Odeyne's marriage

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."