietly. "Algy never liked too much of his own society."

Desmond looked at her earnestly.

"I believe it would be the making of him, if you could make up your mind to it, Beatrice. But remember there is no society out there—no balls, or concerts, or morning calls. The nearest house is ten miles off—and a bad road to it!"

"I feel as though I had had enough of society to last me a lifetime," answered Beatrice with an air of finality which a year ago would merely have provoked a smile. Now nobody smiled, all looked earnestly and almost eagerly at her. "If Algy stays there, it seems to me that my place is certainly with him. I have never posed as a model wife, but I know my duty better than to remain here, if he is alone over there wanting me."

"I don't think it had ever occurred to him to ask such a thing of you," said Desmond. "But Ridgmont and I talked it over together, and came to the conclusion that that would be out-and-out the best thing. Of course I didn't know how it would strike you, and I told him so. But he seemed to have a truer estimate of women than I had; for he said he believed nine women out of ten would follow their husbands over the world if need be, and he was kind enough to say that he didn't seem to think my sister was going to prove herself the tenth who wouldn't."

"And you have come home to see about all this?"

"I came home because I could not help myself. I could not bear it any longer. I had sent one message which I hoped would satisfy you that all was well, but I did not write, because Algy and I had both agreed to wait a few months, and then have a good account to give. After that I was resolved to come home, but was delayed through Ridgmont's getting an attack of fever. I had to nurse him through that, Algy being engaged with the outdoor things. That detained me from week to week. But I was resolved to be home for Christmas. I felt something dragging and pulling at me. I could not bear it any longer. I came across in what ought to have been good time; but we met fogs at the last, and lost a lot of time. I was glad then that Odeyne was not expecting me—and when I did land I had trouble in getting on. The Christmas traffic had thrown everything more or less out of gear. Now you know all. Here I am, a battered good-for-nothing, turned up like a bad halfpenny—to find that my wife has been taking my burdens upon her brave shoulders, and doing what I might have lacked the courage to do, whilst I have been picturing her leading a life of ease and enjoyment, relieved from the incubus of a worthless husband!"

Desmond looked more like himself as he spoke these last words, and Maud smiled as she parted the hair upon his brow, and said—

"Nevertheless Odeyne was expecting her worthless husband back for Christmas all the time. We were seriously afraid that the disappointment would throw her back. But she was right after all!"

"And what shall you do now that you have returned, Desmond?" asked his mother. "Will you remain here, or return to the Chase, when you can get rid of your tenant?"

"We shall remain here till Odeyne's plans are all carried out," answered Desmond firmly. "I can never be grateful enough for her for a scheme which will enable me to take my place in the world again, without going in fear of encountering certain persons who might well regard me as the cause of their ruin. When I am able to be about again I shall go to the office and ask for a subordinate place there, if they can make room for me. I gave them ample cause for distrust and displeasure, but I believe, for my father's sake, they will try me again. I never tampered with the money of the firm. I was kept from that temptation by the knowledge that it would be so speedily detected that the game would not be worth the candle. I was careless and useless, but that was all. They know enough about me to have many qualms. Yet I think they will help me to regain my old standing. Please God, I will not disappoint them again."

Mrs. St. Claire pressed her son's hand, but did not speak. After a moment Desmond continued—

"We shall live in a very quiet way here for a few years. We shall be very happy, and I shall learn a great many lessons which I stand badly in need of. I hope by the time that we can return to the Chase with a clear conscience, I shall know better how to rule our household there than I have ever done before. I think it will be the best possible thing for me to live humbly for a while. I have never known till just lately what it was to deny myself anything I wanted. I shall have to learn that lesson now, and it will be a very good thing for me."

This kind of talk sounded strangely from Desmond's lips, but it was a joy to those who heard it. The change in him was marked indeed. Odeyne's face showed the happiness which she experienced in the change. She looked like another woman.

Mrs. St. Claire's visit was not a long one. Maud was plainly anxious that she should return home soon. She was very frail and feeble, Odeyne thought, as she was assisted down the staircase, and as she kissed her daughter-in-law and the little new granddaughter, before leaving the house, she said, in an audible whisper—

"Now I can say my 'nunc dimittis.'"

