"That is the Spanish way of loving, not the English," she said, with a long breath like a sigh, as she looked at him. "No; I am not surprised. Love is a strange thing, Derrick—pardon!—Mr. Dene; and it comes sometimes, more often than not with the people of my nation, at first sight. Will you think me curious, if I ask her name?"

"Not at all. I don't know it," said Derrick, with a grim laugh.

She looked at him with surprise in her mournful eyes.

"Oh, look here!" said Derrick, more to himself than to the listener whose sympathy affected him strangely and forced his confidence. "I've got to tell you everything, if you care to hear it. You are so clever, 'cute—I beg your Excellency's pardon!—that you will have guessed, as old Bloxford guessed, that I had good reason, or, rather, bad, for leaving England; besides, I hinted it the other night. I'll tell you what that is, if you care to hear it."

"Tell me," she said, in a low voice. "I—I am a lonely woman; I have neither husband nor child; you have interested me"—her voice sank for a moment—"Yes, tell me. I—I may help you——"

"I'm afraid I'm beyond even your help," said Derrick; "but this is how it is."

He told her the story of the forged cheque, suppressing all names, and Donna Elvira listened, as immovable as a statue, looking straight before her, her brows drawn, her lips set. She sighed as he finished, and said,

"The woman you did this for—you cared for her?"

"I did, at one time—or, I thought I did," said Derrick; "but, when I met that other girl, the girl who stepped in like an angel and saved me from suicide, I cared for her no longer. It was as if she had gone out of my life, out of my heart, and another woman had stepped into her place. Do you understand, Donna Elvira?"

"It is not difficult," she said, with a faint smile. "The woman for whom you made so foolish, so wicked a sacrifice was not worthy of you. It is well that you should have forgotten her. This other girl—I do not know her; but I think she must be good and true."

"She's all that," said Derrick, fervently. "If you had seen only just as much of her as I have, you'd know that you were right. She is not a girl who would jilt a man who cared for her, to marry another man for his rank. She's good and true, as you say; as true as steel. Why, think of it: a slip of a girl, scarcely out of her teens, facing, alone, a madman, with a revolver! The sight of the thing gave her the horrors, I could see; but there she stood, firm as a rock, pleading, arguing, insisting, until she'd saved the silly fool. A girl like that is—oh, I can't talk about her. And, what's it matter? I shall never see her again. Besides, it isn't possible that a girl so beautiful, so charming, should be free for long. I may meet her again; but it's long odds that, when I do, it will be to find that she's married, got children—I beg your pardon, your Excellency; you've been very kind to listen to all this and very patient. You see how hopeless it is. I must try to forget her. But that's impossible." He laughed ruefully. "I think of her every day: I fall asleep thinking of her. But that's enough! About the machinery?"

"We will talk of it some other time," she said, rising. "Good-night."

For several days Derrick saw Donna Elvira at a distance only; but, somehow, he was conscious that she was watching him; for now and again, when he was going to or from the shed, he caught sight of the pale face, with its white hair, at a window, or saw her moving across the court; but he did not venture to intrude upon her. While he was waiting for her decision, respecting the new plant, he employed himself in making a kind of survey of the house and the buildings; and he drew up a schedule of the repairs that were necessary and made some suggestions for various alterations. But though her Excellency did not grant him another interview, it was evident that she had not forgotten him, and he knew that it was to her he owed several comfortable additions in and about his rooms, and the increased respect and attention of the servants.

One evening, about a week later, his servant came to him with a message: he was to attend her Excellency in the salon. With a sense of relief, and of pleasure, Derrick hastened to obey the summons. The frail, yet proudly-erect figure was seated in the big chair; she looked thinner and more haggard; and Derrick, as he stood before her, feared that she was still suffering from the shock of the overturned lamp. She held out her hand, for the first time; and as Derrick took it, he felt it tremble under the pressure of his.

"You sent for me, your Excellency?" he said.

"Yes," she answered in a low voice, as she waved him to a chair which had been placed, either accidentally or by her orders, near her. "I have arrived at a decision—about—the machinery. I wish you to go to England for it."

Derrick could not repress a start, and he stared at her, somewhat aghast.

"Want me to go——?" he said, changing colour. "But I'm afraid—have you forgotten what I told you about—about the trouble of the cheque?"

"No, I have not forgotten," she said, in the same low voice. "I do not think you have any need to fear. I think that you were unwise to fly England. And yet I am glad; for—for, if you had not done so, I should not—you would not have come here."

"I'm glad enough that I did come here, your Excellency," said Derrick, warmly. "And I shall be very sorry to leave you, putting aside this question of my safety."

"You will be quite safe, or I would not ask you to go. I have been thinking over your story. I have not always lived in this out-of-the-way part of the world. I have had experience; and I see more clearly than you. I do not think you would have been prosecuted. They are clever, these lawyers, and they would have got the truth out of you. A word or a look on your part would have given them the clue. Besides, this other man; they would have questioned him, and he would have exposed himself."

"That's true enough; that's what I told Heyton——" began Derrick; in his eagerness, unwittingly letting slip Heyton's name, as he had the other evening let slip his own. He broke off and looked down, biting his lip. If he had still kept his eyes on the face of the woman beside him, he could not have failed to see the sudden change which came to that face, the expression of amazement, of fear, of intense excitement. She did not speak, she did not utter a word, but her lips writhed and her thin, long white hands closed and opened spasmodically.

"I'm sorry," muttered Derrick, regretfully, and frowning at his boots. "The name slipped out before I knew it." He laughed ruefully. "It seems as if I were unable to conceal anything from you."

"There is no cause for fear," she said in a tremulous voice. "You may speak to me as you would to a father confessor; as you would to a—mother."

"Oh, I know that," said Derrick, and his own voice shook a little. "Strangely enough—I'm afraid you'll think I'm pretty impudent—but ever since I saw you I have felt——Oh, well, I can't explain." He leant forward with profound respect and a warmer feeling he could not understand. "I suppose it was because you were so good to me; perhaps because you were so lonely, here amongst all these people——Oh, I can't explain, and I'm afraid I'm distressing you," he went on remorsefully; for the frail figure was trembling, and the tears had gathered in the dark eyes. "I'm a blundering kind of idiot, and I'm worrying you with my tuppenny-ha'penny affairs. Forgive me!"

She drew her hand across her eyes; then slowly, hesitatingly, laid the hand on his arm.

"There is nothing to forgive," she murmured. "But tell me. I too have felt—I am a lonely woman; you—you are young enough—you might be—shall we say that I have been drawn to you as you say you have been drawn to me—you said so, did you not?—that I have felt as if I were—your mother."

"I wish to God you were!" said Derrick, huskily, and feeling, with amazement, and an Englishman's annoyance, that his own eyes were moist.

"Let us pretend that we are—mother and son," she said, in so low a voice as to be almost inaudible. "Therefore, as a son, you need conceal nothing from me. Tell me, who is this man whose name escaped you?"

As she asked the question, she made an evident effort to control her agitation, and her voice and manner were well-nigh calm, and infinitely tender and persuasive.

"Oh, Heyton!" said Derrick, feeling that he would be quite safe to tell her everything. "He is the eldest, the only, son of the Marquess of Sutcombe; and, of course, he will be the next Marquess; and, of course, that's the reason why Miriam—Miriam Ainsley—chucked me and married him."

"This Lord Heyton, what manner of man is he?" she said.

"Oh, I'm afraid he's a bad lot; you'll see that, or he wouldn't have played this low down trick on me. He's a weak sort of fellow who has played the fool pretty thoroughly. I met him at the place where the Ainsleys lived, a little village called Bridgeford; and though—it's easy to be wise after the event—I didn't like him much, we got to be kind of friends. He's full of low cunning and I'd no idea he was after Miriam until it was too late. You see the sort of man he is."

"And he will be the Marquess," she said, musingly.

"Oh, yes, nothing can prevent that," assented Derrick, with a short laugh.

"It is a pity," she said.

"A thousand pities," agreed Derrick; "but there you are! It's our system of primogeniture, eldest son, you know."

"If you go to England, you will keep out of his way," she said.

"Rather!" said Derrick, grimly. "If I go to England—and, of course, I shall if you wish it—I shall keep out of everybody's way. I shall use my assumed name, Sydney Green."

"It will be well to do so," she said, gravely. It was evident that she was considering the matter with all a woman's acuteness. "Yes; I wish you to go to England. There are other reasons—it will be better for you to see the machinery."

"All right, your Excellency," said Derrick, promptly; for he felt as if he had placed himself in her hands. "When would you like me to start?"

"To-morrow," she said. She raised her eyes and looked at him wistfully. "If you are to go, it is better for me—for you—for affairs, that you go at once."

As she spoke, she opened a despatch-box lying on the table beside her and took out two packets. She held one out to him.

"In this you will find some money; sufficient, I hope, to pay all expenses; if it is not, if you should need more, you will address yourself to the branch of the Bank of Spain in England, where I shall place some to your credit. Do not hesitate to use the money; I do not mean for the machinery only, but for any purpose for which you may want it. It is at your entire disposal. You will write to me——"

"Of course," said Derrick. "I shall send your Excellency a regular report at frequent intervals."

"The carriage is ordered, and you will be driven to the station to-morrow. Write to me as soon as you arrive."

Derrick rose to bid her good-bye; but she stayed him with a slight, hesitating gesture and held out the second packet.

"Take this," she said. "It contains instructions for your conduct in—in certain events."

"Sealed instructions," said Derrick, with a smile, as he noticed that the package was thus secured.

"Yes," she said. "You will break the seals and read the enclosed instructions if, at any time, during your absence, you should be in any great difficulty or danger. Do you think this is very strange—mysterious?" she asked, her eyes fixed upon him with a half-apprehensive regard.

"I've not the least doubt you have good reasons for giving me this," said Derrick; "I will not open it unless, as you say, I am in a fix."

"That is well," she said. "You have good reason—a reason I cannot explain," she added hurriedly, and with some agitation, "for trusting me."

"I'd trust you with my life," said Derrick, impelled to the burst of fervour by something in her manner and voice.

She held out her hand, and Derrick took it and pressed it; there was something so melting in the tenderness of her gaze that again he was impelled by a strange influence, and he bent and kissed the hand. As he did so, she laid her other one upon his bent head; it was a touch soft as thistle-down, as caressing as that of a mother; and as he felt it, something tugged at Derrick's heart-strings. He turned away and left the room quickly.

Some time after he had reached his own quarters, and had pondered over the singular emotion which had been aroused in him during the scene, he opened the first packet. It contained a large sum of money, greatly in excess of his possible needs. The generosity of this great lady was amazing. He stowed the notes in his belt and then turned to the other packet. This he sewed up inside his waistcoat; it was too precious to be committed to so commonplace a depository as the purse of a belt.

The following morning, as he stepped into the carriage—Donna Elvira's own carriage of state!—he looked round on the chance and in the hope of seeing her. She was nowhere in sight as the carriage started; but when it was turning the bend of the road, still looking back earnestly, he saw the tall figure standing on the steps of the patio. From the black mantilla which shrouded her, she waved a hand.



CHAPTER XX

Derrick reached London on one of those mornings when she is at her very best, and he felt his heart grow warm within him as he strode the familiar pavements, and inhaled the air which seemed to him laden, not with smoke but with the flowers which were blooming bravely in the parks and squares. He had seen some beautiful places during his wanderings, but it seemed to him that none of them could compare with this London which every Englishman, abuse it as he may, regards sometimes with an open and avowed affection, sometimes with a sneaking fondness.

Derrick was so full of the love of life, so thrilling with that sense of youth and health for which millionaires would barter all their gold, that it seemed to him difficult to believe that he was the same man who, only a few months ago, had paced the same streets, weighed down by misery and despair; indeed, as he thought of all that had happened, the events took to themselves the character of a phantasmagoria in which Mr. Bloxford, the circus people and Donna Elvira moved like insubstantial shadows. But, standing out clearly in his mind, was the fact that he was in London, with his pockets full of money and with one desire, one hope predominating over all others, the desire, the hope of seeing the girl at Brown's Buildings.

He would have made straight for "the Jail"; but Derrick's sense of duty had not deserted him, and with a sigh of resignation, he betook himself to an engineering firm, whose offices were in that Victoria Street down which he had almost slunk the night he had left London, a fugitive. He presented his credentials, transacted his business, and then, with a fast-beating heart, walked—he could not have sat in a taxi, though it should exceed the speed limit—to the Buildings.

So great was the emotion that assailed him as he stepped into the cool shadow of the stone passage, that he actually trembled. The whole scene of that eventful night rose before him so plainly that it might have been the preceding one, instead of months ago; in imagination, he could see her face, as she bent over the rail and whispered her good-bye.

It was the hour at which the Buildings is most quiet, and as Derrick went up the stone stairs, he did not meet any one; he stood for a moment or two opposite Celia's door, actually afraid to knock; for, though he had said to Donna Elvira that the girl might be married, that he might have lost sight of her for ever, he had always pictured her as behind that door, and always cherished the conviction that, if ever he should return, he should find her there. At last, he knocked. No response came. He knocked again, and the sound of the diminutive knocker echoed prophetically amidst the stone walls; still there was no response. His heart sank within him, and he leant against the iron hand-rail, gnawing at his lip with a keen disappointment, a blank dismay. He tried to tell himself that her absence might be only temporary, that she would return: it was ridiculous to suppose that she should not go out sometimes, that she should be sitting there within the room, waiting for him: absolutely ridiculous!

He lit a cigarette and waited on the merely improbable chance of her return; the minutes grew into half an hour before he realised that he might wait hours, and that it would be easy to inquire if she were still living there. All the same, he lingered, as if he were loath to take his eyes from that door through which she had come to him as an angel of rescue—no, far better, as a pure, a brave woman.

Presently he heard the sound of slow footsteps ascending the stairs. They paused on the floor beneath him, and Derrick, descending quickly, saw the thin, bent figure of an old man; he held a violin-case and a small parcel of grocery under his arm, and was on the point of unlocking the door immediately beneath that of the girl. The old man turned his head as Derrick came down upon him, and Derrick, notwithstanding the state of his mind, was struck by the nobility and dignity of the thin, wasted face and the dark, penetrating eyes.

"I beg your pardon," said Derrick. "Can you tell me——?"

He stopped, for the old man had dropped the parcel and stood looking, not at it, but at Derrick. Derrick hastened to pick it up, and, instinctively, raised his hat as he handed the small package.

"I'm afraid I startled you, sir," he said, with that note of respect and deference which came into Derrick's voice when he was addressing women and the aged: it was just one of those little characteristics which attracted people to the young man, and made them take to him at first acquaintance. "I wanted to ask you a question about a young lady, the young lady who lives in the room above this." For the life of him, he could not bring himself to ask the question straight out.

Mr. Clendon regarded him with a calm and courteous scrutiny, which, for all its courteousness, had a note of guardedness and caution. "What do you wish to ask about her?" he inquired. He unlocked the door as he put the question, and waving his long, white hand towards the room, added, "Will you not come in?"

Derrick stepped into the plain, meagrely-furnished room, and took the seat to which Mr. Clendon motioned him. The old man set the parcel and violin-case on the table and, taking a chair, sat with his back to the light and waited in silence.

"I am afraid I am intruding," said Derrick, still with that deferential note in his voice. "I shall be glad if you can tell me if the young lady is still living above you."

"Why do you ask?" said Mr. Clendon. "Forgive me, you have not yet mentioned her name."

"I don't know it," said Derrick; "but I may say that I am a friend of hers. I have every reason to be, for she did me a great service. One moment, sir"—as Mr. Clendon opened his lips—"this must seem rather extraordinary to you, but I am sure that she would be glad to see me."

Mr. Clendon's eyes seemed to pierce Derrick through and through; then, removing his gaze, as if he were satisfied, Mr. Clendon said:

"The name of the young lady is Grant—Celia Grant; she is not now living in the Buildings."

Derrick's eyes dropped, and he drew a long breath; his disappointment was so obvious that Mr. Clendon said:

"Is your business with Miss Grant one of importance, may I ask?"

"The greatest importance—to me," said Derrick, who felt somehow inspired to confidence; there was something in this old man's manner and attitude, in the low, rhythmic voice, that harmonized with Derrick's mood and influenced him in a fashion strange and puzzling.

"I am afraid I can't tell you the whole—well, you may call it 'story'; but I may say that I am deeply indebted to Miss Grant, and that I am very desirous of paying that debt—no; I can't do that!—but of seeing her and telling her that her kindness, her goodness, to me were not thrown away."

"An amiable sentiment," said Mr. Clendon, with dignified simplicity. "No doubt, Miss Grant would be glad to hear it from your lips; but she is not here, she has gone."

"I am sorry, sir," said Derrick, rising, and the genuineness of his assertion was attested by the deep sigh which accompanied it. "I don't like to ask you——" he hesitated—"but you would be rendering me a very great service, greater than you can imagine, if you would, if you could, tell me where to find her."

There was a silence. Mr. Clendon sat perfectly immovable; but his eyes were searching Derrick's face, and the young man stood meeting the gaze honestly, candidly, unshrinkingly.

"I do not know whether I should be doing right in giving you Miss Grant's address," said Mr. Clendon at last. "But I will admit that I am tempted to do so."

"If you would——" began Derrick; but Mr. Clendon stopped him with an upraised hand.

"You say that you are a friend of Miss Grant's—I seem to remember you, though I have only seen you at a distance, and then indistinctly. Are you not the young man who lived in the flat opposite hers?"

Derrick's face grew red. "I am, sir," he said. "It was while I was living there that Miss Grant did me the service of which I speak. I was in great trouble; in about as bad a trouble as a man could be; in fact, I had come to a point beyond which it seemed to me—I was a fool!—that it was impossible to carry on. At that moment of folly and madness, Miss Grant came to my aid, and saved me—you will think me extravagant if I say—from death; but that's the real fact. I did not know her name until you told me just now; I saw her for only a few minutes; those few minutes, and her angelic goodness, changed the whole current of my life. Isn't it only natural that I should want to see her, to tell her——"

He broke off abruptly and turned away to the window. As the piercing eyes followed him, they grew troubled, the thin lips quivered and the wasted hand that lay on the table closed and unclosed spasmodically.

"Will you tell me your name?" asked the low voice. "Mine is Clendon."

Derrick hesitated for a moment; then he remembered Donna Elvira's injunction that he should bear his assumed name while in London.

"Sydney Green, sir."

"And you have come from abroad?" said Mr. Clendon. "I can see that by your tanned face, by the character of your attire."

"From South America," said Derrick. "I am here on a mission, on business for an employer. I am afraid I cannot tell you any more; I've only just arrived and am staying at the Imperial in Western Square. If you think I have told you sufficient, if you can trust me, I shall be very grateful if you will give me Miss Grant's address. I wish I could convince you that I am asking it from no unworthy motive."

"You have already done so," said Mr. Clendon, quietly. "I will give you her address. Miss Grant is acting as librarian at Lord Sutcombe's house, at Thexford Hall."

"Lord Sutcombe!" muttered Derrick, with an imperceptible start. The colour again flooded his face; his gratitude, his joy were so great that, for a moment, they rendered him speechless, and his voice was broken when he could command it.

"I don't know how to thank you, sir," he said, and, impulsively, he held out his hand.

Mr. Clendon took it after a moment's pause; and they stood, the old man and the young man, looking into each other's eyes, and Derrick's—no shame to him—were moist. For, think of it! he feared that he had lost the girl on whom his heart had been set ever since the first moment he had seen her; and now this old man had put him in the way of finding her. They stood with clasped hands for longer than is usual; and Derrick was too absorbed in his own emotion to notice the tremor in the thin fingers which grasped his.

"I see that you will go to Miss Grant at once," said Mr. Clendon, with a flicker of a smile, that was not one of irony, but of sympathy.

"By the first train, and as fast as it will take me," said Derrick, with the note of youth and hope ringing in his voice. "Look here, sir," he went on, impelled by a strange feeling, "I may as well tell you that which you have no doubt guessed already. I—I love Miss Grant. It would be very strange, if I didn't, considering that she's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, and all she did for me. All the time I've been away I've thought of her and longed to see her again. Not a moment of the day or the waking night——But I beg your pardon, sir, I'm afraid you'll think me—rather mad."

"Yours is a madness common to youth, and befitting it well," said Mr. Clendon. "That you should love her is not strange; she is all that you say of her. Are you sure that you are worthy of her?"

"Good lord, no!" exclaimed Derrick, impetuously. "No man that ever was born could be worthy of her; no man could see her, be with her five minutes——Why, do you know, all the while I was talking to you, before you called her 'Miss' Grant, I was tortured by the dread that has made many an hour miserable for me, since I saw her last—the dread that some other man—that she might be married——"

"She is not married," said Mr. Clendon, with a faint smile, "though it is probable that many men have wanted to marry her."

"I've been thanking God that she is free, ever since I gleaned the fact from your words," said Derrick. "I'm going down to her at once. May I tell her that I have seen you, that you gave me her address?"

"You may," said Mr. Clendon. "Miss Grant honours me with her friendship; I hope, I trust, her affection."

After a pause, he added:

"You are staying in England for some time?"

"For some little time," said Derrick, stifling a sigh at the thought of ever again leaving the girl of his heart.

"May I ask you to come to see me when you return to London?" asked Mr. Clendon; and his tone, though courteously conventional, was fraught with a certain earnestness.

"Of course, I will, sir," replied Derrick, promptly. "You have been very kind to me; you might have answered my question with an abrupt negative, have refused me the information; instead of which, you have—well, you have been awfully good to me; you have relieved my mind of a load of apprehension, and set me in the way of finding Miss Grant. Yes; you have been very good to me, and I hope you will let me see you again. Besides, you are a friend of hers, and that's quite enough to make me want to know more of you."

"Then come to me when you return," said Mr. Clendon. "But do not let me trespass on your time, Mr. Green; you must have other claims, those of your people, your parents."

"Haven't any, sir," answered Derrick, gravely. "I'm all alone in the world—for the present," he added, his eyes shining with the hope that glowed in his breast.

"That is a strange statement," said Mr. Clendon, his brows raised, his eyes fixed on Derrick's face.

"But it's true, unfortunately," said Derrick. "I must be going now, sir. Let me see, Waterloo is the station for Thexford. I'll go there and wait for the first train."

He held out his hand and the two men shook hands again; and Mr. Clendon stood at the door and watched the young man as he went swiftly down the steps, as if his life depended on his haste; the old man went back to his room and, sinking into his chair, covered his eyes with his hands and sat as if lost in thought—and memories. And, strangely enough, it was not of the young man he was thinking, but of a very beautiful woman, half woman, half girl, with black hair and brilliant eyes, with the blood of the South mantling in her cheeks, with the fire of the South, passionate, impetuous, uncontrollable, in eyes and cheek; a woman of fire and strong will, hard to understand, impossible to control; a woman to make or wreck a man's life. The woman whose vision rose before the old man, who sat, a bowed and desolate figure, in his chair, had wrecked his. Strange that the meeting with this young man had called up that vision, strange that his face and voice had revivified the memory of the past. With a sigh, a gesture of the flexible hand, as if he were putting the matter from him, Mr. Clendon took his violin from its case and began to play.



CHAPTER XXI

Derrick's mind was in a condition of joyous confusion as the train bore him in a slow and leisurely fashion towards Thexford. Predominant, of course, was the thought that he was on his way to see the girl of his heart. But presently he began to think of the strange old man who had set him that way. Naturally enough, Derrick felt curious about him; for he had been much struck and interested by the old man's appearance and manner. Derrick knew a gentleman when he saw him, and he knew that Mr. Clendon was a gentleman and one of a very fine type; seen in befitting surroundings, Mr. Clendon would have filled completely the part of a nobleman; and yet he was poor and living in Brown's Buildings. Derrick felt strangely drawn towards the old man, but told himself that it was because Mr. Clendon was a friend of Celia's—Derrick had already learned to call her 'Celia' in his mind.

Then the fact that she was librarian to Lord Sutcombe recurred to him. It was a strange coincidence, one of the strangest; and as he faced it, Derrick's intention to go straight to the Hall and ask for Celia became changed. He did not want to meet the Sutcombes: it was just possible that Heyton and Miriam would be there; and most certainly he did not want to meet them. He uttered a groan of impatience: he would not be able to go to the Hall; he would have to find some means of meeting her elsewhere; every moment of delay, every moment that stood between him and the sight of her, assumed the length of years. With his brows knit, and his heart in a state of rebellion, he got out at the little station and looked round him wistfully, irresolutely.

There was a fly at the station steps, but he was in too much of a fever to ride in a crawling vehicle, and he inquired of a sleepy porter the direction of the nearest inn.

"There's no inn here, sir," said the man. "You see, this is really only the station for the Hall; but you'll find a small kind of place in the village farther on; it's called Fleckfield; it's rather more than a couple of miles."

Derrick gave his small portmanteau to the flyman and told him to drive there, and he himself set out walking.

Climbing a hill at a little distance from the station, he caught sight of the tower of a big house and knew that it must be Thexford Hall. And, within those walls, was the girl he loved! He set his teeth and strode on, resentful of every yard that took him from her instead of to her.

A signpost directed him to Fleckfield, and presently he came to the village and to the little inn in the middle of the single street. It was a rustic looking place, with the usual bench and table outside it; and on the former was seated a young fellow in a knicker-bocker suit. He was writing busily on a pad which rested on his knee, and he looked up with an absent, far-away expression in his eyes as Derrick strode in upon his solitude.

"Good afternoon," he said, pleasantly, when he had come down from the clouds; for it was Reggie Rex, busy on the outline of his novel.

Derrick returned the salutation and sank on to the bench beside him; and Reggie, after a comprehensive glance, and one of distinct approval, said:

"You look hot, sir. Have a drink. I can recommend the local ale. It is good though not particularly intoxicating."

"Thanks," said Derrick; and he made short work of the tankard of home-brewed which the landlord brought him. "Are you staying here?" he inquired. "I ask, because I want a room for a night or two."

"That's all right," said Reggie. "They'll be able to give you a room, I think. Your portmanteau has arrived already. Is your name Grey?"

"No," replied Derrick, staring at him with pardonable surprise. "Sydney Green."

"Oh, well, it wasn't a bad guess," said Reggie, complacently. "I saw 'S. G.' on your portmanteau, and 'Green' seemed so obvious that I hit on Grey."

"Are you a detective?" asked Derrick, with a laugh.

"Wish I were!" responded Reggie, with a groan. "No; I'm an author, novelist; and I'm engaged on a big detective story. That's why I get all the practice I can. You come from South Africa?"

"Wrong; guess again," said Derrick, with a smile.

"Then what do you mean by that tanned face?" demanded Reggie, indignantly.

"You can get tanned in other places than South Africa," said Derrick. "I'd tell you where I come from, but I've a feeling that I should spoil your enjoyment in finding out for yourself. Besides, if I did tell you that much, you'd want to know why I have come here."

"Quite right," assented Reggie, approvingly. "That's just what I should want to know. But don't you trouble; I shall find out quick enough. And don't be offended," he added. "You see, I'm obsessed—that's the new word, you know—by this detective business. I want to find out everything about everybody. But there's no harm in me; it's a kind of monomania; and if you don't want me to be inquisitive, just say so."

There was something so inoffensive in this young man's eccentricity, that Derrick found it impossible to be affronted; he leant back, filled his pipe, and smoked in silence for a minute or two; then, driven by the ardour of his desire, by that longing to talk round about, if not directly of, his heart's idol, which obsesses—as Reggie would say—every lover, he said, half-ashamed of his impulse,

"Have you been staying long in these parts; do you happen to know a place about here called Thexford Hall?"

Reggie surveyed him through half-closed eyes for a moment or two; then he said:

"Now, I wonder why you asked that. If you were a friend of the people there, or had business with them, you would have gone straight to the house; instead of which, you come away from them, and ask the first person you meet if he knows it. You will excuse me if I say that I scent a mystery, Mr. Green. By the way, let me introduce myself—it's evident that you have little of the detective in you, or you would have asked me long ago. My name is Reginald Rex, a name with which you are probably unacquainted, but which, I trust, will some day be known to the whole world." He expressed the hope with bland simplicity.

"I am sure I hope it will," said Derrick. "I am sorry to disappoint you, but there is no mystery in the case. I have come here to see a young lady——"

"Miss Celia Grant," broke in Reggie, with an air of quiet triumph. "How did I guess it? My dear fellow, it's as easy as shelling peas! There is only one young lady at Thexford Hall, and she is the one I have mentioned. And you want to see her without coming in contact with the other persons who reside at the Hall. I need not ask if I am right, because your extremely candid countenance confirms my assertion."

"Upon my word, you're a most amusing young man," said Derrick, biting his lip to prevent himself from colouring. "But I am bound to admit that you are quite right."

"Thanks to your candour. I will now place myself at your service," said Reggie. "The young lady of whom we speak is a friend of mine—Mr. Green, when I rise in the morning, and return to my virtuous couch at night, I never fail to thank a beneficent Providence that I can claim her as my friend. Now, what you wish me to do, though you would rather die than ask me, is to arrange a meeting between you and Miss Grant. I will do so, without a moment's hesitation, because of Lavater."

"Because of what?" demanded Derrick, staring at him.

"Lavater, Mr. Green, is the author of the best-known work on physiognomy, and physiognomy teaches us whom to trust and to distrust. Informed by my knowledge of the science, I know that you are a man to be trusted, and with this knowledge, I am prepared to befriend you. What time this evening would you like to meet Miss Grant?"

Derrick regarded the strange youth with a mixture of amusement and surprise, not untinctured by jealousy.

"You speak, Mr. Rex, as if you held the copyright of Miss Grant," he said.

"Don't be offended; I'll explain," said Reggie, leaning back and folding his arms, and returning Derrick's gaze with one of extreme candour. "You see, Miss Grant once did me a service——"

"I don't find it difficult to believe that," said Derrick, under his breath.

"No," said Reggie. "There are a certain number of angels in woman guise who pace this wicked and weary old world of ours, and you and I happen to have had the extraordinary luck to meet one. Of course, I see how it is with you; and I might say that I am in the same boat. It's easy enough to fall in love with a star in the blue heavens, the Koh-i-noor diamond, or the second folio of Shakespeare. But I happen to be one of those few men who realise that the treasures I have spoken of are not for them. In the words of the poet, 'I worship Miss Grant from afar.' I kneel at her feet, metaphorically, in the adoration that has no hope of response or reward. If I am any judge of character—which I beg you to believe I am—you, my friend, are not placed in the same category; judging by the salient characteristics of your countenance, I should say that you hope most considerably."

"You certainly are a most extraordinary young man," said Derrick; "and your candour is somewhat overwhelming. But you have hit the nail on the head; and I may as well confess that I am particularly anxious to meet Miss Grant as soon as possible, and that I accept your proffered aid. As you have divined, I do not want to go to the Hall, for reasons——"

"Which you are perfectly at liberty to keep to yourself," said Reggie, blandly. "If, at any time, I should want to learn them, I give you my word I shall have little difficulty in discovering them. Just at the present moment, I am impelled by the sole desire to do Miss Grant a service—and you too; for, if you will permit me to say so, I have taken a physiognomical fancy to you. Will you shake hands?"

With a feeling akin to bewilderment, but without any resentment against his strange companion's eccentricity, Derrick went through the ceremony; and Reggie, rising, said:

"I am now going to the Hall; if you will be in the little wood in the hollow behind the Hall at seven o'clock this evening—but I need not continue."

He rose, settled his cap, and took two or three steps; but stopped suddenly and, coming back to the table, leant his hands on it and regarded Derrick thoughtfully.

"One conjecture, if you will allow me. May we say that the person at Thexford Hall you most particularly wish to avoid is—Lord Heyton?"

Derrick, speechless for a moment, stared at him; then he nodded.

"Quite so," said Reggie, with an air of satisfaction. "Oh, I don't want to know the reason; I just wanted my surmise confirmed. And, by George! I commend your judgment; for, if there was ever an individual in this world an honest man might wish to avoid, it is the gentleman I have mentioned."

With this, he walked off; and Derrick sat for some time in a state of amazement at the quaintness—and, be it added, the acuteness—of his new acquaintance. Presently the landlord served him with a nice little meal, which it is to be feared Derrick did not appreciate; for he scarcely knew what he was eating.

The time lagged intolerably; and long before seven o'clock, he had found the little wood, and was pacing up and down it, his heart beating furiously, as he listened for footsteps; they came presently, and he drew behind a tree, that, for a moment or two, unseen himself, his eyes might rest on the girl he had seen but once, but whose form was enshrined in his heart.

And presently she came; a slim, graceful figure in a plain white dress. The evening was warm, and she had taken off her hat, and was swinging it idly in her hand. When he saw her face distinctly, he noticed that it was calm and serene; there was no expression of expectation in it; she looked as if she were just strolling without any object. Pale beneath his tan, Derrick stepped forward and raised his hat. Celia stopped dead short, and looked at him for a moment with the ordinary expression of surprise at the sudden appearance of a stranger; then she recognised him and, all in a flash, her face changed. First, it was flooded with colour; then it grew pale and her wide-open eyes held a look of astonishment and some other emotion which went straight to Derrick's heart and struck him dumb, so that he stood before her in silence. She was the first to speak.

"You!" she murmured, with a little catch in her voice, her hand going to her heart unconsciously.

"Yes," said Derrick, unsteadily. "Didn't he tell you?"

She shook her head.

"You mean Reggie Rex? No—he asked me to come here, and I thought it was to meet him. I—I am rather startled."

She sank on to the bank, looking straight before her, and, still bare-headed, Derrick stood beside her, speechless. If he had ever had any doubt of the completeness, the intensity of his love for her, that doubt would have been dispelled at that moment. The desire to take her in his arms, to crush her to him, was almost overwhelming; but he remembered that, though he had been loving her all these months, had been thinking of her so constantly that it seemed as if they had been in actual communication, she did not know this. He must go gently with this beautiful creature; he must not frighten her by word or look.

"I'm sorry he didn't tell you; I'm sorry you were so startled," he said, very softly, very gently. "I thought he would have done so."

"I am ashamed," she said, blushing, and forcing a smile to her lips, which were not yet quite steady. "It is very foolish of me; for—for why should I be startled, why should you not be here, anywhere?"

She made as if to rise; but he put out his hand, as if to stay her, and she sank down again.

"Well, there are reasons why I should not come back, as you know," he began; but she looked up quickly and broke in.

"Oh, no, there are not! Don't you know, have they not told you? You have no cause now for—for concealment."

"I've heard nothing," he said. "I have only just returned from abroad. Will you tell me what you mean?"

With a barely-suppressed eagerness, and an unconcealed gladness, she told him of the appearance of the old gentleman a few minutes after Derrick's flight, and gave him the lawyer's message.

Derrick nodded once or twice. "If I'd only known that!" he said in a low voice, "I should have come back at once; come back to tell you what I want to tell you now, to thank you. Oh, but that's absurd! Of course, I can't thank you. You know what you did for me, and you must know that I can't express my gratitude."

"Don't say any more," said Celia almost inaudibly. "I am glad that it is all right now: that you have no cause to fear—and that you've come back to England."

"Are you?" he said, with difficulty controlling his voice. "So am I; but I'm still more glad that I have been able to meet you so soon. You are looking—well." Poor fellow! He wanted to say, "more beautiful than ever; and I love you." "You are happy, I hope?"

"Quite," Celia replied, raising a face that was radiant. And at that moment she was happy indeed, suffused with a strange, sweet happiness which she did not understand. "I have got a splendid berth. But, of course, you know, or you wouldn't be here. Reggie told you."

"Yes," he said, glad to fall on Reggie as a subject for conversation. "He's a strange young man, but he appears to be a good friend of yours."

"Oh, yes, he is. Yes; isn't he singular? I met him at the Museum. Oh, long, long ago—And yet it isn't so long, though it seems so," she added, musingly, and more to herself than to him. "Yes; isn't he quaint?"

"But he's got a good heart," said Derrick, with a smile. Then he felt he could bring the conversation back to themselves. "I am so glad you are happy. I got your address—I can see you are wondering how I got it—from another friend of yours, Mr. Clendon, a remarkably nice old gentleman who was extremely kind to me. Of course, I went to Brown's Buildings the day I arrived."

She blushed and her eyes were downcast for a moment. Why "of course"? She pondered this, with a thrill of the heart.

"Tell me about yourself, what you've been doing," she said. "You won't think me curious? But, of course, I am interested——"

"Naturally, seeing that you saved me, set my feet on a new path," he said; and as he spoke, he seated himself on the bank beside her; but a little lower, so that he could look up into her face. "I've had rather a curious time, since we parted."

Then he told her, as briefly as he could, the story of his adventures. And she listened—well, as Desdemona of old listened to Othello; that is to say, her star-like eyes were fixed on his face, as if they were chained there, and she listened, sometimes her breath growing fast, sometimes with an exclamation of amazement, of fear. Her interest, her absorption were so intense that perhaps she was not conscious that imperceptibly he had drawn closer to her, so that his arm was touching her dress and his face was very near hers. Woman is never so charming to us men as when she is listening to the story of our lives; and, oh, what a sympathetic listener was this beautiful, dainty girl, with her wide-open eyes, her red, parted lips, her little sighs and murmured exclamations!

"Oh, it is wonderful!" she breathed at last. "It it like a story in a book! I can see it all—you tell it so well; and yet I feel you are not telling half. And this Donna Elvira—what a good, kind woman she must be!"

"She is," assented Derrick. "I wish she were also a happy one; but I'm afraid she isn't. There is a kind of mystery about her—but I'm afraid you won't understand from my poor attempt to describe her."

"Oh, yes, yes I do!" said Celia. "You make it all so plain. I should like to meet her, to know her."

"I'll tell her so—when I go back," said Derrick.

What had happened? A moment before, the little wood had been all aglow with the rays of the setting sun, her heart had been palpitating with a sweet, delicious happiness; and now, all quite suddenly, the air had become cold, a chill had struck to her heart. Celia's face paled, she looked up at him and then away from him. With the toe of her dainty shoe, she traced a pattern in the moss at her feet; and still with downcast eyes, she said:

"You—you are going back? Of course."

"Yes; I must go back," he said, in a dry voice. "As I told you, I have only come over to do this business. I must go back soon."

"How—how soon?" she asked, scarcely knowing that she spoke.

"Oh, in a week or two, at longest," he replied, his eyes downcast, his voice barely above a murmur.

There was silence for a moment; then she forced a smile and, with difficulty raising her eyes to his, said:

"Of course, you must. Well, I am—am glad to have seen you, to have heard that you are prospering. I—I must be going back."

Again she made a movement, as if to rise; but he took her hand and gripped it tightly, almost fiercely.

"Not yet," he said, his voice choked and thick. "You can't go till I tell you——Oh, don't you know? You must know; something of the truth must have travelled from my heart to yours all these months. Don't you know that I love you?" he said breathlessly.

She sat quite still, her hand in his, her eyes fixed on the tree before her; her heart was beating so fast that its pulsations seemed to stifle her. But through her whole frame, through every nerve of her body, ran a hot flood of ecstatic happiness. His words were still ringing in her heart; mutely her lips were re-forming them: "I love you! I love you!" So great, so ineffable was the joy, that her eyes closed with the desire to shut out everything in the world but the one fact his dear lips had voiced.

"You know I love you," he said in a whisper. "From the first moment—no, let me be truthful, not from the first moment: you remember how angry I was with you; how I resented your dear presence, your interference?—but soon, very soon afterwards, you stole into my heart. And you have been there ever since. Oh, Celia!—think of it! I knew your name only a few hours ago—you are all the world to me, my saviour, my guardian angel. I can't live without you. I want you, dearest; I want you every hour, every moment. Oh, I know I'm a poor lot, of no account, a man with a stain still on his name, but I've got to tell you that I love you. I've thought of this hour of our meeting a hundred, a thousand times, in all sorts of places, in all sorts of circumstances. And now it has come! Celia, I love you, dear, I love you! Speak to me, dear! Oh, I know I'm not worthy of a single thought, a single breath of yours; but let my love plead for me, and—speak to me, Celia!"

She sat enthralled by that magic which has been omnipotent since this weary world of ours began, and will be till it ends. It was easy enough for him to say "speak," but ah, how difficult it was for her to obey, when her heart was too full for words! Instead of speech, she turned her face to him; and laid her hand on his, which held hers nearest to him. There was a thrill of a passionate love in that gentle touch; and Derrick's heart flamed up. He caught her in his arms, and their lips joined in that first ecstatic interchange of soul and heart. Presently, she lay on his breast, her face still upturned to his kisses, her eyes meeting his with the fullness, the fearlessness of a girl's first and perfect love.

Silence reigned in the little wood; a squirrel, which had been watching them from a distance, leapt noiselessly from a branch and stood and surveyed them with piquant interest; the good god Pan hovered about them and murmured his blessings on their mortal love. So long lasted the silence—the ecstatic silence which, indeed, is golden—that time lost its significance and they were caught up into the heaven of eternity.

At last, with a sigh, Celia came back to earth: that earth which his love had turned to a veritable Paradise.

"I must go," she whispered.

"Must you, dearest—Celia?" he asked, with all a lover's reluctance.

"Yes," she said, the word broken with a sigh. "I am sorry; but I must go. I don't know how late it is."

He took the watch from her belt—the very act was a caress—and looked at it.

"We have been here an hour. It seems only a minute. And we must part! That's hard."

"Yes, it's hard," she whispered, with a long breath. "But we shall meet again. Oh, I couldn't bear to think that we shall not meet again soon. You will come—will you come to the Hall?"

He knit his brows.

"I can't, dearest; I can't. Don't ask me why. God knows I want to tell you everything; but—but presently. You can trust me, Celia?"

"I'd trust you with my life, with all that there is of me," she said, with a simplicity that made him catch her to him.

"You must trust me, for the present," he said. "Let me think things over. I can't think now—I can scarcely realise that you are in my arms, that you are mine. Mine! Mine, after all this time of waiting and longing. Tell me once more, just once more, that you love me, Celia."

"I love you!" she breathed, her star-like eyes meeting his unflinchingly. "Oh, how strange it is! I don't even know your name."

He winced imperceptibly, and his lips drew straight. They had almost formed the words "Derrick Dene," but he held them back.

"Sydney," he said. "Sydney Green."

"Sydney," she murmured; and though Derrick hated the name on her lips, yet it sounded the sweetest music.

"You'll meet me to-morrow here, in the morning, Celia? I could not wait all day. Be here at ten o'clock."

"I will."

"By that time, I shall have thought things over; I shall be able to tell you——Oh, dearest, must you go? You seem to take my life with you."

"And I leave mine with you," she said, gravely.

"Celia! You've got my life and my heart in this little hand of yours." He kissed it.

"And do you think I shall not hold them? But I must go. Yes; kiss me once more—only once, or I shall never be able to leave you. I will be here at ten o'clock. It will seem an age——"

He gripped her to him, and kissed her; and he stood, with hand pressed hard against the tree, watching the slight, graceful form till it disappeared from his view.

It may be noted, by the student of human nature, that neither of them had spoken of the woman for whom Derrick had been ready to sacrifice his good name, his life itself. Perfect love means perfect faith, and they were so sure of each other's love and faith, that it may be said neither of them gave the other woman a thought; and if they had done so, Celia would not have been jealous of the past, and Derrick would have regarded the boyish passion of which he had been so completely cured, as something nebulous and unimportant. At that moment, he was capable of thinking only of Celia; the past was like a dream, his heart was in the present and future; and his happiness was alloyed by one regret only—that he had concealed from Celia his real name and his connection with the Heytons. But, as he walked on air towards the village, he told himself that such concealment would not long be necessary, that he would tell her the next time they met.



CHAPTER XXII

As happy as Derrick, Celia hurried back to the Hall. So suddenly had come her happiness, so swiftly and unexpectedly had her life been suffused by joy, that she was dazzled and bewildered, as one is dazzled and bewildered by the bursting of the midday sunlight through a bank of clouds. It seemed almost impossible to realise that he was back in England, near at hand, that he loved her, that he had held her in his arms; but the warmth of his kisses still lingered on her lips and helped her unbelief.

As she entered the hall, Heyton sauntered out of the smoking-room; the eternal cigarette was between his thick lips, his hands were thrust in his pockets; the smile, which Celia so much disliked, greeted her appearance, and his eyes roved over her with, the expression which always raised Celia's resentment.

"Hallo!" he exclaimed, with an offensive familiarity. "Been for a walk? By Jove! you look ripping, Miss Grant! Been enjoying yourself, to judge by the look of you! I wish you would let me come with you; I might have enjoyed myself too. I'm pretty well bored stiff; there's nothing to do here, and the old place is dull as ditch-water; gives me the horrors. But I say, you'll be late for dinner. Hurry up and come and dine with us, won't you?"

"Thank you, Lord Heyton," said Celia, "but I dine alone in my own little room."

"What nonsense that is!" he said, impatiently. "Here, Miriam"—turning to his wife, as she came languidly down the stairs—"just tell Miss Grant that she's got to dine with us to-night; she'll keep us from going to sleep."

"Won't you?" asked Miriam, listlessly. "I wish you would; I'm sure Lord Sutcombe would like you to."

"Thank you very much," said Celia, as she passed on; "but I would rather dine alone. I've a great deal to do to-night and must not waste time over dinner."

"Oh, look here——!" began Heyton; but at the moment the butler advanced with a telegram. Heyton took it and looked at it, and his manner changed instantly. He stared at the telegram; his face growing pale, his teeth closing hard on the cigarette.

"What is it, Percy?" asked Miriam, as Celia passed into the library.

"Eh?" he said, with a start, as if waking up. "Oh, nothing! Yes, it is; it's dam bad news, I can tell you."

"Money again!" she said, with an impatient shrug of her shoulders.

"Yes, money; and a lot of it," he retorted. "Look here, Miriam, I'm in a hole, and a precious deep one this time. Hush! Here's the old man!" He broke off warningly, as the Marquess came into the hall.

He looked weary and careworn, and his shoulders drooped in the way that had become habitual with him of late; and he frowned slightly as he glanced at the cigarette between his son's lips; for he disliked its penetrating aroma as much as did Celia. Dinner was announced and they went in; they talked in the desultory fashion which was customary with them, and the Marquess, apparently lost in thought, did not notice Heyton's pallor and the furtive glance which every now and then he directed towards his father. As usual, Heyton did not refuse the butler's offer of wine, and, after awhile, a hectic flush rose to his cheek, and he began to talk with a strained and unnatural gaiety. Miriam, who had been watching him, presently stretched out her hand towards his glass with a significant frown; but her husband glared at her and, reaching for the decanter, helped himself. Suddenly, apropos of nothing, Heyton, addressing the Marquess, said:

"Have you noticed that pendant Miriam's wearing?"

The Marquess raised his eyes and smiled at her.

"Very pretty, my dear!" he observed.

"A present from Percy," she said, fingering it. "I'm glad you like it."

"A wedding present," said Heyton, with a sneer. "Not much of a present; but it was the best I could afford. She's pretty enough to deserve a complete fit-out of diamonds, don't you think so?"

The Marquess looked up again, half curiously, as if he wondered whether there were any object in Heyton's remark; his lips moved as if he were about to speak; but he closed them again and his eyes went back to his plate. Miriam rose and went to the drawing-room, and almost immediately afterwards, the Marquess left the table, saying, as he passed Heyton,

"That port is rather heavy, Percy; don't drink too much of it."

The weak and vicious face grew red and, with a sneer, Heyton retorted,

"Oh, if you begrudge me a glass of wine——" But he spoke under his breath, and the Marquess apparently did not hear him.

Heyton finished the decanter and then, with a rather unsteady step, betook himself to the smoking-room, fell into a chair and rang the bell for coffee and cognac. He drank off the brandy, and took the telegram from his pocket. It was still in his hand when Miriam came into the room, closing the door behind her. She stood regarding him in silence for a moment, with the look of the disappointed woman in her eyes. Not for the first time did she realise the folly of her conduct; she had thrown over Derrick Dene for title and position; they were hers now, but to get them she had sold herself to a man whom she had learned to despise.

"Phew!" she breathed. "The room reeks of brandy." She went to a window and flung it open. "I should have thought you had had quite enough to drink at dinner——"

"You may keep your thoughts to yourself, my lady," he said, with a scowl. "What I drink is my own business. And, by George! you'd drink, if you had as much on your mind as I have."

"You'd better tell me about it," she said; "you'd better tell me what that telegram means. And—Percy, I want to know why you called your father's attention to my pendant. You had some meaning, some object."

"Oh, you noticed it, did you?" he said, with a sneer. "I would scarcely have given you credit for so much intelligence. Well, I had a meaning. I wanted to call the old man's attention to the fact that you, his daughter-in-law, had only a few trumpery trinkets to wear."

"Do you mean that you wanted him to buy me some, to give me a present?" she inquired, with a puzzled frown.

"No, not buy you some," he replied slowly, his eyes evading hers. "There's no need to buy any. I'm thinking of the family diamonds; there's any amount of them already; a tiara, necklaces, bracelets—and, I remember, a string of pearls as good as any in the country. What's the use of them, locked up in the strong room at the bank? Why doesn't he give them to you; they're yours; by right, as you might say."

She seated herself on a chair at a little distance from him and looked at him intently; her face had become flushed at his rough description of the Sutcombe jewels.

"What made you think of them to-night?" she asked.

"I've often thought of them," he answered, evasively.

"But you almost asked Lord Sutcombe to give them to me," she persisted. "He must have known what you meant; I could see it by his face. But you were foolish, Percy, to think that you'd get them that way."

"What other way of getting them is there?" he asked, sullenly.

"I don't know," she said. "You should have waited."

"Waited!" he repeated, with an oath. "I tell you I want those diamonds; and I must have them, and at once."

"You want them?" she said, as if mystified; then her face grew crimson for an instant, but paled again as she leant forward. "You mean—you can't mean, Percy, that you would sell the diamonds? Oh, I see what that telegram means; you've been betting again! You promised me you wouldn't. But a promise isn't much to you. You've been betting again, and you've lost a great deal of money."

"You've guessed it right the very first time," he said, with an attempt at a laugh; but the sweat had gathered on his forehead and he wiped it away with a shaking hand. "It's Skylark. He was a dead certainty; I got the tip straight from the stable; they must have pulled him; they must have sold me. But I've got to pay up; I've got to. Do you hear? If I can't find the money by Monday week, I shall be posted. I suppose you know what that means?"

"You'll be ruined," she said in a low voice.

"Cut by everybody; chucked out of every club, marked for life. Yes; sounds pretty black, doesn't it?"

"Is there no other way of getting the money?" she asked, wearily.

He shook his head. "If you knew anything at all, you'd know there isn't," he said, sullenly. "The old man has just paid some biggish debts for me. That was what the row was about the other night. He warned me that it was the last I'd have from him for some time, and he'll keep his word. Curse him!"

Miriam, accustomed as she was to his bad language, shrank.

"Percy! Your own father!" she whispered, with a shudder.

"Oh, don't go into heroics!" he said. "You'd curse everything and everybody, if you were in the plight I am. And look here, you've got to help me. You and the old man have been getting on better than I expected; if he hasn't taken a downright fancy to you, he's got used to you and treats you civilly. Can't you give him a hint about the diamonds? See here!" He leant forward, his hand gripping the table, the sweat gathering on his face again, his weak eyes bulging in his terrible eagerness. "I could raise money enough on the things to tide me over this bit of bad luck until I struck a winner. Directly he'd given them to you, we'd go up to town; he wouldn't know whether you were wearing them or not. But there! if it comes to that, we could easily get them copied in paste; they imitate them so closely you can't tell the real from the sham. Fact. Why, half the women in London are wearing shams, and nobody's any the wiser."

She rose, her hand clutching at the lace on her bosom.

"I—I can't do it, Percy! Besides, it wouldn't be any use. It's strange how little you know of the Marquess; you, his own son! Why, even I, who have known him so short a time, know that to ask for them, to hint for them, would be of no use. They are the family diamonds; they're something more than jewels in his eyes—don't you understand that?—he will have to grow to like me a good deal better than he does before he gives them to me. It's no use, Percy. You must think of something else."

"There is no other way," he said.

He dropped back, his head sunk on his breast, his teeth gnawing at the projecting under-lip; and she stood looking down at him, though scarcely seeing him. Suddenly he glanced up at her, his lips twitching; a certain furtive gleam in his light eyes.

"Oh, well, never mind, old girl!" he said, with an affectation of concurrence. "Perhaps you're right. We'll give it up. Don't worry; after all, I dessay I shall find another way out. Here! you'd better go back to the old man. Go and play to him; he likes you to." As she moved towards the door, he called to her in a cautious undertone. "Here! Miriam, come back. Now I come to think of it, I'm sure you're right as to not giving him a hint. Don't do it; in fact, if he says anything about the diamonds, say that you'd rather not have them at present. You can say that we're likely to be moving about, and that you'd rather wait until we've settled down. You might lose 'em, don't you know."

Miriam looked at him, as if puzzled by this sudden volte-face; then, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, went out of the room. When the door had closed on her, Heyton rose and began to move about the room unsteadily. His narrow forehead was contracted, as if he were thinking deeply; his lips worked, his hands closed and unclosed in his pockets in which they were thrust, and he glanced from side to side furtively. So might a criminal look while plotting a coup more than usually risky and dangerous. Presently he came alongside the table on which the footman had placed the spirit-bottles and syphons. Heyton mixed himself a stiff glass of whisky and soda, drank it almost at a draught, then nodded at the reflection of himself in the mirror opposite him.

"I think I could work it," he muttered. "Yes, I think I could work it."



CHAPTER XXIII

Miriam went on to the drawing-room. The Marquess was sitting in his usual deep chair, his hands folded on his knees, his head bowed; he looked as if he were asleep, but he was not; he was thinking, at that moment, of the half-tipsy son he had left in the dining-room, of the thin, bent figure of the old man who had suddenly reappeared on that morning months ago at Sutcombe House. What a terrible tangle it was; what a mockery that he should be sitting here at Thexford Hall, while the real owner was living in poverty in London! His thoughts were almost too bitter to be borne, and the so-called Marquess crouched in his chair and stifled a groan.

Thinking he was dozing, Miriam went straight to the piano and began to play. When she had finished the piece, she was startled—for she had been going over and over in her mind the scene in the smoking-room—by the grave voice of the Marquess saying,

"Thank you, Miriam. That was very beautiful." He paused a moment. "My wife used to play that; it is a favourite of mine. Please go on, if you are not tired."

She played a nocturne of Chopin; and he rose and stood at the fireplace, with his hands folded behind his back. As she turned and looked at him, he said, with a smile,

"That is a pretty pendant, Miriam. I think you have not many jewels, have you?"

She started, and turned her head away from him.

"Oh, I have quite enough," she said, with a laugh. "You must remember, Lord Sutcombe, that I am a poor clergyman's fourth daughter, and that I am not accustomed to much jewellery."

"You are my son's wife, my dear Miriam," he said, with a slight smile. "And a lady of your position has usually quite a quantity of jewellery. Personally, I do not attach much importance to the decrees of fashion, but I suppose that it is as well to comply with them. Has Percy ever by chance spoken to you of the family diamonds?"

The blood mantled in Miriam's face for a moment; then left it paler than before.

"No," she replied.

"Ah!" said the Marquess. "Of course, there are some. Indeed, there are a great many, and some of them are very beautiful, very valuable; in fact, I do not think I should exaggerate if I were to say that some of the stones are priceless; not only in a monetary sense, but because of their size and quality. There are, too, historic associations," he added, thoughtfully.

There was a pause; Miriam drooped over the piano, touching a note here and there softly.

"Yes, some of them are historic," resumed the Marquess meditatively. "There is a necklace which belonged to Madame du Barri, and another which Queen Elizabeth gave to one of her ladies-in-waiting. An ancestor of ours was a son of hers. I think the time has arrived when the jewels should, so to speak, be resurrected; that they should pass into your possession."

Miriam's heart beat fast; but the flush of gratification did not rise to her face, for she was thinking of the base, the nefarious uses to which her husband would put these historic jewels.

"Indeed, they almost belong to you by right," said the Marquess. "They have always gone with the title."

His voice grew gradually slower, and presently he stopped and looked straight before him, as if he had forgotten her presence. Indeed, he had done so; for as he spoke of the title, there rose suddenly, like a cinematograph film thrown on the screen, the bent figure, grey face and piercing eyes of the real owner of the title. Not for the first time, he, the false Marquess, was giving away that which belonged to the shabbily-dressed old man who had refused to accept the position which was his by right of inheritance. The pause was a momentary one only, and the Marquess went on,

"I am a widower; fortunately, Percy is married, and the family jewels really belong to you. You shall have them."

Miriam moistened her lips; her heart was beating thickly. As a woman, she desired the jewels; as a wife, she must obey Heyton.

"Oh, how good of you!" she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Indeed, it is more than kind of you, Lord Sutcombe. But—but I don't think I ought to accept them—now. They must be of very great value——"

"They are," he interjected, not complacently but with a sigh; for he recalled them as they shone on the neck and arms of his dead wife.

"And I feel as if they would be a great responsibility," Miriam continued. "Percy thinks of—of going abroad, of travelling for a time. Perhaps, when we come back and have settled down, you—you will be so good, so kind as to give them to me. I can't thank you enough."

Her voice broke; for weak and foolish as she was, she could not but think of the still weaker and more vicious man who had planned so base a use for the Sutcombe diamonds.

"Very well, my dear," he said, in a kindly voice. "We will leave them to their repose in the safe upstairs. I brought them down from the bank, intending to give them to you."

"Upstairs?" she said, in something like a whisper, a frightened whisper.

"Why, yes," he said, simply. "They are in the safe in the little room adjoining my bedroom. I have not seen them since my wife died," he added, with unconscious pathos.

Scarcely knowing why, a vague dread, a presentiment of evil stirred within Miriam's breast.

"Oh, ought they not to be sent back to the bank, Lord Sutcombe?" she said in a low voice.

"Perhaps they ought," he said, gravely. "You are thinking of burglars," he added, with a smile. "You need not be apprehensive; the safe is a remarkably good one; one of the best, I believe, and I carry the key about with me always. I have it on my watch-chain. I don't think the most modern and scientific burglar could break open the safe; at any rate, he could not do so without making a noise which someone in the house would hear. Oh, they are quite secure from burglars, believe me, Miriam."

"I am glad," she said, almost inaudibly. "Shall I play you something else."

"Do," he responded. "Where is Percy?"

"In the smoking-room, I believe," she replied.

He went to her and laid his hand on her shoulder.

"Percy is too fond of the smoking-room," he said, gravely. "Miriam, I do not wish to intrude—I have always held that no man has a right to interfere between his son and his wife. But—forgive me, Miriam—I am anxious about Percy. You, who are his wife, must have seen that—forgive me again—that he needs guidance. He is too fond of—what shall I say?—of pleasure, the sensation of the moment. I had hoped that his marriage would have wooed him from—from the self-indulgence to which he had yielded in early life. Miriam, I count a great deal upon your influence," he wound up lamely and with a deep sigh.

Her head bowed still lower over the keys, and she nodded.

"I know," she said. "I will do my best. But you know Percy!"

He sighed again. "Yes, I know," he assented. "There are certain weaknesses in most families which crop up, now and again, like ill-weeds, in some member; I fear that Percy—Don't cry, Miriam, we will hope for the best; and, as I say, I rely on you, I rely on you very much. You look tired, my child; it is time for your beauty sleep. I will go and find Percy."

She stretched out her hand with a sudden apprehension.

"No, don't!" she exclaimed, with a catch of her breath. "I mean, that I think he has gone to bed. He was very tired."

The Marquess nodded, as if he understood.

"Very well, my dear. Now go. But don't forget," he said, as he held her hand and kissed her on the forehead, "the diamonds are yours, whenever you would like to have them."

When she reached her room, Miriam sank into a chair and covered her eyes with her hands. She was weak and foolish, but she was not so weak and foolish as not to be touched by the kindness of the Marquess. She was glad that Percy had changed his mind about getting the diamonds, though she could not guess why he had done so. When the Marquess next offered them to her, she would refuse again to accept them until Percy had found some other way out of his difficulty. She knew that the diamonds were almost sacred in the eyes of the Marquess, not only because they were family heirlooms, but because his wife had worn them; and she shuddered at the idea of their falling into Percy's hands, the deceit and treachery which he contemplated.

She dismissed her maid when she heard Percy enter his dressing-room; she listened to his movements with a sense of uneasiness; he had already become indifferent to her, and a feeling of actual dislike of him was growing up within her. Presently the door between the two rooms opened and he looked in.

"Hallo! not in bed?" His voice was thick, as it always was at that hour of the night; but he spoke with affected lightness and smiled. "You and the old man been having a palaver, haven't you? Did he say anything about—the diamonds?" he added, casually.

"Yes," she said, without turning her head from the glass. "He offered them to me; but I refused them, as you told me to do."

He had been fumbling at his collar, but as she spoke, his hand fell to his side and he looked straight before him, with a curious expression on his face.

"That's right," he said, after awhile. "It wouldn't have done to have seemed too anxious for them, greedy. He'll think all the better of you. Let 'em lie at the bank a little longer, till we come back from the Continent."

"They're not at the bank; they're in the safe in Lord Sutcombe's dressing-room," she said, unthinkingly. Her eyes were still averted from him, and she did not see the sudden change in his face; it had grown absolutely white.

"Oh!" he said indifferently, too indifferently. "In the safe upstairs, are they? Then he meant giving them to you? Well, they're all right there. Don't you take them: I mean, put him off. Look here, I've thought of another way out of the mess I'm in, Miriam. After all, it would have been playing it rather low down to pop the things, to play tricks with them; they're the family diamonds, you know."

"Yes; your mother wore them," said Miriam in a low voice. "I'm glad you don't—want them, Percy."

"That's all right," he said, with a forced laugh. "Don't you worry yourself."

He closed the door and sank into a chair in his dressing-room. He was shaking, as if with ague; for the little plan he had formed in the smoking-room was now rendered of no avail.

The little plan can be stated in a few words. There is a certain fascination in forgery; it is so beautifully easy; you have but to write another's man's name, copying that man's handwriting, and the trick is done. Percy had tried his hand at the game already, and they say that a horse that once stumbles is certain to fall again. He had intended forging an order on the bank for the delivery of the jewels: and now they were not in the bank but here in the house. Within a few yards of him were diamonds and other precious stones, the possession of which would save him from ruin. The sweat broke out on his face, his lips grew parched, and he tried to moisten them with a tongue that was almost as dry. He knew the safe well enough, knew that even a skilled burglar would find it difficult, if not impossible, to break into it. The diamonds were within his reach, with only the door of that safe between him and them. It would have been far better for his purpose, if they had been at the bank!

Cursing his luck, the miserable man went on with his undressing.



CHAPTER XXIV

When Derrick left the wood—and how loath he was to leave it, for Celia's presence seemed still to haunt it!—and returned to the inn, he found Reggie still with his writing-pad on his knee. He glanced up, as Derrick sank into the seat beside him, and said drily,

"You look almost offensively happy, Green. I need not ask you if I am to congratulate you."

"Congratulate away," said Derrick, with so obvious an expression of satisfaction that Reggie nodded and smiled. "Have you been working all the time?"

"No," replied Reggie. "There has been an interlude. I have been for a walk. Green, did you ever meet an angel?"

"I have just left one," said Derrick, almost involuntarily.

"I beg your pardon. I forgot that there were two in this wicked old world of ours. Well, I've just parted from the other one. She was walking, with her wings folded, and a basket in her hand. It was heavy; and, after a time, I plucked up sufficient courage to ask her to let me take it. She would have refused, but the child she was carrying on her other arm was not very comfortable."

"There is a child?" said Derrick, with a smile. "I thought you had embarked on a love-story."

"There is a child," assented Reggie, gravely. "And it is a love-story," he added, still more gravely. "But the love is all on my side—at present."

"Oh, I see; a widow," said Derrick, not by any means lightly; for, to your lover, love is a sacred subject, and he is full of subtle sympathy for his kind.

"Very much a widow," said Reggie, with a touch of bitterness, and looking straight before him. "She not only permitted me, after much pressure, to carry the basket, but she allowed me to speak to her. She said very little to me—angels are not obliged to talk, you know; it is quite sufficient for them to exist. I carried the basket to the cottage," he went on in a low voice and dreamily, "and she said, 'Thank you.' When an angel says 'thank you'—But no doubt you have heard one repeat the simple, magic word and know its effect on you. To-morrow I shall be on the road at the same time, and, if Heaven is very kind to me, I shall meet her, and again she will be carrying a basket. You think I am very confiding, Green. Well, I feel that I've got to tell someone; just as you feel that you want to tell me about your angel."

Derrick smiled, and coloured.

"There's something weird about you, Rex," he said. "You'll be a great success as a novelist; you know human nature. Yes—it's strange!—I'm longing to tell someone of the great happiness that has fallen to me."

"Tell away," said Rex. "Of course, I saw, the moment you came in sight, that it was all right. You walked as if you were treading on asphodel, and you carried your head as if you'd bought the whole world. I'm very glad." He sighed and shook his head. "Yes, I'm glad, though I love her myself—in a way. But I'm going to be a brother to her, and therefore—if you'll permit me—to you, too. I hope you have made her very happy."

"I hope so," responded Derrick; "and I hope to make her happy all her life."

"You'll be married soon, I suppose?"

"Yes, if Celia will consent," replied Derrick, looking before him as if he saw a vista of ecstatic years stretching into infinity. "I will marry her as soon as she will have me, and I will take her to South America, where I have work—and friends," he added, as he remembered Donna Elvira.

"Of course, she'll go with you anywhere," said Reggie. "You're a lucky man, Green! But I'm sorry you're going so far away. I shall lose you both. You see, I include your honoured self, because, as I have said, I have already a sneaking fondness for you. May one, without being too intrusive, ask if it is necessary for you to leave your native land?"

"It is," said Derrick, quietly. "I've no place, no foothold here—and there are other reasons with which I needn't bother you."

"Oh, you wouldn't bother me; but I'm not curious. Or, rather, I am, but friendship sets a limit to my curiosity. Well, I must be going. I am to make an after-dinner call, by invitation, on a lady. Literally a lady—Lady Gridborough." Derrick turned his head sharply, and Reggie, noticing the movement, asked blandly, "Know her?"

"I've heard of her," answered Derrick, shortly.

"Delightful old lady," observed Reggie. "As she is a great friend of Miss Grant's, you'll come to know her, of course. She is very kind to me and asks me up to the Grange, that's her place, to smoke a cigarette when I've done my work; indeed, whenever I care to go. Sometimes we talk, sometimes I wander about the garden. She regards me as something between an orphan child and a freak of nature; to her, an author is a kind of imbecile which is to be humoured and cossetted. Well, so long! Shall I tell you what you'll do for the rest of the evening? Yes, I will tell you, whether you want me to do so or not. You will sit here and moon——"

Derrick reached for Reggie's empty tumbler and made a feint of throwing it at him, and Reggie went off, laughing.

If he did not sit in the same place all the evening, certainly Derrick "mooned," as Reggie had prophesied. The mention of Lady Gridborough had recalled the past, when he had been a favoured friend of the old lady's. He knew that she thought him guilty of wronging Susie Morton; it was just possible that she had heard of the forged cheque. He bit his lip with mortification and a dull anger, as the desire rose in him to go up to the Grange and clear himself. But he could only do so by breaking the promise he had given to Heyton, by ruining Miriam's happiness.

He had suffered so much already for the sacrifice he had made, that it seemed to him an absolute waste of it to divulge the truth. Once again, there was Miriam, whose life would be wrecked if her husband were exposed. He must still remain silent, still bear the burden which he had taken upon his shoulders. Fortunately, there was a chance that he might persuade Celia to marry him very soon; they would leave England and the past behind them. She trusted him, would still continue to trust him; and some day, not to-morrow, as he had decided to do, he would tell her everything.

Long before ten o'clock the next morning, he was in the wood; and, as the clock struck, Celia came towards him. As he held her in his arms, indeed, at the very first sight of her, all his doubts and difficulties fled. At first they spoke but little; for there is no need for speech where perfect love exists. But presently, perhaps unconsciously, Celia led him to talk of his adventures; she had heard many of them yesterday, but she wanted to hear all again; she was insatiable. Every person he had met interested her.

"I seem to know them all," she said; "you describe them so beautifully to me. I should like to meet that funny old Mr. Bloxford and the circus people; but, much more than any of the others, the lady, Donna Elvira, who was so kind to you. I love her already!"

Derrick was silent for a moment; then he said:

"You shall meet her soon, if you will, dearest. Don't be startled, Celia. I'm going to ask you to do something, a great thing. I am going to ask you to marry me soon, at once. I want you to come back with me."

They had been walking slowly through the wood amongst the trees, his arm round her; she stopped, the blood suffused her face, then she turned pale. She was silent for a moment or two as he looked down at her yearningly, anxiously; then she said in a low voice,

"I will, if you wish it."

He drew her to him, and kissed her passionately, gratefully.

"You will, Celia?" he said, astonished at her goodness to him.

"Yes," she said, simply. "Does it seem so great a thing? No, don't answer. I feel mean; for, dearest, I'm only too ready. Oh, it's no use my trying to conceal my love. Think of the time we have been parted, all the months I've been thinking of and longing for you! Why should I refuse to marry you, now, this minute, if I could?"

He was silent, as she lay on his breast, her face upturned to his, her eyes, glowing with woman's tender passion and woman's glad surrender, meeting his fearlessly and yet with a little pleading in them, as if she were begging him not to think her immodest.

"I'm not worth such love as yours," said Derrick, his lips drawn straight. "I'm overwhelmed by it. You're too good for me to touch, dearest—and you're going to marry me, to be my wife!"

She laughed at him softly. "Don't put me on too high a pedestal," she said. "I shall tumble off some day and the fall will be so great. I'm just an ordinary girl, whose only merit is that she loves the best, the dearest man in the world. Such a lucky girl, dear!"

"All right," he said, with a laugh that was rather broken. "We'll leave it at that; it's too wild an assertion to contradict. Though the luck's all on my side, God knows. Now, let me think—it's hard to think when I'm holding you like this, when my heart's jumping and something's shouting in my ear, 'She's going to be your wife. Your wife!' I don't know much about the business of being married—I've never been married before, you see—but I fancy it's possible to get a special licence. I don't know how you manage it; but I'll find out. Oh, by George! I'll ask our friend, Reggie Rex; he appears to know everything, the human heart included. Dearest, I hope you won't mind: I told him about—ourselves, our happiness, last night. Not that it was necessary to tell him, for, with that weird penetration, acuteness, of his, he guessed it the moment he saw me, when I came back from you."

"I don't mind his knowing," said Celia. "I don't mind anyone knowing; I'm so proud, so happy!"

Derrick bit his lip and was silent for a moment; then he said reluctantly, hesitatingly,

"Celia, will you mind if I ask you, if I tell you that—that there are reasons why I want our engagement, our coming marriage, to be kept secret. Secret between us three."

She looked up at him with slight surprise in her eyes; then she said, after a momentary pause,

"I do not mind. I am sure there are good reasons——"

"Which I'd tell you, I want to tell you," he broke in, frowning; "but I can't. It's a question of honour——"

She put her hand on his lips. "There's no need to say any more. I don't want you to tell me. If it would help you, I will tell you that I guess it is something to do with that—that trouble which brought us together and separated us."

Derrick nodded.

"I understand," she said. "Dearest, shall we come to an agreement about all this? Shall we agree to forget it, to treat it as if it had never happened?" She pressed his arm and, of her own accord, drew closer to him. "Let us pretend that you and I met in the wood yesterday, for the first time."

"Would to God we had!" he broke out; then he went on, quickly, remorsefully, "No, no, I wouldn't lose that night, our first meeting, in 'the Jail.' That's far too precious a memory, Celia. It was then I fell in love with you, that you wiped out the past, that you gave me back life itself. No, I can't lose that. But we'll forget everything else—for the present, at any rate. Now, let's talk about our—wedding. I'll get Reggie Rex to help us, and we'll be married as soon as we can. I shall have done my business in London in a very short time, and we'll start for the ranch as soon as possible. The country is very beautiful, the house, the whole place, is charming; you will like the life——"

She smiled up at him. "Yes, I know. But, Sydney, don't you know that I should like any place, if I lived in it, with you?"

Unconsciously, they had left the wood and were now standing by the gate on the roadway. It was all so still and solitary that they stood, hand in hand, looking at each other and lost to everything else in the world; they were so lost that they did not hear the sound of a carriage coming round the bend of the road; and Lady Gridborough's jingle was upon them before they had time to escape. In the little carriage were her ladyship and Reggie Rex. Celia was the first to see them, and with a faint exclamation and a burning blush, she gripped Derrick's hand, and looked round as if to fly into hiding. But they were standing in a little clearing, and there was no time to get back to the woods. As the jingle came up to them, Lady Gridborough put up her lorgnette and surveyed them,

"Why, bless me!" she said. "That looks like Celia Grant. It is! Who is that with her? Celia!" she called. "Celia!"

Then suddenly her voice faltered, the hand that held the lorgnette shook, her face seemed to stiffen and, in a low voice, she said to Reggie, who had pulled up Turk,

"Drive on! Drive on quickly!"

"Certainly," said Reggie, who had raised his hat to the pair, and was regarding them with a benedictory smile. "But what's the matter?"

"I—I know that young man," said Lady Gridborough. "What is Celia doing with him? She doesn't know——"

"Doesn't know what?" asked Reggie, as he persuaded Turk to resume his amble.

"That he's a very wicked young man; that he has no right to be in her company, to be standing there with her, all alone. Yes; he's a very wicked, unprincipled young fellow."

"Hold on, Lady Gridborough!" said Reggie, blandly. "I must tell you that you're abusing a friend of mine."

"A friend of yours!" said Lady Gridborough. "Well, he was a friend of mine once." She sighed. "He is one no longer; and, if you take my advice, you will have nothing more to do with him."

"There is no person on earth whose advice I value more highly than yours, Lady Gridborough," said Reggie, as blandly as before; "and in most matters, I should accept it and follow it without hesitation; but, in this matter of my friend, Mr. Sydney Green——"

"Mr. Sydney—what?" broke in the old lady, evidently much agitated. "Oh, an alias, of course; yes, I'm not surprised that he should be ashamed of his own name. But, Celia, Celia Grant—oh, it is too sad! I must tell her, warn her."

"My dear Lady Gridborough," said Reggie, smoothly, "I'm going to ask you a great favour."

"What is it?" said Lady Gridborough, glancing over her shoulder at Derrick and Celia in a half-fearsome way. "I can't think of anything else but that young man and—and Celia Grant. Such a dear, sweet girl!"

"My favours concerns both the wicked young man and the dear, sweet girl," said Reggie. "I am going to ask you to refrain from uttering your warning; for two reasons. First, because Miss Grant is in love with him, and wouldn't listen to you—and wouldn't believe you, if she did listen to you; and secondly because, if I may use a vulgarism quite unfit for your aristocratic ears, you will upset the apple-cart."

"Apple-cart!" echoed Lady Gridborough, looking round confusedly. "What apple-cart? I thought for the moment we were going to run into something! You mean that you want me not to speak to Celia, to tell her what I know about your precious—Mr. Sydney Black?"

"Green," corrected Reggie, suavely. "Yes, that's what I want, Lady Gridborough; and I shall be eternally grateful, if you will consent to perform that operation which has hitherto been considered an impossible one to your sex."

"Operation!" repeated Lady Gridborough, staring at him. "What are you talking about now? What operation?"

"Holding your tongue, dear Lady Gridborough," said Reggie. "Though not fatal, it is always painful; but you really must perform it on this occasion—for Miss Grant's sake, to say nothing of mine."

As the jingle drove on, Derrick and Celia stood watching it in silence. She had seen the sudden change in Lady Gridborough's manner at sight of Derrick; the old lady's agitation had been too obvious, the cut had been too direct, to be mistaken. Celia's heart ached for her lover, and she could not bring herself to look up at him; but her hand stole into his and grasped it with loving pity and sympathy.

"You see!" said Derrick, with a touch of bitterness. "The man you are going to marry is an outcast and pariah, Celia. That old lady was once a friend. I was fond of her, am fond of her still, and she, I think, was fond of me; but you see how she regards me now. How can I ask you to marry me! I'll give you back your promise, Celia."

"Generous offer refused without thanks," said Celia, trying to speak lightly; then her voice grew grave and sweet, as she said, in a low voice, "Do you think it would make any difference to me if a hundred Lady Gridboroughs, if all the world, turned their backs on you? She does not know what I know; that you are innocent, that you sacrificed yourself, are still sacrificing yourself, for another person?"

"You're speaking about the forged cheque," said Derrick, moodily. "But there's something else. See here, dearest—God bless you for those sweet words, for your trust in me!—but there's something else. It was not because of the cheque that Lady Gridborough cut me just now—I'm not sure that she knows anything about it—but for something else she thinks me guilty of; something worse than forgery, something unutterably mean and base—Oh, I've got to tell you!"

"Not now," said Celia, resolutely. "If you were to tell me now, I should feel that you think Lady Gridborough's conduct had forced you to do it; and I want you to tell me, if ever you do so, of your own free will." She paused, then she put her hands on his shoulder and looked up at him, with all her soul in her eyes. "Dearest, don't you know that it is a joy to me to feel that I am trusting you, that I am proving my love for you? Oh, let it go at that"—how soon she had caught his phrases! "And now come back a little way through the woods with me. And try to forget Lady Gridborough. Why, sir," she went on, with a tender, bewitching playfulness, though her eyes were moist, "you ought not to be thinking of any lady, old or young, but me."