And in truth this proved to be the last time that she ever left her own house. She went to bed upon her return, and never left it again. Probably there was a very slight paralytic seizure of some sort in the night, but there was no exact certainty as to this. Only a week later, just as the New Year was ushered in, she passed away in the night, without a sigh or a struggle, and was found so by Maud when she rose before daybreak to visit her as was her wont. The door between the two rooms had been open all the while, and she was a very light sleeper, yet she had not known the moment of departure, it had taken place so silently and suddenly.

Desmond felt the blow keenly, being so little prepared. The daughters had known it was coming, yet they had not thought it would be so soon.

Beatrice found herself a fairly well-to-do woman when Mrs. St. Claire's will was read; and was in a position, if she chose to do so, to recall her husband and live on at her mother's house in modest affluence. But this she appeared to have no desire to do.

"I think it would be dangerous to bring him back to England and to the old neighbourhood so soon again," she said. "I would rather go out to him there, and while we are both young and strong we will remain where his work lies. It will be better for him, I am sure; and perhaps it will be better for me too. I don't want the old life to begin again. Algy and I will do better out there, with just each other and the child to live for. I shall go to him."

"I believe you will do wisely and well," said Desmond, when he heard her decision. "We have both of us had something too much of self in this world hitherto. We must learn to live up to a higher standard now."

"That is what I want," answered Beatrice with unwonted gravity. "I want to live up to Odeyne's standard—which is a very different thing!"

So Beatrice made ready her simple outfit, and another for her husband and child, and went bravely out to the new life awaiting her across the wide Atlantic.

They missed her from the old home, and yet were glad to see her go.

Algernon wanted her, and her place was with him; and the letters they received regularly from them were all bright and encouraging. Novelty always had attractions for Beatrice, and she began to find interests and pleasures even in the life of a Florida settler.

Maud was left alone in her old home. She was a woman of some substance now, rather grave and old for her years, but with the chance (as Desmond told her) of growing younger as time went on.

Nor was she long alone. Edmund would sooner have had her without so large a fortune, and she had suggested handing over a share of it to Beatrice; but Desmond pointed out that their mother had already done for Beatrice what she thought right, and had given her the elder daughter's portion in consideration of previous losses; and Beatrice had declared that she was tired of riches, and would rather live upon modest means than tempt Algernon to idleness by large ones.

So Edmund's bride was a well-dowered woman, and some men wondered whether he would leave the army and settle down as a private gentleman. But he had no desire to do this, nor did Maud wish him to quit his profession. She was tired of idle men, she said; she would rather be an officer's wife, and find work amongst the men and their wives. Edmund told her there was a large field of usefulness opened to her in this way; and she quickly found that he spoke the truth. She became a busier and happier woman than ever she had been in her life before, and, as Desmond had prophesied, grew steadily younger and brighter.

As for Desmond and Odeyne, they lived happily in the Lodge, with gentle, pale-faced Alice as their faithful attendant, and the two bright and merry children growing up round them. Nothing more was ever heard of Walter Garth, and Alice seldom spoke his name, gradually learning to forget the painful past, though the shadow of it would hang upon her all her life.

Cissy and Guy lived almost within hail of the Lodge, and Jem and the Ritchies generally were the kindest of neighbours and friends.

Desmond found no difficulty in getting a place once again at the office, and now went steadily to business in a very different mood. He won confidence and good-will, and was presently promoted to the place of trust which he had occupied before, and saw his way to a partnership in due course.

But however his income increased, they made no alteration in their manner of life, putting everything they could spare aside to pay off what both had agreed to consider as just and lawful debts. Little by little the claims were met and dealt with. The grateful letters they received testified to the thankful relief their conduct caused, and were the best of rewards. Odeyne had been brought up simply, and found no difficulty in ordering her reduced household with careful economy; and never had her life been so happy as now, when Desmond was her kind, true, faithful adviser and friend, and they walked hand in hand (as it were) through life, sharing every hope, every joy, every care and sorrow, and at one, at last, even in faith and hope, ordering their lives in the fear of God, and seeking in all things to do His good pleasure, and rule even the thoughts of their hearts in accordance with His precepts.

* * * * * *

"At last, my darling, at last! Welcome home once again!"

Desmond sprang from the carriage that had brought them back after a month's holiday at the seaside, and was now leading Odeyne up the familiar steps to the open door of the Chase.

Within stood the servants, smiling their welcome; and Odeyne recognised many old familiar faces in the ranks, though her eyes were dim with unshed tears.

The day of probation and waiting was over. Desmond's honour had been redeemed. He stood a free man, able to look the whole world in the face; and he was bringing back his wife to their own home once again—that home in which Odeyne had seen so much of happiness and so much of trouble.

But the clouds had all passed away now. The sun was shining without and within. Husband and wife spoke kind words to those awaiting them, and received many glad and kindly welcomes in response. The excited children—now three in number—the youngest being led about between the other two—ran hither and thither in great wonder and delight; whilst the servants hastened to prepare a banquet, for the master had said that they would sit down six at table that night, as of course Guy and Cissy and Maud and Edmund must come. But till then they were alone in the dear old home, to look about and enjoy it together.

"It is so beautiful, Desmond. I think I never quite knew before how much I loved it. We have been very, very happy all these years down there, have we not, dearest? And yet this seems like a sort of promised land!"

Desmond put his arm about her, as they stood looking over the dear familiar gardens, now a blaze of summer-tide beauty, and to the hills and woods beyond, and drew her very close to him.

"Truly the promised land—the goal of our earthly hopes. God has been wonderfully good to us, and has brought us back, when but for His restraining hand, it might have been impossible for me ever to face the world again. Odeyne, there is one thing in the past that I have never told you yet—let me tell it to you now. I was once terribly tempted—as near the verge of crime as ever man stood. It was upon that last awful day, when I knew not what would befall, and I thought I saw a way, if I just gave way to this temptation. My mind was almost made up; I was about to leave the house, when I remembered something I had forgotten, and I went back softly for it. I opened the door of our room—and there were you upon your knees. You were wrestling in prayer—I knew it—I felt it in every chord of my being. You were praying for me—and God had sent me back that I might know it. That saved me, Odeyne. That brought me to my senses. I was restrained from an act that would have made of me an outcast and an alien for ever. And it was my wife's prayers that withheld me. My own precious, precious wife, it is through your faith and love and piety that we stand together here to-day. It is to you, under God and His guiding Providence, that we owe our happy return to the Chase. How can we do less now than dedicate our lives and our home to Him and His service? You would have done so from the first, but I would not. Let us start afresh from this day, and our home will indeed become as a land of promise to us!"

FINIS

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Table of Contents

- Odeyne's Marriage.

- CHAPTER I. ANTICIPATION.

- CHAPTER II. ODEYNE'S HOME.

- CHAPTER III. FAREWELLS AND GREETINGS.

- CHAPTER IV. A LITTLE CLOUD.

- CHAPTER V. THE RITCHIES AT HOME.

- CHAPTER VI. AUTUMN DAYS.

- CHAPTER VII. BEATRICE AT HOME.

- CHAPTER VIII. AN ADVENTUROUS DRIVE.

- CHAPTER IX. NEW FRIENDSHIPS.

- CHAPTER X. CHRISTMAS.

- CHAPTER XI. A SHOCK.

- CHAPTER XII. LITTLE GUY.

- CHAPTER XIII. THE HOME-COMING.

- CHAPTER XIV. A CHANGED LIFE.

- CHAPTER XV. CLOUDS IN THE SKY.

- CHAPTER XVI. THE PACE THAT KILLS.

- CHAPTER XVII. DARK DAYS.

- CHAPTER XVIII. THE CRASH.

- CHAPTER XIX. THE TWO WIVES.

- CHAPTER XX. A STRANGE CHRISTMAS.

- CHAPTER XXI. HUSBAND AND WIFE.

- CHAPTER XXII. CONCLUSION.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE